“Russo-” She’s gone, shutting the door and I hear the click of the lock.
Wallace…
My mobile buzzes again.
“Are ye going to answer that?” Michael asks. We’re sitting in a beat-up looking truck in South London. The Brixton neighborhood is trying to revive itself; there’s some hip shops - though mostly for vapes - and a brave restaurant or two popping up. This block, though, is making no effort to improve. Trash piles up in little heaps against every building, and the two guys whoapproached the truck, hoping for some spare change, took one look at us and went the other way.
“Nae, it’s not Scarlett’s ringtone or Gio’s.” I check my watch, “This is the time for the handoff for the cash. The Gadfly’s got to be the last eejit on the planet who demands cash instead of a discreet transfer.”
“Aye, but have ye ever spread a million pounds all over your bed and had at a lass right on top of it?” Michael grins shamelessly at my raised brow. “Dinnae knock it ‘till ye try it, cousin.”
“And you’re supposed to be the responsible one.” I shake my head sadly.
“Why are ye still in a suit, by the way?” Michael gives me a skeptical eye. “Ye look like ye should have ‘Incorporated’ as your last name.”
“I had an appointment with a major client on the real estate side of the business,” I say, scratching my back. The starched cotton dress shirt is itchy as feck. “He wanted to be sure that everything is going to proceed as normal, the selfish prick. I had to assure him that our special relationship with his steel company is still very special.”
“Ach, I hate those,” Michael says. “The business world is shite. Ye canna solve a problem by putting a gun in someone’s face. A pity, that. It cuts off a lot of chatter when you’re staring downthe barrel of a Heckler & Koch CC9.”
My mobile buzzes yet again as a Mercedes turns the corner. In the movies, it’s always a well-dressed gentleman passing off a Brunello Cucinelli briefcase to a guy in a trench coat.
In the real world, no one wants the responsibility for a feck tonne of cash. So, whoever got stuck with this detail is trustworthy enough to deliver it, but expendable in case the handoff goes wrong. Aye, this lad isclassicRussian gangster chic. The tracksuit that likely cost him four hundred pounds, the gold jewelry. I can smell his fecking cologne clear across the street. He stinks of bad decisions and a recent hit of weed.
I click on my headset. “Are ye ready? Once we kick the front door down, ye know the bawbag will be heading out the emergency exit and down the alley like a rat on steroids.”
“On it,” Dmitri says, his amusement clear. “We’ve got it covered.”
The Mercedes has a driver, so as soon as the kid goes into the building, I quietly step over and shoot him through the glass with a silencer, so no one hears a gunshot. The sound of breaking glass, though, is nothing new in this neighborhood.
“Ready…” Michael murmurs into his headset. “Three… two…”
I kick the door open with the fury of a man whose father is lying unconscious in a hospital bed and hasn’t slept for 48 fecking hours. I’m charging up to the second floor, the staircase is rotting wood and my foot nearly punches through a riser. The kid’s already handing over the duffel bag. He sees me and yelps, taking off down the hallway.
The Gadfly should know he’s fecked, but his arm comes out, holding a gun, shooting it wildly in every direction. I take a careful shot, and blow a hole through his hand, knocking his Ruger to the floor as he screams.
“Why do ye never let me say ‘one’ on the countdown?” Michael comes in behind me.
The Gadfly looks bad. He’s got a seeping wound in his shoulder and his filthy shirt is half-covering another bloody bandage.
“Ye know, it’s hard to believe you’ve lasted as long as ye have,” I say conversationally, kneeling on his chest until I hear his ribs creak.
“What do you want?” His voice is a death rattle. “Take the money- it’s right there.”
I lean all my weight on my knee, feeling his breastbone snap.
“I- i- information? I can tell you about-”
“Ye canna tell us anything that we dinnae know,ye useless feck. Ye really thought ye could get away with shooting my father?”
“I’m thinking The Gadfly here wanted to end it all,” Michael adds. He’s leaning against the shot-up doorway, checking the hall. “Ye have to be suicidal to go against the Taylor Mafia.”
“I only regret that I dinnae have time to work you over a little.” I pistol whip him once, twice, crushing most of his teeth and his jaw. The vision of my father, pale in his hospital bed, is painfully vivid. I slam my boot into his crushed face one more time.
“Wallace!” Michael’s looking at his mobile, his face is pale. “Finish up. We’ve got a problem.”
A single bullet and The Gadfly is a bloody sack of meat in a rotting flat.
When my mobile buzzes again, I answer.
