The outcast, p.1
The Outcast, page 1
part #1 of Ex-Detective Series
The Outcast - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis rev 2019
Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2019
All Rights Reserved
The Outcast is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
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Prologue
The gun was cold on the back of his neck. Ross stared ahead, the inside of the warehouse in shadow, boxes stacked either side of him. The only escape route was forward. Turning and barging the owner of the gun out of the way wasn’t an option. And, if that owner was who he thought it was, he’d be better off standing still.
Didn’t bode well to naff him off.
“You fucking pig scum,” the man said, his voice revealing his identity.
Scum. How many times had Ross been called that? How many times had he thought of his fellow officers in the same way? How many times had he been in these fucking situations, where he had a name that didn’t belong to him and a life that wasn’t his? How many times had he had a gun to his neck, his life put at risk, all in the name of the job?
“I’m no fucking pig,” Ross said. “You’ve had me checked out. You know who I am, so why piss me around like this?”
“Piss you around? Is that what you think this is? Me holding a gun to your neck is pissing around? Christ, mate, what do I have to do to make you realise I’m being serious? You know me, what I do, what I’m capable of. If I were you, I’d be shitting myself.”
Ross didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Musket was usually always serious—deadly—and there was no getting away from the fact that Ross’ cover had probably been blown. How, though? He’d been so careful. He’d have to wing it, do what he could until he was able to get away. And if he couldn’t? Well, he was fucked, wasn’t he?
End of the line. End of his life. Musket would see to that.
“Look, where did you get the idea I’m a copper?” Ross asked.
“Some things don’t add up. You seem okay, but there’s something iffy about you. Besides, I got some info through.”
“What info?” Ross winced, the gun pushing harder into his skin.
“You told me you’d killed some bloke in prison. You said he’d got on your nerves and you’d had enough. Snapped. But I asked around, and no one was killed that week. Yeah, you were there all right, in that nick, and your story checked out that you’d been put away for a little spell, a lookout in a poxy robbery, but killing someone? Nah, did you fuck.”
“No one was reported as being killed that week, you’re right, but did you ask if someone went missing?”
Ross listened to the sound of his heart, the dull thuds growing louder by the second. He held his breath, nausea streaking through him, and told himself to play it cool. He could get out of this, like he’d got out of everything else before tonight in every other undercover operation he’d worked on.
“What,” Musket said, “I’m meant to believe you killed someone and they haven’t discovered that yet? With the checks that go in inside those places? Don’t make me fucking laugh.”
“Ring around. Ask. Georgie Goodman went missing—presumed escaped—but he’s in the disused pipe in the laundry room. Great big thing, was used for air-conditioning until the new shit was installed. Get someone to check. Seriously, he’s there.”
And he was. Or bones and fake, rotted flesh that could be passed off as Georgie Goodman anyway. They’d been planted just for this kind of scenario, the prison governor well aware of the reasons why.
“Get the fuck over there,” Musket said, giving Ross a sharp jab with the gun.
Ross walked forward, out into the warehouse proper. The place was huge, and despite it being filled with boxes, his footsteps still echoed. The pressure on his neck vanished, and he slowly sighed out his relief. Musket walked in front of him and raised his gun, aiming for Ross’ midsection, and fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He hit a speed dial button. Asked questions, said he’d call back in ten minutes. Shoved the phone back in his pocket.
“You’d better not be bullshitting me.” Musket waved the gun in a gesture that meant he wanted Ross to start walking. “Get in the bloody office.”
Safe for now, Ross did as he’d been asked. He sat on one of the low, battered grey filing cabinets, appearing as casual as he could.
“Why the fuck would I bullshit?” he asked.
Musket, all brawn, strode over to a coffeemaker on a fitted piece of worktop and shovelled in some grounds. He switched the machine on, sorting out two cups as the aroma of coffee filled the air.
“I don’t know,” Musket said, “but when you get told shit like that, it tends to make you arsey, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, and when you get accused of being something you’re not, that tends to make you arsey an’ all.”
“Fuck you.” Musket shrugged. “Two sugars, isn’t it, or do you want more for the shock I just gave you?”
“Two’s fine. Surprised you remembered how many I have. Always asking, checking.”
Musket tapped the side of his wide bald head. “I ask to see if you give the same answer every time. See if you slip up. Forget nothing, me.”
“Me neither.”
They stared at one another, a battle of wills, and if it weren’t for the rumble of the coffeemaker, Ross thought he’d have been the one to look away first. Musket did, though, nonchalantly, as if they hadn’t been staring it out at all. He poured their drinks, added sugar then Coffeemate, and stirred. Some liquid sloshed over the side of one cup and bled into a sheet of paper on the worktop. He cursed, whipped up the paper, then flapped it about.
