Panic (A Leopold Blake Thriller) Page 4

  Jerome turned on the radio and tuned into a news channel to pass the time. The two men whose voices came through the Bose speaker system were discussing the stolen military weapons story, and the conversation was getting heated. He asked Jerome to turn up the volume. According to a reliable source, one of the men claimed, a large supply of prototype explosives had been stolen from a secure facility in Maryland three days before, and the authorities were at a loss as to how it had happened. Leopold wondered whether this was what had put Coleman in such a bad mood. The news story was cut short as the commercials started playing.

  Leopold pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket and noticed a missed call from an unknown number, probably Mary leaving another message about the case. He dialed his voicemail and punched in his access code, absent-mindedly rubbing his temple in an effort to numb a sudden headache. The morning’s workout hadn’t been kind to him, and he was looking forward to finishing the meeting with the senator as soon as possible and taking a long, hot bath. But that would have to wait. The electronically altered voice that greeted him wasn’t Mary:

  Good morning, Mr. Blake, I notice you’ve been taking quite an interest in my recent work. I’m flattered by the attention, but I’m afraid this is where the fun has to stop. I look forward to finally meeting you in person, although I expect the feeling won’t be mutual.

  Leopold frowned and hooked his cell phone up to the car’s wireless stereo system. After a few seconds, the devices synced and he cranked up the volume.

  “Jerome, what do you think of this?” He played back the message through the car’s speakers.

  “I’ll run the tracer and see where it leads,” said the bodyguard. “You do remember I told you to keep this cell phone number private, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. I haven’t shared it with anyone. Even Mary has to dial through a password-protected proxy to get through. Looks like whoever called me didn’t want to be found.”

  “He probably just used a scrambled line,” said Jerome, pressing a series of keys on the car’s touchscreen panel. “The system will work out the origin of the signal eventually. It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Unless he’s used a scrambled signal. In which case we’ve got no chance of tracking it.”

  “Hang on. We’ve got company,” said Jerome, putting both hands back onto the wheel.

  Leopold turned in his seat and looked out the rear window. A black SUV was approaching fast, straddling both lanes of the road. He could make out at least two people inside, although the windshield was slightly tinted so he couldn’t be sure. He could hear the roar of the SUV’s engine as it approached, straining to beat the pace of the Mulsanne.

  “Hold on,” said Jerome, planting his right foot to the floor.

  The Bentley surged forward, carried by the huge twin-turbo V8 engine under the hood, and the SUV started to fall behind. The bodyguard eased the car around the winding roads, letting the speed fall slightly to avoid throwing them into a ditch. The SUV kept pace, then began to gain ground again as they found themselves on a long stretch of road where the Bentley’s precise handling was no advantage. The noise of the Mulsanne’s engine filled the cabin as the car sailed forward, pulling away from the SUV by a few feet. Leopold turned to face the front and saw the speedometer hit ninety miles per hour, ninety five. One hundred. Then he saw the bend approach.

  Jerome steered into the turn and the Mulsanne’s computer-assisted traction control kicked in. The system engaged the rear brakes for a split second and sent more power to the outer wheels, helping guide the heavy chassis round the tight corner. Unfortunately, the SUV had no intention of making the turn, and increased its speed on approach. Leopold already knew what would happen next. He felt the car lurch forward with a deafening crunch as the other vehicle slammed into their back, sending the Bentley spinning out of control. He heard the sound of screeching metal and then there was darkness.

  Chapter 8

  The first thing Leopold noticed when he woke was the smell of gasoline and metal. As his ears began to function he could hear the Bentley’s chassis groaning under its own weight and the sound of footsteps crunching through broken glass. His vision returned, and he could just about make out the still body of Jerome in the driver’s seat and realized the car had been tipped upside down. He heard the door wrench open and felt a strong grip pull him out onto the road by his ankles. Fading in and out of consciousness, he saw the same thing happen to Jerome.

  “Is he alive?”

  Leopold made out the husky voice, though he couldn’t see whom it belonged to. From the accent he guessed its owner was Eastern European, probably Czech.

  “Looks like it,” said another voice.

  “Good. We can have some fun.”

  He felt a kick to his side and let out a gasp. The two men jeered and positioned themselves at either end of his body, one grabbing him by the arms and the other supporting his legs. They hoisted him off the road and effortlessly carried him over to the SUV, tossing him into the back seat. The door slammed close to his face, causing him to finally snap out of his daze and sit up. His headache had suddenly gotten a lot worse. He stared at the two men, fixing their faces in his mind. Both were a little over six feet tall, with shaved heads and arms as thick as their legs. Imposing, but not in the same league as Jerome. Both carried handguns tucked into their jeans and both had an assortment of tattoos on their bulging forearms. They glared back menacingly, showing their yellow teeth, close enough for their breath to fog the glass. Leopold looked over to where Jerome had been lying. He had vanished.

