Dance With the Enemy (9 page)

When he left Djourou’s apartment, Logan was on a high. More through relief than anything: relief that he’d made it out of there alive. But the high was also because it had been five months since he’d been in a situation anything like that. And for the first time in that five months, he felt alive again. Like he suddenly remembered what he’d been put on this earth to do. It had all come so naturally to him again. Unlike the skipping around Paris he’d been doing the day before to no avail.

It was only as he headed back to his car that he noticed his hands were trembling. At first he thought it was just from the adrenaline of the fight. But after a few minutes, he knew that wasn’t the case. As the adrenaline wore off, the trembling didn’t stop. It actually got worse. And it wasn’t just the tremors in his hands. By the time he was back at his car, his legs felt like jelly, his head was in a spin, his stomach was churning, he felt like he was about to throw up. He was in shock. His body was reacting to what had just happened.

Logan had seen plenty of action in his time. He’d shot and killed people before – it was what he did. He was usually ready for anything. That was what he’d been trained for; that was what the JIA, his life, was all about. He’d remained calm while in the thick of it, confident that he would get out of Djourou’s apartment alive. But he just hadn’t been ready for that situation. Not mentally at least.

It had made him feel vulnerable.

It had made him feel scared.

It had made him remember the first time he’d seen a dead body.

It happened right before he’d met Mackie and joined the agency, when he was only seventeen years old. His childhood was a period he’d tried his best to forget, and over the years, with the training and the life that the JIA had given him, he’d been successful in that. He’d seen many more bodies since that day, and never felt anything like the intensity of emotion again. In fact, with each year that came and went, he’d felt less and less.

So why was it different today?

The answer was simple. From that day when he was seventeen up until a few months ago, as a result of his training, he’d spent his life on autopilot. He’d barely felt a thing; he’d become used to what he was, what he did and what he saw. But that had changed five months ago, when Youssef Selim had brought Logan back to the real world.

And after that fateful day had come the intensive physical and mental rehabilitation. That in itself had been almost as painful as his experience at the hands of Selim. At first, during his recovery, he’d felt liberated. He’d been glad to be alive. Like it was a new beginning. But then came the feelings of isolation, loneliness, guilt – a whole host of feelings that were alien to him. More than anything, hate was one of the emotions he’d now become used to. Hatred towards Selim: what he was, and what he’d done.

His heart rate built again as his mind went back to that dark period of recovery. He slammed his hands against the steering wheel to try to stop the memories. And to try to stop the trembling that had taken control of his hands. It worked, but only for a few seconds. Sweat was dripping down his forehead, but his body wasn’t overheating. He opened the window to get some air and took several deep gulps. It helped to slow his heart rate back to normal. Finally, after a few more minutes trying his best to focus his mind away from Selim, away from Djourou and everything else that was clouding his thinking, the shaking in his hands began to subside.

This is why I needed a holiday,
he thought, managing a wry smile.

He banged on the steering wheel with the palms of his hand again, angry that he’d let himself get this way. That he was being so weak.

Get a grip, man
.

Why was he being so pathetic? This wasn’t how Carl Logan acted. Carl Logan could handle anything.

Just get a grip
.

Logan put the car into gear and drove off, fighting through the Parisian traffic back to Saint-Denis. By the time he arrived at the JIA safe house, the shaking in his hands had all but gone. But Logan was left with a feeling of betrayal. It felt like he’d betrayed who he really was by being this emotional wreck. Betrayed the life he’d led for eighteen years. Or was it the JIA that had betrayed him, for turning a seventeen-year-old boy into an emotionless killing machine? A boy who’d only really wanted protection from a world that had chewed him up and spat him out.

The Carl Logan of today was a different animal to that naive and deprived teenager. But in many ways, he was back at the beginning again. And right now, however hard it was to admit, perhaps he needed just as much emotional protection as he had back then.

Johnny had only been following John Burrows for less than twenty-four hours and he already hated him. He was in a bad mood. A really bad mood. John Burrows had done a bunk on him about three hours ago. And yet, had Burrows even known he was being followed? This was all turning to shit right before Johnny’s eyes. His boss, Reggie, was going to have a field day if he found out. And if Selim found out too? Well, Johnny didn’t even want to think about what that might mean. Quite frankly, the man terrified Johnny. He wouldn’t say it to anyone, but really he just wanted this whole job to be over and done with now.

But this wasn’t the type of job you could just bail out of. At least, not if you wanted to keep your life. And all he could do now was wait by the hotel and hope for the best.

