Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (15 page)

Her hands went back to her hips and he knew that didn’t bode well.

“Do you want to sleep with me?”

“I thought I already had?”

“Okay, very clever. Let me put it plainly.” She came further forward so that her panties were an inch from his face. He could make out the curls of her pubic hair through the expensive translucent lace. She smelt sweet. John felt his pulse quicken and blood flow involuntarily to his penis. It was true what women said about men being led by their dicks.

She pulled his face into her crotch. “If I have sex with you, will you press the damn button on the watch and get Johnson and Wilson back?”

Each passing millisecond was a giant step closer to the point of no return. John pulled his head back and rolled three hundred and sixty degrees to the far side of the king-size bed in a rapid escape manoeuvre. She jumped on the bed after him, diving and clamping herself around him. She pushed her groin against his. He should have kept his back to her - or should he? There wasn’t much by way of a precedent he could draw upon. What a dull life he had led.

“I can feel you through your jeans,” she told him. He didn’t doubt it.

With one hand she reached behind her back and in a flash her pink lace bra fell away. Suddenly, his mouth was parched, all traces of saliva gone, tongue like a thick-piled carpet. He tried to say ‘stop’ but the word got caught in the dryness of his throat and came out as raspy groan which may well have given Savannah the opposite signal to the one intended.

Savannah arched her back like a cat, making enough room for her hand to slide between them and onto the buttons of his jeans. There was a moment, just a second or maybe even less, when John was no longer in control of the decision and he was at the mercy of one of man’s most basic instincts. And then the moment passed.

John pushed Savannah away, rolling off the side of the bed as he did so. Righting himself, he turned and did up the one button of his jeans Savannah had successfully sprung free. He turned back to see her stretched out facing him, on her side, head propped up on one elbow, bottom lip pushed out. Those legs were so incredibly long and shapely, her face so damn pretty, those pert perfectly formed breasts so inviting, her big brown eyes that screamed ‘I’m yours go ahead and take me’. What the hell was wrong with him?

“I thought you liked me,” she said, smoothing the bed covers in front of her.

“Savannah, what is going on with you?” John grabbed his hoodie, which he had discarded earlier, from a nearby chair and covered her breasts as he sat down next to her. She shuffled over into the centre of the bed, holding his hoodie in place. Her eyes leapt around the room and would not meet his. Her expression reminded him of her look of despair this morning when she had folded herself over to limit her naked body’s exposure. Was that really today? No, it was actually yesterday.

John rested his hand on her soft-skinned calf. “I take it that you don’t want to see this Christos chap then?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. He was right. He’d hit the nail on the head. “How did you know?”

“From what you’ve told me so far today, which isn’t much, I get the impression that most men have treated you pretty badly.”

“So?”

“They promised to help you sort Christos out if we helped them.” He studied her face for clues as to what she was thinking and she appeared to be doing exactly the same to him. “You’re scared that we can’t handle it.”

“We can’t.”

“We’ve done pretty well so far today.”

“Compared to Christos the Greek, George Tibbett is Mother Teresa.”

“You think he’d try to kill us?”

“I don’t know. You maybe. He wants to sell me to the Arabs for anal sex.”

“Is that what he said?”

“He put it a little more colourfully.”

John got off the bed and paced around the room. As he walked back and forth in several different directions, he occasionally noticed a faint smell of body odour. After a while, it dawned on him that the heady smell was his. He lifted up his arm and bent his head over to his armpit and sniffed. It wasn’t good. Thank God they hadn’t had sex. She’d have run for the hills if she’d got a whiff of that. He needed a shower soon, but first he and Savannah needed to agree on a plan of action.

“What if I go and see Christos alone?” he said, stopping at the end of the bed.

“What’s wrong with calling the agents?”

“We can’t trust them. Think about it. All they want to use us for is bait and if we get killed at the same time, what difference does it make to them?”

Savannah sat up, remembering to hold on to John’s hoodie just in time. “But Johnson promised that they would sort out Christos.”

