The John Milton Series: Books 1-3 (35 page)

Chunks of wood sprayed out as bullets bit into the frame. The wide glass panel spider-webbed and then fell inwards in a hundred razored fragments as bullets cracked into it. Milton crabbed backwards so that the solidness of the mixing desk was between him and Bizness’s dual autos.

He had dropped the shotgun. He fumbled for the Sig, pulled out the magazine and checked it, slapping the seventeen-shot load back into the butt. He cranked a bullet into the chamber and held the weapon in front of his face.

“What—you thought you could embarrass me in front of my friends and my fans with no consequences? You could burn down my place and that would be that, no hard feelings, let bygones be fucking bygones? You must be out of your mind, man, coming here. You’re a dead man.”

There was a moment of peace. It was not silence—bits of debris still spattered down and the crowd was loud outside the window—but the firing had ceased.

“You dropped your shotgun,” he called. “Got anything else?”

Milton gritted his teeth.

“You ain’t got nothing like what I got here.”

“I gave you a choice,” Milton called out. “You just needed to leave Elijah alone.”

“See—there it is again,
arrogance
. What makes you think you can tell me what to do? You don’t tell me nothing, bruv.”

Tck-tck-tck-tck-tck.

The Mac-10s fired again, and the room flashed, bullets spraying into the recording booth opposite Milton. He glanced up and saw the twin muzzle-flash reflected in the jagged remains of the booth window before bullets stitched across it and sent the shards crashing down on top of him. Bizness was behind the sofa. The bullets thudded softly into the upholstered sound insulation, and the studio was filled with a fine shower of powder and dust.

“Come on. Come out, and let’s get it over with. You know there’s no way out for you. What you got—a nine? You just pissing in the wind, bruv. I got two Mac-10s and enough ammo for a month. Stop hiding like a bitch. I ain’t gonna lie, you ain’t getting out of here alive. Come on. But you come out now, I promise I’ll do you quick.”

Milton straightened his back against the mixing desk and reached inside his jacket. His fingers touched a smooth, rounded cylinder. The flashbang fitted snugly into his palm.

“Funny thing is, even this won’t stick on me. You and my two boys had a gunfight, and you all got done. There won’t be no sign of me. I’ve got a woman in Camden, she’ll alibi me up for now and earlier. All this—you gonna get dooked for nothing, bruv.”

Milton pulled the pin, reached up, and tossed the grenade through the broken window and into the room beyond.

There was a fizz and a burst of the brightest white light as the phosphorous ignited.

Milton rolled out of the door, bringing the Sig up, and fired. The first shot missed, but there was enough light from the flashbang for Milton to see Bizness just as he popped up from behind the sofa to return fire. He brought the Sig around and aimed quickly, squeezing the trigger twice. Bizness staggered backwards through a sudden pink mist, the Mac-10s firing wildly into the ceiling. The boy toppled into the sofa. It tipped over so that he lay across it on his back, his legs splayed out over the now vertical seats. He was pressing his hand against his chest. A bullet had hit him there, and blood was pulsing out between his fingers.

Milton had seen plenty of gutshots before. The boy was finished. No treatment could save him now.

He advanced on him, the Sig aimed at his head.

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” Bizness gasped out, the words forming between bloody gurgles. Milton kicked away the machine guns. He crouched down at Bizness’s side. The boy took a ragged, wheezing breath. “You know what you are?” he said. “You people? You’re a bunch of fuckin’ hypocrites.”

A ringing sound danced in Milton’s ears, and his eyes stung with sweat. The smell of cordite was acrid, and he gagged a little. A trickle of blood, specked with bubbles of breath, dribbled from Bizness’s mouth.

“You sit in your cosy homes… with your soft, comfy lives… nothing bad ever happens…” He coughed, a tearing cough that brought blood to his lips. “You look at us and… you shake your head. You
need
people like me so you can shake your fuckin’ heads and say, ‘See that guy, he’s bad,’ just so you can feel better about yourselves.”

Milton reached down and collected one of the cushions that had scattered away from the sofa.

