Page 55 of Thief

Like a demented ogre, Carlos hulked to the centre of the room. “Who the fuck are you?” he shouted over the thud of the rap music.

With renewed horror, Kat saw the gun aimed directly at John’s heart.

John said nothing. He just stared at Carlos, his belligerence palpable.

Kat swayed as she hugged her arms over her chest. Everything moved in slow motion. Sheer panic altered her vision.

Carlos was more than capable of murder, and he was pointing a loaded gun at John’s chest. Her legs buckled in an effort to remain upright. It would go off at any moment. The room would fill with the sound of gunshot, and John would fall to the ground…dead…dead…dead. It would be all her fault. He’d come to her rescue.

She primed her ears for the noise and braced for the unimaginable horror. They were at Carlos’s non-existent mercy.

“I’ve seen you somewhere before, arsehole,” Carlos snarled as he took a step towards John.

“Yeah, and I’ve seen you before, you son of a bitch,” John growled back. “But like I said, you’ve something of mine and I want it back.”

“Yeah…I do know you.” Carlos let a knowing smile form on his lips. “Kat took your Porsche last weekend. I trailed you personally, checking out your haunts and where you lived. And you…” he snorted, “are one sad, whisky-guzzling cripple, John Taylor. You need to get out more, live a little, get a damn life before you’re old.” He jerked the gun upwards so it was aimed at John’s forehead. “Oops…I guess you won’t be making old age after all,”

John stepped into the office.

Carlos’ face twisted. “I swear on my mother’s grave, man. One more step and you’re blown to smithereens!”

“Been there, done that,” John responded keeping solid eye contact and taking yet another step.

Kat clasped her hand to her mouth and slumped several inches down the wall.

John’s gaze slipped over Carlos’s right shoulder and watched her.

Carlos swung his head around following John’s eye movement. It was all the distraction John needed. With one big stride, he grabbed the outstretched arm pointing the gun at his head and, with an expert flick of his wrist, twisted the limb up and around Carlos’s broad back.

“What the fuck!” Carlos shouted.

John peeled the gun out of Carlos’s fat hand and slipped it into the back of his waistband.

“You don’t know what a mistake you just fucking made,” Carlos snarled over his shoulder before trying to throw his big, lumpy head back into John’s face.

John ducked sideways and rammed his hand into the back of Carlos’s short, thick neck. With a sharp forward thrust combined with an ankle sweep, he doubled him over the table. Carlos’ chest hit with crashing force, and the air whooshed from his lungs. John leant his weight even harder on the arm twisted up his back.

Carlos yelled out in agony, a deep grunt of a scream that echoed around the office and mixed with the thumping music.

Kat was motionless, watching with morbid fascination as Carlos’ floppy, red cheeks turned a deep shade of puce and his eyes screwed up and disappeared into his skull.

* * * *

John, still not content with how much pain Carlos was in, leant even harder down on his twisted arm. As his weight sank lower and lower, heavier and heavier, he finally felt a satisfying pop as the ball of Carlos’s humorous leapt from its shoulder joint.

The roar of torturous suffering was like that of lion being castrated.

“Like I said, you have something of mine,” John growled into Carlos’s ear in a quiet, calm voice.

“Get the…fuck off…me,” Carlos gasped, spraying a shower of saliva onto the papers.

John leant harder onto the dislocated arm, which rewarded him with yet another roar. He then shoved his thumb up and under Carlos’s jaw, causing his neck to stretch backwards. “Where’s my damn Porsche?”

“Is that what this is about? A fucking Porsche.” Carlos spoke in a strangled voice. “I hope it’s worth it, ‘cause your life won’t be worth living after this. Every contact I have will be after you when there’s a million pound bounty on your head.” He was dribbling now. “You’ll be hunted till you’re hung drawn and quartered with your pretty fucking head above my front door.”

John whipped the gun from the back pocket of his leathers and rammed the barrel into Carlos’s right temple. He didn’t want Carlos to mistake what it was—the gun about to take his life. He twisted so he could speak into Carlos’s puggy red face crumpled on the surface of the table. “Look at me, you son of a bitch.”

Carlos kept his eyes shut and puffed wetly through parted lips.

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