Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [36]
Ace repressed a shiver. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’
* * *
Chapter 8
‘Right, now we can do business,’ said the Mayan. ‘Sorry about the delay, but we couldn’t go ahead until that cop was taken care of.’ He nodded to the corner of the room. Miss Winterhill and the hooker had covered the body with a sheet.
The hooker sat, expressionless, chewing on her gold crucifix. ‘Can I go now?’ she said.
‘As soon as we’ve concluded this transaction,’ said the Mayan. His brother came through from the bedroom carrying a Jiffy bag. He handed it over and the Mayan cut it open with a fat‐bladed knife. Inside was a sheet of clear plastic bubble wrap with a large white shape nestled at its centre. The Mayan sliced it and a mass of small white pills spilled out on the coffee table. As the plastic was opened Creed caught an intense whiff of the liquorice smell.
‘Five hundred and twelve of them,’ said the Mayan, picking up one of the pills.
‘I can’t believe anyone would pay good money to take this stuff,’ said Miss Winterhill.
‘I can,’ said Larner. ‘I’ll take a hundred tabs. That will be enough to offer a taste to my best customers. What the hell, if she doesn’t want any, make it two hundred.’
‘Me too,’ said Creed. ‘Excuse me for a minute.’ He got up and went into the bathroom.
His police radio was still hidden where he’d left it in the cistern. He didn’t quite know what he would have done if it hadn’t been.
‘I have sight of the merchandise,’ said Creed into the transmitter microphone. ‘The stuff is on the table. Get in here quick and bring a medic.’
‘Are you all right?’ Chavez’s worried voice came back.
‘I’m fine. But someone else isn’t. It’s probably too late but I want them to try and get a life‐support unit hooked up to him. I don’t hold out much hope. He’s a mess. But you never know.’
‘What happened?’
‘They thought he was me.’
He switched off the radio and put it in his pocket. No point hiding it any more. The shit was about to hit the fan.
Creed flushed the toilet and ran the taps in the sink and went back into the living room.
The important thing now was the disposition of the guns. If this bust went off smoothly there wouldn’t be any further loss of life. But it all depended on where the weapons were in the living room now.
Creed walked back down the short corridor from the bathroom. In the living room Larner was counting his tablets, his plastic smuggler’s handgun still in the centre of the coffee table. One.
The older Mayan was standing by the small bar alcove opposite the windows, mixing a drink. His gun, a compact snub‐barrelled assault weapon, was sitting on the bar among the bottles. Two.
His brother was coming through from the kitchen, jacket off so you could see his shoulder holster. His gun was there, spring‐loaded into its quick‐draw clip. Three.
The younger Mayan smiled at Creed as he came into the living room. The mood had lightened up considerably now that the deal was finally drawing to a conclusion. Creed sat down on the couch and reached under the cushion. He felt the rubber grip on his own police Python. Four.
The hooker, sitting on the coffee table near Creed, leaned over to say something to him.
Creed never got to find out what it was.
The younger Mayan had wandered over to the window and was peering out. Down below, in the parking lot, Creed knew there was a van full of police officers moving in for the arrest. But they were all experienced professionals. Chavez knew there was a risk of being spotted from the window. He should be taking care not to be seen.
But one look at the Mayan’s face told Creed it was all over.
‘It’s a bust,’ said the Mayan, pulling his gun out of the shoulder holster. ‘They’re coming in!’
His brother scooped his own gun off the mirrored surface of the bar, knocking over a bottle of vodka. ‘Wait!’ he said.
The young Mayan didn’t listen. He was aiming his gun