How far would you go to save a loved one? Your own flesh and blood?
This far, I think, as I ease open one of the art nouveau panelled doors and step inside the ruined building. This is journey far enough into darkness for any rational human being. Except, I can probably delete ‘rational’ from that. I am driven by something that lies much, much deeper in my brain, far removed from the civilised centres.
My rubber soles make the merest squeak on the stained terrazzo floor. The interior reminds me of a cathedral: a great soaring dome, supported by once-gilded ribs, now cracked and denuded of decoration. At some point, it must have rivalled the great casinos of Europe in grandeur. In fact, it would have made Monte Carlo look like a branch of Betfred. I can almost hear the laughter and the chink of glasses from the fin de siècle beau monde.
Almost.
The ghosts are drowned out by the squelch of fresh pigeon droppings underfoot. I glance upwards and one of the perpetrators sets flight, the flapping filling the cavernous space above my head, echoing around the balconies and balustrades.
I stop and listen as the bird finds a new perch and coos appreciatively. A few of his feathered companions join in, but silence quickly resumes. I listen for any further disturbances in the air. Apart from the drip of water from a breach in the roof and the occasional hiss of waves on the promenade outside, it is eerily quiet.
Wherever they are, the men I am looking for aren’t in the building. At least, not this part.
Why would they be? It might be out of season, but the roof leaks, the pigeons shit and there’s always the chance of an idle tourist wandering in. A tourist who would find themselves with a hole in the skull quicker than they could think: ‘Oops, wrong turn!’
No, if I have guessed correctly, the gathering of men must be below my feet, in the cellars – catacombs? – of this derelict building. The Void, as it is known. I have to go down there. I can hear my partner Freddie’s voice in my head: Wait for back-up, Sam Wylde.
But there is no back-up. My back-up is either dead or damaged.
I’m on my own. Not even Freddie at my side.
I place the holdall I have been carrying onto the floor and crouch next to it. With gloved hands I pull the zip. It comes smoothly. Always lubricate your zips – I’ve watched people die because they couldn’t open a zipped pocket to pull out a weapon in time.
I peel the sides apart so that the bag gapes at me. From within I take out a gun. It’s the kind of gun that would get me a hefty prison sentence if I were to even possess it in the UK. If they knew what I intended to do with it, what hate was eating up my heart, they’d lock me up and throw away the proverbial key.
I began this part of my life as a bodyguard: Sam Wylde, Personal Protection Officer. Now, I have moved on to something much more proactive.
I am here, if necessary, to kill.
I stand and check over the FN P-90 in the thin light that is streaming through the grimy and broken windows in the hall. It’s a weird-looking weapon, all right. Made of polymer, it could pass as a ray gun in a 1950s science-fiction film. Or a device for vacuuming the interior of a car. But it can be fired one-handed, can penetrate body armour at one hundred metres and its magazine carries an impressive fifty rounds.
But even fifty rounds won’t last long on full automatic.
I stuff two extra mags behind my own body armour and switch on the laser-dot system. As I move the weapon, the glowing spot dances on the far wall, over the scabrous rococo plasterwork. I imagine it exploding into dust.
I make sure the safety is on, just in case instinct – or rage – takes over.
As I look up and scan the higher floors, I notice a circular space where perhaps an internal window once sat. It is empty now; any decorative glass long gone. I draw the laser over it. It reminds me of the ‘murder holes’ the Taliban favoured in Afghanistan; small gaps in the walls of the compounds through which they would lay lethal fire on our patrols before disappearing into a warren of houses behind them. Shoot and scoot, as it was known. But the dot is lost in empty space. Nobody is up there getting a sighting on me.
I kill the laser, take out a Glock and put it in my belt, tucked down against my arse. I don’t feel its polymer body because of the thin neoprene wetsuit I’m wearing under my clothes. I have a few other bits and pieces to conceal around myself, but most of the items I will need – including a second Glock – are in the small black rucksack I thread my arms through. I put on a head torch, but leave it switched off. Same with the throat mic assembly.
I hear Freddie again, using my army nickname; a phantom crackle in an imaginary earpiece.
Ready, Buster?
Ready.
Satisfied I am done, I slide the holdall into a corner, then check everything is tight, from bootlaces to bra straps.
It is.
I’m ready to go.
As I head for the stairs, limping to ease the residual pain in my left knee, I try to recall how all this started; how I ended up looking for the men I might have to hurt. Correction: want to hurt. The answer is always the same.
Albania.
Albania, a man named Adam and a nagging question: How did I know it was a hit?