Page 103 of Savage Redemption

“This way,señor.”

The unexpected voice at my shoulder is low and urgent. I pivot. A small, middle-aged man is beckoning me from a couple of paces away.

“We do not have long,señor. This way, please.”

What the fuck?I consider my other options. None of them stand out as especially attractive.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demand, falling into step beside him.

“My name is Feliks,” he replies simply. “I work for Mr Kaminski. Or I did, obviously. Until you just put a stop to that.”

“Where are we going?”

“Service entrance, behind the main stand.”

“Won’t it be locked?” They won’t be delivering Prosecco and ice cream when the racing is actually on.

“I have the key,” he assures me, patting his pocket.

We leave the milling, panic-stricken crowd behind. Women are screaming, and the wail of an ambulance echoes from beyond the outer wall of the racecourse, but I know it’s already too late. I plugged him with enough ketamine to kill an elephant. And now, for some bizarre reason, one of his men is helping me to escape.

We break into a sprint once we reach the seclusion of the service area. I grasp my companion by the elbow and slam him against the outer wall.

‘Why are you doing this, Feliks?”

He’s out of breath, clearly not accustomed to such vigorous exercise. “Let me go. We don’t have time for this.”

“Make fucking time,” I growl. “Who are you really, and why are you helping me?”

He wriggles, but it’s futile. I’m getting on for twice his size. “You say you worked for Kaminski. What as?” A less convincing guard I never saw.

“Accountant,” he pants.

I look him up and down. It’s possible, I suppose. “My original question still stands. Why?” I lift him off his feet and shake him by way of encouragement.

“Do you…? Do you know Mr Bartosz?” he manages.

“No.” I see no point in telling him anything I don’t have to.

“If you see him, tell him… tell him to contact me. Feliks. Or Aleksy. We have a proposition for him.”

“Proposition?”

“Kaminski is no good. He is a fool, or he was. You did us a favour. We lose money. Clubs are raided, closed down. Men die. He needed Mr Bartosz. Mr Bartosz ran things, we did well. But now…”

Now, there’s a vacancy.I don’t utter it out loud, but I understand him well enough.

I lower Feliks to the ground. “The key?” I demand, holding out my hand.

“You will tell Mr Bartosz?”

“No. I won’t be seeing him. The key. Now.”

He places it in my hand, and I make a dash for the padlocked gate. I unlock it and slip out into a backstreet.

No way am I making my way round to the main gate where Baz will be waiting, along with thousands of terrified punters and probably half the Tenerife constabulary as well. I drag the phone from my pocket and speed dial his number.

“Change of plan,” I bark when he answers. “I’m round the back, side street, service entrance.”

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