Sam Bourne 4-Book Thriller Collection

SAM BOURNE

4-BOOK THRILLER COLLECTION

CONTENTS

Title Page

The Righteous Men

The Last Testament

The Final Reckoning

The Chosen One

If you liked these thrillers, try Pantheon

About the Author

By Sam Bourne

Copyright

About the Publisher

SAM BOURNE

THE RIGHTEOUS MEN

DEDICATION

For Sam, born into a family of love

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Copyright

ONE

Friday, 9.10pm, Manhattan

The night of the first killing was filled with song. St Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan trembled to the sound of Handel’s Messiah, the grand choral masterpiece that never failed to rouse even the most slumbering audience. Its swell of voices surged at the roof of the cathedral. It was as if they wanted to break out, to reach the very heavens.

Inside, close to the front, sat a father and son, the older man’s eyes closed, moved as always by this, his favourite piece of music. The son’s gaze alternated between the performers – the singers dressed in black, the conductor wildly waving his shock of greying hair – and the man at his side. He liked looking at him, gauging his reactions; he liked being this close.

Tonight was a celebration. A month earlier Will Monroe Jr had landed the job he had dreamed of ever since he had come to America. Still only in his late twenties, he was now a reporter, on the fast track at the New York Times. Monroe Sr inhabited a different realm. He was a lawyer, one of the most accomplished of his generation, now serving as a federal judge on the second circuit of the US Court of Appeals. He liked to acknowledge achievement when he saw it and this young man at his side, whose boyhood he had all but missed, had reached a milestone. He found his son’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

It was at that moment, no more than a forty-minute subway ride across town but a world away, that Howard Macrae heard the first steps behind him. He was not scared. Outsiders may have steered clear of this Brooklyn neighbourhood of Brownsville, notorious for its drug-riddled deprivation, but Macrae knew every street and alley.

He was part of the landscape. A pimp of some two decades’ standing, he was wired into Brownsville. He had been a smart operator, too, ensuring that in the gang warfare that scarred the area, he always remained a neutral. Factions would clash and shift, but Howard stayed put, constant. No one had challenged the patch where his whores plied their trade for years.

So he was not too worried by the sound behind him. Still, he found it odd that the footsteps did not stop. He could tell they were close. Why would anybody be tailing him? He turned his head to peer over his left shoulder and gasped, immediately tripping over his feet. It was a gun unlike any he had ever seen – and it was aimed at him.

Inside the cathedral, the chorus were now one being, their lungs opening and closing like the bellows of a single, mighty organ. The music was insistent:

And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.

Howard Macrae was now facing forward, attempting to break into an instinctive run. But he could feel a strange, piercing sensation in his right thigh. His leg seemed to be giving way, collapsing under his weight, refusing to obey his orders. I have to run! Yet his body would not respond. He seemed to be moving in slow motion, as if wading through water.

Now the mutiny had spread to his arms, which were first lethargic, then floppy. His brain raced with the urgency of the situation, but it too now seemed overwhelmed, as if submerged under a sudden burst of floodwater. He felt so tired.

He found himself lying on the ground clasping his right leg, aware that it and the rest of his limbs were surrendering to numbness. He looked up. He could see nothing but the steel glint of a blade.

In the cathedral, Will felt his pulse quicken. The Messiah was reaching its climax, the whole audience could sense it. A soprano voice hovered above them:

If God be for us, who can be against us?

Who shall lay anything to the charge of God’s elect?

It is God that justifieth, who is he that condemneth?

Macrae could only watch as the knife hovered over his chest. He tried to see who was behind it, to make out a face, but he could not. The gleam of metal dazzled him; it seemed to have caught all the night’s moonlight on its hard, polished surface. He knew he ought to be terrified: the voice inside his head told him he was. But it sounded oddly removed, like a commentator describing a faraway football game. Howard could see the knife coming closer towards him, but still it seemed to be happening to someone else.

Now the orchestra was in full force, Handel’s music coursing through the church with enough force to waken the gods. The alto and tenor were as one, demanding to know: O Death, where is thy sting?

Will was not a classical buff like his father, but the majesty and power of the music was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. Still staring straight ahead, he tried to imagine the expression his father would be wearing: he pictured him, rapt, and hoped that underneath that blissful exterior there might also lurk some pleasure at sharing this moment with his only son.

