Читать книгу Serpent Song - Toni Grant - Страница 6

Clyde Fletcher tracked the high wire fence dividing the dockside shed from the foul water lapping his boots. Through the holes in the mesh, he scanned the area for any unwanted witness. Satisfied with his assessment, he allowed his mind to settle on the water’s edge.

The biker smiled thinly, circling back to the road bike parked between the corrugated iron structure and the torn fence. In the riverbank silence he waited. Impatient.

Addiction gnawed. He walked around the bike again. Briskly rubbing his hands, Fletcher breathed warm air onto his rough palms. For hours he’d denied the need. Preparation required clear thinking. This close to the end, with everything in place, Clyde Fletcher had time and he might as well enjoy it.

Dirty fingers rolled the joint and in a languid sweeping motion, Fletcher’s fat tongue licked the paper’s edge. Greasy lengths of hair and unlikable features briefly lit up in the flame’s glow. He drew fully upon the sweet contents.

In a slow outward breath, the biker’s face turned to the inkcoloured heavens. Inhaling deeply again, he let the smoke fill his lungs. The insidious vine rapidly spreading and easing his growing tension. Calm, measured actions pulled at his impatience.

Any minute now.

From behind ominous clouds, the full moon showed itself, creating a mysterious blue underworld. Stepping instinctively into the shadows, Fletcher organised his mind for the next move.

Tonight, he’d make his own deal and exit his two-world existence. Gone for good before they realised he’d double-crossed his way to a tidy pay packet. Bunkered down by the coast, shaven, clean and sipping on a beer or three. Hell, he’d even pay some little slut to be at his beck and call, day and night. Subconsciously he grabbed at his crotch. And he wouldn’t even have to share the mole.

He reached into the pocket of his leather coat with a grubby hand. Checking the mobile phone, he took another long drag on the joint, precariously stuck to his cracked, bloody lips. In the dampness, its sweet, sickly smell hung about him.

Again, his world was cast in blackness as thick cloud cover disguised the low gleaming orb. His eyes adjusted to the change and he listened.

The dim sound of a motorized dinghy begged an approach to the secluded area. Fletcher strode to the noise, the colours of his tribe, stitched visibly to the back of his leather coat. He waited on the shore impatiently.

“You’re late,” Clyde warned.

“We had some trouble at the dock,” the Italian replied smoothly. His congenial expression showed genuine regret. “Do you have it?”

Clyde nodded. “I want the money first.”

The Italian reached down and clumsily dragged a sports duffel bag from under the bow. Wads of neatly stacked cash exposed as the zipper released, tearing along the stitching.

At the rear of the small vessel, another man remained watchful. In his right hand, a semi-automatic pistol gleamed in the moonlight; the left one held the lever of the small motor. He stumbled slightly as the wash gently rocked the small tinny. Beside him fishing rods clacked together against a small blue esky.

Clyde eyed the pistol, noticing the attached silencer. His own assurance was secured at his hip, wedged in the waistband of filthy jeans. Any new business deal required extra precautions. With one assessing glance he dismissed the clumsy pair. The biker had nothing to fear here.

He spoke slowly, delivering the instructions in demeaning sarcasm.

“Good. You give me the money and then you can have the ‘gift’. Capisco? Now get that boat a bit closer to the bank Signor, otherwise we’ll all end up in the drink.”

The two Italians glanced silently at each other. Following the biker’s directions, the first stepped ashore, dropping the bag at Fletcher’s feet. A whispery scent of damp earth and bank notes drifted upwards into the night air as the duffel spilled open again.

Fletcher drew sharply on his joint, attempting to mask the rising anticipation within him.

The Italian stepped back, collected the bag of pills and in a precise movement, threw it to his assistant in the boat. The skilled action caught Fletcher by surprise.

He shrugged, ignoring the Italians and snatched the load of cash. One long, last draw on the joint and the remaining butt flicked into nearby bushes.

“Nice doing business with you,” the biker called conceitedly, pushing the bag into a secret compartment behind his pannier and exhaling another putrid breath.

“Sir,” the Italian spoke clearly, his thick accent emphasizing his message, “I have another message for you.”

“Oh yeah. What would that be?” Fletcher stopped. Arrogantly the biker turned to face the Italian and the revolver targeting his forehead.

“Time to die, traitor”.