Chambers backed off further. “Don’t you try to fucking threaten me, Dennis. The money is in my banks, laundered through my companies. Without me, you’re fucked.”
“Let him go,” Fadel’s words were stern and unforgiving.
Reluctantly, Dennis Maloney stepped to one side. Chambers made his way across the room and into the hallway. In seconds, he had left the building via the fire exit.
Dennis Maloney locked eyes with Ahmad Fadel. “Why did you let him go?” Maloney wanted to know.
“He is right – we don’t need him here.”
“He is part of this. He should be here.”
“He is not needed.” Fadel’s words were blunt and final. “This is your game, Dennis, and you are the controller, and that man there ...” he pointed to the screens where Matthew Jester was lying on the leather sofa giving the poppy a one finger salute, “is your subject.”
Maloney looked at Jester and smiled. “You’re right,” he said. “Fuck Chambers. This is my show.”
***
Jester stood and stretched. His throat was dry, his mouth chomping on cotton balls, the realisation of which brought with it a sudden thirst.
He walked back into the room where The Lumberjack lay, his head half-severed and bobbing in a pool of its own blood. Jester headed straight for the mini bar, refusing to look at the bloodshed.
A strong smell of musty oil, coppery blood and ammonia hung in the air, creating a stench so powerful it seemed to take on a form of its own.
Jester scooped all the miniatures out of the fridge and dropped them onto the floor in front of him. He sat cross-legged with the goods inches from his shins and began to search through them.
He found a usual assortment of miniature liqueurs, including bottles of wine and spirits. He didn’t want alcohol in his system. It would disturb the substances already inside him and sedate him further, and alcohol wasn’t much of a thirst quencher.
He tossed the unwanted bottles to one side and concentrated on two bottles of tonic water. With a smile and a look of trepidation, he picked up one of the bottles, screwed off the cap and tipped the liquid down his throat. He gagged at the taste, a putrid fizz. After making a series of faces, he picked up the second bottle and drank that too.
***
“Who is next?” Ahmad Fadel asked, his eyes fixed on the screen.
Maloney wandered to the back of the room, and moments later he called out to his superior. “Knuckles. No other name … he was a prize-fighter, big on the underground scene.”
“We need hit men, not fighters. Killers, not players.”
“At least twenty men have died by his hands, probably a lot more,” Maloney reassured. “He’s a dirty fighter, a street fighter, no rules, no restrictions, first man to die or faint loses.” He paused for reflection. “And as far as I know, he hasn’t lost yet.”
Fadel smiled warmly. “Send him in.”
44
Jester heard the steel shutters lock into place. The vibrations from the first floor floated up through the ceiling, pushed through the leather lounges and alerted his tired mind. He growled wearily, cursed at the poppy and then climbed to his feet. After a glance and a moment of contemplation, he bolted for the door to the stairwell and began to climb.
The noise of his feet slamming against the metal steps echoed loudly throughout the empty hotel. Listening intently, having just entered the stairwell, Knuckles tracked Jester’s movements.
Jester only stopped ascending when there were no more stairs to climb. At the top of the stairs, at the end of a small corridor, was the door to the seventh and final floor. He walked toward it and strode inside without hesitation.
Floor seven had only five rooms, but the rooms were much bigger and far more luxurious, something that Jester realised after he kicked the door down.
Instead of a basic living area and a bathroom, these pricier suites had four separate areas. A large living-room-cum-bedroom was the first, fitted with a king-size bed, a fifty-inch LCD television and a set of sofas and chairs. Around the back of the sofa was a line of blinds rolled halfway down. Beyond them lay a balcony furnished with two deck chairs and a coffee table.
The bathroom was large and lavish, the Jacuzzi three times the size of the others in the hotel. The marble effect on the floor and the blue tiled walls turned a place of essentials into a place of beauty and warmth.
The final room was a kitchen. There were worktops, cutlery, a microwave and a large fridge, but no other appliances. The kitchen joined onto a dining room which had a large mahogany table in the centre.
Disappearing back into the foyer, he returned to the room with a large fire extinguisher. He dropped the object on the bed and wound up the blinds, hoping to step out onto the balcony. A number of steel bars stopped him from escaping. He cursed under his breath and walked into the kitchen instead, taking the fire extinguisher with him.
Steven Henshaw ascended the stairs with a skip in his step. He wasn’t a big man. He was just shy of six feet tall and weighed just less than two hundred pounds, but all of it was muscle, hard muscle, muscle gained by fighting, by killing and by working.
He’d been given the nickname Knuckles as a teenager. He’d broken free of the care of social services at the tender age of thirteen and taken to the streets, his only mentor a drunken bum with a violent obsession. He’d fought his way through life. His fists earned him every penny he had ever made. At the age of thirty, he found solace in a suburban life with a working wife by his side. He still fought, big fights, bloody fights, but he always won.
