one twisted voice Read online

  ‘And now that the time has come, does it give you the sense of justice you thought it would?’ Ramm asked.

  Missy eyelids flickered momentarily.

  ‘And yet you haven’t got it in you to kill me when you have the chance,’ he said. ‘As you didn’t when I lay asleep in your arms last night. You could have as easily took my knife then and cut my throat. I don’t think you know exactly what you want from me, Missy.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she said. Her gaze flicked to Gitchsler. ‘Do it, Leonid. Shoot him dead.’

  Gitchsler – or Leonid Dzerzhinsky – took a look around at the devastation that Ramm had wrought upon both his home and his personal army, and he smiled in satisfaction. ‘Gladly,’ he crowed.

  He pointed the gun at Ramm’s head, pulled the trigger and the gun bucked in his hand.

  Ramm didn’t die. Not because his skull was bullet-proofed, but that he’d jerked to one side at the very last moment and the bullet only punched through floorboards. Jerking back again, Ramm’s one hand came away from where he’d unsnapped the buckle on his belt, while the other held a grip on the leather. As he continued to roll to one side, he unfurled the belt, swinging it up and out at Gitchsler. The holster and Makarov wedged into it smacked painfully against Gitchsler’s extended hand, knocking the gun aside, as Ramm smartly bounded to his feet. Before Gitchsler could take another shot, Ramm swung the belt and its load at his face, smashing teeth and jaw into pulp. Ramm had promised himself he would use the Makarov to kill the mobster, and that’s exactly as he intended now. He snatched the gun out of the holster, and drove the barrel deep between Gitchsler’s sagging jaws, directly through the soft palate and into his brain. The Russian mobster’s eyes crossed, then Ramm twisted the gun in his grip, stirring the grey matter with the extended sights on the tip of the barrel. As Gitchsler slipped dead to the floor, Ramm withdrew the gore-drenched gun and turned to face Missy.

  He thought her beautiful before.

  Now her face was twisted with the ugly light of murder.

  She shrieked like a wild cat and came at him, the glinting Tanto stabbing at his face.

  Ramm sidestepped her lunge, and as she had with him earlier, he stuck out a foot and tripped her. Instead of going face down on the floor, Missy floundered to keep her balance, but her heels skidded on the hardwood floor and she couldn’t halt herself. She pitched headfirst directly into one of the large floor to ceiling windows that Ramm had earlier wondered if he’d find her behind. The glass shattered, erupted outwards, and Missy flew into space, screaming. Ramm had noted on his way in the mobster’s lack of security arrangements concerning his grounds, and he knew now that Gitchsler had also been lacking when it came to shoring up his house. Some bulletproof glass would have stopped her plunge, saving Missy a smashed skull after falling thirty feet to the hard ground.

  Ramm stood at the shattered window, staring down at the dead woman.

  Shame, he thought, because he really had liked her.

  No regrets, he told himself. Missy had been the daughter of a Russian mob boss. Judging by the apparent power she’d held over Gitchsler, she herself had rated highly in the hierarchy, and his enemy.

  Ramm picked up Gitschler’s discarded weapon.

  There were still Russian mobsters alive in the house and grounds.

  He wasn’t going to be finished until he’d killed every last one of them.

  Now that the parameters of this night’s mission had altered, their deaths would be Ramm’s only guaranteed form of satisfaction.

  Author’s note:

  This story first appeared in the eBook collection “Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Vol 1” (Sempre Vigile Press)

  CRIME OF THE CENTURY

  Leticia Wiesel could fool everyone else but not Detective Simmons.

  He knew her type. Her slight build and elfin features, complete with big baby blue eyes twinkling behind her spectacles, gave her the innocent look that people associated with kindly grandmothers. She could come and go about her business with impunity, and never have a suspicious eye cast her way. But Simmons was too good a detective for that.

  He knew her for what she was: A career criminal who’d avoided prosecution only because no one suspected that she could do any harm. She was slippery and cunning, years and years of experience behind her making her a master of her craft. A professional.

