Читать книгу: «The Hunted»

Chapter 1
Kent, 2002

The summer evening was drawing to a close. Mike could just soak up the last of the pink shimmer in the sky before he would have to face the cold, hard-faced bitch he called his wife. As he stepped out of his Porsche and felt his feet crunch under the newly laid gravel drive, he sucked in the warm air and braced himself.

Sacha, the housekeeper, opened the door before he had a chance to put the key in the lock. Her sweet round face was loaded with anxiety. It made Mike bite down on his lip and flare his nostrils. ‘Go on, love, tell me. What the fuck has she been up to now?’

Sacha lowered her gaze and shook her head. ‘Sorry, Mr Regan, but I just can’t do it anymore. I am handing in my notice … I can’t, I just can’t.’ Her voice cracked, as she tried to hold back the tears. Mike held out his big meaty arms for his housekeeper to fall into. He’d known she wouldn’t stay in the job for much longer. Sacha was too sweet and inoffensive. Dealing with Jackie was just too much for her.

He held her tight and stroked her long black hair. ‘Come on, love. Don’t get yaself upset. It’s okay. I understand.’

She gently pulled away. ‘I’m so worried about little Ricky, he is so … well, affected. Yes, maybe that’s the word. I will come back tomorrow, Mr Regan, to take him to school, but after that, I have to leave. She’s too …’ Sacha looked into Mike’s compassionate grey eyes and gave a smile loaded with sorrow. ‘She’s just hard work.’

Mike heard the cab driving up towards the house. He nodded and winked for her to go. He would deal with the aftermath.

As Sacha bustled herself into the taxi, she looked back to see Mike disappear inside the house of misery. Gutted she had to leave, she knew, nevertheless, that Jackie was becoming utterly out of control. The last straw was when she took a slap from her, for ushering little Ricky away before Jackie could say another cruel thing to him. Sacha would have loved to have swapped places with Jackie. Mike was perfect in her eyes, a Gerard Butler lookalike, rich and generous too. However, he was also faithful to his wife.

Mike stepped inside, gently closing the door, hoping that Jackie was crashed out somewhere. The house was quiet, so he crept up the curved staircase and walked along the corridor and into Ricky’s room. He gulped back the lump that had lodged in his throat. There, asleep, still hugging a pillow, was his little six-year-old son. The curtains were drawn, and his night light was just bright enough to show that his face was still moist from crying. There, among the child’s dreams, he witnessed another sob. Mike’s heart ached for his son – his sweet little chubby boy, with the biggest eyes, button nose, and wayward floppy fringe. He wanted to pull him into his arms and hug him tight, but he didn’t want to wake him. Quietly, he closed the door and walked back down the stairs and into the lounge. His shoulders relaxed when he realized he was alone. Loosening his tie, he went to the bar and poured a brandy, slowly allowing the bitter bite to warm the back of his throat. He held the bottle in his hand and rolled his eyes. Thank God she didn’t like brandy, or his vintage collection would be consumed by now. Jackie was content with a litre of vodka each day and didn’t care if it was called Grey Goose or Mother Goose, as long as it got her pissed.

Mike took his weighty crystal tumbler, with a double shot of brandy, out through the French doors and onto the patio, where the garden lights automatically came on and flooded the pool area.

With Sacha handing in her notice, and the concerning call he’d received earlier regarding his arms import, he really needed to think about what to do, now that both work and home were a mess. He shuddered and gulped back the drink. If it was true, and his deal had been intercepted by the government agents, he was looking at going down for a long time. Christ, what would happen to Ricky? He had to keep his head straight. First thing tomorrow, he would call a meeting at which only his trusted men would be present. He stared as far as his eyes could see and surveyed the walled perimeter. For a second, he thought he saw something glimmer, and his heart stopped beating. I am getting fucking paranoid now. He had to get some sleep; the last few days had been intense, and he needed a clear head for the morning.

As he went back into the house and upstairs, the inebriated snoring from their bedroom made him pass by silently, hoping his wife wouldn’t wake up. The last room on the left, the blue room, was cool and inviting. He removed his clothes and slid between the sheets, allowing the fresh cotton to engulf him. Just as he was about to drift off, a loud bang woke him and rattled his nerves. There she was in the doorway.

‘Where have you been, ya fucking wanker!’ spat Jackie, full of piss and vinegar.

