Chapter four
The Level Boardroom, Canary Wharf
Damon
The Level is where we go when matters need to be discussed privately. Where silent justice takes place without the knowledge of law enforcement. A sound-proofed space, fifty-seven floors into the sky, with one way glass that looks out over Canary Wharf, the financial district of London.
There’s an elevator located in a rear storage area of the building that’s only destination is this floor.
Harrison and Connor have apartments on the same level as this.
Russell owns the penthouse above. If the walls of this boardroom could talk, it would tell stories of laughter, desolation, and murder.
This is the location we use when we have a witness who needs “special motivation” to speak.
Or if someone needs to be disposed of, it’s normally easier to hold them here then move them later.
Behind one of the dark wood panels, there’s a temporary holding freezer installed specifically for that purpose.
“Damon.” Harrison’s voice cuts through the dark thoughts circling around my mind. “Go fucking home, will you.” I shake my head but don’t answer him. “You’re not even fucking here with us.”
“No,” I bark. “I’d rather be here.”
“You buried her yesterday.” The words are blunt. They hit my chest hard, knocking the air from my lungs. “We told you you didn’t need to be here tonight. We can keep a handle on everything.”
“No,” I repeat, and his lips thin. The other three men sit silently during our debate. “I can’t go home because she isn’t there.”
Hunter is sitting in one of the tall leather boardroom chairs, rocking back and forth while twirling a knife between his fingers.
It’s a habit of his. Normally, a poor piece of fruit gets stabbed or another hole is created in one of the walls when he loses his temper.
This time, I wonder if I’ll be the one to push him far enough to get a new hole.
After a few moments of silence have passed, he speaks.
“Where are we, then, with all our ongoing activities?” he asks. “With events this past week, I’d be quite happy to go out and put a bullet in someone.”
“You and me both,” I mutter.
Harrison clears his throat, an attempt to bring the attention back to him, I think.
Who put him in charge tonight, I don’t know.
Normally, it’s Russell mouthing off and running the show.
Being the oldest of the three lawyers, he likes to think he’s the brains behind every operation.
No one ever bothers arguing with him. However, tonight, he is sitting next to his brother in silence.
Every so often he glances over to the window, then returns his attention to the room.
“As far as Connie’s murder goes,” Harrison says, “we haven’t got a lot to go on. There’s the CCTV, which is a clear depiction of what happened.”
His eyes flit to me, then move on to the others.
“The vehicle the assailant stepped out of was stolen only hours before, then found dumped near the river burned out. The chances of getting any evidence from there is slim.”
“Fucking impossible,” I snap. My eyes are focused on my fingers, which are twisted together on the table in front of me. “This was a hit.”
“And you still think you were the target? Not Connie?” Connor asks, his voice calm and level.
“Yes. I believe this was revenge of some sort. Most likely for a case in the past.”
Connor continues, “And your gut feeling of who could be behind it?”
“Take your pick. I’ve been in the force for almost twenty years. Recently, I’ve locked up more career criminals than I care to think about. Some of their families were left destitute. Some will never see the light of day or breathe fresh air outside prison walls.
There are dozens of potential suspects.”
"Yes, I understand,” Connor says firmly, both acknowledging and dismissing my little speech. “But if you had to put money on someone, who would it be? Who hates you enough to kill your wife?”
“Ouch,” Hunter interjects. “Fucking harsh, Chase.”
“But true,” I admit honestly. “I can’t put my money on one person. I’ve ruffled more feathers than I care to admit within my police tasks, never mind what we do here. Drug dealers, murderers, thieves…so many who would be happy to see me ended.”
“But this wasn’t about killing you,” Harrison adds. “If they wanted to get rid of you, they would have targeted you. This was someone who wanted to hurt you.”
“Or warn you,” Russell mutters.
“Warn me? They killed her. It wasn’t a fucking warning.” He shrugs, unflustered by my words. “We know fuck all, so let’s move on to something we can actually get results from tonight. I don’t want to think about the past few weeks. Let me pretend it didn’t fucking happen. For one night, at least.”
All eyes in the room move around each other trying to assess what to do—whether they should continue discussing Connie’s case or move on.
Tonight, my dead wife is the last thing I want to talk about.
