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  Richards entered the room, with Gary flanking him. Richards threw a black generic sports holdall onto the table.

  “Is it money or newspaper?” The sugar hit had given Dom some of his fight back.

  “Open it and see,” Richards said.

  Taking no chances, Dom unzipped the bag and grabbed a bundle of fifty pound notes. He flicked through the stack to verify that every note was real. They looked it. Looking around the room, he ripped down a work rota printed onto a piece of A4 paper from a noticeboard. He flipped it over to the blank rear side and pulled several notes from the bundle. Each was rubbed against the white sheet and each left a red-orange mark on the paper. It was an old test but it worked. A genuine note will always leave a trace of ink on plain paper. A forgery would not.

  “It’s the real thing this time.” Richards seemed impressed by the driver’s thoroughness.

  “So it would seem. Where am I taking it to, and where do I collect Georgia from?” Dom was now thinking clearly for the first time in hours and it showed in his demeanour.

  “I’ll text it to you now. Where you drop the money is where she’ll be.”

  “Ok.” Dom looked McQuillan’s right-hand man straight in the eyes and made a request. “I want a gun.”

  “You won’t need one.”

  “I want a gun!” Dom repeated. His gaze was unblinking.

  Richards turned to the random henchman who had been guarding Dom the whole time and asked for the automatic pistol he was holding. He also asked for a spare magazine.

  “Thanks.” Dom said it out of courtesy rather than gratitude. He checked the slide, unloaded and reloaded the mag, flicking the safety off and on before tucking it into his waistband.

  “You’ll need these,” Richards dangled the BMW keys that had been confiscated during his incarceration in the beating room.

  Dom took them without another word and headed out the door.

  “If you don’t come back with the girl, don’t come back at all. And we’ll bury the old man somewhere after we’ve killed him.”

  He paused, but didn’t turn. Dom was determined not to fail, although he would need to do it his way. Without interference.

  Chapter 67

  The address was forwarded from a text received earlier that morning. Richards tapped send, pondering on his next move. He walked back into the warehouse area and toward the workshop. Bags of powder were stacked onto all the workbenches. It was white gold. Valuable as it was, it was worth so much more once diluted with inferior product. Each compressed pouch had a customer; some as the pure product, destined for those with a disposable income and an endless social profile; some to be bulked up and supplied en masse to the local street dealers. Like any other business, there were ways to skim off the top and scrape from the bottom.

  Richards had the contacts. Some were scared of the volumes he was trying to shift. He had needed to look elsewhere to meet the demands of the business. That meant looking in places he had often avoided.

  Walking into the racking, for the sake of privacy, he pulled his phone out and tapped a number in the contacts. The call was answered within two rings.

  “He’s on his way and he’s armed. He has the money but we don’t need him anymore. Do what you will, and make it clean - the girl too.”

  There was a muffled affirmative response and the call was ended. Loose ends always needed to be tied up. These loose ends needed burying in an undisclosed location. The game was ramping up, Richards could feel it. It was his time.

  Chapter 68

  The Boss ended the call and swiftly punched a number into the phone. It rang several times before going to answerphone. He cursed out loud and redialled the number. This time it was picked up in two rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Too busy playing with yourself?” the Boss asked.

  “No, I was in the other room bringing the girl a cup of tea.”

  “She’s a hostage, not a guest.”

  “Sorry,” the voice said.

  “Somebody is coming to pay for the girl. Take the money and shoot the guy.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” the Boss barked his orders. “Take the money from him and then shoot him. Shoot him dead. I’ll have Wade get rid of the body and I’ll pay you well for it.”

  “I’ve never killed-” the voice was cut short.

  “Well, now is the time to step up. I’ll have you collecting for me in no time. Think of it as a promotion. More responsibility – more pay. Put a bullet in this guy for me and I’ll put a wedge of cash in your pocket.”

  “Ok.” The voice was hesitant. “After that?”

  The Boss raced through all kinds of scenarios in his head of what was to come next. One was winning over all the others. He had been told that he could kill Georgia, and he would, but not just yet. He would have his fun first and then he would dispose of her as he saw fit. The fun could take a day, a week, even a month, but he would have it his way.

  “After that, keep the girl safe and I’ll deal with her myself.”

  He ended the call.

  Pulling out his cigarettes he turned around to watch Wade. Wade was working with a shovel, digging a hole in a piece of woodland on the far side of Bristol. In the distance, the bright concrete of the second Severn crossing rose out of the shallow channel, heralding a place to lay low. They had left the busy city centre industrial estate and driven to an abandoned estate in the heart of nowhere. It was the kind of place where dark deeds were often committed and went unreported. With no passing traffic and no CCTV, it was perfect for the Boss’s needs.

  With a cigarette in his mouth, he sparked his lighter and took a long draw. The sun was up but low in the sky, casting long westward shadows, yet to nourish the air with any warmth. He took another draw and made his decision.

  “Dig another hole,” he said to Wade. “This is where we’ll bury Carver.”

  Wade did as he was told.

