Savage Redemption (The Caraksay Brotherhood #10)

Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

Fuerteventura, Two days later

Adan

We rendezvous in a beachside café at Caleta del Fuste on the east coast of Fuerteventura. It’s a busy resort. Tourists throng everywhere, drawn to the endless beaches and classy golf courses, not to mention the year-round sunshine.

I arrive first and order beers for both of us. Baz joins me after ten minutes or so, the bulky bandage around his left shoulder testament to the recent near tragedy.

“How’s Lily?” I ask as soon as he takes his seat.

“No change. Still in intensive care.”

“And Julia?”

“Desperate. She won’t leave Lily’s side.”

“To be expected,” I offer. “Rosie sends her love. Thank you, by the way, for what you did back there, at the hacienda.”

He nods and samples the beer. “This stuff is good.”

I consider the subject changed. “Okay, so, I was going to hit him outside one of his clubs, but you know his movements better than I do. Where do you suggest?”

He considers my question, sipping pensively on his beer. “That could work, but he tends to be surrounded by guards when he’s checking on his investments, especially at night. And we’d need to make sure it’s a night when Janey isn’t with him, but she tends not to go out as much, not since the baby.”

“Agreed, so, if not a club, where?”

“My choice would be the racecourse.”

I regard him with interest. “Why?”

“Tends to be crowded on race days. Easy to approach unnoticed and do the deed without anyone realising what’s happening.” He grins. “Thousands of witnesses, and no one sees a thing.”

“How can you be sure?”

“There’ll be guards, and cameras, but not so many. If we pick our moment, just as a race is coming to a climax, all eyes will be on the track. We could get it done and slip away while they’re still trying to work out what just happened.”

“Who’s his second-in-command now?”

“He doesn’t have one. At least, not anyone he can really trust. A guy called Aleksy is probably the nearest he has. Good in a fight, and loyal, but not the brightest tool in the box. Kaminski will be doing his own brainwork now, and it was never his strongest point. He tended to rely on me, so he’s seriously out of practise. His security has gone downhill, I do know that.”

“How do you know?”

“I set up his systems, and I can still hack in when I want to. I’ve been monitoring his operation for a while now, and things have got sloppy. Key sites not adequately guarded, infrequent auditing of accounts. Wouldn’t surprise me if some of his managers are robbing him blind already. Never would have happened in my day.”

“Right, so, the racing, then.”

“There’s a race meeting tomorrow, should draw a decent crowd.”

“How do we know he’ll be there?”

“One of my best four-year-olds is running. His form is excellent. Kris will want to see it and collect his winnings.”

“Ah, right. You were into breeding horses.”

“Still am.”

“What time’s the big race?”

“Goes at three-fifteen. It’s over four furlongs, so at around twelve seconds a furlong?—”

“You have this all worked out.”

His lip quirks. “To the second. I’ve given it a lot of thought. He’ll be in the winners’ enclosure, so we need to be in position at the start of the race and move in close after thirty seconds. We hit him when they reach the home straight.”

“We?” I’m not sure I like the sound of that. “What about that shoulder? And you’re well known on Tenerife. You could too easily be recognised.”

His eyes narrow. “I need to do this.”

“Not as much as you need him to be dead. Trust me, it’s better if I do the deed.”

“Not a chance!”

He has to listen. “Think about this, Baz. It only needs one person to spot you and raise the alarm…”

“I can?—”

“No. We’ll do this your way, at the racecourse, but it has to be me. You deal with the logistics, get us onto the island without anyone knowing, make sure we have a car ready for the getaway, draw me a map of the course and acquire a pass for me to get into the winners’ enclosure. But you stay out of sight. Right?”

He glares at me. I can see his indecision. He’s wrestling with the dilemma, but in his heart he knows I’m right. He might not like it, but the success of the mission is paramount. Eventually, the strategist wins out. He mutters something obscene in Polish.

“Okay, we do it your way.” He downs the remainder of his beer and pulls out his phone. “We need a fast motor launch, and a hire car.”

I tug at my collar. It’s not exactly comfortable wearing a smart business suit in thirty degrees of heat, but Baz insists that’s the correct attire for a race day. It’s vital I don’t stand out, for any reason.

Baz has acquired us a van. A battered old vehicle with the name of a local bakery emblazoned on the side. Despite the unprepossessing exterior, I’m assured that under the bonnet is pure dynamite. It cost us a small fortune, to hire the transport and pay the owner to disappear to mainland Spain for a few days.

“A van?” I observe, peering suspiciously at it.

“I’ll ride in the back, out of sight. You drive, and park in front of the HyperDino Express.”

