Page 102 of Savage Redemption

“An hour or so, and we need to find a parking space near the supermarket exit. We don’t want to get stuck in a queue to get out.”

“Let’s go, then.” I hop behind the wheel and start the engine.

Baz jumps in the passenger side but clambers over the seat to tuck himself away in the back. “I’m texting you the plan of the course. Winners’ enclosure is right in front of the stand. Here’s your pass.” He hands me a bright-gold-coloured badge adornedwith a black tassel. “Put it on. It’s access all areas, so you should have no trouble moving about.”

I pin the badge to my lapel. Right, we’re off.

We park up with no trouble, and I load the syringe from the phial.

“Keep the cover over the needle until you’re ready to do the deed, then just get it done and get away.”

“I worked that out for myself, thanks.”

He runs through the arrangements one final time. “You’ll need to text me as soon as it’s done and you’re on your way out. I’ll be at the exit waiting for you.”

“Fair enough.” I set up the text on my phone so all I’ll have to do is press ‘send’. I double-check my watch. “It’s almost two-thirty. Time to go.”

“Good luck.”

I approach the racecourse at a brisk pace. There’s no queue to get in. The first race was a couple of hours ago, and most of the punters arrived then. A roar goes up from within the ground as I negotiate the turnstile. Sounds like the two-forty is just reaching a climax.

Baz was right about the crowds. It’s easy to blend in with the eager racegoers mingling and thronging towards the row of bookmakers’ kiosks arranged beside the track, their betting slips to hand.

The main stand towers over the proceedings, and I make my way in that direction. The winners’ enclosure is clearly signposted, with the warning sign at the entrance that the area is pass holders only.

From the third row in the stand, I can easily see over the heads of the people crowded into the winners’ enclosure, the general air of excitement and anticipation almost tangible. Ormaybe that’s just me. I pick out Kaminski’s dark-blond head, close to the rail at the front. As owner of both the track and the favourite runner, he’s got himself into prime position, a few paces from the finish line.

Okay, here goes…

I gesture to my access-all-areas pass, and the bouncer on the gate waves me past. Once inside the enclosure, I make my way unobtrusively through the crowd towards the front rail, taking up a position two or three ranks back. Unless he turns to scan the crowd behind him, Kaminski won’t see me. And there doesn’t look to be much chance of that, the horses in the three-fifteen are already prancing out onto the track to parade in front of the eager crowd. Kaminski’s attention is riveted on number seven, the five-to-four favourite.

It’s a fine animal. Baz’s obsession makes some sort of sense to me.

It takes fifteen minutes or so for the procession of premium horseflesh to make its way to the starting gates and for all of the runners to be safely installed.

A hush falls, and suddenly, they’re off.

The air is filled with the pounding of hooves, competing with the shouts of encouragement from around the ground. I make my way forward to stand just behind my quarry. In what seems like no time, the horses round the last bend and thunder down the final straight towards where we are standing. The roar from the crowd is deafening. The pounding of flashing hooves equally so as they stream past us, number seven a nose in front.

All eyes are on the track, just as Baz forecast. Perfect.

I withdraw the syringe from my inside pocket and remove the cap. Kaminski is bellowing at his horse, paying no attention whatsoever to anything else going on around him, and I can spot no guards anywhere nearby.

I move in close and select my spot. Not the upper body, he’s wearing a leather jacket despite the fucking heat. So, his right buttock, then, straight through his flannel pants.

It’s done in a moment. The needle sinks into his flesh, and I press the plunger hard.

Kaminski lets out a startled yelp and starts to turn, his hand flying to his arse as though to swat away whatever bit him.

I duck to the left and step away.

Don’t run, don’t run. Don’t attract attention.I hit ‘send’ on my phone without even taking it from my pocket, then pick up my pace as I approach the exit. I mutter something to the man on the gate about a five-to-four winner. He congratulates me and I head for the bookies’ stalls.

Behind me, the alarm has been raised. I drop the empty syringe into a rubbish bin while men charge past me heading for the winners’ enclosure, guns at the ready. They ignore me, and no one seems to have thought to seal the outer exits.

Shit! Spoke too soon .I veer away from the bookmakers’ kiosks towards the exit to the outside in time to see the huge iron gates start to swing shut. I briefly consider making a dash for it, but the sight of at least a dozen guns scanning the crowd convinces me otherwise.

I halt, try to think of another way out. I could potentially vault the wall, but the likelihood of collecting a bullet in my back doesn’t excite me. I swing around. My best chance is to get lost in the crowd as the panic mounts and leave with everyone else once the guards give up the search.

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