The Huntsman handed over the pistol, watching in silent amusement as the ammunition was removed. A cell phone and wallet were returned. Satisfied with the frisk, the two goons led the Huntsman through to an office where the silver-haired lapidarist sat, a leather jewelry case on the desk before him.
The goon laid the pistol, wallet and phone on the desk, looking to the lapidarist for instruction.
“Wait outside.” The lapidarist pulled the gun to him, pushing the wallet and phone away. To the Huntsman, “I’ll keep this here for now. Take a seat.”
The Huntsman pulled out a chair as the lapidarist carefully lifted the lid of the jewellery case, sliding fingers beneath the contents. The Huntsman let out a low whistle as he laid eyes on the pomme-rouge for the first time.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” The lapidarist caressed the jewel with slender fingers. “A snip at ten million.”
The Huntsman let his eyes linger on the glistening jewel before shifting his attention to the speaker. “Snip that figure to five and maybe we can start talking.”
The lapidarist’s eyes danced in the reflected light from the jewel. “Just the stones are worth more than that, let alone the craftsmanship in the whole.” He turned the jewel in his hand. “As for the provenance...”
The Huntsman shrugged. “It’s hardly likely to appear in a catalogue at Sotheby’s, so cut the crap. Five million.”
“Out of the question. My client wanted twelve. It was only at my insistence that he came down to ten.”
“Well aren’t you the clever one.” The Huntsman leaned forward. “I have authority to transfer five million into your account, right now. You know you won’t find another buyer. It’s too hot.”
“Eight.”
The Huntsman eyed the lapidarist with interest. So you do have negotiating powers. Closer to home than I thought. He said, “Six. Final offer.”
The lapidarist let out a long sigh. “Out of the question.”
“Here’s the deal. Six. I take the jewel. And you get to live.”
The lapidarist chuckled. “I couldn’t let you have it for that even if I wanted to.” He casually pressed a call button on the desk phone in front of him. The two goons stepped into the room, positioning themselves either side of the desk.
The Huntsman acknowledged them with a wry smile, watching the lapidarist carefully place the pomme-rouge back in its leather case.
“A shame, my friend. The price has just gone back to ten million.” He picked up the Huntsman’s gun, stroking the barrel. “Oh, and by the way, I was always going to live.”
The Huntsman weighed up the odds. “I need to call my client.”
The lapidarist tipped his head toward the phone on the desk. “Be my guest.”
“Private number.” The Huntsman reached for his cell phone on the table, slipping his wallet into his pocket with one hand, hitting the dial with the thumb of the other. He waited a few seconds then, into the phone, “I’ve generously offered six. Laughing boy here wants ten.”
“He wants twelve, but will accept ten,” the lapidarist cut in.
The Huntsman ignored him. Into the phone, “What’s it to be?”
A pause. The Huntsman closed the cell phone. “Looks like we have a new offer.” He moved the phone towards his jacket pocket, letting it slip from his fingers, bouncing off his knee to land beneath the desk. He managed a sheepish smile. “Butter fingers.”
He leaned forward to retrieve it but the lapidarist put up a restraining palm. “Stay right where you are.” To the goon on his right, “Get it for him.”
As the goon bent down to retrieve the phone the Huntsman’s toe nudged it further beneath the desk. The goon glared, stooping to one knee, reaching out a searching hand.
As the goon bent forward the Huntsman grabbed him by the neck, smashing his forehead onto the edge of the desk, using the inertia to push the chair back, his own leg coming up fast to kick the second goon in the groin.
As the second creased in pain the Huntsman brought a karate chop to the nape of the neck of the first, sending the victim senseless to the floor. The Huntsman reached down and retrieved the goon’s gun from its holster. As he came back up he stopped, gun in hand by his side, facing his own pistol in the hand of the lapidarist.
“They said you were good,” the lapidarist acknowledged.
“I manage.”
“Just, not good enough,” the lapidarist said. “Now, about that deal. The price is now back to twelve.”
