The Jungle - John Milton #9 (John Milton Thrillers) Read online

  “I was in France. Calais. They jumped me. I think they brought me over in a coffin. It’s clever—bringing people into the country in boxes. Who’s going to open a coffin to check?”

  Hicks tried to shift his position and groaned in pain.

  “What about you?” Milton asked him.

  “They knocked me out. Injected me with something.”

  “How did they find you?”

  “Sarah.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She fucked us over,” Hicks said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Hicks sighed. “She ran off and told them where to find me.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “She came onto me—”

  “Oh, Hicks…”

  “Piss off, John, please. I turned her down. But I’ve been thinking about it—why she’d do it. She was scared. She was looking for someone to guarantee she’d be safe. The way she was thinking, maybe if she got together with me—or you—then we’d make sure she’d be okay. But I told her no; I said I loved my wife. She panicked, she didn’t know what else to do, so she went back to what she knew. That’s the only way they could have found us. She told them what happened and where I was, and then they came after me.”

  “When was this?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s difficult to keep track of time. A couple of days ago. They worked me over. It’s not just a beating. They did that for shits and giggles. They’ve got a torture table. They strap you onto it and then run electricity through you. I held out for as long as I could, but he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Who?”

  “The main man. His name is Pasko.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  He delivered the word in a blank voice. “Everything.”

  “About me?”

  “Everything.”

  “Nadia?”

  “Everything, John. About her, her brother, you topping the bloke in the brothel, you going to Libya… everything.”

  Milton had been blaming himself for being taken, but they had been ready for him. There was nothing to suggest that might even have been a possibility. Milton had been beating himself up for allowing it to happen, and the knowledge that it was a trap should have made him feel better. It didn’t. He just felt angry.

  “I’m sorry, John,” Hicks said.

  “Forget it.”

  “The Regiment trained me how to withstand torture. Name, rank, regiment. That’s what you give them—that, and nothing else. I tried. I reckon I lasted a day before I buckled.”

  Milton had received the same training, and then another course—degrees of magnitude more intense—when he joined the Group. Theory was one thing. Practical experience during training was another, but it could only approximate what it was like to be in the control of a trained interrogator with no ethical limits on the means available to him. Milton had been with soldiers who boasted that they would never buckle under torture. That was bullshit. All you could do was delay the inevitable. It wasn’t a question of will. It was a question of biology. The torturer would always get what he wanted: it was just a question of when.

  “I told you,” Milton said. “Forget it. It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you.”

  “Wish I could say that made me feel better.”

  “Enough self-pity. It’s not going to get us anywhere. We need to work out how to get away from here. What do you know about them?”

  He paused.

  “Hicks?”

  “They’re bad guys. Albanian mafia. Ex-Kosovo Liberation. I served in Kosovo, and those boys were fucking maniacs. And this guy…” Hicks paused. “Pasko? He’s beyond that. He’s a fucking psychopath.”

  “How many others?”

  “I’ve seen three. One of them is called Llazar. There’s another, a big one—shaved head, tattoos.”

  “I’ve had the pleasure of his acquaintance,” Milton said. “That’s the brother of the man I killed. His twin. He brought me over, I think. Anyone else?”

  “I’m not sure. But I haven’t been conscious the whole time.”

  “All right,” Milton said. He shuffled around so that he could lean his back against the wall next to Hicks. “What about Sarah?”

  “I haven’t seen her. But I doubt this was the best move she ever made.”

  Milton didn’t answer, and they both let the silence go unchecked.

  “We’re in a hole,” Hicks finally said after a long moment.

  “Look on the bright side,” Milton said. “I found them. The bad guys. That’s what I wanted. I’m where I want to be.”

  “Are you having a laugh?”

  “It’s not exactly how I would have liked it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Make trouble.”

  #

  IT WAS DIFFICULT to judge the passage of time, but Milton guessed that no more than a couple of hours had passed when the key was turned in the lock and the door opened.

