tightened with a drawstring around his neck.
Kruger gagged. ‘What the hell..?’ He lashed out blindly but without effect. He was punched twice in the kidneys, driving him down to his knees. A pair of handcuffs were ratcheted tightly on his wrists.
Once again he felt the muzzle of the revolver rammed against his head.
‘ You fucker — you do what we say, or we kill ya, okay? You bein’ dead don’t make no odds to us.’ It was the first guy talking, Kruger was sure.
‘ Fine, fine,’ Kruger growled through gritted teeth.
‘ Now get to yo’ godamned feet.’
No one assisted him, but a few seconds later he was standing shakily. ‘Now you gonna get inna the back o’ yo’ Chevy, okay? And we’re gonna go fo’ a little ride… and I suggests you keep it schtum, otherwise I’ll gets really pissed with yo’ and I’ll put a few slugs inna yo’ brain.’
Danny eased herself inch by glorious inch into a hot bath so full of foam and water the tub almost overflowed. She groaned with sheer ecstasy as her bottom, then her back and finally all of her, was covered. She reached for the glass of vodka on ice from the top of the loo and took a life-saving gulp, shivering as the liquid burned down to her stomach. Then she picked up a ready-lighted Benson amp; Hedges, put it to her lips and pulled a long, deep drag as a chaser to the spirit.
Oh God. Heaven!
A heaven which lasted approximately four minutes, curtailed by the chimes of the front-door bell.
Danny’s heart dropped. She knew who it would be.
A decision had to be made tonight — one way or the other.
Kruger lost all track of his whereabouts almost as soon as the Chevy rolled out of the parking lot. He tried to keep with it for a few moments, but the pain from his kidneys distracted him. It was like someone poking a red-hot needle straight through the middle of his lower back. He’d been whacked there a few times in the past, but the effects had worn off quite quickly. Today the pain was hanging in there, making him think he might have a stone or something. Depending on the outcome of this little shake-down, which was obviously not a robbery, a visit to the doctor was only a day away.
Eventually the pain dissipated.
‘ Where are you taking me?’ Kruger demanded.
‘ Shut the hell up,’ one of his captors grunted and skewered the muzzle of the gun into the skin at the side of his neck.
‘ Okay, okay, I’ll be quiet.’
Was he being kidnapped? And if he was — why? Most of his money was tied up in the business. Maybe he was being taken to be wasted somewhere. And maybe the idea that this was the work of some disgruntled husband of a client was not so far-fetched after all.
But if that was the case, why hadn’t they done him in the parking lot? That would’ve been nice and easy. This was complicated.
No matter how many questions he asked himself, he could not work any of it out.
So here he was, bundled up like some damn amateur in the back of his own van after all he’d been through and survived in his life so far. Taken by two spunkless punks who were young enough to be his sons.
How the mighty are fallen.
The sound of the tyres on the road changed to a high-pitched hum which Kruger recognised. The van was travelling over one of the causeways which linked the city with Miami Beach, South Beach or possibly Key Biscayne.
So they were travelling east. Not that the knowledge helped Kruger in any way.
The van slowed. There was a series of twists and turns. Kruger sensed he was near to the end of his journey.
The van stopped.
He became very frightened.
His two captors manhandled him out of the back of the Chevy, pushed, prodded and almost dragged him across a gravel surface. He stumbled up a short flight of what he imagined to be concrete steps. He heard a door open and then he was inside a building, still being roughly pushed, cajoled, pulled and directed. Finally they brought him to a halt. He was told to stand still. They held onto his biceps with firm grips.
He was completely disorientated.
He had no idea where he was.
No idea why he was there. Abducted off the street like some millionaire tycoon.
He did as instructed and stood completely motionless, wrists cuffed in front of his groin. It was hot beneath the black hood, which was made from some sort of thick polythene, like a garden refuse sack. He sweated. Standing there in silence, it became even hotter, unbearable, made even worse as his imagination ran riot. He ground his teeth and dilated his nostrils whilst the tension began to build up in him like a geyser.
Something told him very bluntly, ‘This is it, Buddy Boy. This is where you buy it. The end of the line — and you don’t even know why.’
He fought hard to control his heartbeat and his bowels and prepared himself for the bullet. The third one he would have taken in his life.
The fatal one.
A female voice Kruger thought he recognised said softly, ‘Handcuffs.’
His hands were bent outwards in order to get the key into the locks. The ratchets swung back, his wrists came free. In the confusion and fear of his predicament Kruger had not realised how deeply the steel rims of the cuffs had been biting into his flesh. As they were opened, the blood rushed back into his hands with a surge of pins and needles.
His biceps were still in the grip of his captors.
He became suddenly aware of someone standing very close in front of him. Very close indeed. Almost touching. He could smell a scent, a familiar perfume. Couldn’t quite remember its name. He shook his head. Must be dreaming. Then he felt a hand on his chest and jumped as if he’d been electrified. The grips on his arms tightened.
The top button of his shirt was already undone. The fingers of the hand at his chest slid up to the second button and skilfully tweaked it open. Then the third and fourth. The hand slid under the shirt and rested on Kruger’s left breast, playfully pinching his nipple.
… At which point Kruger bellowed and exploded without warning.
Almost like Samson escaping from shackles, he lifted his arms and pushed outwards at the same time, driving the back of his fists against the men on either side of him, sending them staggering away.
He ripped the hood off, ready to fight for his life.
And the nightmare continued because standing in front of him trying to control her giggling was one of the worst mistakes of his life: his third wife, stage name Felicity Snowball. Real name, Felicity Bussola. Born, plain Jane Creek.
‘ Jesus Christ, you godamned bitch!’ screamed Kruger. ‘What the hell you playin’ at?’ He lurched towards her and grabbed her shoulders. His arm drew back and he was about to lay one of his mightiest slaps across her cheeks when for the second time that day, a gun was poked in his neck. His hand screeched to a halt in mid-arc. He allowed it to flutter down uselessly to his side.
He stood upright, breathing heavily.
‘ Stevie baby,’ cooed Felicity. ‘Baby, baby… you don’t wanna hit your honey-pie, now do you, sweetie?’
‘ Yes, I do.’
The muzzle of the gun was ground into his neck.
Felicity’s face became serious. ‘Cos I ain’t foolin’ around here, Stevie. You touch me, babe, and I’ll waste you.’
Kruger nodded.