“And if you’re dead, what difference does it make?”

Savannah’s mouth drooped and her shoulders slumped as John’s blunt remark hit home. She closed her eyes, looking almost ready to cry. “So what’s your great idea?”

“What do you know about Christos?”

“Not much. I’d always thought he was okay until this morning. He was so angry and unstable.” She smoothed her eyebrows as she thought. “I know that his wife Helen handles the front end of the business.”

“Go on.”

“He’s racist and he hates Russians, especially.” Her eyebrow smoothing became frantic rubbing. “It’s more than that ... it’s like he’s in awe of them, but at the same time, they make him uncomfortable. I’d say he’s afraid of them.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know, Smith. We didn’t talk for long. Maybe on our next date.”

John returned to his pacing ritual, occasionally pausing and screwing up his face as he sought the solution to their immediate predicament. Savannah watched, waited and at no point interrupted him, replacing her bra surreptitiously while his back was turned. After several minutes John came to an abrupt halt again and waved his hand in the air.

“I’ve got it!” he shouted.

“What?” Savannah asked, jerking her head from the pillow on which it had been resting.

“I’ve got an idea which, if we play it right, might just work,” he said. “I’m going to take a shower and then I suggest we get a good night’s sleep because we’re going to need our wits about us.”

“Tell me what it is,” she demanded, sitting upright, not seeming the slightest bit uncomfortable in her skimpy lace attire.

“After my shower,” John said. “I stink.”

“Yeah, I was going to say something but I didn’t know how you’d take it.” She smiled at him and although there was still a hint of a tremor in her voice, she had perked up considerably.

John smiled back. She still looked ravishing. “Very funny,” he said.

Savannah’s smile faded as another question surfaced. “John?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“What if Johnson and Wilson are right and the guy who bombed the car comes after us?”

“One bad guy at a time, don’t you think?”

“Okay,” she said, sliding her silky smooth legs off the bed. “You’re the boss.”

“Yes, I am,” John said, his eyes fixed on Savannah as she stretched her arms to the ceiling and then began bending at the waist from side to side in what must have been an exercise ritual of hers. His ethics told him to look away but the rest of him told ethics to take a running jump. “Put some clothes on will you? I can’t think with all that flesh exposed,” said his mouth, siding with those damn interfering ethics.

*

It is 3:20 A.M. when my mobile rings. Queen’s ‘We are the Champions of the World’ fills the miniscule flea pit that is my room. Freddie Mercury might have gone to hell for his sexual affliction but they would never be short of a good tune down there.

A streetlamp flickers orange patterns onto the walls through moth-eaten, tissue-thin curtains. Wailing tomcats and loud disagreements between passing louts have so far deprived me of my sleep. I should shut the window but the air inside is thick with my smoke and less pleasant odours. I answer the phone.

“It’s Black,” says the urgent voice.

It is Alan Black, the junkie. In another life he had been a high flyer in the world of finance. Now he only flies after he feeds his habit. Worn out by the age of thirty-five, he’s spent the last four years selling information for cash or drugs to whomever would pay for it. He is an information prostitute. I have a ‘no junkie’ policy but Black is good and he controls his habit better than most. Besides, I need results fast.

“What have you got for me?” I ask, lighting another cigarette.

“I’ve got a name and I know who her pimp is.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Black.”

“I’m not, this is gold. I promise you.” Black sounds excited.

Either he’s high or he’s beaten the rush on this one. I’m not convinced. “She’s no whore. I’ve seen this girl.”

“Word is she’s on the market for export. She’s valuable stock. We import all the East European trash and export the quality stuff to the Middle East. The market’s worth billions.”

After a month amongst the criminal fraternity there are few surprises left and yet this revelation disgusts me. The girl’s life means nothing to me but she seems too good to die in the sex trade.

“You’re sure it’s her?”

“I bumped into an ex-employee of the pimp. He runs an upmarket escort agency. He’d tossed her onto the streets penniless. She’s past her prime and is almost giving her services away. I showed her the photographs and promised her fifty when I got paid. You should have seen the look on her face when she saw your girl, it was priceless. I’m telling you this is gold, my friend.”

