John Steel Collection - Books 1-3

Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

It had been four years since the Incident at the Steel estate. The world had moved on.

Steel had recovered from his wounds, but only the physical ones. Finally, after spending some years hiding in the US Navy SEALs, Steel had come home. Now he was back and working for MI8–The secret service of the secret service.

And still, the organisation that attacked the Steel estate and the one known as Santini remained in the shadows.

But things never remain hidden forever.

* * *

A London apartment was bathed in darkness, the only light flickering blue across the study wall from a wall-mounted flat-screen television. The news channel had switched to a flash of a plane crash in the English Channel. Images from a news helicopter showed floating debris from what was left of a private jet in the ocean, just off the south coast of England, near Margate. The plane had been heading for Berlin from the City of London Airport. The small aircraft had been ripped apart as it crashed into the cold coastal waters. The reporter stated that there appeared to have been a complete failure of power in the private plane soon after take-off.

Thomas Barryman sat and watched in a candy-red leather Chesterfield office chair. His eyes were bloodshot and brimming with unshed tears. He held an almost full glass of whisky in his hand. The study had a nineteenth-century feel, with sombre oil paintings and statuettes in bronze and marble. Hundreds of old books filled the dark oak bookshelves. Two matching red leather Chesterfield armchairs faced the desk behind which Barryman sat, gazing at the scene on the television.

Barryman reached a shaking hand across the desk and picked up a silver-framed photograph. Then, lovingly, Barryman moved his fingers over the faces of his family in the picture as if to say goodbye.

He took a mouthful from the glass and then carefully placed the frame face-down on the stretched green leather of the desk. Thomas Barryman was in his mid-fifties and had aged well enough. Still, too many corporate dinners had taken their toll on his waistline. Nevertheless, he was still a reasonably good-looking man, and despite his girth, the years had been kind. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a beige-coloured file. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he thrust it down into the leather briefcase which stood open on the floor to the right of his desk.

Barryman took out his mobile phone from the breast pocket of his jacket and peered nervously at the device before typing in the details of a meeting, his fumbling fingers stumbling and stabbing at the touch-screen keys. He had asked to meet an old friend, someone he could trust. Thomas had information on a deadly organisation. One he had been tracking for a while. The organisation thrived on profiteering and chaos. He and a few others had tried to find out who they were but had failed but had managed to disrupt their business on many occasions. But the organisation had found out who was pulling the strings in the secret service. They had found who was responsible for causing so much trouble.

Lord Steel had been one of these and had paid the price, now they were after Barryman, and he was out of time.

He needed someone to take over the fight, and he knew the perfect man for the job: the son of the man who had started the hunt in the first place.

The meeting was to be held in Hyde Park at four in the morning, which meant he had to travel from his apartment in Whitechapel to walk to Mile End Station. After that, he would use the Central Line to take him to Marble Arch. It was well out of his way, but he thought the park would be perfect to meet the other man. He considered driving, but he knew he’d already had too much to drink. A cab might be an option, but he could not risk the cabby being one of them.

When he arrived at the rendezvous, he flicked back his coat sleeve to check the time; it was now three-fifty. He blew on his hands to warm them, rubbing his chubby fingers together to encourage the blood flow. It was one of those crisp spring nights with a clear sky and a slight chill. The full moon seemed huge, its brightness flooding the park’s open spaces.

Behind him, the constant London traffic cruised past steadily, and a police siren howled in the distance. Across Park Lane, the bright showroom lights looked warm and inviting, contrasting the dark shadowy park as if the two scenes inhabited different worlds. Making his way past the black iron fence into the park, Barryman squinted around, finding that he was alone.

An age seemed to have passed since he had arrived at Speakers’ Corner. He looked at his watch again, but, despite the moonlight, it was too dark to see. Stamping his feet lightly to keep out the cold, he made his way to the concrete path. He gazed out towards the dark shapes of the trees that lowered against the sky, creating an eerie atmosphere.

Glancing over to the wooden refreshments hut, he saw a figure in the distance. Judging by the person’s build, it seemed like his contact, but the gap between them and lack of lighting made it impossible to see any more details. Barryman approached cautiously, feeling the hairs on his neck rise as he noticed that the man wasn’t moving. Instead, the figure stood motionless as if waiting for Barryman to approach.

As the stranger drew near, he spoke. ‘Mr Barryman, my employer was sorry to hear you missed your flight.’

Barryman froze.

He suddenly realised that this was not his friend.

Fear kicked in, firing adrenaline into his system. Barryman knew that this was an assassin sent by the organisation at that moment.

Barryman turned on his heels and ran. He ran faster than he’d ever run, but he sensed that the distance between them was diminishing each second. His lungs were on fire, sedentary life and the cold air mixture. He could hear the sound of running feet behind him coming ever closer.

