Fury: a must read crime thriller full of twists (Adam Black Book 4) Read online

  Fury

  The Adam Black Thrillers #Book 4

  Karl Hill

  Copyright © 2021 Karl Hill

  The right of Karl Hill to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-913942-96-0

  Contents

  Love best-selling fiction?

  Also by Karl Hill

  Twenty years ago

  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

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  A note from the publisher

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  Also by Karl Hill

  The Adam Black Thrillers

  Unleashed (Book 1)

  Violation (Book 2)

  Venomous (Book 3)

  Twenty years ago

  Two men sat at a table in a quiet bar in Glasgow city centre. It was afternoon, in the knuckle of winter, the day cold and dreary.

  One was thirty-five, the other twenty. The older man looked tired. Pasty complexion, a furrowed brow, sad bloodhound eyes. Thin wispy hair, prematurely grey. The other – the younger man – was altogether different. Course dark hair cropped short, delicate features, eyes the colour of blue agate, his expression candid and clear.

  They sat, drinking pints of lager placed on cardboard beer mats. Smoking cigarettes. The ashtray on the table was already half full. Their conversation was low, almost a murmur. The others in the pub hardly noticed them. This was a place where men drank usually in solitude, happy with their own thoughts, content, provided there was a full glass in front of them.

  Also on the table was an open penknife.

  “Let’s do it,” the older man said.

  “If you want to.”

  “I do.”

  The younger man shrugged. “Don’t you trust me?”

  The other gave a small sad smile. “Easy for you to say. You’ve had your turn. It’s mine now. Three’s the charm. I want my charm. We seal the deal. Then there’s no going back, right?”

  “A blood oath. I get that.” The younger man took a gulp of lager, leaving a smear of froth on his upper lip.

  “Clean yourself up.”

  The younger man wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  The older man glanced round. No one gave a damn. They could have been invisible. He pulled out a cream-coloured silken handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and spread it carefully on the Formica tabletop. He placed his hand above it. He picked up the penknife with his other hand, pressed the tip into his palm, bursting open the skin. He drew the tip down four inches. Blood oozed onto the handkerchief. He placed the knife back on the table.

  “This really is beyond the call of duty,” said the younger man.

  “Humour me.”

  “Very dramatic. You can trust me.”

  “You should know about dramatic. Blood binds.”

  “Blood binds,” the younger man echoed. “If you say so.”

  He took another gulp, picked up the blade, cut it deep into his palm, clasped his friend’s hand. Blood mingled, dripped onto the open handkerchief.

  The older man’s face broke into a broad smile. “Easy. Now you keep your end of the bargain. Your turn to do the hard work. My turn to enjoy.”

  “That’s only fair. Any thoughts?”

  The wrinkles on the older man’s brow deepened. “What do you mean?”

  “Thoughts on what you’ll do with them?”

  “Ah. I don’t have your imagination.”

  “Which means?”

  “I might copy you. They were works of art. Do you mind?”

  “That would be plagiarism. Or something like that.”

  “Plagiarism is a copy of literary work,” the older man chided. “But what you did was literature, in its way. They were… beautiful.”

  It was the younger man’s turn to smile. “Flattery gets you everywhere. You’ll need the right equipment. I’m not giving you mine. That would be too easy.”

  The older man nodded slowly. “Of course. Any advice?”

  “I found a broad blade with a serrated edge was useful. And metal snippers. Heavy duty.”

  “Metal snippers? Sounds a bit… over the top?”

  “For cutting the ribs away from the spine. It’s awkward. And the bones are stubborn there.”

  The older man chuckled. “Makes sense.” He lifted the handkerchief from the table, put it in his pocket. He raised his glass. The other did the same.

  “To the… how did you describe it?”

  “The Blood Eagle.”

  “To the Blood Eagle.” They clinked glasses, took deep draughts.
>
  “Now,” the older man licked his lips, “find me three women.”

  1

  Present Day

  Three letters.

  Sent to three different people.

  Two by first-class post. The third, delivered. Each identical. Each simple, and direct, and written in neat precise handwriting.

  I know one of you murdered my wife. I don’t know who. But I swear to Christ above I’ll find the truth before I die.

  I’ve written it all down, from the start. Every little thing. In a book. A book of my life. A book of our lives. This makes it very special. Intimate, one might say. Everything detailed, except the name of a murderer. The missing piece.

  We need to pay for our sins. For me, I’ll meet my penance in hell, where I belong. Where we all belong. We are monsters, each of us. I know it. You know it.

  The book, I no longer have. It’s in the safekeeping of someone who I believe has the power to uncover the truth.

  Someone who will find the person who killed my wife.

  Someone who kills monsters, like us.

  His name is Adam Black.

  Now he’s coming after you.

  2

  Learn to stop being surprised. Surprise is failure. And in our line of work, gentlemen, failure is death.

  Observation raised by Staff Sergeant to the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment

  “Wake the fuck up, Captain Black!”

  In an act of simple caprice, which was unusual for Black, he had customised the alarm on his mobile phone, using his own voice. The words were echoes of the morning call he and other soldiers of the 22nd Regiment of the Special Air Service would get, usually at 0500.

  Black didn’t need an alarm. His body was tuned into waking at such an extreme time. Habit, instinct, training. He didn’t know what it was. It just happened.

  This particular Saturday morning was no different. Black wasn’t the type to linger in bed, absorbed in his own thoughts. He got up instantly, changed, and went for a four-mile run in the park adjacent to his flat.

  Thus the morning started. Black could never have imagined what would follow. Two events transpired in the space of the next two days. Events which changed his life. Both surreal. Both remarkable.