The blade descended, first across the chest. Macrae saw the red line it scored, as if the knife were little more than a scarlet marker pen. The skin seemed to bubble and blister: he did not understand why he felt no pain. Now the knife was moving down, slicing his stomach open like a bag of grain. The contents spilled out, a warm soft bulge of viscous innards. Howard was watching it all, until the moment the dagger was finally held aloft. Only then could he see the face of his murderer. His larynx managed to squeeze out a gasp of shock – and recognition. The blade found his heart and all was dark.

The mission had begun.

TWO

Friday, 9.46pm, Manhattan

The chorus took their bows, the conductor bowing sweatily. But Will could only hear one noise: the sound of his father clapping. He marvelled at the decibels those two big hands could produce, colliding in a smack that sounded like wood against wood. It stirred a memory Will had almost lost. It was a school speech day back in England, the only time his father had been there. Will was ten years old and as he went up to collect the poetry prize he was sure that, even above the din of a thousand parents, he could hear the distinct handclap of his father. On that day he had been proud of this stranger’s mighty oak hands, stronger than those of any man in the world, he was sure.

The noise had not diminished as his father, now in his early fifties, had entered middle age. He was as fit as ever, slim, his white hair cropped short. He did not jog or work out: weekend sailing trips off Sag Harbor had kept him in shape. Will, still applauding, turned to look at him, but his father’s gaze did not shift. When Will saw the slight redness around his dad’s nose he realized with shock that the older man’s eyes were wet: the music had moved him, but he did not want his son to see his tears.

Will smiled to himself at that. A man with hands as strong as trees, welling up at the sound of an angels’ choir. It was then he felt the vibrations. He reached down to his BlackBerry to see a message from the Metro desk: ‘Job for you. Brownsville, Brooklyn. Homicide.’

Will’s stomach gave a little leap, that aerobic manoeuvre that combines excitement and nerves. He was on the ‘night cops’ beat on the Times Metro desk, the traditional blooding for fast-trackers like him. He might be destined to serve as a future Middle East correspondent or Beijing Bureau Chief, ran the paper’s logic, but first he would have to learn the journalistic basics. That was Times thinking. ‘There’ll be plenty of time to cover military coups. First you have to know how to cover a flower show,’ Glenn Harden, the Metro editor would say. ‘You need to learn people and you do that right here.’

As the chorus basked in their ovation, Will turned to his father with a shrug of apology, gesturing to the BlackBerry. It’s work, he mouthed, gathering up his coat. This little role reversal gave him a sneaky pleasure. After years living in the glow cast by his father’s stellar career, now it was Will’s turn to heed the summons of work.

‘Take care,’ whispered the older man.

Outside, Will hailed a cab. The driver was listening to the news on NPR. Will asked him to turn it up. Not that he was expecting any word on Brownsville. Will always did this – in cabs, even in shops or cafes. He was a news junkie; had been since he was a teenager.

He had missed the lead item and they were already onto the foreign news. A story from Britain. Will always perked up when he heard word from the country he still thought of as home. He may have been born in America, but his formative years, between the ages of eight and twenty-one, had been spent in England. Now, though, as he heard that Gavin Curtis, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, was in trouble, Will paid extra attention. Determined to prove to the Times that his talents stretched beyond the Metro desk, and to ensure the brass knew he had studied economics at Oxford, Will had pitched a story to the Week in Review section on only his second day at the paper. He had even sketched out a headline: Wanted: A banker for the world. The International Monetary Fund was looking for a new head and Curtis was said to be the frontrunner.

‘. . . the charges were first made by a British newspaper,’ the NPR voice was saying, ‘which claimed to have identified “irregularities” in Treasury accounts. A spokesman for Mr Curtis has today denied all suggestions of corruption.’ Will scribbled a note as a memory floated to the surface. He quickly pushed it back down.

There were more urgent matters at hand. Digging into his pocket he found his phone. Quick message to Beth, who had picked up his British fondness for texting. With a thumb that had become preternaturally quick, he punched in the numbers that became letters.

My first murder! Will be home late. Love you.

Now he could see his destination. Red lights were turning noiselessly in the September dark. The lights were on the roofs of two NYPD cars whose noses almost touched in an arrowhead shape, as if to screen off part of the road. In front of them was a hastily installed cordon, consisting of yellow police tape. Will paid the fare, got out and looked around. Rundown tenements.

He approached the first line of tape until a policewoman strolled over to stop him. She looked bored. ‘No access, sir.’

Will fumbled in the breast pocket of his linen jacket. ‘Press?’ he asked with what he hoped was a winning smile as he flashed his newly minted press card.

