Chapter 25
666 Words
25
Four plainclothes cops stand in a line in dark-blue Kevlar vests. They yell at me again to put down my gun.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say setting it down slow. These armed response guys are so bloody twitchy.
They keep yelling, but I know the drill. On the floor. Hands on head. Blah, blah, blah.
Looks like I’ll be joining Rudenko in the slammer. Which means I'll have to kill him before he kills me.
The cops have me cuffed and on my feet in no time. They march me round the front of the courthouse. The place has emptied out. Cordoned off with all the main players inside. The doors locked shut and an armed guard outside.
They shove me on past the courthouse, to where a police van waits on the street with its doors open. About a dozen cops stand around looking smug. As if they didn't s**t their pants five minutes earlier.
“Soft lads,” I say to ‘em.
I lunge at one of them, just for the fun of it. He shits his pants all over again.
Just as I’m about to step up into the van, a dark Range Rover pulls up with a blue and red flashing light on the inside of the dash. An unmarked pig-mobile, with the rear windows blacked out.
A pair of suited detectives get out. A big ginger bloke and a leggy, slender woman with black hair. They have their badges at the ready, pulling rank.
The other cops aren’t too happy.
“What’s all this?” one of them asks. The senior officer by the looks of his silvering hair and swagger.
“NCA,” the woman says.
Also known as the National Crime Agency. The people charged with bringing down organised crime in the UK.
"This is our arrest," says the senior officer.
“Was,” the woman says, turning her nose up at him.
A female copper with short black hair sighs in frustration. “Where are you taking him?”
“It’s above your station,” the woman says, as her partner takes me by the arm.
“This is a f*****g joke,” says a squat copper with a face I’d like to punch.
I c**k my head to one side. "Do I hear stolen thunder?"
I laugh as I’m led away. The male detective opens the back door of the Range Rover. He pushes me up inside.
The Range Rover pulls away from the curb. Police vehicles and traffic making way. The female detective sits behind the wheel.
In actual fact, it’s Laura. Her ginger sidekick is one of Murphy’s new goons.
Speaking of the silver-haired devil, he sits to my right on the backseat. A big grin on his face. The cat who got the double cream.
“Sorry we were a bit late,” he says, undoing my cuffs with a small key.
“Ah, it was short notice,” I say, shaking my hands free of the cuffs. “I would have called earlier, but it was a last minute thing."
“I take it you got the young man to the courthouse on time?”
“He’s in there now. Rudenko too.”
“I would have paid a lot of money to see his face,” Murphy says.
The Range Rover cruises through the city streets. Rush hour traffic thinning.
“So where to?” Laura asks.
“Your place?” I ask.
It bounces right off her. No, I’m never getting anywhere there.
“Can’t go home,” I say. “Don’t suppose you could sort me out with a new passport and a change of clothes, could you?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Laura says. “You leaving for good?”
“Why, you gonna miss me?”
Still nothing. That woman is dead inside.
“You know, my offer’s still on the table,” Murphy says.
“Can’t hang around here any longer,” I say.
“I’m sure all that can be made to go away,” he says, as we pass by the tall, glass monolith that is the Hilton Hotel.
"You know me, Mr Murphy. I’m like Switzerland."
As I say it, Murphy choruses with me. Like he’s tired of hearing it. "Well, whatever your philosophical leanings," he says. "You're not neutral anymore."
He holds my eye. I guess he's got a point. Working for Murphy would be the common sense option. Protection from the cops and Rudenko’s mob. A change of pace. And plenty of cash in my pocket.
But I promised Cassie.
“Well, Charlie?” Murphy says, raising a silvery eyebrow. "What do you say?”
- Writer