  Simmons had been after her for months now. The tricky devil had been too subtle on too many occasions to count, and had until now continued with her nefarious criminality. But he had her now. Bang to rights, as the saying goes.

  He watched her, blending in where she wouldn’t notice him. Waiting for the final step that would incriminate her fully in the crime.

  She was canny: eyes darting, searching for surveillance, mindful of anyone who might be offering her more than passing notice. Her body language – though too subtle for one untrained to notice – said that she was only seconds away from committing the crime. She was a professional, but so was Simmons when it came to reading a criminal’s intention.

  He could stop her now before the crime was complete. But he wanted her too much for that. He watched as she took one final look around.

  Simmons felt the adrenalin bubbling.

  Then the deed was done, and Simmons felt his knees weaken at the realisation that finally Leticia Wiesel would be uncovered as the terror she was.

  Freakin’ A! You’ve got her, Simmons!

  All thoughts of disguise or subtlety gone now, Simmons raced after Wiesel, pulling out his ID.

  Wiesel felt him coming, spinning round and staring up at the big man holding out his badge like it was a handgun.

  She didn’t try to escape. Too coy and sure of herself for that.

  “What can I do for you, young man?” she asked sweetly.

  Simmons sneered down at her. Her sweet, little old lady act didn’t work on him. No way.

  Full of vim, he said, “I’d like you to come back into the store, madam. I believe you have a block of butter that you haven’t paid for.”

  Author’s note:

  This story first appeared at the webzine “Thrillers, Killers ‘N’ Chillers’.

  HOW THE WEST WAS WON

  ‘So it’s as simple as that is it?’

  ‘Yeah. Bring me two thousand by this time tomorrow and I’ll forget about Trisha and you can both go back to your sad little lives together.’

  ‘Where am I going to get two grand?’

  ‘Not my problem. You can walk away, but then Trisha works for me until she pays off her debt.’

  ‘You can’t do that?’

  ‘Who says?’

  Alan Richmond glanced away from the old man seated before him. His gaze fell on a big guy standing in the shadows, whose eyes were as flat and menacing as a straight razor. He was the old man’s eldest son, Iain McCoubrey. He was also his father’s bodyguard, and Alan knew what to expect from the tough guy if he even raised his voice to old Tonner. There were other McCoubrey brothers lurking within earshot, not to mention a couple of tag alongs – cousins, or half cousins or whatever.

  ‘I don’t want any trouble with you or your family, Tony,’ Richmond said. ‘But there’s no way I can lay my hands on two grand. Not by tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Like I said,’ said Tony “Tonner” McCoubrey, ‘it’s not my problem, it yours. You shouldn’t have let your girlfriend borrow more than she could pay back.’

  ‘She only borrowed five hundred,’ Richmond pointed out.

  ‘At a four hundred per cent return. She knew the deal before she signed for it.’ Tonner was losing patience. He wasn’t a man predisposed to explaining himself over and over. ‘And now you know the deal, Richmond. Two grand in my hand tomorrow or Trisha goes to work for me. Got it?’

  Richmond didn’t answer. There was nothing left to say.

  Tonner ignored him. He picked up his cup of tea. It was in a china cup decorated with small blue flowers, far too delicate for his scarred old hands. He sipped
at the tea. Then glanced up. Richmond hadn’t moved. ‘Go on. Fuck off, there’s a good lad.’

  ‘Let me work off the debt for her,’ Richmond said.

  ‘There’s nothing I want from you, except the money.’

  ‘I could run errands for you.’

  ‘That’s not the kind of work I’m talking about for Trisha,’ Tonner said. He allowed a smile to creep onto his florid face. ‘See, I’m thinking of getting myself a woman for a few days, and as tight as your arse is, I think I’d still prefer screwing a good looking young lass.’

  Richmond bit down on his retort, but his anger showed in the tensing of his face and shoulders. Big Iain took a step forward. His hands were larger and carried more scars than his father’s.

  Tonner made a dismissive motion with his left hand. ‘Go on, Richmond. Fuck off. My tea’s getting cold.’

