Lethal Profit by Alex Blackmore Page A

blankly, continuing to move the knife just below Wiraj’s eyeline. The two stood opposite each other; nobody moved. Neither party could anticipate the reaction of the other; both were on the defensive. After several minutes, there was a slight movement behind Wiraj and, as he turned, he saw that a gun had been drawn by one of the other kids, a small handgun that looked like a very old model Glock. The balance of power had shifted.

    Wiraj felt Muhammad tense up behind him. The enormous rhino of a man could probably rip these children in two with his bare hands – unless they shot him first. He willed him to stay calm. They needed to get information. The boy in front of him took a step towards Wiraj. There was a narcotic glaze over his eyes. ‘We don’t have your phone.’
    â€˜Then give me back my money.’
    â€˜Are you threatening me?’ The kid swiped the knife at Wiraj, who recognised it as a feint and stayed absolutely still.
    â€˜Give me my money back or give me the phone.’ He repeated.
    Suddenly the boy began to laugh and all the others joined in, creating a high-pitched, maniacal sound like a pack of hyenas. In the almost complete darkness, with the only light from a small fire on the ground where they were burning newspapers, it was an eerie scene. The boy with the gun moved so that he was standing next to Tahir and put the gun up against his right temple, apparently without any fear of reprisal. Tahir looked at Wiraj, who looked away. Once he had finished laughing, the first boy leaned in to Wiraj so that their faces were only a hand-breadth apart, the knife flashing in his hands only inches away from Wiraj’s waist. He paused before he spoke, drawing out the tension of the situation.
    â€˜You have an enemy, my friend.’ Drops of spittle flecked Wiraj’s face.
    â€˜And he’s way ahead of you.’ He smiled a yellow-toothed, leering smile.
    â€˜He came and took that phone; he knew exactly what he wanted. We told him all about you.’ He smiled.
    â€˜You’re next,’ he said, lifting two fingers of his free hand into the air to simulate the firing of a gun. As he did so Wiraj, with a skill and speed acquired from spending his life defending himself on the streets and slums of Khartoum, snatched the fingers wrapped around the knife and disembowelled the boy by his own hand. He moved quickly out of the way as the body fell forward, a stunned look on the boy’s face as he briefly saw his entrails falling through his tracksuit in front of him to the floor. A split second later, Tahir brought a fist up into the face of the boy holding a gun and heard the satisfying crunch of a broken nose. The boy’s gun hand flew up in reaction and Tahir punched him hard in the ribs and swiftly disarmed him before pushing him to the ground and stamping down hard on his head with the heavy sole of his thick boots. The boy didn’t move. The other three boys recovered quickly and began to run, disappearing like wraiths into the shadows without a sound. Wiraj held his hand up to stop any pursuit. He pulled a small case from the inside of his coat and flicked it open, letting the shell drop to the floor as he withdrew a small syringe from inside. Then, calmly, he walked back over to the prone child that Tahir had felled and injected him in the thigh.

TEN
    I N AN AREA IN THE FAR WEST OF L ONDON , a new development had been fascinating the locals. The temporary structure had appeared on the site of a disused waterworks, a series of enormous plastic tents the size of several football pitches, underneath which there seemed to be some kind of construction taking place. Local residents had noticed lights and activity over three nights and had seen JCB diggers and workmen arriving during the day. There was a buzz about whether this was lottery money – a new project for the local community. Close to the muddy banks of the Thames in a forgotten area of old