Love, Lies And Louboutins

Chapter 6

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Jack Hawkins shook Generalissimo Scala’s hand, and each of his lieutenants in turn. The abandoned airplane hangar they stood in was dim but cool. “It’s been a real pleasure doing business with you.”

“And with you, Signore.” Scala reached into his uniform pocket – decorated with dozens of ribbons – and withdrew a cigar. He cut off the end and offered it to Jack. “To celebrate our new alliance, eh?”

Jack took it. It was Cuban, of course, and a Cohiba to boot. “Only the best for you, eh, mate?” he said, inwardly wincing as he drew it under his nose to inhale the scent.

Cigars. He fucking hated the things. “Thanks. Got a light?”

“Of course.” Scala duly cut and lit their cigars, handing one over to Jack after rotating the tip near the flame until it glowed. The two men puffed companionably as the lieutenants stood at attention and breathed in their second-hand smoke.

“You can get us more AKs and Tantels, Mr Hawkins?”

“47s? Yes. 74s… well, those might take a bit longer. Just let me know how many you need, and I’ll take care of it.” Jack turned away, cigar thrust in his mouth, and picked up his briefcase.

Although it looked like an ordinary briefcase, it was custom fitted to carry his Glock 17. He gave the contents a cursory glance before closing the lid. Glock, check; suppressor, check; all parts and pieces present and accounted for.

“How much for the pistol?” Scala asked him idly, and waved his cigar in the direction of the case.

“This?” Jack looked up, and his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sorry, mate. It’s not for sale. It’s just a display gun. Strictly for generating sales, you understand.”

As he reached out to pick up the briefcase, Jack heard the distinctive – and unwelcome – click of a trigger being cocked behind him.

“Not so fast, mate,” Scala said.

Jack turned back to see the generalissimo’s Beretta levelled on his chest. “And here I thought things between us were going so well.”

Scala chuckled. “And so they are. But things will go much better if you hand over that 9mm, my friend.” He paused. “Call it a show of good faith. A way to seal the deal, if you will, and to ensure you have my future business.”

“I’m rather partial to this gun,” Jack said, a tinge of regret colouring his voice. He met Scala’s eyes. “What’ve you got for me, then? To seal your deal with me?”

Again, the generalissimo laughed. “I won’t kill you.”

Jack smiled slightly. “Fair enough, mate. No harm, no foul.” He held out the briefcase. “Take it, it’s yours.” Cautiously, as if he feared a trick, Scala reached out to take it. The case changed hands without incident.

Pleased, the generalissimo turned to the lieutenant next to him and snapped his fingers. “Go and fetch Giselle.”

Jack glanced over at him. “Giselle?”

“My mistress. She’s a very beautiful woman,” Scala said between puffs, “and she’s yours for the night.”

Jack was about to open his mouth to give Scala a diplomatic version of thanks but no thanks, I don’t want your sloppy seconds, when a couple of minutes later the most stunning woman he’d ever seen loped into the hangar on long – incredibly, impossibly long – legs.

She was Brazilian, with tawny, flawless skin and eyes as clear and blue as a Bahamian sea. Her hair flowed over her shoulders to her hips in a blonde spill, thick and glossy. And her body… well, it was lean and taut and tantalizing.

“Will Giselle suffice to seal our deal, Mr Hawkins?” Scala asked, amused.

“You bet,” Jack replied as he smiled and held out his free hand to the gorgeous Brazilian creature. “Very nice to meet you, Giselle.”

“Hello, Mr Hawkins,” she murmured, unperturbed. Being handed over from her lover to a total stranger for the night might have been an everyday occurrence for all the lack of concern she showed.

Hell, Jack reflected as he raised his brow. For her, it probably was an everyday occurrence.

“You have no qualms at my offer?” Scala asked him. “No hesitation? No moral disquietude?”

“No.” Jack tucked Giselle’s arm through his, then met the generalissimo’s eyes. “You know that old saying, ‘Good things come to those who wait’? Screw that. Good things come to those who take.”