The Huntsman stared back. “Is that a fact?”
“That is, if you want to leave here alive.”
The Huntsman smiled. “I’ll be leaving here alive alright, and with the pomme-rouge. If you’ll just slide it over.”
“Your choice.” The lapidarist smiled sweetly as his finger closed on the trigger.
Click.
Fear ridden eyes darted from the gun in lapidarist’s hand to the gun being held by the Huntsman. Desperately the lapidarist pulled the trigger again.
Click.
Click.
The Huntsman bent down casually, retrieving the bullets from the goon’s pocket. “These might help.” He raised the goon’s own gun at the lapidarist.
The jeweller pushed the pomme-rouge across the desk. “Here. Take it. It’s worth twenty to the right buyer.”
The Huntsman smiled. “Is that so? That’s a lot more than I’m being paid now. Maybe I should just walk out of here with this and we’ll say no more.”
The lapidarist was nodding like a donkey on red bull. “Take it. It’s all yours.”
“The question is, do I walk out of here without putting a bullet between your eyes?”
“Please, I’m just the middle-man.”
“I guessed that much. So who’s pulling the strings? Southgate?”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“I think you have. Queenie reckons it’s Southgate.”
“Queenie?”
The Huntsman searched the lapidarist’s eyes. No sign of recognition. “My, you really are the middle-man, aren’t you?” He moved a step closer, the gun directed at the jeweller. “So where will I find Southgate?”
The lapidarist shook his head, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
The Huntsman shrugged. “In that case I might as well just kill you now.”
“Please. All I know is…”
“I’m waiting.”
“Southgate will kill me if I say anything.”
The Huntsman smiled sweetly. “And I’ll kill you if you don’t. It’s just not your day, is it?” He stepped round to the side of the desk, muzzling the gun barrel against the lapidarist’s neck. “Of course, if I were to find Southgate first… I think it’s safe to say he wouldn’t be concerned about you or anybody else, ever again.”
The Huntsman took his own pistol from the lapidarist’s desk, stepping back, reloading the chamber. He threw the goon’s weapon across the room, watching it clatter noisily into a corner, caressing his own pistol. “That’s better. They’re very personal things, you know, firearms. I lost one recently. I have no intention of losing a second. Now, about Southgate.”
The lapidarist took a deep breath, his eyes wavering from the gun back to the Huntsman. He took a deep breath. “The Prince’s Club. Tonight.”
“Time?”
“Eight. With either the pomme-rouge or the transfer.”
“Who’s taking it? You?”
“Yes.”
“He knows you?”
“Only by phone.”
“So he’s never seen you.”
“No.”
The Huntsman moved back to the desk, taking the leather case with his free hand, slipping into his jacket pocket. “How does it work?”
“A private box number at the club. Number fifteen.”
“Who else knows you at the club?”
“Nobody. I have a visitor pass Southgate left for me.”
“Show me.”
“I don’
t have it with me.”
The Huntsman pulled back the safety catch. “In that case there’s nothing else to discuss.”
“Wait!” The lapidarist’s brow glistened with sweat. “I might have it after all.”
“There’s a surprise.”
The lapidarist slowly reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a card holder. He passed the silver embossed green card across the table.
“But Southgate is expecting you tonight in person?”
“Yes.”
“What name?”
“Mr. Jones.”
The Huntsman smiled. “How original. Twenty million, you said, right?”
The lapidarist nodded eagerly. “At least. Maybe I can get you more. We could go halves.”
“Halves? You seem to be forgetting who has the gun in their hands.”
“Sixty-forty. I’m not greedy. I have contacts. I can get you twenty.”
“Thanks, but I’ll take my chances. See how easy that was?” The Huntsman stepped across the unconscious bodies on the floor, pulling the door open. “Now I don’t need to put a bullet between your eyes after all.”
