Total pages in book: 217
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1036(@200wpm)___ 829(@250wpm)___ 691(@300wpm)
They throw each other wary glances. “And if that someone is in there?”
“I’ll remove him, because I’m pretty sure the owner won’t want him frequenting her establishment, even if the man running the place for her does.”
“Yeah, okay, cool, man,” the other says, hands up. “We’re not paid enough to deal with this kinda trouble, man.”
Wise men. I brush past them, then push my way through the double doors, scoping the joint from one side to the other. The shit music. The tacky décor. The cheap furniture. I have to squint to protect my eyes from the glare of the sickly pink neon lighting assaulting the place.
I drop the rucksack by the door and start a slow circuit, eyeing every table, every patron, the staff, the people on the dance floor. There’s not one camera in the place. It speaks volumes. I come to a slow stop when I see a VIP area in the corner, a crowd of young women swarming the edge. Desperate young women. Desperate young women wanting attention, money, drugs, a sugar daddy. All disingenuous, but all blameless.
I wander over, a head and shoulders above them, and see him. A bottle of champagne in one hand, a woman in the other. An innocent woman. He has the same shades on as he does in the photograph Higham handed us. Who fucking hires these imbeciles? Jesus Christ, his nose is powered with white stuff, his body visibly buzzing, and I bet if I could see his eyes, they’d be like fucking saucers.
I feel my guns against my back, begging me to put an end to one more obstacle. Except . . .
I can’t.
Not only because he’s surrounded by ignorant idiots who don’t deserve to die. We need information.
I push my way through the crowd of youngsters crowding the VIP space and step over the red rope holding them back. My presence gets the other guy in the area, who also has a woman on his lap and cocaine dressing his nose.
And suddenly, the woman isn’t on his lap, being shoved aside for something else. His gun. I pull both of mine at lightning speed, before he’s even figured out where the fuck his trousers are, and have one aimed at each of their heads. Two pairs of hands rise into the air, and screams overpower the music. “Pleasure,” I say, gesturing with my guns. The music stops, so very conveniently. “And if anyone moves a muscle, that bag by the door will take this club and everyone in it into the next galaxy.” All eyes fall to the rucksack by the door. “Let’s go.”
“Feck, you’re The Enigma,” he breathes, lifting his glasses, confirming what I thought. Pupils the size of fucking Mars. Fuck me, they’re really scraping the barrel to build this fucking web again.
“And guess who I’m taking you to see?” I whisper, cocking my head.
“The Brit and The Enigma?” his mate says, full of dread. “Fuck ’dat.”
I see it coming a mile away, and just as he bolts, making it approximately two feet, I turn my gun and put a bullet in his back. More screams. “Your chances of survival are stronger if you cooperate.”
The Leprechaun, hands still up, stares at his drugged-up mate now bleeding out on the floor as he edges out of the space and walks to the door. “Aye, I’ll cooperate.”
I collect my bag, give the doormen a polite nod, and lead him to my car with my gun pushed into his lower back.
“I’ve always admired ya, you know,” he says, stumbling along.
“Shut the fuck up.” I pop the boot and present him with a tennis ball.
“I’ll tell ya every-tin you wanna know, I swear it.”
I shove it in his gob and hold up a cable tie on a tilt of my head, and his wrists are held out in a second. I bind them and shove him back, taking care of his ankles before putting some tape around his mouth and a bag over his head.
I close the trunk, get in the driver’s seat, and head back to Hiatus.
I’m still tense after my meeting at the hotel bar, and I’m fucking pissed I can’t shake it off. That Irish fucker’s lucky I need information more than I need his blood.
I get the biggest fucking scowl from Danny when I find him at the bar. “Where the fuck have you been?” he yells over the music, turning to face me.
I ignore him and order a vodka, perching on a stool. The music is so loud, I can’t hear myself fucking think. It might be a good thing.
“And who the fuck is Beth?”
My vodka lands on the bar and I neck it, slamming my empty down. The bartender, Mason, a younger version of Otto but with extra piercings and added tattoos, immediately pours another. I take the glass, looking over to the DJ booth, seeing the resident DJ, his name escapes me, holding one side of his headphones while working the decks with the other. David Guetta gets the crowd pumped with Love is Gone, the bass brutal, the endless speakers pulsing.