Hot Revenge Box Set 2

Chapter 7

James

It’s weird how adaptable the human brain is. How capable of accepting new levels of what is ‘ordinary’. Despite knowing that I am now completely alone, I settle into a kind of routine.

Read… Run… Carry…

East Portside Road… El Valderado Bar…

I have my second wind, breathing easily. Even my leg isn’t giving me the trouble I thought it might. My muscles thoroughly warmed through now, I jog along, heading for my next destination.

Read… Run… Carry…

Parkmoor Bridge over West Marine Rise…

Pacing myself, pacing my breathing to match my easy trot, I survey dark windows…

Where are they?

… Parked cars… Alleyways… Cafes and kiosks…

Then passing through shadier areas; roof lights, warehouse windows, disused garages…

I skid to a halt.

Ahead of me, blocking my route…

Under the glare of a streetlamp, a group of youngsters, swilling back beer, yelling, pushing and shoving…

Look again…

No, not kids.

Young men.

Crap…

I have to pass them. And they look entirely too rowdy for comfort.

Should I cross the street?

No. That would flag up as fear…

I stroll on, all nonchalance. That’s the theory anyway…

Fucking limp…

As I draw closer, one of the group, head tipped back, bottle tipped up, notices me. Elbowing the next, he jerks his chin my way and almost as one, the group turn to face me.

One, the tallest, leather-jacketed and wearing baggy jeans slung low at the belt, steps forward from the group.

Are they Finchby's?

?

No…

… just louts on the lookout for an opportunity…

What do they see? Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

Old man…

Limping…

Disabled?

Interesting looking bag…

“Evening,” he says.

“Good evening.”

“Bit late to be out for a stroll. Chilly night. Could get a nasty cold on your chest.” He nods downwards. “What you got there?”

“Nothing of yours.”

He eyes the bag. “Coming back from the gym? Sports kit, eh? Looks heavy.”

“Let me past.” I make to step forward, through the group, but they close ranks ahead of me.

Tall-Boy clicks his tongue, reaches inside his jacket. “Hand it over.” He holds up a knife, the neon orange of the streetlamp glinting on the edge. “I used to have a bag like that. Let’s see if I think this is it. Could be lost property.”

He turns, grinning around to the group who, right on cue, laugh and nod.

Moron…

“Yeah… lost.”

“Could be a finder’s fee.”

Then he turns back to me and his grins drops. He rocks his hand, the blade held up by his own face, displayed. “Like the movie says. This is a knife.”

And I'm simply not in the mood for this.

Jade…

“Here, take it.” I swing the bag at him, hard, fast, putting my shoulders behind it and tightening my grip as it arcs towards him. He reaches, trying to snatch, misses, fumbles and drops the knife.

I kick it and it skitters over the road. And without thinking, I find the gun Klempner gave me is in my hand. “You’re right, that's a knife, but like the other movie says…” I give him my best smile, displaying my teeth and praying my hand’s not shaking. “… Do you feel lucky?”

Tall-Boy’s grin has gone AWOL. Hard-eyed, mouth pursed, he holds one hand in the other, cracking his knuckles.

After a long moment, he caves, shrugging at the group. He sniffs, backing off and I nudge the muzzle this way and that.

The group parts ways, opening a gap. As I pass through, I turn, walking backwards and away from them until, away from the glare of the streetlamp, I dip into the comforting shadow of a side-street.

Sucking short lungfuls of frigid air, I lean back against the wall.

How much time did that cost?

Too much.

My watch gives me a message I don’t like.

Running late…

Christ!

My confidence has evaporated, and my heart is hammering again, nausea snatching at my gut. I step up my pace, trying to ignore the stabbing in my thigh, hoping that adrenaline will take the pain away…

At least for now…

Payback later…

Throwing caution to the wind, I sprint. Over iced flags and glazed tarmac, I run, full pelt, trying to reach my target on time.

My foot slides on the ice and my bad leg betrays me. Momentum carrying my body one way, my feet skid the other and I fall, landing heavily, knocking already scant breath from my lungs.

For a moment I simply lie there as white pain resonates through knee and hip. As I try to pull myself up, my hand screams protest from a wrenched wrist and a skinned palm.

I sit, winded, staring stupidly into the dark.