Blood Whispers (21 page)

Tommy Aquino pressed the
EXIT
tab that was flashing red on his phone and placed the handset back on the table.

Moran was lying on the bed. ‘Was that the lawyer?’ he asked, looking up from the newspaper. The headline read, DRUG LAWYER COULD FACE CHARGES.

‘Yeah!’

‘These guys are really laying into her. You could pre-soak her in Tide for a year, you ain’t gonna shift the stains from this lady. Got that asshole Patrick Sellar working her over, too: interview reads like he’s a man on a seek-and-destroy mission. What’s she want?’

‘Abazi has made contact with her.’

‘No shit,’ said Moran, sitting up. ‘When?’

‘Just now. He wants to meet her tonight.’

‘How’d he find her?’

‘She didn’t say.’

‘Why’d she call us?’

‘Says she tried the cop . . . Hammond, but can’t get a hold of him so she called us, figuring he might be here. She wants to know what to do.’

‘What’d you say?’

‘I told her she’d done the right thing and that I’d call her straight back.’

‘So Hammond doesn’t know?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘We got to keep it that way. This could be the break we’re looking for. Did she say where the meet with Abazi was supposed to take place?’

‘An industrial estate on the South Side.’

Moran reached down and pulled a pouch marked ‘Diplomatic’ from his holdall at the side of the bed, thumbing the combination lock until it clicked and released the zip tabs.

The soft neoprene pouch was no more than four centimetres thick and barely the size of a laptop computer, but it contained two flat-black Sig P229 Daks with high-capacity magazines.

‘Okay, so we’ve got to move fast.’ He freed one of the guns from the foam padding and clipped in a magazine. ‘Call her back and tell her to stay in the safe house and let us handle it – tell her we’ll inform Hammond and take care of everything this end. Then get in touch with our friendly assassin and say it has to be tonight, warn him about what to expect at the lawyer’s hideaway.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like cameras, alarms; the armed cop that’s gonna have to be dealt with. No more fucking about now, Tommy. Let’s get the lawyer out of the way and deal with Abazi at the same time.’

‘You suggesting
we
hit him?’ Aquino screwed up his face. ‘Why not let the “friendly assassin” take care of Abazi? We’ve got the lawyer neutralized. She can say shit’s brown, but no one’s going to believe her. Let’s leave her out of it for the moment.’

‘We let it play out like that, it rumbles on and on. Who knows what the outcome’s gonna be? If Abazi and the lawyer get together and start comparing notes, we’re in the shit. Let’s go sort Abazi out right now. That way we know it’s done and we can catch a transport straight out of here. Did she give you the address where Abazi’s at?’

‘Welbeck Road, Darnley Industrial Estate: a distribution warehouse there.’

‘Okay. You call her back while I look it up. In fact, tell her you’ve just spoken to Hammond and he says he’ll be in touch when it’s all sorted, or some crap like that. Anything that’ll stop her from trying to contact him again.’

Tommy Aquino lifted his phone and pressed
CALL BACK
.

‘Miss Lynch? It’s Joe O’Donnell here. We’ve just spoken to Gary Hammond and he says to sit tight. He’ll call you as soon as possible to let you know what’s happening, but in the meantime you stay right where you are until we get this thing sorted.’

Welbeck Road was mostly deserted. A few abandoned cars and some litter were the only signs there had ever been any life in this bleak, industrial landscape.

The buildings that occupied most of the surrounding area varied in size from 750 square-metre industrial units up to large warehouses with loading bays capable of housing eighteen-wheelers. The tall metal gates leading to the car park of one of these large warehouses were wide open, the gatehouse deserted. On a small, cramped desk inside the abandoned cubicle, a newspaper lay open with a half-empty cup of coffee sitting beside it.

Three out of the ten bays were occupied by large articulated lorries, but there was no activity around any of them, even though the shutters leading into the warehouse were raised and the rear doors of the trailers were hanging open.

Aquino and Moran made their way silently across the dimly lit car park and came to a stop at the rear end of one of the trailers. It was just after 8 p.m., a full hour before the meeting between Abazi and Keira Lynch was supposed to take place.

