Chapter thirty-four
An Abandoned Warehouse, Dartford
Harrison
“She said yes,” I tell Damon as he sits beside me in the car. It’s the middle of the night, and we are sitting opposite an industrial unit where the supposed exchange will be taking place. There is no sign of life, not even a light in the parking lot.
“I’d be disappointed if she didn’t,” he replies. “After your piss poor attempt, that was certainly a statement you made.” He chuckles. “How much did the ring cost you?”
“Don’t ask,” I grumble. “Let’s just say there was a high out-of-hours fee on both the ring and the flowers. Neither of the business owners were happy about being interrupted at midnight on Christmas night. I had to pay them handsomely for the privilege.”
“It’ll be worth it when you get the paperwork in order,” he says with a wink.
“I still can’t believe you proposed using legalities as a reason. Connie would have killed me if I’d done that. She’d probably never have married me.”
He pauses, his thoughts clearly moving to his late wife.
He’s happier now, but there are times I know he still misses her.
He always will, no matter how much life moves on.
She was always taken from him. It was never a choice.
“Not my best idea,” I agree, “but I seem to have salvaged the situation, luckily.”
“So, what’s the plan? When will the big day be?”
“We can give notice on the fourth of January, I can’t get an appointment before then with it being the holidays. We need to wait twenty-eight days before the ceremony. I’ll book the registrar for the 1st of February and pray she doesn’t pop this baby out before then.”
I roll my eyes. “Knowing my luck, she’ll have them the day before.”
“Well, at least you only have to deal with a bridezilla for a few weeks. The months that led up to my wedding were torture—every detail was checked, double-checked then cross-checked on a spreadsheet.” He runs his hand through his hair, smiling to himself. “Twice.”
“Hopefully Violet will be too busy finishing cooking our baby to bother too much,” I say.
“Don’t be so sure. Weddings and women are intense subjects, especially when it’s theirs being organized. I bet you one hundred quid that she will have your coffee table filled with wedding magazines within the week.” He grins, raises an eyebrow, and holds out his hand. “Fancy a small wager?”
“Let’s make it interesting,” I reply, taking his hand. “Make it a grand.”
“Careful, you have a wedding to pay for.”
My cell rings, breaking the conversation. Marshall’s voice fills the car. “I’m not liking this, boys,” he says. “Something is off. Perhaps they’ve been spooked.”
“Stop being such a negative bastard,” Hunter chides. “They’ll be here. Our information is good.” At that moment, a small red car pulls into the parking lot of the unit we’re watching. My phone rings again—it’s Russell. I add him to my current call.
“We’re all on the line,” I tell them.
“Is this some sort of joke?” Russell snaps. “A big drug deal going down using a Fiesta. What sort of bloody gang is this?”
Damon snorts beside me and shakes his head. “Not every drug lord drives a Rolls Royce,” he says, “I’ve been on plenty of stakeouts to know that the most inconspicuous cars work best.”
“That’s not a car,” he says, annoyed by Damon’s challenge. “It’s a fucking go-kart.”
“It looks like only one person is inside,” I say, trying to get our focus back on the unfolding events.
A man steps out of the tiny vehicle and closes the door.
He’s dressed all in black with his hood up; it’s impossible to see who he is.
He hides the key on top of the rear tire then walks away behind the building.
There’s an underpass on the other side of the industrial estate.
“We’ll place a tracker on the car then follow him,” Connor says.
There is the sound of opening and closing car doors.
“Keep us updated. I’ll stay on the line.”
We watch as Connor appears from an alleyway to the right of the unit.
I only know it’s him as the reflective band we all agreed to wear, in case of a gunfight, wraps around his dark sleeve.
He pauses in the shadows then runs across to the small red car and bends down, placing a tracker under the back bumper.
He disappears in the direction he came from.
“Tracker in place,” he says. “Russell, do you still have eyes on the driver?”
“Sure do,” he replies. “He’s heading for the river. I’ll meet you at the rickety old bridge unless he diverts off course.” Connor grunts acknowledgment then the only sound on the line is their breathing as they both run.
We continue to observe the deserted industrial unit for ten minutes—no movement, nothing.
Finally, two large black vans with their lights off drive past the parked car.
They slow slightly but don’t stop. They circle the streets for ten minutes, passing the little vehicle countless times.
On what must be their tenth drive-by, the van at the back stops and a tall lean man climbs out.
He walks across to the small car and retrieves the key as his partners drive off without waiting.