  Chapter 69

  There was no doubt anymore. It was morning. For what seemed like an eternity, Dom had been trying to figure out what day it actually was. Sleep deprivation, hunger, and the general trauma of the last twenty-four hours had fried his brain.

  The light-headedness from hunger had been barely satisfied by the Mach Tech vending machines, but nausea and a general feeling of confusion about the time of day sapped the energy from his bones. The journey across the city had only fanned the flames of chaos in his head.

  It was a Sunday. That was as much as he knew for certain. After that, everything else was pure guesswork. There was some light traffic, only a few cars darting out of the light-controlled junctions. People had places to be, even on the Sabbath. So did Dom.

  His destination had appeared as a text within a minute of leaving the warehouse. He knew the area well enough, but some of the changes to the roadways since his time in prison still threw him the odd curveball.

  Cars, traffic signals, pedestrians, even a Banksy mural, they were the background. The foreground was Bob, wounded, old and vulnerable. And Georgia at the mercy of a psychopath who didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘mercy.’ Dom wanted them free. Now.

  He didn’t care what he had to do to make that happen. Another twelve years behind bars seemed favourable to a world without the innocent suffering for his weakness.

  Once the background became more urban, he knew his destination wasn’t too far away. The houses started to look less appealing, and the cars a little older. With each street he passed, there appeared to be a gradual lowering of the social status of the locality. Peeling paint and shabby woodwork was replaced by broken windows and graffiti. Youths in sportswear, smoking rolled cigarettes, strutted along the pavements. Some were drinking large cans of an energy drink, while others were swigging on booze for breakfast.

  Dom entered the street. There was no sudden upturn in the economic standard of the residents. A few houses were completely boarded up. Gang tags were displayed on the rusting corrugated sheets screwed into t
he window frames. The brand new high-performance BMW stood out against the decaying vehicles with questionable ownership and no insurance.

  Dom parked up a few doors away from the address. He didn’t want to announce his arrival, but the few locals who were awake started to point and stare at the stranger in their midst.

  Pulling the gun from his waistband, he cocked it and flicked off the safety. He tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Somewhere deep inside his weary, broken body, the tap to his adrenal gland had been switched to the on position. With a racing heart and a newly attained focus, he got out of the car.

  He popped the boot and took out the holdall full of money.

  A baseball cap wearing young scally shouted, “Nice car.” But Dom was oblivious.

  Two other tattooed goons sidled up to the driver.

  “What’s in the bag?” A shaven-headed skinny man marched straight up to Dom. Entering his personal space with the view to deliberately intimidate.

  “Anything for us?” The other had cropped hair and was more robust in build. He wore a vest two sizes too small to show off what muscle he had.

  Dom ignored them, pushing his way past the chancers.

  “Show us the bag or we’ll wreck your car.”

  Spinning on his toes, Dom pulled the pistol from his jacket. He didn’t know where the spirit or the words came from but they were subconscious and miraculous.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  The youths looked at the pistol. Then back at Dom. They ran up the street without another sound. The power of a firearm was tantalising.

  With the weapon still clutched in his hand, he took the final steps toward the house. Five broken flagstone steps ended at the flaky red door.

  It was time to go in, hard. Dom had never been the typical criminal. He was the lovable rogue, the bad boy with a good heart. Malice was not a part of his biology.

  What he had been exposed to in the last few hours had altered him. Maybe forever.

  Rage flowed from his core, out to his extremities and back again. He had never felt such an uncomfortable feeling created from his own emotion before. He stood at the door. The pistol was an anvil in his grasp. So much effort was required to hold everything together, he was barely sure if he could hold onto the gun or the bag.

  Kicking the door instead of knocking, he waited for a reaction. Not for someone to answer the door but for someone to react. He knew not to trust anything he had been told or anyone he encountered. Any associate of the Boss would probably lack the moral fibre of any normal person. Whatever a ‘normal’ person was any more. On the other side of the door would be someone like that. Just like the Boss.

  A lock clicked.

  Then another.

  A chain was slid across.

  The door opened. A pair of eyes appeared above the security chain.

  Time to act.

  Dom had stepped back from the door as he heard the first lock clunk open. He launched himself, shoulder first, into edge of the tardy wooden door.

  The chain snapped. Only two out of the four hinges held the door. It flew off its top hinge easily. The body behind it crumpled to the ground.

  With the automatic handgun raised, Dom stepped in through the gap between the frame and the broken door. He spied a gun clearly dropped by the semi-conscious henchman.

  A young man in dirty sportswear lay on the bare wooden floorboards, a large welt rapidly forming at the corner of his forehead.

  “Where’s the girl?” Dom asked. He asked with the gun held just an inch or two from the injured man’s face.

  “What?”

  “The girl – where is she?”

  “We got lots of girls in here…” The young man wasn’t allowed to finish.

  Dom tapped the muzzle of the gun against the man’s head to garner the attention he wanted.

  “Georgia McQuillan. Where is Georgia McQuillan?”

  From his reclined position, the man’s eyes glanced up the staircase. Dom knew he had blown the element of surprise if there was someone else in the house. And if there was someone, they were probably armed and dangerous too.

