Chapter six
Titan MMA Gym
Damon
Hunter is buckled over laughing loudly as I retell the story of Emma in my kitchen this morning. His deep throaty voice reverberates around the empty gym, bouncing off the concrete walls.
“She has guts,” he says, trying to control his laughter. “Sitting in your kitchen threatening not to sign over the baby in her belly.”
“Or a death wish,” his right-hand man, James Greyson, adds. Hunter nods in agreement.
“Or that.”
James and I have a lot in common. He’s an ex-police officer, so he understands a lot of the pressures applied to me within the force.
He made the decision to leave and work with Hunter full-time a year ago.
His role within his boss’s eclectic business is varied.
He spends a lot of time chasing down suspects before law enforcement can, then doling out whatever punishment Hunter thinks may be appropriate for their crimes.
Originally from Glasgow, he still maintains a thick Scottish accent, which becomes even harder to understand when he drinks.
My only real dealings with him happen here at the gym owned by Hunter or on a random unplanned drinking session.
We train together in mixed martial arts and teach a few classes each per week to young offenders.
I wouldn’t call him a friend, and I’m not sure Hunter would either. But as an enforcer within the Irish mafia in London, he’s certainly a man I would rather have on my side.
“I think the girl may have a crush on you, McKinney,” Hunter suggests.
“She’s pregnant. It’ll be hormones.”
“I’ve heard pregnant women can be as horny as hell,” he continues. “Not that I’ve ever had one. That would be a complication I don’t need.”
“Oh, they can be,” Greyson says with confidence.
“You have a kid?” I ask, surprised. He shakes his head.
“No but my brother has three, and he assures me that his sex life is even better when she has a bun in the oven. I’m sure that is why number four is on the way now.”
We all laugh, then return to our respective punching bags. It feels good to let off some steam in the gym. MMA gives me the opportunity to fight and train with likeminded people in a place I feel at home.
Hunter’s gym is located in an old basement in the city center.
Membership is strictly by invite only. He uses the MMA courses supplied to young offenders through a charity scheme to bolster his men and train recruits from the bottom up.
It was my knowledge of MMA that originally brought Hunter and I together—it just so happened that the worlds we work in also intertwined and ultimately brought about our friendship.
For forty minutes, we work individually, taking our daily frustrations out on our relevant punching bag. Greyson’s black sack swings wildly at the end of the chain attached to a steel beam at the ceiling. Hunter got bored and is leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone.
“So, McKinney,” he calls, glancing up from the screen. “Are you any further forward on Connie’s case? Any new developments?”
I pause mid-punch. I haven’t told my friends yet about the message dropped through my door this morning. I was going to wait and tell everyone tonight at The Level.
“I received a note.”
He immediately straightens and strides over to my side, grabbing the swinging equipment then glaring at me. “A note? From who? When? And why the fuck didn't you tell me?”
I ignore his outburst, stare at him and narrow my eyes. Greyson stops what he’s doing and joins us, creating a triangle.
“I told you, it was this morning. It was sitting on my doormat in the hallway when I left to come here.”
“What did it say?” he snarls. Greyson watches our exchange, saying nothing.
I pull the note from my shorts pocket and hand it to him. The stiff white card had been folded in half and is now slightly crumpled from being stuffed into my pocket. Hunter opens it and reads the neat black writing. A photo of Connie’s service in the graveyard is pinned to the back.
A beautiful ceremony for a truly kind woman.
I am sad that it had to come to this. An innocent life taken.
Your wife was your warning. Next time I will take the child.
Project Shylock must end.
Finish it or be prepared to lose others around you.
“Project Shylock?” Hunter says, looking at me in question.
“An illegal money lending circuit. Loan sharks we’ve been investigating in the unit. Heard of it?” He nods, as does Greyson.
“Were there any warnings sent before Connie was murdered?” Greyson asks bluntly.
My mouth thins into a line. My heart hurts knowing that there was a caution received at the office, a general threat to everyone working on the case that if the investigation didn’t end, we would lose our families until it did.
“McKinney?” he prompts.
“The day before her death,” I mutter.
“What the !” Hunter explodes. “You never fucking said anything!”
“We didn’t think it was legit,” I argue.
“An email from a private sender was received by the head office and passed to us for my unit’s attention. It was written in broken English with threats of removing people’s fingers if we didn’t stop looking for the man who lends money.”
I crouch down as the now-familiar pain since losing my wife invades my chest.
My hands lift to my face, and I speak into my palms.
“Our tech guys suggested it was kids. They traced the email to a private rental in an apartment block in Hackney. The tenants are a petty crime family known for pickpocketing. The Carsons.”
“Never heard of them.” Greyson says. “Any other communication?”
“Not until today with receiving that.” I signal to the card between Hunter’s fingers.
“It’s unusual for someone to make a threat then act on it within hours like they did. Whoever it is wanted you to know they mean business. And they wanted to make a statement by taking out someone important in your life. I’m unsure why they would wait six weeks to get back in touch, though.”
I shrug. That’s something I’ve been wondering myself.
The email had crossed my mind a day or so after Connie’s murder, but with no follow-up, I’d assumed it was an ironic coincidence.
Then it had been forgotten amongst the daily grief I’m living with, a huge black hole continually enveloping me as the days pass.
“Where is your surrogate?” Greyson continues.
“Her name is Emma,” I snap, and he raises his eyebrow.
