Headhunter Page 16

  Molly shrugged and shook her head, feeling the pressure. ‘I wasn’t … Why do you think that?’

  Hardiker pulled his right hand out of his pocket with a folded piece of paper in it, which he opened. ‘Sometimes the printer plays up. Doesn’t always print everything at once. Like this.’ He showed it to her, part of a file referring to the Bashkims.

  ‘Not me,’ she insisted feebly.

  ‘So I’ll ask again, Molly.’ He scrunched the sheet up into a ball. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Like I said, about what? Look, I haven’t been on your phone and I haven’t been on your computer. Clearly you’re paranoid about something. Now, I need to get to bed … I was involved in a serious incident where a cop died and I shot someone, as you know, so I’m not feeling tiptop and I’m also wondering about how the people who ambushed us knew about the police escort. That, Alan, is what is screwing up my mind, not your computer or your phone.’

  She stepped back, intending to close the door on him.

  Hardiker flung the screwed-up piece of paper into her face. It caught her by surprise, but then he came in behind it. His left arm shot out and forced the door out of Molly’s grip, and his right hand went straight to her throat. He pushed her back against the wall and came in close and tight right up to her. Breath in her face, reeking of garlic, onions and alcohol.

  Molly realized he had been brooding about this, drinking in a pub.

  The back of her head cracked against the wall and Hardiker’s fingers tightened around her slim throat, instantly restricting the blood flow to her brain. The whole of her body, from the neck down, bawled in pain as her whiplash injury jarred.

  ‘What do you know?’ he snarled into her face.

  She pawed at his forearm and hand, trying to wrench it free and, as she did, she realized for the first time that he was wearing skin-tone latex gloves.

  In a thought: He’s come to kill me.

  His grip tightened, squeezing.

  She brought up her right knee, intending another ball-crushing slam, but he was ready for this one, had his legs together and was twisted slightly away from her.

  ‘Not this time,’ he laughed harshly.

  His eyes were on fire.

  His grip tightened even more.

  ‘What do you know?’ he repeated, spittle from his mouth flicking into her face.

  In spite of the pain, she writhed and struggled and kicked, tried to scream out, not to succumb.

  ‘Nothing,’ her voice grated.

  He moved in closer, more intimate, pinning her against the wall with the width and weight of his body, still squeezing, his face contorted, sweaty.

  Molly managed to swing her left fist into the side of his head, but it was a glancing, ineffective blow.

  He laughed again.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he challenged her.

  The next punch to the side of his head sent him into instant unconsciousness.

  His grip came free from its hold on Molly’s throat as his whole body went limp and he slithered to the floor with a dull, ‘Urgh’ escaping from his mouth as all his bodily functions short-circuited.

  Molly fell forwards on to her knees, coughing and spluttering.

  Steve Flynn, the deliverer of that blow, knelt beside her, one hand resting on her back as she sucked in oxygen and her senses, which had been fading, returned.

  ‘I had him, y’know?’ Molly coughed. ‘I had him.’

  ‘I know. I put him down to save him from you,’ Flynn said jokingly, shaking his head.

  ‘Help me up.’ Molly reached out and Flynn brought her slowly back to her feet. ‘He’s got latex gloves on,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’ Flynn looked down at Hardiker, who was groaning and squirming slightly.

  ‘He’s not dead, then?’ Molly asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Brain-dead?’

  ‘No. I hit him just hard enough to put him down.’

  ‘You can do that?’

  ‘With practice.’

  Massaging her neck, she regarded Flynn. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well, whatever … I’d better be off. Whoever you were really expecting might turn up. Wouldn’t want that, would we?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Steve.’

  ‘Forget it.’ Flynn swallowed something back in his throat – probably regret and sadness and disappointment, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he could realistically have expected from her. He took another look at the moaning Hardiker, held back an urge to kick him repeatedly, then stepped across him over the threshold, only to find his way blocked by Rik Dean.

