Page 137 of Lethal Torture
Paddy snorts derisively. “Come on, man. You don’t still believe that shite, now do you?”
The Sandman’s smile fades. “Clearly more than either of you two do, from what I hear.”
The others at the table stiffen.
The problem with tension in a troop like ours is that everyone is trained to kill, no matter how much whiskey is sitting in their gut. Getting into it with men like these isn’t just stupid.
It’s suicide.
“I take it you’ve got something you’d like to say, Major Welch.” I face him calmly across the table. “Why don’t you and I step outside and make it a private conversation?”
The major tilts his chin at the door, his eyes cold. “Come on, then.”
I stand, pressing my hand down on Paddy’s shoulder to stop him rising after me, and nod at the table. “We’ll be back, lads. Don’t go finishing the Scotch without me.”
They tilt their glasses in my direction, but their eyes are shrewd. Everyone at the table knows something is going down.
Outside, the air is cold enough to knock the breath from my body. The major is leaning against the wall, pint in one hand, cigarette in the other.
“Right, then.” I fold my arms and glare at him. “Out with it. This isn’t fucking selection, so freezing my arse off just because you order it is no longer a requirement.”
“I understand any man hanging up their boots.” He draws on his cigarette, then glares at me through the stream of smoke he blows out. “And we all know how shit our pension is, so signing up for the odd private contracting payday is standard practice. But what I can’t understand, Luke, what keeps me fucking up at night ever since I found out about it, is how a man who signed up to defend his country can switch sides and take money from those trying to destroy it.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I’m in no mood for this shit tonight.
I remain silent, staring blankly at him.May as well let the man get it all off his chest.
“I had a call from Rhys Stewart last week.” Major Welch shakes his head in disgust.
I only just manage to restrain myself from rolling my eyes.
“He became very attached to you during the time you worked together in Afghanistan. After we spoke, I started asking some questions of my own. Imagine my surprise,” he says coldly, “when I discovered you seem to be a permanent fixture at the most corrupt club in London—not to mention extremely cozy with the murderous bitch who runs it.”
Decades ago, I trained myself never to react to provocation.
Unfortunately, the past two weeks of being stonewalled by Zinaida appear to have damaged my legendary control, because before I have any kind of conscious thought, I’ve slammed my former superior up against the brick wall of the pub, lifting him by the throat a full foot from the ground.
“You and I both know that trying to talk right now is only going to make you lose valuable oxygen.” My voice is cold and hard enough that even I barely recognize it, and by the way the major’s eyes flare, he’s starting to realize he might not be dealing with the same man he thought he knew. “You and I have known each other a long time, Welch.”
I use the name deliberately, putting a distance between our old association and this conversation by ignoring both his nickname and his rank.
“Out of respect for those years,” I go on, “I’ll save us both the bullshit conversation we were about to have and ask you some yes or no questions. Blink twice for yes, three times for no. Fail to answer, and your dead body will be found in a rubbish dump next spring. Got it?”
Welch, whose face is slowly turning red, blinks twice.Yes.
“Good man.” I squeeze a little tighter, and his legs twitch. “Did Rhys Stewart ask you to organize tonight’s little shindig?”
He blinks twice again.Yes.
“Did he ask you to have this conversation with me?”
Another yes.
“Do you know why Rhys Stewart is taking such a personal interest in my new employment?”
There’s the briefest hesitation, then Welch blinks three times.
