He looked about him, keeping to a shadowy corner. It wasn’t inconceivable that someone in the crowds might recognise him. From the old days. But unlikely. He was just another face in a penguin suit. Those around him were immersed in their own worlds. More people were filing in. It was 7.45. The meal would be announced in about fifteen minutes, he reckoned.
Time to move.
The Bothwell Suite was one of two penthouse rooms on the west wing of the top floor. Black left the bar, still holding his untouched champagne glass. He smiled at the stewards, at the girls at the reception. No one noticed him, too preoccupied. Black strolled up the stairs, without a care in the world. People were coming down. Polite nods. More smiles.
He got to the first floor, to a hall. A discreet sign on the wall indicated the gymnasium and saunas to his left. Black turned right, along a broad passageway. The walls were decorated with portraits of people he didn’t know. The ceiling was arched with wooden beams, the coving intricate silver filigree.
He arrived at a series of lift doors. He pressed a button. He waited twenty seconds. The doors slid open. It was empty. He got in. Mirrors all around. He pressed the button for the top floor. The penthouse. Ten storeys up.
Black felt an almost imperceptible shift of movement. Lights flashed as he progressed past each level. A soft sound chimed. He’d reached the top. He took a deep breath, focused, calming himself. Fun time. The doors opened.
He arrived at a small carpeted foyer. A sign with an arrow pointing left – the Bothwell Suite, through heavy double wooden doors. It was a gamble. Rutherford might not be in. He might be out for dinner. Or just out. But Black didn’t think so. The man he saw leave the offices of Raeburn Collins earlier looked like a man scared. Scared enough to have bodyguards carrying concealed weapons. He’d be lying low until he’d got the message. The message that Black was dead.
Black steadied himself. Suddenly he barged through the double doors, and staggered in, bouncing from one wall to the other. He was in a broad corridor, with only one door at the end. This was an exclusive section of the hotel, offering privacy for the occupants. Which was advantageous. Any commotion wouldn’t be instantly noticed, giving Black time.
On either side of the door sat a man, suited. They both jumped up, startled at Black’s entrance.
It looked like Rutherford was home.
Black weaved his way towards them, spilling champagne, face slack, one hand on the wall to steady himself.
“Think I’m lost,” he slurred. “Where the hell am I?”
One of the men shook his head.
“Wrong place, pal.” The man who spoke was tall, as tall as Black. Bulky with muscle, visible through a tight-fitting suit, one hand under his jacket. Head shaved to the bone. Heavy features. Flat, broken nose. Prominent brow. Ex-boxer, thought Black. He looked supremely fit and strong. The other, who had sat back down, was tall, but slimmer. Lean muscle. Black glossy hair tied back into a ponytail. An old scar split his face from his eye to the side of his mouth, causing his lip to raise in a constant sneer. One evil looking fucker.
The Boxer approached him.
“You should be downstairs with the other shitheads, so fuck off.”
Suddenly the door to the Bothwell Suite opened. A man appeared, framed in the doorway. He paused to inspect the commotion. Large, full head of blond hair, ruddy red cheeks. Dressed in black bow tie, tuxedo, evening suit. Ready to go downstairs.
Donald Rutherford.
For one frozen moment, their eyes locked. Rutherford recognised Black instantly. He took a step back, eyes wide.
“Black!”
The two men, Scarface on his chair, Boxer standing one foot from Black, turned towards Rutherford, puzzled.
“It’s Black!” he roared. “Kill the fucker!”
He darted back into the suite, the door slamming behind him.
The distraction was all Black needed. The Boxer turned back to him, in the process of pulling out a pistol from beneath his jacket. Scarface was rising from his chair, similarly reaching for under his jacket.
Black rugby tackled the Boxer, propelling him backwards into Scarface, the three men toppling onto the hall carpet, like skittles in a bowling alley. Black rolled, got to his feet, pulling out the KelTec. The Boxer was on one knee, aiming a smaller pistol. Possibly a Walther PPK. Black beat him to it. The Boxer’s face suddenly exploded with the impact of Black’s bullet.
Scarface fired, missed, the flying fragments of the Boxer’s face spoiling his aim, the bullet lodging into a picture on the far wall. Black returned the compliment, fired back, once twice. For the briefest second, Scarface gave Black a look of startled indignation as his throat burst open, then the look was obliterated as the top half of his head spun across the room.
Two down.
Now, the clock was ticking. Black had to move quickly. Despite the seclusion, the noise could still attract people – guests, hotel staff, security, police. A grisly sight awaited them. With two dead bodies on the floor, Black would have a lot of explaining to do. With the distraction of the dinner function going on downstairs, he might have gained a little extra breathing space. Black opted for worst case scenario, and reckoned he had five minutes, maybe ten at a push.
He got to the suite door, fired at the handle. The door bounced open. Black stepped to the side, anticipating gunshots. Which is exactly what happened. Four shots, muffled by a silencer, peppering the corridor wall.
Black had been trained for exactly this scenario. He crouched, dived through the door way, firing randomly as he moved. More shots, above his head. He was in a large, high-ceilinged room. Above, a massive crystal candelabra. A real fire crackled under a stone hearth. A huge television on one wall. Couches, chairs, low coffee tables, an ornate bureau in
