NATIONAL TREASURE Barry Faulkner (the little red hen ebook .txt) 📖

a corner with silly demands and needed a little oil spread on the choppy waters to get the deal done and them out in one piece. You don’t make threats to the Bogdan family; even the Romanian police learnt that lesson when they went to arrest two of the five brothers and ended up with three of their squad dead and no arrests. In his younger days Alexandru, the eldest brother, was known in Romania as ‘the widow maker’ – no prizes for guessing why.

I booked an Uber to take me and got out, knowing that the eyes of the doormen were on me. Both of them were old faces I knew, standing motionless and expressionless, their over-long black Crombie coats flapping slowly in the soft breeze, checking handbags of the girls going in and frisking the boys. There was a big queue; the club was popular. Only Bogdan family coke would be lined and snorted inside. A captive market.

I smiled at the biggest doorman. ‘Hello, Tony. Thought you were past all this, thought you’d be sitting on a beach in Bermuda by now?’

Tony Capp gave me a cold smile. ‘Big Tony’ was as black as the ace of spades, six foot-high and just about the same in breadth. The size of his shoulders stretched the Crombie fabric to the limit and his shaved head sat like a dome in the middle of them. Tony had no neck; a head and chest, but nothing in between – it was there, of course, but hidden in fat and muscle. His partner on the door was the same height but slim; slicked back jet-black hair and a trimmed top lip moustache, one of Bogdan’s imported Romanian goons. Probably on the door because the club had a large Eastern European membership, and unless ‘Big Tony’ had been to evening classes, his language skills rated zero.

‘Ben Nevis,’ he said without expression. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Got an appointment with Alexandru.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

He stepped to the side where a phone hung, pressed a button and spoke. Bad decision, Tony – now I knew Alexandru was inside the building. I walked past the pair of them, which caused alarm on their faces. ‘Big Tony’ dropped the phone which hung and swung against the wall and ran at me. I knew that if those arms got around me I’d have no chance; a bear hug from Tony would push the air from my lungs like a burst balloon, and probably snap a couple of ribs at the same time. I reached behind me and pulled out my Beretta and shot him in the foot. He’d have a permanent limp, but wouldn’t die. He pulled up and went down on one knee. I kicked him in the face, breaking his nose which streamed blood down the front of his Crombie; he was out of the game, but Mr Moustache was recovering from the shock and coming my way. I stepped forward to meet him; he was expecting me to back off, so was surprised for a moment. That moment was all I needed to bring the Beretta up hard under his chin. He slumped unconscious to the floor, a mixture of blood and broken teeth slipping from his open mouth.

There was pandemonium in the doorway and on the street, people falling over people as they fled the area. I walked through the doors into the main room; it was pretty dark, and the dance floor was packed with clubbers squashed together, vibrating to the loud decibels from the DJ booth that pumped through your body in time with the flashing strobe lights. The news of the fracas in the entrance hadn’t got into the room; no panic, and the security men were stood against the walls. I counted four, with one stood outside a door marked: ‘STAFF ONLY- PRIVATE’. That’s where Alexandru would be.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned, moving my hand back to my gun. It was Gold, the strobe lights flashing across her face in the dark. I shouted into her ear, ‘Move the bloke by the door,’ and nodded towards him.

Gold left me and moved off into the crowded dance floor. I edged my way through towards the door. A fight broke out amongst the punters on the floor about five metres to the right of the door. Two females were arguing and then one hit the floor, and the other, Gold, started to kick her. The goon by the door was the nearest security to it and started to push his way through the crowd to sort it out. I took my chance and went through the door as fast as I could, pulling out the Beretta.

Inside Alexandru Bogdan was sitting behind a large desk reading a magazine; opposite him two goons sitting on a sofa playing pontoon dropped their cards and started to go for their shoulder holsters.

I put a bullet in the head of the nearest and in the arm of the other one, who cried in pain and slumped down onto the floor trying to stem the blood. I had one eye on Alexandru Bogdan, and when he reached to open a drawer at the desk he was sitting behind I put a bullet into the wall behind him, very, very close to his head.

‘Don’t even think about it.’

The goon on the floor decided to try and get to his shoulder holster with his good arm. Bad decision. His head jerked back against the sofa as the bullet went through it and into the furniture. 9mm bullets are powerful things; I’ve seen one go through two bodies and still bury itself three inches into a wall.

Bogdan was seeing sense and had slowly raised his hands above his head. I clicked the lock shut on the door to the club room and slid two heavy bolts across to secure it. The soundproofing was good, I