Chapter eighteen
The Level Boardroom
October 2022
Harrison
Yet another clear plastic sheet is spread out across the floor underneath a man tied to the chair.
He knows he won’t be leaving this room alive.
Everyone in here knows that. I secure his wrists with a further cable tie.
He’s strong. His arms pull at the bindings, causing his muscles to flex, the intricate blue tattoos that cover his arms ripple beneath.
“I’ll ask you one more time, asshole,” Devane growls.
“Who is Michaels? We know it’s an alias. We know he is top of the tree, and you are one of the bitches doing his dirty work.”
The brute in the chair draws back his lips, and what could be a smile or a sneer appears.
Stumps of dirty white enamel line his mouth—each one has been filed to a point.
“Why would I tell you fuckers anything?”
he replies. “I’m dead anyway. You lot have been trying to hunt us down for years. You’ve still not worked out who the man at the top is.”
He laughs, throwing his head back, and his Adams apple bobs furiously.
“Those law degrees need to be ripped up. A bunch of fuckwits, that’s all you are. Pathetic.”
Hunter steps forward, standing between the man’s legs.
Our prisoner is tall—his knees bend beyond a right angle with his feet flat on the floor.
The knife moves swiftly, cutting the remainder of his t-shirt open.
Hunter removed the sleeves earlier. He places the tip of the knife below his sternum, angled upwards, and pushes gently.
It pierces the skin. His captive doesn’t flinch.
“I’ve found after much research that I can create multiple injuries here without killing someone. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be begging me to end your life.” He smiles sweetly. “But I’ll be getting every bit of information I require first.”
“Nothing you can do will make me talk. You don’t frighten me. I know this vendetta is all to do with that pathetic excuse of a brother of yours dropping dead on a dancefloor.”
He widens his eyes, leaning forward slightly as far as his bindings allow.
“Play with the snakes and prepare to get bitten. You’d be better fucking killing me. Save yourself time.”
Damon places his hand on the knife and removes it from Hunter’s grasp.
I pull him away and move him to sit in the furthest seat.
Russell stands behind the prisoner’s head and places his hands on his shoulders.
“If you don’t mind me interrupting,” Russell says, “I would suggest you listen to what Waite here has to say before wishing your life to end. It may interest you personally.”
After settling Hunter and warning him silently not to move, I walk back over to the trussed-up man.
“Mr. Taylor,” I say, and his eyes spring open in surprise at the use of his real name.
“I believe you have a daughter.” The same eyes narrow instantly.
“Lisa,” I continue, “she lives with her husband in Barnsley and their two young children.”
“Bullshit,” he growls. “You’ve got the wrong man.” I ignore him and continue.
“Their children are avid ballet dancers and attend Swinson’s Dance School. Neither of the adults are in work, but they live a nice life funded by money from an unknown source.”
“Oh, we found the source,” Marshall interrupts, rising from his seat and coming to join my side.
He smiles knowingly. This man has proven himself to be a fantastic asset to our team within a matter of weeks.
He has connections in the world of business across a variety of global markets.
His close relationship with the police force and politicians means if he lifts the phone, the person at the end of the line listens to what he has to say.
“It’s an off-shore account in the Cayman Islands.”
He places the paperwork down in front of our guest.
“The same account that has been linked with the dirty drugs business.”
“You can’t prove fuck all,” the man known as Taylor hisses, but uncertainty marks his features.
“Mr. Taylor, I can assure you, if we are showing you the evidence here, we can prove it,” I say firmly.
“Please remember you are a small cog in this dark machine. Scapegoats are always set up to take the blame if the tower of cards falls. It looks like you and your family have been allocated that position.”
“Tell us what we need to know,” Marshall says, “or I’ll pass my findings to the necessary departments at the tax office. Your daughter and her husband will be locked up. Your grandchildren will end up in care. Is that a risk you want to take? Do you want to be the reason their lives are ruined?
I would imagine they don’t even know where the funds come from. They will be innocent victims in all of this, while you protect the evil bastards that run it.”
“And at the end of the day,” I add, “you will be dead. That is a fact that no one here is hiding from you. Do you think the men you work for will protect your family?”
***
A matter of hours later, the six of us sit on smooth leather sofas drinking whiskey and watching a curvy redhead gyrate around the pole in Guilty Pleasures. After not being here in years, this is my second visit in weeks. At least this time, I won’t be begging Violet to leave with me and go home.
Connor is salivating as the dancer drops to her hands and knees, then crawls across the stage. He stands, walks over, and stuffs a fifty-pound note into her G-string. He whispers something in her ear, and she smiles, then returns to her dancing.
