Blood Note Read online

  Mark Mannock

  Blood Note

  A Nicholas Sharp Short Story Prequel to the Thriller KILLSONG

  Copyright © 2020 by Mark Mannock

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

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  Contents

  Preface

  Midnight

  1:45 a.m.

  2:25 a.m.

  3:15 a.m.

  4:22 a.m.

  5:40 a.m.

  6:10 a.m.

  About the Author

  Also by Mark Mannock

  Preface

  This short story is a prequel to the Nicholas Sharp thriller KILLSONG, but it should really be read after KILLSONG to give you that ‘aha’ moment. It also introduces the enigmatic Elena who resurfaces in the second full Nicholas Sharp novel- LETHAL SCORE.

  1

  Midnight

  It was her eyes. They were the deepest green I had ever seen. One moment they were a sea of tranquility, a moment later a raging Atlantic storm. It was unsettling. She was unsettling. There were over one hundred people in the room, yet there were only two: the girl and me. I could hear applause. I knew people were applauding me; I was the one onstage, sitting at the piano. I didn’t really feel the applause, but I could feel her gaze.

  She had been here the last three nights I’d performed at the bar. The first night she had two men with her; after that she came alone. Tonight, she sat at a table at the side of the room, taking shelter in the half-shadows. She positioned herself so as to escape undue attention from the room but close enough so I could feel her presence. We hadn’t spoken a word to each other. Tonight, when she walked into the room I nodded in an acknowledgment of recognition. She did the same. That was it, the whole relationship. Nothing, yet something.

  I played at the bar regularly when I wasn’t on tour. I toured a lot, playing big arenas with big-name acts. I wasn’t a big name; I was a sidekick. I was happy with that. It meant I could play here, hone my craft, let the piano be my therapist. The piano was the doctor; I was the patient. Every night was a discovery. It needed to be. I was still walking away—or was it hiding away?—from a life I had disowned. Then she came here, piercing me with those eyes.

  I finished my set and made my way to the bar. The bartender, Joey, had a scotch waiting for me. He always did. There were a couple of pats on the back and the odd “well done.” I was polite, but I didn’t engage. I wanted to take a moment to appraise the woman across the room. I wanted to think. She was sitting elegantly. Her long black hair flowed down either side of her face, framing her features as though she were posing for an artist. Was that what she was doing? Posing? Was I her artist? Ridiculous thoughts, but it was late; I was getting tired. She wore a dark-gray dress, low-cut but not cheap. It revealed enough of her long legs to get my attention. I was imagining things here. She wasn’t really chasing my attention.

  I turned back to face the bar and called for another drink. It was already there. I nodded to Joey and took a sip. Then another.

  “Nicholas Sharp. It is Nicholas Sharp, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice behind me, but I knew who it was, or at least I hoped I knew. I swiveled around on my stool. It was her. If her eyes had been unsettling from across the room, they were downright intimidating up close. But now I saw something else in the swirling green mist. Was it fear? Was it contempt? I couldn’t tell.

  “Yes, hello. I’m Nicholas.” I offered her my hand to shake.

  “You play beautifully,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I think you have your mother’s touch.”

  I was perplexed. My mother, Anna Sharp, had been a well-known concert pianist. People who knew me also knew about her, but strangers mostly didn’t.

  “I heard her play at La Monnaie in Brussels,” the girl continued. “It was a Tchaikovsky concerto. She was breathtaking.”

  “Thank you,” I repeated. “It’s a long way from Belgium to California.” My version of What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?

  “I travel a lot, for work.”

  As she spoke, I noticed an accent. Eastern Europe, I thought.

  “Would you care to join me at my table, if you have time?” she asked.

  I could have made any excuse not to, but I didn’t. I just wasn’t sure that I wanted to walk down this road. I looked at her. I sensed hesitation, perhaps a hidden agenda. Perhaps not. I followed her through the crowd to her table.

  “Please sit down,” she said. “I am Elena.”

  Slow-moving soul music played through the club’s speakers. People chatted freely at their tables and at the bar. Everything felt easy. Then I looked directly into Elena’s eyes. What I saw was anything but easy. I couldn’t read what was going on here, and I’m meant to be good at reading situations. It used to be an occupational trait.

  “You sound like you may be a long way from home, Elena. Where are you from?” I asked.

  “Originally from the Republic of Georgia, but I have spent a lot of time in England.”

  Georgia, Eastern Europe. I’d guessed correctly.

  We chatted for a while. Elena seemed to be leading the conversation. I followed. I was uncertain where this was going. There was no doubt, though, that I was enjoying the journey. Then came another surprise.

  “You were not always a musician, were you, Nicholas?” Elena made this sound like a statement, not a question.

  I tried to ease the conversation in a different direction. “I’ve had other work, but music is what I do now. It’s who I am now,” I said.

  The girl wasn’t dissuaded. “Does anyone ever change who they are just because they change vocation? I don’t think so.”

  I was growing uneasy with this conversation. I glanced at my watch. “I’ll need to start my final set in a minute.” I was ready to run, but those green eyes pinned me to my chair.

