Page 23 of The Professor
“And what you see?”
“I said I wanted a girl, got in past a big fucking brute with a head like a boiled egg.”
“Was he the only one on the door?” Phil asked.
“As far as I could see, yeah.”
“And inside?” Mitch said.
“The same you would’ve seen last time, mate. A take-your-pick area full of doped-up skinny girls and then a load of beds behind curtains. Fucking stank in there, I tell you.”
“Did you see Ranson?” I asked.
“No, but I reckon he was there. I spotted a green Lamborghini out the back. He’s known for driving one of them.”
“What a fucking eejit when he wants to lie low.” Cillian slammed his chair legs back down. “Guy hasn’t got two brain cells to rub together.”
“For a stupid bloke he’s raking in a lot of cash.” Phil shook his head. “We have to stop him…now. Tonight.”
I turned to Cillian. “So you think Ranson was there with one guy on the door and perhaps a couple of heavies out back?”
“That would be my guess. Seemed to be a few makeshift rooms at the rear, an office perhaps, somewhere for the girls to live, shoot up, that kind of thing.”
I felt nauseated. Sex slavery was fucking revolting. Getting young women deliberately hooked on drugs was downright evil. I made a decision. “Jamie will be here soon, he can watch the house.” I paused. “Are you all carrying?”
Phil, Dalton, and Grant nodded and stood.
Cillian went to the safe. “I’ll get ours.”
“Mine, too,” Mitch said. He didn’t carry a gun for work, few officers did, but he was a fine shot, one of the best owing to years at a rifle range. He’d even represented the UK at some big tournament.
I took a last look at the screen and the warehouse that held our target. The guys were right, what was the point in waiting for another girl to get screwed by an asshole or die?
Forty minutes later, we were nearly at Swindon. Galahad owned a sleek black people carrier; we’d pooled money for it a few years ago. Mitch drove it because he had advance driving skills, and that could come in handy.
There was an air of anticipation between us, the banter was jovial, yet beneath it there was hunger for blood and retribution.
“How are the coffers adding up?” Finn asked Grant.
“We’ve got enough to tick along.” Grant, because he was in banking, was in charge of our funds. We didn’t have loads despite each contributing on a monthly basis. When it came in it soon went out. Running Rose Cottage was expensive, and we took no money from the girls we let work there on the condition they saved up to start a new life.
“It was fucking good luck that Jamie came up with the cash for the last lot of Ranson’s girls to go to rehab,” Phil said. “Reckon he’ll cough up again?”
“Jamie might be rich, but we can’t rely on that.” I scrubbed my hand through my hair. “And it’s not fair.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Grant said. “Let’s just get rid of Ranson.”
“Yeah, he’s got a date with the devil,” Finn said, tugging up his Union Jack mask.
“Time for him to answer for his sins.” Cillian did the same.
“Too bloody right.” Phil checked the bullets in his gun. “And if there’s any collateral damage, so be it. Someone wants to work for a lowlife cunt like Ranson, they deserve to die, too.”
I stubbed out a smoke and pulled up my mask. I didn’t like collateral damage. It suited me to have a target, one target that I was absolutely sure deserved to die, and then get the fuck out. It was tidy and sat better with me.
Some of the other Galahad guys weren’t quite so bothered.
Mitch stopped about a hundred yards from a green Lamborghini parked at the back of a warehouse. Behind us was a cornfield.
