~  Payback ~

by

A. W. Lambert

Hands buried deep in his pockets, his fingers lovingly caressing the flick knife, the hooded figure swaggered confidently down the street. He felt good, very good. He’d had a few jars, it was true, and with the flick knife doing its job, he had also pulled a couple of free snorts. Among his troop his standing had never been higher; nobody questioned or fronted him. They wouldn’t dare. Even the opposition were cautious. ‘Course there would always be the idiot who’d chance his arm. He smiled to himself in the darkness. Like the one who had tried it on tonight. Piece of cake though. He didn’t even have to lift his blade. A good kicking had done the job. Afterwards he’d seen the excited sparkle in that brunette’s eyes; the one he’d been watching for a couple of weeks. Fancied her, he did, and tonight he was sure he had hit the spot. He’d give her a try next time he saw her. Had to be on a winner there. Yeah, all in all it had been a good Saturday night. Very good. As he passed under the only lamp in the short, narrow street, he looked down at the watch; the heavy, expensive piece he’d taken from the old git he’d turned over the night before. It showed exactly fifteen minutes past midnight.

Maybe, though, if he’d known what was waiting only a yard or two from him, the hooded figure wouldn’t have felt so pleased with himself. Maybe the swagger wouldn’t have been so confident and just maybe he wouldn’t have felt this particular Saturday night had been so good after all.

~ * ~

The doorway was deep, deep enough to shroud an individual in complete darkness, which is exactly what it was doing at this moment. This figure was also hooded. Only the eyes were visible, flicking from left to right, one second watching the strutting form approaching, the next checking, ensuring that the rest of the narrow street was empty.

In the dark depth of the hood, this individual also smiled. Once again things were going to plan. And why not? He was good at the three R’s. Always had been.

Research - Resolve - Retribution. He’d researched the individual with great care and precision and resolved he was definitely a worthy target. A perfect target even. And retribution. How he loved that word. It was a perfect word; a word that said exactly what was needed to be said. Oh yes, once again it was payback time.

As he watched the swaggering individual draw closer, he carefully reversed the thick walking stick in his hands, the heavy, brass head now held club-like away from him. One swing was all he allowed himself. It was all that was needed, all it would take. He had practiced constantly; the model in the basement of his house taking hit after hit until he was inch perfect every time. First the heavy but glancing blow to the side of the head, then the force of the swing continuing on down until the satisfying crack of the collarbone was heard. Unconsciousness was almost certainly assured, but in the unlikely event it wasn’t, the excruciating pain from the shattered collarbone would render the target inoperative long enough to allow a second strike. But that had not happened so far and, he was certain, would not happen this time. The target had taken just two paces past the doorway when the figure slid silently out from the blackness.

The brass club’s precise glancing contact with the side of the head made virtually no sound at all, but the instant sound of the splintering collarbone that followed echoed more sharply across the silent street. The target slumped to the floor with little more than a surprised whimper.

Reaching into his pocket the attacker withdrew a business-sized card. Kneeling down he slid the card between the target’s still twitching teeth. Then the tiny digital camera, its flash illuminating the prostrate figure just twice. Straightening, the brass head of the walking stick now held lovingly in his hand, he made his way unhurriedly, even jauntily down the street.

Two

The gentle tap on the door broke into Benny Lyle’s thoughts. He dragged himself away from the document lying on the desk in front of him; this month’s take looking as good as ever.

“Yeah,” he called.

The door opened quietly and a woman entered respectfully into the room. She was carrying a tray, Lyle’s usual morning coffee and biscuits.

Lyle looked at his watch. “Blimey, Ela, that time already, is it?”

The woman smiled; her face lighting with genuine pleasure. “It is ten o’clock, Mr Lyle. Just as you like it always.” Her English was good, but the thick, East European accent was obvious. “Today I bake for you a special treat, yes.”

Lyle looked down at the plate. The narrow fingers of golden brown waffle like biscuits piled alongside his usual digestives did indeed look appetising.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It is called lamance. You will like, I am sure.”

“You spoil me, Ela, and no mistake,” he grinned. “You’ll make me fat, you know that.”

Ela laughed happily. “You are a good man, Mr Lyle, but you need…” she hesitated, her brow wrinkling in thought, then smiling broadly. “How you say, more meat on your bones.”

