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“Where are you going-”
“Are you sure you’re-”
“Want us to come-”
“Maybe we should get you checked out-”
She shook them off. “No. No, I’m fine.” Grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair, she slung her handbag over a shoulder. “I just need some air. To think. Yeah. I’ll see you later.” Then, eyes glassy and heart pounding, she was moving past a shaken Autumn, round the bar, and through the door into the winter night.
Christmas was only a couple of hours away and, to mark the holiday, Seven had been decked in blue and white. Projectors in the ceiling made it look as if snowflakes were falling around the dancers, who were writhing together through the clouds of dry ice fog enveloping the floor.
The floor-to-ceiling windows of the manager’s office made up the wall overlooking the dancefloor. However, the view was lost on Jake. Are you down there?
The throngs were pressed so tight together, it was virtually impossible to tell one person from the next, but he could imagine her down there, writhing and gyrating to the beat against a faceless male, hot and eager…
His fingers twitched at the thought and he had to force down the impulse to reach for the sidearm hidden beneath his leather ¾ jacket. Though the P226 was his weapon of choice, the lighter, smaller, standard-issue Glock 17 was the more practical choice when it came to these messenger-boy jobs. Not only was it lighter and more easily concealed under a jacket, it's all-polymer design meant it was less likely to set off the basic security systems and metal detectors found in civilian recreational areas.
Get a grip, man. It was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. A slip of a girl, barely in her twenties. What had he expected? Marriage and happily ever after? Those were nothing but fantasies when you joined the Squad. Hell, if she hadn’t broken it off, he soon would have. For her sake, if not for his. She deserved better.
“Well, well, well…”
Shit! Jake had his hand in his jacket, thumb flipping the catch of the shoulder holster strap and his palm fastening round the textured grip of the Glock in the moment it took his head to whip back.
He relaxed slightly when he saw who was standing in the office’s door.
“When Mr Margrave said he was sending someone, I certainly wasn’t expecting it to be you, of all people, Jake Talbert.”
“I wasn’t his first choice,” Jake agreed, letting his hand fall to his side. At five feet six and shaped like a propped-up bag of suet in a black, handmade, three-piece suit, with a receding mop of hair more grey than black that curled at the sides and a pudgy face, Henry Yate was not what anyone would consider threatening. “But your message said it was urgent, and it’s Christmas Eve. The rest of the Flying Squad have plans, so here I am.”
Yate moved around the desk to sit back in the padded swivel chair with legs crossed and hands steepled in his lap. The pose was supposed to appear relaxed but only made his hands look like a bustle of fat little sausages. “I heard you weren’t about much these days. Word is, it’s been a busy couple of weeks for you.”
“They’ve had their moments.”
“I’ll say. Intimidating witnesses. Assaulting suspects. Not to mention beating that poor bugger half to death in a billiards hall. And in front of witnesses.” Pearly whites glinted as he fixed Jake with a smile that would likely curdle milk. “I heard you’re out of control. Something about a bird blowing you out, giving you the Dear John routine. So now you’re under investigation, chained to a desk. You know, in these times of civil unrest, it’s a real comfort to know those brave boys in blue take the time to remember their duty and professional integrity. If only all law enforcement took such time to protect us law-abiding citizens from the filth that walks our streets.”
“And here I thought you drove everywhere nowadays?”
Yate’s smile dropped. “Touché.”
“Well, I wouldn’t let my unpredictability and violent tendencies bother you,” Jake said with forced nonchalance as he walked around the desk to sit in the chair opposite the older man. These games were all part of the routine. “I had a bad break. I needed to vent, and that wanker in the hall decided to be a smart arse. So, we played a game of doctor.” He shrugged, leaning back and folding his arms. “He lost.”
“Yes, those clips on YouTube made that obvious. Shame they didn’t also show the firearm he allegedly had concealed on his person.”
“You know, the enquiry’s psychologist remarked on that too, but it’s hard to argue with evidence found on the scene.”
“Unless it’s a plant.”
There was an adequate response to that, but Jake had to force himself not to bite. Yate was little more than a two-bit snitch, a common rogue with several dodgy businesses who made it his business to have all twenty little sausage digits in every dirty, bent, and stolen pie in London, and an ear to the ground in all the right and wrong places. He was the owner and manager of Seven, but it was a smokescreen, a bit of cloak and dagger, something to look good on the self-assessment. Yate’s true business was information, and he didn’t discriminate. It was no secret he sold to both the villains and the law of London, but, because he never went too far and always threw both sides a bone, he was untouchable.
And the powers-that-be had decreed Jake must play this stupid fat fucker’s little games.
Yate went on. “Of course, your recent recommendation for the Saint George might have had something to do with that.”
Jake’s eyes narrowed. Now, just how did you learn about that, you slimy bastard?
“D-notices aren’t what they used to be.” Yate grinned, apparently reading his thoughts. “Out of curiosity, you killed how many jihadists? Ten?”
“Six,” Jake snarled.
