Nemesis
Cover
Also by Anthony Riches
Novels
Nemesis
Empire
Wounds of Honour
Arrows of Fury
Fortress of Spears
The Leopard Sword
The Wolf’s Gold
The Eagle’s Vengeance
The Emperor’s Knives
Thunder of the Gods
Altar of Blood
The Scorpion’s Strike
River of Gold
Centurion
Betrayal
Onslaught
Retribution
NEMESIS
Anthony Riches
An Aries book
Copyright
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aries, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Anthony Riches, 2021
The moral right of Anthony Riches to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781800248984
ISBN (PB) 9781801100106
Aries
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
Dedication
For Helen, as always.
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Acknowledgements
Read on for an exclusive preview of the next Mickey Bale thriller Target Zero
Prologue
Chapter 1
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
1
The black Loake boots, Mickey decided. A perfect match for black Wrangler Arizonas, and freshly resoled in rubber. A midnight-blue shirt, and that was him ready. Externally, at least. Looked in the mirror and got a quizzical stare back. Michael James Bale. Age forty-three, no distinguishing marks. A nondescript face, nothing to make him stand out. Not the tallest of men at six foot one, but solid. One hundred and eighty-five pounds of gym-toned muscle honed at his local boxing club. Good genes too. Strong, and in good shape. In his prime, pretty much.
Roz met him at the bottom of the stairs. The usual examination, before letting him out for the night. Looking up at him with that expression. The all-knowing, all-commanding, straight-to-the-point woman who’d charmed him over a decade before. And who still had him in the palm of her hand after all that time. With her dark hair that she wished was blonde. The all-seeing brown eyes that she wished were green, like Mickey’s. And a body that she kept very, very well toned. ‘Giving you no excuses, Mickey Bale,’ as she frequently told him. Not that Mickey wanted any excuses. A childhood spent watching his friends struggling through the debris of their parents’ failed relationships had taught him the value of holding on to what worked. And not letting go for anything.
‘Shaved? Sure there’s no-one waiting for you?’
He grinned in the way that always disarmed her.
‘Oh they’ll be waiting all right. Empty glasses and “where you been all this fucking time?” looks.’
She laughed with him. Knowing his friends well enough.
‘You will keep drinking with that lot. What do you expect?’
He let his face assume what she called his chump look. Lips pursed, eyes rolled up. Waited a moment, timing being the secret of comedy. Then face-palmed and shook his head.
‘Now you tell me?’
‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘Wait… what? You’ve seen through my plan?’
A swift prod in the breadbasket to reinforce her point.
‘You come it the poor me, but really you love it. Talking shop with the boys, playing up to the image. Flash Mickey. With the guns and the cars and all that.’
He shrugged. ‘Beats the alternative, doesn’t it? Beats actually working. You know how that would have gone.’
‘Yeah.’ She turned him round and pushed him to the door. Slapped his backside for emphasis. ‘Go on. Back by eleven though; you’ve got an early start.’
He grinned at her again, accepting the heavy-lipped kiss. The door closed behind him as he stepped out into the early spring night. Down the Crescent and out onto the High Road. Warm enough in his black Belstaff jacket that had cost a fortune the previous month. Strolling under the streetlamps, he zipped it up to his neck. Clicked the placket pop-studs shut. Checked that the wrist and pocket studs were closed too. Knowing they would clatter if left unfastened. Then fastened the neck strap, not wanting the buckle to flap around.
He paused on the corner with Jervis Road. Looked up at the CCTV camera above his head. Frozen, lifeless on its gimbal mount. Still out of action. Just the way Warren liked it. Mickey quietly slipped into a doorway and squatted down. Affecting to fiddle with a bootlace. Peeped round the corner, looking down the pavement. The club opposite Warren Margetson’s pitch would still be nine-tenths empty. Its drinks too expensive while the pubs were open. But Warren was already on duty. As any good dealer would be. A professional, of a sort, Warren. And there was more than one sort of client in his line of business. Some of them dabbling. Some of them hardened recreational users. Some of them functioning addicts. And some just victims. Like Katie.
