Trust (20 page)

“Dean? That you, bro’?”

It was Owen’s voice.

“Owen, thank God. What have they done to you? Where’s Jess?”

“It’s fine, bro’. Or, at least, as fine as you’d expect, know what I mean?”

Owen’s voice sounded strained. Understandably so.

“Jess is safe. They haven’t hurt her. They haven’t hurt me. Where are you, bro’? What’re you going to do?”

“I want to talk to her.”

Another pause, then Putin spoke again: “No. No more talk. You have your brother’s word. Now it is time for you to fulfill your side of the bargain.”

“How do I know you’re going to let them go if I do as you say?”

“I am a man of honor,” said the Russian. “You will just have to trust me.”

Dean stared at the phone in his lap. He was gripping the steering wheel tight, again. Grinding his teeth. His dentist always gave him hell about that, said he had to learn to relax.

“My side of the bargain,” he said. “What do I do?”

§

He’d already guessed all but the details. That shooting, the drugs – they were clearly trying to frame him, get him put away for a long, long time.

Now he sat, the phone silent, his head racing. That moment before you climb into the ring. The psyching up, the adrenaline starting to build, the anticipation of the fight. The
excitement
.

He had to struggle hard not to break out into a grin. He shouldn’t be
enjoying
this shit any more.

The details...

He was to go to them at the Bluebell, Putin had told him.

No weapons. No back-up.

Hand himself over.

They would be kind to him, handle him with respect, the Russian had assured him.

They would have the gun, the one Maliakov had used to shoot his accomplice. The victim was an informer, Putin had explained; they’d wanted him out of the way anyway – this was just convenient.

The gun that they would make Dean handle, mark with his fingerprints and trace DNA that would linger in dead skin from his grip. He would fire it – safely, into the ground – and so get blast residue that would be traceable to that gun on his hand. The forensic evidence would be irrefutable that he had fired the murder weapon.

In confirmation of this, the CCTV footage that Putin’s people would allow to be recovered by the police would show Dean waving a gun, a scuffle, and then the fatal shot.

The whole thing had been carefully choreographed.

After firing that single shot from the murder weapon, Dean would climb back into his Renault and drive away.

“It will be like a game show,” Putin had told him. “A reality show, no? Already the police have been informed that you are a prime suspect in the shooting this morning and they are examining CCTV footage of your Renault van emerging from that car park. The van that is carrying enough narcotics to put you away for life. And, my friend, all you can do is run. Which makes you look even more guilty!”

Dean had closed his eyes as the Russian talked.

“So you see, Mr Bailey, the smartest thing you can do is to get here quickly and get this over with, so that you can be on your way. The longer you leave it, the less chance you will have to escape.”

At least they were giving him a chance, he had thought. If he could out-run the police, dump the van and get out of London, he at least had a sliver of hope.

“Just do as we ask,” Putin had said. “Play by the rules, and Ms Taylor and your brother will be safe, and you will have a chance to get away.”

They wanted him to play by the rules.

But then that was something Dean Bailey always did.

His
rules.

Now, he opened his eyes, and peered outside.

Saw the commercial-size bins lined up against one wall, the rubbish drifted into corners like fallen leaves.

He remembered the used condom on the ground he’d seen the last time he was here. Remembered wondering at the unromantic encounter that must have taken place.

And now, he allowed himself to smile, finally.

If you wanted romance, then it didn’t come much better than this.

He’d come here for Jess and he wasn’t going to leave without her.

He revved the van’s engine one last time, then eased his foot off the clutch, felt the gears bite, the van surge forward.

And, foot to the floor, he drove the van directly at the back wall of the Bluebell gym.

§

He knew this place. Knew it well.

Over the years he’d spent countless hours at the Bluebell, ever since he’d been able to stand upright and swing a fist.

The sound of gloved fist on punch-bag was the soundtrack to his youth, the jarring impact of his fist on leather as familiar as the fall of a foot on the pavement.

This place was home, and the yard out back was where the lads had hung out, the smokers smoking, cigarettes gripped in bandage-covered fists.