  She continued. “So before, when you were a marine, a sniper, were you a different human being, or are you still the same man?”

  I was now alarmed. The woman across the table knew way too much about me. This was not a casual encounter. There was an agenda here—I just had no idea what it was. And I had no intention of walking back through my past with a stranger, no matter how compelling she was. I stood up.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Elena. I don’t know what you were looking for coming here, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  Elena stood up opposite me. I looked across the space between us. It was the raging Atlantic storm I was seeing in those eyes now.

  “I need some help, Mr. Sharp. I need you to help me.” She was captivating, but the man she sought no longer lived here.

  “I’m sorry. Goodbye, Elena.” I turned and walked toward the stage.

  2

  1:45 a.m.

  Just before the end of my final set, Elena got up and left. I felt relieved but slightly disappointed. My discomfort with her presence had made playing difficult. I had tried to lose myself in the music. It was good that she’d left.

  I played my last song and went backstage to change my shirt. On the way out I stopped at the bar, had one final drink, and headed out the door. The warm Pacific air was refreshing after the bar’s claustrophobic atmosphere. I headed down Pacific Avenue, in the general direction of my apartment in Venice Beach. Walking distance away.

  Because of the girl, Elena, the e
vening had drained me. I needed sleep. Sleep didn’t always come easily these days. A good walk beforehand would help.

  The streets were almost deserted. The streetlamps shone, safe havens of brightness in a patchwork quilt of light and shadow. Too many metaphors in that for me contemplate so late at night. Ahead I saw a figure walking. That wasn’t unusual. Several clubs and bars in the area would be closing around now. People would be heading home. The figure walked under one of the streetlights. I could tell, even from a hundred yards behind, that it was female. This wasn’t a particularly dangerous area, but a female walking on her own this late at night was uncommon. As the figure moved directly under the light, I recognized her: it was the girl, Elena.

  I wasn’t alarmed, but I slowed my pace. There was no need for another encounter this evening, even if accidental. Keeping a steady distance between us, I followed Elena down the road. It must have been coincidence she was going my way. The trouble was, experience had taught me not to believe in coincidences. Then I put the thought out of my mind. I was overreacting.

  A minute later I heard screeching tires and an over-revving engine. I looked behind me to see a black limo speeding down the road. I couldn’t see inside, but limousine windows are designed that way, of course. The car was traveling way too fast. Drunken partygoers on their way home, I presumed. No big deal.

  Then it became a big deal. The limo pulled up next to the girl. Two men in dark suits got out. From where I was standing, they didn’t look like partygoers. Their fists were clenched and their stride determined. Elena stopped and turned around. There was clearly a conversation happening, but I could hear none of it. I continued walking but slowed my pace a little. This had nothing to do with me. One of the men grabbed Elena’s arm. She tried to brush him off, but his hold was strong. She kicked out at him and he let go.

  I sped up. This situation was deteriorating. I didn’t want to get involved, but I needed to do something. The right thing. I suppose it was a personality trait, albeit a frequently inconvenient one. None of them seemed aware of my presence. I was now around fifty yards away from them. Then both men grabbed Elena, one on each arm. She kicked again, but they weren’t falling for that twice. The larger man picked her up while the other opened the limo’s rear door. I still wasn’t close enough to do anything. I broke into a run but knew with certainty I wouldn’t cover the distance in time.

  “Elena,” I called out. The two men briefly turned to look at me but then turned away. They took no further notice. Elena looked directly at me, her eyes wide with fear. I was too far away to be a help to her, or a threat to her assailants. From thirty yards away, I could hear Elena screaming, ‘No, no, I won’t go with you. Tell him no.’ The shorter man slapped her face. She cried out. I ran faster.

  Five seconds later the men shoved the girl into the back of the car. The shorter of the two darted around to the driver’s door and got in. I arrived just in time to make a desperate grab for the rear door as the limo sped off, tires and engine screaming.

  3

  2:25 a.m.

  After a useless attempt to follow the limousine for two blocks, I gave up. Out of breath and out of solutions, I sat down on the curb and tried to pull the whole situation together in my head.

  Obviously, this woman was in some sort of trouble. How serious, I didn’t know. Could she be running away from a jealous husband or boyfriend? Could she be involved in something more sinister? Some sort of East European crime gang? There was no way I was going to figure it all out sitting on the side of the road. The real issue was that the woman I now knew as Elena meant nothing to me. She had come to see me perform. We had talked, even flirted a little. I didn’t know her; she was not part of my life. I owed her nothing. On the other hand, she seemed to know a lot about me. Too much. That had caught my attention.

  As much as I tried to rationalize my way into making a quick call to the police and then heading home, I knew that was not going to happen. For a start, the police, however well intentioned, could do very little. All I could give them was a description of the girl, the car, and a partial number plate I’d read as they drove off. Not much to act on. If it was a busy night, they probably wouldn’t act at all.

