The Evil And The Pure (57 page)

“No,” Clint sighed.

“Yes,” Dave chuckled. “Because he understood what you didn’t, that there can be no reward for a man who betrays his family. You think I was going to give you a million pounds for fucking me over? I’d choke first. You know why Big Sandy killed McCaskey? Because McCaskey murdered his mother.”

Clint
gawped at Big Sandy’s stony face. “What?”

“McCaskey killed his mother years ago. Big Sandy’s been searching for him all his life. A real pisser, huh?” Dave’s smile faded. “Killing McCaskey wasn’t on the agenda. By doing
it, Big Sandy risked everything, even his life. That didn’t matter. When it’s personal, nothing matters except getting even.” The smile returned. “
This
is personal. So I say again, you do not walk out of here alive. Tonight you die. But you can die cleanly and painlessly. If you tell me where the money is and what happened to the formula, I’ll shoot you through the skull and that’s all you’ll suffer. Otherwise I let Michael at you and you’ll squirm for hours in the kind of agony no human can dream about until they’ve been subjected to it. Your call.”

Clint stared up at Dave, mind whirring, searching for the words to
wriggle out of this. Finding none, he resigned himself to death and opened his mouth to tell Dave about the building, the money, Tulip and Kevin. Then closed it, figuring,
Kevin and Tulip are still out there. The more time I buy them, the greater their chance of escape.
Not worried about his partners in crime – he didn’t feel like he owed them anything – but he didn’t want to sell them out cheaply, like a dog. This was his final hour. Soon he’d be removed from this world, quickly forgotten. He could go like a worm or he could die with dignity. His final choice.

Surprising himself, Clint chose to go
down fighting, hoping if word ever leaked back to Shula that she would remember him for this, not the rest of it.

“
Go fuck yourself, cousin,” he said clearly, without any trace of a stutter.

Dave
gawped, truly astonished. Michael smiled sadistically. Big Sandy sniffed with disinterest.

Dave’s
expression hardened. “So be it.” He turned to Michael. “Time is crucial. I want his tongue loosened fast.”

“Can I play with him after?” Michael murmured.

Dave glanced at Clint. He was lying there calmly, afraid but in control, gazing back without rancour. “No,” Dave said wearily. “Just do your job. Quickly.”

Michael
scowled then picked a black bag up off the floor, opened it, dug out a serrated knife and something that looked like a cheese grater. He set to work.

It took thirty-seven minutes to break Clint Smith. Thirty-seven minutes of excruciating torment, Michael working swiftly, putting years of brutish experience to terrifying use, removing strips of skin from Clint’s most sensitive areas, probing inside him with knives and other implements, ridding him of his manhood, slicing his left eye open and draining off the fluid. Dave turned away after five minutes and concentrated on his breathing, trying to tune out Clint’s screams and the sounds of Michael’s instruments as they destroyed skin, bone, muscle, tissue. Big Sandy observed silently, noting Clint’s pain but unaffected by it. He’d seen men tortured before. This was nothing new.

After thirty-seven minutes, Clint crumbled. He had been savaged and ruined. His
mind and tongue were no longer his own. He knew nothing of loyalty or dignity. There was only the reality of all-consuming pain and the hope via death of physical escape.

He spat
out the words, unaware that he was speaking. Told them where the bags were, that Tulip had the formula, that Kevin thought she might be waiting for him in the Borough. Dave listened with his back turned, then checked with Big Sandy. “You believe him?” Big Sandy nodded. “Send a couple of guys to get the money if it’s still there. You take the last hound and find the girl.”

“What if Kevin
returned to the building and took the bags?” Big Sandy asked. “Don’t you want me to go after him?”

“The formula means more to me than the money.”

“But if we get neither…”

Dave started to snap at Big Sandy, then recalled the giant’s position and what he stood to lose if he returned empty-handed. “Tyne won’t forget about the
hounds twice. If he returned for the money, he won’t leave on foot. The girl’s our best shot.” Big Sandy thought about that, nodded, turned to leave. “Sandy,” Dave stopped him. “Send Eddie down before you go. I told him he could be here at the end.”

Big Sandy left. Clint only barely aware of what
had been said. The world roaring red with agony. Michael reached into his bag for another knife, eager to wring more screams out of his plaything. Dave stopped him with a curt, “No.” Jerked his head. “You can leave now.” Michael pouted but packed his bag and slipped away.

Dave studied the bloody mess that was his young cousin. A shame it had to end like this. If Clint had shown th
is sort of courage and willpower earlier, Dave could have trusted him, found a decent post for him, educated him, brought him into the fold. Why had he saved the best for last, when it was wasted?

Fast Eddie entered the cell grim-faced. Dave acknowledged him with a nod, then stepped up to Clint, produced a gun and aimed at the centre of Clint’s face. “Are you ready cousin?” he whispered. Clint’s one remaining eye swam into focus. He managed a jagged
, inhuman half-smile. Mumbled something incomprehensible through a mouthful of blood, that sounded to Dave like
Oola
. “What was that?” Dave asked gently and Clint started to repeat himself. Dave fired and Clint’s head exploded. Fragments of teeth, bone and flesh rebounded off the table and struck Dave and Fast Eddie. They stepped back, cursing, wiping off the bloody shrapnel. On the table, alone, tied down and in torment, Clint died a man.

