Chapter 15

Klempner

Although I can hear chaos from down the stairs, up here now, it’s quiet. There’s no-one in the dance
room.

In the pool room, the only sound is the crunching of glass under my boots. I carry on to Finchby’s
office.

All empty?

It seems so.

The time?

Time to go.

Except… as I’m about to turn and leave a girl, I see her; barely a teenager, some variety of Asian,
Indian perhaps. Streaming tears, she skitters out from behind the desk, making for the kitchen.

I follow her and she cringes back into the corner. I offer my hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. You have
to leave.”

She babbles at me in I’ve-no-idea-what language, then abruptly, her face swings up to mine and fingers
outstretched, leaps up at me, clawing at my face. Reflexively, I jerk back, and she bolts past me and
out, back the way I came.

Fuck!

I dash after her, but in the few seconds, she’s gone, vanished.

Where did she go?



Out?

Or somewhere deeper inside?

I check my watch… Three minutes…

Christ!

I have to find her… If she’s on the stairwell, perhaps I’ll hear her. I turn for the bar, heading for the stairs
up and down, and there…

Fuck.

Baxter.

I reach for my Glock… And it’s not there.

Damn… When did I put it down?

Baxter flashes brows. And the knife in his hand. “Going somewhere?”

“I was planning on leaving.” I slip the knife from my belt. “Your friend Finchby has already left the
building. I believe the money may be with him.”

“I’m not going to weep over Finchby. And I didn't do it for the cash. Well… mainly not for the cash. And I
have my half anyway.”

We circle, eyeball to eyeball.

Make the first move?

Wait for him?



I move slowly, watching for the twitch of the hand. The nudge of the shoulder. The tell that he's going to
stop talking and...

He slashes out… moves fast…

But it’s a feint and we both know it, calculated to draw a reaction from me.

Testing me…

My speed…

My reactions…

Younger than me...

How much by?

Ten years?

His knife...

Blade maybe eight inches. Well cared for.

Well used…

Left-handed…

… Thinks that gives him an advantage.

Most practice against right-handers. I've done both.

He stabs out. Hard. Fast. Teeth bared. Pupils pricked.



I jerk back and he follows through, but I grab him by the arm. We grapple. His blade to my throat. My
hand locked to his wrist.

So close, I smell him.

Sweat. Sour.

The sour scent of fear.

Not excitement.

Fear.

He breaks away, dancing back from me and suddenly I'm overreaching… off-balance… and I pull back
recovering my stance.

He grins, then grunts as I lash for his neck but as he swings away, my fist lands in his gut.

And following up on my advantage, I bully forward, reaching for his blade, slashing out with my own…

I slash at his chest with my right hand and he twists away, still grinning manically, but he doesn't see...

The other knife...

Ambidextrous?

No, I’m not. Just well-practised. As he swerves away from my right hand, my left hand is coming up...

Under the rib cage and up…

Got you, you bastard…

And it’s her. The Indian girl.



Coming out of nowhere, pelting for the exit, apparently blind to me and Baxter, she charges between us
and I twist away to avoid slicing the silly bitch...

And staggering back, my foot skids on something…

Drinks slops?

Blood?

In slow motion...

… my arms wind-milling for balance…

I go down...

And Baxter’s on top of me…

…

… My gasp as his blade slices across me…

… The rasp of shredding fabric…

… The metallic tang of blood…

Whose?

Mine…

Straddling me, grinning maniacally, he hovers, enjoying his moment, the knife poised at my throat.

The point nipping at the vein, he reaches into his jacket, he takes out a Glock…



My Glock?

… and aiming for my forehead, he backs off.

Why not use the knife?

Not got the balls for close-up?

Propping up on my elbows I swing round wildly, one way or the other, searching for options.

There are none.

Looking up, I’m staring straight up the barrel of my own fucking gun and to Baxter’s crocodile smile.

Is this it?

After all this time… this is how I go?

Chagrin wars with irritation. Of all the ways I could have died over the years, I’m taken out by a shite
like Baxter?

And for something I didn’t actually do?

Live by the sword…

Funny how the mind works at these moments. The brain does odd things under extreme stress.

I don’t think I’m afraid…

… but the muzzle of the gun looms close and huge. The rest of the world vanishes around me. My
peripheral vision grows dark…

My throat tightens…



“Well, aren't you just the real man.” The voice is sultry, smooth, and drips honey and contempt in equal
measure… “A hero with a gun and a knife against an unarmed man. And he’s down.”

And I know that voice.

My eyes swing to its owner. So do Baxter’s.

