Authors: Jason Dean
Thorpe watched the miniature screens and asked himself why he hadn’t put a camera in every room. The answer was obvious: because
he’d banked on Danny being here with him to take up the slack. So much for covering all bases.
At least he had decent equipment, although the one he’d placed in the hallway directly underneath
had become next to useless.
He’d shut all the doors down there and with no natural light coming in from the windows the screen just showed black.
But the living room monitor showed movement as the two surviving terrorists made their way to the entrance hall. Sayyid was
in the lead while Hanif covered the rear. Then Thorpe’s attention was drawn to the monitor
showing the hallway underneath
him. For a moment there, he thought he’d seen a flash of something from one of the doorways. He kept his eyes glued to it.
Then a vague movement around Naji’s body on the kitchen monitor diverted his attention. He peered closer to see if it happened
again. The man’s legs were sprawled on the kitchen floor while the top half lay in deep
shadow on the bottom four steps. The
left arm was still in an unnatural position behind his back. Sayyid had moved it there to retrieve some extra magazines from
one of the pockets. Thorpe watched, fascinated, as the arm slowly slid off and came to rest on the stairs. There was no more
movement after that.
Possibly gas escaping from the body. Or
something else?
He frowned and, without taking his eyes from the screen, reached over and picked up Bishop’s cell phone off the floor.
As soon as he heard the floorboard creak, Bishop knew his text message to Sayyid had worked. He’d used the cell he’d taken
from Naji’s suit pocket after replacing the SIM card with one of the spares Jenna had given him. So the message pointing them
to Bishop’s supposed location wouldn’t be seen as originating from a dead man’s phone.
The moment he heard the muffled sound of a door being kicked in, Bishop pulled his own door open and saw the two figures framed
in the doorway of the room opposite. They had their weapons raised as they scanned the room.
Bishop raised his Beretta and squeezed the trigger three times at the figure on the left. Two centre mass, one in the head.
All three hit home and he saw blood spurt from the head wound as the man went down.
He shifted his aim to the second one and saw the glint of spectacles on his face as he turned. The man was quick. Bishop fired
off two shots at his chest section and saw him fall. He landed on the floor with his weapon pointing in Bishop’s direction.
Bishop aimed
for the head area and fired twice, but the man was still moving and both shots went wide.
Then Bishop felt the pitter patter of rounds hitting the wall above his head, he leapt back and crawled to the wall at the
left of the doorway. The terrorist’s machine gun spat a chain of bullets at the spot he’d just vacated, punching holes in
the doorjamb and wall
and littering the carpet with plaster and wood. Bishop heard the ejected shells clattering against a
wall in the hallway, and then there was just a clicking sound. The man’s gun was empty.
Bishop got to his feet and heard a magazine being pulled from its housing. He slipped around the doorframe, Beretta pointed
at the spot where he’d seen the man fall.
It was Sayyid.
The terrorist lay on his back amidst a pool of blood. In the darkness it looked like black oil. His free hand struggled with
a spare magazine
that had gotten snagged in his well-tailored jacket pocket. He looked up at Bishop as he finally got the magazine free and
snarled, ‘
Yela’an mayteen ahlak
.’
‘How would
you
know?’ Bishop said, and shot him in the left eye.
His Arabic was poor at best, but he’d gotten the general gist of what Sayyid was saying. Something about God placing a curse
on his family’s graves. Not that it affected Bishop one way or the other; insults were better left in the schoolyard. Bishop
just hoped he’d meet his own end with a little more dignity.
He turned to the other one. The one called Hanif was lying on his stomach with his arms outstretched, head on one side and
dead eyes turned towards his associate. Placing the Beretta in the back of his waistband, Bishop leaned down and plucked
the weapon out of his hand.
It was a Steyr TMP. A lightweight, compact, Austrian machine pistol
he’d used once in another life. Deadly accurate with almost
no recoil. No wonder terrorists loved it. Removing the magazine, Bishop saw there were still six rounds left. He replaced
the magazine, then leaned down and pulled his knife from its ankle holster.
