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 used…

Left-handed…

gives

right-handers.

out. Hard. Fast.

through, but I grab him by the arm. We grapple. His blade to my throat.

I smell

Sweat. Sour.

scent

Not excitement.

Fear.

I'm overreaching… off-balance…

but

I bully forward, reaching for his blade,

at his chest with my right hand and he twists away, still grinning manically,

The other knife...

Ambidextrous?

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

the rib

Got you, you bastard…

her. The Indian

for the exit, apparently blind to me and Baxter, she charges

back, my foot skids

Drinks slops?

Blood?

In slow motion...

arms wind-milling for

I go down...

on

…

gasp as his blade slices across

rasp of shredding

The metallic

Whose?

Mine…

he hovers, enjoying his moment, the knife poised

the vein, he reaches

My Glock?

aiming for my forehead, he backs

not use

the balls for

elbows I swing round wildly, one way or the other, searching

There are none.

I’m staring straight up the barrel of my own fucking gun

Is this it?

time… this

ways I could have died over the

something I didn’t

Live by the sword…

at these moments. The brain does odd things

think I’m

looms close and huge. The rest of the world

My throat tightens…

man.” The voice is sultry, smooth, and drips honey and contempt in equal measure… “A hero with

know

swing to its owner. So do

the spiked heels. The matching skirt just clears the crotch and the zip-front leather vest hugs a

white shoulders and frames a face made up with emerald

“Mitch?”

admit it.

So does Baxter.

women offering their all. But nothing

her dressed like this, not even in

lifted, one leg a little curved to strike a pose. And with an

silver loop. She hooks a finger into

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