Burrows hadn’t checked out, Johnny was sure of that. But three hours ago the guy had left the hotel and walked to a car rental shop not far away. Johnny hadn’t been expecting that. And there was nothing he could do as he watched Burrows hop into a car and drive away from him. He didn’t have time to hire a car himself. Burrows would have already been long gone by the time he’d sorted out all the paperwork. Burrows must have prearranged the car and prepaid for it, as he was in and out of there in less than a minute. They were never that quick in those places. And there were no taxis in this part of town that Johnny could have hailed. Nor were there any careless scooter owners or motorcyclists whom he could knock off their bikes while they sat at traffic lights. Not like in the movies, where they just appear from nowhere the second you need to follow someone.

So Johnny had been well and truly screwed. So now he just had to sit and wait. And hope that Burrows came back. Soon. It wasn’t his fault, though. He was good at this. He’d been a policeman once. Had been a policeman for fifteen years, in fact. Until they’d booted him out. That was eight years ago. Even though his life had changed in many ways since then it still made him angry to think about it. He hadn’t done anything wrong, really. Just taken a bit of coke out of evidence every now and then for personal use. It wasn’t like he was out on the street selling it on.

That had been the key turning point in his life. Not long after that, his wife, Charlene, the bitch, had left him. It hadn’t really been a surprise. She’d been running around with one of his colleagues for six months pretty much in front of his eyes. Still, the guy wasn’t running around after he’d broken both of his legs in a freak accident not long after.

Johnny was better off without her anyway. And to be fair, he was better off out of the police. For the past six years he’d been working and living in Paris. He got paid almost twice as much as he had in the police. And the work was easier and more suited to his strengths. So it was their loss, really.

But it was days like these that brought back bad memories. Today he felt foolish, just like the day he’d found out his wife was screwing someone else. And just like back when he was still a street bobby, chasing rowdy drunken teenagers around fields. In his time in the police he’d dealt with drug dealers, with rapists, murderers even. But it was the drunk and stoned teenagers that caused him the biggest problems and the biggest embarrassments. Because there was just nothing you could do to them. They could hit you, spit on you, run rings around you, and you couldn’t do a thing back to them. They thought they were untouchable. As far as the law was concerned they pretty much were. He’d always hated that, felt so useless. Like he was working with both arms tied behind his back.

Today felt just like that. Johnny knew what this job was about. He knew how to do it. But this John Burrows guy was starting to make him look stupid. And he hated him for that.

Johnny’s phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the caller ID. It was Reggie. Johnny groaned before answering. This was the last thing he needed.

‘Hi, Reggie.’

‘Johnny, where the fuck are you?’

Shit. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Should he tell the truth or lie? Lying might keep the boss at bay for now. But sooner or later it would come back to bite him.

‘I’m at the hotel.’

That wasn’t a lie. He didn’t have to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Not unless he was prompted.

‘And where is our good friend John Burrows?’

Double shit.

‘I don’t know. I’m waiting for him to come back. He hired a car and went off this morning. I lost him.’

‘You lost him? What the … You
lost
him? And how long ago was that?’

‘Nine o’clock.’

‘Fuck me sideways. Just tell me one thing, Johnny. At what point
were
you planning on telling me this?’

Johnny didn’t know what to say. He was pretty sure Reggie already knew the answer: he hadn’t been planning on telling him at all.

‘I don’t know,’ Johnny said.

‘Okay, this is going nowhere,’ Reggie said. ‘I already know you lost Burrows. Do you know how I know that?’

‘No.’

‘Because not long ago a very good friend of the man who’s paying me, the man who’s therefore paying
you
, was visited by one John Burrows.’

‘What? Who?’ Johnny felt himself lose a few inches. Maybe he really had fucked up this time.

‘Thierry Djourou. And it wasn’t a very nice visit. Djourou has been shot. His kid brother is dead. So I think we can definitely say that John Burrows is a threat!’

This was even worse than Johnny had imagined. For once, he had to hold his hands up: he’d messed up royally. John Burrows was going to pay for this.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Johnny asked. He knew there was no point in fighting this battle. He needed to make amends. It wasn’t just his job on the line here. If he got on the wrong side of Selim, it was his life.

‘Djourou is still at home,’ Reggie said. ‘I sent a doctor out to see to his shot leg. His brother was already a goner. The police
don’t know anything about this yet. Gunshots at Clichy-sous-Bois don’t really get them too excited anymore. I want you to go over there and take care of Djourou.’

‘Take care of him? You mean, like the doctor?’

‘No, not like the fucking doctor! I mean
take care
of him, Johnny, you fucking retard.’

‘But why?’