And to the sound of Scala’s laughter, he and Giselle walked out of the hanger together to his waiting Land Rover, and sped straight back to Jack’s hotel room.

After making love with Giselle most of the night, in pretty much every way possible, Jack fell into a light sleep. He woke to find her wearing one of his Thomas Pink shirts – it looked a hell of a lot better on her than it did on him – watching him intently from an armchair next to the bed.

Her long, bare legs dangled over the side as she smiled and murmured, “Did you sleep well?”

“I did,” he confirmed, and patted the mattress next to him. “Come back to bed.”

“I will,” she said obligingly, “soon. But first, I want to know about you. I know you sell guns,” she added. “But who are you, Jack Hawkins?”

He leaned back against the pillows. “I’m a licensed international arms dealer, but I like to think of myself as a businessman. Instead of hawking refrigerators or brokering insurance, I sell guns – automatic weapons, to be exact. Anything a potential warlord might want – M-16s, AK-74s, a few tanks, or cases of ammo – I’m your man.”

“And where do you get all these guns and weapons of war?”she asked.

“I have my sources.”

She smiled. “You don’t trust me.”

“No, darling, I’m sorry to say I don’t. I deal with third-world countries. Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on your point of view – one needn’t look too far afield these days to find unrest. Or customers.”

Of course, Jack reflected, ammunition dictated what buyers in any given country wanted to buy. Although Hawkins InterArms was based in Albania, he had warehouses in locations throughout Eastern Europe. The Albanian officials were amenable hosts, provided Jack greased the occasional palm.

“Are you married?” Giselle asked him softly as she unwound her legs and climbed back into bed.

“No. I’ve never wanted to tie the knot with anyone.” He stroked the hair back from her face and kissed her jawline. “I’d only be unfaithful, at any rate. I know my limitations.”

“So there was never anyone? No special woman who captured your heart?”

Jack was silent. His thoughts went straight to Gemma. They’d met in the Maldives, where he’d done his utmost to entice her into his bed, and into his life. She was married now, to that idiotic rock star, Dominic Heath; but according to the tabloids, they were already estranged…

…which meant he was still in with a chance.

“There was someone, once,” he said now. “But it didn’t work out.”

“Ah.” She kissed him, then leisurely kissed and licked her way down his neck to his chest. “What about family? Have you any brothers or sisters, Jack?”

A dark look passed briefly over his face. “One half-brother, Oliver. Our mum was Australian. She left my father and married an Englishman. Ollie’s dad. She died a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry. Is he younger than you, this half-brother? Older? Married?”

He raised his brow. “You’re very inquisitive.”

She lifted her lips from his chest. “I like you, Jack. I want to know all about you.” She pouted. “Is that wrong?”

“No.” He sighed. “Oliver’s divorced, with a kid. He’s younger and much more respectable than me.” He smiled slightly. “We don’t have much in common, but we get on well enough when we see each other – usually once a year or so. I make it a point to drop in at the Christmas holidays. His daughter Julia starts uni next year. Hard to believe.”

Jack closed his eyes as Giselle’s lips made their warm, persuasive way across his stomach.

“What does he do for a living?” she asked, and lifted inquisitive blue eyes to his. “Is he an arms dealer, too?”

Jack let out a short, mirthless laugh. “God, no. He’s an investments manager. He doesn’t like what I do for a living. Not that I sell weapons, but that I sell to both sides. It makes no difference to me. Selling arms is a business exchange. What happens afterwards is out of my control.”

“So,” Giselle murmured as her head and mouth moved lower, “you’re the black sheep of the family.”

He wanted to say no, he wasn’t; that moniker belonged to another, not him. But as the Brazilian’s lips moved lower, Jack found himself unable to utter another word.

So it was with a mixture of irritation and misgivings that he woke to the buzz of a text message an hour later.

As Giselle slept, Jack retrieved his phone and glanced down at the five lines of text on his mobile screen.

