If Lang did keep any drugs in his place, he’d want to keep them hidden away. Lang was a naturally cautious guy. He wouldn’t leave illegal substances lying around the place for an unsuspecting cleaner to find. Which ruled out the living room and kitchen, the other communal spaces. Lang would keep them somewhere safe, Bowman figured. The master bedroom, perhaps, or the bathroom.
There, if anywhere, he might find something useful.
He pushed through another door and found himself in a bright, airy corridor shaped like a T junction, with bedroom doors to the left and right. Bowman swerved to the right and crashed through the door to the master bedroom. The withdrawal pains were severe now, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The room was tastelessly furnished. There was a diamond pendant chandelier, nude bronze statues of winged cherubs on the desk and bedside table. Bowman staggered over to the king-sized bed. He yanked the table drawer open and rooted through the contents. He saw no pill bottles, no plastic baggies. Nothing containing opioids. Just cigarette packets and condom wrappers, a load of other junk.
He must have something here. Surely.
So where the fuck is it?
He stood up and stumbled through the door to the master bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the waterfront, cars and people as small as ants. He set his Ruger down on the marble countertop and rifled through Lang’s black leather washbag. Nothing. He flipped open the mirror cabinet, scanned the rows of luxury grooming products. On the top shelf, he found half a dozen medicine bottles. Bowman reached in for them, scattering designer shaving products and anti-ageing creams across the vanity unit. He glanced at the printed label on one of the plastic bottles, unscrewed the cap. Aspirin.
This is just a bunch of regular meds. He hasn’t got anything.
Bowman kept searching. He checked three more pill containers. He hit the jackpot with the fourth bottle. It was unmarked, but he recognised the yellow tablets inside. The letters and numbers stamped on the face of each pill identified them as a moderate-strength opioid. The kind of thing prescribed for severe pain relief. Not as powerful as the stuff he bought from his dealer. But better than nothing.
Bowman thought: Lang must be in a lot of pain to take this stuff. Or maybe he’s like me. Maybe he has a secret habit no one else knows about.
Then the sickness came back, cramping in his stomach. Bowman hastily ground down one of the tablets and inhaled it off his fist. A faster delivery system than swallowing the pills. He ran the chrome tap, wiped his face with an Egyptian cotton towel. Turned off the tap.
Looked up.
Saw the figure in the doorway.
Fourteen
Bowman stood still for a beat. The fog behind his eyes instantly cleared as two billion years of survival instincts kicked in. The guy in front of him was huge, broad in the arms and shoulders. His legs were as wide as temple columns. His fingers were the approximate size of beer cans. About the only small thing about the guy was his head. It was small and round, like a medicine ball, the pale fleshy face crowned with a trim Mohawk. He had the bloated, acned look of a steroid addict. Not one of Seguma’s bodyguards, Bowman decided. He didn’t have the facial scars. Which meant he must be one of Lang’s heavies.
Minders. Dumb muscle he can trust.
Bowman reached for the Ruger.
In the next fraction of a second, the heavy lunged forward.
Roidhead wasn’t fast. Bowman had seen oil tankers move with more speed. But he had time on his side. Lots of it. The Ruger was on the countertop beside the sink. It would take Bowman two or three seconds to snatch up the pistol, aim at Roidhead’s centre mass and squeeze the trigger. No way he could reach it in time. Not with two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle bearing down on him.
Roidhead jacked his right arm back, winding up for a clean strike to Bowman’s jaw. He was going for broke. Aiming to land a killer blow before his opponent could react. Not a sophisticated plan. But then again, it didn’t need to be. Sometimes the crudest strategies were the best. Like the equivalent of a long ball in a game of football, pumping it forward to the striker. Route-one stuff. One punch and he could win the cup.
Bowman parried the punch, palming it away. He shaped to throw one of his own, but the shakes had badly slowed him down. His arms and legs felt as if they had lead weights tied around them. Roidhead saw the balled fist driving at him and jerked his head to the side, sidestepping the blow. Then he pushed forward, slamming his forehead into Bowman’s skull. Bowman saw white briefly. Something jarred inside his skull. He tasted blood and stumbled backwards. His vision cleared just in time to see Roidhead swinging at him again. He gasped as the heavy’s hard knuckles collided with his stomach, driving the air out of his lungs.
He glanced up, saw Roidhead stomping forward, his right shoulder dropped as he shaped to throw another punch. Bowman deflected the blow with a ragged swipe of his forearm, then stamped down on Roidhead’s toes with his right heel, as if he was crushing a cockroach underfoot. He followed up with another quick attack, then snatched a glass tumbler from the countertop and smashed it against the side of his opponent’s temple. Roidhead groaned and staggered backwards, claret dripping down his face.
‘Bastard!’ he rasped.
Bowman whirled away from him and lunged for the Ruger. Roidhead recovered with astonishing speed and launched himself at Bowman with a maddened roar. He smashed into the SAS man shoulder first, as if he was barging through a locked door. The blow winded Bowman and sent him flying backwards. Pain shot up his spine as he fell back and crashed against the tiled floor. Bowman blinked, looked up and saw Roidhead
