The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [48]
“They signed up to fight.”
“Most of them couldn’t piss straight with a hard-on. They were recruited straight out of school from Buttfuck, Idaho, where the only jobs were working in the local chicken factory. So these kids get to thinking, if they join the army, they get to go on this big adventure overseas and shoot at shit, which has got to be better than pulling chicken guts out of a carcass for the rest of their sorry fucking lives.”
Edge spits again. Wipes his lips.
“I was one of them. I did more than a hundred patrols in this shithole country. I rode on tanks and flew in choppers and got rocked by roadside bombs. I lifted bodies on to trucks and built boxes to send them home. Now I’m here to make money. I’m here to kill or be killed, but I’m not going home poor. I’m going to suckle on the nipple until the milk runs dry.”
Daniela lowers her gaze, still appalled by his uncouthness, but with a better understanding of his motives.
A distant explosion thumps the air, rattling the metal pipes and roofing iron. It’s followed by an exchange of gunfire that lasts almost five minutes, punctuated by the wail of sirens. Ambulances. Fire engines.
They listen in silence, picturing the chaos.
Edge slings his weapon across his chest.
“Time to go.”
24
LONDON
A note flutters beneath the wiper blades of the Mercedes. Not a parking ticket. The doors are unlocked. Ruiz glances inside and sees a large orange envelope on the passenger seat.
Walking slowly around the car, he crouches to peer beneath the chassis, checking the wheel arches and drive shaft. Four years in Northern Ireland taught him to be careful. Standing upright, he studies the street. Opposite there is a school with an asphalt playground. Boys kick a ball between painted posts on a brick wall and girls sit in groups on the benches. A dark blue Audi is parked on the corner. Engine running. Ruiz is no expert on cars. He doesn’t watch Top Gear because Jeremy Clarkson is further right than Donald Rumsfeld and only half as funny.
The car is too bright and shiny and new. Out of place. Stepping on to the road, Ruiz walks towards it, but the Audi begins rolling further away from him. As he speeds up, so does the car. Cutting a corner, he tries to close the gap. Twenty feet away, the Audi accelerates. Gone.
He chastises himself. Dogs chase cars. His knees are hurting, a dull thudding pain, muscle memory from the rugby field, old injuries. Holly’s clothes have spilled from the plastic bags he dropped. He gathers them together and tosses them on to the back seat. Then he pulls the note from beneath the wiper blade; a single page. Handwritten.
Dear Mr. Ruiz,
We think this was stolen from you recently. You should have it back. This should pay for your daughter’s wedding and make up for any losses. It’s an intelligent alternative to poking your nose into somebody else’s business. We think you have something of ours. If you return it promptly you can double your reward.
The envelope contains two neat bundles of banknotes: four, maybe five thousand pounds. It’s not the money that worries him. It’s the fact that these people know about Claire and the wedding. It’s less a bribe than a warning.
Flipping open his mobile, he dials the number at the bottom of the note.
“Nice of you to call,” says a voice. American. Educated.
“Have we met?”
“I know you by reputation.”
“You left me a package.”
“Money owed.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It can be a down-payment for services rendered.”
Ruiz turns full circle, surveying the street. Something tells him he’s still being watched.
“Pardon me for saying this, but you’re making as much sense as a kosher