I recognise the name of the Spanish supermarket chain. “Where is it?”

“A couple of hundred yards from the racecourse entrance. It’ll be busy at that time in an afternoon, easy to melt into the crowd. I’ll be in the back and keep in touch with you via this.” He hands me a wire. “We keep communications to a minimum, but I need to know when you’re on your way out. I’ll be right outside the gates.”

I tuck the wire inside my shirt and test the reception.

“Okay,” Baz continues, “and I thought again about the weapon of choice.”

“I have that,” I assure him, the sharpened stiletto safely tucked in my waistband.

“Use this.” He produces a syringe, the needle covered with a plastic shield.

“I’m not sure…” I prefer the tried-and-tested knife between the ribs.

“Think about it. If he collapses in a pool of blood, it’ll be obvious at once what’s happened. His guards may be dim, but not that dim. First thing they’ll do, if they have any sense, is seal the perimeter. You could be trapped.”

He has a point. “Where did you get this?”

“A contact of mine. A vet. He also let me have a slug of ketamine, enough to fell a horse. Which is what it’s meant for, in fact. Doesn’t matter where you stick him, just make sure you depress the plunger fully then make yourself scarce. Don’t hang around to watch him go down. It’ll take a few seconds, and you need to be well away.”

I can well see how Baz rose from nothing to be Kaminski’s underboss and retained that position for over a dozen years. The man thinks of everything. I take the syringe and examine it. It’s not loaded. “Where’s the ketamine?”

“Here.” He hands me a phial of colourless liquid. “Don’t load it until you’re actually at the racecourse, but not inside. We don’t need any sharp-eyed guard clocking you. And I don’t have to tell you to be careful, do I? I’d hate for you to have an unfortunate mishap.”

“Not as much as I would. Right.” I check my watch. “Just turned one o’clock. How long will it take to get to the location?”

“An hour or so, and we need to find a parking space near the supermarket exit. We don’t want to get stuck in a queue to get out.”

“Let’s go, then.” I hop behind the wheel and start the engine.

Baz jumps in the passenger side but clambers over the seat to tuck himself away in the back. “I’m texting you the plan of the course. Winners’ enclosure is right in front of the stand. Here’s your pass.” He hands me a bright-gold-coloured badge adorned with a black tassel. “Put it on. It’s access all areas, so you should have no trouble moving about.”

I pin the badge to my lapel. Right, we’re off.

We park up with no trouble, and I load the syringe from the phial.

“Keep the cover over the needle until you’re ready to do the deed, then just get it done and get away.”

“I worked that out for myself, thanks.”

He runs through the arrangements one final time. “You’ll need to text me as soon as it’s done and you’re on your way out. I’ll be at the exit waiting for you.”

“Fair enough.” I set up the text on my phone so all I’ll have to do is press ‘send’. I double-check my watch. “It’s almost two-thirty. Time to go.”

“Good luck.”

I approach the racecourse at a brisk pace. There’s no queue to get in. The first race was a couple of hours ago, and most of the punters arrived then. A roar goes up from within the ground as I negotiate the turnstile. Sounds like the two-forty is just reaching a climax.

Baz was right about the crowds. It’s easy to blend in with the eager racegoers mingling and thronging towards the row of bookmakers’ kiosks arranged beside the track, their betting slips to hand.

The main stand towers over the proceedings, and I make my way in that direction. The winners’ enclosure is clearly signposted, with the warning sign at the entrance that the area is pass holders only.

From the third row in the stand, I can easily see over the heads of the people crowded into the winners’ enclosure, the general air of excitement and anticipation almost tangible. Or maybe that’s just me. I pick out Kaminski’s dark-blond head, close to the rail at the front. As owner of both the track and the favourite runner, he’s got himself into prime position, a few paces from the finish line.

Okay, here goes…

I gesture to my access-all-areas pass, and the bouncer on the gate waves me past. Once inside the enclosure, I make my way unobtrusively through the crowd towards the front rail, taking up a position two or three ranks back. Unless he turns to scan the crowd behind him, Kaminski won’t see me. And there doesn’t look to be much chance of that, the horses in the three-fifteen are already prancing out onto the track to parade in front of the eager crowd. Kaminski’s attention is riveted on number seven, the five-to-four favourite.

It’s a fine animal. Baz’s obsession makes some sort of sense to me.

It takes fifteen minutes or so for the procession of premium horseflesh to make its way to the starting gates and for all of the runners to be safely installed.

A hush falls, and suddenly, they’re off.