The place had been some kind of warehouse before it had been converted, and the back consisted of timber-clad walls and metal roll-up doors over the loading bays.

Dean Bailey knew exactly what he was taking on as he floored the throttle and drove straight at the gym’s back wall.

Knew what resistance to expect from the wall on impact, knew the layout within, knew from the voice in his ear that the Russians’ van was behind the door to the left, that there was an area near the van where they were re-packing the money... that Jess was in the fighting cage at the back and Putin had Owen in the lounge.

The voice in his ear... Lee had slipped out earlier, gone in through a fire escape to the changing room, from where he had been able to slip through unnoticed into a storeroom which offered a view of the gym’s interior.

So, yes, he knew what to expect, but even so, as the wall reared up before him, he flinched, raised one hand from the steering wheel and wrapped the arm protectively across his face.

The impact took the breath from his lungs as his body was thrown forward against the bite of the seatbelt.

The front of the van crumpled, the wall caved inwards, held, and then gave completely, and the van screeched into the building.

Dean wrestled with the steering wheel, the van skidding sideways to a halt.

In a moment of hiatus, as the crunching, grinding sounds of impact fell silent, he caught his breath, then immediately reached for the seatbelt.

He couldn’t see much outside the van. The windscreen was crazed but still held together; impossible to see through.

He ducked down, rolled over to the passenger side and stepped out, hoping to steal at least a little advantage as they must be expecting him to emerge from the driver’s side.

He looked around.

Two men at the table by the white Transit. Putin’s sidekick, Vadim Timoshenko, over by the fight cage, that small Glock already in his hand. Over in the lounge doorway, Putin himself, and behind him, Owen, mouth hanging open in surprise.

Where was Jess?

He looked back at the cage and she was there. She must have been sitting, or cowering away at first, but now she stood against the high cage side, face pressed against the mesh.

Dean stood, and brushed himself down with his free hand, his Glock hanging casually from the other.

The brief pause didn’t last.

The men at the table started shouting, and Timoshenko moved closer to the cage, snapping instructions at Jess.

Putin didn’t blanch, even at the sight of Dean standing there with his pistol drawn. He raised both hands, not in surrender but to placate.

“Mr Bailey,” he said. “Always so dramatic.”

“I’ve come for my own,” Dean said. “Just let me leave with Owen and Jess and there won’t be any trouble. We’ve got you surrounded.”

Putin shook his head, almost sadly.

“Who?” he said. “You and your dim-witted younger brother?”

He raised a hand, pointed, and Dean turned his head to see Lee stepping out from the storeroom, hands raised, his expression apologetic. Emerging behind him was Maliakov, the blond mohawked fighter who had earlier shot his accomplice and fled the scene.

Dean hadn’t bargained on that. Lee had been one of his wildcards.

He swallowed. Tried to calm himself, tried to draw out this moment to give his racing brain time to come up with something.

“Okay,” he said, finally. “I’ll do what you want. Just let them go, okay?”

“Of course you will,” said Putin. “That was never in doubt, my friend.”

He would do it. He would give them their ‘evidence’, he would play by Putin’s rules if that was that it took.

But he couldn’t bring himself to look across at the cage. Couldn’t bear for Jess to see him looking like this. Beaten.

He moved towards the lounge and Putin stepped carefully aside, keeping his distance. Dean would have expected nothing less: professionals like Putin didn’t take chances.

He met Owen’s look, and the older brother faltered, looked down at the ground.

Even then, Dean didn’t get it.

“You okay, bro’?” he said.

“Your gun,” snapped Putin. “Drop it.”

Dean flinched, tensed, fighting to retain control, not to respond.

And then Owen looked up, met his younger brother’s gaze, drew a pistol from inside his jacket, and fired.

I saw it all. The van bursting in. Lee being captured. The look in Owen Bailey’s eyes as he raised that gun in Dean’s direction and pulled the trigger.

All of it.

The first I had known that things were hotting up was the second phone call. I could tell it was Dean again, from the looks on Owen and Putin’s faces.

