Hot Revenge Box Set 2

Chapter 15

Klempner

Although I can hear chaos from down the stairs, up here now, it’s quiet. There’s no-one in the dance room.

In the pool room, the only sound is the crunching of glass under my boots. I carry on to Finchby’s office.

All empty?

It seems so.

The time?

Time to go.

Except… as I’m about to turn and leave a girl, I see her; barely a teenager, some variety of Asian, Indian perhaps. Streaming tears, she skitters out from behind the desk, making for the kitchen.

I follow her and she cringes back into the corner. I offer my hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. You have to leave.”

She babbles at me in I’ve-no-idea-what language, then abruptly, her face swings up to mine and fingers outstretched, leaps up at me, clawing at my face. Reflexively, I jerk back, and she bolts past me and out, back the way I came.

Fuck!

I dash after her, but in the few seconds, she’s gone, vanished.

Where did she go?

Out?

Or somewhere deeper inside?

I check my watch… Three minutes…

Christ!

I have to find her… If she’s on the stairwell, perhaps I’ll hear her. I turn for the bar, heading for the stairs up and down, and there…

Fuck.

Baxter.

I reach for my Glock… And it’s not there.

Damn… When did I put it down?

Baxter flashes brows. And the knife in his hand. “Going somewhere?”

“I was planning on leaving.” I slip the knife from my belt. “Your friend Finchby has already left the building. I believe the money may be with him.”

“I’m not going to weep over Finchby. And I didn't do it for the cash. Well… mainly not for the cash. And I have my half anyway.”

We circle, eyeball to eyeball.

Make the first move?

Wait for him?

I move slowly, watching for the twitch of the hand. The nudge of the shoulder. The tell that he's going to stop talking and...

He slashes out… moves fast…

But it’s a feint and we both know it, calculated to draw a reaction from me.

Testing me…

My speed…

My reactions…

Younger than me...

How much by?

Ten years?

His knife...

eight inches. Well cared

Well used…

Left-handed…

gives

practice against right-handers.

out. Hard. Fast. Teeth

arm. We grapple. His blade to my throat. My

close, I smell

Sweat. Sour.

scent

Not excitement.

Fear.

me and suddenly I'm overreaching…

as I lash for his neck but as he swings away, my

advantage, I bully forward, reaching for his blade, slashing out

with my right hand and he twists away, still grinning

The other knife...

Ambidextrous?

well-practised. As he swerves away from my right

the rib cage

Got you, you bastard…

her. The Indian

Baxter, she

back, my foot skids on

Drinks slops?

Blood?

In slow motion...

my arms wind-milling

I go down...

on top of

…

gasp as his blade slices across

The rasp of

metallic

Whose?

Mine…

he hovers, enjoying his moment,

vein, he reaches into his jacket,

My Glock?

my

use

got the

up on my elbows I swing round wildly, one way or the

There are none.

the barrel of my own fucking gun

Is this it?

this is

the ways I could have died over the years, I’m taken out by a shite like

something I

Live by the sword…

the mind works at these moments. The brain does odd things

think

and huge. The rest of

My throat tightens…

honey and contempt in equal measure… “A hero with a gun

I know

swing to its owner.

thigh boots set her close to six feet in the spiked heels. The matching skirt just clears the crotch and the zip-front leather

shoulders and frames a face made up with emerald eyes painted

“Mitch?”

admit it. I

So does Baxter.

It might have been full of women offering

I have never seen her dressed like this, not even

one leg a little curved to strike a pose. And with an eye on Baxter that dares him to do his

open silver loop. She hooks a finger into the loop and tooth by tooth, slides the tag

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