Black opened the French doors and entered.
72
The worst is death, and death will have his day.
William Shakespeare. King Richard II
Several men; two little girls.
Falconer, Sands and a Japanese man, sitting at the dining table, cluttered with an array of champagne bottles, silver trays of chocolates, a percolator of coffee, cups, glasses. And a samurai sword. Two other Japanese men now honed in towards him from the far side. They’d all heard the gunshot. Falconer’s face stared; tanned features frozen in a mask of shocked confusion. Refusing to believe it was happening.
The Japanese guards advanced, pulling out handguns from side holsters. Black ducked, rolled, guns blazing in each hand, firing from a half-kneeling position. Two shots, in rapid succession. One man flipped back, face torn in half. The other staggered, taking a hit on the shoulder. Black didn’t hesitate, following up with a shot to his chest, then another to the top of his head. He flew back into a tall glass cabinet, the content spilling out – crystal sets, glasses, decanters, goblets, all crashing to the floor.
Black straightened, removed the mask.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Hope I’m in time for coffee.”
Silence. If there were other guards, they’d be here soon.
The Japanese man grabbed the sword from the dining table, brought it round, pointing it into the chest of one of the girls standing close to him, who stood motionless, stricken.
“I’ll kill her.” He stood, bringing the girl closer, adjusting his arm, angling the edge of the blade across her throat. “I don’t know who you are,” he continued, “but this has nothing to do with me. We’re leaving. If you don’t let me go, I swear I’ll slit her throat.”
The girl stared at Black, her face still and pale.
Black looked at her, smiled, flicked his eyes back to the Japanese man. “You’re going nowhere, friend.” He whipped his hand up, fired one shot. The bullet caught the Japanese man in the mouth, his lower jaw and throat shattering in a small explosion of bone and body part. The impact spun him round in a mad pirouette, the sword clattering on to the tabletop. He fell to the floor, dead before he’d hit it. The girl screamed, suddenly soaked in blood and tissue.
Black turned to Falconer and Sands. They hadn’t moved, sitting at the table, Falconer at one end, Sands to his side. Black still needed information. He heard sounds – men shouting.
“You’re a fucking dead man,” snarled Falconer. “You’ll be hunted for the rest of your fucking life.”
“What do you want, Black?” asked Sands, his voice rising to a whining pitch.
“Is it about money?” asked Falconer. “How much?”
Black sensed a presence. He turned – two men stood at the French doors. Another appeared at the opposite doorway. All armed, one with a sub-machine gun. Black shifted his position, aiming both pistols directly at Falconer’s head.
He raised his voice. “If you shoot, two things are going to happen. One, you’ll probably kill each other in the crossfire. And two, I’ll blow Falconer’s head from his shoulders.”
“Don’t shoot!” screamed Falconer.
“You heard the man.” Black took two steps, standing next to Falconer, pressing the nozzle of a Beretta to the side of his head.
“What do you want, Black?”
They hadn’t taken his wallet. He placed the other pistol on the table, fished the wallet out of his back pocket. He pulled out a crumpled photograph, and held it in front of Falconer.
“Do you recognise this girl?”
“How the fuck should I know?” muttered Falconer, averting his eyes. “They’re all the fucking same.”
“Look at her!” said Black, his voice harsh.
Falconer glanced at the picture, shook his head. “They’re all the same,” he repeated.
“This little girl has a name. Natalie Bartholomew.”
“We don’t recognise them by their names,” blurted Sands. “They have numbers. But we have detailed records. Of everything. Their names, where they came from, their source, the cost. I can give you this.”
“The cost?”
“The cost of getting them here.”
Black darted a glance either side. The men waited, for a command, a cue, a nod of the head. Then he had no place to go. And he would die.
But not yet.
“You give them numbers?” he asked, his voice low, dead-pan. “How many children do you have?”
“Including these two,” said Sands, nodding at the two girls on the other side of the room, “twelve.”
“Twelve,” repeated Black, his mind trying to grasp the scale of the operation. The scale of the depravity. He straightened. He was to play the biggest gamble of his life.
He positioned the nozzle of the Beretta to Falconer’s temple. Falconer went rigid.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’ve called the cops!” shouted Black. “They’re coming, make no mistake. You have a choice. You either stay, or you get as far away from here as possible. And I’ll make the choice easier for you!”
Black looked down, and met Falconer’s upturned gaze. Falconer’s face went slack.
“I can’t believe you’re going to do this. Please… we can work something…”
“So long, partner.”
He shot Falconer through the head. Falconer thumped forward onto the dining-room table, the champagne bottles and chocolates suddenly wet from a fresh spring of blood.
Black waited. The men stood, shocked, wavering. Black saw their dilemma. Suddenly they had no employer. So, what the hell were they doing? And if the cops were on their way. They had no beef with Black. They were mercenaries, paid guards. And suddenly the pay had dried up.
They backed off, melted away. Black didn’t give a damn where.
Black focused on the two girls. “You’re safe. Stay here. I’ll be back.”
He pointed his pistol at Sands. “Show me those records.”
Sands nodded vigorously. “Of course. Follow me.”
He led him back through the enclosed courtyard. Black heard cars, tyres screeching, not far away. Looked like his advice had been taken. The cavalry had deserted.
They got to the split-level living room Black had passed through earlier. One entire wall was closed off with long heavy drapes.
“Is that the front?” Black asked.
“Yes.” Sands went over