  “What’s your name?” Dom asked.

  “Nate.”

  “Who’s upstairs with her?”

  “I d-don’t know.” Nate’s voice trembled. He looked accustomed to being under duress but not from this new interloper.

  “Don’t lie to me, Nate.” The pressure of gun muzzle against skull accompanied the statement. ‘I’ve had a very hard day. Don’t piss me off.’

  “I’m not lying, I don’t know his name.”

  “Is he armed?”

  Nate nodded but said nothing.

  “Thanks.”

  Dom reached down and picked up the dropped firearm from the floor, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. He held his finger to his lips. Swiftly, he brought the gun down on the side of the henchman’s head, knocking him unconscious.

  Dom grabbed the bag and slowly climbed the stairs.

  If his entrance hadn’t already alerted whoever else was in the house, the creaking of the treads would. No carpet made for a noisy ascent.

  There were doorways but no doors on the landing, just shabby curtains, haphazardly pinned to the tops of the frames. He pulled back one curtain and thrust the gun into the room. An undernourished young woman with large dark eyes and jet black greasy hair gazed back at Dom. He moved on.

  At the next curtain he could hear what was happening inside before he looked.

  A large hairy-backed man was thrusting into a young woman on a bare mattress. Her face was rigid, fixed upon the ceiling, unaware of the intrusion. Dom moved on.

  Another frightened young woman.

  And another.

  If this was one of the Dunstan’s business ventures, it was a sickening sight to see. Petrified, emaciated girls, forced to work for profit. He looked in on eight different rooms and saw eight different stories, all with one desperate outcome; exploitation.

  At the end of the hall was another staircase. This one was carpeted.

  Dom eased his way toward the top, only to find another corridor. It was the same as the floor below. Rooms filled with broken dreams and broken hearts.

  At the end of the corridor was a door.

  Dom hoped the wretched grunts and pitiful moans of clients and working girls was enough to mask his approach. The house was bigger on the inside than he had anticipated and maybe the smashing of the door would not have been heard on the second floor.

  Placing an ear to the bare wooden door, trying to blot out the sordid soundtrack emanating from the other rooms, Dom listened for signs from within. There was something. He couldn’t decide what, but there was someone beyond the door.

  Time to be decisive.

  One well-placed kick and the door caved in.

  Sitting on a dirty brown leather sofa with gaffer tape over her mouth and cable ties binding her hands was Georgia. The spark in her eyes from his appearance was tangible. It screamed hope without raising a breath. But as he rushed to free her, he saw something else flicker in those steel blue orbs. Before he could register what it was, a blow to the back of the head dropped him to the floor.

  Chapter 70

  Dom’s face hit the bare floorboards hard. Not as hard as the strike to the back of his head, but hard enough to knock the wind out of him, sending reams of pain through his injured ribs. Dom lifted his head, catching something or someone behind the door. He lashed out with a foot. There was a groan and suddenly somebody was on top him.

  Fists pounded down on the back of his skull. There was no real force in the blows but the speed at which they rained down showed intent. With the firearm still grasped in his hand, Dom pushed himself off the floor, also lifting whoever was attacking him.

  Leaping from her seat, Georgia, although bound and gagged, rushed to assist. She kicked out at the unseen figure.

  It was a quick fight and over easily. Dom shook off his attacker and gained his footing, spinning arou
nd to confront whoever it was. He aimed the gun before seeing the face of his aggressor. He had questions that needed answering.

  As he looked into the eyes of his attacker, all questions drifted away. Dom saw the frightened expression, the trembling limbs, the gun pointing in his direction. This was all wrong.

  “Vincent?” Dom gasped, totally bewildered.

  His younger sibling kept the weapon aimed, twitching it in his grasp as though it were growing in weight by the second.

  “Where’s the money, Dominic?”

  Dom nodded toward the holdall that had been discarded during the fight.

  “Why are you involved, Vincent?”

  “Why are you?”

  Dom could have said so many things, some of it lies, some of it the truth. It didn’t matter. The why wasn’t important, what happened next was.

  “It doesn’t matter. What have you got yourself into, little brother? Dunstan is a dangerous man.”

  “He pays me. I work for him.” The words were spat with the venom only the less favoured child could use.

  “So this is it? You’re working for a criminal.”

  “Talk about the pot and the kettle.” A vicious little sneer appeared across Vinnie’s face. “You’ve worked for criminals all your life. You’re doing it now. Don’t lecture me, ok? If you were half the wide boy you think you are, you wouldn’t have spent Mum’s last days in a prison cell.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Don’t talk to me about fair. You don’t know what fair is. I had to watch her fade away to nothing pining for her favourite son.” The toxins of being forever in the shadow of his brother were oozing out. “She was all ‘Dom this’ and ‘Dom that,’ while you took the piss and cheated and lied your way through life. Mummy’s blue-eyed boy!”

  Dom had had no idea. He could understand the resentment in their relationship for the first time. Too busy playing the lifestyle to be aware of his only sibling’s feelings. To Dom it had been a game. To Vinnie it had been a sentence.