Page 72 of Freckles

“No, fuck off. You can get more.”

“If you wanted more, you should have sold it yourself and used it to cover your debt before it got too large to handle.” My advice is sound, but he doesn’t appear impressed. “Give us the code, then. Maybe I’ll change my mind.”

His chin juts out. “Eight three two four.”

I drag him through to the main office with me, an action that tears open the wound in my upper arm. I stuff tissues in my shirt to stem the blood flow, then follow his instructions, uncovering the safe hidden beneath his desk.

When I crouch beside it, his shoulders tense, eyes glued to the large red keypad. I tap the first digit, and his expression becomes so eager, my internal warning system blares. “What was the code again?”

He repeats it but I don’t really listen. Examining the upward face of the safe, I register the unobtrusive fingerprint scanner in the corner. Unlike the large keypad, it’s grey. Designed to be overlooked.

I grab him, hold his hand flat against the desk, and withdraw my knife.

“What are you doing?” He thrashes in earnest, fear widening his eyes until they’re mostly whites. “No, I’ve told you the code. It’ll—”

I stuff the rag back in his mouth. There’s no one around but being careful is second nature.

Even with the gag, his screams are loud as I cut through the joint of his thumb, wiping the digit against his shirt to clear the blood.

I press the thumb pad to the scanner, and it unlocks, ignoring the keypad which is probably rigged to set off an alarm at the local station or private security firm. The little fucker is trying to land my arse in jail.

The jewellery is far less impressive than his claims, hardly a surprise. But his screams hitch when I pick up a USB stick. And it stands to reason it’s worth something, otherwise it wouldn’t be in there.

I hold it in front of him, pulling down his gag. “What’s this?”

His face is pale, the eyes sunken. “Just photos from my old jobs… nothing interesting.”

It’s as good as confirmation.

I tuck it into my pocket along with the jewellery. “Bad news, sunshine. This haul won’t even cover your interest. What else you got?”

He blanches and I wonder why he’s still holding out on me when the consequences are so dire. The only explanation I can think of is that we’re not the only people he’s deep in hock to.

In which case, it’s a good thing I got to him first. I pick up the belt again, doubling it to snap in front of his face.

“Take my car,” he blurts, all sign of resistance disappearing. “The keys are in my pocket. You can—”

“And inherit your car note along with it? No, thanks.”

“No, it’s paid. I won it on…” His eyes narrow and he clamps his lips together. “I just won it,” he finishes lamely. “It’s a late model convertible.”

“Perfect for that mid-life crisis, eh?”

He grins, trying to join in the joke but his eyes are glassy. Sweat plasters the dwindling strands of his hair to his forehead, sending drips down his cheek like tears. “It’s worth forty grand.”

“Like the jewellery?” I tap his forehead. “It’s worth the value I assign and not a cent more. Where’s it parked?”

“Out the back. The spot closest to the building.”

“Hang tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

We’re just two levels up and I quickly move downstairs and push through the fire door, chocking it open with a wedge. The car is a Maserati. Burnt umber paintwork with a pleasing metallic shine, low to the ground, gull wings. A machine that would chew up the road.

I flew down here, but my uncle’s already recalled the private jet for a last-minute visit to Singapore, leaving me stuck with commercial airlines if I want a flight back.

Driving this car is a far more attractive proposition.

I go back inside, hastening up the concrete staircase with a new spring in my step.

---