No Going Back Read Free

land on Callaway Point overlooking the still waters of a lagoon. It was a sprawling mansion with five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a separate three-door garage to accommodate the family Jags and Mercs. A private road ran up to a turning circle outside the house, and I was glad to find a number of vehicles sitting out in the Floridian heat. If I was going to show Dorsey up for what he was, it was better that the message rang loud and clear.
    Parking my Audi alongside a black SUV with tinted windows, I exited on to hard-packed sand. I stretched, releasing the kinks from my muscles, then made for a paved walkway that led between the house and garage. There was a babble of raucous laughter, punctuated by enough four-letter words to keep an ignoramus happy, the clink of bottles, and the splashing of bodies plunging into deep water. Smoke wafted on the breeze: a potpourri of barbecue sauce and marijuana.
    It must have been a business meeting, because thankfully there was no sign of Dorsey’s parents, and there were none of the young girls who occasionally hung with the gang, just the eight youths who were terrorising their younger skating buddies into dealing dope for them. The two guys I’d already had a word with were there: I recognised them by the bruises around their eyes. Another three were splashing in a large swimming pool, one more lounging on an inflatable bed at the side of it, toking on a joint. A tall, skinny guy with blond dreadlocks was turning burgers on a barbecue. Dorsey lorded it over the scene like the king of the castle, his throne a striped deckchair.
    Everyone fell silent as I appeared on the paved area next to the pool.
    ‘The SUV back there,’ I said by way of introduction. ‘Whose is it?’
    ‘Who the fuck are you, dude?’ Dorsey scrambled up from the deckchair, and stood breathing hard, his hands fisted by his sides. He was wearing board shorts and a tap out T-shirt that moulded to his muscles.
    Ignoring him, I repeated, ‘Whose is it?’
    On my way in I’d noted the dent in the front fender of the SUV; it approximated to the height of a kid squatting on a skateboard.
    ‘Who wants to know?’ Dorsey said.
    ‘I’m not making myself clear enough?’
    One of the guys with a bruised face moved close to Dorsey, whispering and jabbing his hand my way.
    ‘You’re the asshole who thinks he’s gonna shut me down?’ Dorsey sneered as he looked me up and down. He didn’t look too impressed, but that was good because it meant he’d underestimate me.
    ‘I’m Joe Hunter,’ I said, ‘and, yeah, I’m shutting you down.’
    ‘You’re fucking kidding me! You walk in here like King Shit and think that’s going to frighten me ? Big mistake, asshole.’
    There were a couple of empty beer bottles lying on the floor by my feet. I flicked one of them into the pool with the toe of my boot. The bottle made a splash, and all eyes turned to it. Distraction move only: before they could return their gaze to me, I slipped my hand under the tail of my jacket and pulled out my SIG Sauer P226. A murmur of fear spread through the group, but Dorsey wasn’t having it. He stepped forward aggressively, raising a finger to point at me. ‘You ain’t gonna do a goddamn thing with that!’ Turning to his buddies, he said, ‘He hasn’t got the balls to shoot anyone. He’s just trying to scare us.’
    ‘You’re right about one thing,’ I said, as I circled the pool. One of the youths scrambled out of my way, and I stood over the one lying on the inflatable bed. ‘I am here to scare you. But you’re wrong if you don’t think I’ll shoot.’
    The youth on the bed let out a high-pitched shriek, flicked away his joint and tried to scramble off, but he wasn’t as fast as a bullet.
    The SIG cracked.
    The youth rolled over and splashed into the water, and all around me the others leaped for cover.
    Over the sounds of their bleating cries came the hiss of the deflating bed.
    The youth from the bed erupted out of the