“See, this makes me arsey as well.” Musket shook his head. “If I hadn’t heard that shit about you, we wouldn’t be in here dicking about, wasting time until my contact rings back. I wouldn’t be making coffee, and I wouldn’t have spilled any on this…bloody…order sheet.”
Ross shrugged, going for nonchalance himself. “Not my fault. If you believe bullshit…”
“Shut the fuck up.” Musket dragged his phone out then made another call. He didn’t say a word once he’d established the right person had picked up. One-sided conversation over, he put the phone away again then handed Ross his coffee. “Georgie boy was there.”
“Do I get an apology?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“What you do get is to carry on working for me. You get to carry on being alive. Better than any apology, I reckon.”
Yeah. Yeah, it was. But it still meant Ross was stuck on this last mission before he was allowed to walk away. Undercover wasn’t his ideal job, but since he’d been found out for being gay, it was made clear he didn’t have any other choice. Some bastard had spread the word, and it seemed no one wanted to work with him anymore.
And the thing was, despite coming off as hard-nosed when undercover, it was far from the somewhat quieter man Ross was in real life. Undercover meant a new identity. Undercover meant pretending to be someone else. Undercover meant he could have all the traits he’d always wished he’d had.
Unfortunately, undercover also meant he feared for his life every second of the day, and that was taking its toll.
But this was his last job, then he’d do something else, something so far from this it was laughable.
Musket stared at him. “What are you thinking?”
“That we need to set that bastard up,” Ross lied. “The prick who gave false info about me, the one with the idea of taking over my position, because I bet that’s what this was all in aid of. Remember that murder the other week? Gun missing, no leads on the killer?”
“Yep.”
“I got word earlier on where the gun might be.”
Musket grinned, the dark gaps between his teeth on show. “And if it’s there, we can find it a new home. Plant it on the info-giver.”
Ross nodded, smiling at the other man, but something wasn’t right. Was that a moving shadow out there in the warehouse? He widened his eyes to let Musket know something was wrong. Musket turned to face the door, and a fist struck out, hitting him full on the nose. He staggered into Ross, his coffee cup sailing to crash against the wall behind the desk. Ross slid off the cabinet and readied himself for getting punched, still holding his own coffee.
No punch came.
Instead, a man in a balaclava stood in the doorway, rifle raised. “Where’s the gear?”
“Fuck off,” Musket said, righting himself, bolshy even though a gun was aimed in his direction.
“I said, where’s the gear?”
Ross stared at the rifle, at the business end, where pellets could come streaking out and throw him backwards. Kill him. End it all. It was scarier than the gun had been on Ross’ neck. Seeing the weapon always was. But he was Wes Drake now, hard nut, someone not to be messed with.
And Wes Drake didn’t show fear.
He tossed his coffee at the man’s balaclava.
Chapter One
Ross stood at a weathered, waist-height wooden fence
You know why.
He dropped his black holdall on the dusty track that pretended to be a road and sighed. His suitcase, propped against a fence pole, held the rest of his worldly goods. A few clothes, some books, and a diary from when he’d been about ten.
As to the isolation, reality had kicked in the second the bus had left the nearest city, trundling him farther from humanity towards a life he felt he’d been forced into. And the cold. Enough to freeze his knackers off, it was. He loved London, the hustle and bustle, the streets filled with people, so many of them at once your head spun. Here, along the road a couple of miles or so, lone houses sat as though abandoned, and the eeriness of the countryside spoke of desolation. It kind of matched his mood—the mood he’d been in for the past year—so he should have felt at home.
He didn’t.
The farmhouse was set far back from the road. Huge fields flanked it, a flat expanse that bled into the gauzy, fog-infused horizon. Clusters of trees huddled together here and there, like him, outcasts from all that surrounded them. Present but probably ignored. Chestnut-coloured horses grazed. There had to be fifty of them at least.
Not for the first time, he questioned his motives.
London wasn’t for him anymore. Things had gone…wrong. He’d needed to get out—bloody fast. Sometimes, running was the only option when all others had been exhausted. There was only so much he could have done, only so much he could have put up with before he crumbled and ended up in the nuthouse. Besides, no one he’d worked with gave much of a shit about him there, and being alone among people he knew had to be worse than being alone among people he didn’t.
He shrugged. Nothing he could do about those he’d left behind now. Nothing he wanted to do. They were gone, even if only in person. That their ghosts and their words still lingered in his mind was another matter.
You take them with you just the same.
He picked up his holdall. Slung the handle over his shoulder. Stared at the farmhouse a bit more. It looked small from where he was, a white smudge standing behind the haze of mist. He’d been promised a single room in a bunkhouse, but there was no evidence of one. Just the house, forlorn in the middle of those fields, and a few vehicles parked out the front.
His nerves jangled, setting his belly churning. It was too late now to do anything but walk up that long drive and see what was what. He gripped the handle of his suitcase and dragged it behind him, the wheels bumping on the uneven ground. At the gate, he unlatched it, pushing it wide enough so he could slip through the gap. He took a deep breath, closed the gate, told himself what would be would be, and set off up the drive.
