Balance - Book one

  * * *

  I awoke the next day with the sun already high in the sky.

  My first thought was that I could really use a cup of coffee. This was amazing, not because it was different from my usual waking thoughts, but rather that the coffee I craved was that made in my new grinder. And if it was not already clear I did not much care for the taste.

  Regardless I climbed from bed and headed to the kitchen, not surprised to find Benny already awake, prepared and waiting at the kitchen counter, despite there being at least a few hours until we were due to leave.

  “I’m craving coffee,” I muttered, my brain still 70% asleep.

  “That’ll happen,” he replied, “It’s a sure sign that your Primary Crutch has taken root.”

  “I don’t even like the taste.”

  “Better start learning.”

  I poured a cup of beans into the grinder and got busy with the process, letting out a monstrous yawn as I did so.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I got a call from The Witch.” He said the words neutral, not looking up. My hand paused in mid motion.

  “And?”

  “She said some things. Nothing of importance.”

  “Yes?”

  “She asked if I had taken you in to the Department to be registered as a person of an exceptional Spirit Level.”

  “That’s all?”

  “No.” He turned to look at me. “She told me to tell you not to disappoint her.”

  It sounded like something Selena would say; cryptic and completely unspecific. But… “What does that mean?”

  “You tell me, Jet.”

  It was too close. Too near to be a coincidence. Or was it? “Shit, Benny…”

  “Right. Shit. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything? I’m not so sure…”

  “It’s too late. We’re doing this. It’s in a couple of hours.” His words verged on a threat.

  Selena’s words had not been a direct accusation, but enough to make my hair stand on end. I had the feeling that even if it had been a direct accusation Benny would have insisted.

  “Make your coffee,” he muttered, “We’re heading out just now.”

  “It’s a bit early.”

  “We’ll mingle with the crowd. It’ll help if you get to know them a bit. Now get moving.”

  I did as I was told, grinding up my beans till they were a powder and pouring them into a mug. The flavour had not improved. Even after the fourth spoon of sugar.

  Soon after we left for our poker game.

  We arrived outside The Marlon in about an hour, a swanky ultra luxury hotel that made me grateful for the clothes Selena had purchased. Now at least I might be mistaken for someone who could afford an establishment that probably served its meals on literal silver platters. Coincidently the store at which I had bought my coffee grinder was not too far away.

  Benny pulled into one of the many parking bays and cut the engine. At our flanks, both left and right, stood vehicles so extravagant in design that I felt an urge to address them as “sir”.

  “Okay,” Benny said, turning to me in his seat, “I’ll go in first. Follow in about ten minutes. Remember, we don’t know each other. Don’t even look at me.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Your name is Middleton. Say it.”

  “Middleton.”

  “Good. Don’t screw around, Jet. Just do what you have to do, then excuse yourself and leave. No need to mess around. We need ten thousand, that’s all.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  There was a pause as he wiped away a bead of sweat from his forehead.

  “Look, I’m sure this will all go swimmingly. But we need a back-up plan. If anything goes wrong, just let me do the talking. Okay?”

  “That’s the back-up plan?”

  “Just…” he fought with words, “Nothing will go wrong. Let’s just get this done. In and out.”

  “In and out.”

  “Penthouse. Top floor. Tell the doorman Benny sent you. Good luck.”

  He drew a wad of money from his jacket, handed it to me, then climbed out the car and headed for the hotel, leaving me alone with the distant sounds of city traffic.

  After ten minutes in which I tried to calm the sinking pit in my stomach, I climbed from the car and faced the hotel.

  The exterior of the building, comprised almost entirely of glittering glass, stretched so far up into the sky that I could not tilt my head back far enough to see the top.

  I headed across the parking lot and towards the entrance. Directly ahead, surrounded by spurting fountains, an enormous stone sculpture depicted some bizarre form of abstract art.

  The doorman saw me approaching and performed his sacred duty with a professionalism that one could only admire.

  I stopped and addressed him, drawing upon my most pompous tone for authenticity. “Excuse me, my good man.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Benny sent me.”

