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...

inches.

Well used…

Left-handed…

gives him

practice against right-handers. I've done

out. Hard. Fast. Teeth bared.

grab him by the arm. We grapple. His

close, I smell

Sweat. Sour.

scent of

Not excitement.

Fear.

and suddenly I'm overreaching… off-balance… and

lash for his neck but as he swings away, my fist lands

I bully forward, reaching for

with my right hand and he twists

The other knife...

Ambidextrous?

Just well-practised. As he swerves away from my right hand,

rib

Got you, you bastard…

her.

of nowhere, pelting for the exit, apparently blind to me and Baxter, she charges between us and I twist away to avoid slicing

staggering back, my

Drinks slops?

Blood?

In slow motion...

arms

I go down...

Baxter’s on top

…

as his blade slices

rasp of shredding

metallic tang

Whose?

Mine…

hovers, enjoying his

point nipping at the vein, he reaches into his jacket, he takes out a

My Glock?

my forehead, he backs

not use the

the

on my elbows I swing round wildly,

There are none.

I’m staring straight up the barrel of my own fucking gun and to Baxter’s crocodile

Is this it?

this

irritation. Of all the ways I could have died over the years,

something I didn’t

Live by the sword…

at these moments. The brain does odd things under

don’t think

The rest of

My throat tightens…

in

I know that

swing to its owner.

close to six feet in the spiked heels. The matching skirt just clears the

smooth white shoulders and frames a face made up with emerald eyes painted Goth-dark and

“Mitch?”

it. I

So does Baxter.

full of women offering

I have never seen her dressed like

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

hooks a finger into the loop and tooth

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