A Time For Justice (22 page)

Just below the village, the lake itself lay gently and
serenely, like a sheet of smoke-blue glass, unruffled and
beautiful.

Reeve stared intently out, searching for something that could
give him a clue. Anything. A car which did not seem to fit, a man
perhaps, who did not give the impression of being a tourist.
Anything to warn him that Dakin had caught up, because he knew that
Dakin was after him. He did not have to be told he was on the run,
and until he could leave the country he would always be in
danger.

His sharp eyes roved and flickered once more, nervously taking
everything in.

But there was nothing.
Yet.
He knew he would soon have to move. ‘Come away
from the window.’

He allowed the flimsy curtain to fall back into place and
turned to face the female who lay stretched out naked on the bed.
This was the third time that morning he’d been to the
window.

‘
He’ll never find you here,’ she said.

Reeve did not actually agree with her. Dakin had very long,
sticky tentacles and he never underestimated him.

‘
You don’t even know if he’s after you,’ the lady went on, ‘so
come back to bed, eh? Let’s have a good time.’

‘
I’m taking no chances, Janine. Once I’ve got all my money
together, we’re away.’

‘
Where to?’

‘
Spain, maybe ... dunno.’

‘
Sounds nice, but I think you’re overreacting.’

‘
Browney’s dead, so’s that American - plus every other poor
bastard in Lancashire. And I’m next in line. I was going to do the
legwork for Browney and if Dakin knew about Brown’s double-cross,
he’s bound to know about me too. I’d never be able to bluff my way
out of it, never.’

He stood in the middle of the room, rubbing his chin with a
hand, thinking. ‘How the hell did he find out about Browney’s
plans? Fucked if I know. Who on earth could have told
him?’

‘
Come on back to bed,’ Janine said, a little too abruptly.
‘Come on, babe, I’m dying to get hold of you.’ The last thing she
wanted was for Reeve to start thinking things through. He might be
slow, but not that slow.

‘
I don’t know ... I think we should fuck off.’

‘
There’s always time for sex,’ she pouted.

‘
OK,’ he said with a smile. ‘You win, but let’s make it quick.
We’re out of here ASAP.’

He crossed the room. She wriggled down the bed to prepare for
business.

After peeling off his underpants - which had the words
Hot Rod
emblazoned
across them - he stood by the bed, erection swaying, deciding what
he wanted.

He stood well over six feet tall and had a build to match,
large wide shoulders, flat muscular stomach, solid thighs - all
areas of skin which over the years had become a canvas for wild
tattoos. Hearts, daggers, girls’ names, swords, ships, guns; many
brightly coloured, others merely blue outlines. Only his head and
neck remained free.

‘
Well?’ she said, eyes dancing, breasts a-quiver.

He straddled her, letting his testicles (tattooed to resemble
two leather footballs hanging in a basket) rest on her body just
below her well-proportioned breasts. She cradled these balls in the
palm of her hand, crushing them gently, making him hiss. Then she
took his erection (tattooed to look like a rocket) in her other
hand. She knew what he wanted. She began a slow, rhythmic movement
with fluttering fingers along the length of his cock.

Her experienced touch brought him to the point of orgasm many
times, but she then held back from the final fast strokes that
would have allowed him to shoot forth his sperm.

It was almost agony for him.

His penis was huge and throbbing in her hands, but she refused
to let him finish.

Then, as he approached orgasm for the umpteenth time, an axe
smashed through the thin hotel door, sending splintering wood into
the room.

This time Janine rubbed for dear life.

The axe-head was twisted round and heaved back, ripping out
the panelling.

‘
Oh come, come, come,’ Janine breathed as though she hadn’t
seen or heard the interruption. She held his organs tightly in her
grip, refusing to let go.

‘
God, they’re here!’ he shouted.

‘
I know, I know,’ she responded.

Reeve tore himself from her grasp, painfully. He hopped across
the room to where his jacket was slung over a chair. Sperm shot
everywhere in uncontrollable spurts. On the bedclothes, on the
bedside cabinet, on the floor.

He fumbled for his gun which was in his jacket.

The door was battered and burst from its hinges. Three men
stepped into the room, one being Dakin’s driver, still dressed in
his chauffeur’s uniform.

The first man through the door was a small, lithe man, no
bigger than a jockey. He had a baseball bat in his hands which he
wielded with great accuracy across the back of Reeve’s
head.

In Miami it was almost ninety degrees. The city was sweltering
under the curse of a heatwave, but on the boats taking day-trippers
sightseeing around the bay there was a slight breeze coming off the
water.

‘
And over there, to your left, is the home of Gloria Estafan,
Miami’s very own superstar,’ said the captain’s voice over the
loudspeaker. Everyone’s attention on the boat turned to the
beautiful waterside mansion of the star in the hope of catching
just one glimpse of her. There was no sign of the singer, nor any
sign of life, just as there had been no sign of any other of the
celebrities whose homes the boat had passed on its
journey.

Eamon Ritter hadn’t bothered looking. He’d been on the bay
trips many times and could easily have taken over the commentary
should the captain suddenly have fallen ill.

Instead he made his way inside to the empty bar, ordered a
beer and sat down to sip it from the bottle by a window. He gazed
out at the stunning skyline of Miami and marvelled, yet again, at
the foresight of Julia Tuttle from Ohio. Hardly one hundred years
ago, she had bought some of the Biscayne Bay swampland and reckoned
she’d build a city.

Even she would have been surprised at the melting-pot
metropolis she’d spawned.

The door opened. Ritter looked casually round. A middle-aged
woman entered the room and went to the bar. Ritter remembered she’d
boarded the boat with her husband. It was unlikely that she’d be
the one he had to meet.

