Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (4 page)

It wasn’t rocket science. The study was the place where Mark would work or place bets online - therefore he almost lived in there. John strode to the second door on the left, turned the ornate handle and pushed it open. The windowless room was dimly lit by an overturned desk lamp, and it was impossible to make out any detail. John’s heart banged like a bass drum as he reached behind him to turn on the main light. The sight in front of him brought foul-tasting bile to his throat.

*

In a small coffee house on Kensington High Street, Herb Johnson was regretting his decision to allow his partner to return to work so soon after injury.

Four months earlier, in a botched raid on a suspected terrorist’s residence, Max Wilson had taken a bullet meant for Johnson. Wilson had subsequently declined psychological counselling and requested immediate return to work after his release from Earthguard’s private hospital. While Wilson was physically mended, it was clear to Johnson that the mental side of recovery was lagging far behind. The guy had always been a rock and Johnson owed him, but they were off mission and he needed to get Wilson back to current business.

He looked his stocky, pug-faced partner in the eyes.

“So what are we doing here, Max? We’re supposed to be keeping watch on Bradshaw.”

Wilson looked like a well-dressed boxer and spoke like a BBC newsreader. Johnson could never get his head around the anomaly. “Bradshaw’s one of us. I’ve known him for years. I’d be less surprised if HQ suspected you,” Wilson said.

“That’s not the point. It’s what he’s developed that makes him a risk. Answer my question. What are we doing here?”

“I just got the feeling that you weren’t happy with my work since my return,” the stocky man said.

Johnson clenched his teeth. “And that’s why you took us away from our observation points? We could be canned for this.”

“We couldn’t talk face to face from fifty yards apart.”

The thought of messing up on the job was tying Johnson’s stomach in knots. “Other than staying in contact while we observe, we shouldn’t be talking at all. Tell me what’s on your mind, and let’s get back to work.”

Wilson shrugged. “I miss my old job.”

Johnson shuffled his chair forward and lowered his voice to a venomous growl. “For fuck’s sake, Max. You know we can’t talk about our pasts or our personal lives. Are you trying to put us out of work?”

Shoulders a body builder would have died for slumped. “My wife died last week while I was in hospital.”

The senior Earthguard agent looked around the bustling coffee shop. It wasn’t unusual for an agent to be kept under surveillance after a considerable period of inactivity. Thankfully, he didn’t see anything. He felt for the big fool, but his hands were tied. He had to follow procedure.

“Don’t say another word, Max, or I’ll be forced to report in to the controller.” Johnson leaned in a little further. “Look, Buddy, I owe you big time, but this is my livelihood you’re messing with. We work together, not play together. You know the rules. If you’ve got problems, then take the counselling on offer.”

Wilson rubbed his flat nose, the result of many blows, most on the job since they had been paired up a month over five years ago. London guard was one of the most sought after agent posts. A paltry two operatives covered a sprawling city rife with infinitely varying beliefs and an abundance of high profile targets. Most in the international field considered it second only to Washington, and Johnson was the first American to land the post. The pay and benefits were substantial. And his bull of a partner was about to blow it for them both. Wilson’s bottom lip trembled.

“My daughter...”

Johnson reached inside his thick dark coat for his phone. “One more word, Max...”

“All right. You can’t help. Forget it. I should never have tried.” Wilson stood up and threw a ten pound note on the table. “Back to work then.”

As Johnson rose, a good ten inches further than Wilson, his phone vibrated ominously inside his jacket. He had a bad feeling.

“Johnson,” he answered.

“We’re getting some activity on the satellite from your subject’s location. Is everything okay, Agent Johnson?”

Johnson’s worst fears had been realised.

*

John doubled over as if hit in the stomach by an invisible force. He couldn’t breathe, and his empty stomach searched for content to eject. Retching dryly, he fell to his knees.

Mark was slumped forward in his chair, his upper body resting on the surface of the desk. The side of his face was lying in a pool of blood. A Chinese letter opener skewered his left hand into the top of his head like he was patting himself. The end of his little finger and half of his thumb lay in front of Mark’s open eyes in their own small pool of thick red body fluid. The ivory handle of a huge dagger, which John recognised as one of Mark’s collection, protruded from the centre of his friend’s back. There was no life evident in the eyes. John didn’t need to have seen a lifeless body before to know that his best friend was dead.