He was changing the game. They hadn’t expected him to call again; they thought he would simply turn up meekly and do whatever they wanted.

From across the gym I heard Putin explain what Dean was to do, how he was to be set up to take the fall for murder and drug-dealing. The Russian seemed to have influence with the police, and I remembered the night of the cage fight, the police officers who had organized it. Had Dean’s old friend Reuben Glover turned against him, too?

In my head, in Dean’s voice, I heard the words,
Can’t trust anyone these days, can you, darling?

That was so true. I looked at Owen. How could he do this? How could he plot against his brothers, put their lives at risk, plan to have them locked away in prison for life?

As if he could feel my gaze on him, Owen looked across. I held his look, a sudden anger sweeping over the fear and self-pity. I wanted to confront him. Wanted to stand up to him, fight him.

And that was when a loud crashing sound tore through the gym. I looked towards its source, saw the wall of the gym bulging inwards, and then splitting open, plasterboard fragmenting, wooden panels peeling sideways as the front of a van forced its way through, almost in slow motion.

The next few seconds were a blur. Dean emerging from the wrong side of the van, the men at the table shouting. I’d fallen back when the van crashed through the wall, so that for a short time I lay on the canvas, scared to move.

Then I was up on my feet, pressing against the mesh cage as Vadim snapped at me, telling me to get back, get down, don’t do anything.

I ignored him, clung onto the mesh, and that was when I glanced across to what looked like some kind of storage area and saw the big blond fighter standing with a pistol trained on Lee Bailey.

That was when Dean seemed to realize he’d jumped in far too deep, outnumbered and outgunned.

From the first exchange of words it was clear Dean still didn’t fully get it, though. Didn’t understand what Owen had done, that his own brother was the enemy, the traitor.

“You okay, bro’?” Dean said to his brother.

I could see the look on Owen’s face, the eyes darting away, the jaw twitching and then clamping shut.

“Your gun,” Putin barked sharply. “Drop it.”

Dean flinched at the words, an involuntary thing. Shoulders tightening, body tensing, gun arm twitching.

Putin didn’t hesitate, reaching into his jacket for a gun, but Owen was even faster. He saw what was happening, reached into his own jacket, drew, and fired.

Dean had said Owen wasn’t hands-on any more, but in his day he’d been a fighter and he clearly hadn’t lost his edge.

Putin dropped.

When he hit the ground his head lolled to the side, as if looking at me, and there was a third, blood-red eye in the center of his forehead.

I hadn’t realized Owen was armed, but maybe he hadn’t been: a short time before Dean arrived, the blond fighter had shown up, joining the two in the lounge area and handing over a gun – the one they’d been going to use to frame Dean. Had Owen picked up that gun when Putin wasn’t looking? At what point had he decided he couldn’t go through with betraying his brothers?

It was as if time had briefly frozen – my racing thoughts, the look of surprise on Dean’s face, the slow fall of Putin’s body as he slumped to the ground – and then Owen swung the gun to the left, fired again, and again.

One of the men at the table went down with a shriek, and the other tumbled away and scrambled on hands and knees to cover.

Over by the storage area, Lee swung a fist hard into his captor’s belly and the blond Russian crumpled as if folded in two.

I staggered back from the cage perimeter, peering all around. Fists were flying everywhere. My ears were still ringing from the gunshots and the shouting.

I knew how that guy by the table had felt: the need to crawl away and just
hide
.

I found the mesh doorway, fumbled with the latch.

The door swung open and I almost fell straight out.

I clung onto the fencing, found my balance, and took the three steps down to the floor outside the cage.

When I looked up, Vadim was standing there.

So tall! Easily six-six, with broad shoulders that gave his body a long, tapered triangular shape.

That skull-like face, the skin stretched taut over the bones, the eyes set deep so that they both seemed sunken yet bulging at the same time.

Lips drawing slowly back to reveal something that might have been a snarl or a grin, I couldn’t tell which... as he loomed over me, gun pointing at my chest.

I heard another loud explosion and thought that was it.