‘You figure we’re too early?’ whispered Moran.

‘I don’t know what’s going on, but my gut tells me this ain’t right.’

‘You figure we should split, or check the place out first?’

‘We’re here now. Let’s stick our nose in a little further. If it still doesn’t smell good, we go.’

Moran covered Aquino as he made his way up a set of stairs on to the loading platform and stood to the side of a large set of shutters. After checking there was no one in the loading bay area, Aquino signalled for Moran to join him.

The shutters opened on to a second platform that ran the length of the bays. From it, long roller-belts sloped away at right angles into the belly of the warehouse and disappeared amongst the rows of boxes and containers stacked from floor to ceiling. Aside from a few worker lamps at the far end casting a dim glow in the background, and the spill from the car park floodlights behind them, the warehouse was in total darkness.

Suddenly Aquino held up his hand.

‘What’s wrong?’ whispered Moran.

‘Listen.’

Moran stood in silence for a few moments, then nodded, ‘I hear it!’

A low moaning sound was coming from somewhere over to their right, inside the warehouse.

Weapons drawn, the two men dropped silently on to the concrete floor, then – with Moran covering the rear – cautiously headed in the direction of the noise.

With each step the sound grew more distinct: a gurgling, chesty groan.

Moran tapped Aquino on the shoulder and made the shape of a gun with the fingers of his left hand. He pointed it at his chest then mimed the gun recoiling as it fired several times. Aquino got it straight away and nodded. It wasn’t the first time either of them had heard the victim of a chest wound struggling to breathe. Aquino took a step forward and felt his right foot skid under him. He reached out to steady himself on Moran.

Peering down, the pair knew instantly that the black slick Aquino had stepped into was blood.

The gurgling sound was coming from somewhere close by.

Aquino eased himself against the metal uprights of a stack of shelves and sneaked a glance round the corner.

‘Holy shit,’ he gasped, recoiling involuntarily.

Moran held his Sig P229 straight in front of him as he stepped out from behind the shelving to take a look. ‘Fuck!’

In a twenty-metre-square clearing, sandwiched between the high stacks of boxes, was a circle of chairs, sixteen in total, all of which faced into the centre. On each chair sat a man with his feet bound together and his hands either tied behind his back or hanging loosely by his side. Those victims whose arms hung freely appeared to have had their fingers removed, leaving behind gory stumps that dripped blood silently to the ground. Under their chairs smaller pools of blood had merged with one another to form a larger slick.

‘This is some weird shit,’ breathed Moran.

‘They’ve been made to sit facing one another so that they see each other being executed.’

From what Aquino could make out it looked as though most of them had been shot once in the chest and once in the head.

The guy in the chair closest to them was still alive. The right side of his face was missing and his right arm jerked slightly as if he was trying to raise it in a beckoning motion. Seemingly aware of their presence, he’d turned his head to face them.

‘We gotta get out of here.’

‘Wait! He’s trying to say something.’

‘I don’t care if the asshole’s trying to sing something! Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

Aquino ignored him and eased closer.

Air gurgled and hissed from a gaping chest wound as the man tried to draw in air.

Aquino leant in with his ear close to the guy’s mouth and asked, ‘Who did this?’

Moran was getting jumpy. ‘Who gives a shit? Let’s get out of here.’

The guy mumbled incoherently, the words masked by the sound of blood burbling up in his throat. ‘Thaynawdeh.’

‘What?’

The guy tried again, ‘Thaynawdeh.’

Suddenly Aquino and Moran turned as the roller shutters above all ten bays began to clatter shut in turn, starting from the far end and working noisily along until the only illumination left was the faint glow from the worker lamps on the far side of the warehouse.

Moran dropped to his knees and fired at a black shadow moving through the darkness along the loading platform. There was a burst of automatic gunfire in return that reverberated loudly around the warehouse, the glow from the muzzle flash momentarily illuminating several other figures lurking in the shadows.

Aquino ducked out from the stack of shelves and quickly fired two more rounds before stepping back.

