18
Z ayn
We locate the industrial estate easily enough, but the place is vast. We drive round, scanning the rows and rows of identical structures, all made from that bland grey corrugated steel you see everywhere, with apex roofs and huge reinforced steel shutters.
“Did Bilal say what colour the door was?” I ask.
“No, and they’re all the same anyway,” Rome replies, navigating another turn between two of the buildings.
It’s late evening, so there’s no activity on the estate, no one to ask even if we were minded to.
“What’s that?” Tony holds up a hand for silence. “Listen.”
We roll to a halt and wait. Sure enough, we all hear this time.
“An engine. Someone’s about.”
Rome kills the headlamps, and we wait in silence. A few seconds later, a vehicle cruises past the end of the alleyway we’re in.
“Follow that van, but keep the lights off,” Tony instructs.
We glide noiselessly in the wake of the Transit. It might be white, but it’s difficult to be sure in the dark. The registration plate is smeared with mud, which does even more to convince us this is significant.
“They’re stopping,” Rome whispers and does the same, far enough away that they’re not likely to spot us in the gloom, especially if they’re not even looking.
Tony grabs a couple of pairs of night-vision goggles from the glove box and hands one to me. We both train them on the van, which has stopped close to one of the huge roller shutters on the final building in the row, and on the four men who have emerged from it. One of them crouches to unlock the shutter which starts to roll upward. The other three make themselves useful unloading something from the rear.
“Seems to be boxes or crates,” I breathe. “Some sort of equipment or maybe merchandise. This could be a storage facility or distribution hub.”
“We need to get closer,” is Beck’s view. “I’ll go.”
“No, they’ll see you.”
Beck gives Tony a scornful look. “I don’t think so. Watch this, boss.”
He slithers from the rear passenger door and simply disappears into the night.
“Where the fuck did he go?” Tony casts around with the goggles, scanning the area from side to side.
“Is he some sort of ninja?” Rome is equally impressed.
“Fuck knows, but— Holy shit, is that him?” Tony is pointing to a spot somewhere to the front of the Transit van.
“What? Where?” None of us can see anything.
“It was just a shadow, but— Yes! Fuck, he’s slashed the tyres.”
I manage to pick out the vague shape in the darkness with the aid of the goggles, but only briefly before Beck melts back into the night.
A few minutes later he materialises again, right alongside our SUV. I reach across to let him in.
“They’re unloading camera and sound equipment, so it seems like Bilal was right about what they’re doing here. Apart from the four in the van, there are two more inside, but that seems to be all. I didn’t see any guns. Plenty of conversation, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying, they didn’t speak English.”
“Well, that’s not bad intel to start with. Nice work.”
We wait few more minutes, during which time the men complete their unloading and three of them enter the building, closing the shutter behind them. The fourth man takes up a position beside the door, lounging against the ribbed steel wall, scrolling on his phone.
“He must be some sort of guard, not that he gives the impression he’s even a little bit alert.”
Any one of us performing like that would be fired on the spot—if we were lucky and Ethan was in a forgiving mood.
“There’s someone else coming,” Rome hisses. “Pedestrians, behind us. Everybody down.”
We all duck out of sight just as the voices reach us. Two women and one man, by the sound of it, and chatting in Punjabi. We watch them approach Candy Crush man, who unlocks the shutter for them, rolls it up a few feet, and lets them into the unit.
“Well, I’m guessing that’s the ‘talent’,” Beck observes. “So, they’re in business. Lights, camera, action.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Rome muses, regarding the so-called guard through a pair of night goggles. “We could do with getting our hands on that phone.”
“You’re fancying a game of Candy Crush ?” Tony enquires.
Rome ignores the jibe. “So, we assume they’re making hardcore porn flicks in there, and they need to distribute their merchandise to punters to make any money. Given that it’s no longer the nineteenth century, it’s reasonable to assume they do that online. Some sort of streaming service.”
We all nod; it makes sense.
“So, they must have a Wi-Fi network, and a good one at that. What’s the betting that he’s hooked up to it?”
“Ah, right.” Tony beams at him. “We get in there, we can hack it, or Frankie can, and we can see what they’re up to.”
“Leave it with me.” Beck is off again.
He returns a short while later. The man on the door is nowhere to be seen.
“He’s trussed up around the back,” Beck explains. “Here’s the phone. Thank fuck for facial recognition, I’d no need to remove his thumbs.”
The device is still turned on, and Rome has no trouble altering the settings to transfer the security to him. He dials Frankie’s number.
“Hey?” The teen’s voice echoes round the SUV.
