The Lost Shepherd Page 6

kicked open the door and then kicked it closed again, to make his point.

  “Everything okay?” Charlie asked.

  His younger brother wore a scowl so deep it could have been chiselled into his skull. Everything was clearly not okay. But with John it was impossible to tell how far up the disaster scale the situation was. Charlie had seen that same scowl when a job went sour and he’d seen it when someone spilt coffee on John’s suit.

  “What happened?”

  John glanced away. He was annoyed with himself – never a good sign. Charlie braved a crutch supported step towards him. There was a four year age gap between the two of them and it had never been more apparent.

  Charlie gestured for them to sit down at the fold-up table in the dining space. Most of the time John had everything under control. It was rare for him to make mistakes, or miscalculations and when he did he would beat himself up over it for days. He would need Charlie, a professional in screwing things up, to put everything into perspective.

  “She saw me,” John confessed.

  “She saw you!” Charlie said in disbelief. “You’re like a creature of the night, how the hell could see you? Jesus, most of the time I don’t even see you and I know you’re coming.”

  John’s fists clenched and unclenched. He stood up to work off the tension and started to pace; short, quick steps, squeaking his leather shoes against the linoleum floor.

  “There was an explosion. Some bastard left a lure bomb right on her route. I had to pull her away before the goddamn building fell on her.”

  Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose. Even when his brother messed up he still managed to do something right. “What you mean is you saved her?”

  John glared at him. “You’re missing the point.”

  Charlie rolled his eyes. Only John would get himself so worked up over saving the life of their mark. “Listen, do you think he’d pay us if he found out we let her die?” Charlie said.

  “You don’t know that. We have no idea what he wants her for!”

  It was true, they didn’t and the fact was starting to chafe. The infamous Smith brothers always knew the cards on the table before the deck was even dealt. Charlie planned jobs like he was writing a script. Nobody ever missed a cue. At least that was how it used to be a year ago. A year, two months and eight days. Since then the jobs had dried up. They were lucky to get the Rachel Aaron case and that was only because Charlie’s old mentor put in a good word for them. But luck and even the backing of an old priest didn’t make the unknown any less troubling. They were out of their depth and they were still only in the shallows.

  “Maybe he wants her dead,” John stated.

  “If he wanted her dead he would have asked us to kill her,” Charlie replied. “And if he wanted her dead he wouldn’t be approaching a priest to see if he knew any contract killers. He wants her found John, that’s all.”

  “I don’t like it,” John snapped. “This whole job feels off.”

  “I know.” Charlie took a deep breath, his next sentence shouldn’t have made him nervous but it did. “Which is why I’m going to do a little field work myself.”

  John never looked surprised, or happy, or anything other than mildly impatient, but when something pleased him his right eyebrow would lift ever so slightly. As it rose Charlie felt a pang of guilt that he hadn’t said it sooner.

  “I thought you were a liability,” John jibed.

  “It’s surveillance in a hospital John, who’s going to blend in better, me or you?”

  The eyebrow perched higher on John’s forehead. He’d been patient with Charlie, more patient than Charlie felt he’d deserved, waiting for his brother to get back in the game instead of going out on his own. John hadn’t lost his edge. He didn’t have a problem with stairs. He could drink what he wanted. Sleep when he needed. Charlie was holding them both back, but John still clung to the hope that one day his brother would recover and things would go back to normal. And Charlie needed him too much to tell him that was never going to happen.

  “You sure about this?” John asked.

  “We need the money.”

  “What if he does want to kill her, or worse?”

  Despite what Charlie had said it was always a possibility. They weren’t working for the good guys on this one and the girl had been hard to find, even with Charlie’s skills. It was not going to end well for her and maybe that was why Charlie hadn’t asked enough questions.

  “We need the money,” Charlie assured him. “That has to be our priority.” That wasn’t him talking. Sure he’d done questionable things, bad things even, but he had morality and right now it was screaming inside his head that this was all wrong.

