Trent continued to squirm realistically, feeling the need to put more distance between himself and the prison before he took matters to their logical conclusion.
When he judged the moment right, he suddenly sat up with a scream as though a great pain had burned through his abdomen. He reached behind himself, his hand went underneath his shirt and his fingers closed on the hilt of the knife fastened to his spine with a couple of Band Aids.
He ripped the instrument from its moorings.
The paramedic, surprised by the sudden sitting up, stepped back. The roll of the ambulance unbalanced him slightly.
Without hesitation, Trent drove the knife into the unfortunate man’s neck. The razor-sharp blade pierced the jugular vein as Trent dug it in and rived it round and round. He withdrew the blade as the man screamed dreadfully and a glorious crimson fountain flowered into the air, splattering the inside of the ambulance with deep red swathes of blood. The paramedic’s hands reached instinctively for his neck to try and stop the flow.
Trent grabbed the man’s overalls at the chest and threw him sideways. Then he jumped to his feet and leapt across the small space at the prison officer. That man’s senses had not been capable, in those brief seconds, of taking in what had just happened to the paramedic.
Trent was on the officer, yelling, ‘I’m not an arse bandit, I’m a fucking paedophile, you pig-bastard.’
He plunged the knife into the officer’s right eye which burst with a pop as the blade entered the pupil, its watery contents spurting out. Trent pushed the blade further in, right up to the hilt, angled it upwards into the brain, killing him the instant the soft tissue was pierced.
Trent held the knife in there, grinding it round. The dead man’s jangled nerves reacted by making him dance like someone possessed by the devil. Then Trent extracted it as the man’s legs gave way.
Trent slid casually next to the ambulance driver, reached for the radio and ripped the handset out. He leaned across to the driver who had not even realised what was going on and pushed the point of the knife into his neck. A trickle of blood popped out from the prick.
‘ Taxi,’ Trent said with a smile.
Chapter Seven
Lieutenant Mark Tapperman was a very big guy, even in comparison to Steve Kruger who was no midget himself. Tapperman was six-four, built like the frontal elevation of a very substantial building and kept himself incredibly fit — necessary qualifications for policing the crime-ridden streets of Miami where a cop needed all the edge he could get… and then some.
Despite these credentials, Tapperman looked sheepishly at Steve Kruger as the ex-cop walked towards him with a slight limp and an expression of seething anger stamped across his face.
‘ Oh shit,’ Tapperman mumbled under his breath. ‘He’s mad.’ He suddenly had the thought that maybe coming to this particular restaurant for lunch was not the best of choices. Granny Feelgood’s was not the right place for someone who’ probably wanted to rip a twelve-ounce steak to shreds; it was more suited to a person on a diet who wanted to pig out on tofu or spiced tea. Arbetter Hot Dogs would’ve been a more appropriate place to meet and eat, Tapperman thought too late.
‘ Mark,’ Kruger nodded curtly. He slumped down on the chair opposite Tapperman and slung his jacket across the back of another. He loosened his neck-tie and unfastened his collar, his face distorting as his fingers eased the button out of its hole. He tugged the collar loose.
Once again Miami was like a fan oven and that, combined with his tiredness — for Kruger had not yet had any sleep — meant he was mega-irritable.
It showed in his body language.
‘ Herb tea?’ Tapperman enquired hopefully.
Kruger eyed the detective critically for a moment. ‘Nooo,’ he said quietly with an exaggerated pursing of the lips. ‘Just tell me what you’ve got.’
Tapperman sipped his Perrier to clear his dust-dry throat.
‘ Nothing we could do about it,’ he said helplessly. ‘Bussola’s lawyer, Ira Begin, was waiting at the stationhouse when we arrived. Couldn’t stop Bussola talking to him — y’know, prisoner’s rights and all that crap; couldn’t stop his lawyer makin’ phone calls either, could we?’ Tapperman sighed. ‘Anyways, we got the process going… then we find out there ain’t no process to get going.’
Kruger waited impatiently.
‘ Somehow, probably through the lawyer, he’d got to the girl’s parents.’
‘ So?’
‘ Well, that little girl he was ridin’ when you found him was only eleven years old. She’d been on the run from home ‘bout three weeks and somehow got herself sucked into Bussola’s porn system. Thing is, though, the reason why we got nowhere, was because there ain’t no complaint. Bussola’s organisation got to her parents before we did — and this is only an assumption, Steve. I think they were paid off and delivered a bottom-line threat at the same time. “You’re dead if you testify”. They’re poor people from Homestead. Ain’t recovered from Hurricane Andrew yet. In those circumstances, Bussola’s money is as good as anybody’s.’
‘ Even if he raped your daughter?’ Kruger was incredulous. He went on, ‘Why not indict without them? It’s serious enough. Do it on the girl’s behalf.’ Kruger’s voice was cold, hard. He had not liked one word of what had been said.
‘ If we did, Steve, Bussola would kill the family. You know he would, and that would not achieve anything.’
Kruger began to hiss steam. He wanted to overturn the table and rant and rave about injustice.
‘ Let me get this straight: he’s got away with anally raping — and probably kidnapping — an eleven-year-old girl, and you’re powerless to do anything about it?’
‘ You’re sayin’ we should force her to testify? The DA wouldn’t have any part in that, and you know it. A hostile witness, a terrified witness, and a kid at that. No way.’
‘ What about all my corroborative evidence? My team’s evidence? Surely that would go a long way to proving the case?’
Tapperman uttered a snort of a laugh.
‘ What’s so goddam funny?’
The detective raised a hand placatingly when he read Kruger’s face. ‘Hey, I ain’t laughin’ at your suggestion, buddy. It’s a good idea. Only thing is, Bussola’s legal team are goin’ to sue your ass for’ — here Tapperman began to count on his fingers — ‘unlawful entry, invasion of privacy, breakin’ an’ enterin’, unlawful arrest, assault and battery… you name it, he’s gonna try an’ plug ya.’
‘ Shit,’ breathed Kruger. His head dropped wearily. He had been very tired up to that point, but that extra bad news simply swamped him with weariness. ‘What about the other girl — the one he was beatin’ up on?’
‘ What girl’s that?’ Tapperman responded. ‘She’s gone, vamoose. Disparue. As soon as we turned our heads she was away. I think she was warned off, too.’
Kruger rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He looked bitterly across the table at Tapperman, who shrugged apologetically. ‘So all in all, the Miami Police Department have made a complete fuck-up. Is it true to say that?’
Tapperman nodded happily, feeling that an opposing viewpoint would have been detrimental to his health.
‘ Who was the other fat guy, the one who passed out? The one at the head end of the girl? The one who was forcing her to suck his cock?’
Heads turned. Several touchy customers made ‘tutting’ noises.
Tapperman coughed nervously. ‘A British guy, name of Charles Gilbert. One of Bussola’s, business associates in the leisure industry. Operates out of the north of England. The little we know about him suggests he’s clean. He was high as a kite but because Bussola acted so quickly we didn’t even get a chance to speak to him. Apparently he’s flying out early tomorrow, back to Manchester.’
‘ What a complete mess,’ Kruger groaned. He churned over the prospect of civil litigation together with the