The air is filled with the pounding of hooves, competing with the shouts of encouragement from around the ground. I make my way forward to stand just behind my quarry. In what seems like no time, the horses round the last bend and thunder down the final straight towards where we are standing. The roar from the crowd is deafening. The pounding of flashing hooves equally so as they stream past us, number seven a nose in front.

All eyes are on the track, just as Baz forecast. Perfect.

I withdraw the syringe from my inside pocket and remove the cap. Kaminski is bellowing at his horse, paying no attention whatsoever to anything else going on around him, and I can spot no guards anywhere nearby.

I move in close and select my spot. Not the upper body, he’s wearing a leather jacket despite the fucking heat. So, his right buttock, then, straight through his flannel pants.

It’s done in a moment. The needle sinks into his flesh, and I press the plunger hard.

Kaminski lets out a startled yelp and starts to turn, his hand flying to his arse as though to swat away whatever bit him.

I duck to the left and step away.

Don’t run, don’t run. Don’t attract attention. I hit ‘send’ on my phone without even taking it from my pocket, then pick up my pace as I approach the exit. I mutter something to the man on the gate about a five-to-four winner. He congratulates me and I head for the bookies’ stalls.

Behind me, the alarm has been raised. I drop the empty syringe into a rubbish bin while men charge past me heading for the winners’ enclosure, guns at the ready. They ignore me, and no one seems to have thought to seal the outer exits.

Shit! Spoke too soon . I veer away from the bookmakers’ kiosks towards the exit to the outside in time to see the huge iron gates start to swing shut. I briefly consider making a dash for it, but the sight of at least a dozen guns scanning the crowd convinces me otherwise.

I halt, try to think of another way out. I could potentially vault the wall, but the likelihood of collecting a bullet in my back doesn’t excite me. I swing around. My best chance is to get lost in the crowd as the panic mounts and leave with everyone else once the guards give up the search.

“This way, se?or .”

The unexpected voice at my shoulder is low and urgent. I pivot. A small, middle-aged man is beckoning me from a couple of paces away.

“We do not have long, se?or . This way, please.”

What the fuck? I consider my other options. None of them stand out as especially attractive.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demand, falling into step beside him.

“My name is Feliks,” he replies simply. “I work for Mr Kaminski. Or I did, obviously. Until you just put a stop to that.”

“Where are we going?”

“Service entrance, behind the main stand.”

“Won’t it be locked?” They won’t be delivering Prosecco and ice cream when the racing is actually on.

“I have the key,” he assures me, patting his pocket.

We leave the milling, panic-stricken crowd behind. Women are screaming, and the wail of an ambulance echoes from beyond the outer wall of the racecourse, but I know it’s already too late. I plugged him with enough ketamine to kill an elephant. And now, for some bizarre reason, one of his men is helping me to escape.

We break into a sprint once we reach the seclusion of the service area. I grasp my companion by the elbow and slam him against the outer wall.

‘Why are you doing this, Feliks?”

He’s out of breath, clearly not accustomed to such vigorous exercise. “Let me go. We don’t have time for this.”

“Make fucking time,” I growl. “Who are you really, and why are you helping me?”

He wriggles, but it’s futile. I’m getting on for twice his size. “You say you worked for Kaminski. What as?” A less convincing guard I never saw.

“Accountant,” he pants.

I look him up and down. It’s possible, I suppose. “My original question still stands. Why?” I lift him off his feet and shake him by way of encouragement.

“Do you…? Do you know Mr Bartosz?” he manages.

“No.” I see no point in telling him anything I don’t have to.

“If you see him, tell him… tell him to contact me. Feliks. Or Aleksy. We have a proposition for him.”

“Proposition?”

“Kaminski is no good. He is a fool, or he was. You did us a favour. We lose money. Clubs are raided, closed down. Men die. He needed Mr Bartosz. Mr Bartosz ran things, we did well. But now…”

Now, there’s a vacancy. I don’t utter it out loud, but I understand him well enough.

I lower Feliks to the ground. “The key?” I demand, holding out my hand.

“You will tell Mr Bartosz?”

“No. I won’t be seeing him. The key. Now.”

He places it in my hand, and I make a dash for the padlocked gate. I unlock it and slip out into a backstreet.

No way am I making my way round to the main gate where Baz will be waiting, along with thousands of terrified punters and probably half the Tenerife constabulary as well. I drag the phone from my pocket and speed dial his number.

“Change of plan,” I bark when he answers. “I’m round the back, side street, service entrance.”

“What the fuck are you doing there?”

“Like I said, change of plan.”

“I’ll be there in thirty seconds.”

In no more than twenty, the battered bakery van trundles round the corner. I make a dash for the passenger seat and throw myself inside. “Drive,” I snarl. “Just fucking drive.”