Documents were scattered all around Mark’s body, some in the spreading pool of blood which crept towards the front edge of his expansive antique desk. John looked on, unable to take his eyes away, unable to fathom the scene in front of him. His eyes remained glued as Mark’s blood flowed over the desk’s edge like molten lava, splashing freely on the sixteenth century Persian rug. Knowing Mark’s fondness and unreasonable over protectiveness of the rug, John’s first instinct was to stop the blood flow onto the almost paisley-like, patterned carpet.

He noticed Mark’s outstretched right arm with hand still clutching the door entry remote control like he was trying to hand it to somebody. Pointing it at the door like a TV remote perhaps? No, John remembered Mark explaining that it didn’t work like that, although he couldn’t remember exactly how it
did
work. Mark was always boasting about his high-tech security system. Fat lot of good it had done him.

John pushed himself upright and steadied his shaking legs by grabbing the edge of the desk, taking care to miss the parts wet with his friend’s blood. Intrigued by the pointing arm being at odds with the rest of the body, John gently took the hand and began to pull away the fingers around the remote. He expected a cold and vice-like death grip, but each digit was still warm and came away easily. John removed the remote and laid it on the desk. In Mark’s palm was a small, folded piece of paper stuck to the skin. John peeled it away and began to unfold it when he heard footsteps entering the apartment. Instinctively, he slid the paper into the waistband of his underpants, hoping that it wouldn’t slip down.

John turned slowly around to see two dark-coated men and a fireman, who had presumably responded to the alarm which had now ceased. The policemen appeared remarkably composed considering a dash up eight flights of stairs. Despite their matching attire, the two officers could not have been more different. The short one was in his late forties with the face and build of a well-battered heavyweight boxer. The other man was basketball-player tall but solidly built and most definitely in charge.

Parkes, eyes shiny with indignation, hand raised, forefinger pointing accusingly at John, spoke first.

“That’s him,” he said, panting like a dehydrated dog. “He’s the one I was telling you about.”

“This isn’t what it looks like,” said John, knowing that it didn’t look good.

4: Saturday 24th September, 12:42

Savannah Jones sipped at her cup of lukewarm herbal tea in a booth of a small Pizza Hut in Shepherd’s Bush, wishing she’d changed clothes before arriving. She had thought her small, damp-ridden bedsit would not provide the uplift in spirit she so longingly craved. Instead she had spent the last four hours at Hammersmith tube station on a fixed stool making a tall ‘Americano’ coffee last well beyond its intended lifespan. The pimpled teenage boy who worked the concession stand had seemed glad of the company and hadn’t pressured her to order more or to move on.

Savannah sipped again at her tea. It truly was disgusting. She allowed the liquid to fall out of her mouth and back into the cup without swallowing. Why hadn’t she ordered a coffee?

The red plastic, high-backed double seats gave her some protection from the eyes of the few other customers who, sitting down for an early lunch, could surely tell how she made her unsavoury living. She looked and felt like a whore. Goddamn it, she
was
a whore, or a prostitute as John Smith had called her.

John Smith! She wondered why he’d withheld his real name. Maybe he’d known the bill for her services was his and blamed his friend to escape payment. Perhaps he’d rumbled her lack of confidence and figured she was easily cheated out of her fee. His place was big, and she knew that a Chiswick address didn’t come without a big price tag. No doubt she’d screwed up. She had much to learn.

Savannah had known the world of escorting would be seedy, but her friend Amy, who had recommended Aphrodite’s Angels, said it would soon pay off her debts and give her the chance she badly needed to work her life out. Work for a month and then jack it in, she had told her. One day and two clients later and she had collected the grand sum of fifty pounds, fifty percent of which she owed to her new boss, Christos the Greek, who was already over ten minutes late. Not much of a living from an hour and a night’s work.

She banged the cup down harder than she meant to, splashing straw-coloured liquid over the red paper tablecloth. It smelt worse than it tasted.

