With a surprised howl of pain, Winston released her arm. To her absolute horror, she could see, even in the dark, four fresh tramlines running down the side of his face. A trickle of blood was already seeping out of one.
Winston raised his hand to his face in disbelief. He winced at the contact with his lacerated skin. When he examined his fingers, they had fresh blood on them. His blood!
The side of his face was burning like he’d just been branded.
“I’ll kill you for this.” The words, spoken in quiet fury, chilled her to the bone. She jumped out of the car and ran blindly across the road. A passing motorist sounded his horn angrily as he swerved to avoid both her and the open door of the car.
Winston was already half out of the car, intent on following her across the road and thrashing her, there and then, as a lesson for all to see. No one fucks with The Man and walks away to tell the tale. But he was as cunning as he was brutal. There were people about, and he could do without the complication of witnesses. Besides, it might ruin trade for the night, and that would never do.
No, it would be smarter to make the bitch suffer later when no one else was around. Before the night was through, he would teach her a lesson she would never forget. He would make an example out of her for all the other bitches to bear in mind: don’t fuck with The Man.
Fighting to keep his emotions from spilling over, Winston slammed the passenger door with enough force to make the BMW rock. He eased his great bulk back into the car and performed a lazy U-turn, pulling into Quaker Street, where the two hookers had converged on Tracey.
The BMW stopped by the kerb and the electric window slowly wound down. The sound system blasted its loud music into the quiet night air, reverberating off the building walls opposite.
Boom, boom, boom.
Seeing the look on Claude’s face, the two working girls immediately distanced themselves from Tracey.
Winston leaned across the passenger seat, his eyes locking with hers. The intensity of his gaze was unbearable. His black orbs seemed to burn deep into her head as if he were peering into her very soul. She recoiled from the aura of malice, instinctively edging backwards until she could go no further, coming to a halt with her back pressed into the wire mesh fence of the used car sales lot.
“I’m sorry, Claude, please don’t hurt me,” she begged, almost wetting herself with fear.
Still staring malevolently into her eyes, Claude reached up and placed his right forefinger just below the left side of his chin. Slowly, and with great feeling, he drew it from side to side across his neck. With the same finger, he then pointed directly at Tracey. The message was clear, even in her state of withdrawal, and she reacted as if she had been slapped.
As the BMW drove off her knees buckled with relief and a small whimper escaped her quivering lips.
What had she done?
How could she have been so stupid?
What would he do to her now?
Shit, shit, shit!
As she stood there, contemplating the pain that Claude would undoubtedly inflict on her, desperately needing a fix and knowing that things could only get worse, Tracey Phillips reached the lowest ebb of her entire life.
She found herself wishing that she was dead and that her life of pain and suffering would finally be over. Sadly, before the night was through, her wish was going to come true.
CHAPTER 3
The Disciple sat motionless in the cab of his battered Sherpa van, which was parked between two cars midway along Quaker Street, and wondered how the situation outside the car lot would develop.
The girl had taken a big chance, playing chicken with the traffic like that, but the gamble seemed to have paid off because she now had a thirty-second head start on her pursuer. Incredibly, having just risked her life to get away from him, she immediately surrendered the advantage by stopping on the other side of the road.
What the hell was she doing? It was a no-brainer that he would come after her.
And he did. But instead of unfolding into the high-octane drama the build-up had promised, the situation simply fizzled out; for instead of leaping out of his car and laying into her, as any self-respecting thug in his position would surely do, the big lump merely sat in his BMW, made an ‘I’m gonna slit your throat’ gesture towards her, and then drove off.
The whole thing was a total anti-climax.
As the BMW tore past his van, The Disciple caught a glimpse of the marks on the driver’s angry face. That must have hurt, he thought, taking perverse pleasure from the fact. Good. He didn’t like pimps, for what else could the man be, any more than the odious product they marketed.
As the dust settled, he began taking stock of the three whores loitering outside the used car lot. The black girl had a long scar down her left cheek; an eyesore that marred an otherwise pretty face. The white middle-aged whore had a stern pig-like face, a bloated figure, and peroxide hair. He shuddered; she was more Marilyn Manson than Marilyn Monroe.
Neither took his fancy.
On the other hand, the scrawny