Suddenly the air around him erupted as a hail of bullets ripped through the boxes and packaging by his head, sending him crashing to the floor. Another burst sprayed along the roller mechanism of the conveyor belt that Moran was sheltering behind, forcing him low to the ground. Seeing how exposed Moran was, Aquino signalled for him to come towards him. He rolled on his side and fired another burst, giving Moran an opportunity to scramble across the floor and tuck in behind him.

Moran’s arms and legs were covered in blood.

‘Jesus! Are you hit?’

‘No! It’s the blood from the bodies. What the fuck do we do now? That bitch has set us up.’

With their attention focused on the loading area neither of the officers noticed the five figures from the circle of dead bodies behind them slowly rising to their feet. In silence the resurrected drew their weapons from behind their backs and stood in the dark like ghostly statues, fingers on triggers, waiting for the signal to open fire.

A voice rang out from the platform, somewhere over by the shutters.

‘CIA?’

‘Yes. Hold your fire. We are CIA officers. Please step out with your weapons raised where we can see them.’

‘Got a call earlier from my lawyer with a bit of information regarding some drug smugglers: needed a bit of advice. She happened to mention that you two gentlemen were interested in a meet with Mr Abazi. I suggested to her that you might want to drop by this evening and I could help set that up.’

The Holy Man stepped out from behind some racking.

‘Who are you? What the fuck is going on here?’

‘They’re not dead.’

‘Who are not dead? What the fuck are you talking about?’ Moran raised his weapon and pointed it at the Holy Man.

‘The guy in the chair behind you; that’s what he’s trying to tell you . . . they’re not dead.’

As Moran and Aquino turned to look over their shoulders and saw the figures standing behind them, the Holy Man finished with, ‘But you are.’

The voyage from Malin to German Bight had taken nearly three hours. Once they’d cleared the north-west coast of Scotland, Besnik Osmani had come to the cabin, ripped the tape from Rebecca’s mouth and given her some water, but nothing to eat. The seas around Viking and South Utsire had been rough. Waves had slammed against the side of the boat without warning, knocking Rebecca to the floor. The cabin was dark and claustrophobic with an unpleasant plasticky smell. Even if they’d brought her food she wouldn’t have been able to eat it; all she wanted to do was throw up. The thick black tape they’d used to bind her wrists burned where it had rubbed the skin raw. Her knees and elbows were grazed from trying to stay upright as the narrow hull of the
ХЕРОИН
pitched and tossed its way through the ragged North Sea waves.

In the past few minutes the engine noise had reduced to a low hum and the boat seemed to have come to a halt.

Outside she could hear the vague clank of metal, dull thumps and banging noises along with the muffled sounds of men shouting to one another.

Suddenly the cabin door flew open and the room filled with sea-spray and cold salt air mixed with a strong smell of diesel.

Abazi was silhouetted in the doorway, lit from behind by a spotlight mounted on the gunwale of a small fishing trawler that was tied up alongside. He had to shout to be heard above the noise of the wind.

‘Hot or cold?’

Rebecca stared up at him. ‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘Is straightforward; you want hot or cold?’

‘Hot or cold what? If it’s coffee, then hot, if it’s beer – cold. I don’t know what you’re asking, so I don’t know how to answer.’

Besnik Osmani appeared behind Abazi and squeezed past into the cabin. Without speaking he grabbed Rebecca by the arm and pulled her upright before dragging her out on to the wet, slippery deck of the cockpit.

The trawler was only a few metres longer than the cigarette boat, but stood much higher out of the water. They were surrounded by sea and darkness, with no land visible in any direction. The crest of each wave that broke between the bows of the boats was picked up by the wind and sprayed over the three figures in raw showery blasts.

Besnik pushed Rebecca on to the padded bench at the rear of the cockpit, where a cold puddle of seawater soaked through the seat of her trousers.

Even with the wind howling across the deck of the cigarette boat the diesel fumes seemed much more intense.

Suddenly Rebecca realized what Abazi’s question meant.

They were planning to set the boat alight.

She could stay on board the
ХЕРОИН
and burn to death or be thrown overboard into the sea to drown. Hot or cold.

Abazi’ s face was pressed right next to her ear, still barely audible even though he was shouting.

