Collusion Read Free

Barcelona. The hotel was a pit. George Orwell was supposed to have stayed there during the Spanish Civil War. From the looks of it, he’d picked the wallpaper. But the room had a balcony overlooking Las Ramblas, and the weather allowed him to sit out in the evenings with a can of San Miguel, watching the tourists and the locals avoid each other’s eyes on the street below. When midnight came, he toured the tapas bars, looking for American or English women he could charm with his accent. Most nights, he succeeded.
    He returned from Barcelona only to feel like a spare wheel, no real use to anybody, so every crappy meaningless job came his way. Including this one.
    Rankin and Crozier’s hands became more animated. Fingers stabbed at the tabletop as points were made. The mugs shook. Lennon blinked and focused, shifted in the driver’s seat, leaned forward.
    Crozier held up his hands, palms out, maybe trying to placate the other man. Rankin didn’t look like he was having any of it. His forefinger wagged in Crozier’s face. Crozier sat back, his shoulders slumping in exasperation.
    Lennon glanced down to his pad and noted the change in tone. When he looked up, Crozier was on his feet, turning to leave.
    Good, Lennon thought. If it was over, he could get the fuck out of there and type up the notes. That done, he could wait around for some more shit work.
    Rankin tugged at Crozier’s sleeve. Crozier slapped his hand away. Rankin stood, his chair tipping over.
    ‘Jesus,’ Lennon said to the empty van. ‘This is getting a bit tasty.’
    Rankin pulled a knife from his pocket and buried the blade between Crozier’s ribs.
    Lennon blinked, tried to make sense of what he’d just seen. ‘Fuck,’ he said.
    Rankin withdrew the blade. Crozier didn’t go down. He stared at the other man, his mouth slack. Rankin drove the blade home again.
    ‘Christ,’ Lennon said. He reached for the radio, hit the emergency button. It would send a signal out to every receiver on the network, saying an officer needed assistance, pinpointing his position.
    Crozier swung a fist, throwing Rankin back, still clutching the knife. Rankin tumbled over the chair, disappeared from view. Crozier put a big hand to his side, pulled it away, examined the bright red on his fingers. He staggered back until he met the wall.
    Lennon opened the glovebox and grabbed the Glock 17 and the wallet with his ID. He threw the door open and stepped out. He shoved the wallet down into his pocket and pressed the Glock against his thigh. He ducked into the traffic, his gaze fixed on the window, adrenalin crackling through him, sending sparks to his fingertips.
    Rankin reappeared, clambered over the chair towards Crozier. The bigger man put his hands up, but too slow. The blade punctured his neck.
    A car horn blared and tyres squealed as Lennon crossed the road. A woman screamed inside the café. Lennon raised the Glock. Crozier slid down the tiled wall, Rankin over him, the knife ready to come down again.
    Lennon hit the door shoulder first, raised the Glock and aimed to where Crozier lay bleeding. No Rankin. The woman screamed again. Lennon wheeled the gun around, saw Rankin seize Sylvia’s hair, bring the blade to her throat. Sylvia gasped, eyes wide behind thick glasses. Rankin held her close.
    Lennon pulled his wallet and flipped it open. He showed Rankin the ID and tucked the wallet away again. He levelled the pistol, left hand supporting the right, shoulders set for the recoil.
    ‘Let her go, Andy,’ Lennon said.
    Rankin back-pedalled, dragging Sylvia with him by her hair. He glanced over his shoulder and guided her behind the counter towards the rear door.
    ‘Don’t, Andy,’ Lennon said as he followed. ‘The alley’s closed off. There’s walls at either end. You can’t go anywhere.’
    Rankin pulled Sylvia tight to him, the blade up under her chin. Lennon saw red on her skin. He couldn’t tell if it was Crozier’s blood or hers.
    ‘Oh Jesus help me,’