“Frankie, we need you to get into this phone,” Rome tells him. “Hack into whatever Wi-Fi connections are there and patch us all through.”
“Sure.”
“What details do you need?”
“None. Got it all. Give me a couple of minutes.” He hangs up.
It seems like just seconds before he is ringing back, this time on Rome’s number.
“What do you have for us?” Rome demands.
“Mainly lots of promo traffic. They’re selling something, they call it content, and they describe it as anything from hot to volcanic. Pricy, too. A few hundred quid and upwards. One thing that seems odd, it must be interactive in some way because for a minimum stake of a grand, you can buy editorial control, direct the action.”
“An auction?” Tony asks.
“Could be.”
“Can you continue to monitor the traffic and let us know when anything actually goes up for sale?”
“Sure. What am I looking for in particular?”
“You’ll know it when you see it.”
Rome ends the call, then turns to Tony. “What now, boss?”
Tony frowns. “We don’t know for sure that either Fred or Shahida is in there. What we do know is that these jokers are in the mucky film business, and I’m not at all sure we give a shit about that. It’s a living, I suppose, but is it of any interest to us?”
“Probably not,” I have to agree, “but Shahida and Fred are. I vote we get inside and check the place out, find out if they are here or not.”
“I’ve a better idea.” Rome grins. “Let’s just phone him and ask.” He holds up the stolen phone. “There’s a Freddie L in the speed dial. All we need is for our Frankie to trace wherever it’s picked up and we’ll know where he is.”
“It might be a different Freddie,” Beck advises.
“Yeah, but what’s the betting? Ring him, Rome.”
Tony’s instructions settle the matter, and after a quick call to Frankie to set up the trace, Rome hits the speed-dial button.
“He’s not answering,” I say after the first half dozen rings.
“Give him time, he’s probably busy.” The dial tone drones on.
“What?” A harsh, guttural tone suddenly reverberates around the vehicle.
“Hey, Freddie, where you at, man?” Rome’s false jollity contrasts with the angry response.
“Who the fuck is this?” Fred sounds bemused and is ready to slam the phone down.
“I’m wanting to talk to Shaz. She there?”
“Shaz? Look, who is this?”
“A mate of hers. Put her on, will you, man?”
“Fuck you.” The line goes dead.
Tony is on the phone to Frankie. Moments later it’s confirmed. The call was picked up at a location exactly twenty-seven metres from our current position.
Beck dangles a set of keys before us. “Borrowed these from Candy Crush man,” he explains. “If we raise the shutter just a foot or so, we can roll underneath, and they may not see us.”
“ May not?”
Beck shrugs, but we all agree it’s worth a try and a lot better than scrambling across the roof, which would be Plan B. We exit the SUV and approach the building silently.
There’s no sound to be heard immediately on the other side of the reinforced steel door, so now’s as good a chance as any, probably. Beck operates the lock, and we all cross our fingers that someone had the sense to oil the mechanism.
The curtain glides upwards with barely a clank or a scrape. Beck stops it at about eighteen inches, and one by one, we slide underneath. He closes it again behind us and pockets the keys. “Right, I suggest we take a look around.”
We split into pairs. Tony and I head right, the others, left. The space has the proportions of an airport hangar, and we discover that almost all of it is unoccupied. Vast, empty space, our footsteps would echo like a marching band, but we somehow manage to creep about noiselessly, keeping speech to a minimum, too. When we regroup back by the shutter, we’ve concluded that only about twenty percent of the floorspace is in use, and that is an area at the far end which has been screened off with huge, dark-coloured tarpaulins suspended from overhead beams.
The only illumination in the warehouse is provided by the residual glow cast by bright lights, visible above the screens.
At a gesture from Tony, we make our way forward.
The low hum of voices reaches us, a mix of Punjabi and English, with occasional laughter. The sound of pacing feet and the scrape of machinery being moved suggests they’re still setting up.
This is confirmed when we peep through a gap in the screening. From what I can make out, they have two cameramen, and the rest must be sound engineers or digital mixers or whatever. It’s certainly not a labour-intensive endeavour, relying mostly on the technical wizardry set up in the enclosed makeshift ‘studio’.
The two women and the man we saw approach on foot are seated together, but separately from the rest, each wrapped in what appear to be grubby bathrobes and nothing else. Clearly ready to perform, as soon as the kit is in place.
“If Shahida was here, she’d be with them, surely?” Tony suggests.
He’s probably right, which just leaves…
“That could be him.” Rome points out a thickset man strutting back and forth barking out orders at the top of his lungs. The rest scurry to do as he says, the scene one of well-practised chaos.
Rome produces the phone and hits speed-dial again.