Mickey got back to his feet and turned away. He walked casually down Jervis Road for a hundred yards, then turned left into Nelson Road. Still strolling, in no rush. The street empty, other than for a single passing car. Flickering screens behind lace curtains told their story. People settling down to a night of delivered takeaway and on-demand. No-one to see a black-clad figure pause for a moment, at the top of the alley that led back to the High Road. He ducked into the shadows, immediately lost in the darkness. The streetlights didn’t illuminate the cut-through, never had.
His heart rate was elevated, he reckoned, but nothing drastic. Just a touch of nerves. On with the balaclava, silk smooth. His face freshly shaved to avoid stubble drag. Then the gloves. Black latex, thick enough to be durable. But still with enough feel for the trigger. And out with the weapon, untouched by his skin at any time since he’d picked it up. A Ruger .22 automatic. Black metal, boxy-framed, but small enough to be hidden in a hand. Its protruding muzzle screw-threaded. Ugly but functional. The suppressor glided down onto the threads with a well-oiled absence of any sound. As recommended by Martin. Which, given his expertise, was good enough for Mickey.
‘It’s not what you might have imagined, I get that. But you’ll thank me when you’re doing the job, I promise you that. Fires .22 sub-sonic ammunition. As quiet as a nun’s fart. All you have to do is put a round into his head from a foot away, right? Physics will do the rest.’
He’d frowned at his old schoolmate, looking hard at the small automatic nestled in its foam-lined case. A twenty-four-hour loan to Martin from a fellow dealer. The intra-library loan of the illegal gun trade. Picked up on his way home from Lambeth Road that afternoon.
‘Physics? Isn’t it all physics?’
Martin had shaken his head. Grinning like the conscienceless fixer that life had made him. Life, and, of course, his Auntie Steph.
‘This is special physics, Mickey my son. And, I should add, physics with a proven track record. This pistol’s already done three jobs and never yet been identified. Because when you put one of these…’ holding up the tiny bullet ‘…into a bloke’s head from a foot away, it doesn’t have the power to break out the other side. Not enough energy. But it will keep moving, and so it goes round, and round, and round. Turning his brain into soup. Until it stops. Battered out of all recognition, just a lump of metal that can be sussed for a .22 all right, but without barrel striations.’
He’d known what those were, of course, but allowed his friend to keep talking.
‘No barrel fingerprint, in simple terms. So no-one will ever link the hit to the pistol. Or the pistol to the bloke I got it from. Or him to me. Which is a good thing. Because he’d give me up in a heartbeat to get a TIC, and a few years off his sentence, right? And I’d be talking on the way to the nick, if they were to pick me up for it. And then where would you be?’
He checked that the suppressor’s short tube was firmly attached. Pulled the slide back against the spring, feeling the tension inside the weapon. Released it, to snap forward and chamber the first round in the stubby magazine. And then stopped for a moment, to think. Remembering his school friend’s last question.
‘But are you sure you want to do this? Really sure. Because this is major league shit, Mickey. Not like anything you ever did. Ever. You sure you got the stones?’
‘He supplied the stuff that—’
‘Killed Katie. Yeah. We all hate the bastard for that. Fuck, I’d kill him, given the chance. And he knows it, right? Lives in fear of exactly what you want this for.’ Raising both the weapon and an eyebrow. ‘But are you really… really… fucking… sure?’
And that had been choice point number one. He could have said no. Knew he should have. Just walked away, nothing lost. The nasty little Ruger returned to its owner, and no questions asked. Some hard-faced gun dealer would have shrugged. Probably had a laugh with Martin about lost bottle. And no-one would ever have known. But this was the last chance to back out. Unscrew the suppressor. Slip the pistol back into the bag in his pocket. Peel off the gloves. And the balaclava. And forget the idea of revenge. Tell Nemesis he was out.
He made sure that the mask was all the way down his throat. No white skin to reflect light. Walked slowly, carefully, down the alley. Stepping carefully, silently, over the inevitable detritus of the urban landscape. Fifty yards. He could see Warren now, lit by the lights behind him. His back to the alley, half-hidden in the shadows. Surveying his domain. His little kingdom.
Other dealers wanted the pitch, but none of them would stand against him. Warren carried a knife, and his face told you he’d use it happily enough. The same hard face he’d turned on the police investigating Katie’s death. Nothing to do with me, Officer. Find Warren in possession of either blade or merch? Not likely.
