Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

Brady sat smoking cigarette after cigarette as he watched and waited.

What exactly for, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the Lithuanian Ambassador would be here soon and that something was going on. From what Conrad had said, the Ambassador had hired extra armed security. So evidently he was expecting trouble in the North East. But from who, Brady had no idea. And then there were his connections with the Dabkunas brothers and Mayor Macmillan.

Brady sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He knew exactly why he was here. On the off-chance the Dabkunas brothers turned up in the capacity of ex-military bodyguards, accompanied by Nick. He needed to get hold of Nick first. Give him time to disappear before calling in for backup. Brady knew that he was risking everything for his brother right now. But he had no choice. Nick, excluding Madley, was his only connection to his past. They were the only two people who really knew Brady. And he wasn’t going to let that go. There was also the fact that Nick was the only family he had left. His old man in Durham Gaol didn’t count as family.

Brady tried to ignore what had been troubling him. He had been pushing it to the back of his mind but now, as he sat outside the Grand Hotel waiting for Nick, it was torturing him. If Visa and Delta had heard his old man’s accusation that Brady and Madley had set up him up, then it would come as no surprise that Nick had heard as well. Brady didn’t want to think it but the thought kept coming back. What if Nick was intentionally trying to sabotage Madley as payback for the old man? After all, it had been Nick on the security camera, caught dumping Simone Henderson in the toilets. And it was Nick’s voice on the 999 call reporting the mutilated body of a copper in Madley’s nightclub, the Blue Lagoon.

Brady inhaled deeply as he tried to forget the CCTV image of Nick stood leaning against the black Lithuanian-plated Mercedes, waiting to tail him when he left Rake Lane Hospital with Conrad. Not long afterwards, the decapitated head of a Lithuanian girl had been left in his car. Along with a note, signed ‘N’, which Brady desperately wanted to believe was representative of the Nietzschean Brotherhood – the Dabkunas brothers’ ring with the ‘N’ emblem was the most palatable explanation.

But what was haunting Brady was the glaring possibility that the ‘N’ could mean ‘Nick.’ After all, that was how he always signed any correspondence between them. Whether it was an email or a text, Nick always signed it with an ‘N’. Exactly as he had signed the handwritten note delivered to the desk sergeant, Turner.

He heard a car pull up and looked over at the Grand. Two black Mercedes were there with their engines idling, awaiting instruction. In between them was a black, ostentatious Russian limousine with diplomat’s plates. Brady had never seen its kind before, but he knew it would have a reserved power beneath its bonnet.

Brady watched as the front and rear doors of both the Mercedes opened with quiet precision and eight black-suited, ex-militia killers got out.

A second later, the driver of the limousine got out and looked around. With a single nod he dispersed the eight others into a well rehearsed, tried and tested octagon of protection. Another look around and the driver walked over and opened the rear door of the limousine to let out the Ambassador. Brady noted that he was speaking into a hidden microphone. The driver, sunglasses on, regardless of the dusk settling in, suddenly stopped talking. He gave the Ambassador a brief nod of assurance, and then stood back.

Brady could see the hint of a shoulder holster under the driver’s jacket as he stepped back from the limousine. Ex-military, assumed Brady. He had that look about him. The black suit, crisp white shirt and black tie didn’t disguise the fact that his main job was as a bodyguard; the chauffeuring was a front. Throw into the mix his muscular, taut, 6´4? build and the set jaw and determined, distrustful expression and there was proof enough. Without adding the bullet-hole scar on his cheek and the blonde, side-parted hair which revealed an earpiece. He was the central player and around him, strategically placed, were his team. No doubt his old comrades in war. It was clear he would have always been in charge; the highest ranking soldier. He wouldn’t trust anyone.

Brady watched as the Ambassador got out. Alert, lean, with short, well-groomed sandy hair. His dark blue, hand-tailored suit fitted his 5´10? frame perfectly. His moderately handsome face was tanned, accentuating his bright blue eyes. Overall he had the appearance of a man who had money – lots of it. Enough money not to have to worry about anything in life. Yet, Brady couldn’t help noticing that the Ambassador, for all his power and money, looked troubled. It was etched across his face. He merely nodded at his driver, distracted it seemed by what lay ahead. His bright blue eyes looked up at the elegant entrance of the Grand Hotel where Brady realised Mayor Macmillan was now standing, proud and arrogant, with other councillors, waiting to greet him. Brady noticed that Chief Superintendent O’Donnell was one of the official dignitaries, dressed in his braided uniform ready to welcome the Lithuanian Ambassador.

Brady waited. Expecting the Dabkunas brothers to get out of the limousine. Accompanied by Nick.

It didn’t happen.

The Ambassador, dignified and now composed, walked up the wide, sandstone steps towards his newfound business partner, Mayor Macmillan. Behind him, his driver shadowed his every move.

Brady watched them disappear into the hotel reception area.

Five minutes later he could see Mayor Macmillan standing at the window with the Lithuanian Ambassador by his side. Each had a tumbler in their hand as they seemingly discussed the view. But Brady knew better than that. It would be business they were discussing. Or at least the business front they would be using for their illegal imports.

Brady checked his phone. It was now 10:37pm.

He was expecting the Ambassador and his driver to be leaving soon. He could make out official-looking figures around in the bar. The dinner presumably over, the guests were now enjoying drinks. Claudia being one of them, mused Brady.

He lit the cigarette he had rolled, not wanting to count how many he had smoked while he had been sat waiting.

What for exactly, he was unclear of now. The Dabkunas brothers hadn’t showed. Neither had Nick. He presumed the Ambassador would be returning to his hotel, along with his heavily armed entourage.

Maybe Rubenfeld had got it wrong?

But he would have been surprised if he had: Rubenfeld’s contacts had never let him down. In as much as Rubenfeld had never let Brady down.

His phone suddenly rang.

Brady picked it up and answered it.

‘Yeah?’

He realised his heart was racing.

‘Jack?’ It was DS Tom Harvey’s voice.

Brady had assigned Harvey and his partner, DC Kodovesky, the job of stalking out the Hole. He needed Ronnie Macmillan’s every move monitored on the off-chance it would led them to Nicoletta.

‘What is it, Tom?’

‘Ronnie Macmillan’s on the move. Accompanied by his two suits. They returned about an hour ago to his club. Looked as if they went upstairs. Lights went on and what not. Then they left the club and got into a black Jag. Both suits in the front and Macmillan in the back.’

‘Anyone with him in the back?’ questioned Brady, thinking of Nicoletta.

He couldn’t rid himself of the image of what had happened to her friend, Edita. Her punishment for talking out of turn with a punter had been rape of the most sadistic kind, and then murder.

‘Nothing, boss,’ answered Harvey.

‘Shit!’ muttered Brady.