Page 35 of Nobody's Hero
‘No question. Spax over there’ – he tilted his head at the pockmarked guy, the one who’d sent the SMS – ‘likes to trawl the dark web. See if there are any jobs we can do for pocket money. He sent me a link. I went outside to check.’
‘And to collect your Glock.’
‘Er, what’s this about a five-million-dollar bounty, Koenig?’ Danielle said. ‘Because if it’s true, that’s the type of thing you mentionbeforewe step into the roughest pub in Manchester. Not afterwards. Not after some one-eyed arsehole has pulled a gun from his pocket.’
‘Yes, thatwasa stroke of luck,’ Koenig said.
‘Luck?’ Danielle said. ‘You think that was lucky?’
‘If Stan had pulled a Saturday night special, we’d have had to go someplace else. But Standidn’tpull a Saturday night special. Stan pulled a Glock 46. And the Glock 46 is a rare beast. I’ve never even seen one before. No way does this pinhead have the connections to bring in guns like these from mainland Europe. Any arms dealer capable of getting his hands on a Glock 46 would run a mile from these clowns. That means Stan has a local supplier. An intermediary. Someone who can deal with the street thugsandthe guys who import high-quality guns. It’sthisguy we want. And Stan’s going to tell us. That’s why it was a stroke of luck. It’s lucky for Stan as well. Because even though he’s pulled a gun on me, he gets to live. So, yay for him.’
Stan’s brow furrowed. ‘Wesell the guns around here,’ he said.
‘You guys couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel,’ Koenig said. ‘But here’s the deal – tell me who you bought the Glock from, and I’ll pretend you didn’t point it at me. This offer expires soon.’
‘You’re a cocky bastard, aren’t you?’ Steeleye said. ‘Especially for someone locked in a room with five armed men.’
‘Onearmed man,’ Koenig said. ‘And you’ve got it the wrong way around, Stan. I’m not locked in here with the five of you. You’re locked in here withme.’
Steeleye’s right hand was still resting on top of the Glock. His index finger was inside the trigger guard. But because they were seated at the bar facing each other, the Glock’s barrel wasn’t pointing at Koenig. For that to happen, Steeleye would have had to hold it at an unnatural angle. Or rest it on his knee. Or hold it in his left hand. Koenig had trained on CQB ranges and could shoot right- or left-handed. He doubted a low-rate thug like Stan could say the same. Which was why the Glock was pointing between Koenig and the barman. If the barman was twelve o’clock and Koenig was three o’clock, the Glock would be pointing at two o’clock. Maybe one-thirty.
It would only take Steeleye a fraction of a second to move the Glock 46 to three o’clock. And then he would shoot Koenig. Probably in the stomach. Then he’d shoot Danielle.
A fraction of a second. That’s how long it would take.
More than enough time.
Chapter 34
Koenig struck with the Fairbairn–Sykes.
Overhand, like he was karate-chopping a brick. Came up from Steeleye’s blind side. His ball-bearing side. Meant that by the time he saw Koenig’s shoulder move, it was too late.
Much too late.
By then the Fairbairn–Sykes had already staked his wrist to the bar. The handle vibrated like a twanged ruler. Koenig had aimed the acutely tapered, sharply pointed blade at the gap between the radius and ulna, the long bones that made up Steeleye’s forearm. It had sliced through skin, tendons, muscles and blood vessels like they were made of water. Stan instinctively tried to pull away. The knife held him at the bar as if he were anchored. He screamed in pain, then went very still.
Another shockingly violent event in Koenig’s increasingly violent life.
Spax, the pockmarked thug, lurched to his feet. His two friends paused, then did the same. The bartender reached under the middle pallet stack. Came out with a claw hammer. Probably figured it was safe enough. Koenig wasn’t a big guy, and his knife was stuck in Steeleye’s wrist. If he pulled it out, Steeleye and the Glock would be back in play. If he left Steeleye pinned to the bar, like a moth in a natural history collection, he was unarmed. And it was four against one. Koenig reckoned they liked odds like that. And although these asshats didn’t worry Koenig, beating on some hapless thugs wasn’t why he was there.
‘Sit down,’ Koenig said. ‘All of you. Let’s not make this worse than it needs to be.’
Spax advanced a step.
‘If they don’t get back in their seats, Stan, I’ll twist this knife like a screwdriver,’ Koenig said. ‘Up to you.’
He turned the Fairbairn–Sykes. Maybe two or three degrees. Not enough to cause damage, but enough for fresh waves of pain to course through Steeleye’s arm.
‘Sit the fuck down!’ he hollered.
‘The bartender too, please,’ Koenig said.
The bartender put down his hammer and joined the card-playing fools. He perched on the yard-sale table. It wobbled.
Blood had pooled under Steeleye’s wrist. It was dark red, not frothy and pink. Koenig had severed veins, not arteries. Meant they had time. There was no need to rush.
Sweat dotted Steeleye’s brow. He paled. His eye began to water. He didn’t yell out, though. Didn’t scream empty threats. Instead, his breathing sped up. Became a fast snort. In and out, like a bull getting ready to charge. He frowned. Looked at the gun and concentrated.