Fred scowls at the buzzing device, cancels the call, and shoves it back in his pocket.
“Okay, so that’s him. Now, we just?—”
Before we can make a move to extract our man, Fred grabs a clipboard, studies it for a moment to two, then strides over to where the ‘performers’ are huddled.
“You two, you’re up first. The barn scene, and make it juicy. People are paying good money to be entertained by you pathetic load of shites.”
The two women get to their feet and shrug out of the robes. Naked, they trudge through the tangle of cables and amplifiers towards the central area where some sort of crude theatrical set has been laid out. Actually, that’s a somewhat grandiose term for what amounts to two bales of hay and a few plastic sacks meant to suggest animal feed or similar. All that’s missing is a cardboard cut-out of a sheep.
One of the girls isn’t quite quick enough, earning herself a vicious shove between the shoulder blades which sends her sprawling against the closest bale, much to the merriment of the men watching. She picks herself up and stumbles onto the set.
Give them their due, the production team are efficient. Each man has a role to play, and they all assume their stations at the various bits of equipment. One is in charge of lighting and directs the fierce beams onto the two bodies now reclining across the bales. Another rushes up close, waving one of those furry microphones in their vicinity, while the rest are poised with cameras at the ready to catch the action from every angle.
Fred’s arm is raised while he surveys his preparations.
“Right. Action!” He drops his arm, and it all kicks off.
The models writhe and squirm, delivering sultry looks direct to camera and with much exaggerated licking of lips and flashing of oiled breasts and genitalia.
“Hmm, it’s certainly explicit,” Beck murmurs.
One of the women has her face buried between her co-performer’s thighs, her head bobbing enthusiastically.
“Our Freddie obviously believes in giving value for money,” I agree. “What are they up to now?”
“Scissoring,” Tony tells us, his head tilted to one side to follow the complicated choreography.
A tangle of inter-twined limbs rolls across the hay bales to a soundtrack of gasps, moans, and simulated orgasmic passion.
Our phones are all on silent, but Rome’s screen flashes with a text from Frankie. He glances at it. “The stream has gone live,” he informs us. “Punters are logging on by the dozen, apparently.”
I can’t say I’m surprised. This is hot stuff, if you like that sort of thing. Personally, I’m a doer rather than a watcher, but it takes all sorts.
We observe for perhaps ten minutes while the girls gyrate and cavort for the vicarious entertainment of their remote audience. The punters watching the show increase to a hundred, then two hundred, and still rising. There’s clearly a lot of money to be made here, and Fred is milking it to the full.
Frankie sends another text. They’re inviting bids on the next show. Starting price is a grand.
Freddie’s arm flashes up, his wrist swirling, indicating that perhaps this instalment is coming to a close.
Sure enough, Fred’s hand goes up again, and with a cry of ‘Cut’, the girls cease their contrived sensual dance and hop back onto their feet. They plod back to where the young man is still waiting his turn, pull on their robes, and sit down.
Fred marches over to them, produces a wad of notes from his back pocket, and peels off a couple of fifties for each woman. “You’re done. Get dressed and fuck off now. Back here next week, right?” He tosses the notes in front of them and glares at the young man. “You’re next. Get over there.”
The next ‘artist’ exchanges a bored eyeroll with the girls, gets to his feet, drops the robe, and ambles onto the set.
The technicians make themselves busy dragging the hay bales out of the way, to replace these with a timber framework resembling something out of one of our kill rooms.
“Looks like a BDSM scene coming up,” Beck mutters. “And hey, Freddie’s in on this one.”
Our man is dragging a black leather mask over his pudgy features and buckling it in place. Then he picks up a coiled whip and cracks it with relish.
“It’d be more convincing if he bothered to take off his shirt,” is Tony’s informed opinion.
He’s a regular patron of our sex clubs. But Fred does appear to be relishing his role. He struts back and forth, gesturing to the cameras, flexing imagined muscles and generally egging on his invisible audience.
The young man, presumably his ‘submissive’, allows the technicians to strap him to the wooden structure. He’s on his feet, facing the beams, his back, buttocks, and thighs exposed and ready for the attentions of his ‘Dom’.
I can’t help wincing but find my eyes riveted to the scene unfolding before us.
The action is accompanied by piped heavy rock music, a compelling, menacing thud, thud, thud to lend the required atmosphere to the proceedings. Fred prances back and forth for a minute or two, brandishing his whip and occasionally flicking the tip across the pale, naked arse at his mercy.
“What do we want?” he roars. “Tell me what we want?”
He pretends to cup his ear. “Louder! Louder…”
Frankie is texting again. It’s an auction.
We exchange puzzled glances. What are they selling?