Relief spread across the lapidarist’s face. “You won’t regr–” The lapidarist’s words stopped in mid-sentence as the bullet entered his forehead, exiting into the wall. The body slumped, blood pouring down over the face, soaking into the white shirt.
“No need at all. But it’s still fun.”
Chapter 53.
“Absolutely not. No way.”
Jack glared at his mother. “But Red said...”
“I don’t care what Cass said, young man. Darren is not coming to the Lakes with us, and that’s final. And please do not let me hear you address Cass as Red. It’s a ridiculous name.”
“But...”
Pippa spun around from the dishwasher, ebony hair whipping across her stern features, a pink marigold-clad hand held out like a lollipop lady at a school crossing. “Jack Crichton-Ward, this conversation is over.”
“What conversation?”
Two pairs of not-dissimilar and equally angry eyes swung to the kitchen doorway where Red stood, grinning, half-guessing the argument she had walked in on.
“Mum says Darren can’t come to the Lakes.” Jack threw his mobile onto the table, jamming his hands under his armpits.
The smile slipped from Red’s face. “Why not?”
“Because I said so is why not. If we take Darren, then Ella will want one of her friends to come. This was supposed to be a family holiday, not some Easter break at Butlins for waifs and strays.”
Red grimaced at Jack, her eyes apologetic. “Sorry, Jack. I thought it would be okay.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for nothing.” Jack scraped his chair back loudly, flouncing from the room.
Red winced as the door slammed shut. “That was harsh, Pip. I’d already told him it was okay.”
Pippa pulled at the fingers of her gloves, snapping them off her hands. “Well you ought not to have. You should have discussed it with me first.”
“What, so you could tell me no before I promised him?”
Pippa sighed. “I don’t want a fight, Cass.”
“No arguments from me there,” Red said, holding up both her hands as she crossed to the sink. She grabbed a glass, spinning it the right way up, then clattered it back down onto the board, moving to the fridge to retrieve a bottle of wine. “It appears that the we’re all one big happy family stuff is just for show. In reality I have no say in family matters. I just do as I’m told. I think it’s time you and I had...” She looked around, an empty kitchen returning her stare. “Oh that’s just great. Now I’m talking to myself. Thanks a bunch, Counsellor.”
Chapter 54.
Red tapped on Jack’s bedroom door. In a loud whisper, “Jack. You still up?”
Bed springs creaked. “Yeah.”
Red pushed the door open slightly, poking her head around it. “Can I come in?”
Jack shrugged, dropping red-rimmed eyes back to his book.
Red lowered herself onto the bed, picking at invisible threads as she cleared her throat. “What’cha reading?”
Jack’s eyes never left the page as he held up the book for inspection.
“Andy McNab? Cool. I love his stuff.”
Jack glanced up briefly, distrust furrowing his brow. “You read Andy McNab?”
“Sure. There’s a lot of similarities between the SAS and policing.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It’s true. What’s this one about. Iraq? Afghanistan?”
“Dunno yet. Only just started it.” Jack held Red’s gaze. “Aren’t you going to tell me that it’s too violent or something?”
“Nope.”
The boy’s features relaxed a bit. Still eyeing Red suspiciously, he put the book aside. “Did you and mum have a fight?”
Red shook her head. “Of course not. Adults don’t fight.”
“I heard you.”
“That’s called a heated discussion, Jack. Fighting is what you’re reading about there. There’s a big difference. Anyway, we worked it out. Like adults.”
“You mean Mum won.”
“You have to admit Mum kind’a has a point about it being just us, you know? I should have talked to her first.”
Jack shrugged. “So Darren’s not coming.”
“No. Sorry.”
“Because Mum hates him.”
“Your mother does not hate Darren. She just...”
“He embarrasses her.”
“So do I,” Red grinned. “At every opportunity.”
Jack finally returned a smile. “Me too.”
“Hey, I tell you what. How about, instead, I try and sort out a trip to the Station for you and Darren before we go away?”
“The Police Station?”
“Maybe a ride in a squad car?”
