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“I’ll take that on the chin,” he says. “Literally.”
James nods, showing rare happiness with a mild smile as I break away from Danny and sit. James’s phone rings. “Otto.” He answers and starts to roam the office. “Got it.” He cuts the call. “The X5’s been picked up.”
I sit up straight. “Please don’t say by the police.”
He shakes his head. “The Russians. Otto’s tracking it.”
“Fuck, yes,” Danny yells, taking his Scotch off the desk and necking it. Then his phone rings. “Higham,” he says cheerfully, switching to loudspeaker. “Tell me you’re back.”
“I’m back.”
“Excellent. I’m in a really good mood. Don’t spoil it.”
“I’ll try. I’m at the boatyard. Just watched Otto manhandle some poor confused bastard into a green container.”
“Who?” Danny asks, then turns his attention onto the room. “Anyone know who Otto’s put in the green container?”
I raise my hand. “We’d better get to the boatyard.”
We pull up and find Higham sitting on the hood of his car. He looks tired. Really fucking tired. “You’re not looking like you’ve had much of a vacation,” I say as I pass him.
“Who’s in the container, Brad?”
“Yeah, who’s in the container, Brad?” Danny asks.
“No one. You’re seeing things, Higham.” I point to the café. “I’ll be there in a minute.” I take Nolan’s spare arm and help him toward the green container, looking back, seeing Danny’s questioning face following us. But he doesn’t demand an answer.
“What’s going on?” Nolan asks, hobbling along next to me, using my arm for support.
“I have a gift for you.”
“What?”
I open the container door and usher him inside, flicking on the lightbulb before closing the door behind me. I see the piece of shit on a chair, wrists and ankles bound with tape, his mouth gagged. He looks between us. Confused. I walk over and pull his gag down.
“Who the fuck are you?” he gasps.
“Don’t worry about who I am.” I pull my gun and point it at Nolan. “The cripple over there is who you should be concerned about.”
Nolan looks at me, and I see the penny drop. “Oh,” he breathes.
I nod, moving back, letting him take the stage while I screw the silencer onto my gun. “Have fun,” I quip.
The poor fucker in the chair bats his eyes back and forth between us. “What’s going on? Who are you?”
Nolan lifts his crutch and pushes the end into the guy’s throat, forcing him back in the chair. “I know your ex.”
His persona changes in an instant, a sneer crawling across his face. “She’s not my ex.”
“She has to be,” Nolan says, smiling. “Since she’s my girlfriend.”
“What?”
“You heard.”
“Fuck off. She’s mine. She wouldn’t dare.”
I smile, unable to help myself, and pull my phone from my pocket, bringing up the video of Nolan fucking Ella. I can’t watch it myself, can’t even listen, so I turn the volume down—it felt wrong even before I knew Nolan was mine—and hold it in front of Ella’s ex, just to torture the fucker, just to prove beyond all doubt in his stupid fucking mind that Ella is, in fact, not his. “You’ve got the moves, son,” I say, amused when Nolan’s eyes widen at me. A mild shake of his head. I pass him the gun. “Let’s not drag this out.”