It seemed bloody miles long, and his legs ached by the time he reached halfway. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he cursed himself for still wearing the thin coat he’d left London in. The chill was relentless here, a massive difference to back home where rain dominated everything, even the planes of people’s faces if they were caught without an umbrella. He was used to it slaughtering the streets and everyone on them, not this weather.
An engine rumbled behind him. Ross stopped then turned, shading his eyes to see better. A light-green truck with an open bed at the back barrelled up the drive. Grit spewed from beneath the tyres, and the faint sounds of small stones being kicked up then falling reminded him of hail on windows.
A sudden wave of homesickness took hold of him along with apprehension that he was about to meet someone new. This was it, this was really happening. What had he been doing then? Kidding himself he wasn’t really here? That he hadn’t ditched everything he knew for everything he didn’t?
Fuck.
The truck slowed then drew up beside him. The engine still idled, a clack-clack-clack giving rise to thoughts that it might be about to give up the ghost. The scent of fuel smelt strong as if recently spilt. The driver, a silhouette of shoulders, head, and baseball cap lifted one hand. Ross did the same, feeling like a right prick, nervous and reluctant to speak.
“You Ross?” the man asked through the open passenger window, accent thick.
“Um, yeah.”
“Jump in. I’m Grenadier.”
Ah, Grenadier, the one I applied to for the job.
Stuffing apprehension down, Ross swung his suitcase into the bed of the truck. He climbed in beside the bloke, dropping his holdall to the foot well. He glanced across. Grenadier was one hell of a size. Not an ounce of fat on him, he filled the space, his arms straining against the sleeves of his burgundy checked shirt. His skin was as well-worn as the fence posts back there, creases around his eyes and either side of his mouth, but he was about forty, and those wrinkles didn’t match his age. Too many. Hard life? Or maybe the freezing temps did that, dried out the skin and matured a person too early. Curly black hair peeked from beneath his hat, and dark brows arched over eyes so grey they matched the sky.
Ross cleared his throat and stared through the windscreen.
The interior of the truck buzzed with something, some force or other that Ross couldn’t define. It was as weird as everything else around here, alien, forcing him to realise he didn’t have a clue as to what he’d let himself in for. Yeah, he’d taken on a job he’d be trained for as he went along, and people moved to different places all the time, but…
Shit, I’ve made a mistake.
“You like what you see?” Grenadier asked.
Ross assumed he was talking about the farmhouse. How could Ross be honest without causing offence? He was used to skyscrapers that kissed the murky heavens and buildings so close that at times you could reach out of a window across a slim alley and touch the hand of someone else doing the same thing from next door. This…this emptiness, the space, that weird buzzing atmosphere… He didn’t think he’d ever get used to that.
“It’s certainly in the arse end of nowhere,” he said. “I saw the pictures but didn’t really appreciate how empty it was until now.”
Grenadier stared at him.
Unnerving.
“But yeah, it’s nice,” Ross went on. A shitty word to describe someone’s pride and joy, but that was all he had. Nice.
“You’ll get used to it.” Grenadier drove towards the farmhouse.
Ross looked out of the side window. The horses weren’t bothered by the truck. They continued to graze, one or two raising their heads to stare. The house came closer, seemed to grow bigger, and a couple of men sat on rockers having a beer—a beer in a Scottish winter.
Fucking nutters.
After parking up, Grenadier got out. He walked round to Ross’ side then hauled out the suitcase and took possession of it, striding towards the men. Ross followed. His holdall bumped his arse with every step. One of the blokes laughed—a dark-haired fella who slapped his thigh—and the other, a blond, stared—hard—bringing on all kinds of uncomfortable feelings.
Ross was the newcomer. Again. It didn’t sit well this time either. He’d been the new kid on so many occasions before it shouldn’t have bothered him. Those times, though, he’d been safe in the knowledge that other people had his back—even though those people hadn’t really wanted to have it, they just had to because that was what they were paid to do. Cover your fellow officer in blue.
Grenadier said, “Joe, Limmy, this is Ross Jones.”
Ross nodded as the men stood, then shook their hands. “Nice to meet you.”
There it was again. Nice.
It wasn’t—wasn’t sodding nice at all—but he could hardly say that. The urge to walk back down that drive and wait for another bus going the way he’d come was strong.
“Ready to get your hands dirty?” Joe asked.
His short hair was so light it bordered on white. A scar ran from his eye to one corner of his mouth, jagged, as if someone had changed direction when slashing his face.
“I’m ready to work the day after tomorrow, like I agreed with Grenadier,” Ross said, wanting to make sure they didn’t expect him to start early. Not after that seemingly endless bus journey. He was tired, bloody bone weary, and just wanted to go to his allocated bed.