“What’s up, Sweetie?” said a voice from behind.

Savannah went rigid but somehow convinced her muscles to relax before Christos seated himself against the wall, directly opposite his latest employee. She needed to appear calm, collected and unruffled.

As always he was dressed completely in black: jeans, sweatshirt, trainers and brand new leather bomber jacket. For a forty-five year old, his look was not cool. He was of average height, stocky but not fat, with dyed black hair slicked back with a wet-look hair care product. He had a large broad nose on a chubby face which, along with his irregular shaving habit, had given rise to the ‘Christos the Greek’ moniker - at least that was Amy’s version.

Apparently, his real name was Christopher, born and bred in East London, and he had never been overseas. He had a faint but distinctive smell about him which Savannah guessed was the hair gel, but could equally have been a deodorant failing to mask a hygiene issue.

She needed her wits about her, to act like it had all been a walk in the park. So far her boss had been nothing but kind, full of helpful advice, and she had no reason to think he’d changed overnight. After all, she was new and had to learn the ropes.

“So how’d your first night go, Sweetie?”

She looked into his eyes. They were dark slits on a face which yesterday had radiated red-faced joviality like an out of season Santa. Not today. Even the high-pitched, cheeky boy, Cockney patter had lost its previous charm and carried with it an element of threat.

“Not so good,” she said. “I’m sure things will get better though.”

Christos didn’t move, his hands remaining under the table, his eyelids closing further until the slits were almost gone. “Helen told me you had two clients. I ain’t great at maths but I reckon that makes two grand. A grand for you and one for me.”

It was no wonder the clients never saw behind the scenes at Aphrodite’s Angels. A high-class escort agency needed a ‘smooth as silk operator’ on the front desk. In this case it was Helen, Christos’s wife. On the rough diamond scale, Christos was at the far end of the rough. Savannah was rapidly suspecting that his diamond side had also been a facade. She cursed at Amy under her breath.

“What was that?” snapped Christos, his shovel-like hands slamming down onto the table sending the condiments momentarily airborne. “You giving me shit?”

Damn. This was all going to Hell and fast.
Placate him Savannah, placate him.
She dug into her small purse and handed him three ten pound notes across the table. “That’s over half of what I earned.”

His big, clumsy hand reached out, grabbed the money and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Moving quicker than Savannah could have anticipated, the same hand grabbed her wrist and yanked her closer to him. He leaned in the rest of the way, and she felt the warmth of a breath so rancid she swore she could taste it in her mouth.

“Explain yourself,” he said.

Savannah tugged her arm, trying to get free, but his grip was too tight.

“You’re hurting me,” she said, looking around, hoping that someone else might notice her plight. She thought about screaming, but her need to see the matter through outweighed her distress - but only just.

“Explain yourself,” he repeated with added spittle which travelled the short distance onto her face.

“Okay, okay. I screwed up. What can I say?”

“I want details.”

“The first one at the Dorchester, short and skinny, over from Italy for business...”

“Ricardo,” Christos elaborated. “Go on, what happened?”

Savannah felt her face flush. It was bad enough she had to go through last night, let alone tell this foul-breathed bully about it.

“He didn’t have any condoms, and I wasn’t having sex without protection.”

“You didn’t take condoms with you?”

“I’m new to this,” she said, trying again to pull away. “Get off me, will you?”

Christos didn’t budge an inch. “Carry on, darlin’.”

She wanted to cry, but she would not let this bastard have the satisfaction. She clenched her teeth together, dug deep for resolve and hissed back at Christos hoping her breath stank as bad as his. “He wanted to do it without, but I said no, so I agreed to get him off by hand as long as he put a sock on it.”

Christos laughed in her face, long and loud. It was a laugh that contained genuine humour, and for a few seconds Savannah believed she had defused the situation. “He looked so miserable while I was doing it I didn’t think I could accept the fee,” she added.

Christos stopped laughing, his face settling into contemplation. “He’s Italian. They always look miserable when they have sex. They think it makes them look macho. They should wear black like me and smile when they fuck, those miserable bastards.” He pulled her closer so that his nose pushed hard into her cheekbone. “So he offered to pay you?”