The man nicknamed “Ringo” took orders from Bustan, but that didn’t mean he liked it. They were distantly related. Along the lines of a second or third cousin. They came from the same district of Istanbul. Sarıgöl. Dirt poor, slum ridden, and the drug capital of Turkey. Most spent their lives trying to get out. Most didn’t, unless prison or death could be counted. Ringo was lucky. He knew Bustan. And Bustan recognised Ringo’s penchant for brutality. When Bustan needed something sticky done, Ringo was the man.
But that didn’t mean he liked it. Ringo had his own designs. Bustan was useful. Bustan had given him a passage to the soft West. But Ringo was keen to flex his own muscles. Ringo wanted his own tribe. He would tolerate Bustan for now. And then, at some point in the future, he might give Bustan a little taste of the violence he ordered Ringo to do to others.
Such were the thoughts running through Ringo’s mind as he parked a white van on the outskirts of Thorntonhall, on a grass verge beside thick foliage, at 3am. The van was stolen. Two hours from now, it would be abandoned and burnt out on a side road ten miles away, where four cars waited, to pick him and each of his men up. One man per car. Less conspicuous. One thing he gave Bustan credit for – he was a good planner. Ringo had learned a lot from him.
Thorntonhall was smaller than a village. More of a hamlet, set in the countryside, which made things a lot easier. No CCTV cameras. Big houses set apart from each other, where neighbours kept to themselves. The one thing about rich neighbourhoods, he had come to realise, was that they didn’t give a flying fuck about each other, unless it was to outshine – a trophy car, a new extension, a bigger hot tub in the garden.
They crept along the narrow pavement. Four of them, keeping to the shadows. Four whispers in the night. The only illumination came from quaint Victorian-style lamp posts, all fancy wrought iron, set far apart. They looked nice, but were there for show only – ineffective when it came to lighting up the street.
Each man carried a black plastic bin bag, containing a crowbar, to be used to enter, and then used to kill. Ringo also carried a stiletto knife, tucked discreetly in a pocket adapted from the inner lining of his jacket. He knew the address. They got to the front driveway. They put on balaclavas, covering the face, except the eyes. The house was set back a little from the road. Low clouds blanketed the moon and stars, rendering all things to vague shapes and blots of deeper shadow. Perfect conditions. Easy job.
They made their way towards the house. Three cars were parked in the front driveway. Which might indicate more people in the house. Or it might not indicate anything at all. It hardly mattered. Collateral damage.
They went round the side, encountering a short wooden fence, about waist height, which they dealt with without difficulty. They got to the back garden. There, a conservatory, a large decking. They got to back patio doors. Sliding doors. They were always the easiest to force open. Not that much force was required. The slider was outside. Ringo inserted the sharp edge of the crowbar between the door frame and the door, at the bottom, diagonal to the latch, and pried upwards. By tilting, the latch on the door lowered, releasing it from the bracket. The noise was minimal – like a shoe scuffed on the ground. He wriggled the door open. They were in.
Deborah had arrived back about nine earlier that evening. Tony was recovering well, she had explained. Another day, two at the most the doctors reckoned, then he’d be allowed to go home. After that, a programme of counselling. But the prognosis, generally, was good. She’d brought back pizza, which she, Chris, and Black ate in the kitchen. Black had a single cold beer. Deborah had a single half glass of wine. Chris stuck to fresh orange juice.
To Black’s mind, Deborah’s mood had lightened. She clearly loved her son being there, which was understandable. Better there, than the mountains of Afghanistan. She chatted about anything and everything. All Black had to do was listen. She was still in mild shock, perhaps. Despite her exuberance, she still looked exhausted, her face wan and thin.
At 11pm, she excused herself and went to bed. Black and Chris watched some TV. A Netflix thing with swords and monsters. Black didn’t own a television, hadn’t for a long time. After watching what was on offer, he remembered why.
Chris went to bed at midnight, leaving Black on his own, with the couch and a blanket. Black had thought it wise to have the Desert Eagle close by his side, plus a Beretta. He switched the lights out, settled into the stillness of the night, and fell into a sort of half-sleep, instilled by countless nights behind enemy lines, a part of the mind constantly awake, one hand a twitch away from a loaded weapon.
Just after 3am. A noise from the other end of the kitchen. Black woke instantly, senses sharpened to a pinpoint level of ability. He eased himself from the couch, picked up the Eagle, its solid weight an instant comfort. He took a careful step back, into a corner, to a deeper shadow, and watched.