Leather thigh boots set her close to six feet in the spiked heels. The matching skirt just clears the
crotch and the zip-front leather vest hugs a narrow waist and full breasts.

Red hair tumbles gloriously over smooth white shoulders and frames a face made up with emerald
eyes painted Goth-dark and fuck-me lipstick.

“Mitch?”

I'll admit it. I gape.

So does Baxter.

This might be a brothel. It might have been full of women offering their all. But nothing compares to
Mitch in all her glory.

And I have never seen her dressed like this, not even in her ‘professional’ days.

She stands tall, chin lifted, one leg a little curved to strike a pose. And with an eye on Baxter that dares
him to do his worst.

The zipper tag dangles, an open silver loop. She hooks a finger into the loop and tooth by tooth, slides
the tag down.

And the vest falls open.



As her breasts swing free, I move.

Knocking the muzzle to one side, to Baxter’s gawk-eyed alarm, I roll, kicking up hard, ramming a boot
at the hand above me. He yelps, clutching his wrist, dropping the weapon…

My weapon…

I snatch it up, firing… I’m moving and my aim’s off and low… targeting his torso, I catch his leg

… but he’s disarmed and he’s running… Diving for cover…

Springing up, I’m back on his feet. Mitch grins. “Hi, Larry.”

Grabbing her by the wrist. “Didn't I tell you to stay at home?” I tow her along. “Come on…”

“And you thought I would?” She takes a second to zip herself back together.

“No time for that. Come on.”

A sharp retort and a bullet whistles past, skids off the wall and ricochets away.

So much for disarming the bastard…

I check my watch. “Run!”

“Aren’t you going after him?”

“No, there's less than a minute to go.”

Mitch’s eyes narrow, then, taking a moment to tug the spiked shoes off her feet, we set off at a sprint.
Hammering down the stairs, I see ahead of us, James and Hickman already outside, carrying Finchby
between them. Michael’s with them too.



We burst from the door and out and as we break into clean air, I feel rather than hear it.

“Keep running,” I yell. Then at the rumble behind us, “Down!”

Hickman's eyes widen as he gets it and James and Michael are ahead of him, throwing themselves
face down to the ground as the blast hits. Everywhere around us, bodies hit the deck. I pull Mitch with
me, rolling on top of her, caging her with my body.

The door explodes outwards, sending glass, shards of stone, metal and timber in all directions and
smoke, black and acrid blooming up.

Scrambling up, I grab Mitch along, towing her out of range. Looking back, already flames are licking
upwards and sparks weave a path to the clouds.

Behind the shelter of the car park wall, I stop for breath.

James, Michael and Hickman catch up with us, still with the unconscious Finchby.

Michael scours me with his voice. “What the hell did you do, Klempner?”

“Remember the Semtex?”

He rolls eyes upwards, following the column of smoke and sparks.

“I set it in that paint and solvents store in the basement. Some to the roof to bring it down. Some on the
river side of the wall.”

Mitch sweeps hair back from her face. “Won't the water douse the flames?”

“At the basement level, yes, but I'm hoping it'll have done enough damage with the blast through the
heart of the building to make it unusable.” Then at James’ expression of outrage, “You did say you
were looking forward to demolishing it. Think of the money I've saved your pal, Haswell.”



Mitch chuckles. I look her up and down. “Nice outfit. I usually prefer your normal choice, but you picked
a good moment for a change in fashion.”

She flashes eyes at me. “How else was I going to get inside a brothel?”

“Where d’you get the clothes?”

She jerks a thumb to the milling crowd of women. “I picked one who looked about the right size and
shoved money at her until she sold me what she was wearing.”

James casts her a look. “And where did you get the money?”

She flushes, reaching into her ‘bosom’ and extracting a card. “You’d better have this back.”

He eyes it and sighs. “No. I gave it to you to use as you saw fit. You’ve certainly done that so far.”

In the distance, sirens are wailing and a shimmer of blue flashes out of the darkness.

“I think, gentlemen, that if we wish to make enquiries of Mr Finchby here…” I kick his unconscious
leg… “We’d better get him out of sight. In any event, I need to get out of sight.”

“Me too, Mr Klempner.”

“Oh, yes, Hickman. Give me a contact for you.” As he scribbles a note, I delve into the bag containing
‘Finchby’s half’ of Haswell’s money. I take a couple of bank-bound wads and hand them to him. “I’ll be
in touch to sort out something more formal.”

The sirens and the flashing are getting closer. I look around. “Do we have transport?”

“Right over there” Mitch waves towards the canal track.

“Good. Let’s get out of here before someone tries to buy what you appear to be selling.”



*****


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