  Light from the single bulb bled inside, framing the man in the doorway in silhouette. It was enough for Milton to see that he was holding a knife in his hand.

  The man took a step into the room. It was the big man, the twin of the man Milton had killed.

  “Get up.”

  Milton stayed where he was. “What are you doing?”

  “You come with me.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  A second man came inside. The first man stepped closer and held the knife against Milton’s throat. He pressed the point against his larynx and then down to his chest. Milton was defenceless; he remained stock-still, his attention focussed on the scratch of the blade as it traced across his skin all the way down to his sternum.

  “You will get up,” the man said.

  The second man stepped forward and grabbed Milton’s shoulders. He allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.

  “So you’re the brother?” Milton said.

  “The brother?”

  “Of the man I killed.”

  It was dark, but Milton thought he saw a flash of white teeth. “Yes,” the man said. “I am Florin. My brother was Drago.”

  Florin stabbed a finger at Hicks and said something else that Milton didn’t understand. The second man stooped down, grabbed Hicks by the lapels of the gown he was wearing, and tugged him to his feet. He took a key from his pocket and released the chain from the hook on the wall. The man put Hicks’s arms behind his back and hooked the newly free cuff around his spare wrist. He locked it and led Hicks out of the room.

  Florin stepped around Milton until he was behind him and then shoved him in the back. Milton stumbled, bounced off the wall, but managed to maintain his balance.

  “Out,” Florin said. “Or I cut your throat.”

  Milton did as he was told.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  THE FIRST THING that Milton saw as he was pushed into the room was the bed frame with no mattress. He knew what it was: a parilla. He had seen them before, in South America and Africa. He had seen how effective they were, too, how men who had been strong and insolent had been reduced to pathetic facsimiles of themselves after just a few minutes at the hands of a skilled torturer. He had stood over a bed in Baghdad and watched as an al-Qaeda functionary had buckled and then broke, revealing a few more breadcrumbs along the trail that eventually led to Osama. But he had never experienced one for himself. The prospect was not appealing.

  Milton took everything in. The room was large. There was a metal table, a row of shelves and coffins stacked up against the wall. There was a single wooden chair next to the parilla and a wooden table next to it. Metal rings had been fixed along one of the walls. Milton watched as Hicks was dragged across the room, the cuff around his right wrist unfastened and then locked around one of the rings. Hicks slumped down, his back against the brick. There were no windows. Two doors: one through which they had entered and another in the opposite wall. The light came from halogen strips overhead.<
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  There were three men in the room with them. Florin was behind him, his hand grasping the bunched-up fabric of Milton’s shirt. The second man was next to Hicks, a pistol in his hand. A third man, one whom Milton had not seen before, was adjusting the dials on an electricity box on a table next to the parilla.

  Milton flexed his arms a little, but the shackles were still taut. He was going to have to get them off before he could do anything.

  The second door opened and a fourth man came into the room. He was big and brawny, with a shaven head and a pitiless mien. He was rolling up the sleeves of a denim shirt, folding them back to reveal thick forearms that had been decorated with ink. Milton could see the family resemblance: this must be Pasko, the father of Florin and Drago.

  He spoke in English. “Is this him? Milton?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Pasko approached Milton, stopping when he was a foot or two away, and then coolly appraised him. “You are unimpressive,” he said with a derisive curl of his lip.

  “I’m sorry,” Milton said.

  “Sorry?”

  “About everything that’s happened.”

  “He is pathetic,” Pasko said. “How does a man like this kill a man like Drago?”

  “It was an accident,” Milton said. “Please. I’m sorry.”

  Pasko turned away from him. “Undress him.”

  The man next to Hicks tapped his finger against his gun. Milton knew better than to struggle. Florin freed his arms, then pulled off his sweatshirt and the T-shirt underneath it.

  “Everything,” Pasko said, nodding down to Milton’s trousers.

