Maltese Steel Page 2

  Chapter Four

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning when a cell phone rang in a secure office. A man waited before answering the burner phone. He was sat in the dark – he preferred it that way. It helped him to think – and he had a lot to think about.

  ‘Yes, what is it Beta?’ His voice was deep and emotionless. His voice rang with a hint of a Boston accent.

  ‘He called someone – just now. He’s getting outside help,’ said the muffled voice of a man on the other end.

  ‘Do we know who?’ asked the man called Alpha.

  ‘No, not yet.’ Beta paused for a moment before speaking again. ‘Could be that old army buddy he keeps talking about?’

  ‘What – the cop?’ asked Alpha, before pausing for a moment as if weighing up this new information. ‘It’s possible, I guess. Keep tabs on the airlines, if his name pops, put a detail on him.’

  The man known as Beta did not immediately reply – a response wasn’t necessary. There was a moment of silence, then Beta broke it. ‘And what about the other thing?’

  ‘You know what to do – so, take care of it,’ Alpha said and placed the handset back onto the cradle.

  Chapter Five

  John Steel had taken a cab back to his apartment. The ride was quiet and uneventful. The cabby had talked of most of the way, Steel had not taken much notice and had replied with some friendly-sounding grunts. As the yellow Ford pulled up outside the address, Steel paid then climbed out onto the sidewalk. Steel watched the cab car’s taillights disappear into the mass of traffic that was moving slowly like some cumbersome beast.

  Steel entered the vast brick monstrosity built in the 30 – all Redbrick and windows.

  Steel considered it had more class than the modern steel and glass buildings. It had character. Like the Cromwellian mansion, he had lived in back home in England. Unfortunately, Steel was the son of an Earl since his parent’s murder years ago, which had passed to him and the family company. But Steel was not one for titles, he wasn’t a businessman. He was a soldier, an investigator, and now a cop.

  Steel was greeted by a doorman who tipped his cap to Steel and opened the door for him. Steel nodded a greeting and entered. He was home.

  Inside the lobby was filled with a white marble floor and high arched ceilings. The reception desk was topped with black marble, and the front was polished oak.

  Steel walked over at the two men behind the desk, said his good mornings and retrieved his keys. Steel had thought that taking his keys may be a bad idea if things went wrong. Luckily, his instinct had been correct and saved himself a hefty fine for losing them. He took the elevator up, using the time to think.

  Steel lived on the top floor, with a terrace view of the park and the city. As he opened the front door, the crisp conditioned air felt good against his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the temperature change.

  He slipped off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack near the door, as he did so, his eyes scanned the open-plan loft, and he gave a comfortable smile.

  It was good to be home.

  The loft was spacious, with polished oak flooring, and a mix of modern and antique furniture. The white-painted walls held various works of art, but no family photographs.

  To the right, a staircase wound upwards to a mezzanine that was Steel’s bedroom. Behind the twisting staircase, was the open-plan kitchen, which lay beneath the mezzanine. Next to the kitchen was a long corridor which contained a bathroom and several other rooms.

  Steel poured himself a large whisky from a drink’s cabinet in a corner near a large panoramic window, a virtual wall of glass. After the night he’d had – he needed it. Steel stood at the window and watched as a shifting orange-watercolour sky bathed everything in a dark umber. He looked down at the view of Central Park and the city. It was possibly the only time he was thankful for the family money. It gave him the freedom to do what he wanted without restrictions and also guaranteed the best rooms of seats on flights. But it was also a reminder for him. Steel had survived the attack on the family estate, his family had not. He was alone in the world. But his pain gave him purpose. Steel had gone to New York to find those responsible. An organisation called SANTINI. But they had gone underground. Disappeared. But he knew he would see them again. It was just a matter of time. Steel thought about one of SANTINI’s agents – a man called Mr Williams, who he had encountered on his first Mission with the NYPD, not that the cops were aware it was a mission. Mr Williams was – for Steel, the epitome of the term, the bad guy. He was as sadistic as they came, but somehow had a sense of honour and charisma. Somehow, through their encounters against each other, they had formed strange mutual respect. Steel knew that Mr Williams had nothing to do with his family’s murder, possibly, Williams only saving grace. Mr Williams had also disappeared from the limelight. But Steel knew they would be back.