  In that first look, Flynn did not see anyone accompanying Rik, which he thought was strange but good, though it wasn’t something he had time to analyse. If Rik had decided to come alone, then more fool him. It made it so much easier for Flynn.

  He did not hesitate.

  Using the momentum from stepping over Hardiker, Flynn lurched at Rik and drove a hard, deep punch into his guts, almost making the man’s eyeballs burst out of their sockets as he doubled over and gave Flynn a look of surprise and horror, then went down on to one knee, crippled and winded.

  Flynn knew he needed more of an advantage than that.

  He needed time to get to the car and put at least five minutes’ driving time between him and Rik. Five minutes at that time of night would put him on the outer rim of Blackpool, maybe even as far as Poulton-le-Fylde and within spitting distance of the motorway.

  With that calculation in mind, he delivered a punch to the side of Rik Dean’s head which was similar to the one he’d just put on Hardiker.

  Flynn did not even look back. He ran as quickly as his injured leg would allow, ignoring the shout from Molly. As he turned into the street on which his car was parked, the area seemed deserted. The car was still there and he ran into the road to get to the driver’s side – the moment he knew he was not alone.

  A big hand grabbed the back of his neck and slammed his head down on to the car roof, trapping his face sideways, left cheek scrunched down while the muzzle of a pistol was twisted into his temple. Flynn tried to squirm free but he was held in place by a man of similar stature and strength to himself, whose face loomed into view.

  ‘Hi, Steve, we meet again,’ the man said into Flynn’s upturned ear.

  TWELVE

  He sat alone in a room. One door, no windows. A solid door, steel construction like a police cell. Maybe it was a cell, but not like one he had ever been in before. There was the chair he was sitting on, pulled up to a sturdy table, both items of furniture screwed to the floor by heavy bolts with shaved heads. A pair of manacles hung from the wall by the table and ankle bindings were fitted to the front chair legs. Flynn was not shackled, though. Two free-standing chairs were on the opposite side of the table.

  There was no bed in this room, or a toilet.

  Just the furniture, illuminated by a strip light on the ceiling protected by a wire mesh.

  There was a red panic strip at waist height on three of the walls. The door had an inspection hatch, which was shut.

  Tucked high in one corner was the lens of a security camera protruding from the ceiling. It was behind a Plexiglas protective screen.

  It was cold.

  Flynn shivered.

  He knew this was a secure interrogation room, but was not sure of its location.

  Not in any police station, that was clear.

  The man who’d pinned him to the car roof had been joined by another from the shadows and together they had worked quickly and expertly to put a black cloth over Flynn’s head, bring his arms around his back and secure his wrists with plastic cuffs.

  As they were doing this, a vehicle had slid up. Doors opened, Flynn’s head had been pushed downwards and he’d been bundled into the back of a van, forced to sit on a bench seat. Doors had slammed shut, the van moved off. No one had spoken.

  Blinded by the hood, Flynn had been aware that there may be two other individuals in the van sitti
ng on the bench seat opposite.

  They had been good, quiet and efficient. Flynn knew not to mess.

  He’d said nothing, but instead relaxed and tried to work out where he was being taken to. The van had driven up to the junction with the promenade, made a left and headed south, then almost immediately slowed and went left. Flynn knew they had turned into Red Bank Road in Bispham and were therefore travelling inland. He had felt the lurch on a roundabout, then a series of short runs, left and right turns and had begun to lose track of the journey, but there was no way he was being taken towards Blackpool nick.

  They’d been on the road for about three-quarters of an hour and the last thirty or so minutes were motorway driving, straight, long and fast, the tyres booming on the surface, so they had to have been travelling east down the M55 to start with, away from Blackpool.

  Flynn had driven along this stretch of road many times at many speeds and knew that from one end to the other at a constant seventy mph, which seemed to be about the speed of the van, would take twelve to fifteen minutes tops. From there, the motorway curved either north or south as it filtered into the M6, a manoeuvre that could be achieved without slowing down, but because of the bend of the carriageway and how he had to brace himself to stay sitting upright, Flynn knew that at the end of the M55 the van had merged south on to the M6.

