The Rock by Chris Ryan Read Free Book Online Page B

Crowbar somehow had the strength to heave him off.
    As Gardner flew through the air and hit the door, he saw the guy snatch the Glock. I’m fucked, he thought.
    But Mr Crowbar glanced back down the corridor. Gardner could see along the corridor for about twenty metres. A security guard had come to check on the commotion and was shouting at Mr Crowbar to put his hands in the air. He might as well have told gravity to take the day off. Mr Crowbar pulled a five-inch combat knife out from his jacket and sank the blade into the guard’s groin. He stared dumbly down at his balls.
    The lift rang its arrival just as Mr Crowbar fled down the stairwell. Gardner only had time to get up on one knee when the light of the doorway was blocked out by a scrum of men in uniform.
    In an instant hands clamped his arms behind his back and slapped handcuffs on his wrists. Whoever did the cuffing fastened them extra tight. A pair of boots stood in front of him. Gardner was so weak he struggled to lift his head. He found himself eyeballing a portly guy with grey hair and a tan straight out of a home fitness catalogue. A badge on the breast of his immaculately ironed white shirt announced him as Lieutenant Colonel E. López. Doughy fingers rested on his utility belt. A forest of hair fluttered in his nostrils.
    ‘All right, easy on him,’ he said to the officer doing the cuffing. ‘This boy’s done giving grief. Look at the state of him.’
    ‘You should see the other guy,’ Gardner rasped.
    ‘I’m sure you’ve both got a story to tell. Been through the wars, my friend?’
    ‘A few of ’em.’
    Two officers hoisted him to his feet, into the stationary police wagon.

9
     
    0041 hours.
     
    Time passed like kidney stones in Interrogation Room 3. López grilled Gardner in a voice that sounded as if he had loose gravel in his lungs. One thing was clear from the moment his deputy, Carlos Guerrero, cuffed Gardner to the metal table: they believed he was responsible for
both
corpses in room 39. López read out the accusations against him like a shopping list. Guerrero pulled faces and made not-so-subtle threats. Made Gardner almost miss the days when capture meant a hot date with crocodile clips and a piece of 2x4.
    ‘What were you doing at the King’s Hotel?’
    ‘I was there to protect a man called John Bald. He was the guy in the hotel room.’
    ‘Pull the other one. We’ve checked the hotel’s books. They’ve no record of anyone by that name staying in the hotel.’
    ‘He was there.’
    ‘We found her body, friend. You know who we’re talking about, don’t you?’
    ‘No comment.’
    ‘
You
headed to the apartment, where you found her sleeping with another man.
You
raped her, choked her, beat her to death and then slashed her wrists to make it look like a suicide. Then
you
killed her lover. That’s an evil thing to do, friend. Any jury in the world is going to send you to the prison up Windmill Road and tell us to throw away the key. You’ll be living on rats and maggoty rice for the rest of your days.’
    ‘No comment.’
    Gardner had been batting away their questions for an hour or more when an officer barged in and breathlessly announced an urgent call. López and Guerrero left. The deputy flashed Gardner a smile, his small eyes disappearing into the fleshy folds of his face.
    Thirty minutes passed. Neither man returned. Gardner could do nothing about his own predicament until he got a lawyer, so he tried to figure one or two things out.
    Aside from the murders, the police had him on an assault charge and possession of a firearm. López sounded bullish about pressing charges. Gardner had his doubts. For starters, he hadn’t laid a finger on the Wren’s body. If she had been raped, DNA testing would also prove it wasn’t his semen. Gill’s death was harder to explain. His handiwork was all over that body.
    He doubted the Firm would come riding to the rescue. Shit, he thought, they’re probably covering up their tracks