Ryan Kaine is on the money…
When a member of The 83 dies in an apparent accident, Kaine knows better.
A faceless leader of a drug gang rules the dead man’s neighbourhood and Kaine and his partner, Lara Orchard, go undercover to discover the truth. Offering financial support to the dead man’s grandson, they draw the attention of the local crew. Before they can complete their mission, Lara is attacked, and all bets are off.
Kaine prepares to take on the gang alone, but Lara will not be side-lined by a bunch of street thugs. If Kaine needs her help, she’s sure as hell going to provide it.
Together, Kaine and Lara are about to serve justice to them all…
If you like Lee Child, Vince Flynn, and Robert Ludlum, you’re going to find the Ryan Kaine series compulsively addictive.
READ FREE IN KINDLE UNLIMITED AND AUDIOBOOK PRE-ORDER COMING SOON!
Chapter 1
Tuesday 24th January —Byron Codell
Brooke Street, Walthamstow, London, England
Thou shalt not steal.
Bible said it loud and clear, and Bible was Goddamned fucking right. One of them Ten Commandment things.
Byron Arlon “Barcode” Codell didn’t know which Commandment exactly, but that didn’t matter a damn. What it meant mattered. Mattered big time.
Steal something, anything, food to survive even, and the thief would suffer the flames of hell for all eternity. Thieving fuckers would burn forever. That’s what Bible said.
Yeah, that’s right, stealing did a person’s soul no good in the afterlife, no good at all. But who gave a shit for souls? If that same thief took from Barcode, bad things would happen in the here and now. Right away. No one stole from Barcode.
Ain’t no one gonna mess with Barcode no more.
The ink lines on the back of his neck were a permanent reminder of what happened to anyone who tried to fuck him over. Barcode wasn’t never gonna take no disrespect. Not no more.
Which was why he was aiming to climb up on the garage roof in the middle of the night.
Some fucker were dipping his greasy fingers into Barcode’s pie, and that certain someone was gonna lose more than the same sticky fingers. The thieving pig-fucker was going to die.
Wrapped up in his heaviest parka and dressed all in black, apart from the white lines on his trainers, Barcode pulled the fur-lined hood over his shaved head. He cinched the drawstring tight under his nose to cover his mouth. Side flaps and fur threw his face into deep shadow.
He stuck his head over the top of the shoulder-high, wooden fence, and checked out the sloping back garden.
Nothing much had changed since the last time he’d been there, or since the old man kicked the bucket. Such a shame, but old people died, didn’t they? Nothing shocking in that. Nothing at all.
Unlike last time he’d climbed the fence, the crib stood dark as night.
No lights shone from the kitchen window over the shitty patch of land that had once been an okay back garden, with flowers and vegetables and shit. Back before the old man took ill and his wheelchair became his legs.
Stupid, old man thought he was still relevant, still worthy of respect. Not in Barcode’s books. Cripples was a waste of space. A waste of oxygen. A blight on the world. Should be swiped from the area, moved into homes. Culled or something.
But the old geezer were pushing up the daisies now. Gone to his Maker. Nothing mattered to him no more.
The old man’s grandson, Darwin Moore. He mattered, though. Still stayed in the house, but only on weekends. Never on a Tuesday. Darwin, the college boy geek, spent the week studying somewhere up north, which were the reason the house stood empty.
Perfect.
Even if the old boy had still been alive—sitting behind his net curtains, in front of his TV—he’d have been lost in his favourite soap. For the old, TV stood in for “product”, the street drugs Barcode and his posse shifted by the baggie load. Gramps woulda been sitting with his back to the window and the sound turned up loud enough for a deaf dog to hear the dialogue from a couple houses away. Nah, the old sod wouldn’t have noticed an armed assault force scrambling over his garden fence, let alone a stealthy black dude with a barcode tattoo on the back of his neck.
After pulling on his leather gloves, Barcode grabbed the top of the fence and vaulted over, landing in a patch of soft, sticky mud. He scuffed his tracks as he headed down the slight hill. Although the old bastard hadn’t been in the back garden for years before he croaked, on account of his wheelchair, no telling when Darwin would venture out for a look-see. Didn’t make no sense to leave a clear trail.
