Michael Morley - Viper

'You up to helping me with something?'

'Sure, what d'you want?'

'Remember the creepy Italian guy I met at the conference – Luciano Creed?'

'Kind of.'

'He stayed at the Lester. You know the place?'

'Yeah, I know it. Not exactly Trump Towers.' Howie found a pen down the side of the settee and used the cardboard lid from the Chinese food tray to write on.

'And that's a bad thing?' Jack would rather sleep on the street than at Trump. 'Would you take a ride out there and have a look around the nearby bars, clubs, check out the hotel again? See if he had any friends, visitors, such like while he was there?'

'You mean friends that get paid by the hour and never stay for coffee?'

'Yep, those are the ones I mean.'

'Okay. What's he look like?'

'Shit. He looks like shit. Small, thin, bony, five-five maybe, a hundred and ten to a hundred and twenty pounds, really dark beard line -'

'Designer stubble?'

'No, more Bluto black. Like this guy could never shave clean. I've got a picture from the cops over here; I'll email it to you.'

'Fine. I'll hit the street tomorrow. That okay?'

'That's great.' Jack's voice grew serious. 'Howie, I need a break here. Girls have been going missing. Maybe even getting murdered. It would be good if you gave up the sauce – good for you too.'

His friend let out an exasperated sigh, the kind he used to reserve for his nagging wife – now his nagging ex-wife. 'Don't worry, I won't screw up on you. My fat ass will be on the case and will do good.'

Secondigliano, Napoli Luciano Creed stood by a window in a slum apartment he'd rented in an area that the locals call Terzo Mondo, the Third World. It bore no relation to the false address he'd listed at the Lester in New York. For the moment he wanted to stay away from the cops. Soon he'd be ready to show himself again. But not yet.

His mind drifted as he watched neighbours in the street below. They were all dressed in their best clothes, heading off to church for a wedding.

Secondigliano was a poor, drug-infested neighbour-hood in a north-eastern suburb where unemployment and crime were high and cops never came unless their sirens were wailing, their guns cocked and they had a big supply of body bags. This was a neighbour-hood where drive-by shootings weren't uncommon. Where any attempted arrest could result in officers facing a mob of hundreds of violent protesters. Put simply, for many cops, this area was out of bounds. A strict no-go zone. Creed had grown up here. He knew its alleyways and escape routes better than any cops, even the carabinieri. Naples was an obligatory posting for most of the military, a rust-belt city that they were sent to for a year or two while they clawed their way up the promotional ladder towards the big jobs back in Rome as Colonello, Generale or even Comandante Generale.

Years back he'd dreamed of being a law enforcement officer, using his brain and his energy to catch the bad guys. Now, well, now things were different. Very different.

Loud cheering and clapping in the street broke his thoughts. The bride appeared from the neighbouring building. Confetti blew in the chilled air. Voices shouted their best wishes. Kisses on her cheeks. A considerate friend gathering the train of her long white dress. A proud father waiting in the back of a rented black Bentley, ready to give away the apple of his eye. Creed turned his back on the merriment. On the floor of the rented apartment, beneath an unshaded light bulb dangling from an exposed flex, lay his collection. Photographs of all the missing women, old photocopies of police reports dating back years, a map of the Bay of Naples marked with the places where they'd lived and small faded clippings from local newspapers reporting their disappearances. None of them had even warranted more than a paragraph in the local paper, let alone made the headlines. He thought long and hard about the women, their murders and what the police were now doing.

Nothing.

That's what they're doing. Nothing.

And that big-shot Jack King had no idea what he was up against.

No idea at all.

Well, he'd teach him. Teach him and the carabinieri not to ignore him. He'd give them a lesson they'd never forget.

New York City Howie Baumguard woke with a hangover the size of Grand Central Station. It was so big he reckoned it could be seen from space. But despite the pain, he hit the streets. All day he pressed flesh and pounded pavements. He re-interviewed the Polish receptionist who had taken a shine to Jack. He bought coffee for beat cops who worked the neighbourhood. He shook up informants who infested the local strip joints and pick-up bars.

By mid-afternoon he wasn't only clear-headed, he was enjoying himself. Back to your roots, Big H, this is what you do best. And he wasn't just bragging, he really was good at it. Somehow people opened up more to fat guys with a sense of humour. It was something he'd learned long ago and he'd regularly shared these words of wisdom with every FBI medic that had tried to get him to diet.

As the afternoon clouds darkened, he was satisfied that he had enough scraps of information to start to put together a good picture of Luciano Creed.

Then things took a turn for the worse.

Three blocks from home he cut through a back alley to save time. And that's where it all went wrong. He stumbled straight into a good old-fashioned New York mugging.

Two black teenagers in hooded sweats had cornered a tall woman with short, spiky blonde hair. One was barking orders and holding what looked like a gun. Howie knew the hoodies had at least theft on their minds. If they felt lucky, then they might just roll the dice and go for rape as well.

The woman was holding a thin cardboard carton, literally hanging on to it for dear life.

Howie took a deep breath. No longer an FBI agent. No longer the bearer of a badge or a gun. All he had was fifty pounds more weight than both of the punks put together. That, he decided, would have to be his weapon of choice.

'Give it up, an' your fuckin' money!' screamed the bigger perp. 'Fucking bitch. Give it me, lady, or I'll put a fucking cap in your shitty white head!'

Howie slid along the shadows. Stuck to the cover of some overflowing dumpsters. He could tell the muggers were as jittery as hell, no doubt crackheads desperate for their next score. 'Jus' fuckin' whip the bitch and get her money!' shouted the smaller one.

Howie was still pinning down a game plan when his cellphone rang.

The hoodies' heads cranked towards him.

He had no choice but to break cover. Rush them now or get shot at.

Howie found he had all the speed of a rhino with a hernia. But, fortunately, about the same weight and strength.

'Fuuuuck! ' was all the guy with the gun could manage as Howie crashed him into a brick wall, taking down his buddy at the same time. He heard the gun scatter across the ground and took the chance to pound a meaty fist into the face of the youth trapped beneath him.

Somehow the kid wriggled free and was damned well upright while Howie was still struggling to get up off all fours.

Howie knew a blow was coming but couldn't stop it.

A boot smashed into his face. A screen of eggshell-white light slammed down behind his eyes. More blows battered his body.

'Get the fuck outta here!' shouted one of the hoodies. Their feet slapped off into the distance.

The big guy lurched to his feet. Vision blurry, heart trying to bust through his chest. He rocked unsteadily. Caught half a glimpse of the woman – running safely the other way down the alley.

Then it hit him.

Sharp and hot. A numb pain that caused him to cramp before it exploded into white-hot agony.

Howie staggered. Put a hand on a wall to stop himself passing out. Reached back to find the source of the pain.