Looking away, she gave an economical gesture with her right hand. Go through.

Will ducked under the tape, into a knot of maybe half a dozen people. Other reporters. I’m late, he thought, irritated. One was his age, tall with impossibly straight hair and an unnatural dusting of orange on his skin. Will was sure he recognized him but could not remember how. Then he saw the curly wire in his ear. Of course, Carl McGivering from NY1, New York’s twenty-four-hour cable news station. The rest were older, the battered press tags around their necks revealing their affiliations: Post, Newsday, and a string of community papers.

‘Bit late, junior,’ said the craggiest of the bunch, apparently the dean of the crime corps. ‘What kept you?’ Ribbing from older hacks, Will had learned in his first job on the Bergen Record in New Jersey, was one of those things reporters like him just had to swallow.

‘Anyway, I wouldn’t sweat it,’ Old Father Time from Newsday was saying. ‘Just your garden variety gangland killing. Knives are all the rage these days, it seems.’

‘Blades: the new guns. Could be a fashion piece,’ quipped the Post, to much laughter from the Veteran Reporters’ Club whose monthly meeting Will felt he had just interrupted. He suspected this was a dig at him, suggesting he (and perhaps the Times itself) were too effete to give the macho business of murder its due.

‘Have you seen the corpse?’ Will asked, sure there was a term of the trade he was conspicuously failing to use. ‘Stiff’, perhaps.

‘Yeah, right through there,’ said the dean, nodding towards the squad cars as he brought a cup of Styrofoam coffee to his lips.

Will headed for the space between the police vehicles, a kind of man-made clearing in this urban forest. There were a couple of unexcited cops milling around, one with a clipboard, but no police photographer. Will must have missed that.

And there on the ground, under a blanket, lay the body. He stepped forward to get a better look, but one of the cops moved to block his path. ‘Authorized personnel only from here on in, sir. All questions to the DCPI over there.’

‘DCPI?’

‘Officer serving the Deputy Commissioner of Public Information.’ As if speaking to a dim-witted child who had forgotten his most rudimentary times tables.

Will kicked himself for asking. He should have bluffed it out.

The DCPI was on the other side of the corpse, talking to the TV guy. Will had to walk round until he was only a foot or two from the dead body of Howard Macrae. He stared hard into the blanket, hoping to guess at the face that lay beneath. Maybe the blanket would reveal an outline, like those clay masks used by sculptors. He kept looking but the dull, dark shroud yielded nothing.

The DCPI was in mid-flow. ‘. . . our guess is that this was either score-settling by the SVS against the Wrecking Crew, or else an attempt by the Houston prostitution network to take over Macrae’s patch.’

Only then did she seem to notice Will, her expression instantly changing to denote a lack of familiarity. The shutters had come down. Will got the message: the casual banter was for Carl McGivering only.

‘Could I just get the details?’

‘One African-American male, aged forty-three, approximately a hundred and eighty pounds, identified as Howard Macrae, found dead on Saratoga and St Marks Avenues at 9.27pm this evening. Police were alerted by a resident of the neighbourhood who dialled 911 after finding the body while walking to the 7-Eleven.’ She nodded to indicate the store: over there. ‘Cause of death appears to be severing of arteries, internal bleeding and heart failure due to vicious and repeated stabbing. The New York Police Department is treating this crime as homicide and will spare no resources in bringing the perpetrator to justice.’

The blah-blah tone told Will this was a set formulation, one all DCPIs were required to repeat. No doubt it had been scripted by a team of outside consultants, who probably wrote a NYPD mission statement to go with it. Spare no resources.

‘Any questions?’

‘Yes. What was all that about prostitution?’

‘Are we on background now?’

Will nodded, agreeing that anything the DCPI said could be used, so long as Will did not attribute it to her.

‘The guy was a pimp. Well-known as such to us and to everyone who lives here. Ran a brothel, on Atlantic Avenue near Pleasant Place. Kind of like an old-fashioned whorehouse, girls, rooms – all under one roof.’

‘Right. What about the fact that he was found in the middle of the street? Isn’t that a little strange, no attempt to hide the body?’

‘Gangland killing, that’s how they work. Like a drive-by shooting. It’s right out there in the open, in your face. No attempt to hide the body ’cause that’s part of the point. To send a message. You want everyone to know, “We did this, we don’t care who knows about it. And we’d do it to you.”’