  “Ah. Mister Middleton?”

  “Indeed yes.”

  “The elevator is across the lobby, sir. Take it up to the top floor.”

  “Very good.”

  I entered into the lobby and headed for the elevator, being assaulted by a wave of cool air-conditioned comfort as I proceeded. To my right, the porcelain receptionist smiled as I passed by. I smiled back, feeling self-conscious at the hearty clicking my shoes were drawing from the tiled floor.

  I rode the elevator, roughly twice the size of my room in my mother’s house, until it pinged me onto the top floor.

  The doors slid open and revealed a long carpeted corridor, at the end of which was an enormous set of wooden doors. I approached them, each step further sinking the already bottomless pit in my stomach.

  With one last shuddering breath, I pushed open the doors and entered.

  Inside surrounded by all the expected luxuries, four men sat around a broad circular table. Behind them, standing with arms crossed, was Benny.

  “Mister Middleton has arrived,” he announced.

  The four men looked up.

  My first impression was that each had dressed suitably for the occasion, with not one being fitted in a designer outfit worth less than a small country. Gold watches sparkled, silver rings shone, and overly blatant labels declared the authenticity of ludicrously priced garments.

  “Ah! Mister Middleton. So the mysterious stranger arrives!” These words came from an early fifties man at the far side of the table, a cigar held in one hand and drink in the other. His main feature was a stylishly greying moustache that seemed to have been stolen from a vintage movie. “Do please join us.”

  He gestured towards an empty chair and I slipped into it, finding myself situated between an enormously overweight, completely bald man to my left, and a gentleman whose white eyebrows were in stark contrast to his thick crop of black hair.

  “Name’s Chapman,” the moustached host said, grinning to reveal a set of impossibly white teeth, “So pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Likewise,” I replied, adopting a cheerful tone, “Glad I could be present.”

  “Bruno,” the large man on my left growled. We shook hands, mine being lost in his massive palm. Something told me he spent less of his time smiling than a person in solitary confinement.

  The man to the left of Bruno, the fourth in the group and clearly the youngest, stood and offered his hand.

  “Conrad Higgins,” he declared. His smile was bright enough to rival those delivered by Linda.

  “And call me Dennis,” said the man to my right.

  “That’s everyone introduced,” Chapman continued, “Drink?”

  “A coffee if you have.”

  “Of course.”

  He stepped over to a drinks table.

  Step one; create a betting friendly environment.

  I drew on my positive energy and eased it out, not wanting to overdo the effect before the ca
rd playing got started.

  “What line of business you in, Middleton?” This came from Conrad. The smile was starting to remind me of the tail feathers of a peacock.

  “Uh…” my brain did a few flips as I kicked myself for not preparing an answer in advance. “I’m in…. retail.”

  “Really? What kind of retail?”

  “Internet…” It sounded feasible. I pounced on it, “Internet retail. Online stores, a chain of them.”

  “Ah.” This seemed to impress and he nodded in appreciation, “E-commerce. Good money online, make no mistake.”

  I got the impression he would have answered similarly no matter what business I had been in.

  “Indeed,” I agreed, “Way of the future.”

  “Way of the future? What bollocks,” Dennis jumped in, “People are more reluctant than ever to dish out their credit card details in unsecured environments.”

  “Oh please,” Conrad countered, “Unsecured? The internet is statistically more secure than a trip to the store. Isn’t that right, Middleton?”

  “Quite right,” I agreed, considering this to probably be true, “And you can bet your life that anyone feeling secure enough to browse questionable pornography feels secure enough to make a purchase.”

  There was a pause, all eyes turned in my direction. From the drinks table Chapman looked back over his shoulder.

  It had been a gamble making a joke of that nature, but I had been eager to get my positive ambience up and running.

  Thankfully after a few awkward moments there came a round of hearty chuckles. At least, everyone chuckled except Bruno.

  “Look at much pornography then, Mister Middleton,” he commented dryly.

  “Only when the wife is out,” I responded.

  This carried the chuckles over into laughter. Bruno however, continued his resistance to being cheerful.

