Shoot to Kill by James Craig Page A

his head. ‘Nah. Too big. Too many people. Too noisy. Too dirty. Too expensive. Not for me.’
    They sat together in companionable silence for a while, listening to the sound of sporadic small-arms fire in the middle distance. After a while, Withers took a bottle of water from his pack, drank half of it and poured the rest over his head. ‘How’s it going with you Brits?’
    Gasparino shrugged. ‘It’s going.’
    Withers smacked him on the shoulder. ‘Chin up, my man. It’s another day closer to going home.’
    Gasparino smiled. ‘Yes, indeed.’
    ‘Thing is,’ Withers stared into the middle distance, ‘as soon as you get home, you wanna get back.’
    ‘Tell me about it.’ The realization that he would miss all this – seriously miss it – was like a nervous ache in his stomach. Gasparino hoped that the baby would make that feeling go away, or at least give him something else to think about and make it more manageable.
    Withers rubbed the heel of his left boot into the dirt. ‘I mean, this shit can be boring, but when it’s exciting, it’s really fucking exciting.’ He turned to Gasparino. ‘Know what I mean?’
    ‘I do.’
    ‘It’s a great fucking buzz.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Gasparino said almost wistfully.
    Withers took a packet of Camel cigarettes from his jacket pocket, offering one to Gasparino, who refused.
    Withers pulled a cigarette from the pack with his teeth, lit it and took a deep drag. ‘So,’ he said, exhaling the smoke through his nose, ‘will you be coming back?’
    ‘Me? Nope.’ Gasparino shook his head. ‘This really is my last time.’
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You’re not coming back?’
    ‘That is correct. I’m not coming back.’
    Grinning, Withers sucked down another mouthful of smoke. ‘Wanna have a little bet on that?’

NINE
    Men, couples, singles, groups – all welcome!
    Carlyle read the sign and yawned. It was late and he was of the firm belief that he should have been in bed hours ago. Everton’s Gentleman’s Club was maybe a two-minute walk from his flat and he felt a strong temptation to keep on walking. Inside, the inevitable commotion had kicked up as the police went in and started asking people to prove their identities. Almost immediately, a couple of customers slipped out, middle-aged businessmen, eyes glued to the pavement, the looks on their faces suggesting a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. After watching them slink round the corner and disappear into the hustle and bustle of Kingsway, the inspector turned his gaze to the girl standing in the doorway. She was wearing a lime-green Puffa jacket over a white blouse, with the shortest skirt he had ever seen showing off her black suspenders to good effect, as well as the goosebumps on her thighs. In her Ferrari-red stilettos, she still only came up to his chin.
    ‘ID?’ he asked.
    Shivering against the cold, she shook her head.
    ‘No papers?’
    ‘No understand,’ she lied lazily, making no effort to try and be convincing, in an accent that suggested she came from somewhere east of the Danube. Belatedly, he thought that maybe they should have brought a translator.
    ‘Where are you from?’ he said slowly, sounding like an English tourist abroad.
    Wiping her nose on the sleeve of her jacket, she took a tentative step towards him, glancing quickly inside. ‘Caledonian Road.’
    For fuck’s sake
, Carlyle thought,
why do I bother?
He took a pile of flyers from her hand. ‘You go inside,’ he said slowly, gesturing with his thumb, ‘and get something that proves who you are. Passport, driver’s licence, something like that . . .’
    Still shivering, she stood her ground.
    ‘Show it to one of the officers,’ Carlyle continued.
And put some proper clothes on
, he thought. ‘Now!’
    Reluctantly, the girl finally went into the club. Even more reluctantly, Carlyle followed her. Inside, the place was almost empty. A couple of punters sat at their tables, drinking in silent amusement as the