Then We Die Read Free Page B

Carlyle nodded. ‘Edwin Nyc is on his way up.’
    The name of the hotel’s Head of Security garnered no response from behind the sunglasses.
    Big surprise
.
    Carlyle tightened his grip on the neck of the champagne bottle. For a split second he considered smashing it against the wall and glassing the overgrown shithead in front of him. He discarded the idea immediately. Too messy, and it would raise the stakes too high. No one needed to get seriously hurt here.
    Carlyle kept advancing, speeding up slightly to gain the extra momentum. He was almost on top of the bastard now.
    ‘Sir!’ The man’s voice jumped an octave. He looked past Carlyle, clearly wondering where his back-up was. ‘I have to insist that you go back downstairs. Now!’
    ‘Like fuck,’ Carlyle grinned. With a skip in his step, he lifted himself a couple of inches off the ground, took the bottle in both hands, and in one smooth arc, smashed it as hard as he could into the guy’s face.
    There was a dull thud and the crack of plastic as the sunglasses disintegrated and the man crumpled to the carpet. Surprised that the bottle didn’t break, Carlyle tossed it further down the corridor and moved quickly to the door of the room from which the fellow had recently emerged.
    In the comparative gloom, it was only when he pressed the handle that he realized that the lock had been forced. Pushing open the door, he stepped inside.
    ‘Police!’
    He was standing in a small sitting room. It was empty. On first glance, the room hadn’t been tossed and nothing seemed out of place. To his left was a half-open door leading to a bedroom. Behind it he could see signs of movement. Carlyle stepped over and kicked the door open wider.
    ‘
Police!
’ The shout died in his throat as Carlyle took a moment to process what he was seeing. The Arab guy from the lift was lying face down on the bed, out for the count. His blazer had been tossed on the floor and his right shirt-sleeve rolled up past his elbow. There was a large hypodermic needle sticking out of his arm. Pressing down on the plunger was the ‘businessman’ from the lobby. His red tie loosened, sweat beading on his brow, he too was wearing a pair of surgical gloves. He carefully finished administering the injection and looked up at the inspector.
    This guy is more my size
, Carlyle decided, licking his lips. His blood was up now and he had a taste for action. ‘Step away from the bed!’
    The man frowned but did not move.
    ‘I said—’
    ‘I heard you,’ the man smiled.
    What’s he got to smile about?
Carlyle wondered.
    Then he heard the sound of a safety-catch being released behind his ear.
    Oh
,
shit
.
    Everything was happening too fast.
    Far too fast.
    Out of the corner of his eye he could just make out the muzzle of a semi-automatic with a silencer attached. There was a whiff of body odour and a malicious whisper in his ear: ‘On your fucking knees, copper. Hands behind your head.’
    Slowly, Carlyle did as he was told. Lifting his eyes to the ceiling, he thought of Lorna Gordon abandoned downstairs and cursed himself. Maybe there were worse things than discussing your mum’s divorce, after all.
    He took a couple of quick slaps to the back of his head; nothing serious. Hands went through his pockets until they found his warrant card.
    ‘Metropolitan Police,’ announced the voice behind him – one of the tweed jackets, he assumed. ‘What are you doing here?’
    ‘My colleagues are on the way,’ Carlyle said quickly. It was worth a try.
    ‘Unlucky for them if they are,’ the voice behind him laughed. ‘Unlucky for you, my friend, either way. You are playing with the big boys now.’
    ‘What shall we do with this one?’ the businessman asked, pulling the needle out of the Arab’s arm.
    Carlyle looked over at the man lying on the bed, his eyes half-closed, his breathing laboured. The guy in the tweed jacket stepped past Carlyle and prodded the body on the bed with the silencer of his