There was a warning cry from behind him, but it was too late, as five silenced shots blended with the sounds of the night. The bullets ripped through him, and everything slowed down in Barryman’s mind. He did not feel pain when the first bullet hit him. Instead, it felt just like a punch in the back. When the second bullet hit him in the right shoulder, he felt it ripping through nerves, flesh, and bone.

The noise of his screams was drowned out by passing police sirens, hastening to some other crime, far-off.

The assassin fired again, and this round hit Barryman in his left leg, dropping him to the ground. Barryman lay, his cheek against the path, watching the dark blood creeping across the tarmac.

As the assassin raised his pistol to aim, he did not notice a dark figure appear out of the shadows. This newcomer’s approach was fast and silent. The assassin fired one last shot into Barryman’s chest as the figure pounced on him, grasping him in a neck-lock. The gunman fought back but to no avail. The newcomer looked across at his fallen friend, and fury caused him to tighten his grip and savagely twist the gunman’s head. A sound like a branch breaking filled his ears as the neck snapped, and, with angry contempt, he threw the corpse to the ground.

In the darkness of the night, Barryman lay dying. Gasping, he tried to suck air into his bullet-riddled lungs, but he only succeeded in spewing his blood onto Hyde Park’s soft grass.

The assassin’s killer sprinted towards where his old friend lay. As he approached, Barryman looked up and recognised the man’s face crouching over him and smiled the best he could. Barryman felt his friend grasp his outstretched hand, and he held it tightly as if he was fighting to hold on to life itself, if only for a moment.

‘Steel, you’re late,’ Barryman muttered, not letting the pain get in the way of his sense of humour. Then he coughed up blood. The man he called Steel knelt beside his friend with sad eyes. ‘New York, go to New York,’ Barryman gasped. He coughed and attempted to raise his other hand to show the other man something. ‘In the folder, there’s a photograph of someone you must find in my case.’ Finally, Barryman pointed to the black leather briefcase next to his feet on the ground. ‘Her name is on the back.’ As he coughed, Thomas spat blood onto the path. ‘Promise me you’ll find her and finish this for all our sakes. You’ve got to promise me….’ Barryman’s fingers loosened their grip with these final words, and the life faded from his eyes.

Steel reached down with a gloved hand and closed his friend’s eyes.

John Steel reached into his pocket and pulled out a small touch that resembled a pen. He switched it on, then opened the briefcase and examined its contents.

Inside, maps and photographs of buildings, crime scene reports, and an electronic key–presumably for a vehicle or a door.

There was also a file with a black-and-white photo of a woman. Steel turned over the photograph and saw only a name, scrawled in black ink as he stood up, a thick blanket of cloud-shrouded the moon. By the time the moon reappeared, Steel had gone.

Steel walked into his London apartment. It was a penthouse suite with a view of the London Eye and Tower Bridge. It had two bedrooms and a kitchen which opened out onto the sitting room. It had large windows which looked out onto the balcony and the twinkling lights of the metropolis below.

Steel took off his coat and tossed it onto the black leather armchair which sat in front of the windows. He placed down the briefcase and sauntered over to the drinks cabinet. As he walked, Steel pressed the button on display, which said Office.

There was a brief silence then the sound of ringing came from the speaker.

‘London Exports, how may help?’ said a woman’s voice.

‘I’d like to speak to the manager, please,’ Steel said.

‘I’m afraid he isn’t available at the moment. Can I take a message?’ the woman said.

‘Yes. Can you let him know that the business meeting didn’t go well. I’ve taken some notes. On the whole, the situation with the American export company may need looking into. I’ll come in tomorrow and give him the full details on the meeting but let him know a business trip abroad might need looking into, just to clear some things up,’ Steel said.

The woman on the other end thanked him and then hung up.

Steel poured a double whisky, carried it over to a long, brushed leather sofa, and sat down. He blew out a lung full of air, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

It had been a long night. A friend had been killed by an unknown assassin.

Steel was angry that he hadn’t made it in time but couldn’t help but wonder how the assassin had gotten there so quickly?

He figured that they had been watching Barryman for a while, and they had followed him to the park. It was the only logical answer. Not that it mattered now.

Barryman was dead, and so was the assassin. But, of course, the police would put it down to a mugging gone wrong.

Steel looked over at the briefcase and opened it. He spread out the files onto the couch and began looking through them.

He rubbed his eyes which felt as though they were on fire.

Steel stood up and headed for the bathroom. As he stood in front of the mirror, he looked at his reflection. His face had lost some fat, and now his skin was tight and slightly tanned. He took off his shirt. He looked at the tight muscular frame.

He looked like an Olympic athlete.

Steel reached up and touched the six, round scares. But unfortunately, even though the life-saving operation had been a success, they couldn’t stop the wounds from turning into angry-looking scares.

Steel looked at his pale blue eyes, which were red from irritation. Then, carefully, Steel reached up and removed the contact lenses. He dropped them into the container next to the sink. He clenched his eyes shut as if a sudden pain had run through his body. Then slowly opened them and gazed at the dark emerald soulless green of his eyes.