Payback Read online

  ‘It happens sometimes,’ said Fergus with a shrug. ‘And it’s not just about killing. It’s a bit like gladiators in the Roman arena. There’s tradition, and ritual and ceremony.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, tell that to the bull,’ snarled Danny as he stood up and headed for the stairs. ‘And don’t ask me to watch it again!’

  They were not getting on well. After six months together they were still, in many ways, like strangers. Physically, the family resemblance was strong, but the similarity ended there. They were from different generations, different lives, different worlds.

  And they argued endlessly. ‘I didn’t ask you to come looking for me,’ Fergus would say when Danny moaned about the boredom and frustration of their life in Spain.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t! I’m sick to death of making tea. I was doing A levels at school – I should have a proper job!’

  ‘You’re lucky you’re alive, Danny, remember that. If you’re bored, read a book. Or tell me all the SOPs you can remember. You haven’t done that lately.’

  ‘I don’t want to know SOPs. I want a life!’

  And the arguments would rage on and on. Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, Fergus remained focused on safety and security. He was quiet and secretive; it was as though he wore secrecy like a protective suit of armour. Danny was different. He could be impulsive, hot-headed, inclined to act without thinking. It didn’t make for the perfect partnership, especially as Fergus was constantly reminding Danny that he should be more like him.

  Danny wanted to tell Elena all about it as he sat in the Internet café. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had his orders. His SOPs. His hands went back to the keyboard.

  Señor dice:

  so wot else is happening

  Señorita dice:

  u sure u want me 2 say

  Señor dice:

  look im sorry 4 being a pain, go on tell me

  Señorita dice:

  u no who is back in court next week. he could go 2 prison 4 a long time.

  Señor dice:

  im sorry, i should have asked b4

  Señorita dice:

  don’t matter, nothing u can do, nothing any1 can do, its his own stupid fault, i dont care.

  But she did care. Desperately. And the one person she wanted to talk about it to was Danny. But she couldn’t. Fergus’s rules on online safety applied to them both.

  ‘U no who’ was Elena’s dad, Joey. Years earlier, when Elena was a small child, he’d cleared off back to his Nigerian homeland, saying he was going to make his fortune. He didn’t; he just didn’t come back, not until eighteen months after Elena’s mum died. She had left a small inheritance for her daughter’s education, and when Elena came into the money, Joey suddenly turned up. He spun Elena a line about investing in a fantastic moneymaking scheme that involved exporting second-hand white goods – old fridges, freezers and washing machines – back to Nigeria.

  It was only when Danny and Fergus were safely out of the country that Elena learned exactly which ‘white goods’ Joey was dealing in. Cocaine. And it was being imported rather than exported. Joey and his socalled ‘business partner’ were arrested, charged and remanded at Her Majesty’s pleasure until his trial came up.

  Elena had gone through a tough six months too. She’d risked her own life in helping Danny rescue his grandfather from the safe house. Then she’d handed over much of her remaining cash to help them leave Britain and start their new life in Spain. The money was already being gradually paid back through various banks directly into her building society account. But it wasn’t the money that mattered.

  What mattered was not knowing if she’d ever see Danny again. And not knowing if one day the police would come knocking on the door to arrest her for her part in the escape. And, just like Danny, not knowing if life would ever be normal again.

  Danny came back on her computer screen.

  Señor dice:

  i better go, he’s waiting outside

  Señorita dice:

  yeah ok. talk in 2 weeks???

  Señor dice:

  hope so

  Señorita dice:

  i’ll b here, just in case. take care

  Señor dice:

  u take care

  Señorita dice:

  bye then

  Señor dice:

  bye

  Señorita dice:

  xxx

  5

  Night falls quickly in southern Spain. Darkness creeps up stealthily and is suddenly there. Like an ambush.

  Fergus and Danny were back at the house. The drive from Seville had passed in silence after Fergus made the mistake of asking how the online conversation with Elena had gone. Danny merely grunted, ‘It was crap.’