Julia’s missing. She went to Bethnal Green with Adesh Patel, her new boyfriend, and they’ve both vanished. Valery’s convinced she’s run away. I’m afraid her disappearance may be gang related.

Need your help urgently, Jack. Please.

Jack frowned and sat up. Shit, Oliver’s message was dated Sunday night… it was already early Monday morning in Colombia. Bloody lousy phone service. He immediately sent his brother a text.

Just got your message. In Bogotá at the moment. Be there as soon as I possibly can. Hold tight.

He punched in the number to call Oliver, determined to get further details about his missing niece Julia… and equally determined to find out exactly what was going on back there in Maida Vale.

Chapter 7

At some point, despite her terror, Jools dozed off. She woke with a start, her muscles cramped and stiff, and found herself shivering with cold. The scarf was still knotted tightly around her eyes, the engine rumbled, but the van was slowing down.

After a few minutes the van stopped, and the door slid open. It sounded as if their assailants had jumped out. They spoke in Turkish in low voices just outside; then the voices faded, and all grew quiet. Jools smelled petrol.

“Desh?” she whispered, her throat thick with fear. “Desh, are you there?”

“Yeah.” His voice, low and hurried, came from somewhere to her right. “They’ve stopped for fuel, I think.”

“Can you see anything?”

“Not much. If I tilt my head back, I can see a bit.” He paused. “They went inside the motorway station. Come on, we haven’t much time. We’ve got to get out of here. Now.”

“But I can’t see! And my wrists are tied together.”

“I’ve just got my hands loose, I’ll help you. Hang on.” She felt Desh’s hand grip her arm and pull her roughly to her feet.

“I’m scared,” she babbled, “really scared—”

“Shh. We’ve got to get away. This may be our only chance.”

So saying, he slid out the door and pulled Jools down after him. He yanked her scarf down and guided her, stumbling and petrified, around the van and across the shadowy Tarmac. She thought she heard a shout somewhere behind them in Turkish.

Jools didn’t know what they would’ve done if not for the lorry driver. He saw them slide out of the van as he stood at the petrol pump, saw her bound wrists and the scarf Adesh pulled away from her eyes, and he knew something was very wrong.

“Get in,” he hissed, and indicated the jump seat behind the cab. “Hurry, before they cotton on.”

They ducked inside the lorry’s cab, keeping their heads down, and crouched on the floor behind the driver’s seat. They waited, it seemed like forever, as the driver hung up the pump and retrieved his credit card, but it was only a minute or two.

The driver cleared his windscreen with a squeegee, whistling tunelessly as he did. Jools knew he didn’t want to attract attention from their Turkish friends by jumping into the lorry and taking off; but still, she wanted to scream, terrified that they’d be found and dragged back into the van.

“Now, then,” the driver said cheerily as he climbed in and started the engine a few minutes later, “it’s off we go.”

“What are they doing?” Adesh asked him in a low voice.

“They’re searching the car park. A couple of ’em are running out to the road. Stay low, mind,” the driver warned them grimly. “I’ll have us out of here in two ticks.”

True to his word, he drove the lorry right past their assailants, who Jools heard conferring excitedly in Turkish, and turned onto the road.

“Are they following us?” she asked anxiously.

The driver glanced back in his rear-view mirror. “No. They never saw you lot get in, so I think you’re free and clear. I’ll keep my eyes peeled, just the same.” He eyed Adesh curiously in the mirror.

“Care to tell me what’s going on, mate?”

Adesh let out a short breath. “We went to my auntie’s house in Bethnal Green, and these two men came up out of nowhere and grabbed us.”

“Well, that’s a bit odd, innit? I mean, they didn’t try to rob you first, or sommat like that?”

“No. They just grabbed us and threw us in the van.”

“It was awful,” Jools added, and started once again to shiver. “They nearly dislocated my shoulder.” It still hurt. “And they were speaking Turkish.”