  “Not really my cup of tea,” he said with a snort.

  The comment acted as a wet towel on the mood, draining away the laughter.

  Somehow the bulky man seemed resistant to my spell. I cursed him and pushed out a touch more Spirit, making him the focus of my efforts.

  “A coffee for you, Middleton,” Chapman said, placing a cup in front of me.

  “Thank you.”

  “Well then, gentleman,” he declared, taking his seat and looking at us each in turn, “We all know why we’re here, so let’s not beat about the bush.”

  “Hear, hear,” Conrad barked, “Let’s play some damned poker.”

  “In a moment,” Chapman continued, “We’re all familiar with them, but let me run the rules past our newcomer.” He focused on me. “Works like this, Middleton; cash up front, no loans, no borrowing and no stalling. We play for keeps and we play fair. Five thousand buy in, let’s see your cash.”

  I reached into my jacket and drew out the wad of money.

  Chapman accepted it, flipped through it, and nodded. “Good. Now secondly, no funny business! The man standing behind me is Mister Kingston. He’s an Enforcer and he’ll be watching the whole affair. If he gets even the slightest idea you’re up to something magical, you’re in trouble.” Chapman swivelled in his seat to look at Benny. “Isn’t that right, Kingston?”

  “That’s right,” Benny confirmed.

  The mood was turning back to one of tension. I put out more Spirit.

  “Yes, understood,” I agreed, “No funny business or that guy… what? Kicks my ass?”

  “No, he breaks your knees,” Chapman replied, staring at me with a gaze of icy steel.

  It was something probably repeated to every new player; a firm warning of no nonsense. Chapman’s delivery of the line was so deadly genuine and committed to menace that I felt my stomach drop, regardless of the fact that I guessed Benny incapable of knee breaking.

  There was a drawn out silence, one in which I was supposed to squirm in discomfort. I took the opportunity to burst into laughter, shattering the building tension.

  “Shit, Chapman,” I gasped, pleased to see that Conrad and Dennis had joined in my laughter, “Could you be any more dramatic? I mean seriously, the only way that could have been more theatrical is if someone followed it up with three dramatic chords.”

  This got Chapman to join in, until soon the spell took hold completely and had everyone roaring till tears streamed down their faces.

  All, except Bruno.

  “Can we possibly get started,” he muttered, “I don’t have all day.”

  The laughter died down.

  “Hey, lighten up,” Conrad said to him, wiping tears from his cheeks, “A stick that far up an ass could cause infection.”

  “No, he’s right,” Chapman interjected, “Let’s get the game started, shall we?”

  There was general agreement and the coloured chips were swiftly counted and shared out. Cards followed soon after, and with spirits still high, we played our first hand.

  About an hour later and a dozen hands, I was ready to start playing for real.

  Chapman turned out to be a flawlessly good player, with incredible bluffing ability and an astonishing grasp of the game. He was, if I were to guess, a professional by every means of the word.

  Conrad, on the other hand, turned out to be all bark and no bite. He made a show of every bet, managed to fluff every chance of making the best of a good hand, and all the while attempted to create a façade of expertise. My guess was that poker was very new to him.

  Dennis, choosing to engage less in the jovial conversation, was someone who took the game very seriously. All his decisions were by predetermined rules, probably having been learned from books or similar sources. All in all, he was a good player.

  It was Bruno that had me anxious. Everyone else had been taken by the spell, betting freely, enjoying the game and making every effort to be a part of the entertainment factor of the event. Not Bruno. No matter how much positive Spirit I pushed in his direction, he resisted the effect, keeping a frown of concentration on his face and firm grip on his money.

  It soon began to occur to me that he had been for some kind of defence training. Not just any kind; good training.

  Eventually with the time drawing on and an ever increasing look of tension on Benny’s face, I decided I would make my move, Bruno participating or not.

  Step two; build up a big pot.

  After ten more minutes I drew a hand with which I could work, three aces, and moved in for the kill.

  “Hey,” I said, flashing my most award winning smile of challenge, “Let’s get serious here you pussies.”