Then, with a weapon in each hand, he walked to the staircase that led to the next floor.
Towards Thorpe.
By the time Bishop reached the third floor landing, he was still holding the Steyr but not the knife. He checked the bathroom
and the old fitness room, then pushed open the double doors to Brennan’s office and stepped inside.
There was enough light coming through the window to see the large desk straight ahead. He glanced
briefly at the entranceway
to the adjoining room at his right before he stepped over to the bookshelves. Inserting his hand into the fourth shelf down,
he pressed the soft area on the side and slid the whole bookcase across.
‘No sudden movements, James,’ Thorpe said from behind him.
Bishop stood motionless.
‘Know how much you’ve
just cost me?’ Then, without waiting for a reply, Thorpe said, ‘Drop the hardware, keep your arms high
and turn around real slow.’
Bishop opened his left hand and dropped the Steyr. He raised his arms and turned to face Thorpe, who was standing six feet
away with his Glock aimed at Bishop’s face.
‘A fortune, I hope,’ he said.
Thorpe shook his head. ‘No. Much more than that. But don’t worry, there are plenty of other groups who want what I’ve got
and you won’t be around to screw it up next time. I figure you’ve got your Beretta under the shirt, right? Get rid of it in
slow motion.’
Bishop sighed, reached back with his left hand and pulled it out. He threw it towards the desk
and heard it land on the floor
by one of the legs.
‘Now the knife. The one you always keep on your ankle.’
Left arm stretched out for balance, Bishop leaned down and pulled the left trouser leg up with his bandaged hand to show him
the empty holster. ‘Not any more,’ he said, rising again. ‘I found it a nice new home.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Lodged in the space where Danny’s vocal cords should have been.’ Bishop smiled, hoping Thorpe could see it. He raised his
right hand with its blood-soaked bandage before lowering both arms to his sides, keeping the left one slightly angled at the
elbow. ‘Skinny bitch took one of my fingers, but it was worth it. I slashed at her face a few times
before I finished her.
Pay her back in kind for what she did to Jenna.’
Thorpe’s gun hand wavered a little, and in the low moonlight Bishop watched him blink. ‘Couldn’t bear touching it again,’
he said. ‘Not with her stink on it. You know, I think she probably smells better now than when she was alive.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Thorpe said,
and his gun moved slightly off its target.
‘Oh, she’s dead all right.’
‘Not that,’ Thorpe said, and the gun moved back again. ‘The face slashing. That isn’t your style at all.’
‘Don’t count on it. You tend to bring out the worst in people.’
‘I don’t buy it. You don’t have the strength of will for that kind of work.’
‘Strength
of will? Is that all you need to torture a helpless victim, or does there need to be a personal element, too?’
‘We talking about Natalie Brennan now?’
‘Who else?’ Bishop said. Cupping the fingers of his left hand, he began to straighten his arm down and said, ‘She must have
really got her hooks into you, for you to slice her up like you did.’
‘Maybe just a little,’ Thorpe said, moving his gun around again to underline the last word. ‘Who knows? Just a shame I didn’t
have more time to play with her, but I was working to a deadline that day.’ He shook his head. ‘Man, don’t you just hate deadlines?’
Bishop said nothing. With his left arm now straight, he allowed the knife to slide down his elbow until
the polymer handle
landed on his middle two fingers.
Thorpe said, ‘To be honest, she reminded me a lot of a girl from my past, and I always get carried away when that little whore
rears her pretty head.’
‘Yeah? You kill her, too?’ The blade had snagged against the shirt cuff and Bishop stretched his arm to try to free it. No
good. He couldn’t extend it far enough.
‘I had to, before she dragged me down with her. You must have known girls like that, right?’
Not really
, Bishop thought, but he shrugged and the shoulder movement allowed enough space for the blade to come free of his cuff. Then
he began using his fingers to carefully rotate the knife like the second hand
on a clock, so it was pointing towards the floor.
Just keep talking, Thorpe
, he thought.
Let it all out. I’m a real good listener
.
