Chapter 2

The Saints' headquarters was buzzing with rumour and concern. Pierce, Shaundi, Oleg, Kinzie, Angel and Zimos were in conference, with the low-level Saint bodyguards drifting in and out of the building, obsessed with security threats.

"He was definitely snatched," said Angel.

"By who?" demanded Shaundi. "The Syndicate? Cops? Stag?"

"We don't know," said Kinzie. "I've hacked into all the traffic camera feeds in the area .We can see a black Kayak driving away, but it's unidentified. Just like the passengers. If it was the police, they would have been driving something recognisable. A Peacemaker or one of those suped-up pursuit deals. The Syndicate would want us to know who had him, so they'd drive cars with colours. These guys? There's nothing."

"We already lost Gat," said Shaundi, angrily. "We can't lose the Chief as well!"

"We'll keep patrols up 24/7," said Pierce. "Any time a fucking black Kayak appears on the radar, we go talk to the driver. Anything looks out of place, we send in the troops. This right here is our city, y'know?"

"Where the hell's Viola?" asked Angel. "She should be here."

"She answered her phone," replied Oleg. "She will be here momentarily."

"The moment has come," said Viola, appearing at the door. She was flanked by several elite Saint henchmen with heavy assault rifles. Everyone in the penthouse turned to face them, wondering why she had brought her own security.

"You're late," barked Shaundi.

"I know," she said resolutely, sitting down at the end of the table. "Our boss has been snatched by unknown assailants. We've got nothing on what they want, what their intentions are, and whether he's dead or alive. What we don't need to do is overextend ourselves, spreading ourselves too thin in looking for one car that probably isn't in Steelport anymore." And I know for a fact it isn't, she didn't add. "What we need is a show of force. We need to make sure this city knows we haven't been beaten. And more than anything, we need a leader. A strong one. Most of the time, when an organisation's leadership is compromised, it descends into petty factionalism. The Saints are better than that. I nominate myself as a leader."

"Are you fucking retarded?" Shaundi demanded. "There's a chain of command here. Me and Pierce are in charge."

"I understand that's how you think it's going to work," Viola replied, impassively. "But I think our hierarchy needs a slight…recalibration. I'm thinking in the Saints' benefit. All due respect, Shaundi, but Pierce is a diplomat, not a general. And you? You're a loose cannon."

Shaundi had sprung out of her seat and was several paces away from Viola when Oleg, seeing her bodyguards ready to fire, bolted up and restrained Shaundi. Her fury would have seen her mow down anyone else, but not the gargantuan Russian. She spat at Viola.

"Loose cannon? Who the fuck do you think you are?" She relaxed herself, and Oleg let go. "You know, the boss gave you a free pass 'cause you turned traitor on the Syndicate. Now I'm in charge, I think it's time for you to get demoted!"

"But you're not in charge," said Viola, with a coolness that infuriated Shaundi more. "There are obviously some high emotions running around the room. I'll do you a favour. You have twenty four hours to come back here and accept me as your leader. Once you do, all will be forgiven. If you don't, then you're out of the gang. In the meantime, please leave. I have some redecorating to do."

"I ain't going nowhere," said Pierce, standing up and glowering. With this, Viola snapped her fingers. Behind her and the bodyguards, a large gang of Saints appeared. They came up the stairs, and some through the elevator. Pierce glanced to the window and saw that several had arrived by helicopter. They were completely outnumbered. This was, he realised, a coup.

"I think it's in our interest for all our soldiers to be fortified," she said. "The limo will take you anywhere you want to go."

Pierce looked at Oleg, then Shaundi, then Angel. They were outnumbered and outgunned. He could see Shaundi reaching for her gun and going out in a blaze of glory, Butch and Sundance style. Oleg would crush a few skulls, but even that giant couldn't withstand the amount of bullets Viola's men would pump into him. As for Angel, he was fast - but not as fast as an automatic. Then there was Zimos and Kinzie, and they weren't fighters at all.

"Okay," he said, indicating for Shaundi to calm down. "Twenty four hours, right?"

"Twenty four hours," Viola confirmed, nodding. "I know you'll make the right choice, Pierce."

It was only two hours later when they met at Shaundi's condo. Her ex's apartment, where the gang had first stayed upon entering Steelport, was still occupied presumably by Viola loyalists, and the strongholds would be under heavy observation. Pierce, Oleg, Angel, Kinzie and Zimos had all gone home, but she had texted them. If she announced a meeting while in the car, it would filter through to Viola.

They sat in her living room, drinking coffee and watching the window for signs of spies. It was a full half an hour before they could be satisfied no one was watching.

"She's fuckin' responsible for him going missing," said Shaundi. "I'd bet everything I have on it. I don't know how she did it, or whether she killed him or not. But she fucking did it."

"Either that, or she's immensely opportunist," said Oleg, thoughtfully. "If she was not responsible, then she only had a matter of hours to perform her masterstroke. It's troubling."

