His resolve hardened. They’d tried to kill him. Tried to destroy a person he cared for. It was only fair that he should balance the account.
His shoulder ached. The wounds on his ribs and leg would leave scars. But he already had plenty, he thought grimly. Another two in the collection wouldn’t make a great deal of difference.
He disembarked. The sky was dull, overcast. The air had a tinge of rain. The Scottish summer, always short lived, was ending. He’d sent the emails to the man called Sands. The demise of Adam Black. Arizona was eight hours behind. An early wake-up call. He was expecting a response.
Black chose not to return to the hotel in Livingstone. There was no need. There was nothing there for him to return to. Instead he headed for Glasgow. His flat was possibly compromised. They might still be watching, despite his message, though he suspected not. Still, better to be cautious.
He booked into the Glasgow Hilton Grosvenor, tucked away in the west end, just off Byres Road. An unobtrusive building, accessed by a single lane. One of the busiest areas in Glasgow. Students, tourists, university staff, shoppers. It was always bustling. A good place for him to blend in and disappear. Five hundred yards from the main university building. A castle-like structure straight from Camelot, with turrets, towers, high arched entrances, lofty halls. Open to the public, Black sat on a bench inside the university grounds, looking on to a grass section enclosed by ancient stone cloisters the colour of autumn leaves. It was approaching late afternoon. The place exuded a brooding quality. Black had not attended this university when he graduated. He’d gone to Edinburgh. He had done so grudgingly. His ambition was to join the army the moment he left school. The hankering had been with him since the day his older brother, a Royal Marine, was killed by a road bomb in Ireland. But his father had pushed him towards academia, and he’d acquiesced. Pushed him, because a father wouldn’t want to see two sons killed. Black, on reflection, could understand. His father had died before he’d graduated. Cancer. The same bastard illness which had taken his mother when Black was a child. Perhaps, had his father lived, things would have turned out differently. It was idle to speculate.
Now Black was alone, with his grief, his guilt. Dead bodies all around. Anyone who got close ended up dead. Perhaps he should shut himself off from humanity. But then who would kill the bad guys?
A group of students walked by him, laughing. No cares. Black felt a momentary twinge of envy. He’d forgotten the last time he’d laughed like that. A lifetime ago.
Black roused himself from his reverie. These periods of melancholy were becoming more frequent. He couldn’t afford such self-indulgence. He had to think. He had to function. Rutherford had said the next meeting was Monday evening. Two days away. Black had a hunch. Rutherford had no idea where the group were to rendezvous. Now that Rutherford was dead, the individual referred to as the Grey Prince would have no need to communicate with him. A hunch was all Black had. If he was wrong, then he had nothing to go on. Plus, he was waiting for communication from a man called Sands, from Arizona.
Black got up. In one pocket he had Lincoln’s mobile. In the other he carried Lincoln’s Glock. In his hotel room, he had placed the Walther in the safe. In his car, in the boot, was a holdall with two Desert Eagles. He wasn’t a man at all, he thought ruefully. He was a walking fucking arsenal. Better to have too many guns than too little. He walked back out of the university grounds, under a broad and intricate archway. He had things to do. He had preparations to make.
If his hunch played out, it was fancy dress time.
49
Sands got the message, but was in a state of indecision. Which was unlike him. They’d had a great evening. Never better. Incredible profits. Boyd Falconer had spent the night fucking one of his hookers. This morning he would be mellow, relaxed. Sands did not relish the prospect of altering the equilibrium. Falconer had a vicious, unpredictable temper.
Sands debated – should he tell him later, and allow the tranquillity to remain a little longer? Or tell him now, and ruin his morning. The answer was simple. Tell him immediately. If Falconer discovered he’d held on to this information, then not only would Falconer be irate, but he’d blame Sands for it.
It was 7.15. Sands quickly showered, changed, made his way through to the main building. Falconer was probably up already. He was, in the gym. On the cycling machine, hunched over, tanned legs pumping up and down, towel round his neck, T-shirt soaked in sweat. Going at it hard. Not bad for a man over sixty-five, thought Sands.
The woman was gone, of that Sands was sure. Bundled off early. Falconer would have no desire to make small talk with her in the early morning. Sands stood, laptop in hand. Sands rarely went anywhere without it.
Falconer raised his head, allowing him a cursory glance, then dipped his head back down, concentrating on computer read outs in the screen in front of him – speed, distance, heartbeat.
“We had a fucking good night,” said Falconer, between breaths.
Sands nodded.
Falconer flicked another look at him. “But… I can tell by your face there’s a but.