  The two men must have sensed something was wrong and immediately turned to where the bodyguard had been seconds earlier, expressions of confusion on their ragged faces. They stalked over to the upturned Bentley and drew their weapons, searching for their prey. One of the men stepped toward the front of the car and peered around the crumpled hood. That was when Jerome attacked. The bodyguard’s palm connected with the man’s throat, choking him as his larynx collapsed and his airways filled with blood. In the split second it took the injured man to realize what had happened, Jerome grasped his forearm, turned on his heel, and flipped the man over his shoulders with such force that Leopold heard him shriek as he smashed into the road.

  He watched the giant bodyguard quickly bring his palm down onto the man’s elbow while pulling the wrist upwards, snapping the arm. The Czech squealed in pain and horror as bone sliced through his tattooed skin, falling silent as Jerome slammed his skull into the asphalt. Grabbing the unconscious man’s firearm, Jerome raised the weapon level with the other attacker and fired, just as the second assailant brought his own gun up to take a shot. His head exploded in a mist of crimson and he dropped to the ground, just a few feet away. Leopold saw Jerome lean in closer to the first man, checking for a pulse, before walking back to the SUV and opening the door to help his employer out onto the road. Leopold took a moment to look up at the towering bodyguard, whose features had softened.

  “I’m fine, don’t worry,” said Leopold, noticing the look of concern. “Who were those guys?”

  “Didn’t get a chance to ask, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, I don’t think we’ll get any useful information out of this guy,” said Leopold, pointing at the body lying nearby. “What about the other one?”

  “No pulse. Blood loss and head trauma were too much for him.”

  “And you didn’t think it might be a good idea not to kill both of them? The police are going to be swarming all over the place. This looks like an execution. Not exactly self-defence.”

  “Relax. It’s my job to keep you alive, so if I’m in any doubt I put your safety first. It’s an unfortunate outcome, but it’s manageable. Let me handle the cleanup.”

  “Fine, but be quick,” said Leopold, turning his attention to the ruined Bentley. “We’re already late as it is.”

  Chapter 9

  The black Mercedes S65 AMG swept silently through the quiet East Hampton roads. Mary sat in th
e back, fully insulated from the outside world, and soaked up the view. Impossibly huge houses sailed past on either side, most of which were set back from the road and locked up behind heavy metal gates. Each house sat on acres of pristine lawn and most were nestled close to the woodland areas that seemed to stretch all the way out to the horizon. One or two had security guards standing in plain view by the front door.

  “Not far to go now, ma’am,” said the driver, turning his head.

  Mary nodded and pulled out a small makeup mirror. She adjusted her hair and added some foundation to the dark circles under her eyes. The result was just about acceptable, but hopefully the senator wouldn’t be looking too closely. Not with everything he had to worry about, anyway.

  The car pulled around a corner and the houses disappeared, leaving just an empty road lined with trees. After thirty seconds they reached a clearing to the right and a set of large iron gates. The car pulled up and the driver opened his window, leaning out of it to reach the keypad mounted near one of the pillars. He punched in a code and the gates jostled open, swinging slowly backward to allow the car passage. Mary couldn’t make out a house yet, only a long driveway lined with trees and immaculately trimmed bushes.

  “Just half a mile or so to the house, ma’am,” said the driver, as he started the car moving again.

  Mary had assumed that the senator had money, but she hadn’t expected him to own a large estate in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the world. She couldn’t help but feel slightly intimidated, but quickly shrugged it off and concentrated on what she was planning to say during the meeting.

  Mary had been surprised that the senator had agreed to see her at such short notice. Usually, the NYPD was kept out of the loop in high-profile cases like this, especially when the FBI got wind of what was going on and started fencing other departments out. This time felt different though, and the veteran police sergeant wasn’t sure what the senator was expecting from her. He had sounded a little distant on the telephone, a little distracted. Mary supposed that was probably a normal reaction to finding out your only daughter had been kidnapped by a violent psychopath, but there was something niggling at the back of her mind. Something just didn’t feel right, but she couldn’t work out what it was. Hopefully, Leopold would be able to shed some light on the situation. As usual.

  The senator’s house loomed into view, and the Mercedes rolled up to the front door. The asphalt gave way to white gravel and the tires crunched quietly over the neatly raked stones before stopping near the entrance archway. The driver stepped out of the car and rang the doorbell. One of the house staff answered, a middle-aged man in a smartly pressed uniform, who said a few words to the driver that Mary couldn’t quite make out. The driver nodded and opened the rear passenger door for her, tipping his cap as she climbed out and went inside the house. The front door opened up into the entrance hall, an enormous atrium clad in white marble, with ceilings that stretched a full three stories into the air. Mary saw another man walking toward her, dressed in a dark blue uniform and body armor, with a large handgun holstered to his hip. It looked like a .45 SIG Sauer.

  “Senator Logan is upstairs at the moment, ma’am,” said the security guard, drawing up close enough that she could smell his cheap cologne. “Perhaps you would be comfortable waiting in the drawing room? The senator will come down when Mr. Blake has arrived.”

  Mary took a second to look the man up and down, a force of habit from years of sizing up potentially dangerous suspects on the force. She could tell he carried at least one other concealed handgun, and probably a bladed weapon sheathed to his calf, judging by the cut of the trousers. His face was pockmarked and scarred, suggesting occupational damage, and his expression was passive. His eyes gave away nothing. This guy was clearly a pro, but probably not in charge. That meant there must be others.

