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Authors: Matt Hilton
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so that I wasn’t pulled in as the cause of the conflagration.
Feeling the effects of the evening before in every muscle and bone, I stretched, yawned, then decided I had to get my butt in gear. I could give in to the discomfort, or I could work the kinks out of my aching limbs.
When my eyes were able to focus, I scanned the newspaper. The press had given the explosion all the due of a planet-smashing meteor strike. Speculation was the order of the day. Rescue teams were sifting through the wreckage, but as yet no bodies had been discovered. That simple fact gave us a little breathing space. I threw the paper down and accepted the coffee that Rink held towards me.
The coffee was strong, the rich aroma invading my nigh-empty skull. It was the kick I needed. My injuries were superficial, grazes and scratches, the occasional bruise, but thankfully my bones were intact. The bullet graze on my shoulder hurt like a bitch, but it was more burn than open wound. The gash in my scalp had required stitches, and my last memory from the early hours of this morning was Rink coming at me with a tube of super glue, a needle and some cat gut. Probing the wound, I decided Rink was no Florence Nightingale, but he’d pass first level at sewing school.
I’d suffered a ride on an explosion, and a crashing fall through a window, but Rink didn’t look to be in much better shape than me. He had dark smudges beneath his bloodshot eyes like he’d been peeping through keyholes all night. Can’t have got much sleep, I surmised.
Sometimes Rink seems to read my mind. He nodded me through into his office. His glowing computer monitor cast a cold light on the walls of the otherwise darkened room; it made me feel the chill of the air-conditioning unit. I cupped my mug of coffee in my hands, savouring the steam on my face.
‘Been surfing all night, trying to get a handle on who this killer for hire is.’ He sat down wearily, his shoulders sinking.
‘You look like you could do with some of this.’ I held my mug up to him.
‘Had a gallon of the stuff already,’ he said. He tapped on the keyboard, brought up his email account. ‘Been speaking to some people in the know about these kinds of things.’
‘Find anything?’ I asked. I could tell by the slump of his shoulders that he hadn’t.
‘Diddlysquat on the shooter. But there’s a guy here says there’s been a bit of a power struggle going on in the Jorgenson empire. Since Valentin announced his illness, and his impending retirement from the business, people have been jostling for position. Bradley is in pole position for taking over the business, as well as the family fortune. Couple of second runners not too happy with the situation. They don’t think that the company is in safe hands with Brad. Apparently he hasn’t the head for business his pa and grandpa had.’
‘You think one of them would go as far as putting out a contract on Bradley? Bit extreme, isn’t it?’
Of course, there maybe wasn’t anything extreme about it. Richard Dean had set me on Jorgenson’s heels because he was a little too liberal with the amount of contact he was laying on his daughter. Billions of dollars into the equation, I didn’t doubt it warranted half-a-dozen hit men sent his way.
Rink said, ‘There is any number of members of the “make-Brad-dead” club. Seems he’s pissed off a lot of people. Mainly family.’
‘What about?’
‘The girl. Marianne Dean.’
‘What? The way he’s been treating her?’
‘Yeah,’ Rink said. ‘But not how you mean. According to some of his nearest and dearest, he should be shot of her. They don’t think she meets the high expectations demanded of one in their social circle. He treats her like a princess and they ain’t too happy about it.’
‘According to her father, Bradley treats her like shit. Beats her and practically keeps her a prisoner. You saw the police report, Rink.’
‘Saw she had a bashed-up face, but nowhere where it said
Feeling the effects of the evening before in every muscle and bone, I stretched, yawned, then decided I had to get my butt in gear. I could give in to the discomfort, or I could work the kinks out of my aching limbs.
When my eyes were able to focus, I scanned the newspaper. The press had given the explosion all the due of a planet-smashing meteor strike. Speculation was the order of the day. Rescue teams were sifting through the wreckage, but as yet no bodies had been discovered. That simple fact gave us a little breathing space. I threw the paper down and accepted the coffee that Rink held towards me.
The coffee was strong, the rich aroma invading my nigh-empty skull. It was the kick I needed. My injuries were superficial, grazes and scratches, the occasional bruise, but thankfully my bones were intact. The bullet graze on my shoulder hurt like a bitch, but it was more burn than open wound. The gash in my scalp had required stitches, and my last memory from the early hours of this morning was Rink coming at me with a tube of super glue, a needle and some cat gut. Probing the wound, I decided Rink was no Florence Nightingale, but he’d pass first level at sewing school.
I’d suffered a ride on an explosion, and a crashing fall through a window, but Rink didn’t look to be in much better shape than me. He had dark smudges beneath his bloodshot eyes like he’d been peeping through keyholes all night. Can’t have got much sleep, I surmised.
Sometimes Rink seems to read my mind. He nodded me through into his office. His glowing computer monitor cast a cold light on the walls of the otherwise darkened room; it made me feel the chill of the air-conditioning unit. I cupped my mug of coffee in my hands, savouring the steam on my face.
‘Been surfing all night, trying to get a handle on who this killer for hire is.’ He sat down wearily, his shoulders sinking.
‘You look like you could do with some of this.’ I held my mug up to him.
‘Had a gallon of the stuff already,’ he said. He tapped on the keyboard, brought up his email account. ‘Been speaking to some people in the know about these kinds of things.’
‘Find anything?’ I asked. I could tell by the slump of his shoulders that he hadn’t.
‘Diddlysquat on the shooter. But there’s a guy here says there’s been a bit of a power struggle going on in the Jorgenson empire. Since Valentin announced his illness, and his impending retirement from the business, people have been jostling for position. Bradley is in pole position for taking over the business, as well as the family fortune. Couple of second runners not too happy with the situation. They don’t think that the company is in safe hands with Brad. Apparently he hasn’t the head for business his pa and grandpa had.’
‘You think one of them would go as far as putting out a contract on Bradley? Bit extreme, isn’t it?’
Of course, there maybe wasn’t anything extreme about it. Richard Dean had set me on Jorgenson’s heels because he was a little too liberal with the amount of contact he was laying on his daughter. Billions of dollars into the equation, I didn’t doubt it warranted half-a-dozen hit men sent his way.
Rink said, ‘There is any number of members of the “make-Brad-dead” club. Seems he’s pissed off a lot of people. Mainly family.’
‘What about?’
‘The girl. Marianne Dean.’
‘What? The way he’s been treating her?’
‘Yeah,’ Rink said. ‘But not how you mean. According to some of his nearest and dearest, he should be shot of her. They don’t think she meets the high expectations demanded of one in their social circle. He treats her like a princess and they ain’t too happy about it.’
‘According to her father, Bradley treats her like shit. Beats her and practically keeps her a prisoner. You saw the police report, Rink.’
‘Saw she had a bashed-up face, but nowhere where it said
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