Jack’s eyes visibly brightened. “Really?”
“Sure. Why not? I know a few guys who owe me a favour.”
“That’d be so cool! Can I text him?”
Red nodded. “As long as we’re friends again, okay? And you don’t mention the holiday to your mum anymore. Deal?”
Jack leant over, grabbing his phone from the bedside table. Without looking up, he put a palm in the air for Red to high five.
Chapter 55.
The Huntsman waited impatiently, studying perfectly manicured nails, the pomme-rouge in the bag at his feet. The mask rippled gently on the screen before him.
“Where are you, Queenie?”
As if in acknowledgement the speakers crackled and the mask wobbled into life, the disembowelled synthesized voice permeating the room.
“I said three o’clock. You arrived early.”
“Five minutes. Big deal.”
“If I wanted you here at two-fifty-five I would have told you so. You have my fruit?”
“Money first.” The Huntsman admired his hands. “And you collect this in person. No more gimmicks, lady.”
The mask continued to dance but only a static hiss came from the speakers as Queenie mulled over his request.
The Huntsman cast his eyes to the ceiling. “I haven’t got all day, Queenie. Either you make an appearance or I walk. What’s it to be?”
“I don’t do personal appearances. You know that.”
The Huntsman bent forward and picked up the bag, easing the leather case out, placing it on the table. “Look, bitch, I’m done messing around. Both of us have far too much to lose not to trust each other.”
“It’s not an issue of trust.”
“I’ve run your errands long enough. There’s just the copper to go, and that’s in hand. But first I want paying for this. Two million cash in my hand; the pomme-rouge safe in your hands.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand fully. Look, I don’t know who you are and you don’t have a clue who I am. But at least I show my face. Time to match, Queenie.”
“On the contrary, I know all about you, Nathan.”
>
The Huntsman sat bolt upright. “How the hell?”
The mask danced in time to the synthetic laughter. “Be serious, Nathan. You know the true value of the pomme-rouge. Did you think I’d let just anyone work for me? After Southgate’s little double-cross?”
“So you had someone follow me. “ The Huntsman struggled to appear indifferent. “Maybe I let slip my name. You don’t know jack shit about me, Queenie.”
The mask danced silently. “Lieutenant-Commander Nathan Michael Hunter, dishonourably discharged from Her Majesty’s Royal Navy October fourteenth, nineteen-ninety-eight. Found guilty in absentia of sexual assault on a senior woman officer. Fled the country. Worked as a mercenary in the Democratic Republic of Congo in twen—”
“So you’ve checked me out. Big deal. What’s to stop me walking out of here now with your fancy jewellery and selling it myself? I sure as hell can get more than what you’re offering me.”
The mask danced, the hiss of static the only accompaniment. Then, “You’d never work again if word got out. And I’d find it. And you. But you misunderstand me. It’s not about the money, Nathan. Money can’t buy everything.”
“Close as damn it.”
The mask saddened. “Not even near. I just happen to have an eye for beauty, that’s all. I want the pomme-rouge.”
The Huntsman held up the case. “Come and get it, darling. It’s your call. Show your face or I walk.”
A long silence, then, “Very well, darling. Have it your way. But you were warned.”
The static hissed once more, and died. The mask stopped dancing.
The Huntsman shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly aware of how quiet the room was. He glanced around, drumming impatient fingers on his leg, whistling quietly, eyes flicking around the room like a lizard searching for its next fly.
There was a soft click as a door opened in the wall before him, a slender figure stepping sideways through it, silhouetted against the bright light behind.
The Huntsman straightened.
With deliberate, awkward steps, the hunched figure turned slowly to face him. A silk scarf wrapped the neck and chin, up to the nose. The Fedora tipped over the eyes, reflective sunglasses completely obscuring the person’s features. Loose silk robes flowed from neck to floor. Rasping, guttural breathing broke the silence.
Saffina Desforges' ROSE RED Crime Thriller Boxed Set Page 15