‘Sure you have,’ Thorpe said. ‘Every man meets his female nemesis at some point in his life. Fiona was mine.’
‘Doesn’t sound like she was,’ Bishop said, flinching as the blade cut into his pinkie finger. ‘Yours, I mean.’
‘Ha. Ain’t
that
the truth. Any guy who crossed her path was fair game for her, and she couldn’t wait to tell me about each and every one
of them.’ Thorpe shrugged. ‘It was just Natalie’s bad luck she looked so similar.’
‘You sure taught her a lesson, though, right?’ Bishop said. He manoeuvred the blade carefully along until he had it lodged
tight between
his index finger and thumb. The other three fingers lined up next to the index finger for support. He was ready.
‘Yeah, well, I admit I went a little crazy with the knife at the end there.’ Thorpe chuckled to himself. ‘Heat of the moment,
you know?’
Bishop was only partly listening. Most of his attention was on the barrel of the Glock. Waiting
for something in Thorpe’s
speech pattern that would cause the gun to point away from Bishop’s head. Just for a second.
‘So if you think you can bait me by telling me how you killed Danny,’ Thorpe said, tapping his gun in the air like a drumstick
on every third or fourth word, ‘well, I can’t deny I’m a little pissed off, but life goes on. Or at least,
my
—’
And when the gun barrel moved this time, so did Bishop.
He had to throw it underhanded, which wasn’t his favoured style. But he’d already picked out his target, and the moment the
gun barrel wavered an inch to the left of his head, he bent his knees, brought his left arm back and, keeping his wrist straight,
swung it towards Thorpe. At the last possible moment, he let go of the
knife.
He didn’t actually see it leave his outstretched hand. One moment it was between his fingers, the next it was in Thorpe’s
right shoulder, just beneath the collarbone. Thorpe grunted in surprise and looked down at the weapon protruding from his
body as his gun hand jerked upwards in reflex and fired a shot into the ceiling.
Bishop
rushed towards Thorpe and rammed his shoulders into his chest, his left hand grabbing hold of Thorpe’s right wrist
as they both fell back through the doorway to the connecting room. Bishop got a foot under one of Thorpe’s to trip him and
both men landed on the floor in a jumbled heap. He lost his grip on Thorpe’s gun hand and Thorpe quickly rolled to the side
and plucked
the knife from his shoulder with his free hand.
Bishop saw the last folding chair a few feet away. He got to his feet and picked it up. He slammed it shut and saw Thorpe
bringing the Glock round in his direction. Grabbing the flattened chair by its legs, Bishop raised it above his shoulders
and swung it like a tennis racquet at the side of Thorpe’s head,
hearing a satisfying crack as it made contact. Thorpe slammed
back against the floor while the gun skittered across the carpet into one of the corners.
Bishop dropped the chair and placed his heel on Thorpe’s left wrist, grinding it hard into the skin until the hand opened
and the knife fell out. Thorpe groaned in pain and clutched his ruined wrist. Bishop
knelt down, retrieved his knife and pressed
it against Thorpe’s throat, the blade digging into the flesh just above the Adam’s apple.
‘Don’t,’ Thorpe said.
‘Shut up,’ Bishop said, and ran his hands over Thorpe’s clothes. He found two more syringes inside the jacket. Each was unmarked
and held a clear solution, just like the one he’d been
given in Price’s basement. Bishop put them in his pocket. He also found
a pack of batteries, a set of keys and two cell phones. He tossed the batteries and keys and checked the phones. Jenna’s Motorola
and one that had to be Thorpe’s. He pocketed the Motorola and tossed the other.
‘Stay right there,’ Bishop said and got to his feet.
Thorpe remained
on his back with his left hand clutching his shoulder wound and the other hand gripping the left wrist. Watching
Bishop.
Bishop went over and picked up the Glock. Then he went over to the window and looked down. A three-storey drop. No ledge.
