Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (30 page)

It isn’t my fault I’ve turned out like my father, Doctor Meredith said so herself. So whose fault is it? Who allowed us to drown in our despair until all of our needs, even sexual, were provided solely by each other? Yes, somebody needs to pay more than Whitehall. They can wait. My plans need to change.

25: Monday 26th September, 12:15

A minute green light pulsed beneath the centre of Johnson’s watch face, alerting him that a sound transmission was being received from Smith.

Distracted by phone calls and high speed driving, he had no way of knowing how long he had been oblivious to the flashing alert. He twisted the winder back a notch, pairing the Bluetooth device with the car’s loudspeaker. At first there was only silence, but upon turning up the speaker, he realised that the noises were similar to the ones that surrounded him. It was the sound of traffic but in a built up area with car horns and revving engines going nowhere fast. He couldn’t risk making verbal contact with Smith via the watch. For all he knew Fisher or Wilson or both could be listening in.

He checked the proximity of Smith to the watch he had planted inside the briefcase. They were no more than a quarter of a mile apart, and the distance was reducing. If he didn’t get there soon, his death-defying driving would have been in vain. He activated the vibration on Smith’s watch once more. If Smith still had the watch, he might just take the hint.

*

John Smith, Savannah Jones and Gregory Fisher approached the row of glass doors which formed the main entrance to Twickenham station. It was cool and breezy. The clouds above were thick, high and white, suggesting little chance of rain or sunshine. With the morning commute to work over, few bodies entered or emerged through the doors. John jerked his arm as the vibrating Rolex once again caught him unawares. Bloody watch was going to give him a coronary.

“What’s up?” Savannah asked as they entered the quiet station through the glass doors.

“Doesn’t she know?” Fisher said. John almost believed there was genuine sadness in Fisher’s tone, but he was past trying to rationalise the minds of others. For whatever reason, good or bad, the ex-soldier was nuts, and John’s only concern was to save Savannah and himself.

“Is not her business,” John said dismissively, longing for the time when he could explain the remark to Savannah. If they were meeting Wilson, then surely it must be Johnson setting off his watch. If so, Johnson should have worked out that the three of them were together and were on their way to meet Wilson. Maybe the agent was close and trying to signal his arrival? He looked around, keeping his head forward and allowing his eyes to wander, but there was no sign of the tall man in the distinctive dark coat. Then it struck him: Johnson wanted information. John stopped and tapped Fisher on the shoulder.

“Fisher, tell Savannah what you plan for weapon.”

Fisher snarled his annoyance. He was not pleased at the halt in their progress. He ignored John’s request. “Do we have to catch a train from here?”

“No. The weapon is in the station. Tell Savannah about Whitehall.”

“Where in the station?”

“I don’t know. I’m following Savannah.” John wanted to mention Wilson to let Johnson know that they were meeting his partner, but he thought that Fisher’s surprise at the sight of Wilson might be to their advantage. “Where is it Savannah?”

As they passed through the door in single file, Savannah stopped and turned to the two men behind her, a look of annoyance on her face. “Keep up, boys, and all will be revealed.” John wished he felt as confident as Savannah acted.

*

The small square lounge was littered with beer cans, crisp packets and old celebrity magazines. Cigarette smoke engulfed the top third of the room. Wilson fanned the air with his hand as he walked in. He placed the two briefcases down by the side of the sofa. The old cathode ray tube television blared out tuneless music at a volume meant only for the hard of hearing. Wilson moved a box of Frosties to make room to sit on the sofa where the air was more breathable.

“What do you want?” Kate asked, opening a tin of strong Heineken lager and taking two large swigs. “I thought with Mum dead, I’d never have to see you again.”

Wilson was calm and impressed with himself. It had been six years since he’d been around his daughter and not wanted to slap her face. It convinced him that everything would work out for the best. He examined Kate as she looked back at him. She was thin and pale with a thick head of bright red hair just short of her shoulders. The face and tongue piercings had always offended him the most, but in reality they were just challenges to be overcome. There was some hard work for both of them ahead.

“I’m a changed man, Kate,” he said, shifting a t-shirt beside him to allow his daughter to sit down.