  Steel felt tired. Drained. He took a sip from the whisky and stared out across the horizon.

  He had been in one place too long, and it was starting to get to him.

  Steel sighed. He loved the city and working with the team.

  But it wasn’t him.

  This wasn’t his life.

  It was a mission that had gone on for too long.

  Steel walked towards the kitchen to switch on the coffee machine. The machine gave an electronic whir before it began processing the mix of coffee grinds and hot water. It would take ten minutes before the brew would be ready – time enough for him to shower and freshen up.

  It was five in the morning. Steel knew he had a couple of hours before he had to be back at the precinct. The truth was, Brant would be happy if he did not show, and as it was, Steel did not feel much like going in anyway. He had risked his neck again and not gotten so much as a thank you for it. Sure, Steel wasn’t a glory hound, he did not care if that asshole Addams got the credit for it. But, all he had gotten was shit for it. And that was beginning to wear thin.

  Steel downed the whisky and headed for the corridor and the bathroom.

  He had to freshen up before heading off to the precinct.

  Steel pulled off his shirt as he headed for the bathroom and kicked off his Bugatti shoes, leaving them lying at the bathroom door entrance.

  It had been a long night; from which he was still hurting.

  Flying into a guy at was going to leave a mark –it had, several in fact. He was bruised and scratched – but alive.

  Steel pushed the door open and stumbled inside the bathroom.

  It was a big room – possibly the size of most people’s bedrooms. Gold Antique Limestone covered the walls and floor. Oak vanities with brass fittings made a perfect addition. The walls and flooring had an Egyptian feel; inspired by the tales of Cleopatra. At the far end of the room was a bathtub made for two, and a double window next to it, with a fantastic view of Central Park.

  Steel took off the rest of his clothes and draped them over the wicker clothes hamper next to the door. He looked out of the large window as he headed to the entrance of the wet room. This was a long narrow 6x5 foot space, with staked slate wall panels covering the inside walls and slate floor tiles. Above, a large foot square showerhead hung from the ceiling and seven small LED lights zig-zagged across the top. The dividing panel was a foot-thick false wall, with a voice-activated thirty-two-inch monitor built into it.

  A little treat he had installed so he could check on the news and watch movies. It also showed the view from the several cameras he had installed in the apartment, just on the off-chance Steel had uninvited guests while he is freshening up. There were two monitors fixed back-to-back so that Steel could watch from both sides.

  ‘Check emails,’ Steel commanded in a raised voice. The screen blinked, and the display showed his email account. There was the usual junk mail; others were invitations to A-list parties. Parties that he had no time, nor feel the need to attend. The remainder was from a man called Hendricks who in charge of Steel’s company back in Britain while he was in the States.
A company Steel’s father had founded, and he had inherited. It was a billion-pound company that made everything from watches to the general public, to weapon systems.

  ‘Screen off,’ Steel ordered. The screen went blank. He had neither the time nor the patients to respond to the emails. Steel knew they would wait a little while longer. Just until he was in a better frame of mind.

  Steel walked to the shower controls, turned it on and stood back, waiting for that perfect temperature. Steam filled the area and Steel moved to stand beneath the flow with his hands against the wall, his head down, letting the water slam against him, massaging his tight muscular but scared body. Steel’s frame came from athletics and special assault courses more than gym work. He figured he needed to be flexible and nimble rather than a bulk of muscle, flexibility that had saved his life more than once. His thoughts were a million miles away. Back to another time, another place. Memories of that terrifying day in the garden of his own ancestral home when he lost everything. He could still hear the gunshots and feel the bullets’ burning as they passed through him. Images flashed in his mind, but one lingered, the face of his wife as the life faded from her eyes.

  The sound of his apartments phone ringing pulled him back to the present but left him slightly disorientated. He shook his head and stared at his reflection in the monitor.