  The first took place in a coffee shop three hours later, in a town called East Kilbride. Black spent time there most Saturday mornings, sipping a flat white at 8am in a corner of a Starbucks. He went because it was open early, and situated on the periphery of the main shopping centre, which was rarely busy. He sat in a corner, in a particular booth, and read a newspaper, cover to cover.

  Black was the only customer. The staff knew him. They fixed him a coffee before he ordered it. The conversation was always polite, but sparse. Black was a man who preferred silence to small-talk. He wasn’t trying to be rude. It was just his way.

  He sat, a solitary figure. Lightly tanned. Flat, rather harsh cheekbones. Dark hair cropped short. Lean, hard muscularity. Attractive, in a hard-bitten way. Plain grey T-shirt, blue jeans. Black didn’t care about fashion. It was July, and it was warm. No need for a jacket.

  He sipped the coffee. It was strong and good. Black would openly admit he was a coffee addict, sometimes drinking ten cups a day. Sometimes more. This particular morning, he’d also bought himself a doughnut. He reckoned his body could cope with the calories.

  Black looked up. A man was standing at the counter. He was elderly, maybe seventy-five, maybe older. He spoke quietly. He was ordering a pot of tea. Black gave him no more thought. He resumed reading his newspaper. A minute passed. Black sensed a presence. The man was standing over him, carrying a tray.

  “May I join you?”

  Black stared at him for a full five seconds.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Thank you,” said the man. He placed the tray on the table, and sat opposite. Black remained motionless. The man lifted the pot, mug and a little carton of milk from the tray onto the table, and put the tray on the floor by his feet.

  “They do decaffeinated tea here. You can’t tell the difference. I’ve been told by the doctor that I have to watch my heart. So no caffeine.”

  “That’s interesting,” Black said. “Have we met?”

  The man poured the tea into a large stoneware mug, dropped in the milk, and stirred with a wooden stirring stick.

  “I’m not allowed sugar either.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Can I help you?”

  “Though I see your dietary requirements aren’t just as restricting.” The man nodded at Black’s doughnut.

  Black had heard enough. The man was deranged.

  “Enjoy the tea,” he said, and made to leave.

  “Please, Mr Black. Indulge me. I won’t take too much of your time.”

  Black sat back, appraised the man sitting opposite. His initial guess was right. He was in his late seventies, and looked it. A face grey and lined, hollow cheeked, dull rheumy eyes, regarding Black behind silver-framed spectacles. Bald, except for wisps of silk-fine white hair straggling over his ears.

  He knew Black’s name. He didn’t seem to pose any instant threat. But in Black’s life, death presented itself in many surprising forms.

  “And you are?” he asked.

  “As you get older, the memory begins to play tricks, don’t you think? Sometimes you’re convinced something happened, but it didn’t happen at all. Sometimes, something actually did happen, but you have no recollection of it. Would you agree, Mr Black?”

  “I forget things as much as the next man. Right now, I seem to have forgotten where we’ve met before. Perhaps you’d like to remind me?”

  The man gave his head the merest shake, as if dismissing the statement. He lifted the mug of tea to his lips and took a careful sip, and then placed it back on the table.

  “Can’t taste the difference.” He paused, then continued.

  “When we met last, you were different.”

  Black said nothing.

  “You were younger, of course. And less… intense.”

  Black waited.

  “I had forgotten all about you. And then, suddenly, I saw a picture of you in a newspaper. Adam Black. Hero. Saviour. I saw that picture, and a memory flashed into my mind. Perhaps we’d met before. But I wasn’t sure. Maybe I was imagining it. Then I checked.”

  It was Black’s turn to sip his coffee. It was cold. It had lost its flavour. It tasted bitter. “You still haven’t told me your name.”

  “My name will mean nothing to you. But your name? Your name means everything. I checked, and there it was, and the memories came back.”

  Black took a deep breath. He had no idea where this was going, but knew he wanted to leave.

  The man was wearing a dark-blue raincoat, buttoned up to his collarbone. He manoeuvred his body to one side, and reached into a pocket. Black had both hands on the table. He waited, senses heightened to a new level.

  The man took something out. A book. Roughly the size of a thick paperback. Bound tightly by rough brown string. He placed it on the table in front of him. The cover was plain white. Written in block capitals in heavy black felt pen were four words.

  The Book Of Dreams

  “I had to check.” The man tapped his index finger on the book cover. “I had to know if you were real, or if I’d imagined you.”

  “And am I real?”

  “Yes, Mr Black. As real as it gets.”

  3

  Black was intrigued. He would hear the man out. If anything, his Saturday morning coffee stop had livened up a little.

  “I’ve kept this book for thirty years. Perhaps it would be better described as a journal. Do you keep a journal, Mr Black?”

  “It never occurred to me.”

  The man gave the slightest shrug. “It’s not for everybody. But as one gets older, it takes on a new meaning. I can open this book, and reminisce. Relive moments of the past. Some good, some bad. A window into forgotten memories. My memory is dying, Mr Black. Then I saw a picture of you, and a memory ca
me back. I checked my journal, and discovered the memory was true.”

  Black’s lips twitched into the semblance of a smile. “And was it good or bad? Often people I meet are left with bad memories.”

  “My wife died eight years ago.” He hesitated. “Or maybe nine. The years become muddled. Are you married, Mr Black?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember my wife?”

  Black shook his head. Where the hell is this going?

  “Why would you? It was long ago, and you only met her once. It’s all in here.” He gestured to the book. “You were younger then. A lawyer in the city. We were shown to a big room, and we sat at a table so polished we could see our reflections. And the place smelled of fresh coffee. And a whole wall was lined with books. Hundreds of books. We knew right away we were in the wrong place.”