Thirty yards. Warren turned, made a cursory scan of the alley, seeing nothing. Eyes accustomed to the streetlight. Head to foot black, Mickey could have been within arm’s reach and probably still been invisible. But the quick turn and look told him it was time. In thirty or so seconds the dealer would do it again. Warren worked instinctively, to some rhythm only he could hear.
He paced silently toward the other man’s back, raising the Ruger. Ready to take the shot, if needed. Twenty yards. Not impossible at that range. He knew that from long practice. But the bullet, slowed by the weapon’s fat little suppressor, would be inaccurate. Not like a 9mm. He could have put a 9-mil round into Warren’s head from thirty yards away. But where would the subtlety have been in that?
Fifteen. Better. The chance of a kill shot doubled.
Ten. Properly inside killing range. Common sense said to do it now. One round, back of the head. Put his target down, never even knowing what hit him. One second alive, vital. The next, dead. Already on the other side. Discovering whether there was more. Or just eternal darkness. The common-sense option. But not the one Mickey intended taking. Not the safest way. Not the most fitting either. Five paces. He leaned forward, putting the gun’s barrel a foot from the back of Warren’s head.
Pitched his voice softly. Words for one man’s ears only. The last words he would ever hear.
‘All right, Warren?’
‘Jesus, you scared the fucking—’
And as his sister’s killer turned, eyes widening, body starting to react…
Thup.
Louder than a discreet cough, quieter than a sneeze. Warren’s eyes suddenly shot through with blood, as the bullet went in through his forehead. Twin bloody orbs staring sightlessly at his killer. He swayed for an instant, like a puppet with loose strings. Mickey leaned forward. Grabbed Warren’s coat and pulled hard. Stepped back smartly to let the falling body crumple into the alley’s shadows.
Done. He bent, retrieving the spent cartridge case from the ground. Then tucked his calling card up under Warren’s coat collar. Where it wouldn’t be found by anyone searching the corpse for valuables. Let the forensics crew find it in a few hours. Not even Martin knew about the card, Mickey’s own little secret. Him and Nemesis, of course. An untraceable rectangle of white cardboard. Letters and a symbol traced on using a kid’s plastic template bought in a toy shop. A message to one very special man.
He stood, walking quickly but quietly back up the alley. Unscrewed the suppressor and dropped it back into the thick-walled ziplock bag in his pocket. Along with the spent round. Then the pistol. Gloves peeled off, balled up and into the same bag. Balaclava pulled off and tucked in on top. He closed the seal tightly, then refastened the pocket.
At the alley’s end he turned left, adopting a brisk pace. Just a man on his way to the pub, walking with purpose. But no urgency, nothing to catch the eye. Rejoining the High Road two hundred yards further up at a steady pace. Restraining his eagerness to get to his alibi. They were waiting for him in the pub, of course. Pints half-empty while his sat untouched. Calling at him to ‘come on, you lightweight, have some of this!’ as he crossed the saloon bar towards the gents’. He grimaced, miming urination. Waving away their jibes that yeah, he’d better make some room.
The toilet was empty, its single cubicle’s door yawning wide. Mickey grabbed a handful of paper towels. Ducked into the lavatory and bolted the door. Opened the thin top window and passed the ziplock out to Martin. Who took it and was gone. Pulled a small spray bottle from another pocket, aiming the nozzle at his coat. Disinfectant, a brisk squirt and rub. Paper towels went into the pan stained light brown, gunshot residue from his sleeve. Scrubbing and dumping fresh towels into the water until they came away clean.
He flushed, dipping the rest of the wad in the water and rinsing off the cleaner’s scent. Sniffed the arm and nodded. Good enough. He’d shot fifty rounds of qualification that afternoon, so any residual trace could be put down to that. He flushed again, waited to be sure the paper was gone.
Opened the door and examined himself carefully in the mirror. No blood specks on his skin or clothing. No obvious trace of having used the gun. Nothing to indicate he’d just shot a man point-blank in the face. And then stared back into his victim’s bloodshot eyes without a hint of remorse. Turned to the door, bracing himself for abuse.
‘Here he is!’ Deano held his pint up for inspection, theirs all empty. ‘Get this fucker down you and get back to the bar, tight arse!’
Mickey grinned and strolled over to them, nodding knowingly. Drank the pint in one long swallow, resisting the urge to gag. Just another quiet Friday night out with the boys. Right?