Lyle laughed loudly. Though over six feet tall, he was indeed slender; for as long as he could remember he had weighed no more than eleven and a half stone. And he was happy with that. Heading toward his forty-seventh birthday, he felt he was approaching the dangerous age. He needed to look after himself if he wanted to live to a ripe old age - a very wealthy ripe old age. He smiled to himself. The wealthy bit was no problem; he was that already. The ripe old age bit was to a great extent in the hands of the gods, but he was determined to do his bit to limit the odds. Sometimes Ela’s cooking made that difficult.

Despite this Lyle liked Ela. She was not, of course, one of the usual females his network imported into the country; they were young, the younger the better. At a rotund fifty something, Ela would hardly entice many customers to feed his bank account. No, Ela was the aunt of a Polish member of the network. Her family was very poor, and she had been chosen to come to this country and earn the money to send home. But getting into Britain legally was not easy these days and as a favour to his Polish colleague, Lyle had helped oil the wheels. Originally, of course, he hadn’t envisaged her becoming part of his household. It was intended her stay here was to be no more than a day or two before a permanent place was found for her. Since her arrival, however, she had worked tirelessly, very quickly becoming an invaluable asset to him and Brenda. Indeed it had been Brenda who had made the decision for her to stay. Now, in less than a year, Ela had become almost indispensable. All household activities revolved around her.

Watching her pour the coffee from the cafetiere, he reached for one of the biscuits. “How’re things today, Ela?” He asked, “Everything under control?”

Ela nodded. “Mrs Lyle is away shopping,” she said handing him the coffee. “She tells me she will be back for lunch.”

Lyle smiled, chewing appreciatively at the biscuit. Brenda was always shopping. But he didn’t mind. As far as he was concerned, Brenda could do as she pleased. And mostly she did. “Thanks, Ela, I’ll see you at lunch.”

Ela left the room, and Lyle returned to his work. A few seconds later the door opened and Ela poked her head through. “Mr Lyle,” she said. There was an uncertainty in her voice.

Lyle frowned, “Yes, Ela. What is it?”

“Did you know Jimmy isn’t here?”

“What d’you mean, isn’t here?”

“When I bring your coffee, I look for him. Jimmy, he isn’t here. Now I look again.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Still no Jimmy.”

A ripple of apprehension ran through Lyle as Ela’s words penetrated. Jimmy was always there, always no more than a few yards from him. Now she was saying Jimmy wasn’t there. That couldn’t be so.

Jimmy has to be there. For years Lyle had been involved in a very dangerous business. It was a business in which making enemies was an inescapable occupational hazard, and inevitably, Lyle paid heavily for the legal protection which kept him personally remote from a number of clandestine activities that made him immensely rich. But the law wasn’t his only enemy. There were others who for any number of reasons would rejoice in his downfall and who, given the slightest opportunity, would do him harm. Serious harm.

The high walled, remote controlled, gated estate with its strategically placed CCTV cameras and infra red security lights in the leafy London suburb was an indication of the precautions necessary for the safety of someone in Lyle’s delicate position. Immensely rich he may be, paranoid he certainly was. And Jimmy, the powerful, fearless and totally loyal Jimmy who had been faithfully at his side always within shouting distance, had for years been Lyle’s last line of defence. Whatever else failed, nobody, but nobody got past Jimmy.

Coffee and biscuits forgotten, Lyle pushed himself up from the chair and made for the door. Ela moved to one side as he pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway.

“Jimmy?” he called. “Jimmy!” The house was silent.

Lyle turned back to Ela. “When did you last see him?”

“This morning, at breakfast.”

Lyle’s brain buzzed, started to spin. He tried to calm himself. He must think. It was true, Jimmy reported first thing, as usual. Then Lyle retired to his office. He assumed Jimmy had gone about the usual routine, checking the house and grounds before settling within calling distance of the office. Lyle called again, this time louder, but there was still no response. “Where’s Bronco?” he asked, the words harsh, urgent.

Ela hesitated. “I think he’s at the Chelsea house,” she said. “But I’m not sure…”

“Call him, Ela,” Lyle snapped. “Wherever he is, get him here. Get him here now!”