  ‘You heard my father,’ Iain said, his voice like a bass fiddle. ‘Move it.’

  Richmond moved. Iain fell in behind him, one hand shoving him in the small of the back. They went through into a narrow corridor that ran alongside the bar that the McCoubrey family owned and used as the headquarters of their criminal empire. Richmond could smell piss coming through the vent in the bathroom door. From a door to the bar drifted voices, the clinking of glasses, and the strains of jukebox music. Some old time Country and Western song: Hank Williams-old. Richmond moved for the bar door, but Iain clutched at his shoulder.

  ‘You’re not going in there, Richmond.’

  ‘I fancied a pint,’ Richmond said.

  ‘You need to save your pennies if you intend buying Trisha back.’ Iain shoved him towards a fire exit door.

  Richmond found himself in an alley next to the pub. Iain had followed him outside. One of the other brothers, Davey McCoubrey, had ghosted them along the corridor and stood with the door propped open. He wasn’t as big as Iain but his reputation was every bit as scary. He looked on with the same nonchalance as Iain had in the back room. Richmond could sense the air of menace wafting from him.

  ‘Piece of advice for you, Richmond,’ Iain said. ‘Don’t fuck my dad around. He doesn’t like it when people don’t make an effort to pay off their debt.’

  ‘It’s not right, Iain, and you know it.’

  The bruiser lifted one eyebrow. ‘By whose say so? Deal with my dad and you go by his rules.’

  ‘Trisha was desperate. Does your dad know why she needed the money so quickly?’

  ‘Does it really matter?’

  ‘Her little lad, Michael, had to go all the way to London to see a specialist doctor, and she needed train fare and stuff. The little one has cerebral palsy for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Nice to know he’s got such a dedicated mother,’ Iain said. ‘My dad did right by her. Now it’s her turn to pay him back. Or you can if you care so much about a little cripple that isn’t even yours.’

  ‘Don’t call him a cripple, Iain. That’s uncalled for.’

  ‘It’s what he is, ain’t it?’ The thug could tell that Richmond was steeling himself. Where he’d allowed Tonner to threaten Trisha with rape, he wasn’t going to stand by and hear anything said about an innocent little kid with health problems. ‘Wind your neck in, Richmond. It’s not like he’s your kid.’

  ‘He’s as good as. I’ve looked after him for the last two years.’

  ‘So look after him now. Go find that money and get his mother back to him. Best thing for everybody.’ Iain nodded at Davey and the brother opened the door a little wider. Iain looked back at Richmond before he went back inside. ‘I don’t have to remind you not to call the law, right?’

  ‘What are they going to do any way?’

  ‘Exactly. But you know what’ll happen if they do come sniffing around?’

  ‘Not going to happen.’

  ‘Good.’ Iain closed the door, dismissing Richmond.

  He stood in the alley, angry, confused, feeling absolutely useless. He pulled out his cigarettes and sparked up, not yet ready to show his face on the street. Not while his eyes were red-rimmed and he was sniffing down snot.

  He was having crazy thoughts.

  He was so desperate he was considering committing an armed robbery or something. Maybe doing the bookies or the post office on the estate. But he knew it wasn’t in him to rob anyone. Despite having a string of petty crimes behind him he had standards, and they didn’t include crimes against the person. The chances of getting away with a robbery were too slim to contemplate anyhow. What would happen to Trisha and little Mikey if he were banged up? Chances were that Tonner would never let Trisha off the hook and she’d be forced into prostitution along with all the others who’d made the mistake of accepting his offer of a payday loan. Shit, most girls who needed Tonner’s kind of financial assistance didn’t have such a thing as a steady job, let alone a frigging pay day!

  He threw away the stub of his cigarette, hardly conscious of having smoked it down to the filter, then immediately lit another. He’d only two fags left in his packet and would need to buy more. But Iain McCoubrey’s words came back loud and clear: save your pennies if you intend buying Trisha back. The six or seven pounds it would take to purchase a fresh pack wouldn’t break the bank. Hell, he didn’t have a bank account. Where was he going to find two thousand pounds?

