The moon was white, high above the dockland warehouse where Franco conducted his business. He furrowed his neat brow and glared at the numbers in front of him. Try as he might, he couldn’t make them work for him.
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When they hit the motorway he eased off his white-knuckle grip, glancing at the clock. “Goddammit. Goddammit. If you want to come so bad, you can come with us. It won’t be a joyride, though. Got it?”
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The sickly yellow car turned left into a garage and disappeared from view, and Tomas thumped the dashboard.
“There we are, we got him!” he crowed. “Let’s go!”
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The whole precinct had turned crimson, as the first sign. As the second sign, the whole thing shuddered as if a train had crashed into the front door. It wasn’t a train. It was only a bomb.
The dark-gold nectar poured slow, like syrup, but didn’t smell like anything Folie had ever smelled before. She swished it in the old glass and looked through it at the bartender, bent out of shape by the light’s sudden deceleration in the thick liquid.
He flipped open the cylinder of his Coca-Cola Magnum .44. Two shots left. Goddammit. He would have to make them count. Concrete spat from the wall by his head as a fresh hail of bullets came his way.
My name’s Mathis; I’m with the Coca-Cola Enforcement Squad. That’s Detective Sergeant Mathis to you. It’s my job to keep the Company safe from the scum of the earth who might damage its bottom line. The way this case started out, it made me sick.
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His flesh scorched and blackened in the flames of the cruiser, and Hugh screamed. She had left him to die – her own husband! He kicked and kicked until the melting windshield bent and broke, and climbed out onto the grass, his black uniform burning off him as he fell to the ground.
After a minute, he decided he wasn’t dead and got to his feet.
Rita smiled thinly when she saw her husband coming up the driveway. She hadn’t got much chance to see her mother, but the visit would do her good anyway.
He didn’t get out of the car, just sat there idling at the end of the path through the little tree-lined front garden of the Shady Rest retirement home. She would go to him. That was how he wanted it. She looked over her shoulder at the nurse who showed her out, now retreating to attend to some complaint from another resident…
Hugh Blake wasn’t a big man, but the space he took up in a room was huge. He seemed to give off some kind of energy that made standing too close to him impossible: like a radioactive core you got too hot and had a tendency to get hurt in the process.
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