Will scribbled as fast as he could, thanked the DCPI and reached for his cell phone. He told Metro what he had: they told him to come in, there was still time to make the final edition. They would only need a few paragraphs. Will was not surprised. He had read the Times long enough to know this was not exactly hold-the-front-page material.

He did not let on to the desk, to the DCPI or to any of the other reporters there that this was in fact the first murder he had ever covered. At the Bergen Record, homicides were rarer fare and not to be wasted on novices like him. It was a pity because there was one detail which had caught Will’s eye but which he had put out of his mind almost immediately. The other hacks were too jaded to have noticed it at all, but Will saw it. The trouble was, he assumed it was routine.

He did not realize it at the time, but it was anything but.

THREE

Saturday, 12.30am, Manhattan

At the office, he hammered the ‘send’ key on the keyboard, pushed back his chair and stretched. It was half-past midnight. He looked around: most of the desks were empty, only the night layout area was still fully staffed – cutting and slicing, rewriting and crafting the finished product which would spread itself open on Manhattan breakfast tables in just a few hours’ time.

He strode around the office, pumped by a minor version of the post-filing high – that surge of adrenalin and relief once a story is done. He wandered, stealing a glance at the desks of his colleagues, bathed only in the flickering light of CNN, on mute.

The office was open plan, but a system of partitions organized the desks into pods, little clusters of four. As a newcomer, Will was in a far-off corner. His nearest window looked out onto a brick wall: the back of a Broadway theatre bearing a now-faded poster for one of the city’s longest-running musicals. Alongside him in the pod was Terry Walton, the former Delhi bureau chief who had returned to New York under some kind of cloud; Will had not yet discovered the exact nature of his misdemeanour. His desk consisted of a series of meticulous piles surrounding a single yellow legal pad. On it was handwriting so dense and tiny, it was unintelligible to all but the closest inspection: Will suspected this was a kind of security mechanism, devised by Walton to prevent any snoopers taking a peek at his work. He was yet to discover why a man whose demotion to Metro meant he was hardly working on stories sensitive to national security would take such a precaution.

Next was Dan Schwarz, whose desk seemed to be on the point of collapse. He was an investigative reporter; there was barely room for his chair, all floor space consumed by cardboard boxes. Papers were falling out of other papers; even the screen on Schwarz’s computer was barely visible, bordered by a hundred Post-it notes stuck all around the edge.

Amy Woodstein’s desk was neither anally neat like Walton’s nor a public health disaster like Schwarz’s. It was messy, as befitted the quarters of a woman who worked under her very own set of deadlines – always rushing back to relieve a nanny, let in a childminder or pick up from nursery. She had used the partition walls to pin up not yet more papers, like Schwarz, or elegant, if aged, postcards, like Walton, but pictures of her family. Her children had curly hair and wide, toothy smiles – and, as far as Will could see, were permanently covered in paint.

He went back to his own desk. He had not found the courage to personalize it yet; the pin-board partition still bore the corporate notices that were there when he arrived. He saw the light on his phone blinking. A message.

Hi babe. I know it’s late but I’m not sleepy yet. I’ve got a fun idea so call me when you’re done. It’s nearly one. Call soon.

His spirits lifted instantly. He had banked on a tip-toed re-entry into the apartment, followed by a pre-bed bowl of Cheerios. What did Beth have in mind?

He called. ‘How come you’re still awake?’

‘I dunno, my husband’s first murder perhaps? Maybe it’s just everything that’s going on. Anyway, I can’t sleep. Do you wanna meet for bagels?’

‘What, now?’

‘Yeah. At the Carnegie Deli.’

‘Now?’

‘I’ll get a cab.’

Will liked the idea of the Carnegie Deli as much as, perhaps more than, the reality. The notion of a coffee shop that never slept, where old-time Broadway comedians and now-creaking chorus girls might meet for an after-show pastrami sandwich; the folks reading first editions of the morning papers, scanning the pages for notices of their latest hit or flop, their cups constantly refilled with steaming brown liquid – it was all so New York. He wanted the waitresses to look harried, he liked it when people butted in line – it all confirmed what he knew was a tourist’s fantasy of the big city. He suspected he should be over this by now: he had, after all, lived in America for more than five years. But he could not pretend to be a native.

He got there first, bagging a table behind a noisy group of middle-aged couples. He caught snatches of conversation, enough to work out they were not Manhattanites, but in from Jersey. He guessed they had taken in a show, almost certainly a long-running musical, and were now completing their New York experience with a past-midnight snack.