Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [14]
‘But you left your gun on the table, Larner. That must mean that you trust us.’
‘I trust you not to kill me. I’ve got to. That’s a business risk. But you could still turn out to be the cops or the IDEA.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Creed could see that the mere mention of the IDEA had made the Mayan very uneasy. Fair enough.
Creed only knew as much as your average dope dealer about the International Drug Enforcement Agency. For all its media coverage it was a highly secretive organization. Essentially, Creed envisioned it as a huge, well‐oiled operation, cleared through the participating governments at the highest level. It maintained its policy of secrecy even with the local police authorities, and was therefore universally hated by them. But even more hated by the drug dealers.
With the local cops at least you had a chance of being taken alive. IDEA had no hesitation about coming in as a paramilitary force, taking control of a building where a deal was in progress and executing everyone involved. No arrests, no trials. No paperwork. Leave the local authorities to clean up the mess afterwards.
‘Yeah, right, ridiculous.’ Larner wasn’t letting it go. In fact, Creed could see that his impatience was turning to anger. ‘This whole thing could be an IDEA set‐up. Big undercover drug bust.’
‘Hey, come on, Larner. You’re making the lady tense now.’
‘Good for her. To me that shows brains. It’s my own attitude. Like I said, I could end up rich or dead. I could also end up doing life in prison. That’s the other possibility I didn’t mention. So that’s what I’m saying. In this situation tense is smart. Tense is healthy.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly raised the room temperature with your little speech,’ said the younger Mayan, pouring himself the last of the cava.
Creed grinned. It was true. The sheets of plastic film stretched across the windows were fogging up, steamy and opaque, as everyone inside began to sweat, thinking about the possibility of a bust or the even messier possibility of a double‐cross.
Creed took a deep breath. There was a smell that he couldn’t quite identify. It was faint yet pervasive, hanging in there at the very edge of his awareness. It mingled with the smell of the people sitting in the small warm room.
‘Chill out, Larner,’ said Creed through a cloud of boo smoke. He leaned across the big glass coffee table and passed the roach to him and Larner accepted it, pausing in the process of smoking his cigarette long enough to suck the roach to a small red‐hot coal and finish it off.
‘I just want to get home to my family, man,’ said Larner after holding the smoke in his lungs for a long moment. Then he returned to his cigarette. He looked at the Mayans. ‘When are we going to get this deal rolling? You said you had something special for us.’
‘That’s right. Very special,’ said the older Mayan, coming out from the bedroom with his girlfriend on his arm.
The hooker wandered out after them. Creed had been waiting to get another look at her. The girlfriend eased away from the older Mayan and sat on the sofa next to Creed. The hooker, after searching the room briefly for somewhere to sit, perched on the edge of the coffee table, also near Creed. He drained the last of his beer, speculating on just what the hell had been going on in that tiny bedroom.
The strange smell was stronger now, drifting through the apartment. He felt on the verge of identifying it, but then it slipped away from him. Creed took another deep breath. It was an odd, itchy spiciness that triggered memories of childhood.
And then he had it. Liquorice. A smell like liquorice.
There was a sudden sound. Everyone in the room froze as the front door opened, and then relaxed again as Russell the runner slipped back