Four figures emerged, morphing from the dark, quiet as a brush of cloth, outlines only. Also, outlines of weapons in their hands. Tooled up and ready to inflict a little damage. More than a little. Black didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He felt no fear. If his heart rate were checked at that moment, it wouldn’t be a beat past fifty-five. Black was able to compartmentalise his emotion. Package it, seal the package, bury it somewhere deep. In its place a hollow, professional, detachment. Which was why, when it came to killing, Black had no issues. Provided the right guy got killed.
They crept their way forward, slowly, slowly. Four sinister shapes. Tentative. They were adjusting their sight to the interior darkness of the house. They got to the middle, by the breakfast bar. Stopped. They had a choice. They could keep moving directly forward, to the living room, towards Black. Beyond that, the conservatory.
They could change direction, creep out the kitchen through a door to their left, and into the main hall, leading to the front of the house, and to the stairs to the upper level. They wouldn’t know the layout, Black presumed. Better to keep in a straight line, get a feel for the place. Once they’d cased the ground floor, they’d head upstairs, for the serious business. Where the bedrooms were.
Which is what they did. They moved forward, in unison, into the living room. Closer. Black made ready. Suddenly, the kitchen was ablaze with light. Another figure at the door to the hall. Deborah. In her dressing gown. Maybe she’d heard something too. Maybe she’d come down to get a drink. Maybe anything. Black didn’t have time to consider. She screamed. The four men sprang back, startled. To one side, Deborah. Before them, standing in a corner, Black, pointing the Desert Eagle. Ringo, who was closest to the door, was the quickest to react. He darted towards Deborah. Something glittered in his hand. He grabbed her, pulled her close, held her in front, one arm embraced round her chest, a knife held at her throat.
“Drop the fucking gun!”
Black stepped forward. The four men were small, sinewy, wearing dark track bottoms, dark close-fitting tops, balaclava hoods. Each bearing metal crowbars. Nothing random here, Black thought. They had come with a purpose. And the purpose was easy to guess.
“Drop the fucking gun!” The man spoke with an accent. Eastern. The other three remained motionless, eyes set on Black.
Black cocked his head, as if bewildered. “Why?”
“What? Why the fuck do you think! I’ll slit her throat.”
Black gave the slightest shrug. “Do it. I don’t care. But the moment you draw blood, you’re finished. No more cards to play. And then I fire this Desert Eagle into your head. Then I’ll kill your friends.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Really? Here’s the deal. You let her go. I’ll let you and your pals walk out of here. Unharmed. I just need you to answer a couple of questions.”
Read a man’s eyes, thought Black. The eyes tell a lot. Fear, worry, surprise. Black read this man’s eyes, and saw nothing. Which meant a lack of empathy. Which meant trouble.
“Here’s what I think,” said the man, his accent heavy, but his English good. “I think you’re full of bullshit.”
Black said nothing. He could hit the three others no problem. Three easy kill shots. The fourth – the one holding Deborah – was problematic. The Desert Eagle was powerful, but not quite a precision instrument. And with the silencer attached, its accuracy diminished further. A millimetre out, less even, and it was Deborah’s brains decorating the living room walls. Also, he had a strong feeling he’d meet a swift end if he relinquished the pistol. A rock and a hard place. More like the devil and a shitstorm.
Black gave a cold smile. Something suddenly increased his odds.
He sidestepped to his left, then again. The men, instinctively, manoeuvred their bodies to their right, including the man holding Deborah, who shuffled round so his back was to the door to the hall.
“Put the fucking gun down!” barked the man.
“If I do it, you’ll promise not to hurt me?”
The man said nothing.
“I need that promise. Preferably a pinkie promise.”
“What?”
Black held the pistol out before him, turned his wrist so the barrel pointed at the ceiling, gesturing surrender. Slowly, he bent down, as if to place the pistol on the living room floor. He glanced at Deborah, her face white as death, eyes round and wide. She would feel the blade on her neck, feel the man’s body touching hers, and wonder if this was the last moment of her life.
“That’s good,” the man said.