Same as before. Not exactly a viable means of escape. Especially not in Thorpe’s current condition. Satisfied, he
walked into
the next room. With one eye on the entranceway, he picked up his Beretta and the Steyr. He stuck the Beretta in his waistband,
emptied the Glock of ammunition and placed the shells on Brennan’s desk. Wiping his prints from the gun, he pulled the vault
door open and tossed it inside. Same procedure with the Steyr, although this he threw into the hallway outside.
Bishop walked back into the adjoining room and saw Thorpe was trying to sit up.
‘Don’t bother getting up,’ Bishop said. He grabbed hold of Thorpe’s collar and dragged him along the floor into the other
room. When he reached the bookshelves, he let go and just waited while Thorpe propped himself against them.
Thorpe touched his left
cheek and winced. ‘Look, I wasn’t lying about that footage of you and Cortiss,’ he said. ‘I got it
in storage. I can take you right to it.’
‘Later,’ Bishop said. ‘First, tell me where you hid the other three parts of the file. We’ll be going through the house together
and if you’re lying about any of the locations, I’ll remove your thumbs. To start with.’
‘Hey, no problem. First one’s in the kitchen, behind the back plate of the oven. Just need to click it free and you’ll see
it. Next one’s in the room those two idiots broke into. The space under the windowsill.’
‘And the third?’
‘That gazebo out back. Under one of the paving stones. Want me to take you now?’ Thorpe placed a hand
on the floor and began
to rise.
Bishop motioned with the gun. ‘I told you not to get up.’
‘What? But I thought . . .’ Thorpe’s eyes widened and he raised his palm towards Bishop. ‘Hey, hey, don’t forget the footage.
I swear I wasn’t lying about that. You think I’d get rid of something I could use against you? On that key chain you took
from my pocket, there’s a key that opens a unit at a place called Armistad Storage. It’s on Southern Boulevard in the Bronx,
and they got thousands of units there. You’ll never find it without me.’
Bishop shrugged and said, ‘You’re probably right.’ He reached into his own pocket, pulled out the two syringes and dropped
them on Thorpe’s lap. ‘But
right now, I want you to take your pick of these and choose a vein.’
Thorpe looked down at them, his mouth open. Then back at Bishop.
‘I’m giving you the same choice you gave me, Thorpe. Assuming they contain the same junk, you’ll have an hour before you can
move again. I figure it won’t take the cops long to figure out where I’ve gone, especially if
somebody saw this house lit
up earlier. You might beat them, which is unlikely, or you might end up with a lot of explaining to do. But you’ll be alive.’
Thorpe just stared at him and said, ‘Hey, come on now . . .’
‘Or I can shoot you right now.’ Bishop aimed the gun at his head. ‘I’d recommend the second choice. It’s quicker and cleaner,
but
it’s your decision. No more talk. You got thirty seconds.’
Thorpe just stared at the syringes in his lap, shaking his head as he picked one up. He rolled up his left sleeve and Bishop
watched him pop the protective cap off and insert the needle into his arm. Then he depressed the plunger until there was nothing
left.
‘Good. Now break
the needles off against the floor and put the hypos in your pocket.’
Thorpe did as he was told and said, ‘You’ll never find that storage locker on your own.’
‘It doesn’t matter any more,’ Bishop said. ‘What does matter is that Natalie died right here in this room. And she died hard.’
He crouched down and Thorpe flinched.
‘See, that’s the
part that bothers me most,’ he continued. ‘Natalie was just a kid with a life full of choice ahead of her.
Until you came along and cut it short like it was nothing. And you made her last minutes on earth a living hell, while I was
maybe a hundred feet away.
That’s some debt I owe her. Today, we’re gonna balance the books a little.’ He waved a hand in front of Thorpe’s face,
but
the eyes just stared straight ahead. He picked up Thorpe’s hand by the index finger and watched it drop back onto his lap
like a lump of clay. ‘Looks like your special cocktail’s really kicking in now. Anything to say while you’re still able?’
Thorpe blinked and visibly swallowed a couple of times. Then, without moving his lips, he said, ‘You’ll . . .
kill . . . ee . . . ow?’
‘Sorry, Thorpe. Unlike you, I keep my promises. You’ll stay alive a while longer, but I guarantee you won’t like it. Here,
I’ll show you.’