SEVENTY-THREE

Kevin literally pissed himself when he saw Big Sandy and the hellhound lumbering towards them. It was the second time in little more than a week that he’d lost control of his bladder but he was too terrified to be ashamed. Only vaguely aware of Clint by his side, frozen to the pavement as Kevin was. Then, in unison, they spun and fled, Kevin whining and sobbing as he ran. When Clint broke left without warning, Kevin paused, almost raced after him, glanced back, saw Big Sandy closing and instinctively realised that he was going to follow Clint. Thinking only of himself, he tore off down Borough High Street. With crazy delight he saw a cab and screamed at the driver to stop, waving frantically. He didn’t hear Big Sandy shout at Eyes to follow him, or look back to check if he was being pursued, just fixed on the cab and chased it like a panther. The driver pulled over to the kerb and rolled down his window. “Where you going, mate?” he asked as Kevin slammed into the side of the car, panting for breath, eyes manic.

“Anywhere!” Kevin screeched, wrestling with the handle. He
looked over his shoulder, saw two men chasing him, squealed and tugged harder at the handle.

“Easy,
” the driver snapped. “Let go or I’ll –”

Kevin released the handle, dug into his pocket, tore out his wallet and threw it at t
he driver. “You can keep it all,” he wailed. “Just let me in and get me the fuck out of here
now
!”

The driver hesitated,
looked around, saw two men converging on his car. He didn’t want to get involved in this, but the wallet felt heavy. A quick judgement call –
Can I get out of here before those tough-looking bastards catch up?
– then he flicked the locks open. The door almost came off in Kevin’s hand as he yanked. He threw himself into the back, slammed the door shut, and the driver took off, squealing tyres, pressing down hard on the accelerator, grinning happily, feeling like Steve McQueen in
Bullitt
.

Kevin sat up, trembling,
stared out the window, saw the men stopping in the middle of the road, stranded. He laughed, not caring about the warm damp in his crotch or the shit Clint was in or where Tulip might be. He was alive. He’d made it. He was free.

The driver kept a cautious eye on the laughing, shaking man in the back, ready to stop and throw hi
m out if he got violent. With his left hand he thumbed the wallet open and slid out notes, four twenties, two tens, a five. Not a fortune but a nice little earner. He took the money then tossed the wallet back at his customer, credit cards too hot for his liking. “Where to, mate?”

Kevin shook his head. “Just drive… for now. I need time… to think.”

“A hundred quid buys you half an hour,” the driver grunted, mercenary instincts coming to the fore. “But we can stop at a cash point if you want me for longer.”

Kevin trying to think straight, heart pounding, tears drying on his cheeks, crotch like ice as the piss cooled. Assuming Big Sandy would capture Clint and find out where the money was.
But it would take time. Big Sandy would have to haul him off the streets, take him some place quiet where there were no witnesses. If Kevin acted swiftly he could return to the building, get the bags, ride off with the money, two million, his alone, his and… Tulip’s.

Torn for a moment, wondering whether he should go after the bags or focus on finding
his sister. Then he leered as he realised he could have it all. With so much cash he could afford to hunt for Tulip later, pay professionals to find her. Without the money he was as damned as Clint, Gawl, Phials and Fr Sebastian. The bags had to be his first priority. Leaning forward, Kevin gave the driver instructions then sat back, checked his watch, closed his eyes, relaxed in the gloom.

Kevin had meant to get out of the cab at the bottom of the street, wait for the driver to depart, then make his way to the building. But by the time they arrived he’d altered his plan. He needed a car but he had no loose cash and he didn’t like the idea of wandering the streets in search of an ATM — time was ticking. Besides, this driver had proved calm under pressure and open to bribes. When the car pulled over, Kevin was ready. He’d read the driver’s name – Dave English – and without moving he said softly, “Want to make a thousand pounds, Dave?”

Dave English
stiffened warily. “How?”

“Wait for me
here, then drive me out of London.”

“How far?”

“Twenty or thirty miles.”

Dave
hesitated. “Those guys who were after you…”

“No questions,” K
evin smiled. “A thousand pounds, yes or no?”

The cabbie
licked his lips nervously. “In advance?”

“At the end of the night.”

“Two thousand,” Dave said weakly, breathless at his own audacity. “A thousand up front, the rest at the end.”

Kevin nodded slowly, then opened the front of his jacket so the driver could see his gun. “So we know where we stand,” he said and it sou
nded like somebody else talking, finding new strength and determination in his greed.

“What’s to stop you shooting me
instead of paying me?” Dave asked quietly.

“Easier to pay you
. Less complications.”

Dav
e Engish judged the risk against the pay-off and made up his mind. “Where do you want to go?”

“For a start,
up the road. Drop me in front of that building with the scaffolding. Circle the block until I come out. I’ll give you your first thousand then.”

The driver
did as Kevin asked, circling the block like a shark once he’d dropped off his customer, tension mounting, mad at himself for buying into this mess but ecstatic at the prospect of making a couple of quick grand.

Inside the building
Kevin hurried to the room where he’d stashed the bags with Clint. Nerves jangling, afraid that the money would be gone, Big Sandy waiting for him. But the money was where they’d left it and Big Sandy was nowhere to be seen. Kevin opened both bags, smiled at the rolls of notes, counted out three thousand pounds – two for the driver, a grand for emergencies – then dumped the contents of one bag into the other, so he’d only have a single bag to carry. He hefted it, turned for the door…

…
and stopped. Laid the bag down. Squatted in the darkness, thinking. He’d planned to get out of London, lay low, skip the country, look for Tulip later. But now that he paused to consider Tulip, he was loath to leave without her. If he had to he would, but he’d rather take her with him. It might be difficult – impossible – to come back. Dave Bushinsky would be looking for him, maybe the police too if they tied him in with Fr Sebastian. He’d have to go on the run. It might be months before he could launch a search for his sister, and even then he’d probably need to manage it from abroad. What would happen to Tulip in the meantime?