“I’m glad you think so.” Black twitched his head, the slightest nod. There was sudden movement at the door. A figure darted in, arm raised. A dull wet thud as Chris Gallagher brought a hammer down hard on the back of the man’s head. He crumpled like a dry sack. Deborah, released from his grasp, leapt away. Black stood, calmly re-aimed the pistol at the three men. They wavered, rocking on their feet. Should they try an attack? Should they run? Should they stay put? Black read their indecision, and wondered if they were mad enough to try something. Or stupid. Or desperate.
“Please,” Black said. “Try it. I’m in a killing mood.”
They remained still.
“That’s very wise.”
Deborah had backed against a wall of the living room, standing semi-slumped, breathing heavily, one hand round her neck, where the blade had touched her skin. “What the hell’s happening?” Her voice was low and hoarse.
Her son stood above the fallen man, hammer in his right hand, poised and ready for any sudden surge of movement. But the guy was on the ground, legs and arms sprawled, oblivious to the world. Blood was seeping out the back of his balaclava, forming a small pool on the floor. Either he was unconscious, or dead. Black hoped for the former. He had questions to ask, and answers to get.
“Just shows you how versatile a hammer can be.”
Chris gave a frosty smile. “I heard the commotion. There’s a toolbox in the garage. I thought it might be useful.”
Black, weapon still trained on the three men, addressed Deborah. “I think these men were sent to finish a job. Let’s ask them.” He gazed at them, rotated the gun so that his aim rested on each one for three seconds. “Take your masks off.” No movement. One of them raised his hands, started speaking in short urgent staccato bursts, in a language Black didn’t instantly know.
Black shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
The man continued, his voice rising to a pleading whine.
“I don’t believe our friends have a grasp of the English language.” He flicked a glance at Chris. “Let’s see their handsome faces.”
Chris went over, pulled off each balaclava. Three faces stared back at Black, or more specifically the barrel of the Desert Eagle. Swarthy complexions, dark hair, hard leathery skin, eyes like flints. Each possessed the same look. A look Black had seen many times. Fear. Pointless asking such men anything. Low-ranking gang members with little to offer. The one on the floor however…
“Do you have any rope in the garage, Chris?”
Deborah answered. “There’s shelves of stuff. Not sure about the rope. But I think there’s heavy-duty sealing tape. Will that do?”
“Even better.”
“I’ll get it,” Deborah said.
The man on the floor was stirring. A low moan emanated from beneath his hood. Chris strode over, pulled it off. The hair on the back of his head was slick with blood. The man struggled to his hands and knees, wobbled, collapsed back to the floor. He groaned. Black was mildly surprised he was still alive, and hoped, if he were to die, it wouldn’t be too soon. Black had questions to ask.
Deborah returned with two full rolls of heavy-duty duct tape. Chris brought through four dining chairs from another room and arranged them in a line. At the point of Black’s Desert Eagle, the three men standing were gestured to sit, which they did without complaint, and Chris bound their wrists to the armrests, and their ankles to the chair legs, winding the tape tight, rendering them immobile.
He lifted the fourth man up and dumped him onto the remaining chair, repeated the process. The man stared ahead, glassy-eyed, slack-faced. He was still in a daze. Concussion. Possibly a fractured skull. Deborah, a little back, said nothing, watchful.
Black appraised the fourth man.
“Your English is good,” he said. The man lifted his head a fraction, managed an inarticulate mumble. Black moved closer, snapped his fingers two inches from the man’s eyes.
The man gave a weak smile, revealing a crooked row of nicotine-stained teeth, and said, “Fuck you.”
“Not nice.” Black casually slapped him across the face. Deborah, standing behind him, took a sharp intake of breath. Needs must, thought Black. If she didn’t like it, she could leave the room. But she remained quiet. The man shook his head, absorbed the blow.
“What’s your name?” asked Black.
“What are you going to do to us,” replied the man. His eyes tilted up, focused, regarding Black.
“I could do any number of things. I could execute each of you. Stick the gun to your heads, squeeze, and then eternal darkness. Or perhaps you’re a believer, and expect to get fast-tracked to paradise. Either way, you end up dead. But that’s a road you don’t need to go down. Things can be much easier.”
The man said nothing.
“Let’s start again – what’s your name? And be polite. There’s a lady present.”
“I don’t feel well. I need a doctor.”
“That’s for later. Let’s dwell on the present for now. What’s your name?” Black leaned closer. He lowered his voice. “I won’t ask a third time.”
The man licked his lips, eyes darting from Black to the massive handgun Black was holding. Debating. The man made the right choice.
