Luke Delaney - The Network

Sean followed Ismain from the office and along the corridors — a henchman on either side and two more close behind. He tried not to dwell on what they might be armed with — guns would be bad, really bad. He concentrated on his breathing, keeping it short and shallow, enabling him to control his voice when he needed to speak, disguising any nervous tremors. His life was in Benton’s hands — if he called in the cavalry at the sign of the first truck, Sean would be in trouble. Any hint of the police and he could be bundled into the back of a car and driven away to an uncertain future. But if Benton held off until Sean called him, Ismain and his crew would relax, imagining the easy seventy-five grand they were about to pick up. By the time they worked out they’d been played, it would be too late. Benton had to hold his nerve — Sean’s neck depended on it.

They exited the warehouse the same way Sean had entered and stood in the car park waiting. Sean felt the presence of the two men behind him and tried not to imagine the guns, knives or metal bars they could be holding, just waiting for Ismain to give them the sign. He winced at the imaginary pain of a bullet or blade punching through his skin, shattering bone or slicing through vital organs; or the dull, sickening thud of a blunt object caving in the back of his skull. He felt his legs almost give way until he was distracted by the headlights of a single vehicle bouncing down the rough road towards the warehouse — the empty truck. Whatever you do, Benton, don’t make the call — not yet.

‘Now we find out, right?’ Ismain’s voice broke the silence.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ Sean told him, managing to sound sure of himself despite the tightening of his chest. Ismain looked away from him and waited as the truck pulled up in the car park, the driver and passenger remaining in the cab with the engine still running, the back of the truck pointing towards the warehouse. No one else would be able to see whether it was full or empty. Ismain stepped forward and rolled up the truck’s back cover, the noise disturbingly loud in the semi-darkness.

‘Take a look inside,’ Ismain gestured to Sean, a wide smile spreading across his face. Sean stepped forward and peered in before moving away. ‘No, no,’ Ismain told him, ‘all the way inside.’ Every fibre of Sean’s body told him not to climb inside the truck. He weighed up his chances of escape if he made a run for it, which he decided were pretty good — he was in decent shape and doubted whether his would-be captors were, but if they had guns … He climbed into the back of the truck and looked around — empty, just as Ismain had promised.

‘Now what?’ he bluffed.

Ismain looked at his men, all of them smiling and laughing at the joke they thought they were playing on the police. ‘Now,’ Ismain told him, ‘now you get the fuck out of the truck.’ Sean shrugged his shoulders pretending he didn’t know what was happening and jumped down from the back. ‘And now,’ Ismain continued, ‘we wait.’ He held out his hand. ‘Shake my hand,’ he ordered.

‘Why?’ Sean asked.

‘Because I fucking told you to,’ Ismain barked, still smiling. ‘Because I want all your police friends to see you’re happy with the goods.’

‘Like I said — you’re wasting your time — and mine,’ Sean told him, reaching his hand forward for the shake.

‘We’ll see,’ Ismain insisted, searching the night around them for signs of life, approaching lights, the sounds of sirens or revving engines, ready to drag Sean to one of the waiting cars and spirit him away. Sean stood close to him, praying Benton remembered his instructions and followed them to the last. The seconds crawled by, each one feeling like a lifetime, until finally he was sure enough time had passed and Benton had held his nerve.

‘Well?’ Sean asked. ‘We gonna stand here all night, or we gonna do some business?’ Ismain looked him up and down before returning his gaze to the surrounding land. ‘I got seventy-five grand sitting in the back of a motor with one of my boys — d’you want it or not? Laptops I can get anywhere — you ain’t the only supplier.’

‘Okay,’ Ismain relented. ‘I was wrong — you’re good. But I had to be sure. No offense meant.’

‘None taken,’ Sean played along.

Ismain nodded and pressed another sequence of numbers into his mobile. ‘Bring the truck round. Everything’s cool. Everything’s sound.’

As they waited for the truck, Ismain spent his time apologizing and appeasing, explaining why he’d been within his criminal rights to be suspicious of Sean and anyone who’d done business with Jimmy Logan in the past. Sean waved his apologies away as if they were unnecessary, aware that there is no honour amongst thieves, just greed and paranoia: and greed overcomes even the deepest of suspicions. Finally another truck pulled into the car-park, only this time Sean stepped forward and rolled the rear cover up, letting out a long satisfied whistle when he saw the stacks of boxes still wrapped in cellophane and bearing the name Sony. He felt Ismain at his side — all friends now. ‘Nice,’ Sean told him and pulled himself into the back of the truck, tearing the cellophane open and pulling a box free, opening the lid and peeling back the thin foam sheet that covered the laptop inside. ‘Beautiful,’ he added as he took the computer from the box and flipped it open, turning the power on, the screen blinking into life.

‘I can’t guarantee they’re charged,’ Ismain warned.

‘They’re fine,’ Sean told him, ‘more than fine. You get any more like this I wanna know — understand?’

‘You’ll be the first person I call,’ Ismain promised.

‘Okay,’ Sean continued. ‘I’ll call my man forward and he’ll take your man to the cash — alright?’

‘Make the call, man,’ Ismain told him. ‘Make the call.’

Sean pulled his mobile from his pocket and found the number for Benton in the directory. He made the call, Benton’s anxious voice answering almost too quickly. ‘Hello.’

‘It’s me,’ Sean told him. ‘The goods are sound. Send Danny to the warehouse. He can take one of Enrico’s men to see the cash. I’ll wait here.’ He hung up and began the wait, his heart pounding with excitement now rather than fear. Ismain had tried to double-cross him, but Sean had seen it coming and turned the tables. Soon Ismain and his cronies would be scattering around him like frightened rats as the arrest teams moved in on all sides.

‘What’s that?’ Ismain suddenly asked.

‘What’s what?’ Sean asked, jumping down from the back of the truck.

‘I heard something.’

‘You’re hearing things,’ Sean said casually.

‘No, man. I fucking heard something.’

‘You’re talking shit,’ Sean stalled.

‘Fuck. Old Bill,’ Ismain declared, his instincts serving him well, as if he could smell the approaching police no one else had seen or heard. ‘Get the truck out of here,’ he barked at his subordinates.

‘Wait a fucking minute,’ Sean tried to stop him. ‘We got a deal. These goods are mine.’

‘Not yet they ain’t,’ Ismain told him, the sound of approaching cars increasingly obvious to them all despite the lack of sirens or flashing lights.

‘Fuck this,’ Sean kept bluffing. ‘I’m outta here. This is your shit, Enrico — you sort it out.’ He pushed past Ismain and his bodyguards and headed for the Range Rover while Ismain banged on the side of the truck and shouted his orders.

‘Get this fucking thing out of here,’ but it was too late, the unmarked police cars swarmed into the car park and around the warehouse, cutting off the only road of escape. A mixture of plain-clothed and uniform cops spilled from the vehicles, chasing down the hooded figures running in all directions. Ismain stood still, resigned to his fate and already planning his defence, watching as one of the plain-clothed cops kicked Sean’s legs away and booted him in the stomach as he lay on the floor. Sean pretended to groan with pain and gave the big cop standing over him a wink of appreciation.