  Fergus said nothing more and concentrated on driving. He already felt bad enough about the way Danny’s life had changed because of him.

  They ate in silence and when Fergus switched on the television, Danny just sighed and went up to his room.

  Fergus sat through a Western movie dubbed in Spanish and then switched off the TV. He did his usual rounds, checking that the house and garage were secure, and then made his way up the stairs. Danny’s room was already in darkness and Fergus knew better than to knock and say goodnight. His grandson was probably asleep anyway.

  Ten minutes later Fergus got into bed and switched off the light. But sleep wouldn’t come. He lay in the darkness, thinking. The twenty-four-hour clock at his bedside flicked over to 23:17. Two men were talking loudly as they passed by in the street below. Their footsteps faded and Fergus turned to face the wall. Soon after, he slept.

  The night was still and warm, and much later a sound penetrated the wooden shutters and Fergus woke. He opened his eyes and listened. Somewhere, close by, a dog was barking. It wasn’t unusual. He turned to look at the clock: 02:54. Before it had moved on to the next number he was asleep again.

  Fran checked her watch. Three a.m. She stood beneath one of the small orange trees and stared across and up the road at the target house less than twenty metres away. Dull yellow light from the streetlamps barely penetrated the inky darkness. She pressed the radio pressel hanging from her watchstrap with a rubber-gloved finger.

  ‘OK, let’s get on with it. Fran’s foxtrot.’

  Further down the street, on the far side of the target house, Mick heard Fran in his earpiece and began to move. The two new members of the team were watching the rear of the property, even though there was no way out in that direction. A three-metre wall completely enclosed the small back yard, but they were watching the approach routes so that, if necessary, they could give warning of any approaching third party.

  The operation had been meticulously planned: the house and town had been recced on each of the four previous evenings. Fran moved forward cautiously with a square Tupperware lunch box cradled in her hands. Two large magnets were gaffered to the sides so that they stuck out just a centimetre beyond the lip of the box.

  A dog was barking incessantly. Someone had spooked it. Fran made a mental note to give the new members of the team a bollocking if it was down to them. She smiled as she got closer to the house. She and Mick had talked about this moment many times over the past six months. Revenge would be especially sweet.

  They met at the garage shutter. Fran immediately stood with her back to it while Mick shone a mini Maglite around the frame, his fingers covering the lens, leaving just enough light to check for any tell-tales. They couldn’t allow themselves to think that Watts would leave house and vehicle completely unguarded – he was too professional for that. If there were no telltales here or inside the garage they would assume they had been left on the wagon itself.

  The check of the frame revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Mick dropped to his knees, where a five-centimetre lip on the bottom of the shutter formed the seal along the concrete floor. Protruding through a hole in the centre of the lip was a steel hoop, set into the floor. A padlock was securely fixed around the hoop.

  Mick exam
ined the padlock for talcum powder, or grease. If it was disturbed in any way, Watts would know for certain that someone had tampered with it. But there was nothing. Finally Mick studied the position of the lock; when the job was over it needed to be replaced in exactly the same way. They were dealing with a man just as expert as they were.

  Mick had carried out a locks recce the previous night. He placed the Maglite in his mouth and, leaning closer to cut down the spill of light, felt in the back pocket of his jeans for the two thin picks he knew would free the shutter.

  The dog was still barking, and from a house not too distant came the sounds of a man and woman arguing furiously. Maybe it was their dog and neither of them wanted to get out of bed to shut the thing up. The dog seemed to join in the row, barking even louder.

  Mick ignored the noise; his job was to open the shutter. If there was a problem Fran would tap him on the shoulder and walk away. He would then get up and make off in the opposite direction.