2
‘Hello, there it is. The Friday night symphony.’
The other three men smiled reflexively at Deano’s sardonic observation. They were all veterans of hundreds of Friday nights in their time. A well-established routine. Relative calm in the early evening, boring almost. Good-natured banter as the punters made their way from pub to pub. A wary eye on each other’s backs, even before closing time. Just in case.
And then from midnight to dawn, a bloody war zone. Vomiting drunks. Abusive drunks. Violent drunks. Assaults, provoked or just out of nowhere. Sometimes right under your nose. Talking sense into the aggrieved. Nicking the violent, team-handed. Taking no chances, and, metaphorically at least, no prisoners. Clocking off in the early daylight, shagged out and ready to drop. JAFN. Just Another Friday Night. Other F’s being available.
A single siren, an area car on fast response most likely. A bit early to be coming in loud. But Friday night, right? They exchanged knowing glances and sipped at their pints, Deano carrying on with whatever it was he’d been quacking on about.
‘He ain’t getting the best out of what he’s got, right? As long as he’s playing Garcia in the holding role and not letting him get forward—’
A second siren in the distance, perhaps half a mile away. An ambulance, to the experienced ear. An early street assault, most likely. And then, just as they were exchanging knowing looks, a third siren joined the chorus. The first car dopplered past the pub and pulled up. Noise dying away, rotating roof lights tinging the windows.
‘Three on the blues, that’s a decent—’
Another siren joined the momentarily reduced cacophony. Raising eyebrows around the table. Unprecedented, to have such a big shout so early. They looked at each other speculatively. After a moment Deano went over to the window, just as a second police car joined the first. He came back with a knowing look.
‘Something big all right. And it ain’t just the area cars. There’s a pair of uniforms just come down the High Street like they’re after Usain Bolt. Looks to me like they’ve found something in the alley.’
He shot a glance at Mickey, knowing what they all knew about who did business in the alley. He shrugged. Gave them the studied imperturbability he’d practised in the mirror earlier. And every day for the last three months. Practised, polished, perfected. Saved for this moment.
‘Margetson got himself a kicking – I’ll buy the bloke that did it a pint.’
Nods around the table, a muttered ‘fucking right’ from Deano. More response vehicles arriving, and the sound of shouted orders. The big man stood up again and looked over the frosted section of glass.
‘Looks like every woodentop in town. Bosses trying to look like they know what they’re doing, incident tape around the alley entrance.’
‘Serious, then.’ Steve took another mouthful of his pint. ‘You fancy joining in?’
That got him a disparaging grin from the self-proclaimed king of the short-timers.
‘Do I look fucking stupid? I’ve got less than a year of my thirty left, and I’m off duty. And the first rule of off duty is…?’
The answering chorus was immediate.
‘Keep your fucking head down!’
Except none of them really believed him. Deano, the last of the old-time street coppers. A throwback to a bygone age. Put simply, a warrior. A man you knew would have your back, no questions. A man who would instinctively front up to even a hint of a scrap like a black-clad jack-in-the-box. A man who would sprint fifty yards and rugby-tackle a belligerent drunk just for the hell of it. And swear blind to the desk sergeant that the poor guy had slipped and fallen badly. And in the early days, that had worked. Most times, at least.
But not anymore. Six-foot-four thugs with cropped hair in uniform weren’t the zeitgeist anymore. Not even if their motives were mostly pure. Now it was all body cams and reasoning. Management oversight and Professional Standards, the Met’s version of AC-12. With the occasional chance to shoot some stupid bastard with a Taser. If you got lucky. No life for a warrior like Deano. So when he denied the urge to get stuck in, it was mainly due to lack of opportunity.
‘Exactly. Keep your fucking head down. So they can have it, whatever it is. Right, come on, Den, it’s your round.’
Den’s round was the last of the four, all Mickey was able to stay for. He shrugged at their good-natured jibes, standing up and pulling on the Belstaff.
‘Time and tide, boys, time and tide. Got an early one tomorrow. You know the rules.’
‘We know Roz’ll have your nuts off if you don’t get home!’
He grinned at Deano, shrugging.
‘I resemble that remark.’
Tapped fists with each of them in turn. The ritual salute of the street coppers from times long past. What he used to be. What they all used to be. What Deano still was, the only one of them.
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