The crib—a two-bedroomed, end-of-terrace house—had to be worth a fucking mint, even in a shitty area like Brooke Street. Darwin shoulda sold up soon as Gramps kicked the bucket. Fuck knew why he didn’t. Probably wanted to keep it in memory of his dear, departed grandpa and his poor, murdered mother. Stupid, sentimental fuckwit should be living for the moment, not dwelling on the past. No profit in it.
The mother weren’t all that bright neither. Shouldn’t have left the crippled, old man on his own to fly off on a hen’s night. And why Amsterdam, for fuck’s sake? What was wrong with London? Bitch coulda had a good time down the West End for the same scratch as flying to Dutch-land.
Paid the price though, didn’t she? Mrs Moore and the others who died on that flight. Served her right. Served them all right. Blown outta the sky in a fireball.
Barcode smiled. Wished he coulda seen the boom for real and not just on some shaky phone footage.
Must’ve been a hell of a firework show.
Eighty-three dead. Either burned to charcoal, crushed on impact or—much worse—drowned in the freezing North Sea.
Yeah, Barcode woulda loved to have seen it in real life. Such a buzz.
Ah well. Can’t do nothin’ ’bout it now.
Keeping close to the fence, staying in the deep shadow, Barcode crept around the garden, the tall grass swishing up to his knees, soaking the legs of his jeans. He made it to the rear of the garage. The metal wheelbarrow was exactly where he’d left it, leaning against the garage wall. He used it to boost himself onto the flat roof.
Again, keeping close to the end wall of the house, Barcode scrambled on hands and knees to the front of the garage and squatted.
Simples.
Gave him the perfect view.
One of his own crew, fucking scumbag, had been dipping his fingers in the till, which meant the total take was coming up five percent short. Not much, but significant. In any other business, the shortfall mighta been explained away by bad weather keeping the punters off the streets and outta the shops. But in his industry, clients would crawl over shattered glass and sell their babies as sex slaves to raise the cash to cover the next fix.
Nah, a drop in revenue meant only one thing.
Thievery. Plain and simple.
He’d first noticed the shortage a couple days ago.
Up front, he thought about running to Top Man, but that would only have reflected badly on Barcode. It would probably have dropped him well and truly in the slime. No telling what TM woulda done. The invisible fucker might even put the evil eye on Barcode for dropping the ball. After all, the thievery was happening on one of Barcode’s pitches. Made him responsible for clearing up his own mess. In the end, Barcode made up the shortfall from his personal cut, but that couldn’t last forever. If the thieving fuck kept getting away with it, he’d only get greedier. Eventually, Barcode wouldn’t be able to cover the losses and that wouldn’t do. Not at all.
It had to stop, and stop right away.
If he didn’t flush out the scumbag and deal with the prick before TM sussed out the losses, TM would probably decide Barcode wasn’t up to the task of running his own crew. And that would put a cramp on his plans to move up in the Tribe and reach his ultimate goal.
Move TM aside and take over.
Complete and utter domination. The only thing that mattered to Barcode. But he was smarter than them mugs who tried to take over by playing hardball, all gung-ho but no smarts. Barcode played the long game. Over time, stealth were better than shock tactics.
He sucked air between his teeth, smiled, and settled down to study one third of his crew. That week’s evening shift. If he’d worked it out right, it wouldn’t take long to prove.
Barcode pulled a pair of stolen binoculars from the pocket of his parka and sat cross-legged on the tar-covered roof, hidden deep in the shadows. He raised them to his eyes and started in on the spying.
As he watched, his anger built.
He fed on it. Used it. Enjoyed it. Anger kept him warm.
If emotions made the man, Barcode was a man built of fire and rage. World saw him for what he was—big, powerful, angry. But there was more. Below the surface, hidden deep, lay ambition and a brain to take him to where he wanted to be. And a street-level, middle manager wasn’t nearly the final destination.
He’d go further. Much further.
Barcode was going to the top. Wouldn’t be easy. There were plenty of faces standing between him and TM’s spot. Yeah, plenty of wannabes, but none with Barcode’s patience or smarts.
