Paul Johnston - The Soul Collector

She was thinking about other SAS men. The ex-soldier she’d just worked on had known the three who’d dispatched her brother. Two years ago, she had stopped as she was fleeing from the wood yard in East London, long enough to hear one of them ask her victim of today what he was doing there. That had been all she’d needed. Matt Wells hadn’t said much about the three killers in his book, but he mentioned they had Special Forces experience and that they had pursued the White Devil because he’d killed a former comrade: Jimmy Tanner. She had heard that name before-Tanner was the drunk who’d trained her brother how to kill along with numerous other skills. He had also been one of the White Devil’s earlier victims. She had salted away those pieces of information, but after she’d moved her brother’s deposits into new accounts, finished her training and dispatched her early targets in Latin America and the U.S., she was ready to act.

The woman had slipped into Britain by ferry from Belgium a month ago. She had a new look, identity and passport, but she’d waited for a busy and rainy day to ensure she didn’t stick out from the crowd. Although every immigration officer in the country would have a photo and description of Sara Robbins in their laptops, she hadn’t been recognized under her new name and guise. That gave her confidence for the murders ahead; no point in wasting time calling them missions.

She’d passed a hundred pounds to a publican in Brighton and was given contact numbers. A homely woman with two squealing kids had provided her with a driving license that would stand computer scrutiny. A man with rat’s-tail hair had sold her a brand-new Heckler and Koch U.S.P., a silencer and a hundred 9 mm cartridges; he even threw in a Spyderco C36 military knife with a black blade for free. Then she’d paid cash for a common-as-dirt white van she’d seen in a dealer’s yard in Southampton. Her adoptive father had been a farmer and he had taught her about the workings of cars and tractors-she could tell in five minutes that the van was adequate. She’d taped over the rear windows and put a mattress and sleeping bag in the back with her bike, a red metallic XL650V Transalp.

Dave Cummings had been easy. She’d been sure Matt and his friends would have alarms on their houses. They would also have set up alert codes to be used if any of them were under threat. From the van, she had studied the movements of the burly demolition expert and his family. She’d considered murdering them all and leaving pieces of the children about the house, but decided against that-not from any qualms of conscience, but because she didn’t want to risk the neighbors hearing the screams. Instead, when the wife and kids left, she’d struck.

All she needed to do now was snare the three men who had executed her brother. Her plan was already under way.

I felt Andy’s hand on my shoulder.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” he said, then his grip tightened. “I’m going to check the rest of the house. The bastard who did this might still be here.”

I knew he was right. I wanted to go with him-maybe, when we came back, the atrocity wouldn’t be here any longer, maybe I’d imagined it, I’d always had a vivid imagination….

I dug my fingernails into my palms and forced myself to look up. Dave was wearing only jeans and shoes. They were soaked in blood, as was the sofa he lay sprawled across. His arms were outstretched and his legs wide apart. Something terrible had happened to his legs. There were bullet wounds across both thighs and in the kneecaps. But worst of all was his head. It had been broken open, his features unrecognizable beneath a carpet of blood and soft tissue. Dave was no longer there. What he had been-his spirit, his bighearted soul-had disappeared. I fell forward like a worshipper before the shrine of some ancient, blood-addicted god, my chest racked by sobs and my face soaked with tears.

“Matt?” I heard Pete say, in my earpiece. “Are you in? There’s someone moving around on the first floor.”

“This is Andy. Get in here, both of you. The house is clear.”

The American came thundering down the stairs, then unlocked the front and back doors. I felt his hand on my shoulder again.

“Come on, Wellsy,” he said, “let’s get you out of here.”

“No!” I screamed. “I can’t leave him! I’m not leaving him on his own.”

“Fucking hell,” Rog said, retching. He ran out, a hand to his mouth.

“What the…” Pete was standing next to us, his mouth slack. “What animal did this?”

“You…you know who did it,” I said, staring up at them through the blur of tears. “It was…It must have been Sa…Sa…” I couldn’t complete the name of the woman I had once loved. But even if she had been the one who’d pulled the trigger, I knew I was the true author of Dave’s death. If I had refused to get involved with the White Devil, this would never have happened. I felt the weight of that knowledge bear down on me. The sight of my friend’s ruined body added years to my life in a few seconds.

Pete and Andy pulled me to my feet and walked me out of the room. I wiped my eyes with the back of my arm and saw Rog leaning over the kitchen sink, a string of vomit hanging from his lower lip.

“Call…call Karen,” I said as they sat me at the breakfast table.

Andy dug in his pocket for his phone.

“No,” I said, batting his arm away. “Me. You have to go, all of you. I’m…I’m responsible.”

“Screw that,” Pete said. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

Andy lifted up his automatic and pointed at the case that held the sniper’s rifle. “Um, I think you’re wrong there, Boney.” He stuck his empty hand out at me. “Come on, Matt. Hand ’em over. Glock, knife, walkie-talkie, everything you’ve got.”

I complied, too numb to protest. He was right. There was no point in me putting Karen in a difficult position by being in possession of an illegal firearm.

“Car key, as well,” Andy said. “I’ll drive the Saab around here for you, okay?”

Pete gripped my wrist. “You don’t have to stay here on your own, Matt,” he said. “You can come with us. Karen will understand.”

I shook my head. “No, Boney. I have to do this.” I swallowed a sob. “For Dave.”

“You two go,” Pete said, tossing keys to the Cherokee to Rog. “I’ll meet you at the end of the road.”

Andy nodded at me, and then pushed Rog gently to the back door. “Lock this after us,” he said to Pete.

I pushed my chair back and stood up.

“What are you doing?” Boney asked. “Don’t-”

I swerved past him, my breathing ragged. There were two things I had to do before Dave was taken beyond my reach. I forced myself to look at the remains of the bravest man I’d ever known. I was looking for a message-the White Devil had inserted messages inside many of his victims’ bodies. His mouth was partially open. I kneeled down and mumbled an apology to him, though I knew he would have understood. I was still wearing a glove. Trying to ignore the torn tissue and splintered bone, I moved his jaws farther apart and peered inside, blinking away my tears. There was nothing. I couldn’t find any pieces of paper inside his blood-drenched trousers. I had to move him to each side to get to the back pockets. His blood transferred to my jacket, and I swore to myself that I’d never wash it again. I took off his shoes, but again didn’t find a thing. It was beyond me to put them back on the feet that had carried him past despairing opposition players so often on the rugby pitch.

Rocking back on my heels, I took in the mutilated face and legs. The White Devil had been dispatched by pistol shots to the head, and I was certain Dave’s wounds were a deliberate imitation of that. She had also shot him in the legs back then-those wounds had been repeated. Perhaps those were the only messages I was going to get this time. They were enough.