The driver’s eyes narrowed. “Turkish? You’re not a pair of drug mules, are you? I don’t want nowt to do with no heroin trafficking—”

“No, of course we’re not drug mules!” she snapped. “Do we look like bloody drug mules?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve got school tomorrow, and Mum doesn’t even know I’m gone, and Dad’ll be frantic.” She began, to her eternal shame, to cry.

The driver – John, he told them – extracted a couple of crumpled tissues from his pocket and thrust them back at Jools. “Don’t take on so, lass. I’ll get you home, soon as we get to the next motorway station.”

“Where are we, anyway?” Adesh asked curiously. “I figure we were in that van for three or four hours.”

“Yorkshire,” John answered. “Rotherham, to be exact.” He pulled into a well-lit roadway station, parked, and reached for his wallet. “How’re you two fixed for money?”

“I have fifteen quid in my wallet,” Adesh told him.

John shook his head and held out a couple of ten-pound notes. “That won’t go far. Go on, take it. It’s not much, but at least you can go in there and call your folks, have sommat to eat. And try to stay clear of Turkish gangs, mind.”

“Thank you so much!” Jools said fervently. “You probably saved our lives back there.”

He waved her thanks – and her promise to pay him back – away. “I’ve a daughter of my own at home. Wouldn’t want to see her in this kind of a fix, would I? Speaking of which, I’ve got to get home myself. The wife will have my tea and toast waiting. You lot go home too, now, and behave yourselves. Ta.”

“Ta,” Jools echoed, and climbed down from the cab after Adesh. Once on the ground, she turned back. “Thanks again, John… for everything.”

He nodded. “Just glad I could help, lass.”

With that he reached over to pull shut the door, and with a gassy release of the lorry’s brake, he waved and pulled away, turning the lorry back onto the motorway.

Chapter 8

It was nearly dawn before Valery fell into a restless sleep haunted by nightmares. She sat up in bed as her phone shrilled out into the fading darkness, and her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she grabbed it.

“Jools,” she croaked. “Jools, is that you?”

There was a pause. “No, Val, it’s me. Marcus. I was on my way into the studio and I heard what happened, it’s all over the morning news. I take it they haven’t found Jools yet.”

She sagged back against the pillows. “No. No, they haven’t. The police think she’s run away.” She raised her fist to her mouth to stop herself from giving in to hysteria. “It’s my fault, all of it.”

“Of course it’s not.”

“I was horrible when Oliver brought her home, I was angry and overworked and I lashed out at the both of them. If she’s run away it’s down to me. And I’ll never forgive myself.” She began, then, to cry.

“Valery,” Marcus reassured her, his words gentle, “you can’t blame yourself. You know what kids are like at this age – they’re difficult and impossible on the best of days. They want their independence but it scares them at the same time. You’re a good mum, you always have been. It isn’t easy being a single parent – as I know only too well.”

She sniffled and dragged in a breath. “Thanks. I just have to wait, and trust that they’ll bring Jools home again, safe and sound. I have to believe that. How’s Poppy?” she asked as she reached for a tissue.

“Upset over a break-up with her boyfriend. That’s why I stayed with her over the weekend, Val. She needed me.”

Valery sighed. “I know. Sorry I hung up on you.” She threw the covers aside and got up. “I’ve been a beast to everyone lately. It’s just so frustrating to sit and wait, wondering and worrying what’s happening with Jools, and not being able to do a damned thing about it.”

“I’ve been through it with Poppy, Val. I know just what you’re going through. I promise you, you’ll have your daughter back home before you know it. Now put on the kettle,” Marcus ordered, “and make yourself a cup of chamomile tea. No coffee, it’ll only make you jittery. And give her room a good clean. It’s in desperate need.”

She let out a shaky laugh. “You’re right. Her bedroom’s a tip.” The thought of straightening her daughter’s bed, dusting her bookshelves and tidying away the clothes and shoes strewn on the floor calmed her.