‘Because he’s talked. He says he hasn’t but there’s no way Burrows would’ve just walked away from there unless he had what he needed. You know, you’re walking a very thin line here. I’m not sure how many cock-ups you think you’re entitled to, but the answer now is none. Do Djourou, then go back to the hotel. I’m sending Lorik out to the hotel as well. Meet him there afterwards. Got it?’

‘Lorik? That guy’s a nut job!’

‘Well, Burrows has brought it on himself. Are we on the same page now?’

‘Yeah. How do you want it done? Djourou, I mean.’

‘Just do it.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘And Johnny. If you see Burrows, bring him to me. Alive. Selim’s pissed. I’m pissed. Burrows is not going to get off this one easily.’

Reggie put the phone in his pocket. Johnny was just about on his last life. One more wrong move and he would have to cut that one loose.

‘Problems with the troops?’ said Selim, who was sitting on the beige sofa opposite Reggie. Richard Blakemore was sitting next to him.

And fuck you too
, Reggie thought. Selim might be a big cheese, but that didn’t mean he owned Reggie. And it certainly didn’t mean that Reggie had to like him. Still, Blakemore was paying Reggie two million dollars for this. With any luck, Selim would soon be out of his life. So he would just have to bite his lip and put up with this crap for a few more days.

‘No. No problems at all,’ Reggie said. ‘Nothing that can’t be sorted, at least.’

‘Well, let’s hope it does get sorted,’ Selim said. ‘Your men don’t seem to be doing too good a job so far.’

Selim was smiling at Reggie as he spoke. It made the big man feel uneasy.

‘Johnny will sort it.’

‘The point of having someone followed is to make sure they don’t get in our way,’ Blakemore piped up.

Blakemore was the man who had brought Reggie onto this job. He thought of himself as a businessman. By ‘business’ he basically meant anything that made him richer. The man had few morals. Reggie wasn’t bothered by that, though. It was more the man’s superior attitude that grated. To Reggie he was nothing more than a smarmy toff. The guy thought he was some sort of preppy model with his ridiculous clothes, rather than the pot-bellied forty-something that he really was. But he obviously had some talent in making money to be living the life he was.

‘It’s being taken care of,’ Reggie said.

‘Yes, well, it’s just a pity that it’s come to that,’ Blakemore said, shaking his head. ‘We’re not too pleased about Djourou, you know. He’s done some good work for me. And he was a good friend of Selim.’

Reggie looked over at Selim, who was staring at him. He nodded at Blakemore’s words, then reached over to the coffee table to pick up his mug. Reggie doubted Selim fully understood the concept of
friend
. But the point had been made.

Djourou might have been considered a friend, but it was clear that no-one in the room was disputing his fate. He had it coming. He’d talked, and that meant that he had to go. Those were the rules. Though the ease with which the conclusion to kill Djourou had been reached made Reggie all the more nervous. Reggie had been central to planning and carrying out the attack on Modena’s convoy. His military experience and training had been key. But what would it take for him to become just another loose end?

He banished the thought. If it came to it, he knew he was a fighter.

‘Is it time for the show yet?’ Reggie said, hoping the conversation could now move on.

Blakemore looked at his watch. ‘Ah, you’re right. ’Bout time too. I’ve been looking forward to this part. Where’s Mohammed gone?’

‘It’s not Mohammed,’ Selim said in a tone that was unusually terse for him. ‘It’s Mustafa.’

‘Fine, Mustafa. Get him in here and let’s get this show on the road.’

‘He’s already in the basement,’ Reggie said.

Mustafa was a young guy that Selim had brought into the job. Initially Reggie had been unable to see the point in his involvement. Mustafa was barely out of his school years and didn’t really seem to add anything to the mix. But then, as time had gone on, Reggie had begun to see his use. In fact, his complete lack of physical threat was the main thing going for him. He was the only one who was getting Modena to talk at all.

‘Well, what are we waiting for then?’ Blakemore said. He stood up and pulled on his balaclava, then held his hand out in the shape of a gun and fired an imaginary shot at Reggie. ‘Gotcha,’ he said.

What a twat
, Reggie thought. He stood and picked his balaclava up off the table. Selim followed suit.

The three men headed towards the basement door. As Reggie stepped through the doorway, he pulled the wool over his head and started down the steps.

In the basement, Modena was on the chair, his head slumped. Mustafa was sitting next to him on the floor, talking.

‘You two look like you’re having fun,’ Reggie boomed.

Modena looked up, terror in his eyes.

Yes, you little bastard, it’s me again
, Reggie thought.

‘So, Frank,’ he said, ‘how’re your acting skills?’