Stratton stayed where he was for a moment to think his strategy through once again. Then a commotion at the building entrance took him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see half a dozen uniformed policemen, several openly carrying Heckler & Koch MP5K sub-machine guns held across their chests, and a couple of plain-clothes officers march in. They were escorting a middle-aged Latino man with intense features and wild black hair whose hands were cuffed behind his back.
‘Stand aside, please,’ the lead officers called out as they pushed their way none too gently through the jostling crowd.
At the same time the stairwell above Stratton was suddenly packed with half a dozen Slavic-looking men in a range of dress from colourful Hawaiian shirts and jeans to expensive suits. They were heading down from the floor above. The two groups were on a collision course.
The men on the stairs stopped, mainly because their passage was suddenly blocked by a couple of armed policemen but also due to the reaction of the Latino prisoner whose demeanour suddenly became violent as he saw them. He started to shout in a mixture of Spanish and English, directing his vituperation at the group on the stairs.
‘You pindeho piece a’ shit, Skender!’ he yelled. ‘I’m gonna tear your fucken’ heart out, you muher! You hear me? Skender!’
The police immediately grabbed him. At the mention of Skender’s name Stratton’s stare flashed to the group on the stairs.
The cops divided their attentions between the Latino prisoner and the Slavic-looking bunch, clearly threatening instant violence should either side try anything.
‘Rot in jail, Colombo,’ one of the men on the stairs called out. ‘You won’t have a living relative left by the time you get out – if you ever do, you spic fuck.’
Stratton recognised the man in the smart suit as Ivor Vleshek who, as Seaton had explained the CIA suspected, was really Dren Cano, Ardian’s brother. He looked exactly like his photograph: his murderous eyes were unmistakable.
The abuse enraged the Latino prisoner who made a violent attempt to break through his police cordon to get at the Slavic group. They automatically shifted their weight forward in response. But the police held both sides apart and dragged Colombo past the stairs and along the hallway.
Stratton scanned the faces above him and identified Skender at the back. The man was dressed in an immaculate coat and had a cravat around his neck tucked into a silk shirt. He looked like a warlike Visigoth stuffed into expensive modern clothes. He also looked as old as he was, in his early sixties, his complexion rugged. But his long dark hair and the fire in his eyes indicated a strength that was a long way from fading away into age.
Skender stared unblinkingly at the still-yelling prisoner, his eyes filled with malice, until Colombo dis appeared out of sight and earshot along with his dark blue shield of law enforcers.
Stratton could not see Ardian among the group and his stare focused on Skender again as if he was compelled to look at him. The group exuded an unmistakable malevolence as tangible as the drab, solid walls of the stairway.
As the corridor emptied, Skender’s lead bodyguards, large and fearsome-looking, continued on their way down the stairs. Stratton moved to the wall to let them pass. This was not enough for the lead bodyguard who reached out a hand to push him down.
‘Get outta the way,’ the thug said as he took hold of Stratton’s jacket at the shoulder.
The blood quickly rose in Stratton and he held his position. The bodyguard grimaced at the insolence and responded by putting more weight behind his shove. But he was unprepared for the reaction that this provoked. Stratton stepped back to make the bodyguard straighten his arm while at the same time taking hold of the bruiser’s wrist. As the bodyguard overreached, Stratton twisted his wrist with sudden force, jerking the arm forward and then slamming the palm of his other hand up against the elbow joint, almost breaking it. The bodyguard yelped as his knees automatically gave out and he dropped the last step, his two hundred and fifty pounds flattening his face against the concrete floor. His lips split open.
Two more bodyguards instantly grabbed Stratton who released the first one’s wrist and went limp as the others slammed him back against the wall, their hands reaching inside his jacket to frisk him. He could not take them all on and had no intention of trying. Though it had not been the wisest course of action to take down the first bodyguard he had been unable to help himself. The sight of these men, knowing of their callous contempt for others as well as their brutal history, had filled him with hatred.
‘He’s clean,’ one of the thugs said. Cano stepped close, their noses inches apart as the rest of the group headed down the corridor.
‘Cano!’ a man’s voice called out from the hall. ‘Take your wolves and join the rest of your pack.’ The man spoke with some authority. He was in plain clothes and was one of the party escorting the Latino prisoner. Judging by his age, bearing and authoritative voice, he was a senior officer of some kind.
Cano ignored the man who closed in, not intimidated by the group.
‘Move on,’ the man said, a more threatening tone entering his voice ‘Now – or I’ll personally charge you with disturbing the peace,’ he added.
‘How you doing, Agent Hobart?’ Cano said.
‘I won’t ask again,’ Hobart said. He was an intelligent-looking Anglo-Saxon with greying hair. In his late forties, he had a degree of refinement about him.
‘He assaulted one of my men,’ Cano growled coldly as the bodyguard got painfully to his feet, holding his sore elbow, blood trickling down his chin.
‘Looked like self-defence to me,’ Hobart said. ‘What do you think, Hendrickson?’
A younger man, also in plain clothes, stepped in behind his boss. ‘That’s exactly how it was, sir.’
Cano’s face broke into a thin smile. Then he stepped back and nodded to his men. They released Stratton. ‘One a’ these days, Hobart …’
‘Cano,’ a strange-sounding, gravelly voice interrupted. It was Skender, who was standing with the rest of his people at the entrance. His gaze moved from Cano to Hobart, and he smiled slightly and nodded. Hobart did not respond.
Cano stared into Stratton’s eyes long enough to relay an instant hatred. Then, like a well-trained Rottweiler, he turned around and joined the rest of the group as they left the building.
Seconds later the hall was practically empty.
‘Who are you?’ Hobart asked Stratton none too politely.
‘I was on my way to see the DA—’
‘Then get going,’ Hobart said, interrupting Stratton. The lawman walked away with Hendrickson. ‘Damn it! Why wasn’t I told that Skender was going to be here today?’ he demanded.
Stratton remained on the steps for a moment to adjust his clothes and loosen the tension in his neck. So that was Cano and Skender, he mused. They were indeed a fearsome group and he was confident that had the incident taken place in a less public place it might have had a different ending for him. It served as a warning to respect the dangers they represented.
He headed up the steps to the next floor where the DA’s office was signposted at the end of the corridor. After waiting half an hour he was eventually told by a secretary who showed little interest in what he had to say to come back the following day. She added that he should bring a lawyer with him.