‘Now I am. It nearly killed me getting over that sodding wall,’ he whispered.
‘OK. Stay off the line. Call Steve if something goes wrong. OK?’
‘OK,’ Dylan said with a sigh and hung up.
I edged my way towards the glow of the light. I used everything and anything to hide behind, from oil barrels to the factory building itself. Even though I was sure I wasn’t being watched, I didn’t take any chances. The last thing I needed was to walk into one of them taking a leak against the wall.
Unlike the facility Hancock had shown us back in Gravesend, this Redditch facility was far from a showpiece. The place was made up of a mammoth factory building and a storage shed big enough to store half a dozen double-decker buses.
As I got nearer, the sound of voices got louder.
I pressed my back to the building and peered around the corner. Derek’s transporter sat at the centre of the yard surrounded by dozens of wrecked cars. Some had been stripped bare. Most hadn’t. An ancient car crusher sat off to one side with a crane for hoisting the wrecks into it.
I groaned inside. Derek and his boys weren’t alone. Six heavily-built, nightclub bouncer types examined the cars on the transporter. Vic Hancock stood next to a much taller man leaning against an Audi A8. I didn’t see any guns, but if Derek had come tooled up, these guys would have too.
The man with Hancock was obviously Hancock’s partner here. He dressed to impress with his designer suit and topcoat, but his severe crew cut jarred with the designer clothes. The Audi and the gold on his hands said he was a man of means, but none of it looked right on him, as if he’d borrowed his expensive trappings for tonight’s event. To rub that fact in, he was gaunt to the point of emaciation. His skin looked vacuum-sealed to his skull and his pallor was just as sickly — a sun-starved grey. There was also a quickness to his eyes. While he chit-chatted with Hancock, his gaze never left the target — the cars. There was no arguing he was the alpha male here.
I waited until everyone had their back to me before I darted over to a group of four wrecked cars awaiting processing. I scurried underneath a Range Rover with front end damage. It was about as close as I could get without being seen. I was still two hundred feet from the exchange, but it was good enough to hear what was being said. Voices carried on the still night air.
‘Unload them,’ Hancock ordered and everyone unloaded the cars off the transporter. As they rolled off, the bouncer types each took one and lined them up in a fan formation for inspection.
The man with the crew cut inspected the cars with Hancock and Morgan. He checked out the engines, examined the paintwork and the finishes.
‘Nice work, Morgan,’ he said in a heavy Russian accent. ‘What happen to arm? You drop a car on it?’
Morgan squeezed out an anaemic laugh. ‘No, no. Just a small problem that got out of hand.’
The Russian grabbed Morgan’s cast and smashed it across his knee. Morgan screamed and fell to the ground clutching his arm.
Neither Derek nor his friends came to Morgan’s side. Hancock looked terrified. The demonstration proved who was at the top of the food chain here.
‘Jesus Christ, Valentin,’ Hancock said. ‘There’s no need for that.’
The Russian whirled on Hancock. The move startled him and he stepped back, bumping into the Audi. The Russian closed in until he invaded Hancock’s personal space.
‘My friends call me Valentin. You call me Mr Rykov.’
Hancock nodded.
Rykov turned back to Morgan and jerked his hair back. ‘I pay good money for no problems. Got that?’
Morgan nodded, unable to speak.
‘I cautious man. I do my homework. My sources tell me you’ve been getting a lot of attention.’
‘It’s being taken care of,’ Hancock said.
Derek helped Morgan to his feet. ‘The problem won’t be a problem after next week.’
Rykov turned towards Derek and grinned. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘I like confident man. Do I have your word?’
‘Yes.’
Rykov smiled. ‘I have your balls if wrong.’
‘I won’t be.’
‘Good. Let’s get this shit done.’
Hancock followed Rykov over to the Audi and handed him a bunch of paperwork. It looked like the documentation belonging to the cars. Rykov handed him a thick envelope that had to be cash.
We had them now. It was time to call in the cavalry, so I fished for my phone.
Rykov’s mobile rang and he removed the phone from his pocket. He didn’t talk; he just listened. He snapped the phone shut and pocketed it, then snapped his fingers at one of his people and pointed at the gates. The bouncer ran over to them and swung them open.
It had to be another delivery. I guessed the cars were worth about a hundred grand, which wasn’t a lot in this day and age. With the number of cars Hancock turned over through his yards, this operation he had going with Derek was probably being replicated all over the country.
Instead of another transporter, a single car drove through the gates. It was a Renault Laguna with Steve at the wheel. The man in the passenger seat held an automatic against his head.
Lap Twenty-Five
I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The sight of seeing Steve being dragged from the car by two of Rykov’s men bound me as tightly as ropes.
Steve was silent. Defiant. I wanted to race in there to save him, but I knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t want me to. We couldn’t give ourselves away, not yet.
The Russians dragged Steve over to Rykov and threw him to the ground. One of them grabbed him by the hair and hauled him up into a kneeling position.
Rykov pulled out a gun from his overcoat pocket and pressed it to Steve’s forehead. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Part of our small problem,’ Hancock said.
Derek stepped forward to join Rykov at his side. ‘He’s Steve Westlake. Aidy Westlake is his grandson and the bigger problem here. If Steve’s here, Aidy’s here too.’
Rykov snapped his fingers at his men again. The Russians, along with Derek’s crew, spread out to comb the yard for me. I lay flat on the ground amongst the dirt and shadows and crawled under a buckled and twisted car. They’d find me eventually, but not fast enough, I hoped.
‘Forgive me, Steve,’ I murmured while I called Dylan. ‘Dylan, they have Steve. Get out. Get the cops.’
‘Jesus, Aidy,’ was all he could say.
‘Go,’ I growled. ‘But be careful. They’re combing the yard for me.’
Derek held his hand out to Rykov. The Russian smiled and handed the gun over.
‘You always were a piece of shit,’ Steve said.
‘And your son would have never made it in Formula One.’
‘Fuck you.’
Derek backhanded Steve across the temple with the gun. Steve crumpled, falling to his side. Derek moved in and dropped a knee in Steve’s side, pinning him to the ground. He pressed the gun to Steve’s eye.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Hancock said.
‘You’d better come on out, Aidy,’ Derek bellowed. His voice crashed off the building and wrecked cars. ‘You wouldn’t let this defenceless old man die for you, would you? That’s pretty cowardly, even by my shitty standards.’
I wanted to get in there and give myself up, but the second I did, it was over. Rykov would have Derek put a bullet in each of our heads. I had to give Dylan time to call the cops and get them to mobilize. How long would that take? Five minutes? Ten? Did we have ten minutes? I didn’t think so. I might, but Steve didn’t. I had to buy him some time.
‘Aidy’s not here, you arsehole,’ Steve growled.
‘Nice try, Steve, but I don’t believe you. Aidy, do I have to hit him again?’
Derek paused for a second before smashing Steve again with the gun, then pushed himself to his feet, using Steve as an aid. Steve rolled away and struggled into a sitting position. Blood streaked his face. He looked old and haggard. He wouldn’t stand up to too much more.