John Steel Collection - Books 4-6

Chapter 9-2

“Kim put your hand down. I am not gonna hurt you,” said a familiar voice. Kim ripped her arm down to her side.

There before her stood Tara Burke.

Kim’s terror subsided as she saw the look of utter panic in Tara’s eyes. Tara was scared, alone and hungry.

The scared waitress sat down on her brown fabric-covered couch and hoped that Tara would do the same. Slowly, Tara sat. The dazed look in her eyes made them seem larger than normal. This was a woman running scared. But from what, Kim wondered. Of the killer? Or of the cops?

“Where have you been, Tara?” Kim’s voice was soft and soothing, but the tone rang with a hint of weariness. “The cops have been lookin’ for ya.”

“Amber … Amber … is—” Tara raced to the bathroom and threw up. The shock of what she had found still burned in her memory. As Kim walked into the bathroom, she found Tara on the tiled floor, holding her legs against her body for comfort. Tears ran freely down her pale cheeks. Tara looked up at her friend with large scared blue eyes.

“They butchered her, cut her up. Why, Kim? Why?”

Kim didn’t have any more answers than Tara did. Kim helped her friend to her feet then led her back to the couch. As Tara crashed down onto the cushioned couch, Kim headed for the kitchen. She needed a drink—hell, they both did.

She passed Tara a glass with two fingers of scotch in it, then sat down next to her friend. Kim sipped the golden liquid whilst Tara just cradled the glass and stared into nowhere.

“Hey, it’s OK. You’re safe now.”

Tara looked over towards her friend and smiled. She was hoping that Kim was right. She hoped she was safe here.

“Why didn’t you go to the cops?” Kim asked, before taking another hit from the glass.

“Don’t know, I was scared, I guess.”

Kim nodded as though she understood, but then the sight of Tara’s pink suitcase made her wonder. If she was so scared, why had she packed a suitcase to leave?

“You leavin’ the city?” Kim asked, her eyes now fixed on Tara, who just shrugged and took a sip of the golden liquid.

Tara coughed as the whisky hit the back of her throat. Kim smiled to herself as she watched her friend wave a hand in front of her mouth.

“Not a whisky gal then.” Kim laughed, and Tara joined in, almost forgetting her troubles for a moment.

“The police came around the diner looking for you,” Kim said.

Tara just nodded as if it was expected.

“What did you tell them?” Tara asked before trying another sip from the glass.

Kim shrugged. “What could I tell ’em? I didn’t know anything.” She smiled wickedly. “One good thing happened, though. Bob took a swing at a cop.” She explained what had happened, and Tara’s mouth fell open.

“Did he get him?”

Kim shook her head to the question. “Nah, the cop was too fast, the man moved like lightning, put Bob right down on his fat ass!”

The two women laughed, but Tara’s laughter died, and she stared into her glass.

“I keep seeing her lying there in all that blood. I keep thinking that should have been me!”

Kim gave Tara a puzzled looked. “What do you mean?” She suddenly had a bad feeling about what the answer might be.

“Kim, she wasn’t supposed to have moved in for another two days. She shouldn’t have been there!” Kim shuddered at the revelation. Was her friend being stalked? And if so, would they come here?

* * *

Steel entered his park view loft apartment and was greeted by the orange glow of the city. The large three-bedroom apartment’s trio of huge windows allowed a panoramic view over the skyline. A huge sitting area gave way to a kitchenette and two staircases. One of these went to the gallery, which was also his bedroom, and the other led to the spare rooms. A long corridor next to the kitchen was home to the bathroom and two other rooms: an office and another which was at the end. The door to this room looked heavier than normal and could only be opened by using a security pad.

John Steel walked to a small drinks cabinet that was next to the breakfast bar and poured himself a glass of Johnny Walker Blue Label. He took off his jacket and tossed it gently onto the large L-shaped brushed-leather couch. Steel signed, at last, he had quiet. Even though he liked working with the cops, he found it too noisy. Steel looked over to his answering machine which was blinking with a red glow. He had messages, the last thing he needed. He walked over to the machine and noticed that seven missed calls showed up on the LED display.

He pressed the ‘play’ button and walked slowly towards the window to take in the view. Two messages were from the CEO of his father’s company, Steel Industries, or Kyoi Industries as his father had named it. The other one was from some woman from a charity who was wondering if he was attending an event in September. More people after money for a good cause that they possibly didn’t give a s**t about, but it made them feel better every time they did their taxes.

Steel smiled and shook his head. September was a long way off, and he never planned anything further than two weeks ahead. The rest of the messages were from people who were wanting to talk to ‘Lord Steel’ rather than ‘Detective Steel’. He liked it like that, gave him a little sense of home.

