Page 53 of Savage Reckoning

“We could,” I agree, moments before I apply the heel of my boot to the lock. It shatters with a crash, and the door swings open.

We charge into the flat, guns drawn.

The layout is exactly like the one across the hall, but the living room also serves as sleeping accommodation, too, more like a bedsit that a one-bedroom flat. The place may look like a hovel from the outside, but inside it’s a different matter. The furniture and fittings are high-end. Whoever lives here is dripping with cash.

A single bed is tucked beneath the window, a matching solid oak wardrobe at its foot. Two huge armchairs upholstered in fine chocolate-coloured leather sit on either side of the fireplace where a swanky halogen electric fire occupies the grate.

Clothes are strewn everywhere, despite the presence of a perfectly good wardrobe, and I take in the general quality of them. Designer labels abound. High-end trainers, luxury brands. There’s no television, but the music system is Bang and Olufsen.

I resist the urge to whistle my appreciation, but it’s obvious we’re onto something here. A clatter from the bedroom puts a stop to further inspection. We dive for the door and burst in, just in time to see the occupant disappear through the window.

Shit. We’re on the eleventh floor.

We make a grab for him, but he’s already out on the balcony and scrambling over the railing.

“Wait,” I shout, just as he disappears over the edge.

I follow him onto the balcony and lean out. Our man is already one floor down, clambering fearlessly from balcony to balcony. I get the distinct impression he’s done this before.

Fuck! I consider going after him, but I don’t have a death wish. I’m at least twice his weight, and those balconies appear fragile at best.

“Down the stairs,” I yell. “We’ll head him off at the bottom.”

We take all eleven flights at breakneck pace and burst out into the late afternoon drizzle. Rome is ahead when we dart around the perimeter of the building to the side where the balconies were. There’s no one to be seen.

“Fuck. We lost him.” Rome spins around three hundred and sixty degrees. “Which way could he have gone?”

I’m about to suggest we separate and search the immediate vicinity when we hear the groan.

“Over there.” Rome is sprinting off in the direction of a brick-built outhouse, some sort of electrical installation by the looks of it. A telltale ankle dangles from the flat roof.

“Having a spot of bother up there?” I call out.

More agonised groaning.

Rome spots a bank of wheeled bins against one of the walls and brings one over. He vaults on top of it, which gives him enough height to get his chin over the roof. “It’s bad manners to run out on visitors like that,” he admonishes.

“Help me,” comes the anguished reply. “I think I’ve shattered my ankle.”

We can but hope. Saves us a job. “Can you get him down?” I yell.

“Probably.” Rome makes no more ado about it. He grabs the man by his uninjured ankle and hauls him off the roof. He tumbles right into my arms.

“Fuck. You might have warned me,” I grumble, setting the wriggling figure down on the ground where I get my first proper view of him.

He’s young. Very young. Mid to late teens. And skinny as a rake.

He peers up at me through thick-rimmed glasses. “Hey, man. What’s happening?”

“Good question.” I take in the smart clothes, somewhat dishevelled now, his expensive jeans torn at one knee. “Whatever’s happening, it seems to be lucrative.”

“I need a hospital,” he whines. “My leg’s smashed.”

“Tough.” I turn to Rome who has now scrambled down from the wheelie bin and is standing beside me. “Did you see all that gear up there?”

“Sure did.”

We were only in that bedroom for a matter of seconds, but it was time enough to take in the banks of IT equipment. I couldn’t put a name to much of it—several laptops, screens, grey boxes which whirred and bleeped and flashed. Enough tech to launch a lunar mission at the very least.

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