  My initial bet was five hundred, at least twice the biggest so far. The bold move got a satisfactory round of applause from Chapman and Conrad.

  Bruno glanced at his cards then called hesitantly. That was five hundred profit.

  As expected Conrad called without flinching. As did Chapman, and Dennis.

  Two thousand.

  The ball was rolling.

  My hand was certainly not unbeatable, and now it was time to thin the herd.

  “Okay, now we’re playing some damned poker!” I exclaimed. “Who’s got the balls to go all the way, huh?”

  I added a bet of one thousand. Reckless, but my feeling was that the spell was deep enough to hold at least one player.

  I got another round of applause.

  Bruno folded with a disgruntled sneer. “I pray the game will not be dominated by such tactless bravado.”

  The remark drew nervous chuckles, but on cue Conrad called.

  “We’ll see who’s got balls, Middleton,” he said to me with a grin.

  “What about you?” I said to Chapman, riding the train of manly challenge, “Where’s your balls, hombre?”

  He grinned, his brain trying to remind him that it was a stupid situation, but the spell won him over and he called.

  Dennis whistled then threw in his cards, “Too rich for me, gentleman.”

  It was a good enough pot. Hell, it was almost half of what we needed. As to how much higher I would go n
ow depended on what Conrad and Chapman held in their hands.

  I slipped into Conrad’s mind, hours of practice with Benny paying off, and identified he held a pair of sixes.

  Chapman fared better, with two fives and two jacks, but both were looking at disappointment.

  So either way, I was a winner. There was no harm in pushing the pot even higher. Too much, however, and suspicion would be raised.

  Decisions, decisions.

  I took a moment and weighed up the situation. Naturally I was eager to get the thing done and be on my way. A clock was ticking after all, and Brent’s life was hanging on the line. A life that was built squarely on the decisions I made in these moments.

  But then again, if I took my time it seemed quite possible to walk out the door with thirty thousand profit in my pocket, easily. And let me tell you, twenty thousand extra was no joke to an unemployed homeless person.

  The wheels chugged in my head.

  Never again never again.

  Linda’s maniacal face was looking at me with unchained delight; completely satisfied with working her fingers to the bone. Claudia was huddled in the corner, pulling her blouse tight around her shoulders and attempting to hide exposed breasts.

  “Kill me,” Clinton’s voice said, “I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

  Finally, with cards held in hand, I raised my head to look around the table. It was the sight that met my eyes which was the final decision maker.

  From left to right, Conrad, Chapman and Dennis, the three men were staring at me with bated breath, awaiting my decision to either bet or call, as if in anticipation of the final twist in a “cliff-hanger” film. Only now was the full effect of my spell occurring to me. These men were, for lack of a better term, hypnotised; engrossed in the game to an astonishing level. Only Bruno still showed signs of resistance, but I could get by without having his share of the chips.

  My eyes flicked down to Chapman’s gold watch, to Conrad’s silver ring and then to the pile of coloured chips in the centre of the table.

  “When you walk into a place like that you’re announcing that you are ready to lose money. If you want to hang on to your money, don’t venture into such places. It’s as easy as that. We just capitalised on a situation those men had all willingly put themselves into.”

  The decision was made.

  I moved a hand to reach for betting chips and felt like the star of the smallest, most engrossing, one-man theatrical production on Earth, being watched with such intense concentration that you might think I were an exotic dancer.

  Concluding that I would go for everything it was possible to get, I took two thousand worth of chips and threw them into the pot.

  The reaction was immediate, causing a roar of cheers to go up like I had just scored the winning goal for a championship game.

  When the cheers died down focus turned to Conrad. He grinned, pleased to have the attention, and studied his cards for effect.

  “You play a mean game of poker, Middleton,” he said, speaking as if his opinion were important.

  Then moving with slow deliberation, he called the bet. More cheers.

  It seemed almost too easy. The mood I had created forbade him from folding. At least, it forbade him from folding if he wanted to be part of the entertainment.

  Chapman’s turn; he too was grinning, now taking centre stage and liking the spotlight. He hesitated, chewing on the stubby cigar that still protruded from his teeth, and called the bet.

