Weiss’s toe.
The pain was excruciating, like someone ripping off his toenail a million times over. He did everything to shake his foot free, but the other guy was holding it firmly in place and he couldn’t force any leeway. The toenail cracked down the middle as the drill pushed down into his flesh. His foot was covered in nail dust.
As the bit ate into his big toe, Weiss couldn’t fight it any more.
They kept on drilling.
The drill shuddered as it tunnelled into his flexor bone. Lakers revved again and forced the bit deeper into his toe. Weiss fought hard to ride the pain, absorbing each wave of nausea and taking big gulps of air. It was crucial not to vomit.
He felt as if an invisible hand was choking him to death. That he might pass out at any given moment. And he knew that if he fainted he wouldn’t escape with his life.
Dizziness overwhelmed him, like he was drowning in a bathtub. This is it, he thought, the moment of no return, and then a shrill, grinding sound stung his ears.
The bit had struck concrete.
He opened his eyes and peered down at the floor. Where his big toe once was, lay a splatter of blood and curls of torn flesh. Dirty-white bone fragments covered in gristle, everything hanging together by a few limp muscle strings. He tried twitching it, but nothing happened. Bile burned his throat.
‘Let’s give him a rest,’ Roulette said, flipping the mobile shut. ‘We don’t want him to miss the best part of the show.’
‘Yeah, fucking see you in a while, man,’ Rolex said. ‘We’re working on your teeth next.’ He made a pliers-wrenching motion.
The three men left, locking the door behind them. Weiss heard the stairs squeal like dying rabbits as they trampled down them, and a woman shouting, Roulette calling her a fucking ass-licker and a whore with a pussy the size of Argentina. Another door slammed, this one further away. The front one, he guessed.
Weiss spat on the ground. His mucous membranes were bright red. Somehow the pain and anger failed to register inside him. Ever since he was a child he had lacked basic empathy. A shrink would probably link it to his abusive upbringing, to the times he witnessed his alcoholic father rape his mum, or the day
Padre
swung his fists at his little sister, Maria, until she died of a brain haemorrhage. But the whys didn’t interest Weiss. He only knew that he felt no emotion towards anyone else – but, most of all, himself.
So it was that Weiss didn’t pity his situation, or rue his bad luck.
Instead, he focused on escaping.
11
1249 hours.
Gardner had slotted five Messengers but they’d kept on coming and their number had swelled to twenty. Each one decked out in the gang’s unofficial uniform of Ray-Bans, football shirts and PP-2000s. To conserve ammo, Gardner restricted himself to single shots whenever a Messenger slid his head above one of the four brick parapets strewn about the street.
Two guys, a few years older than the rest, yelled at each other. They suddenly leapt out from behind separate spots of cover. Mounted red-dot sights lasered the window. Gardner crouched, just as they pulled the triggers in tandem. Cooked air stroked the back of his head as the Luger rounds pelted the frame, slapping into a metre-high china statue of the Virgin Mary. Five seconds of fury, then Gardner detected a lull. Must be reloading, he thought, as the statue disintegrated into a dust cloud.
The lull was only two seconds, but that was all he needed. He shot to his feet and saw the two guys feeding fresh clips into the housing receivers. One of them was a fraction ahead of his mate, tugging the bolt lever into the closed position at the rear of the barrel. Poised to let Gardner have it. Gardner peered down the Colt’s iron sights and gave the bastard a .223 black eye.
The bullet entered the Messenger’s right socket, flinging brain matter and skull out the back of his head in a frenzied spurt, like uncorked champagne. His mate ditched his
The pain was excruciating, like someone ripping off his toenail a million times over. He did everything to shake his foot free, but the other guy was holding it firmly in place and he couldn’t force any leeway. The toenail cracked down the middle as the drill pushed down into his flesh. His foot was covered in nail dust.
As the bit ate into his big toe, Weiss couldn’t fight it any more.
They kept on drilling.
The drill shuddered as it tunnelled into his flexor bone. Lakers revved again and forced the bit deeper into his toe. Weiss fought hard to ride the pain, absorbing each wave of nausea and taking big gulps of air. It was crucial not to vomit.
He felt as if an invisible hand was choking him to death. That he might pass out at any given moment. And he knew that if he fainted he wouldn’t escape with his life.
Dizziness overwhelmed him, like he was drowning in a bathtub. This is it, he thought, the moment of no return, and then a shrill, grinding sound stung his ears.
The bit had struck concrete.
He opened his eyes and peered down at the floor. Where his big toe once was, lay a splatter of blood and curls of torn flesh. Dirty-white bone fragments covered in gristle, everything hanging together by a few limp muscle strings. He tried twitching it, but nothing happened. Bile burned his throat.
‘Let’s give him a rest,’ Roulette said, flipping the mobile shut. ‘We don’t want him to miss the best part of the show.’
‘Yeah, fucking see you in a while, man,’ Rolex said. ‘We’re working on your teeth next.’ He made a pliers-wrenching motion.
The three men left, locking the door behind them. Weiss heard the stairs squeal like dying rabbits as they trampled down them, and a woman shouting, Roulette calling her a fucking ass-licker and a whore with a pussy the size of Argentina. Another door slammed, this one further away. The front one, he guessed.
Weiss spat on the ground. His mucous membranes were bright red. Somehow the pain and anger failed to register inside him. Ever since he was a child he had lacked basic empathy. A shrink would probably link it to his abusive upbringing, to the times he witnessed his alcoholic father rape his mum, or the day
Padre
swung his fists at his little sister, Maria, until she died of a brain haemorrhage. But the whys didn’t interest Weiss. He only knew that he felt no emotion towards anyone else – but, most of all, himself.
So it was that Weiss didn’t pity his situation, or rue his bad luck.
Instead, he focused on escaping.
11
1249 hours.
Gardner had slotted five Messengers but they’d kept on coming and their number had swelled to twenty. Each one decked out in the gang’s unofficial uniform of Ray-Bans, football shirts and PP-2000s. To conserve ammo, Gardner restricted himself to single shots whenever a Messenger slid his head above one of the four brick parapets strewn about the street.
Two guys, a few years older than the rest, yelled at each other. They suddenly leapt out from behind separate spots of cover. Mounted red-dot sights lasered the window. Gardner crouched, just as they pulled the triggers in tandem. Cooked air stroked the back of his head as the Luger rounds pelted the frame, slapping into a metre-high china statue of the Virgin Mary. Five seconds of fury, then Gardner detected a lull. Must be reloading, he thought, as the statue disintegrated into a dust cloud.
The lull was only two seconds, but that was all he needed. He shot to his feet and saw the two guys feeding fresh clips into the housing receivers. One of them was a fraction ahead of his mate, tugging the bolt lever into the closed position at the rear of the barrel. Poised to let Gardner have it. Gardner peered down the Colt’s iron sights and gave the bastard a .223 black eye.
The bullet entered the Messenger’s right socket, flinging brain matter and skull out the back of his head in a frenzied spurt, like uncorked champagne. His mate ditched his
Similar Books
