Terror's Reach (22 page)

Two feet from the end of the path Joe stopped. But not for long.
He steadied himself, then took another step, deliberately pressing his
weight down. Twigs crunched underfoot with a sound like small bones
breaking.
Right on cue the man attacked, swinging the branch with both
hands. If it had caught Joe unawares it would have just about taken
his head off. But he was already ducking, moving sideways and forwards,
throwing out his right arm and catching the attacker by the neck,
using his own momentum against him.
The man’s eyes widened with shock, a white gleam in the darkness.
He couldn’t believe he’d been outwitted, but he had no time to
react. He was tumbling forward, propelled by his own body weight.
His neck slammed against Joe’s arm, his head jerking back. Joe darted
behind him, wrapped his left arm over his assailant’s masked face and
wrenched his head round. There was a sickening crunch as the man’s
neck snapped, and his body went slack.
Joe went on clinging to the man’s head until he was sure it was
safe to loosen his grip. Then he lowered the body to the ground and
let out a breath. He’d had extensive training in self-defence, and over
the years he’d had to call on those skills a fair few times. He had also
taken a life before, but not like this. Not with his bare hands.
Everything was changed now. He’d engaged the enemy, and there
would be any number of consequences. But in truth he felt little
remorse. He’d seen McWhirter’s body. He knew what the gang were
capable of.
He grabbed the man’s feet and dragged him into the woods. A noisy
manoeuvre, but a necessary one. It hadn’t escaped Joe’s notice that
the man was roughly the same size as him, about an inch or two
shorter and a few pounds heavier.
Once he was well back from the road, Joe tore off the man’s mask
and undid his utility belt. As well as the two-way radio, he found a
handgun and some cuffs.
He started to unbutton the boiler suit. The man was wearing shorts
and a T-shirt underneath, but the suit itself had still absorbed his
smell. Joe swallowed back his revulsion. This was too good an opportunity
to miss, especially now the gang were actively looking for him.
It was perfect camouflage, and might just keep him alive.

Oliver was disconsolate. He knew he had blown his chances.
Priya was keeping an eye on him, but she managed to do it without
looking directly at him. Oliver burned with shame and desire. If he’d
had a gun, or a knife, or even just his box of matches, he would have
ended it all right now.
'I’m going to die here tonight.’
'What?’
Priya’s reaction made him start. He hadn’t intended to say it aloud.
He said it again, this time savouring the truth of the words as they
were spoken. 'I’m going to die here tonight.’
She shrugged, perhaps interpreting it as a question rather than a
statement.
'Maybe,’ she said. Then: You don’t seem all that bothered.’
He shook his head. Slowly he lifted his cuffed hands and stretched
them towards her, causing the sleeves of his shirt to drop. Then he
twisted his arms outward to display the thin white scars that ran for
several inches from the base of each palm.
'Vertical, not horizontal,’ he said. 'That’s how you do it properly.
Anything else is just a cry for help.’
Priya nodded, and seemed to be studying him from a fresh perspective.
'So why—?’
'My sister found me.’ Oliver looked her in the eyes. 'I wish she
hadn’t.’

Thirty-Five

Liam stayed in the hall while Turner took Valentin back to the garage.
If the other prisoners queried Yuri’s absence, Valentin was to say that
he’d been taken away somewhere, and that was all he knew. To make
it convincing he had to sound both angry and fearful. Given the news
about Felton’s safe, that shouldn’t be too difficult to fake.
Leaving Dreamscape, Liam was expecting Turner to take the piss,
having just witnessed his dressing-down. But although he was clearly
brooding on it, the other man said nothing.
Out on the road, Liam stopped abruptly. 'Did you hear that?’
'What?’
'Over there.’ Liam stared at the trees, his hand resting lightly on
his gun.
They waited a few seconds, then Turner shook his head.
You’re just getting jumpy. We’ve got four men searching. If
someone’s out there, they’ll find him.’
Yeah. All right.’
Liam hurried on, Turner scrambling to catch up. As they approached
Felton’s front door, Turner said, 'Feels like this is going to shit.’
'We’re fine,’ Liam said. But he knew exactly what Turner meant.
Priya and Oliver were still in the master bedroom, Oliver sitting
exactly where they had left him. Priya looked weary and distracted,
as though she’d been trying to convince herself that none of this was
happening. She was standing at the window, watching the dark sea
fade into the coming night.
'Any progress?’ said Liam.
'He’s adamant that he didn’t know.’
Turner clicked his tongue. 'How about if we cut his dick off, and
then ask him?’
Oliver gave them a sickly smile. Even as his body remained immobile,
there was a restlessness in his eyes that wasn’t quite normal.
You never saw your dad clearing it out?’ Liam asked. You didn’t
hear him mention it at all?’
'No. I don’t pay any attention to what my father does.’
A glance at Priya, who nodded: Oliver was telling the truth.
Liam sighed. He had a feeling that threats of violence wouldn’t
work. The sick little bastard would probably get a thrill out of it.
'Look,’ he said. 'We know the safe is a decoy’
'It’s not,’ said Oliver, but there was a flash of something in his face.
Uncertainty.
'We will cut it off,’ Turner warned him. 'Stuff it down your throat.’
'And we’ll do it in front of Priya,’ Liam added. If they had any
leverage at all, it was that Oliver seemed to have an adolescent crush
on her. 'There’s another safe, isn’t there?’
'No, there isn’t—’ Oliver began, and then stopped. His gaze lost
focus and his lips came together in an expression of pure agony.
Whatever he was seeing in his head, it wasn’t pleasant.
Liam thought back to this afternoon, when Priya had first noticed
Oliver spying on her. The weird little attic room.
Your dad’s got a thing about hiding places, hasn’t he?’
Oliver nodded slowly, like a naughty child boxed in and unable
to lie.
'So what is it? What do you need to tell me?’
'There’s . . . There’s a panic room.’
Turner clapped his hands. 'Thank fuck for that.’
'Where is it, Oliver?’ Liam asked.
'I want to help you. I really do.’
'I know. Just tell me where it is.’
Oliver was still nodding, big fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
'I can show you,’ he said. 'But it won’t be enough.’