  I did a quick calculation as the compulsory cheers went up. There was almost ten thousand in the pot. Not bad pay for an hour’s work.

  “Okay, gentleman,” I declared, looking around at the beaming faces, “let’s see who’s going home a rich man today, shall we?” I waited; playing to the tension, and snapped my cards down on the table. “Who can beat three aces?”

  The tension exploded like a grenade, with both Conrad and Chapman reacting in perfectly timed unison. They jumped up, snarled in defeat and basically did everything required to complete the most exciting hand of poker of their lives.

  If they had paused to think for even a moment it might have occurred to them that they had just played the most poorly thought out hand of their lives. Magic was a wonderful thing.

  Only after a minute of shouting, laughter and friendly back pats, did I realise that Bruno had finally succumbed to the Spell. He sat with head thrown back and hands planted on the table, barking the most uninhibited laughter I had ever seen. At last he was under my control.

  The celebrations settled and Chapman began to gather up the cards for another round.

  But Bruno continued to laugh, his body shuddering like a massive mound of jelly. He turned to me, eyes bulging and double chin jiggling merrily.

  “Good game! Oh, good game,” he shouted, “What a show! Amazing! Simply astonishing!” He reached out and clapped a congratulatory hand on my shoulder, an action done with such enthusiasm I was nearly sent flying off my chair.

  At first there were shared glances of amusement from the others, as if seeing a circus animal performing a rather peculiar act. But as Bruno went on laughing with no sign of abating, eyebrows began to rise.

  It dawned on me what was happening.

  Bruno’s mental defences had collapsed. And as water from behind a dam wall, the positive Spirit I had been pushing in his direction for the last hour had gone crashing through.

  My stomach dropped. This was something I had not taken into consideration.

  “Bruno, you okay?” Chapman asked, his expression now showing the first flickers of suspicion.

  Bruno went on laughing.

  Conrad was next. “Bruno, what the hell is wrong with you?” he spat.

  The ambience spell was fracturing uncontrollably. My mind raced, grasping at some way of saving the situation. Involuntarily my gaze flicked over to Benny. He was staring back at me, eyes wide and jaw clenched.

  There was a moment that seemed to hang in limbo. The penny was poised and ready to drop, hanging in mid-air and waiting for the cue.

  Chapman’s head snapped round as he focused on Benny.

  “Kingston, what the hell is going on?”

  “What do you mean?” Benny responded, doing his best to play dumb.

  “Well look at him, Kingston! He’s laughing like a lunatic! Three years I’ve played poker with this man and not so much a chuckle, now he looks as though he’s about to bust a gut. Is this, or is it not, magic?” But he did not wait for a response. His head snapped back, eyes now fixed firmly on me.

  I could almost hear a shattering of glass as the spell broke. At about this time Conrad, Chapman and Dennis would have been wondering why they had been playing some of the worst poker of their lives.

  “You!” Chapman snarled.

  My mouth flapped. Game over. There was nothing I could I say or do. What had plan B been again…?

  Benny stepped forward, but before he managed a word Conrad was jumping to his feet, a flashy silver pistol clutched in one hand. Where the weapon came from I had not seen, but needless to say Conrad was the kind of person to own a gun.

  “That’s not called for,” Dennis said as he spotted the gun, “We don’t need any of that. Let’s not jump to conclusions, shall we?”

  “This bastard was playing us!” Conrad roared back. Colour had risen to the young man’s cheeks, probably as much in anger as embarrassment, at having been manipulated and strung along like a wet nosed puppy. This was not the image of himself he wanted to portray, and rage, he assumed, was what would now return his reputation to one that demanded respect. “I’m putting a bullet in this shit’s head right now!”

  “No, steady on,” Dennis retorted, standing and raising a restraining hand in Conrad’s direction, “We have no idea what’s going on just yet. Let’s think about this for a moment.”

  It was all unfolding so fast. A clever or experienced man might have been loudly declaring his innocence, or better yet, projecting guilt onto someone else. But I can
shamefully say I sat mute, watching the proceedings with my mouth clamped shut and heart hammering. I was speechless.

