No Mortal Thing: A Thriller by Gerald Seymour Page A

garbage behind you.’
    He paused. He kicked a few of the early leaves that had come down in the night, and the rain dribbled on his face, soaking into his scarf. Jack stayed close to him and would have tried to read his mind. The scumbag made an issue of reading his mind and his mood . . . Heroin was dead, the amphetamine trade was saturated, but the cocaine marketplace had room, in his estimation, for further expansion, which was why he would break a self-imposed rule, and travel far from his own territory. He barely knew where it was.
    ‘We’ll enjoy it, won’t we? Calabria, where the action is?’
    ‘And do some serious business, Bent.’
    Jack had said they were little more than peasants – and Jack would know because he’d been christened Giacomo and was from good Italian stock, immigrants and ice cream, who had settled in Chatham. They’d show Bent proper deference, not like those Russian bastards. Deference always topped the list of Bent’s demands. He’d offer big money and make bigger money, times over. A different level, higher up the ladder. He whistled for his dogs, pulled his scarf off his mouth and went back to his house. Angel – if she wasn’t still pissed from last night – would have done him breakfast. The forecast said it would rain most of the day – but his iPad said that the sun would be shining on the Calabrian coast. He thought himself beyond the reach of little people, out of their league.
     
    Another scream, a man’s voice. At first the cry was of surprise, then of extreme pain. The one who had stayed longer inside came through the door, bent at the stomach, head lowered, his hands over his groin.
    Jago was on his feet.
    The park was empty – no dog-walkers, no buggy-pushers, no smokers. The traffic flowed on the street and pedestrians were moving briskly past the pizzeria. The citizens of Savignyplatz and Charlottenburg ignored the movements and sounds they skirted. The girl had followed the guy out, defiant.
    The young man had twisted to face the action. The one by the car, rooted to the spot, watched his friend staggering towards him. That didn’t figure in the equation of a simple cash collection. Behind the girl was the man who would have paid over the pizzo that had been waved on the pavement as a symbol of success. She might have barged past him, elbowed him clear, and had kneed or kicked the groin of the guy who had lingered – perhaps gone to the toilet.
    Jago watched. The man was not a fighter. He lacked the hand-to-eye co-ordination that was second nature in the Canning Town warrens. The younger man, the leader, flattened him. He was a fighter. The grabbing of a wrist, and the twist of the arm, provoked a squeal of pain, and the man was prone on the pavement. He wore a long waiter’s apron, which had been crisp and white and was now dirty. He writhed, helpless and defenceless. The man by the car had a pistol out. The leader had his arm behind him, hand outstretched, waited, then snapped his fingers. The magazine was detached, a bullet prised out. It went into the leader’s hand. He held it close to the waiter’s face, fingers, then forced it between his teeth as he gasped and retched. An awful croak. Jago heard it, but no one else did.
    They laughed. She came past the man. She took their attention.
    The man on the ground spat out the bullet, which rolled along the pavement. The faint sunlight caught it, a jewel among the dirt.
    Her target was the leader.
    To Jago, there was at that moment a trace of confusion on the man’s face. His hand went back behind him, reaching for the pistol, which was given to him.
    Jago couldn’t shout.
    A hand reached out – quite delicate fingers, with manicured nails. Every detail was clear to Jago, and he started to run. It had the girl by the throat, and the pistol came slowly from behind. The man held her at arm’s length, keeping her clear of him, except for her feet. She hopped from one foot to the other, swinging the free foot