Joe put on the boiler suit over his own clothes. It wasn’t a perfect fit
but it would do. At least he was acclimatising to the smell.
He fastened the utility belt, slipped his knife into it and transferred
his phone and Leatherman multi-tool to the suit’s outer pockets. The
dead man was wearing latex gloves, but Joe decided to dispense with
those. He picked up the two-way radio and switched it off. He didn’t
want it burping at him when he was within earshot of the house.
Pulling on the mask, he took one more look at the body, the pale
flesh ghostly in the darkness. Joe felt guilt nudging at his heart, but
wouldn’t let it in. The lives of many innocent people still hung in
the balance.
When he reached the edge of the copse, he paused. There was just
sufficient light to check the gun in more detail. It was a Glock 17.
Joe knew that particular model was regarded as a very reliable firearm,
but if he had to use this one he first wanted to make sure that it
worked properly.
From the position of the trigger he could tell there was a round in
the chamber. He removed the magazine, which held seventeen 9 mm
cartridges, and racked the slide to eject the chambered round. He
dry-fired the gun to test the mechanism, then picked up the spilled
cartridge and reloaded it in the magazine. Lastly he slotted the full
magazine back into the grip and racked the slide again. Now there
was a round in the chamber, ready to fire.
Across the road several of Dreamscape’s windows were lit up. The
front door was standing open, beckoning him. He left the cover of
the trees and walked into view, fighting the urge to keep low and
hurry. Now that he was in disguise, he had to stand tall. Act like he
belonged.
It felt odd for a second or two. Then something in his mind clicked
and he was instantly back in the job. Back at doing what he did best:
becoming someone else. Mixing with the bad guys in order to beat
them.
And he didn’t much like admitting it to himself, but it felt good.

'Sneaky bastard,’ Turner said. He had it about right, Liam thought.
The panic room was part of the master-bedroom suite. A logical
place for it, given that the worst case scenario for most people was to
have armed robbers bursting in during the middle of the night. Better
still, anyone who searched the bedroom would find the safe first, and
probably wouldn’t explore any further.
Still snuffling like a baby, Oliver led them into one of the dressing
rooms. There were floor-to-ceiling wardrobes on three walls. Liam
opened one at random and found dozens of bespoke suits in a variety
of colours and styles, ranging from flamboyant to deeply conservative:
maybe two hundred grand’s worth of exquisite tailoring.
Oliver gestured towards the wardrobe opposite the door. There was
a full-length mirror on it, which showed the four of them crowding
into the tiny room, bumping shoulders. Oliver fumbled with the
handle, then turned back to them.
You need to untie me.’
Turner cut the restraints and Oliver opened the door. The wardrobe
was empty but for a high rail that held a couple of overcoats and a
vintage leather biker’s jacket. Watching as he leaned inside, Turner
drawled: 'Where are we going? Fucking Narnia?’
Oliver swept the coats aside and pressed a hidden switch on the
wall. The rear panel slid away on castors, revealing a solid steel door
set into a steel frame. It looked even heavier and more forbidding
than the door to the safe.
Liam pushed past Oliver so he could see more clearly. Instead of
a combination dial there was a small black screen and a keypad. Liam
whistled softly, then said: 'Go on.’
Oliver looked at him, stricken. 'I can’t open it.’
'Bullshit,’ said Turner.
You just opened the safe. Now open this, and save yourself a lot
of pain.’
'Look, I don’t care how much you threaten me. I can’t open it.
If I could, I would.’ He made an appeal to Priya. You have to
believe me.’
You mean you don’t know the combination?’ she asked.
'Even if I did, it wouldn’t help,’ said Oliver. 'It’s a two-stage lock.’
'So?’ said Turner.