  Florin undid his belt, pulled his trousers down and then his shorts. He removed his shoes and socks. All of Milton’s tattoos were visible now, including the Roman ‘IX’ that he had had stencilled over his heart to remind him of the lessons that he was trying to learn from the program and, more particularly, Eddie Fabian’s example. The ninth step. The making of amends. This was Milton’s way of paying back the men and women that he had killed.

  Pasko regarded him. “As God intended.”

  There was something about nakedness that implied vulnerability. Milton was happy to let them draw that conclusion. He covered his crotch with his cupped hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Milton said again.

  Pasko laughed humourlessly. “It is too late to apologise. You have to pay for what you did.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You came for the girl, didn’t you? Nadia. Would you like to see her? Would you like to see the cause of all your troubles?”

  Milton looked down.

  Pasko grunted in disgust. He turned to the man by the control box. “Bring her in. She should see the kind of man who came to rescue her. Sarah, too. Both of them.”

  The man said something in Albanian and left the room through the door that Milton and Hicks had been brought in through.

  “Shall we let the girls watch, John?”

  “I said I was sorry—”

  Pasko nodded and Florin drilled Milton with a right hook that thudded against his liver. He didn’t have to pretend to be hurt; Florin was big and he threw a stiff punch. Milton reflexively bent down, dropped to his knees and covered up. He coughed, making it last a little longer for more effect.

  “Here,” Pasko said. “Sarah. And here is Nadia, too. You are the cause of a lot of unfortunate trouble, my dear. Pick him up.”

  Florin reached down and grabbed Milton underneath the shoulders. He allowed himself to be hauled up and turned around. The fourth man had brought two young women into the room. Sarah wouldn’t look at him. The other girl was dark skinned, tall and slender, with expressive eyes. She had been fixating on the parilla and, when she turned to look at Milton, her face was full of terror at the prospect of what she might see or, perhaps, what might happen to her.

  “Stand straight, like a man,” Pasko ordered. “Put your hands down. Let them see you.”

  Milton did as he was told.

  “This is John Milton, Nadia. This is the white knight who has come to save you.”

  Pasko grinned and then nodded again. Florin hit Milton again, the same right-handed swing that landed in almost the exact same place. Milton groaned out loud and dropped to his knees again.

  “Up.”

  Florin hauled Milton upright again.

  “Tell me, John. Do you think she is worth it?”

  Milton feigned a hacking cough instead of answering. His liver ached, but the pain was helpful. He could focus on it, concentrate on the pulse and throb until the last wisps of the anaesthetic were blown away. He was alert. A reflexive part of himself was instinctively maintaining a mental map of the room and the places of the eight people within it.

  Pasko, three steps behind Milton and one step to the left, next to the parilla.

  Florin, next to Milton.

  Hicks, fastened to the wall.

  The gunman, leaning against the wall next to Hicks.

  Nadia and Sarah, standing in front of the door.

  The man who had collected the women, standing behind them with his hands on their shoulders.

  Pasko gestured to Sarah. “You have done well. She brought us to your friend, John. Did you know that?”

  “Yes,” Milton said. “He told me.”

  “Sarah, come here.”

  Milton looked up. Sarah had turned to face Pasko, and now Milton could see the fear on her face. She was terrified. Pasko gestured that she should come closer.

  “I did what you asked,” Sarah said. “I took you to them.”

  “You did. And you did very well. Please—closer.”

  Sarah did as she was told, stepping away from Nadia and taking four steps across the room. She had to pass right by Milton to get to where Pasko was standing. She came close enough for him to see the wideness of her eyes, to hear the shallow breaths that passed in and out between cracked lips.

  Pasko stepped forward to meet her, looping his left arm around her shoulders, drawing her into his embrace. Sarah’s body was tense and the embrace was awkward.

  Milton saw Pasko’s right hand slide into his pocket and emerge with a small knife.

  “No, Pasko—”

  The words died in his mouth. Pasko drew back his right hand and stabbed her in the stomach.

  He saw Sarah’s eyes widen and her mouth fall open.

  Pasko held Sarah close to him, the knife pressed into her gut.

  Hicks swore and yanked against his restraints.