No junkie is any friend of mine and I bet that his source would never get to see that fifty. A junkie’s promise was as reliable as a Roman Catholic priest’s vow of chastity. “I’ll give you five hundred for it,” I offer.

“I want two large. No one else can give you this. Turn it down and the trail goes cold. It’s gold I tell you.”

“What’s her name?”

“Savannah Jones.”

Savannah Jones, Savannah Jones. It sounds exotic and common, all in one. We eventually agree on twelve hundred and I’m happy. We arrange to meet at nine o’clock inside a cafe just off Piccadilly, not far from where Aphrodite’s Angels is located. I throw the phone on the bed and start to sing.

“We are the champions, my friend.”

The wall to my left vibrates as my neighbour beats against it. A muffled and angry voice filters through, threatening bloody violence. I raise my voice.

“And we’ll keep on fighting till the end.”

Heavy footsteps thud, a door opens and slams. More footsteps before the banging reappears at my flimsy door.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up I’m going to break this door down and pull your tongue out your arse.”

I haven’t heard that one before.

“No time for losers,” I sing right on cue. Rather well too.

The door knob turns and a tall black man bursts in. The man stands bare footed in just a pair of jeans. He is big and muscular and wants me to see this. The fact that the door is unlocked is a puzzle to him. This is a man who is not prepared for violence.

“I’ve no problem with blacks,” I say, pointing to the threadbare armchair. “Take a seat.”

“What?” says the man, looking around from wall to wall before turning back to me. His gaze meets my eyes and he looks away. He has already lost.

In his late twenties, the man is a good ten years younger than me. In terms of size and build the intruder holds all the cards. He’s probably armed - a blade of some sort. Why doesn’t he attack me? What is he waiting for? I love playing with people’s minds.

“Are you gay?” I ask, as politely as I can.

“Fuck you,” the man replies, feeling behind him. He’s snarling but he’s nervous. A bead of sweat appears on his brow before running and settling in an eyebrow. Perfect. My heartbeat remains slow and constant. I am in charge.

“So, nigger, why don’t you pull that blade and fuck me up?” I say.

The hand goes to the back pocket. Now my pulse quickens. I take a step forward. “Go on,” I urge, knowing there is a reason I should stop but I’m too far gone to care.

In a flash the knife is out and thrust at my stomach. I step to my right and grab the armed hand as I twist, turning the arm so the elbow faces the floor. My right knee shoots upwards at breakneck speed and makes contact with the outer elbow. Bones snap, crack and splinter in one melded crunching sound as the arm breaks downwards against the joint. The knife falls to the ground.

The man holds his elbow and stares at his horrific injury. He screams. I pick up the blade and swing it upwards in one motion aiming the point underneath the intruder’s ribs. I don’t know how but I stop myself before the six inch blade touches skin. I throw the knife at the doorframe. It sticks in deep. I grab my pillow from the bed and cover the screams but allow him to breathe.

Ten minutes later I usher the sobbing man out of the building in a makeshift sling. I flag him down a taxi. I give the driver twenty pounds to take him to the nearest hospital. I flash my neighbour a warning look. He knows not to return for two days.

In my room I walk in a small circle. Am I out of control? I hadn’t murdered anyone when I’d promised myself a treat to make up for the missed call. I did stop, right? I imagine the sound of the snapping joint and my heart pumps faster. I hear Sasha’s soft voice. My hand drops to my crotch and I touch myself.

“Sasha,” I say, closing my eyes. I fall onto the bed.

Fifteen minutes later I am asleep, dreaming of my day of vengeance.

16: Sunday 25th September, 09:00

On Sunday morning in the king-sized bed in one of the junior suites at the Ritz, Savannah Jones awoke with her arm draped over John Smith and her stomach pressed against his back. She disengaged herself, taking great care not to awaken him. She couldn’t recall ever having slept so well.