Liam was staring at the small blank screen on the door, and he
saw what Oliver meant.
'Biometric.’
'That’s right,’ said Oliver. 'Without the correct fingerprint, the
keypad won’t even operate.’
Liam exchanged a look with Turner, both of them perhaps recalling
Valentin’s orders. Take the boy and make him tell you. Cut him to
pieces if you have to.
'But this is a panic room,’ Priya said. You must have access to it.’
'We used to,’ Oliver said. He swallowed heavily. 'Rachel and I.
When it had the same kind of door as the safe we both knew how to
get in. But Dad had some work done a couple of months ago. When
it was complete, I came in one day and found he’d had a new door
fitted.’
'And he moved everything from the safe into here?’
'I don’t know.’
You bloody live here, don’t you?’ Liam yelled. 'A filthy little pervert,
spying on people all day. How come you don’t know?’
Oliver shrank back from him, but there was nowhere to go. He
bumped his head against the wardrobe door and screwed up his face
at the pain.
'Dad said the work was going to be messy. He told me to spend
the week in Scotland. We have a place on Loch Lomond.’
'So this room could be empty?’ Turner said.
'Maybe. Dad said something about getting the door programmed
for us, but he never got round to it.’ Oliver sniffed. 'Our safety has
never been his primary concern.’
Yeah, save it for Jerry Springer.’ Liam turned away, kicking one of
the wardrobe doors in frustration. It put a satisfying split in the timber,
but it wasn’t nearly enough to assuage his fury.
The other three watched him as if this were completely normal
behaviour. It was left to Turner to summarise their position.
'We’re up shit creek, aren’t we?’

Thirty-Six

Cassie lasted out until ten o’clock. Then her discipline failed her.
This was much harder than dieting.
She couldn’t comprehend why Joe hadn’t been in touch. Had
Valentin forbidden it for some reason? Through fear and anxiety she
worked herself finally into an indignant rage. Her children’s future
was at stake here. How dare they discuss it without her.
Finding it much easier to act now she was angry rather than scared,
Cassie snatched up the mobile phone, turned it on and scrolled
through the address book. She remembered Joe’s advice. Don’t make
any calls, especially not from a mobile.
She wavered, then put the phone down. There was a landline
extension on the bedside table. She lifted the receiver and quickly
punched in Joe’s number, her heart pounding so loudly it made her
feel faint.
But his phone went straight to voicemail. It must be switched off.
Why?
Her fury now blunted by despair, she left a brief, incoherent message. Joe, it’s Cassie. It feels like you’ve been gone for ages. What’s happening
over there? Can you call me when you get this, and let me know how
it’s going? Sorry, Joe. I just want to hear that you’re okay . . .
Infused with self-loathing, she shuddered and put the phone down.
Joe stepped boldly over the threshold into Dreamscape’s grand hall.
Half a dozen rooms led off it, all the doors shut. He listened at a
couple and heard nothing, then continued on to the kitchen.
That, too, was empty, but there was an adjoining utility room. As
he approached it, he felt a vague claustrophobia. Sweat poured from
his face, causing the mask to prickle and sting.
The utility room boasted an internal door to the garage. The door
was open and the air from the garage was hot and putrid. Joe moved
to the corner of the room and found an angle that let him see about
half the garage. The first thing he noticed was the Ford Transit that
had driven past him a few hours ago. Then he saw the prisoners.
They were arranged roughly in a circle. Joe spotted Angela Weaver,
but not her husband. Terry Fox was there, and the bald American.
He couldn’t see Valentin, or Yuri, or the American’s driver, but he
guessed they were in there somewhere.
There was only one guard in sight. He was standing just beyond
the prisoners, watching them closely. There was a box file at his feet,
which he tapped a couple of times as though to remind himself not
to forget it. He was holding a gun at his side, but his movements had
a nervous quality to them, as if he were unaccustomed to this level
of responsibility.
If Joe strode in there now, he reckoned it would take two or three
seconds for the guard to realise he was an impostor. That might be
enough time to overpower him without any weapons being fired, but
it wasn’t a sure bet. And if it came to a shoot-out the prisoners would
be squarely in the firing line.
Reluctantly Joe decided the risk was too great. He backed away,
consoling himself with the knowledge that he’d achieved his first two
objectives. He had located the island’s residents, and verified that they
were still alive. Now he had to find a way to raise the alarm.