“I love you, Marcus,” Valery added softly. “I feel a tiny bit better. Thank you.”

“She’ll be home again,” he promised. “Soon.”

“Look, you needn’t stick around, Jools,” Adesh said in a low voice as he leaned across the Formica surface of the mini-mart table. “You can go home. They want me, after all, not you.”

“No, I’m fucking well not leaving you to deal with this alone!” she hissed. “Besides, if I go back to London and they see me again, they’ll want to know where you are.” She frowned. “Why are they after you, Desh? What have you done?”

“I haven’t done anything.” He scowled. “I’m not selling drugs or anything like that, if that’s what you think.”

“Then why? John’s right. Gangs don’t just grab someone off the street for no reason.”

For a few minutes Desh was silent, scowling down at his trainers. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said finally.

“Try me,” Jools snapped. “Look, I’ve just been grabbed off the street, tied up and thrown into a van, and dragged halfway across England. I think you owe me a bloody explanation.”

Desh sighed. “It’s because of my dad. He owns the restaurant, right? And it does a decent business. So the local gang expects him to pay £8,000 a year… every year.”

“But…that’s crazy!” She drew herself up indignantly. “It’s extortion. Why on earth should your father have to pay them anything?”

“Because that’s the way it works. I told you, you wouldn’t understand.”

“How can I understand if you don’t tell me?” she retorted.

“It’s protection money, Jools. If my dad pays up, the Bombers won’t bother him – or the rest of us. But the problem is…we haven’t got the money. My father took out a loan to buy the place, and most of what we make in profit goes right back into paying off the loan.”

“So…what happens if you can’t pay?”

He shrugged. “They’ll beat me up, or set fire to our car, or grab one of us and hold us hostage until Dad coughs up the money. That’s where I come in.”

“But that’s horrible,” Jools exclaimed,. “Why doesn’t your father just go to the police?”

“He can’t, Jools. He’s here illegally. And they know it. The police would have him deported, and then what would we do?”

She had no answer. They finished their egg and chip sandwiches and coffee and made their way back outside. “I should call Mum.”

“No, don’t.” Adesh shook his head firmly. “It’s better if she doesn’t know where we are, in case…”

“In case what?” she demanded, appalled. “You don’t think they’d do anything to hurt Mum, do you?”

“No.” He didn’t sound very convincing. “It’s just better if she doesn’t know where we are right now, that’s all.”

“But I can’t let her worry about me, either! God, she’ll be frantic. She’s probably called the police. And my dad—”

Suddenly Adesh grabbed her arm and pulled her around the corner of the building. “Shit! Our Turkish friends just pulled in.” Sure enough, when Jools peered around the corner, she saw the white van turning from the motorway onto the petrol station’s forecourt.

“Oh, fuck.” She was hyperventilating. “They’ll go in and ask if anyone’s seen us, and they’ll describe us, and the lady at the counter will say yes, we were just here, and that lot won’t give up until they find us again—”

“Shut up, Jools. I need to think.” Desh turned away to scan the Tarmac; his glance came to rest on a motorcycle parked on the gravel nearby.

She was breathless with terror. “What’ll we do, Desh, oh fuck, what’ll we do—”

But he was already crouching down next to the yellow Ducati, groping in the darkness, reaching out to find the ignition wires. “Good thing it’s an older model, or I couldn’t do this.” After a moment he touched the two wires together and the engine started with a low growl. Adesh swung his leg over the seat. “Get on!” he urged. “Hurry up.”

Crikey, he didn’t have to tell her twice. She swung herself on the bike behind him, clumsy with terror, and wrapped her arms tightly round his waist.

“Do you know how to drive this thing?” Jools called out over the roar of the engine.

“No,” he called back grimly, “but I reckon I’m about to learn.”

With a spurt of gravel and a rush of adrenaline, they were off, leaving the motorway station behind as they roared off into the darkness and headed into the unfamiliar Yorkshire countryside.