To TM and his lieutenants, the Heavies, Barcode weren’t nothing special, not yet. But he was worth more than they knew. Even his handle meant more than he let on. The tat on the back of his neck—the barcode that gave him his tag—actually meant something. It wasn’t just a random load of fat and thin vertical lines. No way.
At aged twelve, he’d been turned on by a movie about a hired assassin who wore a barcode tattoo on the back of his neck. The young Byron wanted a tat just like it. Thought it would be cool. Saved up his hard-earned for months and spent hours each week in the school gym, building his muscles with weights, and his reflexes with the speed bags.
According to the rat-faced, broken-toothed tattoo artist who inked him, the vertical, black lines he’d etched into young Byron’s dark skin displayed nothing but his name, his handle—Hitman #48—and his date of birth.
“Barcode” was reborn that day, and he was totally fucking psyched. But, weeks later and after the scabs had healed, when he ran a Tesco’s barcode reader over the lines, the code gave a different result. It spewed out an insult to his mother and her love life. Even though he was fired up and spitting bullets, Barcode never told no one about how he’d been screwed over. Kept it to himself. Never allowed no one to run a scanner over the tat again, neither. Nobody could never accuse Barcode of being shit at keeping secrets.
Months later, someone out walking found the same rat-faced, heartless fucker who thought it funny to play games with his needle gun and mess with a teenage kid. Found him floating face down in the Thames, missing his eyes—and his heart.
Barcode didn’t tell no one he’d done the deed, neither. Yeah, Barcode could keep a secret all right.
Later, the filth tried to finger him for the deed. They call him in to “help with they enquiries”. Yeah, right. The fuck with that. Barcode were too smart for them. Ran rings around them during the interrogation, and they still didn’t have no clue.
Since then, he coulda paid another inker to cover the lines, change them, but he left it untouched as a lesson to himself not to be so stupid again. And besides, Barcode was, as the tat actually said, a Big Black Bastard.
Too fuckin’ right I is. And nobody’s ever gonna say different.
In the dark and the cold, Barcode watched and waited. And he smiled.
#
Brutus.
Yep.
Had to be Brutus.
Couldn’t’ve been no one else. No one else on his crew had the balls, or the stupidity.
The minute he discovered the pilferage, Barcode knew it had to be Brutus, the third mini-leader of his posse.
It had only taken a few seconds to rule out everyone else.
First, he cleared Petey. No way his blood, his brother, would do nothing to drop Barcode in the brown stuff. They’d known each other since nursery. Grown up together. Petey was as honest as any dealer had a right to be. Petey would die for Barcode and Barcode would let him.
Ha!
As for Rhino, the second stringer, Barcode cleared him almost as fast as he cleared Petey. Rhino didn’t have the stones, or the need. The musclebound cretin didn’t partake of the product, not even occasionally. Fine, upstanding member of the Tribe, he was. Didn’t even smoke normal cigarettes. Treated his body as a fucking temple, and worshiped his pregnant squeeze, Ariel. Top of all that was the clincher—Rhino, the scar-faced bugger, didn’t have the smarts to rip no one off without giving himself away in seconds.
That left Brutus. The third wheel. The third deputy. The bastard in charge of the pitch Barcode were watching through the binoculars.
Brutus.
You stupid, greedy, selfish fucker.
He had to go, but …
Barcode couldn’t deal with the thief without proof. The Tribe had its rules, and any member who pointed an accusing finger without proof was liable to find himself in as much trouble as the tribesman he accused.
Nah, Barcode needed evidence, which was how come he ended up sitting, cross-legged, on the flat, garage roof freezing his nuts off, risking butt cramp and piles.
As it happened, it only took twenty-five minutes to eyeball the act.
Slimy bastard!
Barcode spotted it when the fifth customer of the evening handed across her small bundle of creased notes—probably earned from lying on her back and spreading her scrawny legs. As the bitch scurried away, her fix held tight in a grimy fist, Brutus handed the cash to his rider, Lil’ Aran, who slid the notes into his backpack.
Lil’ Aran, ten years old, no more, spent the shift pedalling up and down the lanes between all the pitches, ready to make a lightning split the moment the bacon shoved they noses into Tribe business.