"Troubling how?" asked Pierce.

"It means that whether she orchestrated the abduction or not, we are dealing with a strategic mastermind. A Machiavelli. A…Sin Tzu, if you will."

"So, you're saying, we have to stay on our toes?" asked Angel.

"In layman's terms, yes."

"Look," said Shaundi, decisively. "Me and Viola both know that I won't be within a mile of HQ tomorrow. I think she's a crazy bitch, but if you wanna work for her, it's cool. I'm thinking she's gonna send some of her boys to this place, so I'll be at the Broken Shillelagh tomorrow. If you wanna take a stand, meet me there."

"In the meantime, we should get some shuteye," said Pierce. "C'mon. I'll drop you guys off."

"See you guys," said Shaundi. "Hey, Angel?"

He turned around. "Yeah?"

"Can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Sure. Pierce, do me a favour, keep the car running. My apartment's on the other side of town."

Viola waited expectantly in the Saints' penthouse, looking below for cars approaching or above for helicopters approaching. She had made a rough mental list of who would turn up. Pierce, a lateral thinker despite his occasional bloodlust, would potentially sign on with her to maintain the gang's stability. Oleg was principled but highly intelligent, and she was sure that intelligence would make him realise the benefits of continued employment. She wasn't sure about the others, except Shaundi. Not even with yesterday's display in mind, Shaundi would rather walk over hot coals than kowtow to her. Even if she chose to believe Viola would 'forgive and forget' their past enmity, as well as the disrespect shown yesterday, her demotion would be permanent.

A movement. Down below, a car was being allowed into the underground parking complex. It was a pimped purple Churchill, which indicated Zimos. Sure enough, he appeared out of the elevator a few moments later. She supposed she wasn't surprised; Zimos had less reason to trust her than the others, but he was ruined without his prostitution interests.

"You made the right choice," she said as a greeting. "Grab a drink. I'm sure the others will be along shortly."

"Woman-I-can't-believe-I'm-doing-this," said Zimos in his sing song, mechanical 'tracheotomy voice'. "But-I-guess-it-does-make-sense."

"Sure," she said. "You know, we're going to make this a great organisation. Bigger than the Syndicate or any pretenders could hope to be."

Another car came along, this time a red Solar. That meant Kinzie. Viola found the hacker creepy and obsessive but she was glad to have her on board. She would be to Viola what Mat Miller was to Loren. Cyber warfare, an intelligent person knew, virtually made guns and knives obsolete. It was still useful to have a physical force, but the internet was the battleground of the future.

"Welcome," she said brightly to Kinzie as she appeared through the elevator. "You made the right choice, Kinz."

"I feel kinda bad about it," Kinzie replied, uncertainly. "But it's the logical choice. The Saints saved me from the Deckers. And this is the Saints now. Shaundi probably would have ended up shooting me."

It was the three of them for two hours. They talked about plans to extend the Saints' reach to the furthest corners of the city, and wipe out any remaining Syndicate operations permanently. Viola deliberately avoided talking about what they would do with the Saints who wouldn't toe the line. She figured that Pierce would slink off back to Stillwater, Angel would probably go back to fighting in Mexico and Oleg would go sign up for the FSB. Shaundi would want to hunt some heads before she left, or generally make trouble. When the twenty four hour mark passed at nine in the evening, the Saints would be on constant alert for her, given the strictest instructions to take her alive. Oh, yes. Viola had plans for that insubordinate bitch.

It wasn't until dusk that she heard the soft ping of the elevator go. The three of them and the bodyguards turned to the source and saw Angel coming through. He looked somewhat ashamed to be there, but greeted Viola with an informal salute. She smiled, nodding at him to confirm he had made the correct decision. Angel was something of a wild card. Like no one else, he was guided by his principles and honour. Viola figured that he had the same thoughts as Kinzie, that the Saints had helped him get revenge, and that her outfit were now the Saints.

It was an awkward wait for nine to come. The four of them speculated idly who would come up via the elevator next, if anyone indeed would. Viola was satisfied with any outcome; Zimos was one of the best money earners in the gang, Kinzie was a genius, and Angel was a warrior. The gang's new leadership would be well prepared to take on any challenge, be it from police, Luchadores or renegades. She would make the hierarchy more open, recruiting new lieutenants and generals out of hoodlums who had proved themselves. That was one thing the old administration had problems with; to sit at the head of the table, you had to have done something phenomenal. That wasn't how promotion should work.

Eventually, nine rolled around. The twenty four hours had passed. Shaundi, Pierce and Oleg were no-shows.

"Well, at least she knows exactly where she stands," said Pierce, looking up at the clock in the Shillelagh as it passed the hour. There had never been any doubt in his mind over which side to pick. He and Shaundi had squabbled and jockeyed for position in the past, but they were like brother and sister, and that was what brothers and sisters did. While he respected the 'new school' within the gang, he had always held the two of them up further. Besides, if he stayed with Shaundi, he got to keep his rank. Viola would only make him a minor lieutenant.