  ‘Phone,’ Steel said. Then turned off the shower.

  ‘Hi John, it’s Marcus,’ Steel listened as he walked out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. Marcus Foster. A name he hadn’t heard for years. The two men had been in the service together, the best of friends. More than friends, more like brothers. But something had forced Steel away, and they had lost contact – until now.

  ‘Marcus, it’s been a long time,’ Steel said as he sat on the edge of the bathtub.

  ‘Too long man,’ Marcus replied. His tone was trying to be emotionless, but there was a hint of sadness.

  ‘Look, Marcus, I’m sorry about disappearing, something from my past….it.’

  ‘Hey, I get it, I read the file. Shit, I would have done the same thing,’ Marcus said.

  ‘We good?’ Steel asked.

  ‘Always, man,’ Marcus replied.

  There was a moment of silence. Steel fought to find what to say next. He had to say something, the guy had tracked him down after all those years – then it hit him. Why? After five years, why had Foster decided to call?

  ‘So, what’s new at your end?’ Steel said. He did not want to come straight out with the question he had on his mind. Steel thought it best just let Foster tell him.

  ‘Oh, not much, I was going through some old photographs of when we were in the TEAMs together. Found one of us when we were in Serbia, you, me, Taylor, Baker, even Dickson was in it, you remember Dickson? Man, that was a shitty war,’ Foster said. His voice trailing off slightly as though he remembered something.

  ‘Yes, but we managed to have a laugh from time to time,’ Steel replied. Waiting for Foster to get to the point.

  ‘Yeah, so, I saw these and thought I’d look you up,’ Foster’s tone was trying to be calm and happy, but Steel could tell he was hiding something.

  The mention of Serbia was the key. They had lost a couple of men back then, but there was one called Dickson that they had named their little sister because he was the youngest of them all. They had found Dickson after an intense firefight with the enemy in the mountains, the poor bastard must have lost his way and fallen. They had recovered his body at the bottom of the cliff. He had fallen thirty feet straight down onto jagged rocks.

  Steel said nothing.

  ‘Heard you become a cop in New York, you taking it easy or something?’ Foster said.

  ‘It has its moments. Besides, I heard you pulled a sweet deal and got a post in Malta. Who’s arse did you have to kiss to get that?’ Foster laughed. But Steel picked up on something in the shortness of his laughter.

  Why did he mention Dickson? Why was he calling?

  ‘You should come over; the sun would do you good. The family –.’ Foster paused for a moment, leaving a second of awkward silence. ‘The family would love to see you; I know Martha would.’

  Steel felt a tightness in his chest at the mention of that name. His fingers touched the round scar on his left shoulder just under the collar bone. But something nagged at Steel. What had made Marcus Foster call him after years of silence. Steel rewound their conversation in his head, listened to every word once more in his head.

  ‘Marcus – what’s happened?’ Steel asked, his voice was filled with concern.

  A moment of terrible silence filled the air, then Steel heard Foster sob.

  ‘Lucy…my little girl,’ Foster began to talk but faltered at the last moment.

  ‘Marcus, what is, what’s happened to Lucy?’

  ‘Steel, my little girl – she’s – she’s dead.’

  ‘How? Was it an accident or –?’

  ‘Can you come over? I know you’re busy ‒’ Foster’s voice rang with urgency.

  ‘Never too busy for family, I’ll be over when I can,’ Steel said. He would have asked more, but he knew it would be too painful.

  ‘I’ll see you when you get here,’ Foster said. ‘And Steel…thanks.’ There was a click, followed by dead air.

  Steel sat, staring into nothingness for a while. His fingers still feeling the rough edges of the scar. Steel’s thoughts wandered to another time – a happy time.

  The Foster’s had been his second family. After the murder of his, family Steel had joined the SEAL’s to disappear. The organisation knew Steel was still alive, the news had confirmed that. So, the best he could do was vanish until he was ready. Sure, he had been recruited, but he had passed all the tests. Steel had been placed on Foster’s team, and they had just bonded. And they had been like brothers. But SANTINI had found Steel, and he knew he had to run before his team, or Foster’s family got caught in the crossfire.