  The lock was easily defeated. Slowly but firmly Mick pulled up the shutter until he could lie on the ground and check inside with his torch. He concentrated on the concrete floor, looking for sand or oil that would give away their presence once they stepped inside. Even discarded rubbish or sheets of newspaper could have been placed strategically for an intruder to disturb. But again, there was nothing.

  Mick pushed the shutter up a little further and slid into the garage. He placed the padlock in a pocket as Fran followed him through and then gently and noiselessly pushed the shutter back down into position.

  It was a critical moment. For all they knew there could have been security cameras or a motion detector rigged in the garage. It was a risk they had to take and they would find out soon enough if they had been caught. Whatever happened, the mission had to be completed: Watts and the boy had to die. Fran had been very clear when giving her final instructions to the team. ‘We deal with any problem as the situation dictates.’

  For the moment it appeared as though luck was with them. There were no sounds of movement from inside the house; all they could hear was the muffled sound of the dog barking.

  Their torchlight bounced around in the darkness, picking out little in the confined space apart from the pick-up truck. Fran kept her light on the front of the vehicle and tapped Mick on the shoulder. He slowly got to his feet and she hit her radio pressel twice, sending only two hisses of air to the team to signify that they were in. It was quicker that way. And silent.

  A Cockney voice came back to them in their earpieces.

  ‘That you two in the garage?’

  The Londoner heard two more hisses of air as an affirmative and was on the move.

  ‘That’s me foxtrot, then.’

  He was shifting from the rear of the house to a position at the front so that he had eyes on the garage.

  Inside, Mick began feeling behind the front bumper of the Toyota and quickly found what he was searching for: a twenty-centimetre-square dust-covered metal box – a tracking device. For the past five days, until the battery finally ran down, it had sent out a constant stream of electronic beeps, one every two seconds. The device had been planted by the new members of the team. They had done their job well; young Londoners posing as builders, gradually befriending Fergus and Danny at the tea bar. Chatting casually, gaining their confidence while reporting back to London daily. And when the order to take action was given, Paul and Benny were ready.

  It had been simple. Benny sipped tea and talked while Paul casually walked off with his mobile, apparently in deep conversation with his girlfriend. Planting the device took just seconds.

  ‘Benny’s in position, still clear.’

  Fran double clicked as she knelt down, put her torch in her mouth and pulled back the lid of the Tupperware box to reveal the IED. The twelve-volt battery had wires from both terminals connected to the two wires from the detonator – an aluminium tube the size of half a cigarette. It was pushed into five kilos of Semtex high explosive.

  All that prevented the electric current from working its way along the wires and initiating the detonator was a thin sliver of cardboard. One wire from the battery had been cut through and the two ends wound around two drawing pins. The point of each pin was pushed into a prong of a wooden clothes peg, with just the sliver of cardboard keeping the pinheads apart. For now. Once the cardboard was pulled free the pinheads would snap together, the circuit would be completed and bang. Big bang.

  The IED was the same as those used by suicide bombers around the world; the only difference was that instead of being in a box they were usually packed into a fishing vest and worn under a coat. A length of string or fishing line would be fixed to the cardboard and fed through a coat sleeve into the bomber’s hand, ready to be pulled at the vital moment.

  The team had watched Fergus and Danny for the past four days. Every morning Fergus locked the front door with Danny beside him. Danny would wait as his grandfather unlocked the padlock and lifted the garage shutter. Then came the highlight of Danny’s day: he was allowed to drive the wagon out of the garage and across to the opposite side of the road while Fergus pulled down the shutter and locked up.

  This was Fran’s chosen killing ground. She had enjoyed planning this operation, channelling her targets to their deaths, using their own repeated patterns of movement. In his final moment Fergus Watts would open the shutter, pulling the fishing line attached to the sliver of cardboard.

  Fran carefully picked up the small fishing hook tied to the free end of the line curled inside the box. Slowly she fed the hook through a hole burned through one side of the box, her eyes never leaving the cardboard attached to the other end of the line.

