Читать книгу The Rebel: The new crime thriller that will have you gripped in 2018 - Jaime Raven, Jaime Raven - Страница 14

Danny Carver was a man of many talents. He was proficient in the use of most guns. He could strangle the toughest of men with his bare hands. He knew exactly how to torture someone to get them to cough up. And he could go days without sleep and still be a match for anyone in a street brawl.

But in recent years he had acquired a particular talent that didn’t involve violence – and yet it had proved just as useful to Roy Slack.

Danny had become a computer geek. He wasn’t up there with those cyber criminals who terrify the likes of governments, banks and big corporations. But his newfound skills had helped to develop new revenue streams for the firm through scams involving online fraud, hacking and identity theft. He’d also helped to make it difficult for the Old Bill to eavesdrop on their communications by installing sophisticated defence software in their mobiles and laptops.

It was therefore going to fall on Danny to get the ball rolling.

Slack took a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and held it up.

‘This is a copy of the list I just told you about,’ he said. ‘It contains the names and contact details of every detective on the organised crime task force. Next to each individual there’s a home address and the names of the people who are closest to them – wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, children, etcetera. Our mole has also provided me with a separate file containing photographs of most of those on the list. It’s been uploaded as a password-protected page on the web.’

‘So what is it you want me to do, boss?’

‘To start with I want you to send an anonymous text message to every detective so they receive it at the same time. You have to make it impossible for the message to be traced back to us. Can you do that?’

Danny nodded. ‘Piece of cake. So what’ll be in the message?’

Slack handed the sheet of paper to Danny.

‘I’ve written it there under the names. It’s short and to the point and there’s no way it can be misinterpreted.’

Danny read the message and gave a little whistle through his teeth.

‘Well, if this fails to put the fear of God into the bastards then I don’t know what will,’ he said.

Slack’s office was above a pub/restaurant the firm owned in Rotherhithe, a quiet suburb of South East London.

It was used as their base of operations and had round-the-clock security.

There was a meeting room next door and from its rear window you could see across the Thames to the spectacular skyline of Canary Wharf. One of the high-rise buildings had been home to Slack for the past four years. It was where he stayed when he was in London, which these days was most of the time.

It was just after nine o’clock and usually when he was here this late he would go for a meal downstairs. But tonight he had no appetite – at least for food.

‘Call Mike and let him know I’m ready to go home,’ he said to Danny. ‘And tell him I’ll be making the usual stop along the way.’

Mike Walker was one of his regular drivers. Long gone were the days when Slack drove anywhere himself.

He put on his suit jacket while Danny made the call, and filled his pockets with his phone, wallet and pack of Havana cigars.

‘Mike’s warming up the car,’ Danny said. ‘He says he’ll ring Jasmine to tell her you’re on your way over.’

Slack nodded. ‘That’s terrific. The last job for you tonight is to tell the lads that I want them here for a meeting tomorrow at eleven o’clock. I need to warn them that the shit’s about to hit the fan.’

They headed off in different directions – Danny to his house in Streatham and Slack to the home of his mistress in Vauxhall.

Jasmine Tinder lived in a flat he paid the rent on and it was an arrangement that suited them both. He wasn’t interested in another long-term relationship because he knew that no bird could ever match up to his Julie.

But it didn’t mean that his sex drive had hit the buffers, and so he made sure he got his end away on a regular basis. He was lucky in that the nature of his business meant that horny little muffins were always on tap.

Jasmine was one of several he currently had on the go, and the moment he entered the flat he realised yet again why she was his favourite.

‘I was hoping you’d drop by, babe,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘The thought of you fucking me senseless has had me dripping between the legs for hours.’

She stood before him in nothing but a black bra and panties, a twenty-one-year-old sex siren from Manchester with metallic red hair, tits the size of melons and the face of an angel.

It was all part of an act, of course, a performance designed to get him excited. But it was exactly what he wanted. What he paid her for.

She took his hand and led him into the bedroom and as she started to slowly take off his clothes, his cock rose to the occasion.

Sex with Jasmine was always good, and it was the only time he never used a condom. He didn’t have to because he’d had the snip years ago and he made sure she had regular check-ups at a private STD clinic.

He didn’t try to drag it out because he had a lot on his mind and there was a risk he’d lose his erection. But it was no less enjoyable. He came inside her from behind and she did a pretty good job of faking her own orgasm.

His timing, as it turned out, was perfect because he’d just got his breath back when his mobile rang. He’d placed it on the bedside table, and as he picked it up he told Jasmine to leave the room.

‘It is me, my friend,’ Carlos Cruz said when he answered. ‘Are you able to talk?’

‘Give me a second,’ Slack said as he pushed his back up against the headboard. His heart was still hammering and his face was drenched in sweat.

Cruz was probably calling from one of several homes he owned on the west coast of Mexico. It was from there he ran the infamous Sinaloa cartel, the one that the US government had described as the most powerful drug trafficking organisation in the world.

Cruz himself had approached Slack just over a year ago and offered to supply the firm with cocaine, crystal meth and heroin at a discount. He’d promised to undercut all other suppliers because they were eager to break into all the European markets. So far the guy had been true to his word and they’d both done well out of it.

‘So does this relate to the conversation we had yesterday, Carlos?’ Slack asked.

‘Indeed it does, my friend. You have helped me, and so now I am prepared to help you. But this is still a business arrangement and the sum of money you have offered needs to be increased from two million dollars to three million. And that is non-negotiable. For that price the trigger will stay with you for up to two weeks. If you want to extend the contract it will cost more.’

Slack didn’t balk at the figure. In fact he’d been prepared to pay a lot more. After all this was a job that required expertise and experience, and since the world’s most experienced killers for hire were in Mexico it seemed like a sensible move.

‘Your price is acceptable,’ Slack said. ‘But don’t let me down, Carlos. If your operative doesn’t live up to my expectations then it could be very damaging to our relationship.’

‘Have no fear, my friend,’ Carlos said. ‘I have chosen well. The person I’m sending has been working exclusively for the cartel for about eight years, and in that time has carried out over fifty hits on our behalf.’

‘That’s mightily impressive,’ Slack said.

‘I’m glad you think so. You’ll need to make all the arrangements at your end including accommodation, transport and weapons.’

‘I’ll sort it. So how soon can your man be here?’

‘Late tomorrow should be possible.’

‘Then I’ll have him picked up at the airport.’

‘That’s great, but there’s one thing you need to be aware of.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The person whose services you are acquiring is a woman, not a man. She’s the best in the business and goes by the name of Rosa Lopez, but the Mexican media have labelled her La Asesina, which in English means The Slayer.’