Manhunter by Chris Ryan (the false prince series .TXT) 📗

They followed him across the foyer, towards a bank of private lifts reserved for the building’s wealthiest residents. The concierge touched a master key card against a magnetic reader below the control panel and selected the eighteenth floor from the touchscreen display. The leftmost lift doors pinged open, and then Bowman and Webb stepped inside the gold-decorated car. The concierge trotted back to his station. The doors slid gently shut.

The soldiers kept their heads low as they rode upwards, shielding their faces from the security cameras.

‘What the fuck was that about?’ Webb said icily.

‘I forgot the name of the company,’ Bowman muttered. ‘It’s no big deal, mate.’

‘You almost blew the op.’

‘It was a mistake,’ Bowman said in a low voice. ‘Won’t happen again.’

‘You’d better hope not.’

‘What did you say to that guy?’ asked Bowman.

Webb glanced at him, a flinty look in his eyes. ‘I told him it was your first day on the job,’ he said. ‘And probably your last, too.’

The lift announced their arrival on the eighteenth floor with a strident ring. Bowman and Webb stepped out into a private landing. Bowman had studied the floor plan during the flight to Nice and the layout was instantly familiar to him. Two doors on the right led through to the emergency stairwell and a maintenance room. There was a service lift on the left side of the landing, next to a storage compartment.

At the far end was the front door to David Lang’s apartment.

Bowman gripped the document wallet tightly as he walked up to the door with Webb. He felt the Ruger grip beneath his thick jacket, pressing against his torso as they halted in front of the door. Webb rapped the brass knocker twice and took half a step back. He slid his right hand down to his side. Ready to draw his weapon. Bowman did the same.

The door snicked open. A figure stood in the doorway, hard-edged and thin-lipped, with a massive gold chain draped like a garland around his neck and eyes so cold they could freeze a lake.

David Lang stared impatiently at the two men in the corridor. He was dressed in a fine shirt the colour of champagne and a pair of slim-fit jeans. The spider-faced watch on his wrist gleamed under the soft glow of the ceiling lights. He had no scars on his face, but in every other way he was identical to his twin brother Freddie.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ Lang said, looking from Bowman to Webb with narrowed eyes.

Webb reverted to his Brummie accent.

‘Papers for you to sign, sir. We were told it’s urgent.’

He indicated the plastic wallet Bowman was holding. Lang’s eyebrows came together in suspicion. ‘First I’ve heard about it. Who are they from?’

‘That’s none of our business, sir. We were just asked to make the delivery.’

Lang sighed. ‘Well, don’t just fucking stand there. What have I got to sign?’

‘The documents are just here, sir,’ Bowman said.

He fumbled with the tamperproof zip, distracting Lang. As Bowman reached inside for the documents, Webb tore his Ruger free from his holster and brought it up to shoulder height, shoving the barrel close to the mobster’s face.

‘What the f—’

‘Step away from the door,’ Webb said coolly. ‘Now.’

Lang glowered at the soldiers but didn’t argue. Sound logic. He couldn’t hold a debate with a nine-milli pistol two inches from his face. He held up his hands and retreated two slow steps from the doorway, his nostrils flared with rage. Bowman deholstered his pistol and crept into the hallway behind Webb, the semi-automatic unsteady in his clammy grip. He closed the door, dumped the wallet on the side table, next to a leather bifold wallet and a Range Rover key fob, and took up a position at Webb’s right shoulder.

‘You’re making a big fucking mistake,’ Lang said. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’

‘Shut up,’ Webb snapped. ‘Make a move and I’ll blow your brains out.’

In the same breath Bowman glimpsed a sudden movement to the right of the hallway. He whirled round to his three o’clock, his index finger tense around the safety built into the Ruger’s trigger mechanism. A pot-bellied man in a tweed suit stood five metres away in the middle of the living room, his mouth hanging open in dumb surprise. A trilby hat and a gold-crowned rattan cane rested on the coffee table in front of him, along with a half-full bottle of Lagavulin single malt and a couple of tumblers.

The real Ken Seguma.

‘Stay where you are,’ Bowman said. ‘Sit and don’t move.’

Seguma stood his ground. His wide eyes darted between the soldiers and Lang. ‘Who are you? What the hell is going on, David?’

‘Sit down,’ Bowman ordered. ‘Last chance.’

‘Do as he says, Ken,’ Lang said.

Seguma lowered himself onto the leather sofa. He looked numb with shock and confusion. Bowman kept his weapon trained on the tyrant while Webb dug out a pair of plasticuffs from his back pocket. He brought Lang’s hands behind his back, cinched the plastic ties around his wrists. Then Webb grabbed him by the upper arm and manhandled him into the living room, shoving him towards the sofa.

‘Sit the fuck down,’ Webb barked.

Lang set himself down beside Seguma. He stared up at Webb with a sadistic look in his eyes, his lips set in a hard line.

‘You’ll regret this,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

‘Shut up,’ Webb snapped. He nodded at Bowman. ‘Clear the other rooms.’

Bowman backed out of the living room and set off across the hallway. He was sweating freely now, his body ached, as if a million needles were pricking his skin. He charged into the kitchen and visually swept the area for threats. He hooked round an island the size of a sarcophagus, peeked into the laundry room, then backed out again and hurried past the study and the dining room and the staff quarters. He knew from studying the floor plan that the sleeping quarters were located at the far end of