The Last 10 Seconds by Simon Kernick Read Free Book Online Page B

sight, I knew I was still vulnerable.
    I crossed the road and walked past the kids in their hoodies, ignoring their stares and keeping my pace casual, before passing by the front of the takeaway. The interior was dark and empty, and as I rounded the corner and moved into the alleyway leading down to the side door I pondered calling Captain Bob to let him know my current status, maybe even get some emergency back-up in case things didn’t run as smoothly as Tommy was claiming they would. But Bob would never have authorized me to go inside alone. I was just going to have to hope this deal went OK, then I could pass on the information about the gun dealer, and in a few days’ or weeks’ time, when the memory of my visit had faded, the dealer could be arrested without fuss or hassle. That was the good thing about undercover work. The domino effect. Infiltrate one gang and you soon get leads on another. The underworld, like the legitimate one, is all about people doing business together.
    The alleyway was narrow and dotted with black rubbish sacks, several of which had been split open to reveal decaying household detritus. Graffiti – gang signs, teenage boasts – took up most of the space on the whitewashed walls on either side, and there was a smell of animal fat in the air. I picked my way through the mess until I came to a heavy wooden firedoor that had been painted sky blue about a hundred years ago. The smell of fat was stronger here, and a pile of black bin bags had been fashioned into an unwieldy pyramid balanced against the wall opposite.
    I took a deep breath and knocked hard on the door.
    There was a long pause – twenty, maybe thirty seconds – and I was just about to try again when it was opened a few inches on a thick chain and a pair of cartoon-wide bloodshot eyes stared out at me from the gloom.
    ‘I’m here to see Mitchell. I’m expected. My name’s Sean.’
    The eyes stared at me for a couple of seconds longer, then the chain was released and the door opened.
    A tall, slim black man of about forty stood appraising me with a slow, disjointed gaze, and a contented smile that was vaguely disconcerting. He was wearing jeans and a loose-fitting red singlet with the name of the takeaway emblazoned across it. Behind him thin wisps of dope smoke floated out the door. ‘Who sent you, mon?’ he asked in a soft Jamaican accent.
    ‘Tyrone Wolfe,’ I answered firmly. ‘Are you Mitchell?’ I knew he was, of course. He might have been stoned, but he had an air of seniority about him which I’ve learned to spot a mile off.
    ‘That’s me,’ he said languidly. ‘You’d better come in, mon.’
    As I stepped inside, he let go of the door and it shut automatically with a series of loud clicks, locking me away from the outside world.
    He led me through a narrow corridor and into a cavernous kitchen, with high ceilings and no windows, that smelled of meat and dope, and walked over to a table and chairs in the middle of the room. He picked up a half-finished joint from the ashtray and took a big hit.
    ‘So, Sean, you got my money?’
    If I said yes straight away, he might decide to rip me off rather than go through with the deal. Criminals can be very short-term like that, even supposedly reliable ones. On the other hand, if I said no, he might just tell me to get lost. In my experience, these kinds of negotiations rarely took a simple and direct route. In the end, I compromised. ‘Sure,’ I answered casually, much as I might have done if the guy had asked if I liked the colour of the paint on the walls. ‘Have you got what I came for?’
    ‘How come Wolfe and Haddock don’t come round here no more? They getting too high and mighty to deal with a bwoy like me?’
    ‘They’re busy today,’ I answered, hearing a movement behind me. I turned and saw a black guy of about twenty leaning against the kitchen door and blocking my exit. He was dressed in a gaudy tracksuit and New York Yankees baseball cap, and wore