Read Online All or Nothing by Stuart Keane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart Keane
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wrong.
Kidnapping an innocent woman and child was beyond reprehensible.
He stumbled into his bedroom and perched on the bed. Held his head in his hands and thought he was going to cry. He didn’t, he felt his muscles tighten around his jaw with rage. Pressure built behind his teeth as he forced himself to keep his mouth shut.
Don't scream . They win if you do.
He stood up, removed his sweat-soaked top, and threw it against the wall.
Then he opened his wardrobe and shoved his clothes to one side. Kneeling down, he felt around at the bottom of the closet until he found a locked box. The lock was of the combination type, and Francisco dialled in the numbers until it snapped open. Taking it out of the wardrobe, he placed it on the bed.
Pulling the lid open, he pulled off the tissue covering to reveal a nine millimetre Beretta handgun, highly illegal to possess in the UK. He lifted the gun out of its box and looked at the six magazines, each of them filled with nine millimetre parabellum bullets, each magazine holding fourteen rounds. He took all six of them out of the box and laid them on the bed. He then placed the gun down beside them.
No more fucking about!
The problem was, Francisco didn’t know where to start, who to go to, and who had actually captured him. Maybe he should have stayed in his cell. Maybe that was the whole plan. Maybe his pig-headed escape had forced his captors to seek insurance and come and claim his family. Francisco De Goya, desperate and alone, could have unwittingly killed his family. It made him want to cry.
But he didn’t.
He needed a plan.
Francisco glanced across at his bedside table and saw the green glowing numbers of his alarm clock. His eyes took time to adjust to them, he hadn’t been in daylight for hours, but darkness still came as a surprise to his eyes.
His heart sunk fast.
The clock read 21:18.
It was only just gone nine!
But the empty streets?
A motorcycle engine broke his train of thought. The sound tore through the quietness like a tornado, then died and all was silent. Listening intently, the silence was deafening, as if his ears were finely attuned to the smallest noise. For minutes he heard nothing.
Until …Was that leather boots clumping up his garden path?
Francisco De Goya was scared, alone, and he was a wanted man. He slammed one of the magazines into the handle of his gun and racked a round into the chamber.
He was running out of time.
***
Ten minutes were up.
In fact, eighteen minutes were up, the final man had allowed overtime as a reward for his subject’s natural ability to stay hidden. He liked surprises, the challenge of overcoming them as quickly as possible with as little aggravation as he could muster.
Credit where it’s due, on two occasions the subject had ducked out of sight and remained lost for mere seconds. It almost made the man push the panic button and not wait the full ten minutes. Control was his main prerogative though, and he had remained in calm, cool control during the entire eighteen minutes. He had located his subject again and followed him.
The lure of home had been too much, and as he had totally expected, the Choice had headed there, probably looking for his family. Following him around had proved that this had not been the case. What he did admire though, was the fact that his subject remained as cool as he did under pressure. Uncanny!
The gun had thrown him, however. He did not expect a firearm to come into the equation. Well, not from that side of things anyway, and not so early either. But it had.
That one move had cost him two hundred grand in a second.
And another one hundred for his follow-up solution.
The solution had taken twelve seconds, a new record by his own standards. Speaking out loud, he said, “I never fail to impress myself anymore. Three hundred grand in the space of thirty seconds. That's wealth, that's power.”
And ultimate control.
The shit is still going to hit the fan , he
Kidnapping an innocent woman and child was beyond reprehensible.
He stumbled into his bedroom and perched on the bed. Held his head in his hands and thought he was going to cry. He didn’t, he felt his muscles tighten around his jaw with rage. Pressure built behind his teeth as he forced himself to keep his mouth shut.
Don't scream . They win if you do.
He stood up, removed his sweat-soaked top, and threw it against the wall.
Then he opened his wardrobe and shoved his clothes to one side. Kneeling down, he felt around at the bottom of the closet until he found a locked box. The lock was of the combination type, and Francisco dialled in the numbers until it snapped open. Taking it out of the wardrobe, he placed it on the bed.
Pulling the lid open, he pulled off the tissue covering to reveal a nine millimetre Beretta handgun, highly illegal to possess in the UK. He lifted the gun out of its box and looked at the six magazines, each of them filled with nine millimetre parabellum bullets, each magazine holding fourteen rounds. He took all six of them out of the box and laid them on the bed. He then placed the gun down beside them.
No more fucking about!
The problem was, Francisco didn’t know where to start, who to go to, and who had actually captured him. Maybe he should have stayed in his cell. Maybe that was the whole plan. Maybe his pig-headed escape had forced his captors to seek insurance and come and claim his family. Francisco De Goya, desperate and alone, could have unwittingly killed his family. It made him want to cry.
But he didn’t.
He needed a plan.
Francisco glanced across at his bedside table and saw the green glowing numbers of his alarm clock. His eyes took time to adjust to them, he hadn’t been in daylight for hours, but darkness still came as a surprise to his eyes.
His heart sunk fast.
The clock read 21:18.
It was only just gone nine!
But the empty streets?
A motorcycle engine broke his train of thought. The sound tore through the quietness like a tornado, then died and all was silent. Listening intently, the silence was deafening, as if his ears were finely attuned to the smallest noise. For minutes he heard nothing.
Until …Was that leather boots clumping up his garden path?
Francisco De Goya was scared, alone, and he was a wanted man. He slammed one of the magazines into the handle of his gun and racked a round into the chamber.
He was running out of time.
***
Ten minutes were up.
In fact, eighteen minutes were up, the final man had allowed overtime as a reward for his subject’s natural ability to stay hidden. He liked surprises, the challenge of overcoming them as quickly as possible with as little aggravation as he could muster.
Credit where it’s due, on two occasions the subject had ducked out of sight and remained lost for mere seconds. It almost made the man push the panic button and not wait the full ten minutes. Control was his main prerogative though, and he had remained in calm, cool control during the entire eighteen minutes. He had located his subject again and followed him.
The lure of home had been too much, and as he had totally expected, the Choice had headed there, probably looking for his family. Following him around had proved that this had not been the case. What he did admire though, was the fact that his subject remained as cool as he did under pressure. Uncanny!
The gun had thrown him, however. He did not expect a firearm to come into the equation. Well, not from that side of things anyway, and not so early either. But it had.
That one move had cost him two hundred grand in a second.
And another one hundred for his follow-up solution.
The solution had taken twelve seconds, a new record by his own standards. Speaking out loud, he said, “I never fail to impress myself anymore. Three hundred grand in the space of thirty seconds. That's wealth, that's power.”
And ultimate control.
The shit is still going to hit the fan , he
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