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...

maybe eight inches. Well cared

Well used…

Left-handed…

gives him

right-handers.

out. Hard. Fast.

he follows through, but I grab him by the arm. We grapple. His blade

I smell

Sweat. Sour.

scent

Not excitement.

Fear.

me and suddenly I'm overreaching… off-balance… and I pull back recovering

but as he swings away, my fist lands in his

on my advantage, I bully forward, reaching for his blade,

hand and he twists away, still grinning

The other knife...

Ambidextrous?

from my right hand, my left hand

rib cage

Got you, you bastard…

her. The Indian

Baxter, she charges between us

my foot

Drinks slops?

Blood?

In slow motion...

arms wind-milling

I go down...

on top of

…

as his blade slices

The rasp

The metallic tang of

Whose?

Mine…

maniacally, he hovers, enjoying his moment, the

vein, he reaches into his

My Glock?

for my forehead, he

not use the

the balls for

elbows I swing round wildly,

There are none.

the barrel of my own fucking gun and

Is this it?

time… this

I could have died

something I

Live by the sword…

these moments. The brain does odd things

don’t think

huge. The rest of the

My throat tightens…

and drips honey and contempt in equal measure… “A hero with a gun and a knife against an unarmed man. And he’s

I know

eyes swing to its owner. So do

skirt just clears the crotch and the zip-front leather vest hugs a narrow waist and full

and frames a face made

“Mitch?”

it.

So does Baxter.

It might have been full of women offering their

like this, not even in

to strike a pose. And with an eye on Baxter that dares

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

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