"They will be after us now," said Oleg, sombrely. He respected Viola as a formidable strategist, but he would never forget how she had kept him prisoner. Pierce and Shaundi had saved him, and that was all he needed to make his choice.

"I'm surprised with Zimos especially," said Shaundi. "Viola had him as a fucking pony. We saved him. Would have thought a little gratitude was in order."

"It's the smart play," said Pierce. "The Saints control prostitution. Viola controls the Saints. Besides, we don't need him. He couldn't make money for us, the motherfucker can't shoot straight, and he's kinda lazy."

"I guess," Shaundi replied. "I guess the same applies to Angel. He's a wrestler, not a soldier. Kinzie? Much as I hated the little freak, we sure coulda used her."

"This is true," said Oleg. Pierce, knowing his feelings for her, said nothing. The man mountain continued. "I suppose we have to consider our next steps."

"Right," said Shaundi. "Us three are now only link to the Saints how we used to be. That gang Viola controls, they're not the Saints anymore. We are. I say we call ourselves the True Saints."

"Got a ring to it," said Pierce. "Okay. What's our agenda?"

"I was thinking about this last night," said Shaundi. "First, we find out what happened to the boss, whether he's alive or not, and we rescue him. Second, we build an army. I can't trust many Saints now, they work for her. The only ones I can count on to be loyal are the ones that came over from Stillwater with us. Thirdly, and this is the most important part, we take that bitch Viola down and reclaim what's ours."

"I like the sound of that!" said Pierce. "What about the others?"

"Leave 'em be," said Shaundi. "They all had reasons to do what they did. I know you might want to, but don't kill Angel, Zimos or Kinzie. Anyone else…"

"Anyone else is fair game," said Pierce. "Got it."

He was tried under a pseudonym, one of only a select few in British legal history. It wasn't to keep his name out of the newspapers; it was simply because he failed to enter one. He had a completely different face now, and the only images of the old one failed to stand up to facial recognition software due to their age and obscure angle. The bailiff, his barrister, the prosecutor and the judge had all demanded a name from him, and he had shrugged. "Don't have one, guv," was his noncommittal answer. The procedure of getting his name was delaying the start of his trial, so in the end, the belaboured judge agreed to the pseudonym of John Smith.

His trial was (finally) held at Southwark Crown Court on a rain-soaked Tuesday. He wore shackles in the dock, and the damn things were nearly unbreakable. His barrister, a weasel-faced, nasal prick called Butler, had protested that his client wasn't a danger to anyone, but Mister Justice Coleman had been unrelenting. The brief had given him all sorts of tips to looking like a productive member of society; he wore a long, heavy jacket three sizes too big to cover his various tattoos, from the Saints Fleur de Lys, to the well-drawn guns and knives inked all over his arms, even to the small Leyton Orient tattoo on his right shoulder. His hair was combed and styled instead of spiking up.

He'd been held without bail ever since McGraw had shipped him to the London. The copper, not wanting to complicate things with extradition, had chartered a well-fuelled helicopter to make the journey. It must, the boss reflected, have cost him a fortune. He was certainly eager about seeing him go to trial, and while he wasn't present at the interrogation, he was undoubtedly watching proceedings.

The lack of bail meant he had no conceivable way of contacting the Saints; the Saintsbook was perfectly encrypted so the cops or the FBI couldn't read messages, and international calls were prohibited. Air mail was a possibility, but any letters would be read, and he didn't want to give the court anything more it needed. He would have to wait until the trial was finished.

He remembered killing Colin Francis well. It was his first, and you never forgot your first. You could talk to a spree killer or a hitman and they'd tell you the exact same. Francis had been building a pretty watertight case against Dorian Sinclair, affectionately dubbed the 'Cocaine King of Clapham' by the newspapers. If Francis had brought him up against a jury, Sinclair had explained, he'd be deemed a liability by his suppliers in Holland and he'd be ruined. He had been the perfect candidate. A low-level enforcer for men like Sinclair, he had long wished to leave the drudgery of his world behind and move to America. Sinclair, whose business of importing drugs meant he had to be able to fool immigration agents and customers officers, produced the best fake passport on the market.

Killing a cop, especially a CID boy, was usually well off the cards, but Francis hated Sinclair with a passion and was willing to risk hell or high water to bring him down. He'd caught up to the man in Green Park, not two minutes from Buck Pal, and put a gun to his head. He hadn't begged, or pleaded, or offered to drop the case. He merely leaned forward so the barrel was pushed right into his forehead, and said, "come on, you cunt. Do it." So he had blown him away without even hesitating. Sinclair had given him a fake passport that had set of absolutely no sensors when he reached Stillwater, as well as a hundred grand. Francis was the kill that helped him leave England; he supposed it was fitting, it being the one that dragged him back.

He was declared guilty by a unanimous jury vote.