“So his Insta says.” Andrew shrugged. “Goes past The Watermill, so we’ll start there and see if we get lucky.”
The clock showed six-thirty, and a familiar thrill grew inside me. It mixed with adrenaline and a sense of purpose. This was different to being in my cop uniform. Then I had to follow a million rules, play nice, justify my actions to people who hadn’tbeen there on the ground. But now…now these wereourrules, and Leo Green was about to find out that we played dirty, down-in-the-mud-and-the-blood dirty, when it came to getting what we wanted out of someone.
Chapter Six
Mitch
The Watermill was a run-down pub that backed onto the canal’s long, lean towpath. The sad old hanging baskets were dead, and a board outside advertised a quiz night from four months previously. Behind it stood an old barn, the door askew and a large hole in the ceiling. Weeds and shrubs were head height, and a scramble of thorny bushes led the way to a side door swinging on its hinges.
“Want me to check that out?” I asked Andrew as we took position behind the pub’s graffiti-strewn fence.
“Good call. Maybe we can drag him in there, out of sight.” Andrew lifted up his bandana. “Get some privacy, you know.”
I stepped off the towpath and pushed several long thorny branches out of my way; the first berries were ripening on the ends. Underfoot it was uneven, rocks and a few broken bricks, a patch of tall stinging nettles.
“Fuck,” I muttered when I felt a sudden sharp scratch to the left of my eye. I didn’t pause but touched it and was greeted with the sticky warmth of blood. “Damn bushes.”
When I reached the door, I stood for a moment, letting my focus adjust to the dim lighting. It smelled of the earth and straw, perhaps faintly of fertilizer, too. I stepped in. The rafters were high, and a pigeon took umbrage to my presence and flapped out of the hole in the roof to the white morning light.
Placing my hands on my hips, I glanced around. An old tractor, minus its wheels, had found its rusty graveyard in the corner. A pile of metal junk stacked up beside it—microwaves, bikes, cracked satellite dishes, a stained chest freezer, and several garden parasols, likely from the pub’s overgrown garden—and then a row of beer barrels that didn’t appear like they’d be good for anything.
I spotted a hard metal chair on the pile and picked it up. It was sturdy enough, so I set it in a clear spot, the metal feet poking into the dirt. After another quick search I found a length of cable, an old extension lead, so I set that beside the chair.
Better than rope.
I had one more scout around then slipped back outside. A plane traveled east to west high overhead, leaving a white trail. Within seconds I was with my crew, bandana up, Cillian at the ready with the hood.
“You reckon he’ll come by?” Finn asked.
Andrew checked his watch. “If he’s going to it will be soon. If not, we’ll be on to plan B, pay him a visit at home.”
“Just get the right guy, huh,” Phil said. “Don’t need complications.”
“Apparently he’s an ugly fucker,” I said. “Skinny as fuck. No teeth. Wart on his nose.”
“Nice.” Cillian huffed.
We were all quiet.
“Someone’s coming,” I said.
We tensed. I held my breath.
A woman, mauve shorts and top, headphones on. She didn’t even glance our way as she ran past on the narrow weedy path, proving we’d found ourselves decent cover.
“Patience,” Andrew muttered.
A songbird broke our silence, and then a long red boat—Molly Sue—chugged past. We slunk back to avoid a dog walker who ambled by, her small terrier stared our way but was thankfully silent.
Five minutes passed. Nothing, no one.
Phil stuck his head above the bramble bush. “A jogger is coming.”
“Him?” I asked.
“Could be.”
“I’ll get into position, give me the thumbs-up if so.” Cillian rounded the shrub so that he’d be behind the jogger when he passed us.