  “He’s not here yet?” said Mary, trying to sound casual. “Okay, I’m sure the drawing room will be fine, thank you.”

  “I’m sure they won’t be long getting here, ma’am.”

  The security guard, whose name tag identified him as Viktor, led Mary through several long hallways before they arrived at a large, plush room with four luxurious armchairs positioned to face the open fireplace on the back wall. Another guard stood at the window, who turned to greet them as they entered. This man was of similar build to Viktor, but a few inches taller, with a shock of white-blond hair instead of the crew cut that Viktor wore.

  “Please, sit,” said the blond.

  Mary took a seat in one of the soft armchairs, and Viktor left the room without a word. She turned to look at the blond, who was also clearly carrying a multitude of hidden weaponry, and checked his name tag. She smiled.

  “So, your name’s Dolph?” she asked. “Like Lundgren? Did your parents have a sense of humor?”

  Dolph didn’t respond, but Mary was sure his blank expression flickered momentarily. Probably best not to test the patience of a heavily armed security guard who looked like he could punch through walls. She turned away and pulled out her cell phone. No calls yet.

  Mary hoped Leopold would get there soon. He would arrive, no doubt, with some insane theory about the case and a list of unlikely leads to chase up. Not a shred of evidence of course, but Mary could usually rely on him to get results. At least professionally. On a personal level, Mary didn’t even know where to begin with Leopold, but she knew that life was always a little more interesting when he was around. She smiled to herself and kept her eyes on the door.

  Chapter 10

  Jerome pulled the crumpled SUV up to the set of heavy iron gates that shielded the senator from members of the general public. He announced their arrival on the intercom and the gates swung open slowly, creaking and groaning under their own weight. They were greeted at the front door by the senator himself, his face drawn and his eyes puffy. He looked like he had been awake for days.

  “Oh good, you’re here, please come in,” said Senator Logan, pulling the door back and gesturing for them to come through.

  Leopold stepped into the hallway and looked around, noticing the pristine marble and ornate staircase that wound its way up to the first floor, a good twenty feet above ground level. Leopold could make out the master bedroom upstairs through an open door and noticed the bed was still unmade. All the other doors were closed. Several uniformed guards stood in strategic positions throughout the upper levels, each wearing bullet-proof vests and what looked like SIG Sauer handguns holstered at the hip. Two of the security officers stood on the staircase, standing to attention.

  “I’d like to introduce you to the head of my security team.” Logan gestured to the largest of the two men. “This is Jack Stark; ex-military man. Tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, I believe.”

  Stark nodded dispassionately. He stood a little shorter than Jerome at around six feet four inches, but was just as muscular and looked a little younger. On his forearm was a tattooed insignia with something written underneath, but Leopold couldn’t quite make out the words.

  “And this is Viktor Baikov,” continued the senator. “He reports directly to Stark and takes care of the day-to-day running of things around here.”

  Viktor grunted in response but otherwise made no sign that he had heard what the senator had said.

  “I decided to hire a third party to keep an eye on me,” Logan continued. “The police and the FBI can only do so much to keep me safe, and I’d rather put my life in the hands of someone earning more than minimum wage.”

  “Keep you safe from what, Senator?” said Leopold.

  “We both know what’s going on here, Mr. Blake. I know what they’re peddling in the news, but I didn’t get to where I am today without having contacts in all the right places.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Let’s just say the FBI should listen more carefully to your theories.”

  “And just what would those theories be?”

  “Don’t underestimate me, Mr. Blake,” said
Logan. “I found out about Wilson before you even got the call, and I had Stark’s team installed last week after reading your reports on Carrera and Hague. There’s clearly a pattern, whatever the FBI might think.”

  “That’s very prudent of you,” said Leopold.

  “I checked Stark’s references and hired him on the spot. He’s certainly impressed me so far. Isn’t that right, Stark?”

  “It’s my job, sir,” said Stark, keeping his eyes on Leopold.

  They left Viktor and Stark on the stairs, and the senator led the group through a wide hallway that separated the entrance hall from the rest of the house. On the walls hung numerous framed photos, mostly from publicity events and press appearances the senator had attended through the years. Leopold noticed one in particular and stopped to look closer.

  “Ah, a personal favorite of mine,” said Logan.

  Leopold looked at the black-and-white photograph of the senator shaking hands with the president of the United States at a birthday celebration. The two men were both grinning with wide, bright smiles. A half-eaten cake was on the table in front of them, and a large banner was hanging in the background, the number fifty-three written in large, glittering letters across its width.

  “Whose party was this?” asked Leopold.

  “Oh, the president and I go way back. This was taken at his fifty-third birthday a couple of years ago. Most people notice that one; I’ve seen Stark staring at it a few times. Follow me.”

  Logan ushered them through to a large room, with several empty armchairs arranged around the fireplace. Mary Jordan sat in the corner, dressed in civilian clothes, a look of impatience on her face. An enormous blond security guard stood by the window.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Leopold offered. “Traffic was murder.”