Page 83 of Savage Redemption

His thumbs-up is all the reassurance I need, that and the AN-94 assault rifle trained on the men below. He’ll eliminate them in moments, along with any others foolhardy enough to take us on.

We circle then descend onto the cobbled forecourt, scattering the thoroughbred horses in the adjacent field. I hop out first, closely followed by Jack and Rome, and the three of us approach the house.

One of the guards raises his weapon.

“Nawet o tym nie mysl, dupku,” Rome growls.

I don’t speak Polish, but I guess this goon has been warned off in no uncertain terms because he lowers the gun and nods us through.

Julia Bartosz, Baz’s wife, is in the hallway. She greets me politely enough with a handshake. “It is good to see you, Mr Savage. My husband is in the study.”

I thank her and stride across the hallway to the door she indicates. I enter without knocking, to find Baz Bartosz seated behind the huge desk, and Kristian Kaminski pacing the room. Of the pair, Baz seems by far the more composed.

Sure enough, Baz is the one to make the initial pleasantries. “Good afternoon, Mr Savage. I trust you had a pleasant journey. May we offer you and your colleagues some refreshment?”

“No,” I snap. I swing around to face Kaminski. “You didn’t answer my question, putting me to the bother of coming here in person. So, I repeat, where is Adan San Antonio?”

He glares at me. “Keep your nose out of my business, Savage, or you and I are going to have a problem.”

“We already have a problem, Kaminski. I prefer not to have to ask you again, but, you see, Adan is… a friend of mine, and I find myself concerned for his welfare.”

“Fuck off,” is the succinct response. “Get the fuck off my property.”

“I think what Kris meant was—” Ever the diplomat, Bartosz tries to intervene.

“He knows what I meant,” Kaminski snarls. “Now get out, all of you.”

I look from Kaminski to his underboss and back again. It’s clear the second-in-command is far from comfortable with the way this is going, and I note that for future reference, but address my response to Kaminski.

“I’m afraid that won’t be happening, not until I’ve searched these premises and satisfied myself that Adan is not here.”

“Like fuck!”

“Oh dear. I can see we have a real problem here. Tony, Rome, if you would be so kind?”

On my command, both my men draw their weapons and level them at our reluctant hosts. “You will remain where you are. This shouldn’t take long.”

“Guards! In here. Now.” Kaminski screams for help, but no small army bursts in to defend him. By now, I daresay they’re all disarmed and under control. Jack is deadly efficient regarding such matters.

I let the reality of his situation sink in for a few moments, then, “So, I’m thinking we’ll start with your basement. The keys, if you please.”

“We don’t have a basement,” Kaminski lies. “And you won’t find anything in this house so you’re wasting your time and mine.”

“We shall see.” I shift my gaze to his underboss. “Baz? Do you have anything to add?”

The man takes his time answering, clearly weighing up this situation and at last arriving at the most sensible solution. “You’ll find Mr San Antonio in one of our holding cells. In the basement, as you correctly surmise.”

“He’s lying. He’s a treacherous fuckwit,” Kaminski roars. “And you, arsehole, you’re fired.”

Bartosz’s disgust is plain to see. “Don’t bother. I quit.”

“No one quits unless I say so.” Kaminski is all but frothing at the mouth in his outrage. “The lot of you, get off my island.”

“We’ll be gone soon enough,” I assure him. “Do you have the key to the basement, Baz?”

“It’s an electronic lock. The code is 3698,” he answers. “Miss Darke is upstairs, in one of the guest rooms.”

“What? What’s she doing there? I told you to leave her with her bastard lover. You’re a dead man.”

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