I’d rather sit here and listen to them all ramble on about drug deals or sex trafficking.
Whatever other crime is taking place other than the one that has affected me personally.
“We will have a visitor soon,” Hunter says. He claps his hands together and grins.
“What, here?” Russell snarls.
“Yes, here. It’s where we are, isn’t it?”
“Do you hand out our address to every Tom, Dick, or Harry to come up here for a cup of tea? Shall we add a fucking signpost? The Level, this way.”
Normally, this exchange would have me in hoots of laughter. Today, I only feel a minute lightening in my chest, a tiny bit of relief amongst the constant excruciating pain of loss.
“Don’t be an idiot. I thought McKinney may need something to punch,” Hunter continues. “And I have an acquaintance needing some training. He caused a small issue with a recent job.”
“What kind of job?” Harrison asks.
“Car sales.”
“The shipping container car sales?”
Hunter nods, and Harrison’s face twists in displeasure. “Is this the idiot who managed to get the container searched at the dockyard?”
“The very one. He needs to learn to keep his mouth shut and stick with the plan. Two million pounds worth of sports cars impounded with no fucking chance of getting them back.”
“Ouch,” Connor interjects.
“Not as sore as my ass when the customers found out they wouldn’t be receiving the goods.”
“I assume these goods were stolen,” I add.
“The word stolen is so severe,” he replies. “I prefer acquired and being rehomed to more loving owners.”
“While lining your own pocket.”
“And yours.”
I glare at him even though I know it’s true. “You’re right, it will be good to have something to punch.”
“Exactly. Now, let’s get ready for the poor bastard’s arrival. Waite, do you have that plastic sheet you insist on putting down?”
“Fuck, do you plan to kill him?” Harrison moans as he runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Blood is hard to fucking clean, and Mrs. D doesn’t do that shit. It’s me that ends up on my hands and knees, none of you bastards.”
“Kill him, doubt it. Remove part of him, possibly.” Hunter beams manically—he gets extremely high on violence. This is Hunter’s happy place. “Teach him a lesson, most definitely. We all know McKinney has the best punch, so he can break a few ribs before I start making some artwork.”
Thirty minutes later, a bear of a man is escorted into the boardroom by two of Hunter’s henchmen. Their guns are trained at his head. I assume he didn’t come particularly peacefully.
“Good evening, Mason, isn’t it?” Hunter says. “Men, lower your weapons and leave. There’s no need for unnecessary threats. We’re merely here to have a conversation.” The men follow his instructions, and we all watch them leave.
“A conversation,” the man called Mason snarls once they’re gone. “Those two knuckleheads attacked me in my apartment and dragged me here. If you wanted to see me, Hunter, you only had to fucking ask.”
The room falls silent with this idiot’s use of his boss’s first name. Hunter strolls toward him, pulls his knife from his belt, and walks around him in a circle with his blade gliding over Mason’s clothes.
“Boss,” Hunter says sharply. “You call me ‘Boss.’ You are a pawn in my game, and your idiocy and disrespect have landed you here.”
“And here is…” Mason’s eyes roam around the boardroom, taking each of us in on sight. The three lawyers are still dressed in insanely expensive suits matched with perfectly pressed shirts. My jeans and dark wool sweater leave me looking like the most normal man in the room.
Mason has the look of an aged biker, all leather and tattoos.
His bald head shines beneath the light, and his gray beard hangs in a point at his chin.
Hunter stops in front of him and grips the tip of his facial hair.
He tugs gently. Mason looks perplexed by the mannerism.
It’s only when the knife cuts the hair from his face that the whole of hell lets loose.
Hunter waves the grey strands at his nose.
“This is the first fucking part of you I’ll be removing,” he roars.
Mason grabs him around the throat, and I take this as my cue to get involved.
As I stride over, Hunter thrusts his knife and lodges it in his assailant’s upper arm.
Mason releases him as I step forward and throw a sharp punch to his cheek.
He staggers backward into the grasp of Russell and Connor, who take an arm each.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Harrison laying out the plastic sheet. I chuckle internally.
“Bring him over here,” Harrison shouts. The brothers manhandle Mason to the desired spot as Hunter turns to me.
“Go and let off some steam,” he says. “Just don’t kill him. I still have a use for him. This is a warning.”