The Shadow Project - Scott Mariani Ben Hope

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Shannon can take it.’

      ‘Tell that to the lawyer,’ Ben said. ‘But that’s not all.’

      Jeff was quiet for a second as the meaning sank in. He swallowed. ‘He’s suing us, isn’t he?’

      ‘For loss of earnings,’ Ben said, still gazing out of the window. Over the roofs of the facility buildings he could see the trees beyond. He so much wanted to be there. Hidden deep within Le Val’s sprawl of woodland was the tumbledown ivy-covered ruin of an old church that for the last seven hundred and fifty or so years had been home to the wild creatures of the forest. It was a place Ben loved to go and spend time away from everything, just him and the stillness of the sun-dappled woods, the whisper of the trees and the sound of the doves nesting in the remains of the steeple. At this moment, all that seemed infinitely beyond his reach.

      ‘As in one point two million kind of earnings?’ Jeff asked quietly.

      Ben nodded. He tore himself away from the window, went back to his desk and reclined in his chair. ‘The Swiss gig will have to be cancelled. Which basically leaves Shannon and the rest of the team out of a job. And I’m responsible for that.’

      ‘Can’t they manage without him?’

      ‘Apparently not. He insists they need a leader. It’s his contract, and he can do what he wants.’

      ‘Then we’re fucked,’ Jeff said.

      They sat in silence for a long time. Three minutes passed, then four. Both men sat staring into space.

      ‘Why? Why?’ Ben muttered under his breath. ‘Why did I have to hit him?’

      ‘You didn’t exactly hit him, Ben. If you’d really hit him, you’d be up for manslaughter now.’

      ‘That’s a comforting thought, Jeff. Thanks for that.’ Ben took out his cigarettes and Zippo, and lit one up. Offered one to Jeff, and they sat smoking together.

      ‘There’s got to be a way out of this,’ Jeff said. ‘Is there no way we can just deny responsibility? Pretend it never happened?’

      ‘Nice idea, if you can forget the six witnesses who saw him go down. Seven, if you include Brooke.’

      ‘Brooke wouldn’t say anything.’

      ‘That’s not the point, Jeff. If it comes down to it, I won’t ask her to perjure herself for nothing.’

      ‘It was self-defence. He made the first move.’

      ‘But I overreacted. I didn’t have to cripple the guy.’

      ‘What about public liability insurance?’

      ‘I don’t think the policy underwriters would be happy about forking out a seven-figure sum because I beat up my client.’

      ‘It wasn’t your fault. The bastard had it coming.’

      ‘It is my fault. No excuses. I’ve put the customer in hospital, and that’s it. He has every right to sue for loss of earnings.’

      Silence again for a few moments.

      ‘How about this?’ Jeff suggested suddenly. ‘We go back to the hospital, you and me, right now. We hang around and wait until Brooke and the doctor are out of the way. And then we slip into Shannon’s room and tell him that if he goes ahead with this, we’ll—’

      ‘Forget it. That’s not going to work either.’

      ‘Then we’re fucked,’ Jeff said again. ‘Completely screwed. Dead in the water.’

      ‘Maybe not,’ Ben said. ‘I’ve got another idea.’

       Chapter Nine

       The next morning

      The rust-streaked prow of the ship cleaved through the waves at a steady ten knots, throwing up a bow wave of white spray. The tweendecker cargo vessel was more than forty years old, and every inch of her hundred-and-sixty-foot hull was crusted with salt and oily grime, but she was a fast and reliable ship. Her speed was one reason she’d been chosen for this assignment; the other was that her Icelandic captain and his crew of six were savvy enough to take the cash and ask no questions of the two men and the woman they were being hired to ferry eastwards across the northern tip of Scotland into Scandinavian waters. They wanted to know even less about the ‘cargo’ that their three passengers had stored down below.

      The ship had sailed in the night from Clifden on the Irish west coast. A few hours into the voyage, the sun was shining but the salty sea wind was cool as they left the Outer Hebrides behind them, the Orkney Islands a few hours ahead. The diesels kept up their steady grind, the clouds drifted overhead and the sea foamed white in their wake as the vessel ploughed onwards towards Stavanger, Norway, where the plane would be waiting to deliver the package to its final destination.

      The stocky guy was not feeling good. He hated this fucking pile of rust, the stink of oil and ocean, the nauseous pitch and yaw of the floor under his feet. He was ill all the time, and he’d have loved to shoot down one or two of those incessantly screeching fucking seabirds. Not the most rewarding job he’d been on. He couldn’t wait for it to be over.

      The things you have to do for money, he was thinking as he clanged open the hatch and carried the tray down into the part of the hold that was off-limits to the crew. He hated having to act as waiter to the damn kid, too, and carried the tray carelessly. Some water sloshed out of the tin cup and spilled onto the thin cheese sandwiches. If the kid complained, then fuck him. Let him starve.

      Down in the murky shadows, the stink of oil was even stronger. The guy could make out the pale shape of the mattress on the floor and the dull glint of the handcuffs that secured the kid’s left wrist to the pipe.

      Hold on. He shone the torch. The white circle of light danced on the rusty wall.

      The handcuff was dangling empty from the pipe.

      He dropped the tray with a clatter and stood there, mouth hanging open as his rising fury quickly gave way to fear. He dropped into a squat and rubbed his chin. If he’d lost the kid, he was a dead man.

      Spotting a twisted length of wire lying among the filth on the floor, he picked it up and examined it, and his rage started flooding back. Little bastard.

      He couldn’t be far away. The guy muttered and cursed and shone the torch this way and that in the shadows.

      A soft sound came from behind him. He started to turn towards it, but then something came whooshing out of the darkness and caught him a glancing blow to the side of the head. His vision flashed white with pain. He dropped the torch and fell to the floor. The hard object hit him again and he felt unconsciousness washing over him.

      Then he was dimly aware of someone bending over him, feeling through his pockets. Light footsteps running away.

      He gritted his teeth and forced himself to clamber to his knees, just in time to see the kid momentarily framed in the sunlight that streamed through the open hatch. Then he was gone.

      ‘Come back here, you little fucker,’ the guy yelled out. His head felt ready to explode as he staggered to his feet and over towards the hatch, stumbling over the length of iron pipe that the prisoner had hit him with. He tore the .45 auto from his belt and went for the phone in his pocket to alert the others.

      It was gone.

      Rory’s heart was pounding in his throat as he half-ran, half-clambered up a clanking metal stair and sprinted along a railed walkway. He glanced frantically up and down the length of the ship and over the side at the heaving grey-green ocean and shivered in the cold, wondering where on earth he was. Gulls and cormorants were swooping and circling overhead; he could see dark islands on the horizon. His mind was working so fast that he was tripping over his thoughts,

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