Dennis Maloney had approached him via a friend. A large cash amount was placed on the table. It was enough to set Steven up for life, and Maloney had promised even more riches upon completion. Steven had had a hard life, and he was a hard man now with pound signs in his eyes. He rushed up the stairs and paused outside the door to the seventh floor.
He hadn’t brought a weapon as his weapons were his fists. He had also been told that if he could kill Jester with his bare hands, he would be in for a bonus.
***
Jester heard the door slam shut, followed by soft footsteps, mere vibrations, audible due to the lonely silence in the building. He listened as the footsteps scoured the entrance hall, checking every nook and cranny. The door to the room Jester was in was shut. The hinges were damaged, the frame shaken, but the door still managed to close. He listened as the footsteps stopped momentarily before starting up again and closing in on Matthew’s position. The hit man was now standing directly outside the door.
Jester hid underneath the kitchen table and quickly ran his eyes over the instructions on the back of the fire extinguisher. He’d never used one before and wasn’t sure exactly why he wanted to use it now, but he continued to read nevertheless. The instructions were long and complicated, filled with warning signs. Jester’s anxious, tired mind couldn’t take any of the information in. He averted his eyes from the label just as the door to the hotel room burst open, slammed against a door stopper, jarred heavily and then bounced back into its frame.
After what sounded like a cautious check of the area, the hit man advanced into the room. Matthew listened to the footsteps, his breathing relaxed, his pulse steady. His pulse momentarily coincided with the footsteps of the hit man before a pause in his walking threw the sounds out of sync.
He stopped in the bedroom, possibly to examine the balcony and the blinds, Matthew pondered. Maybe he was looking under the bed. For all Matthew knew, he could be stripping off for the cameras and pole dancing on one of the supports.
When the footsteps stated again, Matthew’s heart rate picked up its pace. Footfalls were now tapping the laminated floor in the kitchen. Matthew turned his head until he could see the lower half of the hit man from underneath the table. He held his breath as the hit man slowly made his way over to the dining area.
Jester watched the feet of Steven Henshaw as he potted about the kitchen, looking for his target or something that may lead him to his tar
get.
Crouching, Matthew watched as Knuckles walked over to the table, his feet visible and accessible from underneath the mahogany structure. Scuttling like a crab, Jester shifted to the edge of the table and looked down at the assassin’s feet, then at his knees. He couldn’t see any higher.
He picked up the fire extinguisher – prying it from the floor with his fingers and then slowly rolling it onto his arms. He lifted it up to rest on his shoulder, the base aiming directly at the assassin’s shins. Holding it tightly with both arms, he gently swayed his body back and forth, hoping to gain some momentum.
He took in a deep breath and pushed it out of his lungs, simultaneously ramming the fire extinguisher forward with all of his remaining strength. The base of the foam-filled container cracked against the right shin of Steven Henshaw, his leg flying out from underneath him, out of his control. The shinbone cracked, his foot dangling from his leg like a rubber slipper.
With only his left leg for balance, the hit man toppled to the floor. Laying on the floor, his right leg rendered useless, the fighter forced away the pain, gritted his teeth and pushed himself to his feet, careful to take the weight away from his injured leg.
Jester slid out from underneath the able and rose to his feet, shocked to see that the assassin had also risen and was now standing in front of him.
“Shit!”
Steven Henshaw wasted no time in expressing his violence. His right fist collided with Matthew’s jaw as soon as the curse had left his lips. The punch crushed a tooth at the back of his mouth, the impact so strong it reverberated rivers of pain through Matthew’s skull.
Stumbling backwards, his back stopping at the table edge, Matthew spat out the dislodged tooth.
The assassin swung again, his left fist this time. Matthew’s jaw was clattered from the other side. More vibrations of agony rocked his skull, and blue stars danced in the corners of his eyes, but he remained standing. Frustrated by Jester’s reluctance to fall over, Steven Henshaw delivered three powerful, successive punches. The first a simple jab to his face, his solid knuckles smashing against an already damaged nose. The second and third both hooks, a left and then a right.
Matthew danced both ways, completely shaken up, his head spinning like a turbo washing machine. He was leaning back, his body supported by the table, his legs turning to jelly, but managed to remain upright.
Bouncing off the table, he looked at his attacker who was now just a blur. “You know,” he slurred. “The last guy brought a chainsaw.”
Again Henshaw launched a series of punches, three hard jabs to Matthew’s stomach and then one sly elbow to the side of the head as he recoiled from the stomach shots. He dropped to his feet, his legs no longer capable of supporting him.
Breathing heavily, still gritting his teeth to disguise the agony pouring from his rubbery appendage, Knuckles hovered over Jester and drove two more punches downwards. They both made contact with his chest. Instantly Jester felt a rush of breath leave his body as a river of pain entered it.
Satisfied now that Jester was curled up on the floor, barely conscious, his body surely riddled with pain, Steven Henshaw pulled out a chair from underneath the table and sat down. He took one look at his foot and swore loudly. He moved a wary hand to the floppy ankle and touched a piece of bone that protruded through his lower shin, pushing against his skin but not breaking through.