The routine was slick and simple. Barcode designed it for the purpose and it worked real well.
Customer arrives.
Money passes from customer to dealer—in this case, Brutus.
Dealer tips the nod to rider.
Rider—Lil’ Aran—rolls up on his BMX, takes cash, hands product to Brutus, and buggers off up the lane in a flat-out, wheel-spinning sprint.
Dealer passes product to customer.
Junkie buggers off, happy as shit, transaction complete, and no outsider any the wiser.
Only this time, while the client buggers off, baggie in her hot, little fist, and Lil’ Aran sprints away, Brutus stoops to tie his shoelace.
Again, no real issue, but, through the high-powered binoculars, Barcode couldn’t see nothing wrong with the laces in the first place. They sure didn’t seem loose to him.
First time it happened, Barcode didn’t think nothing of it. After all, no self-respecting crewman would allow his brilliant, white laces to go slopping in the puddles, but seven deals later, same thing happened, this time with the other shoe.
Once was all right, twice maybe, but it kept happening. Over the course of two hours, Brutus tied his laces five fucking times.
The big guy either hadn’t learned to tie his laces proper, which meant they kept coming undone, or he had another reason to fiddle with his sneakers.
Yeah. Another reason, right enough.
So fucking simple. When Barcode first sussed the shortfall, he’d credited Brutus with more brains. He expected the bastard to hand off the stolen money to an accomplice or an unwitting stooge. Maybe even hide it under a rock for a pickup in the middle of the night when even the hardest-bitten junkies crawled into their shitholes, and the Tribe had shut up shop for the day. He didn’t expect something so blatant. How long did the fucker think he’d get away with it for?
So simple and so stupid.
A fiver here and a tenner there, but over a week, it would mount up. In the two months since Top Man gave Barcode the pitch, the fucker coulda syphoned off fucking hundreds.
Plain, old, sleight of hand—or rather of foot. No accomplice. His fucking shoe! How careless to have missed it for so long.
Jesus fuck.
Barcode chewed his thumbnail down to the skin.
Disrespect.
Brutus was dissing him. Laughing at him.
For Brutus to treat Barcode that way showed more than greed. It showed contempt. Contempt for the Tribe and, worse still, contempt for Barcode.
Brutus is gone. End of.
Barcode crawled backwards along the roof and retraced his steps through the garden.
#
Barcode timed his approach so Lil’ Aran was heading towards the furthest point on his ride but before making his turn. The rider would be far enough away not to interfere if he was working the scam with Brutus, but close enough to act as witness and confirm Barcode didn’t plant the cash.
No point taking chances.
“Hey, blood,” Barcode called, smiling as he loped along the lane towards the pitch. “How’s it hangin’?”
He waved with his left hand, keeping his right tucked tight against his side.
Brutus, as wide as he was tall, nineteen stones of pure beef—and a bucket load of it between the ears—looked up. The thief’s eyebrows shot up.
His smile was as forced as any TV presenter Barcode had ever watched.
“Hey, blood. You early, man. Weren’t expectin’ you for a couple hours.”
Yeah, and that’s the whole point, fucker.
Brutus ripped the beanie from his head and used it to shoo away a mealy-mouthed, shit-for-brains regular who couldn’t pay the full fee. The yellow streetlight shone on Brutus’ polished dome.
Barcode stopped at arm’s length and pushed out his left fist—the sign things were cool. They bumped. All sweet and friendly, like.
“Thought I’d come see how shit was hangin’. Apart from that dickwad”—he tilted his head towards the disappearing, failed customer—“how’s trade?”
Brutus pulled the beanie back on and tucked his head into his shoulders. “Cold as fuck out here, man. I’m thinkin’ we should relocate the store. Maybe we could take over one of them houses and set up shop in the warm and the dry.” With his chin, he pointed at the street behind Barcode.
Taking care not to show Brutus his back, Barcode turned sideways and observed the row of houses running across from the alley, the closest had the garage he’d just been using. Above the fencing, the terrace stretched away and stopped when it reached the more expensive, semi-detached homes closer to the High Street. Each house showed lights. Each were lived in.
