Black had no intention of running. “What’s going on, Charley?” he said softly.
Charley didn’t respond. He closed his eyes, rubbed them with his fingers, opened them. They were dull, resigned. The banging at the front door was relentless.
“They’re not going to go,” said Black.
“I know.” Charley stared at Black, pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. He began to sob. “They’re going to kill me.”
Black said nothing.
“Will you help me, Adam?”
“Why don’t you answer the door before they break it down.”
“Yes,” mumbled Sinclair. “Before they break it down. Fuck them.”
He swayed slightly, made his way from the kitchen, back through the hall. Black waited. He heard the door being unlocked, then voices. The door closing. Footsteps approaching. Black moved swiftly, went over to the kitchen units, opened drawers. There! A tray of knives. He picked one out – a six-inch filleting knife. A sharp little fucker. He placed it in the back pocket of his jeans. Black had no idea what he was to confront. He stood, senses heightened to an increased competence.
Sinclair entered. He was followed by two men. The first was about five ten, shorter than Black by a clear four inches, but thick in the neck and shoulders, wide at the hip: attributes indicating strength and agility. His head was small, shaved to the bone. Flat nose, dark eyes. He had a calm air, lips curled in a secret half-smile.
The other was taller, slim, long-legged. Muscular shoulders. Dancing slate-grey eyes. Unlike his friend, his hair was long, black as a raven, coiffured back from his forehead, and over his ears. Neat compact features. He seemed charged with a nervous vitality. Both looked eminently capable. And highly dangerous.
Sinclair made his way back over to the breakfast bar. The two men stopped when they saw Black. They stood, maybe seven feet from him.
“You didn’t say you had a guest,” said the smaller one. He spoke with an accent. North of England, guessed Black, Yorkshire, maybe. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Sinclair’s voice was heavy and slurred. He was half-pissed.
“Adam Black. Meet fucking Laurel and Hardy.”
The smile never left the smaller man’s face. “Charley’s not being very polite.” His tone was soft, sardonic. “I think maybe he’s had a little too much to drink. You’re Adam Black? My name’s Daniel. My good friend here is Tristan. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Adam Black.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. No second names?” Black shrugged. “I think I prefer Laurel and Hardy.”
The man with the dancing eyes – Tristan – took a sharp intake of breath, stepped forward, to be halted by Daniel’s raised arm.
“Mr Black’s only joshing. You’re a funny man. But fun time’s over. We have important things to discuss with Charley. Private matters. I’m sure you understand.” Daniel gestured to the kitchen door. “So, if you wouldn’t mind. Perhaps you and Charley can catch up another time.”
Black’s expression changed to surprise. “But you’re the reason I’m here, gentlemen. Charley asked me to come. To speak for him, as it were. As his lawyer.”
“What the fuck!” exclaimed Tristan.
Daniel merely laughed. “Two lawyers in the one room. Talk about bad luck. I think a mistake’s been made. Charley doesn’t need a lawyer.” Daniel swivelled his head. “You don’t need a lawyer, do you, Charley?”
Sinclair didn’t respond immediately. His face was slack, devoid of animation. He muttered something. “I’m sorry.”
Daniel clapped his hands. “There we are. He’s sorry. Sorry for wasting your time. Now, Mr Black, if you’ll excuse us.”
Black turned to a kettle on the kitchen top next to him, switched it on.
“What are you doing?” Daniel asked softly.
“Getting a coffee. I think it’s going to be a long morning.”
“Are you a fucking stand-up comedian!” Tristan’s face had reddened, eyes darting from the kettle to Black like fireflies.
“Easy,” soothed Daniel. His mouth curled into a sad droop. “Mr Black doesn’t fully understand the nature of the situation.” His gave Black a fixed stare, as if trying to derive meaning from Black’s actions. “I won’t ask again.”
Black reacted by leaning back against a kitchen cupboard, and folding his arms. He gave a wintry grin.
“Seeing as you’re asking, I’ll answer that in the negative. I think I’ll stay, thank you.”
He appraised the two men. Both in apparent good condition, at the peak of their physical prowess. But then so was Black. The man calling himself Daniel seemed disciplined, measured. Tristan on the other hand, seemed reckless. But still a handful.
“Let’s make this easy,” Daniel said. “Let’s ask Charley what he wants. After all, he’s your client.”
He turned his attention to Sinclair, who stared back, his expression one of dreamy confusion.
“Tell Mr Black you would like him to leave.”
Sinclair puckered his lips, wrinkled his nose, as if giving the question deep thought. “Did I tell you that Adam Black was in the SAS.” He waved his arm vaguely. “He’s a fucking killing machine. That’s why he’s here.”
He had both Tristan and Daniel’s full attention.
“And why exactly is he here?” said Daniel.
“To kill you. Why else?”
“Really? How interesting.”
Black regarded Sinclair with a burning gaze. He felt like throttling him. Matters had just got a million times worse.
Daniel scrutinised Black with renewed intensity. “SAS? We’re shaking in our boots.”
“Best you go your way,” Black replied in a mild voice. “I am a dangerous man.”
He straightened, arms loose and easy at his side. In such situations, when danger was close, Black possessed the ability to detach his mind, and watch almost as a spectator, brushing aside fear and doubt. It was thus he watched the two men before him.
Daniel glanced at Sinclair. “This will not go well for you, Charley.”
He turned back to Black, stepped to one side, showed his sad twisted smile, gave a delicate shrug, from which Tristan seemed to derive exact information. In his hand was a blade. A hunting knife. He strode forward. The kettle clicked. Black reached over, grabbed it, flung the boiling water into Tristan’s face. Tristan recoiled, shrieking. The knife fell with a clatter.
Daniel moved, darted forward with deceiving speed, and with agility, swung up his leg, designed to cripple, or even kill. Black dodged, seized the heel and toe of his shoe, twisted, intending to break the ankle. Daniel turned in mid-air, pulled himself in a ball, wrenched his foot from Black’s grasp, landed with a roll on the kitchen floor, and like a cat, bounced to his feet.
Black didn’t stop. He had the momentum. He had the kitchen knife in his hand, crouched, thrust his arm forward, a quick, savage movement, stabbed Tristan in the thigh. Tristan instinctively doubled over. Black caught the back of his head, yanked Tristan’s face against his upraised knee, crushing bone, breaking teeth. Tristan staggered, fell on his backside, dazed. Blood oozed from his leg, and both nostrils. Broken nose, possibly broken jaw.
Daniel took a deep breath, regarding Black with a new respect. Tristan moaned. Blood leaked from his leg onto the kitchen tiles at an alarming rate.
“Looks like your pal is dying,” said Black, ignoring the sprawled figure of Tristan, concentrating entirely on Daniel. The easy smile had left Daniel’s face. Now, a mixture of anger and confusion.
“Pick him up and get the hell out of here,” continued Black in a flat, hard voice. “I won’t ask again.”
Daniel inclined his head. “Touché.”
He bent, heaved Tristan up. Tristan tried to speak, managing an inarticulate mumble. He hooked his arm round Daniel’s shoulders, leant heavily on him. Daniel clasped Tristan’s waist, manoeuvred his way out of the kitchen. Daniel turned as he was leaving.
“I’ll look forward to meeting you soon, Mr Black.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
Without further comment, Tristan and Daniel left the house.
Black filled the kettle up with water, switched it on, fixed his attention on Sinclair. Sinclair stared at him, blinked.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he slurred. “You’re making a coffee, after… all that. You’re one cool-headed bastard.”
“The coffee’s for you, Charley,” Black snapped. “Time to sober up. Time to tell me what the fuck you’ve done.”