“I’m seeing her later,” he says, dropping back into his seat and clinking his glass with Russell’s. Marshall rolls his eyes. Hunter lifts his hand to congratulate him with a high-five. I glance at Damon, who has ignored the whole conversation.
“You fancy some pussy tonight?” Connor asks, looking at me, and I shake my head. “I’d have thought you would be up for celebrating after our win this afternoon. Between you and Marshall, we now have some prime intelligence.”
“We still don’t know who Michaels is,” I argue, and he shrugs.
“We have the names of a few higher up the tree though.”
He raises his glass toward me. “The poor bastard today didn’t seem to hold any more information. For all his bullshit talk, I don’t believe he knows who is at the top. He doesn’t have high enough clearance. He was running the product but not dealing with the organ grinder.”
“I’d say that’s right,” Damon interjects.
“The names he gave us, I’ve passed to my contacts. They’ll see what records they have on them, known crimes or suspected. The web is a lot greater than we first thought. These drugs are being distributed UK-wide in all major cities. We are looking at gangs working with gangs,
but there is always a man in charge.”
“I think we need to visit the main kitchen,” I say, and all eyes fall on me. “We know where it is now, exactly. Perhaps some surveillance would be beneficial. We could see who is coming and going. How they move the product. What sort of weapons they have.”
“You want to go undercover, Waite?” Damon says with a smirk.
“Dress all in black and wear a balaclava.”
I glower at him, and he holds his hands up in surrender.
My eyes move to the mirrored wall beside me.
The raw line of where my cheek was split four weeks ago is still there.
My anger bubbles again the same as it always does when I think of what Edward Chase did to me that night—when he laid down the law and demonstrated I was his puppet.
“I think you’re right though,” Damon continues, interrupting my frustrating thoughts.
“We need to understand more about how they’re operating and who is running the day-to-day business. We should set up a schedule to watch them.”
He turns to Hunter, who has been listening silently to our conversation.
“Do you have men that could be utilized?”
Hunter nods. “Excellent, we can firm up the details on Wednesday at The Level, but let’s move to the next phase of taking these bastards down.”
After another hour of watching women I’m not interested in dance on stage wearing next to nothing, I make my excuses and leave.
Damon catches up with me as I reach the pavement outside.
“Not your thing?” he asks. “Mine neither. I prefer what I have at home.”
I glance at him, surprised at his admission.
In recent months, I’ve suspected his situation had changed but never asked.
“Years gone by, I’d have been in a back room with one of the girls, waving notes around and enjoying every minute. Now, I can’t get the bloody woman I can’t have out of my mind,” I say, and he gives me a sympathetic smile.
“Connor keeps me updated on how Violet is, as far as he knows. Her father won’t even let her leave the house. She’s locked up day and night, not allowed past the front door.”
“Do you want her?” he asks. “Is trying to have her worth risking your life for? Because that’s what we are talking about, Waite. Being with her will draw a target on your back. Your networks will be severed.”
“Even if I wanted to be with her, how am I going to get near her? That house is like a fortress. They have security guards surrounding the perimeter now. Each year that passes, Edward gets more paranoid.”
I flag down a passing taxi. We both climb into the back, and I give the driver my address.
“Connor and Russell are more wary of him than they’ve ever been. He has always been vicious, but now he seems to have no limits. Their cousin ended up at the bottom of the Thames last week. Edward strapped his feet with blocks and put him in alive.”
“Why?” Damon asks, completely unflustered by the information.
“Questioned him during a family meeting. Edward was having a bad day,” I answer bluntly. “He was disposed of before the old man even considered another solution.”
When the taxi pulls up in front of my building, I see a woman in a long trench coat standing at the entrance.
It’s now one in the morning—the doors will be locked with no one allowed in who doesn’t live here.
After saying goodbye to Damon, I walk up the pathway and pull the key card from my pocket.
She turns to face me, and I recognize her instantly.
It’s the girl from the strip club who seemed to be friends with Violet.
Her astute eyes fix on me, and I stop in front of her.
“Harrison Waite?” she says sharply, and I nod. “Violet needs you. She’s in trouble.”
“Why should I trust you?” I ask her, and she smirks.
“Do you have any other option?” Her tongue darts between her lips. “You love her, no? Or was your little jealous rage at Guilty Pleasures an act?” I bristle at her comment and narrow my eyes at her. “You know that power-crazed father of hers is holding her prisoner?”
“I heard he wasn’t letting people see her. I’m not exactly welcome at the house, so haven’t tried myself.”
“You know she’s getting married?” she asks, and my jaw drops open. The jealousy that I’ve been burying for weeks, the rage at not being considered good enough for her, explodes from me. I’m furious.
“Married!” I spit. “To who?”
“Her worst fucking nightmare.”