His sharp eyes roved and flickered once more, nervously taking everything in.
But there was nothing. Yet. He knew he would soon have to move. ‘Come away from the window.’
He allowed the flimsy curtain to fall back into place and turned to face the female who lay stretched out naked on the bed. This was the third time that morning he’d been to the window.
‘ He’ll never find you here,’ she said.
Reeve did not actually agree with her. Dakin had very long, sticky tentacles and he never underestimated him.
‘ You don’t even know if he’s after you,’ the lady went on, ‘so come back to bed, eh? Let’s have a good time.’
‘ I’m taking no chances, Janine. Once I’ve got all my money together, we’re away.’
‘ Where to?’
‘ Spain, maybe… dunno.’
‘ Sounds nice, but I think you’re overreacting.’
‘ Browney’s dead, so’s that American — plus every other poor bastard in Lancashire. And I’m next in line. I was going to do the legwork for Browney and if Dakin knew about Brown’s double-cross, he’s bound to know about me too. I’d never be able to bluff my way out of it, never.’
He stood in the middle of the room, rubbing his chin with a hand, thinking. ‘How the hell did he find out about Browney’s plans? Fucked if I know. Who on earth could have told him?’
‘ Come on back to bed,’ Janine said, a little too abruptly. ‘Come on, babe, I’m dying to get hold of you.’ The last thing she wanted was for Reeve to start thinking things through. He might be slow, but not that slow.
‘ I don’t know… I think we should fuck off.’
‘ There’s always time for sex,’ she pouted.
‘ OK,’ he said with a smile. ‘You win, but let’s make it quick. We’re out of here ASAP.’
He crossed the room. She wriggled down the bed to prepare for business.
After peeling off his underpants — which had the words Hot Rod emblazoned across them — he stood by the bed, erection swaying, deciding what he wanted.
He stood well over six feet tall and had a build to match, large wide shoulders, flat muscular stomach, solid thighs — all areas of skin which over the years had become a canvas for wild tattoos. Hearts, daggers, girls’ names, swords, ships, guns; many brightly coloured, others merely blue outlines. Only his head and neck remained free.
‘ Well?’ she said, eyes dancing, breasts a-quiver.
He straddled her, letting his testicles (tattooed to resemble two leather footballs hanging in a basket) rest on her body just below her well-proportioned breasts. She cradled these balls in the palm of her hand, crushing them gently, making him hiss. Then she took his erection (tattooed to look like a rocket) in her other hand. She knew what he wanted. She began a slow, rhythmic movement with fluttering fingers along the length of his cock.
Her experienced touch brought him to the point of orgasm many times, but she then held back from the final fast strokes that would have allowed him to shoot forth his sperm.
It was almost agony for him.
His penis was huge and throbbing in her hands, but she refused to let him finish.
Then, as he approached orgasm for the umpteenth time, an axe smashed through the thin hotel door, sending splintering wood into the room.
This time Janine rubbed for dear life.
The axe-head was twisted round and heaved back, ripping out the panelling.
‘ Oh come, come, come,’ Janine breathed as though she hadn’t seen or heard the interruption. She held his organs tightly in her grip, refusing to let go.
‘ God, they’re here!’ he shouted.
‘ I know, I know,’ she responded.
Reeve tore himself from her grasp, painfully. He hopped across the room to where his jacket was slung over a chair. Sperm shot everywhere in uncontrollable spurts. On the bedclothes, on the bedside cabinet, on the floor.
He fumbled for his gun which was in his jacket.
The door was battered and burst from its hinges. Three men stepped into the room, one being Dakin’s driver, still dressed in his chauffeur’s uniform.
The first man through the door was a small, lithe man, no bigger than a jockey. He had a baseball bat in his hands which he wielded with great accuracy across the back of Reeve’s head.
In Miami it was almost ninety degrees. The city was sweltering under the curse of a heatwave, but on the boats taking day-trippers sightseeing around the bay there was a slight breeze coming off the water.
‘ And over there, to your left, is the home of Gloria Estafan, Miami’s very own superstar,’ said the captain’s voice over the loudspeaker. Everyone’s attention on the boat turned to the beautiful waterside mansion of the star in the hope of catching just one glimpse of her. There was no sign of the singer, nor any sign of life, just as there had been no sign of any other of the celebrities whose homes the boat had passed on its journey.
Eamon Ritter hadn’t bothered looking. He’d been on the bay trips many times and could easily have taken over the commentary should the captain suddenly have fallen ill.
Instead he made his way inside to the empty bar, ordered a beer and sat down to sip it from the bottle by a window. He gazed out at the stunning skyline of Miami and marvelled, yet again, at the foresight of Julia Tuttle from Ohio. Hardly one hundred years ago, she had bought some of the Biscayne Bay swampland and reckoned she’d build a city.
Even she would have been surprised at the melting-pot metropolis she’d spawned.
The door opened. Ritter looked casually round. A middle-aged woman entered the room and went to the bar. Ritter remembered she’d boarded the boat with her husband. It was unlikely that she’d be the one he had to meet.
Ritter had earlier boarded the boat at the waterfront near to Bayside, the new shopping complex. He’d got on first and discreetly studied every other tourist who’d boarded. He couldn’t for the life of him work out which one was Corelli’s man or woman. He’d tried it every time, but failed, and been surprised when the least likely person actually approached him.
He looked out of the window and took a sip of the beer.
The other reason he checked everyone was to make sure he wasn’t being followed.
‘ Upper deck, seats at the rear,’ a voice said.
Ritter spun round. This time it was a girl, late teens, early twenties maybe. She wore big round sunglasses and had her hair pulled back tightly from her face into a ponytail. She had a nice, wide mouth, small upturned nose and was very tanned and pretty in an impish way. She was wearing a loose vest-like top which hung open around the shoulders and a pair of cut-off jeans revealing long, slender legs. On her feet were flip-flops.
Ritter remembered her boarding, but had dismissed her as being too glamorous.
Before he could reply to her instruction, she walked past him, out of the bar.
Suddenly his throat went very dry and constricted, as it always did at this time of betrayal. He began to pour with sweat; his stomach knotted and butterflies danced through his intestines.
He took a long pull of the beer, stood up and made his way to the upper deck which was laid out with seating for the tourists. There were many vacant seats. This voyage wasn’t overly crowded as it wasn’t the height of the season.
The girl was sitting alone at the back of the boat, leaning against the railing, one leg wedged in the back of the chair in front of her. She was drinking Coke from a can.
‘ Mind if I sit here?’ he asked.
‘ Suit yourself,’ she said with a sneer of uninterest as though she was fending off a pass.
Ritter sat. He extracted his sunglasses from his shirt-pocket and manoeuvred them onto his face.
‘ Miami’s a wonderful city, don’t you think?’ he stated. These were the words, the phrase, that meant everything was OK to proceed.