  Nowhere. That was the simple answer.

  He walked out onto the street with no clear idea of where to go or what to do. Familiar faces passed him by, some nodding or calling in greeting but Richmond was too caught up in his concerns to reply. With no real sense of forward volition he found himself standing outside Patel’s Convenience Shop about twenty minutes later. His cigarette packet was empty.

  Feeling in his pockets for change, he scraped up enough coins for a ten pack, with change for a Mars Bar to take home to Mikey. The little one liked his chocolate – even though most of it ended up smeared over his wheelchair or down his chin. For the first time in days, Richmond smiled at an image in his mind. He had to do right by Mikey, not by feeding his chocolate addiction, but by bringing home his mother.

  Entering the shop, he ignored the stands crammed to overflowing with tinned goods and packets, and walked directly to the counter. Mr Patel must have been having an hour or so off, because a young white girl was holding the fort. Momentarily Richmond wondered how much cash was in Patel’s till. If he chose to take it, some skinny little girl with arms like twigs wouldn’t be able to stop him. The thought sent a shiver through him. No way was he going to frighten the girl, let alone harm her.

  ‘Ten Bensons,’ he said, laying out coins on a stack of newspapers the kid had been folding. ‘And give me one of those scratch cards, please.’

  The girl handed over his cigarettes then tore a scratch card off a strip.

  ‘Good luck,’ she intoned.

  ‘Thanks. I need it.’

  Richmond wondered if she was old enough to buy a scratch card, let alone sell him one. He’d gone for broke when pointing out which card he wanted. There were a number of them, each depicting higher winnings and he’d gone for gold and a hefty million pounds jackpot. If he won, would he get paid out if the ticket had been sold unlawfully? Fuck it, if his luck was in, he’d bung Mister Patel a grand or two to say it was him serving at the till. He’d probably give the girl a grand to keep her mouth shut too.

  He had a couple of pennies left over from his purchases, and he dropped one of them in a charity box. Maybe the fickle God of chance would pay his good-natured deed back in kind. He waited until he was outside before bending to the card and scraping off the golden seals with the edge of the penny.

  His heart jumped a little when he saw what he’d won.

  He went back inside. Handed the girl the ticket.

  ‘I won,’ he said.

  ‘So you did,’ the girl said, actually looking pleased for him. She opened the till and took out a pound coin and handed it over. ‘Unless you’d like to try your luck again?’

  ‘Nah, lightning never strikes twice for me,’ Rich
mond said. ‘Give me a Mars Bar, will you. One of those double ones.’

  He took the chocolate bar, and dropped the twenty-odd pence change into the charity box. Outside again he lit up a fresh cigarette, and continued back to his place. His mother had stepped in to watch Mikey while he was out. Trisha was doing a stint behind the bar at Tonner McCoubrey’s place, probably unaware that when the doors of the pub were locked tonight, she’d still be on the other side of them. He’d planned on tipping her the wink before Iain had guided him outside via the fire exit, and now she was stuck there at Tonner’s mercy.

  ‘No fucking way,’ Richmond promised.

  He’d laid all on winning at the lottery, and Lady Luck had smiled on him in a very small way, but also she’d reminded him of a favourite phrase. Fortune favours the bold, Richmond, he reminded himself. Time you showed a little spine.

  The men of the McCoubrey clan were known as hard bastards. No denying it. But like many legends and reputations theirs was only as strong as the rumours that gave them power. To be honest, Richmond doubted that half of what he’d heard about Tonner and his wild sons were true. More likely a length had been added to each story and their record of brutality wasn’t quite as terrifying as what everyone had been led to believe.

  He returned home to Mikey and handed over the Mars Bar. The boy couldn’t speak well, but his warbling voice, sparkling eyes and grasping hands told Richmond of the boy’s gratitude. Richmond felt a similar flip of his heart to the pleasure of winning back his stake on the scratch card.

  His mother was standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, a cigarette sending a thin plume of yellowish smoke between her breasts, up over her left collarbone to mingle in her permed hair.