“And you know why you… people are scared of a proud black man? I’m a threat to the way you see the world to be. The black kid in school… his mums can’t put food on the table. The black kid who’s got no future… no prospects ’cept slaving for some fucked-up… system that sees him as a second-class citizen.” He gasped. “You should be scared, bruv… Those kids running around outside tonight… I give them a purpose. I’m proof, man, living proof… that there ain’t no need to bow down to fuckers like you and those fuckers you represent. You want something, it’s a’ight, you go on and take it. JaJa, you can tell him what you want… but see how he feels this time next year when you’ve fucked off and he’s doing twelve-hour shifts in Maccy D’s because that’s the only place that’ll give him a job.” He gasped again; the words were harder and harder to form. “He’ll think about me… the taste I gave him of the life… and he’ll ask himself, ‘Why not me? Why can’t I have me some of that good stuff?’ You know I’m right. You’ve seen it in his eyes… same as I have.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. But he’ll see he’s got choices. You can take the short cut or do things properly. You chose the short cut. The easy choice. It hasn’t worked out so well for you.”

“Fuck you, bruv. You don’t know shit.”

“I know he wouldn’t think your life looked so appealing now.”

Bizness tried to retort, but he coughed on a mouthful of blood.

Milton took the pillow and placed it over his head, one hand on each side, pressing down. The boy struggled, but Milton had his knees pressed down so that his arms were pinned to his side. His legs thrashed impotently, the kicks becoming less frequent until they subsided to spasms.

The spasms stopped.

Milton gently released the pressure, and the cushion, covered in blood, fell aside. Milton had it smeared across his trousers and on the latex gloves, too. He looked up and was suddenly aware that there was another person in the room. He stared into the eyes of a teenage boy, the same age as Elijah. He was tall and skinny, his chin pressed down hard into his chest, just his eyes showing. It took a moment, but then he recognised him: it was the boy from the park, the one who had threatened him on his first night in Hackney. He was in the corner of the room, pressed tight against the wall. He had a Makarov revolver in a trembling hand. The gun hung loosely from his fingers, pointed down at the floor. The boy looked young and frightened.

For a moment, Milton was back in France again, on the road in the mountains.

He stood and walked across the room, reaching down for the Makarov. The boy released it without speaking. He located the spent cartridges from the shotgun and pocketed them. He collected the sawn-off and put it, the Sig and the revolver into a Nike holdall he found in a cupboard. The boy’s eyes followed him about the room, wide and timid, but he stayed where he was against the wall. He checked the room one final time to make sure that he had not left anything behind, and satisfied that he had not, he closed the door behind him and descended to the chaotic street below.

NUMBER TWELVE SAT IN HIS CAR. He was parked on the opposite side of the road to the church hall. The street was eerily quiet. A battered old minibus was parked directly in front of him, the stencilled sign on its dirty flanks advertising a Camden gym. He had watched the dozen youngsters pile out of the bus and file into the hall, different sizes and ages, all of them carrying sports bags. The local kids had arrived within the space of half an hour, all similarly equipped. Milton’s car was parked fifty yards away; Callan had followed the tracking beacon from across London. He had not seen him and assumed that he was inside.

His mobile chirped.

“I have orders for you.”

Callan recognised Control’s voice. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you know where Number One is?”

“He’s in the East End. I have him under surveillance now. What do you want me to do?”

“The Committee has reviewed your report. It’s been decided that he is a risk we cannot take. His behaviour, his likely mental condition—national security is at risk. We have decided that he needs to be retired.”

Callan kept his voice calm and implacable. “Yes, sir. When?”

“Quickly.”

“Tonight should be possible.”

“Very good, Twelve. Let me know when it is done.”

The line went dead.

Callan put the phone back into his pocket. He would have preferred a little longer to plan an operation like this, against a target of Number One’s pedigree, but he didn’t think it an impediment that need detain him. Number One had no idea that he had been marked for death. Callan had the benefit of the element of surprise, and that would be the only advantage that he would need.

He opened the door, went around to the boot of the car, and popped it open. He pulled up the false floor and ran his gaze across the row of neatly arranged weapons. He reached down and stroked his fingers across the cold metal stock of a combat shotgun. He pulled a bandolier over his shoulder and filled the pouches with shells. He didn’t think he’d need more than the two that were already loaded, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared. He shut the boot and locked it and got back into the car again. All he needed to do was wait for the right moment.