Mike sat up and rolled his eyes; she was off on one again. For a second, he stared and wondered why the fuck he was still with her. Half-dressed in a designer blouse and just her knickers, she looked like a streetwalker. Her hair was a mess with knotted extensions and her oversized, collagen-filled lips were twisted in an ugly fashion to match her tight, beady eyes. Botox, boob jobs, and a fake tan had done her no favours. She was only twenty-six and could have passed for eighteen a couple of years ago. Why she’d had to have all that shit done was beyond him. He didn’t recognize her anymore, but that wasn’t the issue. It was her wild personality that had truly changed beyond recognition.

‘Well, where ’ave ya been?’ she demanded, standing there swaying with her hands on her hips. Even the sleep hadn’t sobered her up.

‘Fuck off, Jackie, and leave me alone, will ya!’

‘You don’t know what it’s like for me to be stuck in this place all fucking day with that brat whining!’

Mike felt his blood rushing through his veins. If she’d been a man, he would have leaped from the bed and smashed her head straight through the window. He clenched his fists and flared his nostrils.

‘Leave it, Jackie, and go back to bed,’ he said calmly.

Jackie wanted a row; she needed to vent her anger, but he wasn’t having any of it.

‘Oh, that’s it, Mike. You just bury ya fucking head in the sand … Look at ya. Think ya better than me, acting like I don’t even fucking exist.’ With her face screwed up, she egged him on, eager for a fight. Anything to get his attention – any attention.

‘I’m warning you, Jackie. Go back to bed, or I’ll forget you’re a fucking woman.’

His deep raspy voice would have turned her on a few years ago but not anymore. She hated him – she hated everyone. Now she saw a change in his expression; it was a coldness that crept across his face. She hadn’t seen him like that before and thought perhaps she’d pushed him too far, but the drink fuelled her on and she lashed back again. ‘Oh yeah, fucking hardman. Well, you lay a fucking finger on me and you just watch. You’ll be seeing that kid of yours from behind bars, and only if I fucking say so. I have so much on you, Mike, that you’ll go down for a long time.’

That was the last straw. The thought that she could grass, and even worse have control over their son, incensed him, taking him to a pitch that would see the red mist come down. In one fluid movement, he leaped from the bed and lunged towards her, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her to the floor.

Her cheek caught the corner of the bedside cabinet, causing her to let out a dramatic scream.

Sucking in a deep lungful of air, he slowly calmed down and glared at his wife, who was squirming around on the floor.

‘You bastard!’ she yelled with a wilful jeer.

He sighed with relief that he hadn’t killed her. But when he clocked her malevolent expression, he wished he had. No woman had ever pushed him as far. Wife or not, no one would make threats concerning his son. Yet hitting her went against everything he stood for. Things would have to change.

He had only been with Jackie for seven years, having met her at his twenty-seventh birthday bash. She was stunning back then, a natural beauty. Her confidence was what had attracted him to her. The party was a big affair with friends and wannabe mates all trying to buddy up to him. He had money and a reputation, but he wasn’t stupid; he kept only a handful of close friends who were his business colleagues.

Then Jackie arrived with his brother’s girlfriend. Tall and slim, with blonde waves tumbling down her back and shrouded in assurance, she swanned over to him and gave him a birthday kiss. He remembered the sweet smell of some expensive perfume, and how he’d decided to engage in conversation. Little did he know that all the bull she plied him with that night was just to get that fucking great diamond on her finger. She was a wild spirit and had no intention of sticking to one man. Her subtle make-up and sweet expression were deliberately aimed at getting what she wanted. She wasn’t sweet at all, but by the time he realized what she was all about, he was up the aisle saying ‘I do’ and little Ricky was on his way.

He should have listened to his head when he saw the subtle changes; after all, no one can hide their real persona for very long. Perhaps it was the age gap, for she never settled down, always wanting to party and get pissed. But he was firm and put a stop to her antics with frustrating consequences. So she turned to drinking indoors during the day.

She got to her feet and shot him an acid glare. ‘You, Mike, will wish you’d never done that.’ She wobbled away, back to their bedroom, leaving him wound up and needing another stiff drink.

As he made his way down the stairs, his phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He checked his watch; it was 2.30 a.m.

It was Eric, his brother. ‘What’s up? It’s fucking early doors, mate.’

‘You best get back over to the lock-up. We’ve discovered something you might wanna see.’

Mike ran his big thick hands through his loose waves and then scratched his bristles.