As a beep sounded, the machine told of the time and date of the next call. It was from a man called Laurence. Steel turned his head slightly to hear better. The message was simply to tell him of his resupply. Steel smiled and walked towards the locked door at the end of the corridor.

Stopping at the door, he punched in the code and placed his hand of the scanner that slid out of the wall. A red light turned to green on the keypad, and he entered. As the door closed, the machine’s voice told him: ‘No more messages.

Steel returned to the sitting room wearing a new watch. He topped up his glass and headed for the leather chaise longue that was in front of the windows, with their spectacular view. He liked it there: the view, the silence. He sat down and stretched out along its full length. John took a mouth full of the whisky and let it warm in his mouth before allowing it to trickle down his throat rather than swallowing it in one go.

He closed his eyes and hoped for a peaceful sleep, but he knew that would never happen. His memories haunted him, but strangely enough, he found strength in the pain.

Images of a bright summer’s day broke through the darkness of his thoughts. His return home from nearly a year overseas with his SAS Regiment. He had done his tour and was returning home. With the war still in his head, he needed rest, quiet and most of all his beloved wife.

Steel’s eyes creased together in mental anguish as the memories unfolded in his head. The memory of his homecoming. The bright summer’s day, the marquee on the back lawn. The people lying dead: all of them had been family and friends murdered by gunmen—the mercenaries he had taken out. He could almost smell the cordite, feel the heat from the explosions. His body tensed up as in his mind he was back in the attic. The dimly lit place of his death and rebirth.

The sound of laughter, the six shots, the image of his poor dear love in his arms and her lifeless eyes.

The darkness.

The plastic glass fell from his hand and bounced on the wooden floor. Steel sat up and screamed. He looked around, confused and disorientated. His cold emerald-green eyes appeared almost black in the dull light. Cascades of sweat flowed down his forehead. He swung his legs around as he sat facing the room. Tilting his head back, he sucked in the conditioned air.

Standing up, he headed for the bathroom. He had at least an hour before his car would arrive. He stripped the shirt off his back and tossed it onto the couch. On the underside of each step of the staircase to his bedroom, there was a metal bar. This created the perfect facilities for a workout, and they were almost like monkey bars that led upwards. Steel moved up and down the twenty-bar construction at least five times. He could feel his muscles tighten. Sweat poured down his chiselled form as he moved quicker and quicker. Steel felt the pain in his shoulders and arms. His forearms burnt from the grip.

Finally, he just stood, his hands on his knees, sucking in the air. He stood up straight and leant back as far as he could, feeling his midsection stiffen. Steel grabbed the whisky glass from the breakfast bar and headed for the shower. In less than twenty minutes, the car would be there. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and stuck them into the hamper, before turning on the shower. There was a whoosh of water that sounded like rain on the glass divider. Steel looked at himself in the mirror. His large dead green eyes stared back at him. He tested his stubble growth with his left hand, weighing up whether to shave or not. His stubble was rough; it felt like he was stroking sandpaper. He couldn’t really be bothered to shave, but then he realised that he had an appearance to maintain. Tonight, he would be attending as Lord Steel, not as Detective Steel.

The warm water cascaded over his muscular form, soaking every inch of his powerful body, washing the soap lather from his overworked muscles. After shaving in the shower, he just let the water run over him. He placed his hands on the side and let the shower pound his tight flesh. The alarm on his phone alerted him that he had ten minutes in which to change into his clothes. He grunted in disapproval of leaving the soothing waters, then got out.

After drying off, he slipped into his all-black tuxedo and Bugatti shoes. He checked his reflection: he had to admit that he looked good, just did not look happy about where he was going.

He looked at the hands-on his new Military style smartwatch. The carbon-fibre face was illuminated by the luminous dials. It was nearly eight o’clock. There was a benefit on at The Museum of Modern Art, and the Mayor and the Governor had insisted that he attend.

Steel stood in front of a long Elizabethan mirror and checked his attire. He had put his blue contact lenses in and set his phone to vibrate instead of ring.

He was ready to go but not willing. He looked around at the comfort of his sanctuary. Suddenly his house phone rang. Steel picked it up and listened to the concierge, informing him that his car had arrived. John opened the drawer and looked at his Barretta Storm bulldog 9MM sub-compact pistol, then closed it. He feared that if he took it out, he might end up using it on himself.

“Oh well, for Queen and country,” he said, opening the front door.

It would be a long night of rubbing shoulders. A night he could do without. With people, he could do without too.