“Get a doctor here now,” said Black. “Two children – traumatised.”
“Your name,” she replied, barely looking up, her tone dismissive.
Black rapped the glass hard. She jerked her head up, met Black’s cold gaze.
“Two children. Abducted and abused. They need help. Right fucking now. So, no fucking about. And call the police while you’re at it.”
Black knelt down, took the two children in his arms, hugged them close.
“You’re safe now,” he said in a soft voice. “Tell the doctor everything. You’ll be going home soon.”
He stood. A doctor emerged, together with a hospital orderly. A young man, in his twenties, no older.
“What’s going on here?”
“This is Paul and Alanna. They were abducted by paedophiles. I managed to free them. They need medical attention. Call the police.”
“And who are you?”
“A friend. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Black left the building. He turned briefly. They were being led away by the doctor. Alanna turned, and gave a tiny wave.
Black got to his car. He checked the mobile phone he’d left in the compartment between the front seats. Lincoln’s phone. An email, just in.
We’ll meet. Here. We’ll send you details.
Game on.
58
The way to kill the savages? Become one.
Advice given by Staff Sergeant to new recruits of the 22nd Regiment of the Special Air Service
It would only be a matter of time before the events at Westcoates Hall hit the news. And what fucking news, thought Black. Doubtless, the truth would be moulded, twisted. A sanitised version for the public. Black had other things on his mind.
The instructions were clear. All by email. Once he’d told Sands he was still in Scotland, he was given a schedule. Flight from Prestwick airport to Gatwick leaving 2.30am that morning, local time. Gatwick to Phoenix Sky Harbor International, departing 4.55am. The flight was ten hours. Arrival 7am – Arizona time. He would be met at the terminal building. They would be waiting, in a black Range Rover, distinct with darkened windows. Christ, thought Black, these fuckers were organised.
Black drove back to the Hilton on Byres Road. It was 11.30pm. He was exhausted. He’d sleep on the plane. He showered, changed. His shirt was stained with the blood of his enemies. He changed into jeans, close-fitting long-sleeved vest, dark pullover, running shoes. He had left his holdall back at Westcoates Hall, with the Walther and second Desert Eagle. Plus, several boxes of cartridges. His remaining weapons were useless to him, unless airport customs had undergone a radical change of policy.
He had a visit to make, en route. His flat. To get his passport. He reckoned it was safe territory. They would no longer be watching. Adam Black was dead. Dead men don’t make home visits. The weapons he did have, he would leave in his flat.
Black still had choices. He’d killed off a paedophile ring here, in Scotland. A very exclusive one. But to his mind, it was merely a tentacle. Only one snake of the hydra. What had Lincoln said? Kids are auctioned out. Arizona supplies them. One big fucking industry. A conveyor belt for the depraved.
Black considered. He really had no choice at all. Bartholomew had described him as a warrior. Black really didn’t know what he was. But he knew one thing. His mind was set. He couldn’t turn his back on this. He had come too far. People had to pay. Big time.
He regarded himself in the bathroom mirror. What was he? An assassin? A murderer? A vigilante? All of the above, he thought ruefully. But maybe more. Maybe, just, he was one of the good guys.
He would journey to Arizona, and take his chances. According to Lincoln, he’d never met his contact. The man called Norman Sands. Which would be logical. Lincoln would want his identity to be secret, as indeed Sands would. So maybe Black could pull it off. He would be unarmed. Not even a knife. Nothing to protect him from those who would do him harm.
Black gazed at his reflection. The man who stared back had no choice at all. He would go, he would destroy. And if he died trying, then so be it. This was one advantage he had over all his enemies.
He wasn’t scared to die. The opposite.
He hungered for it.
The visit to his flat went without incident, as he had anticipated, which reinforced his belief that they thought him dead. He dumped the guns, packed a holdall with basics. Underwear, socks, a couple of cheap T-shirts. He wasn’t too concerned about fashion accessories in sunny Arizona. The flight from Prestwick was smooth and on time. He boarded the plane at Gatwick, heading for Phoenix. Economy class. Black didn’t care. He’d be sleeping for most of the trip, so what the hell. He got a coffee, read a magazine, then fell asleep. The way he felt, he’d sleep anywhere. As ever, his dreams were plagued with faces, rearing up before him – Lincoln, sitting on a chair, face pale and stark; Tricia, eyes wide in fear; the two kids, Paul and Alanna, clutching his arms, terrified, shaking.
And then, as ever, his wife and daughter. Lying beside him, faces still and accusing. And Black, his hands soaked in their blood.
He woke with a start. The woman next to him was reading a newspaper. He checked his watch. They’d be landing in half an hour.
Black looked out the window. Clear skies, the great swells and contours of an American landscape stretched out beneath him. The land of the free. The land where he could end up dead.
Bring it on.
59
Falconer had made the decision to meet with the assassin, Mr Lincoln, and had instructed Sands to send the message. “We should check it out,” was what he’d said. “Get it sorted.”
Sands had been surprised at