  John nodded, sharing his brother’s sentiments. “Fine, but if it has to be done I’ll do it.”

  “No, you don’t need this on your conscience. I’ll do it.”

  John gave him a look. “Are we seriously going to argue about who gets to kill her?”

  “Has to,” Charlie corrected. “When you say ‘gets to kill her’ you kind of make it sound like a bonus prize. And no, we’re not going to argue because I’ll do it.” He didn’t have to say because it was his fault all of this had happened – that was a given.

  John folded his arms. “Okay, but I get to dispose of the body.”

  Charlie scowled. “Did you mean to say ‘get to’?”

  His brother smirked. He had a unique sense of humour.

  3

  Safe Haven grew like a tumour around the capital city. During the early 21st century swarms of refugees headed for London, as though surrounding the country’s leaders was going to make them realise how much they had screwed Britain over and make them see sense. It didn’t. Disease spread, terrorism battled prejudice and before anyone had realised it aid packets were being flown over from Germany and the Australians were holding rock concerts for British kids in poverty. Most of the country slummed, counties broke off and suddenly all that anyone seemed to care about was the thriving capital, where business men still wore Armani and sipped espressos.

  People flocked to London to fill the rumoured jobs and sample the last remnants of the good life. And when they got there London was walled off with wire fences as tall as the buildings they were enclosing. The cops kept watch and if you couldn’t pay you weren’t coming in. The gathering clustered and culminated and eventually Safe Haven became a city in its own right; a city with rulers as powerful as any of the fat men sitting in parliament square, and just as ruthless.

  Pinky Morris had been one of those men, or at least his late brother Frank was. Pinky was more of the Deputy Prime Minster, to cover the summer holidays. They arrived in S’aven, when it was still a town of tents and ramshackle buildings, to sell hooch and marijuana to the refugees. People were starving but they could all afford a couple of joints. Business grew rapidly and one day Pinky blinked and the Morris brothers were at the top of the pecking order with an entire city underneath them. Frank was the boss, all smiles and threats, and Pinky was always there to back his little brother up with brawn and attitude. Together they could do anything. And they did.

  That was more than a decade ago, before Pinky lost his empire, lost his respect, lost his brother. He was about to turn fifty-five, he’d lost most of his hair, his stomach was starting to sag and he was back to running a small drug cartel in the back of his wife’s club like he was just approaching twenty. His life had circled and he was pinning everything he had on it starting again.

  The walls of his office were plastered with photograph after photograph; a memorial to the good old days. The little frozen moments captured a time Pinky could barely believe had happened. Hundreds of historical faces stared at him from his cramped office at the back of the bar, scrutinising the state he was in. And why wouldn’t they, they were from a time when he was on top and meant something in S’aven. Those glossy faces that surrounded him in his youth were gone now, mostly dead or hovering in the vicinity as haggard and as old and as spent as he was. What did the
y think of him now? It was a question he'd try to avoid asking himself. The answers only ever made him angry. After all it wasn’t his fault he was fighting for space at the bottom of the sewers again; he was just a victim of circumstance.

  But all of that was about to change. He could feel a ball vibrating in the pit of his stomach. It was ambition and it had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to dream. The depression was almost over.

  His eyes fell on the face that occupied every single picture; his brother, Frank. Pinky had tried to change things when he died. He had to, Frank had left them penniless with a reputation as worthless as their bank balance. Pinky had watched Frank’s demise and he decided to do things differently. He didn’t want to rule the city in fear, watching his back in every reflection. He let things slide now and again. He let the Russians move closer to his territory. He went easy on his boys. And he watched as it all came apart. Frank would never have let it happen, Pinky could see that now. His brother wasn’t perfect, but he was right for the city. S’aven needed a man like Frank Morris and Pinky was just sorry it had taken him seven sorry years to realise those shoes needed filling not replacing.

  The man sitting opposite him coughed, clearing his throat rather than trying to attract Pinky’s attention. He used to be called Donnie Boom and his face was scattered across the wall beside nearly every picture of Frank, not