OR ELSE SHE DIES

CHAPTER 1

Three men watched the girl.

They sat on wooden boxes around a makeshift table in a dusty farmhouse outbuilding. Slivers of sunlight penetrated the long disused stable through slatted windows, dusty beams illuminating the rusting machinery, the sour and rotten straw and the warped door opposite.

On the table was a gun. A Ruger LCR.

The men sat tight up close to the girl, touching her: two either side, one behind.

The one behind yanked the dank canvas hood from the girl's head and she gulped in air as though it was her final breath. She blinked away tears and tried to control herself.

"Look straight ahead," said the first man. "If you look at us we'll hurt you."

"We'll tell you once more in case it wasn't crystal clear the first time," said the second man. "My friend behind you has a knife; a very sharp knife. Can you feel it?"

She nodded.

The third man stroked the nape of her neck with the cold, flat eight-inch blade then ran the tip down along her spine until it reached the rope that bound her wrists together. Taking his time he cut the bonds and the girl rubbed the red weals on her skin with relief.

The man behind her spoke. "When we give the word you'll pick up the gun and shoot the man who comes through that door."

"Do you understand?" asked the first man running his blackened fingernail along her cheek, stroking the fine, downy hair on her face.

She nodded again. She would agree to anything to get away from these men.

"Don't hesitate," said the second man. "Do exactly as we say and you're free."

"I don't think I can kill anyone," the girl said with a quiet whimper.

"You'd be surprised," said the third man. "Sudden death concentrates the mind."

"I've never..."

"Fired a gun?" said the first man with a laboured groan. "We’ve shown you, haven’t we? You pick it up, point and pull the trigger. It has a polymer frame. Weighs around fourteen ounces. There'll be a little recoil but not too much. A monkey couldn't miss from this range."

“Why me?”

The first man leant in so that his chapped lips touched her ear lobe. “That’s the first sensible question you’ve asked, darlin’.”

“It’s called irony, my love,” said the second man. “Our boss has an unusual sense of humour. He likes to be, what he calls, ironic. Beats me why. There’s a reason why it has to be you, all right. No one steals forty million from the big man and gets away with it.”

“If,” said the third man from behind, “you fuck up, we will do it for you. And then we’ll shoot you. If you hesitate pulling that trigger for one second once he’s in the room, you won’t see tomorrow. Understand?”

The girl nodded.

They lapsed into silence, all staring at the door, listening out for the sound of footsteps.

The girl could smell the men. Sweat and stale body odour mixed with the distinctive stench of adrenalin-fuelled fear seemed to ooze from them creating a kind of pungent inversion layer. The stink blended with the faint aroma of long dead cattle, dung and rodents.

For a long time they remained silent.

The girl could hear the faint ticking of three wristwatches as they merged into a syncopated rhythm.

She had never been so frightened in her life. A warm, damp feeling was spreading between her thighs. She tried to control her bladder but failed.

"Fucking hell," whined the second man. "She's pissed herself." He spat on the floor and the girl watched the gobbet land near a trickle of urine.

"She's scared," the first man said. "Aren't you, darlin'? Not long to wait now and it'll all be over."

The girl fought hard against the impulse to weep. Could she really believe these men who had kept her prisoner for so long? What was so special about the man who would walk through the far door? When it came to it, could she really shoot someone in cold blood? A complete stranger. Was it some kind of test? Would they actually set her free? If they thought she could recognise them was this likely?

A noise outside the building alerted the men. The girl found it hard to swallow. Her larynx felt as though it was filling her throat. She sensed tension rising amongst her captors.

She looked at the gun only a foot away from her. She could pick it up by leaning forward a little. They had made her practice holding the gun and pointing it at the door when they first brought her to this place. It was light and she was strong. All those years of rowing had given her good arm strength. She could point it without wavering too much.

They heard something.

Someone was walking as lightly as they could towards the door. The three men tensed themselves. The third man placed the tip of his knife against the girl's ribs, just below her heart.

Whoever was approaching was quiet. He knew how to move without making much noise: like a cat burglar.

"Pick up the gun," the first man whispered into her ear.

She reached out but fear had almost frozen her limbs. She began to disassociate in an attempt to bury the thought of what she was about to do.

"Point the gun at the door," the second man mouthed hoarsely.

The girl could feel the presence of someone standing directly outside. She made herself a promise. If she had to pull the trigger she would close her eyes. She couldn't watch as she killed someone.

She pointed the Ruger as the door started to open. Whoever was outside was aware of how much noise an old, misshapen timber door with ancient hinges could make. The girl could sense rather than see an eye peering in through a gap in the vertical timbers by the hinge.

The second man leaned harder in towards her. She knew that he was holding a gun in his right hand. He pushed his moist lips into her ear.

"Wait till he's inside," he whispered softly.