  To my left, Bruno went on laughing.

  The barrel of Conrad’s gun was suddenly against my head. “You slimy son of a bitch,” he barked, “How the hell did this happen?” His head swivelled towards the host. ‘Chapman!? How did this guy get in here?!”

  It took Chapman a brief second to make the connection before he was on his feet and facing Benny. “Kingston! You tell me what is going on here right now…”

  Benny did not hesitate. When he spoke, the words were as calm as if nothing at all were occurring.

  “Now, let’s all just calm down gentlemen,” he announced, attempting a mass manipulation, “Something is obviously going on, and I will get to the bottom of it.”

  But the efforts were futile. The three men’s building anger and embarrassment was no platform on which to force calm.

  “Why didn’t you detect this in advance?” Chapman snapped, “What the hell am I paying you for?!”

  “Look, these things happen sometimes,” Benny continued, “It’s possible that…” But Conrad cut him off.

  “Shut up!” he was screaming the words into Bruno’s face. “Shut the hell up!”

  But Bruno was not listening. White flecks of foam had started to form at the corners of his lips. The good humour had now drained from his laughter; it seemed to be more along the lines of some kind of violent seizure. The gun was smashed into his face in a blur of motion, knocking in the two front teeth. Still Bruno laughed, specks of blood being jetted across the table with each expulsion of air.

  Conrad raised the gun and struck again, this time catching the bridge of Bruno’s nose and breaking it. The accompanying crunching sound made my stomach contract.

  Finally with a third solid blow that landed on Bruno’s temple, the man was knocked from his chair and into a groggy state of semi-consciousness.

  The laughing stopped. There was silence.

  Dennis acted next, taking the blood-letting as his cue to beat a hasty retreat. He stood, swept his gambling chips into a jacket pocket with one fluid movement, and headed silently towards the door.

  “Where the hell are you going!?” Conrad shouted after him, “No one goes anywhere until I know what the hell is going on!”

  “I want no part of this.” Dennis called back, “What’s done is done. I bid you all farewell.”

  With that Dennis opened the door, stepped out, and closed it behind him.

  Conrad, annoyed that he had been disobeyed, turned his attention back to me; raising the gun, levelling the sights on my head and drawing back the hammer.

  “Kiss your ass goodbye,” he sneered, executing his most committed imitation of a man more intimidating than himself, “No one screws around in my head and lives. You understand me?! You mind raping shit!”

  “I think you’re acting a bit rashly,” Chapman spoke up, now starting to realise the possibility of a dead body in his penthouse.

  But it was too late for that. The young man was in character and fully committed to the role, thinking it would be far better being remembered as a psychopath than a person who had been manipulated against his will.

  “It… it wasn’t me,” I heard my own mumbling voice say, words delivered with as much conviction as a high school drama student.

  All at once my Spirit was being called to arms, sensing that the situation was going from bad to worse.

  “Put the gun down,” I heard Benny’s voice demand. “Put the gun down, now.”

  I turned my head to look past the barrel of the gun and up into Conrad’s face. His expression, contorted into a mask of anger and humiliation, showed no sign of relenting.

  It was time to act. My brain clicked over from one gear to the next, accepting the reality and realising that physical violence was now needed to escape the situation.

  My mind, spurred into action by the new decision, threw up the image of a plan; marking the route of escape out the doors and down the elevator. Would there be people waiting for us downstairs, perhaps Enforcers? My guess was that Dennis had probably reported the activities. So by all means, I would be facing an entire army of Enforcers. Fighting them would be suicide. But at this point, there seemed to be no option. The money had to be delivered. Brent was counting on me.

  Maybe I could surrender to them. Maybe there was some other way. Maybe Benny could do something… Maybe…

  Act now, plan later.

  I began to draw up my Spirit for a bolt, intending on hitting Conrad square in the chest. If I was lucky, his finger would not contract and pull the trigger.

