With the clear blue sky he knew was beyond, barely a glimmer of light made its way through the filth and the bird shit smeared over the windows. That wasn’t the issue though.
Yellowed paint peeled in great swathes from the walls, leaving behind dull grey, powdery concrete which shed onto the floors in layer upon layer of dust. Dust he’d made sure had been cleared every week so their product wasn’t contaminated. That’s how you kept a good reputation. How you built your empire. His had crumbled along with the dust.
He’d left the two abandoned aeroplanes outside, keeping up the pretence of an airfield undergoing renovation. Provided no one came close enough to inspect the premises. And it had worked. After the first year he’d bought the place, he’d never had anyone inspect the premises again. He paid his council tax and business rates, water, electricity. No need for heating. The low-lives that worked for him could throw on another layer of clothing.
With the business running smoothly, he'd recently allowed his junior to keep the operation going as the money flooded in. He'd never thought anything other than it was as efficient as when he last checked. His time had been taken trying to break into the bigger game, not the small fry he currently dealt with.
His footsteps echoed across the huge empty room as annoyance swept through him, tightening his jaw. For God's sake, he should have checked. The operation could have been ten times the size. Ten times the income. That’s what he’d been aiming for all these months, believing what he’d handed over control of was running fine. If only he’d dropped by. Seven months he’d let roll by in the belief that it was all under control.
Anger boiled in the pit of his stomach, churning up acid to bubble in his chest.
He circled around 360 degrees. All this empty, unused space could have been utilised to perfection. That had been his ambition. Ambition that had made him blind while he pursued his dream.
He had only himself to blame, of course. He’d rested on his laurels and by sheer dint of that had allowed the people who worked for him to rest on theirs. They’d ruined it.
Twenty-four hours ago, it hadn’t mattered. He’d not cared enough.
Things had changed. So rapidly he barely had time to take it all in.
He slipped through from one doorway into a long musky-scented corridor with dingy mustard walls and discarded the idea that he could take up residence in the place as it was. He’d whip it into shape though in no time at all. The smaller rooms could soon be converted into living accommodation for him. A bed, a bathroom, a kitchen.
He sneered as he bumped through to the next enormous room. One that had been set up properly, with several rows of tables outfitted with highly sophisticated equipment he’d recently purchased which had replaced over two dozen people. A reduction of workforce and risk. Equipment worth a small mountain of cocaine for which it had been purchased to cut with an accuracy no human hand could compete with.
He stopped just inside the doorway with fury building into a thick, dark oil. A two-million-pound operation and no one there to oversee it.
As an intruder, he should have been shot dead the moment he walked through the front hangar doors of the building. As the fucking owner, the least he’d expect is to be challenged, greeted, acknowledged. Instead, there wasn’t even a sign of a security guard, never mind the eight he believed were working around the clock. The place was deserted. Where the hell were the workers? It should be a buzz of activity, not a mortuary.
He glanced at the time on his Omega watch. The Constellation Co-Axial Master Chronometer his wife had paid the better part of twenty-five grand for on his birthday. As it was his credit card she’d used for the purchase, he couldn’t have been happier. With them all dead, nobody would be paying the bill.
He twisted his lips in a bitter smile and dropped his arm back down to his side. She’d never earned a penny of her own in her life, but she magnanimously splashed out all his money on gifts apparently from her. Irony. He’d bought the fucking over-priced watch himself.
Only 5:30 p.m., time enough for work to be done.
He fisted his hands and rested them on his hips, pressing down on the rage threatening to explode. A twenty-four-hour, £900,000-a-week-turnover business was his dream. Hardly one he’d see at this rate.
He circled around again. And froze at the slow creek of a door. If none of his men were apparent, just who the hell was sneaking around his building, his business?
He tilted his head to catch the soft shuffle of shoes heading his way along the corridor and palmed one of the small handguns he’d tucked in his pocket. If he’d known what he’d come across, he’d have brought more firepower from the boot of his car. Foolishly, he hadn’t imagined he’d need it. Another mistake he’d be sure not to repeat in the future. Now he had one again. He narrowed his eyes.
He snorted out a laugh. Someone was about to get a hell of a fright. He was back from the dead. Lazarus they could call him.
Phil Hart’s eyes shot wide as he appeared in the doorway, fear lurking in their watery depths. His voice stuttered out from between stiff lips. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘Evidently, Phil.’ He allowed a slow easy smile to spread across his face, raised his eyebrows and let the smile slide away. ‘Is that why you sent everybody home?’
The scarlet flush over the man's pale skin confirmed his suspicions and he took satisfaction at the panic that flashed through Phil’s eyes while he passed his gun from one hand to the other, as efficient using either left or right when firing a weapon. He held the Taurus LBR revolver with casual deadliness, gratified at the dread it seemed to evoke in the other man.
‘I’d not heard from you. For over a week. Last time we spoke—’
‘Last time we spoke,’ he cut in, ‘I told you I needed to keep my head down, Phil, that the heat had turned up.’ He quirked one side of his mouth up in a crooked grin. He certainly had turned the heat up. Full on blaze.
Phil, the one he’d put his trust in, his right-hand man, gave a weak, pathetic shrug. ‘I thought this was all over.’
Vicious annoyance slapped through him. When had he ever given the impression it was over? He’d thought it himself for a short time, but he’d never revealed his thoughts to Phil. ‘What the hell made you believe that?’
The muted scuff of a footstep had him swinging his gun to point at a second man who stepped through the wide doorway.
This one didn’t show the same fear, his cool disdain undisturbed by the gun aimed at his heart. His air of arrogance a refreshing relief but also a warning that he could be an adversary in the game.
With no idea who he was, he studied the other man with cautious interest.
With the smooth coffee-coloured skin of mixed heritage, the stranger had inherited disconcertingly pale eyes. They glowed an unnatural green as his gaze flickered over to where yesterday’s delivery of blocks of cocaine hydrochloride powder were stacked across four pallets. Half would remain in the pure form, half would be processed into crack using the baking and talcum powder which was neatly stacked further along the room. The organisation of products with a street value in excess of £200,000 was a tribute to Phil’s abilities. Unfortunately, his panicked actions to shut up shop when the pressure was on were not.
Where had the pressure come from? Another operation? A drugs lord trying to muscle in on his success?