The second man gripped her other arm tightly pinning it to her thigh.

The door opened an inch, then another.

The girl closed her eyes tightly shut suppressing the welling of tears that threatened to overcome her.

Then someone kicked the door open. It swung screaming on its rusty hinges and slammed into the barn wall.

A tall man ducked under the door frame and stepped inside filling the room with his physical presence.

"Now," the first man ordered.

"Shoot, bitch," the second man snapped.

The girl felt the knife prick her skin.

She sucked in her breath, squeezed her eyes till it hurt and pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot rattled the rafters of the stable. The girl dropped the gun and opened her eyes. It took her a moment to realise. Then she began to wail and shake.

The scream when it came was wrenched like acid from her insides. She fell to her knees yelling one word.

"Dad!"

CHAPTER 2

Two weeks earlier

It was standing room only.

Cheapest ticket price was fifty smackers. Double that for the raised circle of seats surrounding the cage. They'd come to see what was billed as the last time Irish Eyes would step into an arena anywhere. His light heavyweight opponent tonight was Charles 'Hatchet Man' Morrison who had sworn to tear him limb from limb. Morrison was not known for sticking to the rules – no head butting, eye gouging, biting, attacks to the groin or spine, throat strikes, elbow jabs, hair pulling, kidney strikes and a host of others. Morrison ignored most of these and had been banned for a long period. This was his comeback fight and he wanted Irish Eyes's scalp etched on his belt.

The cage was thirty feet in diameter, fully padded, complying with Mixed Martial Arts rules. It was hot in the privately owned men's club with two narrow gangways either side of the cage leading to changing rooms with opposite entrances into the ring.

Harry Chance stood quietly at the end of one of the corridors surrounded by a gang of hangers-on, fans and devotees.

"Thanks for this, Harry," said Maxie Dixon, the stocky promoter who had his hand on Chance's shoulder. "The punters have been crying out for the return of Irish Eyes."

"I retired a year ago, Maxie," said Chance. "There are some new kids around now, and I've got my looks to think about."

"Morrison's all noise and nonsense. You're not worried about him, are you?"

"I've fought him before. He's a dirty fighter." Chance looked down at Dixon. "I'm doing this as a favour to you, Maxie. Don't think you can talk me into making a comeback. It's not going to happen."

"I appreciate this. I really do, Harry."

"I might ask you for a favour one day."

"So ask. I can only refuse." Dixon growled a low laugh then coughed heartily. "No, no, Harry. You know I'd do almost anything for you."

Chance tapped his fists together encased in four-ounce gloves. "Sure, I know."

"Are the rumours true, Harry?" asked Dixon.

"What rumours?"

Dixon leaned in and spoke quietly so no one around could hear. "That you've salted away big bundles of dosh and a ton of sparklers. Your ill-gotten gains, mate."

"I never discuss my business in public. You should know that, Maxie. You never can tell who's got their fat ears wagging."

A fanfare suddenly blasted throughout the club as the MC began his pre-fight presentation.

Harry Chance could feel the excitement building within the crowd. There was a hum of expectation rising to boiling point. Irish Eyes was back for one night only.

Dixon tapped him on the shoulder and Harry Chance strode out into the arena to a swell of applause while on the other side of the cage the Hatchet Man met with a cacophony of booing.

The hall stank of cheap booze and burger fat and a hazy halo of smoke hovered under the ceiling. Chance remembered when he had been the light heavyweight king of the ring. He'd been unbeaten for two years and largely unscathed. He hadn't got away injury free as his ribs and nose could testify. But the broken bones had mended and he only had a couple of small facial scars to show for his time at the top. He quit when he realised he was slowing down and there were faster, stronger and hungrier fighters coming up anxious to destroy him. Besides, mixed martial arts fighting wasn't his main line of work despite the purses he'd won. No, that was something that certain members of the police force would dearly love to nail him for. He'd replaced fighting as a lucrative pastime since he had discovered a far more cerebral pursuit.

The two fighters entered the cage. Chance stared at Morrison, heavier by more than a few pounds, hairy and tattooed like a graffiti artist's worst nightmare. He was bouncing on his toes, snarling and snorting, his bald head gleaming under the spotlights.

The referee recited the rules and the warnings.

The fighters retired to the edge of the cage and the bell rang.

Morrison charged at Chance like a bull with testosterone overload. Chance feinted to his right, swivelled on one leg and danced away from Morrison then stepped in and delivered a vicious left hook that rocked his opponent's head on his shoulders. Chance moved away.

Morrison charged again and this time Chance could not get out of the way quickly enough. He was driven back onto the cage with Morrison flailing and hooking. Chance locked his opponent's arms and tried to avoid the illegal head butt. Morrison's skull nudged Chance's temple raising a bruise by his right eye.