“Are you up for partaking in some car theft? With only one man, we can intercept,” Damon says. He raises his eyebrows. “I know you fancy yourself as a secret agent. I’ll even let you drive.”
“We’re going in,” I tell the men listening on, excitement coursing through my veins. I’ve always wanted to pretend I’m in the Fast and The Furious movies, though I’d have preferred better wheels. “If we get the car, we can drive it to Damon’s garage, strip it down there, and see what we find.”
“Okay,” they respond in unison.
Damon and I climb out of the car. There is an eerie silence; nothing is moving or calling into the night.
My eyes scan the area, constantly looking for additional threats.
We creep toward the man who is leaning into the driver’s side of the vehicle.
He doesn’t see us approach until Damon has his gun trained on the back of his head.
Damon’s captive automatically throws his hands into the air.
“Name,” Damon barks. When the man doesn’t respond, he pokes at his head with the gun. “Name.”
“Logan,” he replies, surprisingly relaxed at having a gun trained on him.
“Who do you work for?”
“No one,” he sneers. He is half in and half out of the car, one foot still on the concrete outside. He hasn’t sat down on the driver’s seat.
“Okay, Logan. If you want to play that game, can you tell me why you are collecting this particular car this evening?”
“I like to joyride. This one seemed like an easy catch,” he says, his face contorting into a dark smile.
I stand behind Damon watching Logan’s reactions through the back window with my fingers resting on the gun at my belt.
“It’s not as if there is any value to it. No one would miss this piece of crap.”
He turns, looks over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows then waggles them.
Damon responds by dropping the nose of the gun to his lips.
“Open,” he orders. “It will be less messy when I blow your head off.”
“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Logan waves his hands, shrugs his shoulders, and moves to step out of the vehicle. “Here. If you want this little rust bucket so bad, have it.”
“Don’t fucking move.” Logan stops immediately and glares at his opponent through narrowed eyes. “Who were the men in the black vans?”
“My…” he pauses, “partners in a joyriding club.” I roll my eyes in frustration. This guy is a jerk. “We cruise around, find abandoned cars, race the streets then dump them.”
Damon looks from Logan to me. “What do you think, Waite?”
“This seems too easy,” I say, my confidence wavering. “It can’t be this simple. One man to stop us stealing a load of heroin.”
“Sometimes it is,” Damon replies. “With fewer men involved, it’s easier to move goods quietly.”
I accept his justification, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
“It could be a decoy, but that’s unlikely with the source of the information,” he adds.
“And with no contradictory location mentioned, I wouldn’t think so.”
Logan sighs audibly, bored. Damon lifts the gun and cracks him hard over the head with the butt.
His victim falls to the ground unconscious.
I grab his feet and pull him out of the way so he’s lying ten feet from the car—close enough to catch if he runs but far enough away to not attack us from below.
We both stare at the vehicle—it’s old. Rust coats the wheel arches and extends up the trunk. The front windshield is cracked across the center. The material of every seat is stained with age and ripped open, exposing the yellowed stuffing.
“Classy,” I mutter. “My first heist and I get a shit-mobile.” Damon chuckles and moves to the side to let me pass. I sit down in the driver’s seat and turn the key in the ignition. “Why would he steal it if they didn’t know what was in it?”
“He knew,” Damon replies. “They always use their most disposable gang member for these things. Someone who won’t be missed.”
“Shall we wait to get it back to the garage to search it?”
Damon nods.
When I close the door, it squeals with pain as the parking area explodes with light, all the seemingly inert streetlamps coming on at once. Damon raises his gun as the front door of the unit opens and Aiden steps out. His lips are twisted into a smug smile.
“That was easier than I thought,” he says.
I reopen the door, but he holds his hand up.
“I wouldn’t do that if I was you. You’re sitting on a pressure pad. Take the weight off it and…”
He creates fireworks with his fingers. “Boom. No more Harrison Waite.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs.
Now, I best be going. I have some drugs to deliver.”
We watch him walk off, our jaws on the floor.
We’ve been set up and, like fucking idiots, walked straight into the trap.
“Waite, do not move,” Hunter barks down the line. “Drive to the disused warehouse on the river.”
“Will the fucker not just blow up?” I snarl, panicked.
“Unlikely,” Hunter says, but his tone doesn’t emanate confidence. “Do you remember? Where we extracted some information from that pretty boy. Oh, that was a brilliant night.”
“Yes,” I reply, unable to say much more and ignoring his idiotic comment.
The scenario plays out in my mind—me getting blown to smithereens.