Chapter 8 Kane #2
“I’m just tired.” He set his jaw against the lie.
He was tired, but that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was this: He and Fletcher were about to embark on their last job together.
They’d either fail, and Fletcher would die, or they would succeed, and Fletcher would leave.
If it was the latter, Kane would be glad, but he would also be alone with Ward once more.
Sometimes Kane toyed with the thought of killing the kingpin. Of watching his eyes glaze over and feeling his body go cold. Of leaving this hellscape of a city and never looking back.
But Kane knew that wherever he went, Ward would follow, at least in spirit.
He manipulated Kane’s life the way a puppeteer pulled strings.
Somehow Kane had spent so much time despising Ward that the man had become an integral part of him.
Was that love? It didn’t feel like it. It felt like something slimier, something far more painful.
It felt like self-destruction.
“When do we meet with Mendoza, then?” Fletcher said, and the soft lilt of his voice made Kane wonder if it wasn’t the first time his friend had asked the question.
He stopped pacing, eyes darting to the door. Outside, rain fell in an even sheet. He could hear it echoing against the converted factory roof.
“I told Zaria we’d meet tomorrow to discuss what we need from her,” Kane said eventually. “We can’t do much but take it step-by-step.”
“And where exactly are we meeting?”
Despite everything, Kane couldn’t help a smirk. “Every job starts with a stakeout, Fletch. Surely you know that.”
Fletcher inclined his square chin. “So we need to pay the Exhibition a visit ahead of time.”
“Yes. And I think it would be rather nice if we had security on our side, don’t you?”
Dusk swelled above the rooftops as Kane and Fletcher slunk into the streets.
They’d spent a good few hours discussing a course of action—Kane had always been good at improvisation, but he preferred preparation whenever possible.
He knew what he wanted from Zaria Mendoza, and he knew how they were going to gain entry to the Exhibition.
They all had a role to play, including Zaria, though she wasn’t yet aware of it.
Kane suspected she wouldn’t be thrilled when she found out what that role was.
Now he needed to ensure the coppers didn’t get in their way.
He pulled his lips back in a grimace, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. The rain was cold and stinging, and it slipped down the back of his neck as he pushed damp hair out of his face. Unlike Fletcher, he hadn’t thought to bring a hat.
“Do we know for certain Price will be on duty?” Fletcher asked. He had to raise his voice slightly to be heard above the tap-a-tap of rain against the cobblestones.
“If I remember correctly.”
“You usually do.”
Richard Price was an inspector who worked out of the Westminster Division.
He was a humorless sort of man and had been with the Metropolitan Police since they took to the streets twenty-two years prior.
Despite having been dirty for at least half of that, he’d retained the job long past his physical prime and now oversaw handfuls of sergeants and constables.
Richard was Ward’s preferred contact, but that was not the man to whom Kane was referring.
No—he was much more familiar with Richard Price Junior, whose name gave him even more power than his sergeant status.
It was him Kane would be looking for. A young chap in possession of more confidence than experience, he would be far easier to manipulate.
They walked to Westminster in the type of silence reserved for thieves or companions deeply familiar with each other.
As it happened, Kane and Fletcher were both.
Kane barely saw where his feet were taking him, but it wasn’t that he was familiar with the route—he rarely frequented this part of London—rather, his mind was too occupied.
It was filled with plots, with plans, with the guardedly hopeful expression on Zaria’s face when she’d agreed to their deal.
He couldn’t help wondering what she might think when he shared the plan with her.
Whether she might catch a whiff of his intended betrayal.
If there was one thing he knew about Zaria already, it was this: She looked at everything like she was dismantling it methodically, piece by fragile piece.
Kane found he did not care for it at all.
Once, when he was younger and a markedly different version of himself, his mother had commented on how easy he was to read. When you’re sad, the house is sad with you, she would tell him, a croon in lyrical Italian. I can feel it grow colder.
Kane remembered very few things about his mother.
Perhaps his mind had hidden them from him in unconscious self-preservation, or perhaps he had deviated so far from the boy who had known her, he no longer retained anything that was not Ward.
Now, when Kane was sad, he held it inside himself like some explosive substance.
Harmless when left alone, but dangerous if it came in contact with the wrong thing.
He very much hoped Zaria Mendoza was not that thing. He did not want to be seen, did not want to be known, and certainly did not want to be understood.
Despite the hour, the city surrounding Whitehall Place—the location of the police headquarters—was a bustle of bodies and sound.
People in smart black coats hurried to and fro as a newsboy hollered some indecipherable fact about the most recent headline.
This part of London boasted a considerable amount of recent construction, but Kane knew that not far from here terraced slum housing crowded the perimeter.
He squinted through the rain, picking out the building occupied by the Metropolitan Police Force’s Westminster Division.
It was a nondescript reddish brick, set back from the crowds either by conscious design or by virtue of the fact that it was currently occupied by law enforcement.
A middle-aged officer stood outside the Great Scotland Yard entrance, a clay pipe held between two of his fingers in a way that struck Kane as rather dainty. He raised his head as they approached, gaze slipping to Fletcher the way gazes tended to do.
“Price Junior in?” Kane said before the copper could address them.
The man cut them with a look that made it clear he thought them up to no good.
Rainwater slipped down the bridge of his nose, which must have been broken at some point.
He never took his attention off Fletcher; though, between Kane and Fletcher, the latter was less likely to do something rash and potentially violent. “What’s it to you?”