Kate slurped down another few swigs of lager from the tin and burped hard and long.

Wilson swallowed. “Why don’t you make us a cup of tea, and we’ll have a chat?” he suggested.

“Why don’t you just fuck off?” Kate said, walking over to the television, grabbing the remote control and turning the volume up.

The din was unbearable. Wilson jumped up and pulled the plug from the wall socket. The relief was instant. He could do this. He could make this work.

“Please, Kate. Let’s talk.” He placed his hand on her back and pressed gently, trying to edge her nearer the sofa. She recoiled from his touch.

“Get your fucking hands off me.”

“Kate, it’s all right. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

His daughter took a step towards the sofa and turned. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face gaunt.

“No, it’s not. Mum’s dead, and you didn’t even visit her.”

“I was in hospital. I was shot.”

“So fucking what? You were never there for either of us. The least you could have done was have her moved to a private room. You let her die in an NHS ward. You fucking bastard.”

Wilson moved slowly to his daughter, his arms outstretched. She backed away.

“I know that I let your mum down, and I know I haven’t been there for you. All of that has changed now. I’ve found God.”

Kate’s retreat abruptly ended. Her mouth opened registering an astonishment he had not witnessed from his daughter in many a year.

“Oh my God,” she said, covering her open mouth with a hand.

“Yes, it’s true. You and I can be a family again.” He moved forward and Kate remained still. She knew he was telling the truth. He raised his arms again and moved in to hold her. As he enclosed her into his grasp, her body began to shake. It was the first sign of real emotion. They were going to be fine. He thanked God, closed his eyes and squeezed lightly with his arms. It was the start of their salvation.

“I’m here, Kate,” he said. “We’re going to be fine.”

Kate’s shaking became more pronounced but the expected tears never surfaced. Instead of cries of anguish, the sound of laughter rang in his ears. Not the happy, cheerful sound of merriment but long, loud howls of ridicule with barely a breath in between. She pushed him away, and he saw the look of derision in her red eyes. It was unmistakable.

“You’re the devil,” he said, dropping his hands to his sides and stepping back. “You can’t be saved.”

His words drew more belly laughs from his daughter as she struggled to find the air to speak.

“Please no more,” she said, supporting herself with one hand against the wall.

Wilson charged forward and slapped her hard against the side of her head sending her halfway across the room. Only the wall stopped her falling to the floor.

Kate’s right cheek glowed red from the blow. She steadied herself against the wall. Her eyes flashed with anger as she stared at her father defiantly.

“Welcome back, Dad,” she said, through bared teeth.

Wilson was lost for a second. How could he have been so wrong? Why would God have lied to him? And then uncertainty vanished, and he knew exactly what was expected of him. He marched to the sofa and picked up the briefcase containing the latest prototype of the gun. Laying it flat on the sofa, he opened the case and pulled out the casing which housed the gun.

“What the fuck is that?” his daughter asked, eying the shiny chrome contents of the casing.

Ignoring her, Wilson spotted the watch immediately. He couldn’t help but smile before replacing the gun and casing back into the briefcase. Johnson was so predictable. Closing the case with a loud click, he turned to Kate.

“If my partner, Johnson, turns up, I want you to give him this case.”

Kate made her way to the sofa, rubbing her cheek as she neared. “Why can’t I keep it? That gun looks cool. A lot more fun than those Tasers you get for me.”

Wilson handed the case to his daughter.

“If you tamper with the case, it will blow up in your face. I want you to give Johnson a message.”

“Why the fuck should I after you hit me?”

Wilson raised his hand and Kate jumped back. He smiled.

“If you don’t, I’ll have you evicted from this expensive flat, and you can live on the streets where you belong.”

“All right. Keep your hair on. I’ll fucking do it.”

*

Johnson screeched through the traffic lights at the crossroads that led onto Wellington Road at Hampton Hill. He was less than two miles away from Twickenham and the weapon. He no longer cared that several police cars followed him. He glanced at the watch for a new proximity reading. Smith and the briefcase carrying the weapon were less than a quarter of a mile apart.