“Good idea, Brutus. Whose house we gonna occupy? How ’bout number fifteen? Yo’ Auntie Grace live there, right? You reckon we gonna set up in her front room? And what happens when the bacon come a-callin’? You’ll be holdin’, and the riders won’t have time to scoot nowhere. Nah, this shit’s what we do, and this here station’s where we stayin’.”
Brutus lowered his head even more. He shuffled from one foot to the other, all nervous.
“Wazzup, man? You need the toilet?”
“Nah, freezin’ my ass off, innit.”
The runt, Barcode’s real-life cousin, Lil’ Aran, stopped outta earshot, balanced on his pedals, flashing his pure, bike-handling skills. Looked like he could tell something were off and didn’t want no part in it.
Smart boy.
Any time now, Lil’ Aran might be due a promotion, despite his youth.
Barcode pointed to the rider. “What’s happenin’ with Lil’ Aran?”
As expected, Brutus turned to look.
Barcode stepped back a pace, grabbed the handle of the baseball bat, and pulled it from the deep pocket his Auntie May had sewn into the lining of his parka. He swung a hard uppercut, stepping into the blow—adding his full bodyweight to increase the power of the swing.
The fat end of the bat landed between Brutus’ legs with enough force to crush his dick, and take the rascal clean off his feet.
Brutus screamed, doubled over, and crumpled to his knees. Slowly, he toppled forwards to land face first in a grimy puddle. Barcode smiled at the effect of the underhand blow, surprised he could generate so much power.
“Man, that’s gotta hurt bad,” he said, resting the fat end of the bat on the back of Brutus’ neck. The blow had knocked the beanie clean off of the thief’s head, and it floated on top of the puddle. “I can’t tell if you pissed yo’self, or if that damp patch in yo’ kecks is blood, blood. You feel me?”
Barcode flashed a glance up the alley. Lil’ Aran’s jaw dropped. The rider planted a foot on the ground to stop himself toppling.
To add to the bad vibes, a hard, cold rain started dropping. Before long, it poured down with all the force of a power shower. Spluttering, struggling to breathe, Brutus tried to pull his head clear of the water, but Barcode wasn’t having it. He planted a foot into the middle of Brutus’ back, forcing him down hard. Bubbles frothed around the drowning fucker’s head. His arms and legs thrashed.
Barcode let him splash and buck for a count of twenty before releasing the pressure and stepping away.
Brutus exploded outta the water and rolled away, coughing and spluttering. Gagging like a bitch. He scrambled away on his thieving butt and fetched up against the rusted, chain-link fence, where he curled into a tight ball, face creased in hurt, eyes closed.
Yeah, now you know what pain feels like, blood.
“W-What the f-fuck you do that for, man?” he squeaked.
Barcode was impressed the fucker could speak at all after the crunching blow. Musta had balls of steel. Mashed steel now, though. Barcode couldn’t hold back a snicker. He signalled with the bat for Lil’ Aran to come as witness, but the rider didn’t budge. Couldn’t blame him none. Musta been scared shitless, thinking Barcode had totally lost his shit.
“Take off them sneakers,” he ordered Brutus, speaking loud enough for Lil’ Aran to hear.
When the fucker didn’t move, Barcode ran the head of the bat along the fence above Brutus’ head. It made an aggressive rattle and meshed well with the splashing rain.
The crumpled man turned his head up and rain sluiced into his pained eyes. “What? What you say?”
“You hear me, blood. Kick off them sneakers ’fore I drop you, fucker.”
Still twitching and shivering, the big man’s shoulders tensed in realisation. “You … you trippin’, blood. Had too much product. You bust my balls and tell me to—”
Brutus screamed again as Barcode slammed the bat down on the top of his shoulder. The satisfying crunch of a shattering collar bone buzzed up through the handle.
Barcode yelled, “Shut the fuck up, you mutha!” and raised the bat high, holding it aloft but not completing the downswing. “Lil’ Aran, come here, cuz!”
The young rider shook his head. “No way, man. You flipped.”
Breathing hard, as much to steady his nerves as from the exercise, Barcode lowered the bat slowly and rested it on Brutus’ bad shoulder. The thief squealed.
