atlas, and it showed them that Mallaig was in the Scottish Highlands, a hell of a way from London but very close to Reeve’s own home. Reeve wanted them on his territory. Mallaig was coastal, not quite wilderness. Jay didn’t mind. When he wasn’t working, he liked to take off east out of L.A. to the forests and mountains of San Gabriel and San Bernardino. There was no terrain he didn’t know. He was an adept skier, climber, and runner. Last fall he’d taken off into the wilds for fifteen days, not coming across another living soul for fourteen of them. He knew Reeve had been running survival courses, but doubted they could be anything near as arduous as his own survivalist training. Plus, of course, Jay had been through the same training as Reeve, the same grueling marches over moor and mountain. He didn’t think the Highlands would faze him.
But that was another thing about his troop-they were city dwellers for the most part, used to street-fighting and gun law. Only two, Jay apart, had served in armed forces. One of these was Hestler, the other was a big but paunchy Native American called Choa whose main line of work these days was as a bouncer at a nightclub on Sunset Boulevard. Some actor had died there a while back, but Choa’s name hadn’t been mentioned…
Reeve had done all right so far. He’d handled himself pretty well. But he’d been operating swift strikes, vanishing again afterwards. Jay didn’t think he’d cope with confrontation quite so well. The odds still favored Jay, which was the only way he’d play them.
They reached Mallaig at ten in the morning. It had been raining ever since they’d crossed the border. The windshield wipers were on full and still were barely coping. There wasn’t much of a road north out of Mallaig, and the next settlement along, Mallaigvaig, was the end of the line. The only thing you could do when you got there was turn back to Mallaig itself.
But just before they reached Mallaigvaig, they saw the boathouse and the Saab.
“Hestler, with me,” Jay said. At the last service station, they’d opened the metal cases, and when the two men left the front car, each carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 set at three-round burst. They ran to the boathouse door, and Jay banged on it with his shoe. Then they stood to either side of the door, and waited for someone to answer.
When the door started to open, Jay shouldered it inwards, throwing Kenneth Creech onto his back, from which position he peered up into the mouth of the submachine gun.
“Are you Creech?”
“Sweet Jesus.”
Creech eventually managed to nod that he was. Hestler had recced the shed and now said, “All clear,” then went to the door to signal for the others to come in.
“You know someone called Reeve?”
Creech nodded again.
“What did he tell you?”
“He said you’d… you’d need a boat.”
“To go where?”
“Skivald. It’s a small island off South Uist.”
Jay turned to Hestler. “Tell one of them to bring the map.” He turned back to Creech. “I notice you’ve wet yourself.” The stain on Kenneth Creech’s trousers was spreading fast. Jay smiled. “I like that. Now, Mr. Creech, how big is Skivald?”
“About a mile and a half by three-quarters of a mile.”
“Small.”
“Aye.” Choa handed the map book to Jay, who put it on the floor and crouched down to flick its pages. The MP5 was still trained on a point between Creech’s eyes. “I don’t see it,” Jay said at last. “Show me.” Creech sat up and looked at the map. He pointed to where Skivald was, north of Loch Eynort.
“There’s nothing there.”
“No,” Creech said, “it’s not marked. You won’t find it on a map.”
Jay narrowed his eyes. “What’s going on, Mr. Creech?” The tip of the gun touched the bridge of Creech ’s nose. Creech screwed shut his eyes, which were watering. “Dear me, Mr. Creech, you’re leaking from every orifice.”
The men who had gathered around laughed at this. Creech didn’t feel any better for them being there, but he could hardly feel worse about their massive presence either.
“He’s ugly,” said one of the street-gang youths. He’d been wearing his uniform of sawn-off black T-shirt and sleeveless denim jacket for most of the trip, but had insisted they stop at a service station just south of Carlisle so he could find something warmer to wear. The others had stayed in their cars.
“I doubt the shops here will sell clothes,” Jay had murmured. But the street youth had come out with a wool- lined brown leather jacket. Jay didn’t ask where he had found it. He knew he should be angry; it was a very public announcement of their presence, ripping off someone’s jacket. But he doubted the victim would run to the police, who would have to listen to a story about an American Blood on the loose in Carlisle…
“I fucking hate ugly people, man,” said the youth, shuffling his feet.
“Hear that, Mr. Creech?” Jay asked. “He hates you. Maybe you’d better help me pacify him, or you never know what he might do.”
As if in answer, the youth, whose name was Jiminez, expertly flicked open a gold-colored butterfly knife.
“Reeve made me take him to the island,” Creech spluttered.
“Yes? When was this?”
“Last night.”
“Does he have any way off the island?”
Creech shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. He could always swim, but that’s about it.”
“Anything else, Mr. Creech?”
Creech licked his lips. “No,” he said.
Jay smiled and stood up. “Cut him,” he ordered. Jiminez had been waiting. The knife flashed across Creech’s thigh and he winced, covering it with his hand. Blood squeezed out from between his fingers.
“We can do you a lot of damage, Mr. Creech,” Jay said, walking around the boathouse. “You have some nice tools here, any one of which could be turned on you. All it takes is a little… creativity.” He picked up the hot-air gun. “Now, where’s the socket?”
“I swear to God!” Creech said.
“What did he take with him, Mr. Creech?” Jay asked. “You say you took him to this island, you must at least have seen what he took with him.”
“He had a bag, a holdall sort of thing. It looked heavy.”
“And?”
“And he had… he had a gun.”
“Like this one?” Jay asked, waving the MP5.
“No, no, just a pistol.”
“A pistol? Is that all?”
“It’s all I saw.”
“Mmm. You didn’t see anything else? No traps?”
“Traps?”
“Yes, for catching animals.”
“I didn’t see anything like that.”
Jay had finished his tour of the room. He crouched down again in front of Creech. This was
“Anything else, Mr. Creech?”
He knew if he kept asking Creech would keep telling. He’d tell until he was telling the tiniest details, because he knew if he stopped he might start to bleed all over again.
“Well,” Creech said, “he made some signs.”