Ritter had earlier boarded the boat at the waterfront near to
Bayside, the new shopping complex. He’d got on first and discreetly
studied every other tourist who’d boarded. He couldn’t for the life
of him work out which one was Corelli’s man or woman. He’d tried it
every time, but failed, and been surprised when the least likely
person actually approached him.

He looked out of the window and took a sip of the
beer.

The other reason he checked everyone was to make sure he
wasn’t being followed.

‘
Upper deck, seats at the rear,’ a voice said.

Ritter spun round. This time it was a girl, late teens, early
twenties maybe. She wore big round sunglasses and had her hair
pulled back tightly from her face into a ponytail. She had a nice,
wide mouth, small upturned nose and was very tanned and pretty in
an impish way. She was wearing a loose vest-like top which hung
open around the shoulders and a pair of cut-off jeans revealing
long, slender legs. On her feet were flip-flops.

Ritter remembered her boarding, but had dismissed her as being
too glamorous.

Before he could reply to her instruction, she walked past him,
out of the bar.

Suddenly his throat went very dry and constricted, as it
always did at this time of betrayal. He began to pour with sweat;
his stomach knotted and butterflies danced through his
intestines.

He took a long pull of the beer, stood up and made his way to
the upper deck which was laid out with seating for the tourists.
There were many vacant seats. This voyage wasn’t overly crowded as
it wasn’t the height of the season.

The girl was sitting alone at the back of the boat, leaning
against the railing, one leg wedged in the back of the chair in
front of her. She was drinking Coke from a can.

‘
Mind if I sit here?’ he asked.

‘
Suit yourself,’ she said with a sneer of uninterest as though
she was fending off a pass.

Ritter sat. He extracted his sunglasses from his shirt-pocket
and manoeuvred them onto his face.

‘
Miami’s a wonderful city, don’t you think?’ he stated. These
were the words, the phrase, that meant everything was OK to
proceed.

She came straight to the point.

‘
He wants to know what Donaldson is doing in
England.’

Without hesitation, Ritter told her.

When he’d finished, she said, ‘How close are you to him?’
meaning the FBI to Corelli.

‘
Donaldson and Kovaks are tasked to get him, as he already
knows. It’s their main function at the moment. It’s difficult to
say how close they are, but now that Hinksman’s in custody, I’d
venture to tell him to watch out. It could be the beginning of the
end, unless he’s careful.’

‘
It could be the beginning of the end for you too, Agent
Ritter.’

‘
Don’t you even begin to threaten me, lady. You’re just
a messenger, not a player, so do your job and
messenge.’

She gave a short laugh, then got to her feet. ‘Don’t be
surprised if those agents get a warning shot.’

‘
Then tell him not to be surprised if they bag his ass.
They’re good very, very good.’

‘
And he’s even better. Your money will be in the usual place.
By the way, he thanks you for the information about Whisper and his
big mouth. Excuse me.’

She sidled past him, her crotch provocatively at the height of
his nose and only inches away. He could smell her and she smelled
excellent. Ritter held himself back from letting a hand brush her
outer thigh. She walked away from him down the deck, her ass
swaying like a cat-walk model.

Ritter tilted his head back and emptied his beer down his dry
throat.

It was 8.30 p.m. British time. Cathy Diamond was seated behind
a desk in a plush, well-appointed office, filing her already
perfect nails with an emery board. She blew off the last of the
shavings and was about to pick up her nail-polish when Reeve,
flanked by two armed men, was led into the room.

He was past struggling and allowed everything to happen
without trying to stop it. He knew he was doomed.

Two floors below, a supermarket belonging to Dakin had just
finished trading for the day. The office staff had all gone home,
as had the staff from the shopfloor. One or two members of the
cleaning team were still there but, with the two hard men posted
outside the door, there was little chance of an
interruption.

Cathy looked at Reeve through half-closed eyes. He caught her
gaze and thought, ‘Bitch. If I’m going down, so are
you.’

The two men seated Reeve on a chair in the centre of the room
prepared ready for his arrival.

His head lolled forwards, chin on chest. He didn’t have the
strength or the desire to lift it and look around him. He just
wanted to get it over with.

Cathy pressed the button on the intercom and said, ‘He’s
here.’

A couple of seconds later the door to Dakin’s office opened
and the man himself strutted out. He strode across to Reeve and
lifted his head, careful not to get any blood on his hands from the
wound at the back which was now crusted over.

‘
Hello Gerry, old mate,’ said Dakin.

‘
Lenny,’ was all Reeve could manage to say.

‘
Good, good,’ said Dakin soothingly. ‘At least you’re with us.
I told them not to hit you too hard. My, though, that’s a nasty
cut. Does it hurt, buddy?’

‘
You could say that,’ slurred Reeve.

‘
Well, that’s the name of the game, innit? You make a decision
and you open a door. You have to accept what comes through it,
doncha? Agree?’

Reeve’s head shook drunkenly, but he made no reply.

‘
Do you agree, Gerry?’ Dakin’s voice rose. Then he struck him
across the face, putting his whole weight behind the blow. Reeve
was lifted bodily off the chair and crashed to the floor. As he
picked himself up he realised it wasn’t a carpet he’d fallen
on
,
but a
polythene sheet. The type used by painters and decorators to keep
paint off the carpets. Or by executioners to keep blood off
them.

Reeve groaned inwardly.

‘
Sit him back up,’ Dakin ordered his men.

They heaved him back into the chair.

Reeve rotated his jaw. It was already swelling up from
the blow. ‘Now then Gerry, let’s have a
tete-a-tete, eh?’