  First exit from there was junction thirty-one at the Tickled Trout Hotel on the River Ribble, maybe three minutes away travelling at the speed they’d been going.

  The van had begun to slow down and Flynn knew they were on the exit ramp and the left turn where that met the roundabout meant they were now travelling towards Blackburn on the A677.

  Why, he’d had no idea, so he’d sat back and tried to keep track of the direction, though he was less familiar with the geography in this part of Lancashire. They’d travelled a further ten minutes fairly quickly and along mostly straight roads, but eventually the van had slowed, turned left, slowed right down and gone left again until it had been creeping along and he’d heard the tyres squealing despite the slow speed. He’d guessed they were on a concrete surface, possibly in a car park. Then the van had stopped and Flynn was sure he’d heard a shutter door close with a crash.

  Destination reached.

  Flynn had tensed under the blackness of the harsh hessian hood.

  The van door had opened.

  Wordlessly, hands had grabbed his arms, one rested on his head and he’d been eased out of the van, standing there unsteadily as the hood had been whipped from his head.

  No bright light, but he’d blinked and seen that he was standing inside a large industrial unit – shiny concrete floor underfoot – in which about twenty vehicles of many shapes and sizes, ages and condition were parked. At one end of the unit were doors which he’d assumed led to the offices.

  The man who had accompanied him had stayed behind him, kept hold of his shoulders and guided him between the vehicles towards one of the doors. Beyond it he’d seen a long, sparse corridor, three doors on each side. The first door on the left was open and he’d been ushered into the room, noticing the solid nature of the door as he passed through.

  The two men had pushed him towards the chair on the opposite side of a table, removed the plastic cuffs and sat him down on the chair. They’d left without a word but closed the door behind them, locking it.

  Flynn had then continued to wait patiently at the table, listen and plan.

  Christ, his leg hurt.

  Now there were footsteps outside in the corridor, the mutter of voices, a key in the lock, the door opening and a man stepping in.

  The man who had kidnapped Flynn.

  He closed the door softly, walked across the room and sat opposite Flynn.

  ‘Hope you weren’t treated too roughly?’ he said. He had an American accent, obvious but maybe diluted by too many years spent in the UK.

  ‘I always love having a gun shoved into my face,’ Flynn said sourly.

  ‘I figured it was the best and quickest way to get and keep your attention.’

  ‘A drink in a pub would have sufficed.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘So,’ Flynn looked around the room/cell. ‘Where am I and what the hell’s going on?’

  ‘First, you don’t need to know; second, we’ll come to that soon.’

  The door opened and a man entered carrying a cardboard tray rather like an egg box, in which were slotted three large paper cups with lids from Starbucks. The man slid the tray on to the table and sat down in the vacant chair, looking acidly at Flynn. His face was a swollen mess, red raw and sore looking. He sniffed something up his nose.

  ‘I wish you’d stop assaulting me,’ Rik Dean said.

  The American’s name was Karl Donaldson. Flynn had come to know him through Donaldson’s friendship with Henry Christie and had first encountered him in the village of Kendleton in north Lancashire when Flynn and Christie found themselves in the middle of a blood-soaked feud between gangsters, Donaldson along for the ride. He had met him a couple of times since, the last occasion being when Donaldson appeared just as Aleksander Bashkim was about to put a bullet between Flynn’s eyes. Donaldson had materialized from nowhere, killed Bashkim and then disappeared into the mist.

  Flynn had never really fully discovered the whys and wherefores of Donaldson’s welcome intervention but he thought that there was now every chance of some explanation because he could not really see any other reason for the American sitting opposite him.

  Flynn didn’t know a great deal about Donaldson, other than he worked for the FBI at the American embassy in London. The few dealings he’d had with him suggested he was much more than a legal attaché.

  Flynn also, grudgingly, accepted a couple of other things about Donaldson.

  That he was a big, tall, wide, good-looking Yank with a square Superman jaw and he guessed that women swooned over him.