Kane hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. The smile he gave was not a nice one, but before he could speak, he heard his name hollered from the building’s entrance.
“Hunt! Get over here.”
Kane didn’t have to turn to know the speaker was Richard Price Junior, who was shrewd enough never to use his real surname.
Broad faced and stern featured, Price crooked a finger at Kane and Fletcher, beckoning them closer.
Though the action was one of confidence, there was something about the set of his mouth that betrayed his discomfort.
“We’ll talk in my office. Follow me.”
Price led them away from the other officer and up the steps leading into the police headquarters. His office was near the entrance, and the colleague waiting inside was sent away with a wave of his hand. Fletcher shut the door with an ominous click. Kane motioned for Price to sit down at his desk.
“Please,” Price said stiffly, “feel free to take a seat as well.”
Kane and Fletcher did not sit.
Price sat. Perhaps it was due to the fact that no one save him had spoken thus far, but there was the beginning of a nervous sheen across his forehead. He hid his anxiety well, though, Kane had to admit. He always did.
“Junior,” Kane said, knowing it would annoy the man. “How are you?”
He deliberated two ways of approaching the situation.
The first was to play nice with a dirty copper, offer him money, and hope he didn’t betray you.
The problem with making a deal with men like this, however, was the possibility always existed that someone would offer them a better one.
Hell, they might take your money, then betray you.
This was how Ward dealt with Richard Price Senior, because he trusted the inspector as well as Ward ever trusted anybody.
They were on the same page more often than not.
Which was precisely why Kane did not trust Richard Price Senior. So he’d come to his son, who always responded better to a little threatening.
That was the second way.
“What do you want, Hunt?” Price said, sounding tired in a way Kane could nearly empathize with. “Did Ward send you?”
Kane’s grin was bitter. “Ward doesn’t dictate my every move, you know.” He might as well have, but Price didn’t need to know that.
“Don’t be coy with me. Get to the point—I was about to go on patrol.”
“Ah.” Kane turned to smirk at Fletcher, who stared stonily back. “Someone’s confident today. Don’t worry, I only came to ask a simple favor. I suppose your lot are going to be contributing security to the Exhibition?”
Price’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t look all that impressive, the only one of them seated, like a child who had been told to relax. The wall behind him was papered with certificates of obvious import, each one depicting his name in fancy penmanship—no doubt a nod to his work-related escapades.
Kane was not impressed by paper. Kane was impressed by those who made deals with confidence and exceeded expectations. Alas, his expectations for Price were not high, but he was going to have to make it work.
He dropped into the chair opposite the man.
“You and your father have cooperated with Ward for quite some time. As such, you know what people like me can offer you.” He flashed his teeth, eyeing the fountain pen Price tapped against the inside of his wrist. “But you also know what people like me are capable of.”
“You’re only boys” was Price’s acidic response.
His furtive gaze slipped to Fletcher, then back to Kane, cheeks coloring.
Evidently, he was deciding not to acknowledge that Fletcher was a good head taller than he was.
“Being part of Ward’s crew may make you feel important, but you’re not.
And you certainly don’t understand the intricacies of the law. ”
Kane leaned back in his chair, arranging his face in a frown. “Fletch, do we know anything about the law?”
There was a pause as Fletcher pretended to think. “You know what? I think—I think—I remember hearing you’re not supposed to take bribes or look the other way when something illegal happens.”
“That sounds right. But if someone were to start taking bribes, don’t you think it’s in their best interest to keep that information quiet?”
“Oh, certainly.” Fletcher was the portrait of seriousness. “Especially when the man paying out those bribes keeps a very comprehensive list of names and dates. It’s important to remember where your money went and when.”
Kane nodded at the ceiling. “That it is.”
“I get it,” Price snarled, now looking more like an angry law enforcement officer and less like a boy playing at one. He half rose from his seat, fingers splayed across the desk. “What, specifically, do you want from me?”
Kane leaned forward until he and Price were almost nose to nose. He grinned. “Nothing.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want you to do nothing. Hear nothing. See nothing. I want you and your most charmingly corrupt colleagues to do whatever it takes to get placed inside the Crystal Palace, as close as you can get to the Waterhouse exhibit, and then I want you to do absolutely nothing.”
Now Price simply looked dubious. “The Duke of Wellington has upward of ten thousand troops on standby, and we’ve recruited an additional thousand officers. I only have control over my own division, and I’ve no idea where the Royal Commission will want my men.”
This had occurred to Kane already. It might have been a problem, but if he could be certain of one thing, it was that powerful men were suggestible when it came to other powerful men. “Then stand by the exhibit yourself and put your rank to good use for once.”
“And what do I get out of this, Hunt?” Price crossed his arms over the brass buttons carving a line down the front of his black uniform. “Besides watching someone other than me catch you in the middle of whatever stunt you’re trying to pull.”
Kane ticked the answers off on his fingers. “One, you know Ward is good for money. If everything goes well, you’ll see it. Two, your family’s dirty little secrets stay buried. And three, Fletcher won’t kill you.”
The wooden floorboards creaked as Fletcher shifted his weight in the corner. He wasn’t much of a killer, but Price didn’t need to know that. What mattered was that he was large, intimidating, and looked like he might kill you if it suited him.
“I don’t think even Ward would dare have a copper harmed,” Price said, the final shred of his bravery laid out between them.
Kane snorted. He couldn’t help it.
“God help you, Junior,” he said. “We both know who really runs this city, and it sure as hell ain’t the coppers.”