Fred gets into his task in earnest. The whip whistles through the air to land across the youth’s quivering shoulders. The lad lets out a scream and jerks violently against his bonds. A ribbon of blood appears, vivid crimson against the whiteness of his flesh.
“Jesus, that must sting,” Beck mutters.
“More?” Fred shrieks. “Tell me what you want!”
Apparently, he has his answer. He swings his whip again, and again, leaving vicious stripes crisscrossing the boy’s back, shoulders, and buttocks. Each blow is met with an agonised scream, and the lad is hanging limp against the bars.
“Christ, they’ll kill him at this rate. Is he even conscious?” None of us is exactly squeamish, but even the hard-nosed Tony is looking a bit queasy.
They’re voting. Frankie is texting again. It’s like something out of Ancient Rome. Thumbs up or down. There’s a LOT of downs.
Fred gets to work again. The whip whistles; the boy seems to be convulsing under the blows raining down on his thin body. Almost no pale flesh remains, he’s being shredded to ribbons by the vicious flogging.
“What the…?” This is beyond entertainment, even the most hardcore sort. “That poor little git’ll never survive this,” I growl.
“Fuck. I think that’s the plan.” Tony is on his feet. “They’re making a snuff reel.”
I’ve heard of those, a murder committed on camera and streamed for the enjoyment of anyone watching, but I’ve never had direct experience of it. It’s sick, if you ask me.
I get the impression Tony thinks so, too. Porn videos are one thing, but…this?
“What do we do?” I hiss. “We can’t let them just?—”
“Can you stop that bastard without actually killing him?” Tony demands. “We still need a word with Fred, so we can’t lose him just yet.”
I’m only about thirty metres from my target, a piece of piss. I have my 460 Smith and Wesson in my hand almost before he finishes issuing the order. Not as accurate as my preferred M107 semi-automatic, but perfectly lethal at this range. I level up the sight, squeeze the trigger, and Fred’s whip hand explodes in a gory tangle of flesh, bone, and blood.
He drops to his knees with a scream to rival those of his victim, cradling his ruined limb. His screams reverberate from the rafters, and he rolls across the dusty floor, while the others gape at him in wide-eyed horror.
“Zee, take out that camera, then we move in, fast.” Tony growls our orders.
I take aim at the camera, still rolling. A couple of bullets put an abrupt end to the filming. We don’t need our images broadcast in glorious technicolour to whoever might be watching the live stream. Satisfied we’re alone, as one we surge from the shadows, guns drawn, to surround the bewildered group who can do nothing but cower in front of us. Not one of them so much as appears to be contemplating retaliation or any sort of defence of their stricken leader.
“Unless any of you feel like discussing this shitshow with the police, you can fuck off now.” Tony’s tone is arctic. He tells them their options.
At first, no one moves. They are all immobilised with terror, rooted to the spot.
“Or we could execute the fucking lot of you,” Tony suggests. “Your choice.”
They are galvanised into action. Equipment is abandoned as they make a headlong charge for the roller shutter, clamouring on the reinforced steel until Beck unlocks it and raises it for them. They disappear into the night, the pounding of boots echoing in the dark. In moments, the only sound remaining is Fred’s anguished sobbing and pleading.
Tony checks the boy and apparently finds a pulse. He unstraps him from the timber structure and lowers him facedown to the floor then turns his attention to Fred. “You two, get that piece of shit into our car. Wrap him in a tarpaulin, I don’t want him bleeding all over the boot.”
I tear down one of the plastic sheets they had been using as a screen, and Rome helps me to roll Fred in it. Meanwhile, Tony has his phone out and dials nine-nine-nine. He gives brief instructions to the ambulance controller. I don’t give much for the boy’s chances, but it’s the best we can do for him at this stage.
Between the four of us we haul the still-screaming Fred across the floor and out through the shutter. It’s no easy feat; he’s fighting like a banshee and must weigh going on for twenty stone. Rome sprints back to where we parked the SUV and brings it closer. Somehow, we succeed in shoving Fred into the boot and slamming the lid down.
“No, leave the shutter open,” Tony commands Beck who is about to lock up the warehouse. “Let them find that poor git more easily.”
“What about the gear? Should we…?”
Tony shakes his head. “No point. We’re short of time, and this vile enterprise is finished anyway, the police will confiscate the equipment. The plods are not the brightest things on two legs, so we might as well leave the evidence intact for them. Every little helps.”
We dive back into our vehicle and in moments we’re peeling away from the warehouse, Fred thrashing and wailing in the back and promising to disembowel the lot of us as soon as he gets the chance.
Yeah. Right.