Tania Carver - Cage of Bones

The Gardener loved this, could have played it for hours.

But he didn’t have hours. He looked at the chart. It had to be done soon. It had to be done now.

He advanced on the cage.

Ready for the boy now.

Ready for the sacrifice.

So the Garden could live again.

‘Wait for my signal. Have you got that? No one does anything until they get my signal. Understood?’

It was understood.

Glass had never felt so alive. He had forgotten just how good it felt to take down a villain. To feel the adrenalin and testosterone surge through his system, build up inside him like it was living lightning, ready to pulse from his fingertips, take out anyone who tried to stop him.

It wasn’t living lightning. But the semi-automatic in his hands was the next best thing.

The firearms unit was in front of him. They were standing in the overgrown back yard of the farmhouse. The night was sin-black, hiding them from any eyes that might be watching. The farmhouse was boarded up. No lights showing. It seemed uninhabited. But it wasn’t empty. Glass knew that. For a fact.

‘Right,’ he said to the unit. ‘The target is in that building. My information tells me he’ll be in the cellar. What plans we have indicate that that’s in the front of the house, with a door going down to it from the kitchen, which is in the middle. That’s where we’re headed.’

He turned to the firearms unit’s senior officer, Joe Wade. ‘Now, Sergeant Wade has briefed you all. You know where you’ve got to be. I’ll be going in through the front here with the A Team. Remember. This man is highly dangerous. Shoot to kill. And get that boy out alive.’ One more look at the men. They stood there, all in body armour, guns held before them, looking like shock troops sent from the future. Glass’s adrenalin and testosterone surged even more.

One more look at Sergeant Wade.

‘On your signal, Sergeant.’

Wade gave the order. The unit moved in, surrounded the farmhouse.

On Wade’s signal, the front and back doors were simultaneously battered down, the officers streaming in towards the middle of the house.

The only illumination inside came from the lights of the officers. Checking every corner of every room, securing each one before moving through the old house. It smelled of damp, abandon. The air stale, old. Dust rose as the officers tramped through.

Glass was loving it. What he was born for. A leader of men, gun in hand, ready for a righteous kill. As soon as he had picked up the gun, he had felt his finger begin to twitch. He had thought that itchy trigger fingers were an old cliché, but to his surprise he had found it to be actually true. And now, running through the farmhouse with the rest of the men, he wondered just how easy it would be to accidentally squeeze that trigger, take out one of the CO19 boys just for the hell of it.

He mentally slapped himself out of it. These were his own people. He had a job to do.

They reached the cellar door. Sergeant Wade looked to Glass, waiting for him to give the nod. Glass took a deep breath. Another. Nodded.

The door was battered to splinters. The unit rushed down the cellar steps. Glass followed. Finger wrapped round the trigger guard, hand ready to take off the safety, let it go.

But he didn’t.

He stopped, stood still. They all did.

The cellar was empty.

Glass shone his torch round. Nothing. Clean.

He walked over to one corner, scrutinised it with his torch. A small pile of bones was stacked neatly against the bricks. He examined the wall. There had been a cage here. He knew that, had seen it himself. A smaller one than East Hill, an abandoned one, kept in reserve. It had been removed.

His head moved frantically from side to side. He swung the torch wildly, checking if he was hiding somewhere, ready to spring out at them. Nothing.

Glass sighed. Looked at Wade. The unit were pumped up, minds engaged for action. They looked disappointed, angry. Like volcanoes denied the chance to erupt. Violent lovers spurned a climax.

Glass rubbed his face with the back of his hand. Felt anger well up inside him. He wanted to strike out, hit something. Or someone.

‘He’s not here… not here… ’

Wade looked around, checking for himself. He looked at Glass.

‘He’s not here, Sergeant… ’

‘I can see that, sir.’ Wade crossed to Glass. ‘I think you’d better have a word with your informant, sir,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Glass. ‘I’d better.’

‘Come on then, let’s go,’ said Wade.

The unit went back up the stairs, not wanting to believe they’d been denied action, swinging their guns around, checking just in case the target was waiting elsewhere in the house to surprise them.

They regrouped outside. Wade looked towards Glass.

‘What do we do now, sir?’

Glass thought. There had to be somewhere else, had to be… Think…

‘I… I don’t know, Sergeant… ’

Think… He had dismantled the cage… he would have put it somewhere else… Think…

Yes. He had it. He knew where it would be.

He turned to Wade. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. You can stand your men down now. Thank you.’

Glass turned, began to walk away.

‘Where are you going?’ Wade called after him.

‘To talk to my informant,’ said Glass, without turning round. ‘See what he’s got to say for himself.’

He could still do it. Still make the kill, find the child.

Salvage something.

There was still time.

Glass hurried to his car, drove away as fast as he could.

‘They’ve loaded up.’ Fennell, his finger pressed to his earpiece, turned to the rest of the group. ‘The trucks have just left the port. They’ll be on their way past here soon.’

The convoy had split up, and they were now parked in a superstore car park on the outskirts of Harwich. The store was closed, the car park – and the roads around it – deserted. Rain was still falling, the lights in the car park throwing out sporadic pools, no match for it and the darkness. The van was in the shadows of the main building. They couldn’t be seen from the main road, but they had a clear view of the road coming up from the port.

Another van in the convoy had driven to the entrance of the import-export lock-up and was in place, waiting. Their target was a set of warehouses off a gated trading estate down past the oil refinery. They didn’t want to move too quickly, give themselves away.

The third van was in place outside the port itself. Sitting next to the high metal railings with a clear view across the half-empty truck park to the offloading ramps. It was one of them who had called.

As soon as Fennell spoke, the mood in the van changed. There had been forced humour, tension building inane, unfunny things to hilarious levels, making the most unamusing utterances amusing. But his words changed all that. Now they were focused, ready. No more laughing. No more speaking. A team with a job to do.

Mickey looked across at Clemens. At first glance he seemed as concentrated as the rest of them. Eyes – and mind – narrowed down to the task before them. But Mickey studied him further. He was lost somewhere, out on his own. Lips curled, a slight smile of anticipation on them.

Mickey looked at Fennell. The other man was talking into his mic once more. Mickey felt he should have a quiet word, warn him that perhaps Clemens’ head wasn’t in the right place for this. That he could become a liability. But there was no way he would get a chance now. He just hoped someone else would pick him up on it.

And in the meantime, he would just have to watch him.

Fennell turned to them all once more. ‘Any questions?’