Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) by Simon Jenner Read Free Book Online

clothes,” he said to no one in particular, looking forward again, smiling warmly at those who had the nerve to look him in the eye. Pedestrians parted like the Red Sea, nervous that he was a threat to their safety. “How come you didn’t park nearer? Surely, they give you a special permit to park anywhere when on the job?” John asked.
    “Shut up and walk,” the shorter one said, without a discernible accent, tonally similar to Mark but without the exaggerated drawl that belonged to those with a privileged lineage. John felt an elbow in his back. That hurt. Elbows from the left, hands from the right, he noted. MI5, CIA, Mafia perhaps? No, not stylish enough for the mob. There was something almost military about their behaviour. He needed to push a few more buttons.
    John turned to the captor on his right. “Your partner’s not very tall, is he? Have they relaxed the height requirements for entry?”
    Another elbow thudded into his back, sending John stumbling forward.
    “I’m not sure you can do that,” he complained, as they quickly caught up to him. John looked down to his left, where the shorter man’s head bobbed along a good five inches below his own. “You’ve got some serious shoulders on you. Did they allow you to add your shoulder width to your height for entry purposes?”
    Another dig in the back from the left but this one was sharper and harder, and it remained pushed roughly into his spine just above the waistband of his jeans. A gun! Instinctively, he froze, almost bringing them to a standstill.
    Fear for his life mixed with the grief lodged in his gut created a moment of purest clarity. His life had been a failure. No, that wasn’t it - he had been a failure. His life was flashing before his eyes as the moment before death demanded, but there was nothing to show him. Other than his desire not to be dead, what was there to live for? At the precise moment he closed his eyes expecting a bullet to sever his spinal column, he felt the concealed, folded paper free itself from the waistband of his boxer shorts, and the thoughts of imminent death disappeared. His father had always said that he had no sense of priority.
    “Keep moving, kid,” the tall man whispered in his ear. John guessed the man was from New York or somewhere close. “Head for the tube station.” The word tube was pronounced like ‘toob’.
    John looked ahead and saw the entrance to ‘High Street Kensington’ approaching on their right, just past a lingerie shop. Would they kill him in such a busy place? Surely not? He shuffled along in an effort to slow the downward progress of the loose paper which had escaped the shorts completely and now tickled his right thigh about four inches above the knee. If they were escorting him to his death then he reasoned that his last sight would be the underneath of a speeding tube train. He had to run before they reached a platform.
    Still sandwiched by the two men of unknown employment, they reached the entrance whose sign canopied out in an arch above the pavement, beneath a large double-faced clock. Like a mini mall, there were shops inside, perfectly situated for maximum exposure to possible purchasers. The long, pillared corridor, which led to the ticket machines and stalls, was swarming with activity as a mixture of shoppers and travellers fought for the space to move. Once they were deep amongst the throng, John would scream and run, panic would ensue, and he could escape in the belly of the bolting crowd.
    “Go on, kid,” said the American. “Keep walking.”
    “I’m thirty-two,” John snapped. He wouldn’t face death being talked down to.
    A few shuffles later, about twelve feet into the station, the paper brushed past his ankle. He stopped. It was out of his jeans. It was now or never.
    “Guns! They’ve got guns!” he bellowed, dropping to his knees. He saw the note on the ground. He needed to retrieve it before the stampede began. His hands were useless to him. There was