‘Okay, mate. Give me half an hour.’

He didn’t ask what. He didn’t like to talk too much on the phone, just in case. He dashed back up the stairs two at a time and retrieved his shirt from the back of the chair in the spare room. Jackie was quiet, her mumbling and cursing having died off, so he assumed she’d gone back to sleep. Outside was deathly quiet. There wasn’t even a sign of a breeze. So, when he clicked the key fob to his Porsche, the sound of the locks releasing, although expected, still made him jump. He was tired, the lack of sleep taking its toll on his nerves. As he drove towards the entrance, the gates automatically opened. Deciding to have one last look in the rear-view mirror, he gave a sigh of relief. Apart from the outside lights, the house was in total darkness.

Good, she was still asleep.

His lock-up was in the middle of West Kingsdown in Kent, cleverly hidden in a place called Knatts Valley.

Centuries ago, the area had been divided up into plots of land for smallholdings. Over the years, the residents had turned the dwellings into large houses with stables or workshops, and some even had log cabins for holiday retreats. Through the middle ran a narrow lane, hardly wide enough for two cars, so if any police vehicles travelled along it, the residents, most of whom lived on the wrong side of the law, would be instantly notified. The lane was dark and just up ahead was the turning onto his land. From the front it looked like two large log cabins, and behind was a workshop cleverly disguised as an average-looking garage. Smaller cabins surrounded it, and so for anyone passing through, it would appear as a holiday let. However, it was a carefully secured place of business that only a very select few knew about.

He turned off his headlights and parked behind the first log cabin and slowly crept towards the side door of the workshop. He had a gun in his hand, in case this was a set-up. But then he saw Eric appear and look around. Eric spotted Mike and waved his hand, beckoning him to come in.

From the outside, the lock-up looked small, but once inside, the space seemed to open up. In fact, it was large enough to house twelve cars, a small office, and a kitchenette. The building was lined with steel shutters inside and almost impossible to break into.

There in the middle of the room, under a spotlight, bound and gagged, was Travis, their new recruit. Surrounding him were overwhelmingly daunting men. Willie Ritz – tall, lanky, mean, and hard-faced – Ted Stafford or Staffie for short – who looked as though he was made of plasticine, with a bobbly nose and oversized biceps, and Lou Baker – who looked a little like Johnny Depp – greeted Mike with a nod. Then they looked at Eric to announce the news.

Mike put his gun back inside the belt of his trousers and kept his eyes on Travis. In a firm and controlled voice, he said, ‘So, Eric, what’s all this about?’

Eric was livelier than Mike, but being only ten months apart, they could have passed for twins when they were younger. Mike, the eldest, commanded more respect and his cool demeanour earned it. Whilst this six-foot-seven giant, weighing around twenty-five stone, was an intimidating sight, it was the intensity of his eyes that could strike terror into anyone who was brazen enough to front him out. Eric, though, didn’t have the same presence about him, being slightly shorter and with a body that had once been muscular but had now turned to fat. Even his voice lacked authority, and when he spoke, he did so in a less measured way, often allowing his mouth to run away with him.

History was repeating itself. Like their parents, who had created the Regans’ firm, Mike and his friends were also inseparable. As close as brothers, they worked together, played together, and more importantly trusted each other. Their criminal activities had earned them enough to move away from Bermondsey and they now lived in the cleaner surrounds of Kent.

By the time the boys reached adulthood, they were notorious. Living the straight road, paying taxes, and working for a boss just didn’t appeal, not when they saw how their parents could earn a banker’s annual salary from a single overnight job. So it stood to reason that they would all follow in their fathers’ footsteps – and what better teachers than parents? Like being an apprentice, they learned the art of safecracking, ballistics, reading architectural drawings, and negotiating. As for understanding the tools of the trade for crafting their work, they were masters at extracting information and handing out punishment.

It was a rule that they had each other’s backs, come what may, like their fathers before them. They wouldn’t trust anyone outside the firm, especially once they were taking on bigger moneymaking crimes, like the import and export of firearms. Inexplicably, however, their activities had somehow come to the attention of the authorities.

‘I think I’m right in assuming you’ve found the grass then, Eric?’

Eric gave his brother a cocky smirk and a nod. ‘Oh, Mikey, my dear bruvver, I’ve found a lot more than that.’

Mike was intrigued. ‘Oh yeah, and what’s that then, Eric?’