  Second, that he was a very handy guy. There were not many men or women Flynn looked at and thought he would be reluctant to tackle if needs be. Karl Donaldson was one of those, which was one of the reasons why Flynn had acquiesced so placidly to this ‘kidnap’. Particularly in his current state of health with the wounded leg.

  ‘Coffee?’ Donaldson lifted one of the cups out of the tray and pushed it in Flynn’s direction. ‘Latte, skinny, decaf, wet and extra hot – I guessed.’

  Flynn took it, eased off the lid and took a sip. Tasted good.

  Donaldson took one himself and Rik helped himself to the remaining cup.

  ‘We have a lot to discuss,’ Donaldson said.

  Flynn blinked. ‘You first.’

  A shimmer of a smile played on the American’s lips, then his face became deadly serious. ‘OK, I’m very sorry about the death of your lady friend, Maria Santiago.’

  Hearing her name was like an electric shock to Flynn’s system. He kept his face impassive, took a quick sip of the coffee but his hand quivered slightly. He gave Donaldson a little nod.

  ‘I know the background now,’ Donaldson continued. ‘The Brian Tasker element, his seeking revenge on you and some of your old cop colleagues for putting him away, how while in prison he linked up with the Bashkim family with whom you were having dealings, shall we say?’

  ‘Understatement,’ Flynn said.

  ‘And who, it seems, were happy to go along with Tasker to revenge the deaths of certain family members, allegedly at your hands, part of that revenge being to kill Maria in the most brutal way imaginable. An eye-for-an-eye, that kinda shit. I’ve seen the footage.’

  Flynn sipped more coffee. ‘I upset a crime family I didn’t ask to become involved with and now they want their pound of flesh. That’s my summary, and now I want mine.’

  Donaldson nodded. ‘Sounds about right.’

  ‘Let me think about this,’ Flynn said, staring at Donaldson. ‘You are part of a multi-agency team investigating the activities of the Bashkims … hence why you showed up at a very opportune moment and prevented Aleksander pu
tting a bullet into me – and you are still part of this team.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Donaldson concurred. ‘In spite of your onslaught against the Bashkims, they are still very much operational and I have a vested interest in bringing about their demise.’

  ‘To which onslaught are you referring?’ Flynn asked. He glanced at Rik, who was glaring at him.

  ‘Let’s just leave it at onslaught,’ Donaldson said knowingly.

  ‘Yeah, let’s leave it at that. So, what’s your vested interest?’

  Donaldson’s face twitched – a thought, a memory. He seemed to brace himself. ‘The FBI was running an undercover agent in the Bashkim setup. He went off-grid six months ago.’

  ‘Off-grid?’

  ‘Uncontactable.’

  ‘Dead?’

  Donaldson nodded. ‘The remains of his body were found floating in Grand Harbour, Valetta, Malta. I say remains … he’d been decapitated. DNA confirmed his ID. His head was never found. I was his control. I lost him.’ Donaldson’s voice sounded bleak.

  ‘Ahh,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Exactly. He was a friend of mine.’

  ‘Even shittier, but that doesn’t begin to answer what I’m doing here, unlawfully detained, presumably at the pleasure of the President of the United States.’

  ‘At the moment, Steve, it’s the lesser of two evils where you’re concerned.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You could be at Her Majesty’s pleasure,’ Rik said.

  Flynn’s eyes flicked between the men opposite him. He waited, between a rock and a hard place.

  ‘Time you made all this clear,’ he then suggested.

  ‘OK,’ Donaldson said. ‘The Bashkims, the FBI are certain, had our man murdered – and I’ll come back to that in a minute. As an organization and as a civic duty, we wish to dismantle the apparatus of this family.’

  ‘To be honest,’ Flynn said, ‘I had thought the demise of Aleksander Bashkim had achieved that. Clearly I was mistaken.’

  ‘Yes, you were. The Bashkims are still operating big style, people smuggling, drugs, women, you name it. This is because Aleksander and his two sons, all now deceased, were key members of the family, but not the only members.’