“Nah, lil’ man. Things is cool. Come here, I need you as a witness. You safe from me, unless you part of it.”
“Part o’ what?”
“The thievery.”
Lil’ Aran sat up straighter in the saddle. Rain ran down his face and dripped off his chin like it was pouring out the spout of a teapot.
“You know me, BC. I ain’t no t’ief!” he shouted above the whistling wind, the driving rain, and Brutus’ groaning and crying.
“So, do as I tell you. Come here and rip off this fucker’s sneakers!”
Lil’ Aran paused a moment, considering. He threw a glance at his escape route, then looked at Brutus before pushing down on the pedal. The bike edged closer, not gaining much speed.
“Hurry, man. I’s gettin’ soaked here.”
The rider pedalled harder, throwing up spray as the low-slung bike splashed through the growing pools of filthy water. Five metres away, he skidded to a sideways stop, jumped off his ride, and propped it against the fence. Then he approached the newly made cripple.
“Take off his sneakers.”
Brutus raised his head to stare at Lil’ Aran, “Don’t touch me you mutha—”
Another scream cut off Brutus’ cuss as Barcode pressed the bat harder into the smashed shoulder.
“Who give you permission to speak, fucker? Go on, Lil’ Aran. Let’s see what he hidin’ inside them flashy Pitch Blacks.”
Brutus tried to scrunch away but, crowded by Barcode on one side, Lil’ Aran on the other, and tight against the fence, there wasn’t nowhere he could squirm to.
Lil’ Aran squatted in front of the fallen soldier and looked up at Barcode. “Okay if I takes out my cutter? Don’t wanna mess with wet knots.”
Barcode nodded. “Go for it, cuz.”
The little rider pulled out a butterfly knife and flicked it open like he’d practised in his bedroom for hours. Musta been studying Gerard, the smooth-talking, French Heavy, but he didn’t get the action quite so slick.
Lil’ Aran sliced through the laces and ripped the right sneaker from Brutus’ foot.
Using his fingertips, the rider fished inside the soft cuff. They came out with a bunch of crumpled banknotes. Lil’ Aran gasped and shook his head.
“How much he got in there, cuz?”
Lil’ Aran smoothed out the paper and sorted them into tens and fives. He counted them slowly. “Thirty-five quid.”
“Check the other shoe.”
The rider repeated the process.
“Fifty-five. That’s … er,” he said, scrunching up his eyes to work the maths.
“Ninety, cuz,” Barcode said, saving him the work. “He got ninety quid stuffed into them sneakers.”
Lil’ Aran stood and brushed water and gravel from the knees of his jeans. “Where’d he come up with that cash, BC?”
“Fucker’s been rippin’ off the Tribe. I been watchin’ him for the last couple hours.”
Brutus shook his head. “Nah, man. You got it all wrong. I’m clean. That’s my stash. I put it there for safe keepin’. Honest.”
He released one fist from his crushed junk and held it up to Barcode, hand open, begging.
Barcode sniffed, turned, and strolled away, all cool, like. Lil’ Aran followed, stuffing the paper into his backpack. He collected his bike, and walked alongside Barcode.
“You just leavin’ him there, BC?”
“What you want me to do?”
The rider shrugged. “Kill the fucker? He’ll run, right?”
“Nah, lil’ man. He ain’t runnin’ nowhere with bruised nuts and a smashed shoulder.”
Barcode stopped walking and turned to face the pool of light. Somehow, Brutus had pulled himself to his feet. He leaned against the fence, hunched over, unable to stand straight. Barcode doubted the fucker’d be able to stand straight for weeks.
“I ain’t killin’ no one. That up to TM, not me.”
“You sure, BC?” Lil’ Aran asked, still looking up, blinking the rain outta his eyes. “I’ll back yo’ action.”
“Thanks, cuz, but I’s sure. Way I see it, TM’s gonna send a posse o’ Heavies to Brutus’ crib. If he there, they likely do the job for me. If he gone, no problemo. He’ll turn up soon enough. My job’s to push product and take care o’ business. Not my place to dish out punishment without orders. Me? I’s just a foot soldier, cuz.”
For now.
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