‘Well, ya see, we were under the assumption that there was a little spy in the camp, an informant for the Ol’ Bill. But we were wrong, Mikey. See, Travis ’ere, ain’t working for the Filth …’ He kicked Travis’s chair. ‘Are ya, Travis?’

Mike inclined his head and stepped closer. ‘Oh, is that so?’

The others were holding their breath, waiting to see if on this occasion Mike would lose the plot and rip Travis limb from limb. But they should really have known that was unlikely, given his track record. Mike was a strategic thinker, rarely losing his cool. He had twin gifts. Whilst there were not many men who could take Mike on one-on-one, he also had an innate craftiness about him. It had eased them out of trouble on many occasions, enhancing their firm’s credibility.

Even his father and so-called uncles saw him as a force to be reckoned with. He’d always been the same. As a ten-year-old, he seemed to have more balls than the others and was lethal with his fists or any weapon at hand.

Nevertheless, their new venture took them into the realm of possible breaches of national security – it was Mike and his firm’s biggest challenge to date – and their major concern was MI5 becoming nosy.

Their latest worrying matter was one of their more secure lock-ups in London getting turned over by the police. The cars were ready to be stripped and refitted, with all the gun parts carefully concealed in every orifice inside the car panels, before they were shipped to Ireland. But, two days ago, the police had surrounded the lock-up and turned the place over.

So there had to be a snitch. Luckily for Mike, though, his own inside man, DI Evans, had tipped them off. Mike was livid because that little tip-off had cost him more than the poxy guns were worth. Nevertheless, it had saved him from serving a big lump inside. But there was still a problem. There was a grass. And it wouldn’t be the Irish buyers because they had no idea where the lock-ups were. And in any case, why would they want to sell the Regan firm down the river? It was a complete head-scratcher.

‘So, who are ya working for, then, if it ain’t the Filth?’ asked Mike, in a menacing tone that would put the wind up any grown man.

Travis knew he was small fry in comparison to the men surrounding him. Right now, he was shitting himself. He knew it was over: there was no mercy showing on Mike’s face. Those icy, emotionless grey eyes made his bowels move of their own accord.

It was true. Mike did have a look that was like death calling, a deadpan steely expression that unnerved many a man.

Staffie, the shortest of the five men, at five foot seven, with no neck, and a goofy, childlike grin, stepped forward holding a torque wrench. ‘’Ere, Mikey, ya don’t wanna get ya hands all messy, now do ya, mate?’

Mike put his hand up. ‘Hang on a minute. Before I smash the granny out of this geezer, I wanna know all the facts.’

Staffie nodded, chuckled, and then placed the wrench back on the tool rack.

‘Take that gag outta his mouth. I think he wants to talk.’

Travis’s eyes glistened as he nervously clocked the blowtorch that was resting on the long wooden bench. Terrifying thoughts pierced his mind. Jesus! A childhood memory of catching his arm over the steaming kettle reminded him of the pain, but he knew that would be nothing in comparison to a naked flame. He swooned and felt the warm liquid run down his leg. Totally consumed by fear, his muscles became flaccid and his bowels relaxed. He wasn’t cut out for this work and stupidly he hadn’t looked beyond the actuality of getting caught. However, now he was facing the consequences head-on.

Willie Ritz, the big meathead with the scar that ran from his forehead down to his chin, cut the gag from Travis using his diver’s knife, his favourite tool. None of the firm ever understood why it was still his weapon of choice, even after an older gang of thugs had taken it from him in a street brawl and run that evil-looking jagged blade down his face. But Willie still turned that knife around in his hand and even kissed the blade. As tall as Mike, but with less meat on his bones, Willie liked to snort cocaine, especially if any violence was to be had. It raised his level of anger and sent him screwy and a little unpredictable. Whenever Willie’s eyes were like saucers, and glared a piercing blue colour, Mike knew his friend had gone over the top, and so he would remove the supply that Willie kept in a pouch shoved down the front of his trousers. Only Mike could get away with it – no one else would dare.

With trepidation, Travis took a few deep breaths and stared wide-eyed, waiting for the inevitable.

‘I think you’d better tell me what you’ve been up to, and, more importantly, who the fuck for.’ Mike didn’t shout or even raise his voice.

Travis looked at Eric and then back at Mike. ‘No, listen, please, ya got me all wrong. I, er … I was just taking pictures for meself, no one else, I swear.’ He knew it sounded stupid. Really, he had no excuse.