  Pasko released Sarah and stepped away from her.

  Sarah gasped. She dropped to the floor, her hands pressed to the wound in her gut.

  Pasko’s shirt was stained with the fresh bloom of her blood. He reached up and pressed the palm of his hand into the middle of it. He stepped closer to Milton, laid his palm on his chest, and then dragged it down. It left scarlet tracks across Milton’s flesh.

  “She betrayed me, John. A week away from us? She could have left much sooner than she did. How could I trust her after that? I had no choice, and that is your fault. Her blood is on your conscience.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  MILTON’S MUSCLES burned with adrenaline, but he forced himself to wait. The man next to Hicks had raised the gun and aimed it at him. There was nothing he could do.

  Sarah was curled up on the floor, blood pooling around her body.

  Pasko ignored her as if she wasn’t even there. He gestured across to Nadia with the bloodied knife. “Your brother found Mr. Milton, Nadia. Did you know that? He was driving the lorry that Samir used to get into the country. I am going to punish John this afternoon, and then I am going to kill him and his friend. You are going to watch. And then you are going to persuade me that you will never try to contact your brother again. Because we know where he is, don’t we, John? Mr. Hicks told me. He is in Dover. The detention facility. Applying for asylum. It would be very easy for me to pay someone to put a knife in his heart. I could kill you, just like that silly bitch on the floor, and then
I could kill your brother, too. You need to persuade me that I don’t need to do that.”

  “I won’t,” she said.

  “Pasko—” Milton started.

  Pasko gestured to Florin. “Get him ready. Help him, Llazar.”

  The last few moments had been a surprise—to everyone, not just to Milton. He turned his head to look back at Florin and the man with the gun, who must have been Llazar. They hesitated; not because they were frightened of Milton—and why would they be, with him naked and pathetic?—but because they were frightened of Pasko.

  “Now!” Pasko spat.

  Florin grabbed Milton’s shoulders.

  Milton struggled.

  Milton allowed Florin to wrap his arms around his chest.

  Pasko took a quarter turn and laid a finger against the charge box. “You know what this is, Nadia?”

  Llazar put the gun away and stepped closer to Milton and Florin.

  Nadia did not answer.

  “It is a parilla,” Pasko said. “I normally use it when I want to extract information. Not today, though. I am going to use it to torture him. And when I have inflicted enough pain, I will kill him.” Pasko laid the bloody knife down on the table. “Come over here,” he said to Nadia. “You can help me. I’ll show you how to use it.”

  Nadia turned and tried to run for the door. It was pointless—the fourth man was still standing before it, blocking it with his bulk, but it was a distraction. Llazar turned his head a fraction toward the sudden commotion as the fourth man caught Nadia with a backhanded slap across the face. Llazar was directly in front of Hicks, and he wasn’t concentrating. Hicks sprang up, wrapped his right arm around Llazar’s neck and fell back, his weight bringing them both down to the floor.

  It was the chance that Milton had been waiting for. He jerked his head backwards, his skull cracking into Florin’s face. His grip was released, and Milton threw the hardest punch that he could muster. His right hand connected; Florin stumbled back, lost his footing, and fell onto his backside.

  Milton turned and barged into the man next to Nadia, driving him all the way across the room until they crashed into the door. Milton had his arms around the man’s torso, holding his arms in place even as he tried to free them. The goon butted Milton, his brow clashing against Milton’s left eyebrow and immediately cutting it open. Milton felt the blood well up before it bubbled over and ran down into his eye. He butted back, clashing his forehead into the man’s nose, and then reached up and rested both hands so that they were spread around the side of the man’s head, his fingers splayed and his thumbs pressing against his eyes. He pushed hard. The pads of his thumbs dug into the man’s eye sockets and he felt the aqueous fluid within the cavities as it bulged and spread around the pressure. The man screamed, reaching his hands up until they fastened around Milton’s wrists, but it was too late. Milton pushed harder and was rewarded with a popping sensation and then a gushing of blood that burst around his thumbs and ran down his wrists.