CHAPTER 6 #3
She laughs again, louder this time, arms crossing as she shakes her head like I’m ridiculous.
I am ridiculous.
‘It’s not like they’re Giant Golden-Crowned flying foxes,’ she scoffs.
‘Flying foxes?’ I retort.
‘One of the largest bat species in the world. They can have a wingspan of 5.6ft, but don’t worry, they’re endangered frugivores, endemic to the Philippines,’ she nods.
‘Yeah, thank fuck for that…’ I answer, sarcastically.
‘Imagine one of them swooping down with wings like a hang glider and a face like a gremlin,’ she laughs.
‘I don’t know what’s worse, rabies or one of those shitting a fruit smoothie on me,’ I breathe.
The lightness in her tone vanishes. ‘Definitely the rabies. Bigger doesn’t always mean scarier. These guys,’ she points, ‘are flying syringes. They shouldn’t bite unless they’re hungry, or you smell like fear, which you’re basically marinating in with all that sweating!’
My gaze flicks between Stella and the naked man being feasted on, my body pressed against the enclosure, frozen, staring.
The door is locked. A lone bulb flickers overhead casting shadows on the half-conscious man slumped against the chair.
Bats scuttle over his skin, tiny claws tracing patterns in his flesh. Recognition strikes me like a slap.
I shift towards Stella. ‘Do you know who this is?’
She barely spares him a glance. ‘Does it matter?’
A weak groan escapes him. ‘H-help me.’
My pulse ticks faster at her comment. ‘Stella. Do. You. Know. Who. This. Is?’
The man’s eyes flutter, his sluggish demeanor catching up to our raised voices. Then, his gaze sharpens. The light, the voices, the fear and urgency overriding exhaustion is now sharpening his senses. ‘Hey, scumbag, you gonna get me outta here or what?’
I scoff at the interruption and tilt my head. ‘Scumbag?’ My voice turns cool. ‘Do you even know the meaning of the word?’
He thrashes against his restraints, as I continue. ‘You just called me a condom from the 1930s. Scum + bag. Not a way to treat someone when you’re asking for help.’
He spits curses like they’ll somehow set him free. The bulb overhead flickers – dodgy, projecting light across his bloodied face. I glance back at Stella. ‘How long has he been sitting here?’
She barely looks up as she answers. ‘Twelve hours.’
‘Twelve hours?’ My stomach turns inside out. ‘What were you thinking?’ I gasp.
She exhales hard. ‘I was thinking he’s a low-life. I told you I only whack bad people.’
‘Well, he’s definitely bad.’
‘And my little pets needed feeding, so I figured they could suck him off rather than me suck off some fat French f-’
I cut her off. ‘How long did you plan on keeping him here? Oh, for goodness sake, that bat’s lapping at his cock.’ I retch.
She shrugs. ‘He’d last about a week to ten days.’
‘We need to move NOW.’
‘Why? Our fun had just started,’ she smiles, stroking my arm.
‘Why?’ I echo, disbelief hitting like a punch. ‘That’s Ritchie Thompson…as in the grandson of Charlie Thompson.’
She chews on her lower lip. ‘So? Who the fuck is that?’
I wipe my mouth between my thumb and forefinger. ‘A wildcard who wouldn’t hesitate to off someone – if I’m being polite.’ I stare at her like she’s lost her damn mind. ‘As in The Thompsons.’
But there’s silence. Then, realisation smashes through like a busted door. I don’t hesitate any longer. I snatch Stella by the arm, and drag her towards the barn door. ‘We need to go. Now! We’re lucky we aren’t dead already.’
From what I knew about Charlie’s grandson, he’s the kid that never quite filled his father’s shoes.
Always overshadowed by his father’s and grandfather’s empire, he saw arms dealing as his ticket to power; a way to carve a name for himself so he could run with the big boys.
If he was moving weapons, it wouldn’t have been for quick cash, it was for influence, connections and a seat at the table.
My guess is if he’s down here in the south of France, he’s dealing with heavy hitters who move weapons alongside their drug empire through Spain.
I’ve heard the stories of weapons being illegally transported to conflict zones in North Africa, often hidden in commercial shipping containers.
If Ritchie is missing, Charlie won’t let it slide.
Losing a member of his family? That’s a declaration of war, and bodies will drop.
‘Let’s just let him go,’ Stella shrugs.
I scoff. ‘And have him squealing all the way home? If his grandfather doesn’t already know where you are, Ritchie will lead them straight to us. If Ritchie walks out of here, then we’re already dead.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘We make sure he has no voice left to squeal.’ I grab her arm, my fingers clamping down to demand attention. There’s no finesse about it. Her arm is seized in a desperate attempt to anchor her before the conversation spirals.
She pulls back. ‘I’m not leaving my bats behind.’
I stare at her, and then back at the half-dead bloke still tied up. ‘I don’t give a flying arse about the bats.’
‘I do.’ She wrenches free from my grip, her shoulders jerking violently as my grip slides. She stumbles back, her eyes locked onto a wooden crate with a lid. It’s rough-hewn wood with splintered edges, the lid barely holding.
What is she doing?
She snatches it up, the wood crate pressed tightly against her ribs, on her way, she snatches a box cutter and gloves. She unlocks the enclosure, the air thick with the scent of guano and rustling wings. She kneels, placing the crate beside her, and opens it with a soft creak.
‘We haven’t got time for this,’ I groan.
One by one, she reaches out, her gloved hands gently cradling the creature, its fragile body barely resisting as she places it into the box.
With full tummies, they twitch, fold their wings and settle.
There’s a reverence in her movements. No panic.
No haste. One by one she scoops up her precious little monsters into the wooden crate like this is some sort of rescue mission.
When the last bat is nestled inside, she lowers the lid and presses it closed.
Then she slits Ritchie’s throat with the box cutter, and collects his blood in a jar.
I stare at her, and she walks out holding the box. ‘What?’ she murmurs. ‘You said you didn’t want him to talk.’
She shoves the crate into my arms, and runs back inside the cottage before I can curse her.
I turn, scanning my eyes out of the barn door.
There are cars parked along the road, engines rumbling low, echoing across the field.
Someone’s coming. Someone bad. She finally emerges, handbag in hand, and her crossbow slung over her shoulder like she’s bloody Joan of Arc, and a rucksack thrown over her other shoulder.
I don’t even bother hiding my disbelief.
‘Oh, brilliant,’ I mutter, voice thick with sarcasm.
‘That’ll scare them off. Bring an arrow to a gun fight,’ I snark, gesturing towards the parked cars in the distance.
The kind of vehicles that don’t just carry people, they carry intent.
And here we are armed with antique bravado and a weapon better suited for medieval cosplay.
It sure is beautiful, but the elegance of the crossbow won’t stop bullets.
Headlamps cut through the dark like searchlights.
She smirks. ‘Well, excuse me, but this goes everywhere with me.’
‘You want to fire a bolt through six lads before they all laugh and put a bullet straight through your skull?’
She shrugs, unfazed. ‘I don’t know.’
I glare, but don’t want to waste anymore time. We pivot – running in the opposite direction, sprinting towards the open field. Grass whips at my legs as we tear through the open land, breath ragged, feet pounding as we distance ourselves from the cottage. Too late to look back. Too late to think.
We run.
Now I’m helping a murderer murder, while helping that murderer cover up a murder, committed by a murderer I was sent to murder – bloody marvelous.