A solitary bulb dangled from the tin roof, casting the rest of the warehouse into heavy darkness. The figure was in the shadows but the half a dozen men opposite him knew not to ask for more light. They had all served under the General. He paid twice what anyone else paid, but his demands were brutal and bloody.
Standing in a semicircle behind their spokesman, their legs were spread wide and arms crossed. With buzz cuts and oversized jaws, they might have been brothers. They even dressed alike in dark colours, with black polo necks and dark chinos, and heavy jackets because it was cold in the riverside warehouse. And they kept still, barely breathing, as if by breathing they might attract the General’s attention, and it might have to stop. They took comfort in each other – they were in this together.
They rejected the term ‘mercenaries’, preferring to regard themselves as security agents. Technically, Tommy was in charge, but generally they operated on democratic principles, voting on which jobs to take, with an even split of profits.
‘Your orders were to put the fear of God into Hawke and his wife,’ General Kirkham said, his breath was foggy, his tone icy. ‘To send the bloody man a clear message to keep his mouth shut about what went wrong. Hawke wasn’t even there.’
‘What went wrong’ three weeks ago was one of the most frightening things Tommy had ever witnessed. They’d had to clean up the shambles, and the memory of it was still giving him nightmares.
The Thames slapped against the retaining wall of the warehouse, and through the metal sheeting the ex-soldier heard the thrum of the diesel engines of the riverboats. Tommy had always liked the river – his father had been a stevedore, with heavy, horny-skinned hands he could still feel clatter against his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but when his voice came out, to his shame it broke in fear as it used to when he was a boy. ‘We’d miked the apartment and we heard talk. We thought they were both in, sir.’
‘You’ve let yourself get sloppy. I don’t like sloppy, especially when there’s a big operation in the offing.’
By rights, Tommy shouldn’t be frightened. The Wapping warehouse was home territory for him and the lads. It was convenient and the landlord had never asked questions since that one time. They stored their arms, equipment and vehicles there. Two shipping containers at the rear were used as holding cells, with a huge pressurized kettle next to them and six barrels of what the lads called ‘Corpse and Lye soup’.
Tommy and his team had served together for years by the time they got carried away using goats for target practice, except they weren’t goats, they were little girls. It wasn’t like it was on purpose; not the first one anyway. Despite pressure for an inquiry, the General made sure they all got honourable discharges – he understood the pressure men were under. High jinks that went wrong. Could have happened to any of us. They all knew they owed him, and it hadn’t worked out too badly. These days, they worked all over the world – sometimes as bodyguards to the rich and powerful; occasionally as heavies when one of those same rich and powerful people needed a particular job sorting. A hostage rescued. A body disposed of. A business rival silenced. Their mobile number was passed from hand to hand and their employment required a personal recommendation from someone who’d used them before. They were appallingly expensive, and their failures few and far between. They were indeed professionals, Tommy reassured himself. He’d long since stopped counting how many men, women and children he himself had killed. You dropped in from the sky, did what needed doing, and got out fast and clean. The lads were tight. Combat turned you into a cohesive unit. He would die for them in the same way they’d die for him. He had no idea what went wrong when he sent in his mate to take care of the woman. It should have been easy.
‘Remind me of your orders,’ the General said. He walked towards Tommy and slowly took a 360 tour of him, as if making an inspection of goods he’d bought at auction.
‘One driver outside. One man to slap them about, sir.’
‘Was it a kill order?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Was the order to hurt her?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How badly?’
‘Bad enough, but not terminal, sir.’ Even with his eyes forward, he was dizzy from the General’s circuit.
‘Was the order to rape her?’
‘I’m guessing…’
‘Was the order to rape her?’
‘We talked about it; it seemed like one way to hurt her and piss him off. Win-win, you know, sir.’ Tommy sniggered, but it was out of fear rather than amusement and he regretted it immediately. He sensed a growing release of tension behind him, a shift from the role of culpable and accused to that of disinterested audience as the General drilled down into him. His mate was dead – his mate couldn’t take the rap. Only the living could be held accountable.
‘Remind me, who was the driver?’ The voice came from behind him and Tommy swallowed – his mouth dry like all the times he’d been in deserts. He hated the sand and the flies and he really needed a drink. There was beer in the fridge at the back. He wanted a beer.
‘That would be me, sir.’ And he was beginning to hate the General’s guts.
‘Remind me of the name of the man you sent in?’
The General knew each and every one of them. Pretending otherwise, he made clear their insignificance, in life and in death. Tommy felt the slight, and knew he was meant to.
He had three weapons on him. A Glock 19 in a shoulder holster on his left side, a Glock 43 holstered on his left ankle, and an Emerson Close Quarters Combat knife sheathed on the horizontal at his waist. He should not have had sweat running down his spine. But he did. He thought about where they were. Where his hands were. What he could reach first if it came to it – the Glock 19 was in plain sight and the General knew he carried the second gun. The knife then, he decided. He felt a flare of panic as he considered the second’s delay before his thumb could find the hole to deploy the blade.
‘He was a good man, sir.’ If by ‘good’, you meant effective.
‘Your “good man” got himself killed. By a woman.’ The General stood too close to him. Up in his face, like he was daring him to clench his fist and knock him senseless. ‘You’ve shown Hawke I’m vulnerable. That he can afford to flout me with impunity. That he can say what he wants and do what he wants.’ The General looked across from Tommy to the waiting men. ‘And do you know what is at stake here? Everything. I’m changing your terms of engagement. I don’t just want the machine any more. When you boys go into the museum tomorrow night, Hawke dies. And enough people to make it look incidental – an act of domestic terrorism. Can you do that much for me?’
‘Including the wife?’ Tommy asked.
‘If she’s not dead already,’ the General said. ‘You aren’t the only tool in my box, and who knows? She might yet catch a nasty chill. It’s that time of year.’
Tommy had plenty of money, he reminded himself. A four-bedroom shingle house overlooking the Essex salt marshes and a young family. He could give all this up tomorrow. Do the kind of stuff his wife was always yammering on about. Take his kid to football training. Watch the match. Maybe even do some coaching. He was still thinking of his daughter’s face – she’d just lost her two front teeth last week – as he felt the blade of his own knife slide between rib 9 and rib 10 and into his left kidney. He’d sharpened it the night before, as luck would have it. Pain washed over him and he clutched the General’s lapels as his knees gave way. He waited for the arms of the men behind to catch him before he collapsed on to the concrete floor, but there was no one. Waited for them to die for him. But there was just one word of Anglo-Saxon that said it all. He didn’t recognize the voice, but he knew for certain he would never make it to the museum. Never stand in the rain and watch his kid score a goal. The knife rattled against the bone as it came out. He had time to consider goats, the fact he was dying alone, the bleakness of the lads’ betrayal – and then darkness.