Savage Night - Allan Guthrie [42]
Park had called him half an hour later. No reply. Park left a brief message. Then tried again, fifteen minutes after that. Left another message. Called once after that and still Grant wasn't picking up.
He wasn't going to call again. If Grant wasn't answering his phone, no amount of repeat calls would change that. The boy'd get in touch when he could. And Park would wait as long as necessary. He had a lot of patience. Prison had taught him that.
Yeah, either Grant would call or he'd turn up with the money.
But that wasn't what had happened.
Park laid the fuck-off sword on the ground, checked to see if the Savage brothers were breathing. He wouldn't have cared if it wasn't for the fact that he needed them alive so he could find out what had happened to Grant. Well, to be precise, he needed one of them alive.
He opened the bag that Tommy Savage had dropped. The sight of the cash inside was enough to make the twitch in his cheek go away. So the Savages had come here to deliver the money. But then Park realised that if they had the money, they must have Grant too. And his cheek started twitching all over again.
Problem now was he didn't want to hang around. Might need to perform a spot of interrogation, and it was better to do that where the sound wasn't going to carry.
He had a choice to make. Phil Savage was a fat bastard, who probably wouldn't even fit in the boot. Tommy was much lighter and far more likely to talk. There was the money and the swords to carry too. He didn't want to leave any evidence. And he wasn't prepared to make two trips.
So, the only question was what to do with Phil. Phil Savage had a rep as a bit of a hard man. Provided muscle for his brother's little tobacco empire for a while. Yeah, Park had done his homework.
He couldn't risk drawing nnnnngah blood, not even by moonlight, but he could strangle Phil if he wanted. Or maybe he could just snap his neck.
But did he want to risk drawing attention to himself before he'd found Grant?
Tricky one.
Bollocks, Phil Savage would keep. Hard man reputation or not, he looked as soft as shite in a wet bag. He could bring it on any time he wanted. Park would be ready.
Park slotted the swords through the handles of the bag. Hoisted Tommy Savage over his shoulder, bent his knees to pick up the money.
Just as well he'd spent so long in prison gyms. He might be a skinny bastard, but he'd got big enough to bench press 350 pounds, which came in handy at times like these.
Out of the cemetery. Along the path. Had to ditch one of the swords, the longer one he'd used to lamp Fat Phil, cause it kept tripping him up. Heaved it over a wall into somebody's garden.
And on he went. One small step after another.
Finally he arrived at the car, out of breath, thigh muscles on fire. Put Savage in the boot. Removed his shoelaces. They were nice and long and did the trick. Park bundled him up good and tight.
***
TOMMY AWOKE IN the dark, foul taste in his mouth, a vibration jarring his bones, his skull throbbing, stomach burned raw and desperate for a slash. Barely had time to register that the steady purring sound he was hearing was a car engine when a sudden movement bounced him an inch or two in the air. He landed on his hip. No time to groan, cause he was immediately jolted backwards. Something hard pressed into his back. When he tried to move away he realised his hands and feet were tied.
He could feel the ligatures cutting into his wrists and ankles.
His armpits prickled, sweat broke out on his forehead, his shins, the base of his spine. His chest felt tight and when he realised he wasn't breathing, he gulped in a lungful of air that tasted of car exhaust.
The boot was a tight fit. He was lying on his side, legs bent. He rolled forwards, away from the object digging into his back. The car went over another bump and jounced him again.
He yelled. Not so much in pain but because he couldn't bear the thought of what might