Bishop stood up, took hold of Thorpe’s collar again and dragged him through the doorway into the vault. He propped Thorpe
against the wall, then pulled out his flashlight and shone
it around the interior until he found the lamp on the floor. He
walked over and switched it on. The light was dim, but it allowed him to see the vault interior clearly enough. The room was
about ten foot by twenty. No visible air vents and a ceiling close enough to touch. Nice and cosy. He looked at the bottles
of water and dried foods Thorpe had brought in. And the open
laptop in the middle of the floor and another cell phone that
looked familiar. Walking over, he picked up his Nokia and said, ‘You won’t need this any more.’ He put it in his pocket and
then stamped on the laptop. ‘Or that.’
The food and water he left.
Bishop examined the three-inch thick door from this side. Its only feature was the inner handle.
There were no emergency release
or alarm buttons in sight. Banks had them, but Brennan had clearly decided they weren’t needed in a private vault. No combination
settings units either, so any changes presumably had to be done via the outer dial while the door was open.
‘You know, if I was a betting man,’ he said, ‘I’d wager you reset the combination on this
a while back, so only you could
access it.’ Bishop looked around the chamber again. ‘That’d be the smart thing to do, and you always were smart. I wonder
how long the air will last once the door shuts. I’m guessing thirty-six hours. Forty-eight at a push, although it’ll probably
seem a lot longer. Still, it’ll give you time to think.’ He nodded at the lamp on the floor.
‘And you’ve got that. I wouldn’t
want to leave you completely in the dark.’ He crouched down before Thorpe. ‘Walls beginning to close in yet?’
Thorpe’s lids blinked automatically. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was just visible, but nothing else moved.
Bishop said, ‘When I was in that basement you left me my gun, so I thought I’d grant
you the same courtesy.’ He pointed a
finger at the empty Glock lying near the broken laptop. ‘You’ll find it just over there.’
Then he stood and checked the vault one final time. He turned, and was about to step through the doorway when he remembered
the Beretta in his waistband. He pulled it out. The bullets in three of the bodies could be matched to this
gun, but without
serial numbers it couldn’t be traced to him. Not if it wasn’t on his person. He ejected the six remaining rounds and pocketed
them. Then he wiped the gun and magazine of prints before dropping it on the floor. As he stepped through the entrance he
turned and said, ‘When you pull the trigger, I want you to think of Natalie.’
He pulled
the steel door shut, pushing the handle down until he heard the locking bar click into place with a heavy, metallic
thud. He spun the dial anti-clockwise a few times, then tried pulling the handle into the open position. It wouldn’t budge.
Bishop placed his palm on the vault door and smiled before pulling the bookcase across to cover it up again.
Sweet dreams,
Thorpe
.
Turning to the desk, he took the six rounds from his pocket and added them to the rest. Might as well leave them here. No
point taking them with him if he no longer had a gun. Although the casings would still have his prints on them. Bishop needed
to split before the cops showed up, but he could spare a few seconds to wipe them off first. Having the law
place him at the
scene of another bloodbath was the last thing he needed. He grabbed hold of his shirt tail and was using it to pick up the
first shell when he heard the soft scuffle of feet and turned round.
An Arabic man in a black tracksuit stood in the doorway. His arm was outstretched towards Bishop and at the end of it was
a gun.
Bishop saw a flash and then something punched him in the solar plexus. He fell against the desk and collapsed to the floor,
both legs stretched out before him, head propped against a table leg. He saw another flash and his body jerked as something
slammed into his left thigh. He coughed and felt the metallic taste of blood in his throat, and he wondered why he hadn’t
heard either of the shots.
He looked up and saw the man enter the room and point the gun at his head. And he understood. Silencer. At the same time,
weird pulsating colours started to appear at the edges of his vision and he wondered what they meant. He closed his eyes and
the colours disappeared. That was better. They were beginning to annoy
him.
Bishop decided to keep his eyes closed for a while. He already had a good idea of what was coming next.