MILTON STOOD with Rutherford next to the ring, both of them watching the action. Elijah was fighting one of the boys from the Tottenham club. The two of them were well matched: the Tottenham boy was a year older and a little bigger, but Elijah was faster and his punches were crisper, with a natural technique that couldn’t be taught.

“Boy’s doing good,” Rutherford said, his eyes fixed on the action. “Landing everything he throws. If he don’t knock him out, he’ll take him on points, easy.”

Milton thought that was probably right, but it didn’t mean that he wasn’t nervous. His own fists jerked a little with each punch, and he caught himself holding his breath as the other boy moved in tight and clinched, snagging Elijah around the shoulders and hugging him. Elijah tried to struggle free, but the Tottenham boy was strong. The referee called for the break, but before he could step in, the boy released his right hand and punched, twice, into Elijah’s groin.

The bell sounded.

Elijah spat out his mouthguard. “You hit me low!” he yelled at him.

“Yeah?” the boy called back across the ring at him. “What you gonna do about it, Hackney?”

Rutherford stepped between the ropes. “Elijah!”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ dook you!”

Rutherford reached out a long arm, snagged the collar of Elijah’s singlet, and dragged him back to the corner. “Deep breath, younger.”

“He hit me in the nuts!”

Rutherford put one big hand on each shoulder and turned him away. “Yeah, he did, and you lose your temper like you’re fixing to do, chances are this boy ain’t got what it takes to hold you off, and you’ll probably knock him out. But losing your temper like that gets to be a bad habit, and eventually, you’ll come up against someone who’s good enough to get you all fired up and take advantage of it. You’re good enough to go a long way, younger, maybe even make a nice career out of it. You don’t want to get into bad habits that’ll get you in trouble in a fight that really means something—like for your future. You hear what I’m saying?”

Elijah scowled down at the canvas. “Yeah.”

“Now then—you know why he hit you low?”

“’Cos I’m better than him.”

“That’s right, younger. Better than him. Much better than he’ll ever get to be, too. There’s one more round coming, a’ight? I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to get back out there, touch his gloves in the middle of the ring like you respect him even though we know you don’t, and then you’re going to box him. You keep your cool, follow the plan we talked about, and wait for the opening. When he gives it to you,
then
you punish him for hitting you low—you got it?”

“Yeah.”

“All right then.” Rutherford pushed the mouthguard back into Elijah’s mouth and let go of his shoulder. “Touch his gloves and away you go.”

The bell was rung to signal the start of the third round, and the two boys met in the centre of the ring again. They tapped gloves and then sprang apart. Elijah did exactly as Rutherford had instructed: he kept his opponent at arm’s length, stinging him with his jab whenever he tried to get in too close. The older boy tried to rush him, but Elijah skipped out of the way, banging in straight rights and lefts into the side of the boy’s face as he sailed harmlessly past. As the seconds wound down, he stepped back and lowered his guard, indicating his chin with a clumsy touch of his glove. He’s showboating, Milton thought, a grin breaking out across his face. The other boy swore at the goading, his words muffled by his guard, and rushed in again. Elijah took a step to the side, pivoted on his right foot, and swung a strong right hook into the boy’s guts. His momentum was stopped at once, and his guard dropping to shield his stinging ribs, Elijah powered a left hook that knocked him backwards, and after a comical stumble, he landed on his behind.

The bell sounded, and the fight came to an end.

That’s my boy, Milton thought, before he caught himself. Elijah ducked his head to the referee and bumped his right fist against Rutherford’s. He turned to look at Milton but looked away again quickly. Milton nodded at that. Fair enough, he thought. He didn’t know anything about what had happened, and as far as he was concerned, he had caught Milton in bed with his mother. All things considered, he deserved his mistrust.

A week had passed since the riots. Milton had spent most of the time with Elijah in the hospital. Sharon’s condition had stabilised to the extent that the doctors were happy to plan the skin grafts that would fix some of the damage that had been done to her face and the rest of her body. Elijah had refused to leave her side, so Milton had arranged for him to have a spare bed in a suite that was held back for relatives. He made sure that the boy ate and did whatever he could to reassure him that his mother would make a recovery, although he kept some of the information to himself. The doctors were confident that they would be able to help, but she had been very badly burnt, they said, and she was always going to be badly scarred. On the sixth day, Sharon was moved from the Burns Unit to a general ward, and Milton started to feel more confident that things would start to improve.