‘We can’t show up with an extra body: especially a cop. If you go for cold you might get lucky and die of a heart attack. The water out here never rises above minus five degrees, so it’s possible. But drowning is not a pleasant way to go. You might stay afloat for a few minutes, but as soon as you start to sink, you’ll want to catch your breath. You start taking in water. You can’t help it; all the while your brain is screaming for air. It’s slow. It’s a struggle. Unpleasant. If I were you I’d stay aboard. Cremation goes back to the Stone Age. Fire was a miracle from the gods. It’s noble, almost.’

Without warning Rebecca suddenly flicked round and caught Abazi on the chin with the side of her forehead. There was a satisfying crack as her head made contact. As he reeled back he swung his fist, but a wave slammed into the side of the boat, pitching him out of reach and sending Rebecca lurching forward along the deck until – unable to keep her balance – she toppled and struck her head and shoulder off the steering wheel. It was impossible to break her fall. She dropped heavily, catching her cheek and the side of her mouth on the corner of the dashboard. As she slumpd down on the deck she immediately twisted round and tried to sit upright, but another wave tipped her sideways and sent her sliding in a heap against the shallow wall of the cockpit. Blood spluttered from a large tear in her lip, her gums were aching and raw.

She lifted her head in time to see Besnick Osmani’s foot swinging towards her, but too late to avoid the blow.

Her head exploded in a flash of white light.

She could feel Besnick kicking wildly at her, in a rage: first in the stomach, then stamping down heavily on her face.

Just when it seemed he would never stop, everything went silent.

When she next opened her eyes, Besnik and Abazi were already on board the trawler. Her vision was blurred and unfocused. It was difficult to tell for sure, but it looked like they were untying the lines.

Moments later the two boats started to drift apart.

Before long, all she could see was the dull glow from the trawler’s masthead light bobbing around in the dark as it disappeared into the blackness. She wondered why they hadn’t set light to the boat: maybe their intention all along had been just to scare her.

Rebecca braced her feet under the base of the driver’s chair and used her stomach muscles to pull herself into a sitting position. Her eyes were stinging and there was an unpleasant taste in her mouth of chemicals mixed with blood and seawater. The smell of fumes was overpowering: far stronger than before. That’s when she realized they had soaked her in fuel as well. It was in her hair, and on her skin: her clothes were saturated in it.

Her first thought was to get back inside the cabin and get out of her clothing, but when she tried the door it was locked. Rebecca lay on her back, raised her knees to her chest and – using both feet – rammed them against the door.

After several attempts there was a loud splintering crack as it finally gave way.

A dull thump cut through the howling wind and made her turn.

A flare streaked into the sky above, illuminating the sea around the cigarette boat with a dull red glow.

She could see the trawler again.

It struck her that it hadn’t travelled as far as she’d first thought, then she realized that the fishing boat had turned and was heading back toward her.

Another flare shot through the darkness, this time skimming the top of the waves, heading toward the
ХЕРОИН
. It landed just metres from the boat, fizzing and boiling the water as it sunk beneath the waves in a swirling plume of steam and smoke.

The next flare struck the bow and glanced harmlessly off into the sea.

They were going to set the boat alight after all.

The fourth smashed into the cockpit, fizzing around the deck in a blinding ball of red heat. Rebecca scrambled towards it and tried to flick it over the side using her feet, but the pitch and toss of the boat made it impossible. The flare slid away from her and tumbled down the short set of steps leading to the cabin. The air around her seemed to draw breath, then suddenly explode outwards with a loud, hollow bang. A ball of yellow flames mushroomed into the night sky.

Rebecca’s hair was on fire. The intense heat melted her clothes and seared her flesh. The tape that bound her wrists and legs was gone. She would have screamed, but it was impossible to draw breath. Thick acrid smoke bellowed around her, choking her throat and clogging her lungs. She clambered to her feet – her entire body engulfed in flames – and plunged headlong over the side of the boat. The shock of cold as she entered the water paralysed her instantly, making it impossible even to tread water.

The flames from the burning boat illuminated the surrounding darkness. In her last few moments of consciousness, as her lungs filled with water and her body sank deeper and deeper beneath the waves, it looked to Rebecca like the sun had come out.