Read Online Fogarty: A City of London Thriller by J Jackson Bentley - Free Book Online
Authors: J Jackson Bentley
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exit. As the lawyer turned to face him, the old bouncer smiled and lifted up his right hand to reveal a hunting knife with a razor sharp blade and an uncompromising serrated edge. Barty expected the city lawyer to be terrified, but the man merely looked bored. Barty was even more surprised when the lawyer shook his head and spoke. “How pathetically predictable.”
The next thing that happened was lost in a blur of movement. Before Den’s minder could react, the lawyer was standing in front of him with his back to the old bouncer, holding Barty’s right wrist in his iron grip. Somehow the man had moved and spun in one slick movement. The lawyer crashed Barty’s forearm against the jamb of the door. Everyone in the room heard the bones crack. The ulna and the radius were both cleanly broken and the radius pierced the skin, revealing a sha rp, bloody bone and torn flesh.
“Oops, a compound fracture,” the lawyer said sarcastically as the knife skittered to the floor, and then he threw his head back into Barty’s face. The old minder, whose body had long ago gone to fat, fell to the kitchen floor, moaning.
Seeing the imminent danger he faced from the lawyer, Den began to rise, the adrenalin e obscuring the pain from his bruised and damaged muscles, but before he was upright the lawyer threw a punch that hit the gang leader in the chest like a sledgehammer, then threw him back into his old mum’s chair, where he slumped, gasping for breath.
The man Dennis Grierson knew as Clive Williamson pulled up a chair and sat three feet aw ay, facing the tagged criminal.
“You aren’t from Kendal Bailey at all, are you?” Dennis Grierson was calm, although he now believed he was looking at his executioner. Ben Fogarty playe d with the knife as he replied.
“No, I’m not. Clive was good enough to exchange business cards with me yesterday in the bar at the hotel. I am indeed a lawyer, though.”
“You’ re Australian.”
“Not quite. Many people think I’m Australian, but I’m actually from New Zealand. I just flew in on Friday to give your name to the police.” Ben took satisfaction from the scowl that crossed Den’s face.
“I knew no one from around here would have shopped me. Question is, how did you know it was me? Y ou aren’t from around here.”
“I used to be from here, a long time ago.”
“Not from these flats. I would know if anyone from these flats was a lawyer or went to New Zealand. I know everything that goes on he re. So, what’s your real name?”
“Ben Fogarty.” Ben watched the blood drain from the face of his biological father. After a stunned silence, Den found his voice.
“So, you came to kill your dear old Dad, did you, Ambrose? Kill the man who mowed down your whore mother and made you an orphan. What an irony, being killed by my own bastard kid.” Den figured he might as well go down fighting.
Ben had visualised this meeting and had replayed the vile things that might be said over and over in his head until his reaction was calm and controlled, as it was now, when faced with the reality.
“I’m not sure that I want to kill you, actually. You are already destined to go to prison for the rest of your life, and if you don’t - well, I’ll still be here to ensure justice is done.”
The whole time they had been speaking, Den’s right hand had surreptitiously slipped behind the arm of the chair, where he kept an old Zastava 9mm automatic handgun, an East European copy of the Sig Sauer. His hand gripped the gun, and his finger found the trigger as he raised it into firing position.
Ben had been watching the older man carefully, and had guessed that he would have protection close at hand. Before the gun was aimed in his direction, Ben raised the hunting knife and arced it down in one swift movement. Den screamed and dropped the pistol as the knife plunged into his left thigh, embedding itself right to the hilt. In fact, the sharp knife went right through his leg, p inning
The next thing that happened was lost in a blur of movement. Before Den’s minder could react, the lawyer was standing in front of him with his back to the old bouncer, holding Barty’s right wrist in his iron grip. Somehow the man had moved and spun in one slick movement. The lawyer crashed Barty’s forearm against the jamb of the door. Everyone in the room heard the bones crack. The ulna and the radius were both cleanly broken and the radius pierced the skin, revealing a sha rp, bloody bone and torn flesh.
“Oops, a compound fracture,” the lawyer said sarcastically as the knife skittered to the floor, and then he threw his head back into Barty’s face. The old minder, whose body had long ago gone to fat, fell to the kitchen floor, moaning.
Seeing the imminent danger he faced from the lawyer, Den began to rise, the adrenalin e obscuring the pain from his bruised and damaged muscles, but before he was upright the lawyer threw a punch that hit the gang leader in the chest like a sledgehammer, then threw him back into his old mum’s chair, where he slumped, gasping for breath.
The man Dennis Grierson knew as Clive Williamson pulled up a chair and sat three feet aw ay, facing the tagged criminal.
“You aren’t from Kendal Bailey at all, are you?” Dennis Grierson was calm, although he now believed he was looking at his executioner. Ben Fogarty playe d with the knife as he replied.
“No, I’m not. Clive was good enough to exchange business cards with me yesterday in the bar at the hotel. I am indeed a lawyer, though.”
“You’ re Australian.”
“Not quite. Many people think I’m Australian, but I’m actually from New Zealand. I just flew in on Friday to give your name to the police.” Ben took satisfaction from the scowl that crossed Den’s face.
“I knew no one from around here would have shopped me. Question is, how did you know it was me? Y ou aren’t from around here.”
“I used to be from here, a long time ago.”
“Not from these flats. I would know if anyone from these flats was a lawyer or went to New Zealand. I know everything that goes on he re. So, what’s your real name?”
“Ben Fogarty.” Ben watched the blood drain from the face of his biological father. After a stunned silence, Den found his voice.
“So, you came to kill your dear old Dad, did you, Ambrose? Kill the man who mowed down your whore mother and made you an orphan. What an irony, being killed by my own bastard kid.” Den figured he might as well go down fighting.
Ben had visualised this meeting and had replayed the vile things that might be said over and over in his head until his reaction was calm and controlled, as it was now, when faced with the reality.
“I’m not sure that I want to kill you, actually. You are already destined to go to prison for the rest of your life, and if you don’t - well, I’ll still be here to ensure justice is done.”
The whole time they had been speaking, Den’s right hand had surreptitiously slipped behind the arm of the chair, where he kept an old Zastava 9mm automatic handgun, an East European copy of the Sig Sauer. His hand gripped the gun, and his finger found the trigger as he raised it into firing position.
Ben had been watching the older man carefully, and had guessed that he would have protection close at hand. Before the gun was aimed in his direction, Ben raised the hunting knife and arced it down in one swift movement. Den screamed and dropped the pistol as the knife plunged into his left thigh, embedding itself right to the hilt. In fact, the sharp knife went right through his leg, p inning
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