Breaking Point (The Point Series: Book 2) by Gerard Brennan Page A
Authors: Gerard Brennan
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hoodie, but forced them to hang by his hips. Tony waved his arms at the students.
"Okay, stop. Now, everybody drop down and give me some press-ups."
The heavy guy gasped. "How many?"
"As many as you can manage."
A dark-haired and sallow-skinned lad wearing a Bruce Lee T-shirt raised his hand. "Normal press-ups or on your knuckles?"
"Whatever you're comfortable with. Just don't cheat yourself. Keep going until you can't do one more."
The class got to work, huffing and grunting in no time. Some were obviously fitter than others but they all shared a determination to do as well as they could in front of the others. Brian felt even guiltier. He thought he could bang out about thirty press-ups, but it'd been so long since he'd tried he couldn't be sure. What right had he, standing up and staring them all down while they did things he wasn't capable of?
"What time is it?" Tony asked.
Brian checked his phone – another missed call from Rachel – and looked at the little digital clock in the corner.
"It's ten past seven."
"Is that all? How'm I going to fill the next hour and twenty minutes?"
"You're the instructor, Tony."
He forced a smile. "Just messing with you. I've it all worked out. We'll be grand."
We?
Brian felt as confident as Tony looked.
Another Stakeout
––––––––
O wen lit his first cigarette in five years. Watching the flame kiss the end of the coffin nail had always been his favourite part. It looked just how he remembered it. The fag tasted like dog shit, though. He got three puffs in then snubbed it out on the bus shelter bench. A little black hole formed on the orange plastic. Owen smiled to himself then grimaced at the tobacco aftertaste. Fucking rotten.
At least he knew he wasn't a smoker anymore.
Owen looked across the street to the address he'd got from Facebook. He'd seen Brian go in with a short chubby guy just before seven o'clock but held back. And he was glad he had. About a dozen other fellahs had filtered into the building a few minutes later. None of them looked particularly threatening, but a dozen kung fu enthusiasts might have been a bit of a handful for him. So it was back to the waiting game. When class ended, he'd follow Brian home and take care of him there.
He had just over an hour to find a car to follow him in.
Owen lit his second cigarette in five years.
The 411
––––––––
R achel was trying to decide if it was worth the effort of getting up to make a decaf. She'd already had a little over the recommended daily amount of caffeine during pregnancy, but she craved a decent cup of Joe. Decaf was bound to disappoint. And yet the question remained, was it better than nothing?
Her dilemma was interrupted by a phone call. The caller ID told her it was her brother, Jailbird John. Outside of his usual business hours too. Sweat popped up on the back of her neck and trickled down her ribcage.
"What are you doing to me, Bump?"
She hit the green button.
"What's the story, John?"
"I haven't got a lot of time here. The screws will be looking in on me soon." His voice was hushed but clear. "Owen Donnelly is your mystery man. Used to work for Richard O'Rourke. Remember him?"
"You think I could forget?" He was the crime boss that Brian's brother had worked for. The man who provided the gun that got John scooped for armed robbery. A total prick. "May he rot in pieces."
"From what I could gather, Brian shot Owen in the ear or something?"
" That guy?"
"You know him, then?"
"Brian told me about it. It wasn't even intentional. Lucky bastard that he is, of course it was going to come back on him. I mean, can you imagine Brian doing something like that? Barely believed it myself."
"Listen, I've got to go. But here, the Donnelly lad's a psycho. Arsonist, like. Make sure you've got a fire escape plan, right? Get out, get the fire brigade out. Stay out."
"He mustn't know where we live, though, or he wouldn't have pulled that creepy stunt at the petrol
"Okay, stop. Now, everybody drop down and give me some press-ups."
The heavy guy gasped. "How many?"
"As many as you can manage."
A dark-haired and sallow-skinned lad wearing a Bruce Lee T-shirt raised his hand. "Normal press-ups or on your knuckles?"
"Whatever you're comfortable with. Just don't cheat yourself. Keep going until you can't do one more."
The class got to work, huffing and grunting in no time. Some were obviously fitter than others but they all shared a determination to do as well as they could in front of the others. Brian felt even guiltier. He thought he could bang out about thirty press-ups, but it'd been so long since he'd tried he couldn't be sure. What right had he, standing up and staring them all down while they did things he wasn't capable of?
"What time is it?" Tony asked.
Brian checked his phone – another missed call from Rachel – and looked at the little digital clock in the corner.
"It's ten past seven."
"Is that all? How'm I going to fill the next hour and twenty minutes?"
"You're the instructor, Tony."
He forced a smile. "Just messing with you. I've it all worked out. We'll be grand."
We?
Brian felt as confident as Tony looked.
Another Stakeout
––––––––
O wen lit his first cigarette in five years. Watching the flame kiss the end of the coffin nail had always been his favourite part. It looked just how he remembered it. The fag tasted like dog shit, though. He got three puffs in then snubbed it out on the bus shelter bench. A little black hole formed on the orange plastic. Owen smiled to himself then grimaced at the tobacco aftertaste. Fucking rotten.
At least he knew he wasn't a smoker anymore.
Owen looked across the street to the address he'd got from Facebook. He'd seen Brian go in with a short chubby guy just before seven o'clock but held back. And he was glad he had. About a dozen other fellahs had filtered into the building a few minutes later. None of them looked particularly threatening, but a dozen kung fu enthusiasts might have been a bit of a handful for him. So it was back to the waiting game. When class ended, he'd follow Brian home and take care of him there.
He had just over an hour to find a car to follow him in.
Owen lit his second cigarette in five years.
The 411
––––––––
R achel was trying to decide if it was worth the effort of getting up to make a decaf. She'd already had a little over the recommended daily amount of caffeine during pregnancy, but she craved a decent cup of Joe. Decaf was bound to disappoint. And yet the question remained, was it better than nothing?
Her dilemma was interrupted by a phone call. The caller ID told her it was her brother, Jailbird John. Outside of his usual business hours too. Sweat popped up on the back of her neck and trickled down her ribcage.
"What are you doing to me, Bump?"
She hit the green button.
"What's the story, John?"
"I haven't got a lot of time here. The screws will be looking in on me soon." His voice was hushed but clear. "Owen Donnelly is your mystery man. Used to work for Richard O'Rourke. Remember him?"
"You think I could forget?" He was the crime boss that Brian's brother had worked for. The man who provided the gun that got John scooped for armed robbery. A total prick. "May he rot in pieces."
"From what I could gather, Brian shot Owen in the ear or something?"
" That guy?"
"You know him, then?"
"Brian told me about it. It wasn't even intentional. Lucky bastard that he is, of course it was going to come back on him. I mean, can you imagine Brian doing something like that? Barely believed it myself."
"Listen, I've got to go. But here, the Donnelly lad's a psycho. Arsonist, like. Make sure you've got a fire escape plan, right? Get out, get the fire brigade out. Stay out."
"He mustn't know where we live, though, or he wouldn't have pulled that creepy stunt at the petrol
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