  Steel stood up and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was six-one of taught muscle. His cold deep emerald green eyes locked onto the six angry-looking scares where the bullets had gone through. It was a strange configuration that the assassin had made. Steel’s old mentor had called it the mark of the phoenix, Steel just thought it looked ugly, like his eyes. Whatever they had done to him to save him had changed many things, including his eye colour. No one was sure what had happened to cause it to happen, but now, instead of pale blue, he was left with dark soulless green eyes.

  Steel thought back to how the intruders had stormed the house and grounds, killing indiscriminately. Steel had taken out most of the intruders as he moved through his family home. Eventually, his search for his family led Steel to the attic.

  One of the men had shot Steel six times, each round perfectly placed, not to kill him, but to cause him the most pain before he bled out. But the old Japanese gardener had saved him, pulled him out of the attic and to safety. Steel remembered the operating room, the sounds of the machines that were keeping him alive. It had been a new memory. Before he had just remembered waking up in the old gardener’s Japanese style home. But now his memories were returning slowly.

  He had been recruited during his time with the British special forces. But the incident with SANTINI at his home had intervened. It had been Joint Operations, that had sent Steel to the SEALs. Mostly for training and to keep him out of the way until he was ready. Now, Steel was British Secret Service and undercover with the NYPD. His time with the 11th precinct had begun with a triple murder about a year ago. MI8’s curiosity with the case had been aroused because it had SANTINI’s mark all over it, so Steel was sent in.

  But there had been no sign of the organisation recently. So, for Steel, it was time to move on.

  There was a gentle beep from the coffee machine to signal that the function had finished. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the apartment. Steel turned to face the monitor. He knew what he had to do.

  ‘Phone. Captain Brant,’ Steel order
ed. There was a moment of silence, then the sound of the auto dialling system. The noise of the phone ringing could be heard in overhead speakers before Brant eventually picked up.

  ‘Steel, what’s up? What you gone an’ done now?’ Brant’s gruff voice bellowed over the intercom.

  ‘Captain, I’d like to take some time off?’

  ‘Sure…when?’

  ‘Now,’ Steel said. ‘End call.’

  Steel did not need questions; besides, he was only attached to the NYPD, it was only a courtesy he had asked in the first place. Steel stood up and walked to the washbasin and began to pack his wash bag. He looked up at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes fell upon the six, round scars that marked his body. He had been told that the shape resembled a bird – or Pheonix.

  Steel had said they were full of crap.

  Some said Steel was lucky, six shots and all of them missed vital organs. All of them were through and throughs, each left scar in its wake.

  He hadn’t felt lucky at the time. The mercenary had been right behind Steel when he had fired. But even at close range, the shooter was a good shot. He knew what he was doing – he wanted Steel to suffer, probably did not expect him to survive.

  Big mistake.

  Steel went online and booked a last-minute flight from JFK to London and then a flight from Gatwick to Malta. It did not take Steel long to pack. He wouldn’t need many clothes as he wouldn’t be there long. If he did need anything, he’d just buy new there. A simple small-wheeled cabin bag with a few essentials was enough for now.

  ‘Only pack what you need,’ was what the British Army had always taught him. Steel smiled at the thought of his instructor at Hereford drilling that idea into their heads as they got ready for a training exercise in the unforgiving Welsh Brecon Beacons. But that seemed a long time ago now. Steel was thirty-six years old, but he’d been through a lot in a short space of time. Steel had done two years with the Commando Royal Engineers of the British Army before passing selection with the SAS. He had done four years with the SAS, with plenty of overseas tours. Unfortunately, his last tour which had been in Bosnia had been the best, but also the worst. It had been his homecoming from that tour that had seen the slaughter of his family. The reason he had been in hiding for six months in Alaska. But an incident had brought him face to face with his next commanding officer – Colonel Grant of the US Navy SEAL teams.