Hunter Hunted by Jack Gatland (best value ebook reader .TXT) 📗

like that,’ she replied. ‘We need to stay off the grid for a day or so. Give Alex a chance to recover, to let the swelling on his brain drop. I figured that because of your past association, this would probably be one of the last places they’d look.’

Jackie nodded, looking back to Monroe. ‘I seem to remember though, that the last time we spoke, you said you would tear down this poxy little boxing club and stick me behind bars so fast I wouldn’t even have time to change shirts.’

‘And I seem to recall that you replied with an offer to gut me like a pig and lace me into one of your heavy bags.’ Monroe looked back to the new heavy bags being installed. ‘Seems a shame to damage these nice new ones, though.’

‘I think you’ll find that was Johnny that said that,’ Jackie said. ‘I would have done it there and then.’

He looked back to Doctor Marcos.

‘I could help, I suppose,’ he mused. ‘But what’s in it for me?’

‘Haven’t we done enough for you?’ Doctor Marcos actually laughed at this. ‘We just cleared the way for a takeover of North London and Birmingham for you, or whoever you set up. We showed you a traitor in your midst and stopped their attempt to take over your territory. I’d say you owe us right now.’

Jackie shrugged. ‘I need a little more,’ he said.

Doctor Marcos leaned in.

‘I’m a forensic examiner and Divisional Surgeon,’ she whispered. ‘I know how to kill a man and never leave a mark. How to torture them to the point of death and then bring them back to life. Years of experience working with bodies and murder scenes. More knowledge than the average hitman. And I’ll owe you.’

Jackie Lucas held out a hand with a smile.

‘Welcome to my home,’ he said.

18

Doubleback

It took Declan around fifteen minutes to make it eastwards to St Pauls. He’d ambled, ensuring that he didn’t stand out, keeping his collar high and his head low. Wearing a suit and coat he looked like most of the surrounding people; city folk out for a late lunch, or simply taking a break from their offices. Which in a strange way was exactly what he was doing.

As he walked, he made plans. Declan was a copper through and through, but his time in the Special Investigations Service of the Military Police had pitted him against some of the best operatives in the armed forces, and hunting them down he’d seen the tricks and routes that they took to avoid capture. Now he was gamekeeper turned poacher, these evasion techniques were now ones that he was going to utilise.

The first plan was to set a false trail. That was easy, but more complicated than it should be. He had to give away a series of clues to his location without being too obvious. And, while doing that, he needed to work out where his actual destination was.

Nasir Gill had said that Francine Pearce was under house arrest. He could find the location somehow; he was sure of it. And then he had to get in somehow and speak to her. He needed to gain information on Rattlestone, confirm that something connected the murder of Kendis to Charles Baker.

Who for some reason was his ally in this.

Was he wrong? Was this not connected to Baker? He knew without a doubt that Rattlestone had killed Kendis, and most likely because of her investigation, but now he needed to prove it. Monroe was in the wind too; most likely hunting his own nemesis. Declan wished he could help his mentor somehow but knew that if he did, he’d be bringing a most likely national terrorist manhunt with him.

A manhunt that he now needed to evade.

There was a sportswear shop near St Pauls; Declan walked in, quickly picking up a pale grey zip hoodie, some black tracksuit bottoms, a baseball cap and a dark brown fake suede bomber jacket. He bought cheaply, avoiding known brands, picking a small grey backpack as his last purchase. The total was just over fifty pounds for all the items and they were placed into a large carrier bag. Declan used some notes he’d taken from his father’s book safe the previous day. He couldn’t believe that it was only yesterday; so much had happened since then.

Now with these items, Declan moved quietly into an opticians two doors down, finding the chunkiest pair of black men’s glasses on display and quietly pocketing them as he left. Many opticians had no security for the testing frames, and nobody called out after him, unaware of the simple theft. As he progressed into St Paul’s Churchyard, he rubbed at the lens of the glasses, rolling off the sticker that gave the cost of the frames, placing the frames into his pocket as he walked into his final destination, an outdoors shop specialising in camping equipment.

Here he was less restrained, actively smiling and talking to the receptionist, asking her suggestions for a small sleeping bag and a medium-sized rucksack. He claimed it was for his daughter, going to Hull University and, when he’d picked two suitable items, some men’s socks and a fold up rain cover, he placed the shopping bag and camping items into the rucksack, secured it, placed it over his shoulder and paid for the items with his credit card.

He knew that this would be found. He wanted it to be found.

From there, Declan caught a black cab, paying once more with his card to Kings Cross Station. Pulling up at the front, Declan thanked the driver, ensuring that he saw Declan’s face, and made his way into the main concourse, recently renovated with a white framed diagram roof that arched over the open space below and the shops and upper level food outlets to the left. He walked over to a payphone, one of the few seemingly left in London and, popping a pound coin in, dialled a number.

Jess answered