  The second and most convincing argument was that the girl had come to me for some sort of help. I had turned her away. I knew I had no obligation. The life I led now had no room for heroics or needless violence. I should just walk away. Then I thought of those green eyes and the myriad of emotions behind them. What had she said? “Does anyone ever change who they are just because they change vocation? I don’t think so.” Damn, that was a hell of a question.

  Sitting there in the glow of the streetlights, I made my decision. If I had known then the ramifications of that decision, I would have run the other way at a thousand miles an hour. But I didn’t. How could I?

  The next step was to call in some help. Jack Greatrex was my closest friend. We had served together. We had always had each other’s backs. I trusted him implicitly, and he was highly skilled in several ways that could help me. Greatrex was away in Las Vegas, but he would help.

  “Were you asleep?” I asked as he answered his phone.

  “Not a chance. What’s up?”

  I explained the situation.

  “How do you get yourself into these positions, Nicholas?” he asked.

  Of course, I had no answer. I explained what I needed from him. Among other things, Greatrex was extremely savvy with technology, way more than me. I knew he could tap into CCTV surveillance cameras in the area. Even from Vegas. Maybe that would give me a heads-up as to where the girl had been taken. I would follow it through, check that she was there, and then call the police. With specific information, they would respond. There was a chance this could still be straightforward.

  “Give me thirty minutes and I’ll get back to you.” Greatrex had never let me down.

  In the meantime, there was no point wandering the streets aimlessly. I walked back to my apartment to get my car. I would be far more useful if I was mobile.

  4

  3:15 a.m.

  “I won’t go into technobabble, but I’ve been able to track a black limo, probably yours, from a street away from where the girl was taken.” These were Greatrex’s first words as I answered my phone. No time wasted on pleasantries.

  “Do you know where it went?” I asked.

  “Not far. Marina del Rey.”

  It was useful that the Marina del Rey was just a few blocks away. I could have made it on foot, but now that I was in my car, I would get there quicker. It was not so useful that the marina encompassed several thousand boats and residences. Pinpointing the girl’s whereabouts would be difficult.

  “Do you have a specific location?” I asked my friend.

  “No. All I can tell you is off Lincoln Boulevard, somewhere down near Basin H.”

  “The quiet end of the marina. Not so many people live down there,” I responded. I knew the marina. I sailed, from time to time.

  “Do you want me to come? I can be on a plane within the hour,” Greatrex offered.

  I had expected he would make the offer; he always had my back. But in this case, I wouldn’t waste his time. There was no need. “No, but thanks. I’m just going to confirm her location and call the authorities.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I replied. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t know whether he meant Am I sure I didn’t need him? or Am I sure that all I would do is call the authorities?

  I said goodbye, pocketed my phone and started the car engine. The car was my indulgence, a late-eighties XJS Jaguar with a thirsty V12 engine. I loved that car. Within a minute I was heading up Washington Boulevard toward the marina. The engine growled into the night.

  5

  4:22 a.m.

  I parked in the car park just off Lincoln Boulevard at the northern end of the basin. No point advertising my arrival. At this time of night there was little movement, so any cars coming or going would be easily
noticed. I didn’t want to be noticed.

  As I walked down through the parking area at the launching ramp, toward the basin, I thought back to earlier in the evening. It was only a few hours ago I was contentedly playing piano to an appreciative audience. Now, in the middle of the night, I was skulking about the marina looking for a woman I hardly knew. I had doubts about my decision to pursue this.

  I cast them aside and walked on.

  I made my way past the maritime businesses on the mainland side of the quay and stood at the edge of the Dock 52 car park. The lighting was limited, but it was enough to clearly make out the few cars scattered across the space. I looked for the black limo. It was there, parked in the shadows in the far corner, near the water.

  I cast a glance around the area and thought about what to do next. During the day the area would have been a very busy place. This was the working part of the marina complex, its heart and soul. Tonight, there was no movement and hardly a sound. Of course, that made it harder for me to move without attracting attention if anyone happened to be around. I walked over to the limo, staying out of the light as much as possible. I crept around the car. There was no one inside and no one within sight. Not surprising.

  At the end of the car park a walkway ran parallel to the water. Off the walkway several pontoons anchored an array of expensive-looking boats. The mesh gate at the entrance to the walkway was locked. It would have been a good time to turn around, get in my car, and call the police.

  I climbed over the gate.

  I edged along the darkened side of the walkway and made my way slowly west, toward the sea. I stopped at the end of each pontoon, listening for sounds and looking for any sign of movement. I heard nothing. Ten minutes later, just as I was beginning to lose hope, I thought I heard something—possibly a low, monotone male voice—out along the sixth pontoon. It was gated, but I moved in as closely as I could without risking detection. I crouched behind the waist-height wire fence on the walkway. It didn’t offer much protection, but it would do. After a minute or two of silence, I heard the noise again. It was a male voice, then two voices. I thought they both had English accents, but I wasn’t certain. As I looked down the length of the pontoon, I saw a man step onto it from a boat around three-quarters of the way down on the seaward side. He moved toward me. I could see him clearly under a light. He was looking at his watch while talking to someone still on the boat. I would have bet money he was one of the men from the limo.