"I'm gonna rip your fuckin' heart out, Irish," Morrison mumbled through a mouthful of blood, "and bite your ears off."

Chance twisted out of the sweaty embrace and delivered a stabbing two-knuckle strike deep into the pressure point on Morrison's waist before the heavier man could move.

Morrison dropped to one knee as though electrocuted.

The bell rang but the noise of the crowd was so deafening it almost drowned out the sound.

Chance heard it, turned and walked away.

Morrison could only hear his blood boiling. His ears were buzzing with the tinnitus of hate.

He charged Chance and body checked him into the cage. Chance went down spreadeagled. Morrison charged again and lifted his heel screaming obscenities.

The referee stepped in and dragged Morrison away issuing a warning to the judges.

The crowd was baying for blood.

Chance stood up and stretched his back. He looked out of the cage at Dixon and grimaced.

The scheduled five-round bout had started at a furious pace, and Chance was already regretting agreeing to one more fight for old time's sake. As he stood there balancing with the weight on his toes he knew for certain he was too old for this game. He had to end it quickly but hitting Morrison flush on the chin had just made him stagger.

The bell rang for the second round and both fighters traded punches early on until Chance shot in for a double-leg takedown that was defended by Morrison. The two men exchanged heavy punches but Chance was dancing away from his opponent and taking most of his shots on his arms.

Chance was the quicker of the two and managed to skip out of Morrison's path as he came in head first and swinging. Chance jabbed him away.

Chance was panting hard and sweating as the second round came to an end. The bout restarted at the bell and this time Chance deceived the lumbering Morrison with a Tai Chi thunder punch followed by a series of kicks to the waist that put the Hatchet Man down.

It was now or never for Chance. He knew he was running out of steam. He ran and jumped, following Morrison to the ground and methodically grappled and worked himself into mount position. Morrison spat in Chance's face and attempted to bite his nose then tried to hip escape by sliding along the floor but Chance sucked in a deep breath, sprang into the air and landed with huge impact on Morrison's chest winding him. Chance landed a series of meaningful punches to the head then locked up Morrison in an arm triangle, garrotting his opponent with his arms and digging two thumbs deep into a deadly pressure point behind his ears. Morrison struggled for breath, bucking and heaving but Chance increased the pressure praying it would be enough to end it. Morrison almost threw Chance off but with his arms and legs locked by the grapple he eventually succumbed to the choke.

Chance rose to his feet, breathing heavily as the referee raised his arm in the air as a wave of weariness swept over him. He walked out of the ring and an attendant threw a dressing gown over his shoulders.

He looked up and saw a familiar face in the crowd. Tall, rangy with a flickering, supercilious smile, he was standing but not applauding. It was a face Chance did not particularly want to see.

As Chance reached him Detective Inspector Alan Richards stepped out and stood by his side. Chance stopped.

"Impressive, Harry," said Richards. "Your fighting ability will come in very useful when I've put you behind bars."

"Good to see you, too, DI Richards. Didn't think this was your kind of sport. Thought you'd be more of billiards and meat pie man."

Chance carried on walking and Richards fell into step with him as the slow moving group of well-wishers headed by Dixon entered the tunnel.

"I see you haven't lost your sense of humour, Harry," said Richards with a twitch of one shoulder. "You're going to need to see the funny side of things. You haven't been forgotten. Oh no, matey. You are still on my radar. One day, someone's going to talk. Someone's going to point the finger. Someday soon you're going to make a mistake."

"We'll see."

"I hear you've taken up playing cards as a hobby," Richards said. "Bridge, isn't it?"

"Am I under surveillance?"

"Like I said, you're on my radar. I'm just waiting for you to slip up."

"You must be mixing me up with someone else," Chance told him. "You've spent too much time in the sewer mixing with lowlifes, thieves and murderers." Chance leaned into towards him before he walked away. "It's you who's making the mistake, DI Richards. Have a pleasant evening."

Chance couldn't wait to pull the gloves off, strip and spend long minutes under the shower. He peered out through the steam at the peeling walls, scratched with the names of fighters past and present; the pale, dangling light with no shade, the lockers dented by so many frustrated fists and he felt nostalgic.

He touched his bruises, stroked his sore ribs and allowed the high-pressure water jet to ease his muscles. His whole body was one big ache. If he hadn't known it before he knew it then. This had always only been a sideline, one that was well and truly over.

He turned the shower off and wrapped a towel around his waist. The door opened and Maxie Dixon came in.

"Good fight, Harry," he growled handing Chance an envelope. "Your purse. You deserve every penny."

Chance took the envelope. "I don't need it, Maxie but I know some people who do. Thanks."

"Oh, by the way," said Dixon, "there's a bloke outside wants to see you. Says it's urgent. I don't normally let the public down here but he knows some faces I know and he looks kosher. You want to see him?"

"Sure, show him in."