  As the hook poked through the hole, Fran Slowly pulled it away from the box, allowing the line to rest on the ground. Then she placed the open top of the device against the steel shutters. The magnets clicked gently, fixing the box in the centre of the shutter at about knee height.

  Fran breathed deeply, glanced at the watching Mick and then hit her pressel.

  ‘Ready to come out.’

  Outside in the darkness, Benny checked both directions. There were no signs of movement and even the barking dog had finally fallen silent.

  ‘Clear this end. Paul?’

  Paul was in a vehicle parked in the street behind the house.

  ‘Paul’s clear.’

  Fran double clicked and kept the fishing line still while Mick slowly lifted the shutter just enough for them to roll out into the street. Mick got to his feet but Fran stayed on the ground, winding the free line around the steel hoop concreted into the ground until there was just a little slack left. She placed the hook round the line leading up to the IED; the shutter only needed to be raised another ten centimetres for the line to tighten and pull the cardboard free.

  But that was for the morning. Fran moved clear and Mick gently pushed down the shutter and replaced the padlock, ensuring it was in exactly the same position as before.

  Job done, they walked away in separate directions. They would meet up again soon and return to the self-catering holiday apartment they had booked as cover. Fran smiled as she moved noiselessly down the street. Job well done: she deserved a holiday after that.

  6

  Fergus and Danny were still barely speaking when they emerged from the house the following morning.

  Danny was first out, and as Fergus began to turn the first of the three locks that secured the front door, his grandson pulled his own set of keys from his jeans pocket. Every day it was the same monotonous routine – it was driving Danny insane. Well, today would be different: he would unlock the shutter. His grandfather would moan and grumble and give him another lecture about sticking to SOPs, but Danny was in the mood for a fight.

  He squatted down, stuck the key into the padlock and looked up, expecting a shout, but Fergus was still concentrating on securing the front door. Danny grinned and turned the key in the padlock. It sprang open and he unhooked it from the steel hoop.

  Fergu
s heard the metallic scraping noise and turned to see Danny squatting with both hands on the lip of the shutter. Instantly he knew it had been opened since locking up the previous night.

  ‘No!’ he yelled, and as Danny started to straighten and the shutter began to rise, his grandfather dived at him. He crashed into Danny’s thighs and they both went sprawling to the ground.

  Danny lay on the pavement, gasping and winded, as Fergus crawled on top of him, pinning him to the ground, waiting for the explosion.

  It didn’t come.

  As Fergus looked at the shutter, now raised to just below knee height, Danny turned his head and saw the fishing line fixed to the steel hoop. He’d learned enough over the past few months to know it meant mortal danger.

  ‘Get to the ERV,’ hissed Fergus. ‘Now!’

  It was no time to argue. As soon as Fergus rolled away, Danny sprang to his feet and ran.

  Fergus crawled over to the shutter, knowing only too well what was clamped to the inside. He knew too that none of the team responsible for planting it would still be in the area. They were long gone.

  Fergus pulled out his Leatherman and carefully cut through the fishing line before lying down on his back and moving his head and shoulders under the shutter. Slowly he raised his hands and gently pulled the IED free. He rolled onto one side and cut the two leads attached to the battery before removing it and throwing it into the garage. The IED was safe now there was no power to initiate the detonator.

  Fergus crawled all the way into the garage, then stood up with the Tupperware box in both hands and stared at the plastic explosive. It might come in useful some day.

  The ERV brought back bad memories for Danny. Memories of a ramshackle, tumbledown, deserted barn in remote Norfolk.

  The barn had been the last ERV where Danny had waited for Fergus. On that occasion Fergus didn’t show, but Danny hadn’t been alone during those six long hours. He’d had an overweight, middle-aged freelance reporter by the name of Eddie Moyes for company.

  Eddie had been trailing Danny and Fergus, on the hunt for a world exclusive story about an on-the-run ex-SAS soldier, convinced it would get him back where he belonged: in the big time.