“She’ll be at the law firm by now. I arranged for one of Waite’s men to take her in and bring her home at the end of the day, not that she was happy about it. She likes the tube apparently.”
I roll my eyes as I think back to her objection to being collected this morning.
Pedantic little brat. “She doesn’t leave the office once she arrives, so she’ll be safe for now. And Harrison will keep her busy.”
“Have you told Waite about this?” Hunter says, waving the note.
I nod.
“Okay, we can discuss what needs to be done tonight. I’ll see you at The Level. Greyson, you should come along too. Your talents may be required.”
Hunter draws back a fist and slams into my punching bag.
It swings high, then smashes hard against my torso as I wrap my arms around it.
“‘Till tonight,” he shouts, then storms off in the direction of the exit.
***
The Level Boardroom
Every Wednesday evening, we meet either in one of the apartments or in the boardroom at The Level. Tonight, due to my receipt of the note and with my wife’s murderer still being unknown, we’re in the boardroom.
When I arrive, Harrison, Connor, and Russell are already sitting drinking a beer.
A familiar ping sounds as the elevator doors open, and I step out into the room.
On the huge glass table is a bucket of iced beer.
No doubt, Mrs. D, The Level housekeeper, will have prepared the space as she does every week.
There will be unlimited beer and snacks provided while we are here.
Some weeks, our Wednesday evenings are fun.
Others are like this one: dark, disturbing, and a clear reflection of the murky world we work and live in.
“Evening Damon,” Harrison calls when he sees me.
He leans forward and plucks a beer can from the bucket then throws it across the room.
I catch it ably between my palms. “Good catch.”
As I snap the ring to open it, the white foam fizzes and splashes over the side of the cool metal and my fingers.
I lift the green can to my lips and drink greedily, finishing it within seconds.
“Thirsty?” Connor asks with a chuckle.
“Throw me another,” I reply. He repeats the process, and I open the next one with the same result.
“So, the note,” Russell barks. He glowers at me, obviously furious that I never told him directly about the contact I had from Connie’s killer this morning. “Not just the fucking note, the email too.”
“Russ,” Harrison says, glancing at his long-time friend and business partner. Their relationship has become more strained in recent years as his career has overtaken Russell’s. “McKinney has only just arrived. Give him a minute to explain.”
“Explain?” Russell snaps. “Not much point in explaining anything to Connie, is there? If the fucking police had taken the first warning seriously, she would still be here.”
“She is my wife,” I snarl. “Do you not think I’m well aware of my shortcomings contributing to her death, you bastard? Do you not think that I beat myself up every damn day about it? That if I had insisted she stay home, or take a guard with her, things would be different?
That if I had never moved into the world I am living in, our life could have been long and happy? A life together growing old and gray like we wanted to?”
Connor, Russell’s brother, watches our altercation quietly. He’s the member of our group that blends into the shadows. He assesses situations and forms his own opinions before acting on them. He rarely volunteers information, but when he does, you know it’s well-thought-out and has a purpose.
Russell, on the other hand, is explosive and reactive. He stands, and the black leather chair he was sitting in is thrown back onto the wood floor. His huge frame storms in my direction. He’s big, but I’m bigger. He looks up at me with furious brown eyes.
“Her blood is on your hands. Know that every time you look at a photo that doesn’t age, you never protected your own wife,” Russell states bluntly. My chest constricts. He’s pointing out a hard truth. It fucking hurts.
“Anyone would think your feelings for Connie were more than platonic friendship,” I say, leaning down to him so we are nose to nose. Harrison appears beside us, placing a hand on each of our chests and applying light pressure.
“This isn’t helping,” he says, soft but firm.
“She would have been better off with me,” Russell mocks.
“In your fucking dreams,” I mutter and roll my eyes at him. “You had a teenage boy’s crush on my wife. She was mine, and she always will be.”
“That’s why she’s dead,” Russell says with a sneer.
“Chase,” Harrison snaps. “For fuck’s sake. There is no time or place for this. Rein it in, now.”
I grab Russell’s collar and push him backward to the windows, his body slamming against the reinforced glass as the elevator pings again, announcing someone else’s arrival.
“Where’s the popcorn?” Hunter shouts as he and Greyson step out into the room. “I didn’t realize there was live MMA fighting tonight, or I’d have brought my gear.”
“McKinney and Chase are having a disagreement,” Harrison explains.
“What about?” Greyson asks, and all eyes turn to him, the man who normally isn’t included but is here because Hunter thought it could help.
“Most likely the fact that Russell was in love with Damon’s late wife,” Hunter suggests, and the elephant in the room, which was glaringly obvious but never discussed, is brought into full view.
“Bullshit,” Russell snarls as I apply more pressure by moving my hand and wrapping my fingers around his throat.
He gurgles slightly as he searches for air.
I lift an eyebrow and cock my head to one side.
I’m furious with him. I always knew he had developed feelings for Connie.
The way he looked at her told me as much.
For an ignorant selfish idiot, he was an absolute gentleman around her. Always.
“We both know that it isn’t bullshit,” I say as I scowl at him. He holds my stare with a matching one. “You overstepped the mark more times than I care to remember, but I always knew you were no threat. Connie and I are soulmates. She would only ever be a wet dream to you.”
“Think what you want, you idiot. She was my friend.”
“She. Is. My. Wife.” My voice roars around the room. All the other men now stand, silent, waiting to see if they need to intervene.
“And because of you, she’s dead,” he snarls, his voice intense despite me crushing his windpipe.