  Then an enormous buzzing insect was sizzling past my face, missing my nose by inches and striking the gun. A shot went off. But the initial jolt of the blow had knocked the gun’s barrel off target and the bullet sailed past my ear. Still my eardrums sang under the assault of the deafening noise.

  It took a moment for me to realise that the bolt had come from Benny, and taking this as a cue to act, I released my bolt straight into Conrad’s face. But I had acted in panic, not taking into account my new level of Spirit. The bolt received more energy than I intended and the result was something that stayed with me for the rest of my life.

  Conrad’s head snapped back as if struck by a cannon ball, his neck breaking and face being smashed flat. Then in delayed slow motion, the rest of him caught up with the force being subjected to his head, resulting in his body rocketing backwards, limp arms flapping aimlessly. With a thump that rattled the chandeliers he collided with a wall and went crumpling to the ground.

  I was still staring in mute horror at my actions when Chapman pulled his own pistol. I was told later that the weapon had come from a drawer in the drinks cabinet, but this was something I missed completely.

  It was the shot being fired that caught my attention, and the sound of a second bullet whizzing past my head. But by the time I turned Benny was already reacting, delivering a thrusting punch to the back of Chapman’s head and sending the man slamming into the polished wooden floor.

  The whole sequence, from the moment Conrad’s gun had fired, had taken no more than four seconds.

  Then Benny was marching towards me. For a moment, perceiving the nature of his stride and expression of furious determination, I thought he intended on attacking me, giving me a slap for my failure to follow the plan. But instead he pulled me to my feet and spoke directly into my face, his voice muted as my ears still rang from the gunshots.

  “Jet? Are you okay? Are you in control?”

  I had no idea to what he was referring. Then remembered; loss of control equalled big boom.

  “I’m fine,” I replied.

  “Do not lose control,” he said firmly, “Understand? Do not lose control!”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good. Let’s get moving,” he said, talking as his hand already groped for the money on the table, “We’ve got maybe minutes before the Enforcers show up.”

  But my eyes had drifted back to the pile of flesh and bone that had once been Conrad. As he now lay, he might have been mistaken for a life-size rag doll that had been cast carelessly into a corner.

  I hadn’t meant it. I hadn’t meant it. I am not a murderer. I am not my grandmother’s blood.

  “I think I killed him,” I heard myself saying.

  “Move it, Jet!” Benny roared, “Take the money! Let’s go!”

  The urgency in his voice spurred me into action. I jogged over to the table and grabbed two handfuls of banknotes, the money which had belonged to Chapman, and stuffed it into my pockets. The amount probably equalled upwards of five thousand.

  I reached for Bruno’s money, but was already being pulled towards the door.

  “Forget it, we’ve got enough. Let’s move!”

  We exited the wooden doors at a run and passed through into the entrance corridor. I was somewhat relieved to note that no one had yet come to intervene, assuming that the hotel must have some kind of securit
y.

  But I was made to eat this relief as the elevator doors sprang open at our approach and two security guards stepped out.

  They halted in their footsteps and stared at us. But before either even managed the words “stop right there”, Benny had fired off two perfectly aimed bolts in a heartbeat. There was a double impact, a sound similar to a pair of muffled gunshots, and the two men were flung to the ground.

  We stepped over their unconscious bodies, into the elevator and Benny hit a button. The doors slid shut and we began our descent.

  “Listen to me,” he said, pulling money from his pocket and counting it hastily, “If there are three or less Enforcers in that lobby we put them down. More than that and you let me do the talking. Okay? They might arrest you Jet, but I swear I will get you out of it.”

  “Shit I’m sorry, Benny,” I groaned, “I screwed it up. I didn’t realise…”

  “Forget that!” he snapped, “Focus! If there are three or less, we take them out. Get me?!” I nodded. “Good! It will mean a world of shit, but I can try and talk my way out of it later. But we will not beat more than three. They will tear us apart, Jet. Literally.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now get ready. Act first, act fast. Do not hesitate.”

  “Right.”

  My eyes flicked up to the floor counter. Five, four, three…

  My Spirit, already crackling on my body, intensified as my heart began to pound.

  …Two, one, ping.