Against the Tide by Nikki Groom Page B

going to do to him as I walk past him and take a look around the room. His desk is large, an ugly wooden monstrosity that doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of the modern room. I walk around it and sit in his big, self-important desk chair, swinging from side to side. “Nice place,” I muse. He frowns at me then looks at the floor. “Oh, sorry, I’m being terribly rude,” I say getting up and holding out my arm to indicate for him to take a seat. “Come. Sit.”
    He looks at me nervously, unsure as to my intentions. I sigh impatiently and he quickly makes his way around the desk and perches nervously on the edge of the seat.
    I stand behind him. “How many men do you employ on the door here?”
    “Uh, six,” he mutters quietly.
    “And you know them all personally?”
    “What’s your point?” he asks with impatience. The guy is either stupid or he’s got balls of steel. I pull him back by slapping my palm across his forehead and yanking hard so he’s pinned to the back of the chair, before I press my knife to the soft, freshly shaven skin of his throat. “I thought you were smart. Don’t make me hurt you, man. I just want information is all.” His breathing speeds up as the panic rises inside him and I decide to make him sweat further. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will. I don’t want to have to kill you, but …”
    “I’ll talk. I’m sorry. What do you want to know?” he stutters desperately, spitting blood over the white papers on his desk.
    “Your doormen are paid to turn a blind eye to some of the drugs that pass through here,” I state. “Yes or no?”
    He closes his eyes. “Yes,” he whispers.
    “They’re paid by you?”
    Another nod.
    “I can’t hear you,” I say, raising my voice up a notch and pulling him harder against the back of the chair.
    He panics, nodding. “YES. Yes.”
    “Who pays you? And how much?”
    He draws in a ragged breath, hesitating to tell me the truth and I dig the knife in his neck, just enough to make it sting as it pierces the top layer of his skin as he swallows. “Damien Brooks. I−”
    “How much?” I ask impatiently, raising my voice.
    “A thousand,” he screeches in a panic. “A thousand a month.”
    “He’s here every week?”
    “Mostly, although he hasn’t been here for three or four weekends now.”
    “Your CCTV.” I nod toward the two screens set up in the corner and tilt his head in the same direction. “You keep the recordings?”
    “Yes, for three months.”
    “You’re going to give me the recording for the fourteenth of July.”
    “Okay.”
    “And you’ll need to wipe today’s recording too, okay?” He nods frantically. “Where’s your safe?”
    “It’s in the cabinet behind you.”
    I release him from my hold and spin the chair so he’s facing in my direction. Should he try to run, he won’t get any further than me. I open the cabinet door while keeping an eye on him too and find the digital safe. “Combination?”
    “Four five seven two, hash, seven seven one four,” he answers without hesitating, and I’m glad he’s finally realised that I’m not messing around.
    I punch in the code and the green light flashes with a beep to indicate it’s open. I pull the door open and take out a yellow cash bag. “How much is in here?” I ask, taking out some of the notes. 
    “I’m not sure. About eight K, I think.”
    “Drug money?” I ask and he shrugs but doesn’t answer. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
    I toss the whole bundle in the metal waste paper bin and place it on the desk top right in front of him, before grabbing a bottle of whiskey that’s resting on the side and pouring some of it over the notes. I pull a lighter out of my pocket and spark it up, getting close enough to set the lot ablaze. It lights with a whoosh and Julian pushes back with his feet, trying to get away from it.
    “If I ever find out you’re allowing drugs in your club again, it won’t just be a few thousand quid going up