When his finger touched the wound his eyes bulged, his face turned white and he quickly moved his hand away, suppressing a scream of anguish.
“You fucker,” he said breathlessly. “Look what you’ve done.”
At his feet, Jester mumbled, “If you think that’s bad, you should have seen the other guys.” He laughed and coughed, still dazed.
Knuckles stared at Matthew Jester, something resembling adoration in his eyes. He’d been through hell and he was still smiling.
Jester wriggled about on the floor, turning himself over so he lay on his back. He stared at the ceiling. Slowly but surely his eyesight was returning. Seeing his target move, the hit man rose with the aid of the table – pushing his left hand against the edge to propel himself upwards – and hopped over to Jester.
He reached out both hands and grabbed Matthew by the collar. Holding his head steady with his left arm, Henshaw brought his right arm back and the, threw it forward. The punch rattled Jester, but Henshaw’s hold on his collar kept his head stable. The prize-fighter drove three more punches into Matthew’s face and then released his grip.
Jester slumped to the floor, moaning softly.
Henshaw remained standing, his arm resting on the table to help with his balance. He closed his eyes, took in deep breaths, one after the other, trying in vain to disperse the agonising pain rushing from his dangling foot.
“You like to punch, huh,” Matthew spoke, his words slow and sluggish.
Henshaw immediately turned, shocked that he was still able to speak. Blood gushed from Matthew’s nose, running a river down his unshaven cleft and mixing with more wounds on his lips. He also donned cuts and marks on his chin and cheeks; blood had covered his features, turning his pale features red.
The prize-fighter remained where he was. “It’s what I do,” he said plainly.
Matthew nodded and squirmed about on the floor. He rolled onto his front, lifted his head and coughed out a sputter of blood and saliva. “Is it worth it?” Matthew asked, his voice weighed down.
The assassin turned and looked down at him, almost sombrely. He didn’t answer.
“What are you?” Jester spun around again, lying on his back. “A killer or a boxer?”
Again, Steven didn’t answer.
“If this were Hollywood,” Matthew began, “you’d be feeling a moral dilemma right about now. Fair enough, you’ve probably killed before, but have you ever killed an innocent man? I broke your leg, fair enough, but I didn’t start this. I’m here to survive. If this were Hollywood, you’d be the saviour, heroically escorting the wounded hero – which would be me, of course – away from the bad guys.”
Steven Henshaw didn’t reply.
“But this isn’t Hollywood, is it?” Matthew said, relaxed.
Henshaw slowly shook his head.
Matthew smiled at the prize-fighter. “You’re going to kill me and walk away with the prize money,” he clarified.
Knuckles smiled and nodded.
“Good luck.” Matthew twisted on the floor and swung his lower body. His legs clattered into Steven Henshaw’s stable leg. He immediately toppled over, his elbow smacking off the edge of the table as he fell.
Jester rose and quickly made his way over to the fallen prize-fighter. He searched his leg for the wound – the protruding bone – and stamped down hard when he found it.
This time Henshaw couldn’t control his pain. He unleashed a scream of extreme distress, his upper body bolting upright, reacting to the pain. With his free foot, Matthew kicked the boxer square in the jaw, and he returned to the ground.
Wiping the blood from his face onto his sleeve, Jester struggled to blink away the blurs and the dizzying stars. “Does that hurt?” he called down to the distraught fighter.
He received a series of curses and blasphemous shouts that gave him his answer.
“Good!” Jester bellowed. “Coz my face feels like it’s been hit with a spade!” He pressed down harder on the wound, the jutting bone pushing its way back into his leg.
With his foot still firmly pressed on the wound, Matthew leaned over and grabbed Henshaw’s head, grasping a clump of his hair and roughly pulling his upper body upright.
Taking his leg from the wound, he turned to pick up the fire extinguisher. Henshaw acted out of pure relief that the pressure on his leg had been released. He instantly reached out his hands and wrapped them around his ankle in a futile effort to comfort his torture.
Jester returned with the fire extinguisher and pressed his foot down on the wound again. “Give me your hand,” he ordered.
“What?” the hit ma
n shouted, confused.
“Give me your fucking hand!” Jester shouted, reaching out for Henshaw’s hand, the extinguisher cradled loosely on his left side.
The prize-fighter pulled his arm away, his hand out of reach.
Matthew pressed down harder on the wound. Something punctured the skin and blood oozed out of the wound, dribbling into his sock.
“Okay. Okay!” Henshaw pleaded, offering his hand to Matthew.
Jester took the hand gladly, smiling as he did so. He rested it on the table, “You have strong hands,” he said. “Clench your fist.”
Henshaw clenched his fist. When he saw Matthew’s intentions, he tried to resist, but Jester managed to pin his hand to the table. The fire extinguisher came crashing down, angled acutely so that the base of the solid object fell on top of his knuckles. His whole hand caved in instantly, his knuckles crushed under the weight. Two dislodged, two were sucked into his hand.
Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) Page 26