“Ringo. They call me Ringo.”
“Cute. Where are you from?”
“Turkish.”
“You’re Turkish? Nice. Hope you like our country. And I guess, Ringo, these three handsome fellows are your men. You’re the commander, yes?”
The man cast a look to his left, to the others. “Yes.”
Black nodded, smiled. “Now we’re getting places.” He had a hunch. It might come to nothing, but instinct told him Ringo was clever and cunning. And ambitious. “My guess, Ringo, is that like your men, you follow orders from someone above you. You were told to come here.”
Ringo twitched his shoulders into something approaching a shrug. “Could be.”
“And I get that. And I get that you’re loyal to whoever that person is. Because without loyalty, what have we got? Chaos. You understand that word?”
“I understand.”
“But the thing is, the guy who told you to do this is probably right now all tucked up in bed, nice and warm. Do you think he cares what happens to you? I’ll bet, should things go badly for you tonight, he’ll find a replacement in ten seconds flat. That’s because, Ringo, you’re expendable. You understand that word?”
Ringo stared at Black. He understood.
“But you know what I like to ask. What if. Two little words. But full of potential. What if, the guy who gave you the command to come here, didn’t give commands anymore?”
The skin on Ringo’s forehead furrowed in puzzlement. But Black saw something else. A glimmer of possibilities in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“What if your boss – the guy who put you here, on this chair, staring at the barrel of a Desert Eagle – disappeared. No longer existed. Vanished. I wonder, if such a thing were to happen, who would fill his place?”
The man blinked. Black saw it clear as broad daylight. Scenarios running through Ringo’s head. All good. All to his advantage.
“Here’s the way I see it,” continued Black. “You give me this guy’s name, and where I can find him. Let me do the hard work.”
The man reacted in the way Black had hoped for – a miniscule nod of the head.
“And then?”
“And then you let me take care of things.”
“What about me? About us?”
“There has to be a bit of down payment. If something’s too easy, then it’s not worth having. You broke in. It’s called ‘burglary’. We phone the police. Sure, you might do a small stretch, but get the right lawyer and it could be months before you see a trial. All you have to do is nothing, except tell me his name, and where I can find him. And why you were sent here. Because I know, tooled up as you are, you didn’t come to steal a little jewellery.”
“You’re making my head hurt,” said Ringo. “What will you do to him?”
“Your boss?”
“Yes.”
“Bad things.”
“Why? What’s it to you?”
“Let’s call me an interested party.”
“How do I know this isn’t all bullshit?”
Black raised himself up, a formidable figure. Six two, muscular build, a cannon of a gun held in a hand like a shovel.
“Do I look like I’m talking bullshit.” He waited, letting the words and image absorb. Then said, “I’m giving you a deal. A good deal. If you choose not to take it, then listen to my words, Ringo. I’ll put several bullets in your face, cut your body into bits, pack them in the boot of my car, and bury them somewhere deep. This is the reality you’re in. So what do you say?”
Ringo blinked and twitched. Sweat dribbled into his eyes. Eventually, he spoke. “Bustan. His name’s Bustan. He’s at his flat in Govanhill. He’s meeting people there tonight.”
“Address?”
“Eighteen Westmoreland Street. Top right.”
“Why did he send you here?”
“To kill the woman. Make it look like a robbery.”
Black heard Deborah gasp.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Ask Bustan.”
“Thank you,” Black said. “If I find you’re lying, then I’ll kill you. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Black turned to Deborah and her son, handed Chris the Desert Eagle. “Call the police. Report an attempted burglary. They broke in, you took them by surprise, subdued them, tied them up. If I were you, when the police get here, I’d lose the weapon.”
“One man subdues four guys with crowbars?”
Black gave a wintry grin. “You’re in the parachute regiment. Which makes you superhuman.”
“These people were sent to kill me,” said Deborah, her voice hollow, her cheekbones harsh in the glare of the kitchen lights. “If you hadn’t been here, what then? What if Tony was here?”
“They were sent to kill you all,” replied Black bluntly. “Not just you. These men are foot soldiers. I need to go up a level. I need to meet the man who gives the orders.”
“Will you make this end, Adam?”
“Yes.”
“What now?”
“Time to hunt.”
Black left the four men in the care of Chris Gallagher, who was more than capable, ensuring Chris called the police. Black took with him the two Berettas from his sports bag.
He had an address. He had a name.
Bustan.