An old couple leapt out of his path as he mounted the kerb, his hand pressing down hard on the horn as if it would help them react faster. Other pedestrians further along cleared a path for the oncoming vehicle but not the green rubbish bin which flew into the air and over the bonnet sending tins, bottles and other debris over the windscreen. Johnson stamped his foot on the accelerator, and the V8 engine roared with approval.

*

Belying his physique, Wilson smoothly came up behind Fisher and thrust his Glock pistol into the man’s back.

“Hold it right there, gentlemen and lady,” Wilson said, turning to a bench on platform four. “Let’s take a seat over there shall we? No trains departing from platform four today, so I’m told. We won’t be disturbed.”

Fisher looked back over his shoulder. “Earthguard. I told you we couldn’t trust her, Varushkin. Women are all deceitful bitches.”

“Watch your language in front of the lady, Fisher. Let’s keep it polite, shall we?”

“Meet the man with the gun,” Savannah said, as Wilson relieved Fisher of his Beretta 92. “Or should I now say, two guns and a super weapon?”

Wilson admired the Berretta for a few seconds in the concealed space between himself and Fisher’s back before tucking the gun into his trousers beneath his coat and shoving Fisher in the back.

“Move it tough guy,” he said, reckoning that while Smith had a bit of the hero in him, Fisher was the only threat to his control of the situation. The group of four, who had been thrown together by Fisher’s actions, sat side by side on the bench with Wilson between Savannah and Fisher and Smith on the far right next to Fisher. Nobody said a word until Wilson turned to his right and broke the silence.

“Tell me how you plan to take revenge against the bureaucrats that put you out of work.”

Fisher stared back into Wilson’s eyes as he reached inside his jacket. Wilson directed the gun, which was now held under his coat, at Fisher.

“Hands away from your pockets.”

Fisher ignored Wilson, pulled out a packet of Marlboro Reds and proceeded to remove and light one.

No smoking signs were everywhere. Fisher could attract unwanted attention. The disobedience could not be tolerated. Wilson stood up and turned around to face Fisher. With his unarmed hand, he pulled the cigarette from Fisher’s mouth, dropped it to the floor, and demolished it beneath the sole of his shiny black boot. “Hand them over,” he demanded.

Fisher looked up. “I don’t think so.”

Wilson pulled the Glock from under his coat and pistol whipped Fisher on the side of the head. In a flash, the gun was back under cover. “Give me the cigarettes, or I make a call and your sister dies.”

The pale seated figure smiled in a strange misshapen ‘v’ as he wiped blood from his temple area. It gave Wilson the creeps. Fisher wasn’t all there. Wilson edged forward and held out his hand. This time Fisher handed the packet over. Thank God.

“So tell me about your revenge plan.”

Smith interrupted. “Are you fucking crazy?” he said, a spray of spittle joining the condensation on his breath. “This guy plans to blow up the whole of Whitehall.”

Wilson didn’t look at Smith when he spoke. “Keep it down, Smith. You’re the only one here expendable at present. Fisher, did you speak to your sister recently?”

Fisher was staring at Smith like he was an age-old enemy he knew existed but had never met before. His feet were twitching as if he was about to launch himself. Wilson grabbed Fisher’s left shoulder and spun him around with force.

“Fisher, what’s going on with you two?”

“He told me that his name was Varushkin, a Russian Secret Services operative. I’m going to snap his neck.”

“The kid’s quite a character, I’ll give him that,” Wilson said, looking at Savannah. She looked pale but otherwise none the worse for wear. “Try John Smith, Junior Clerk at Walker’s Imports.”

Savannah never would have guessed Smith’s job was quite that menial.

Smith threw his hands in the air. “I’m thirty-two so will you please stop calling me kid?” Smith shrugged apologetically although Fisher was facing Wilson. “In all fairness, I think
you
made the assumption that I was Varushkin,” he said.

Fisher pulled free of Wilson’s grip and turned to face Smith again.

“But I saw you at the agency.” He regarded John with narrowed eyes. “You killed Christos with a broken piece of toothbrush.”

Smith shrugged again. “It was in self-defence, and I got lucky.”

Fisher was in a trance. Then the ex-SAS soldier’s face began to twitch like he had been struck with a sudden nervous disorder. His face went crimson, and he grabbed Smith by the front of his shirt, pulling him close with little effort.