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14th April 2014
“Just drop me off at Old Hall Street. You won’t have to dick about to get me to the hotel. I need to clear my head and anyway it’s better for us both this way.”
It was a week since Nicks had returned from Hungary where he’d administered retribution on behalf of young Katalin Lukács and her family. Her resemblance to Anca was seldom far from his mind. He took a mouthful of water then pushed the bottle down the side of his day sack, nestling it against his fleece.
Making safe the Yarygin pistol he slid it into the right-hand leg pocket of his distinctive, unmistakably Russian, combat pants.
Their current target, a leading Newcastle gangster, had newly emerging links to Russian ‘Mafia’ people in London. Like the weapon and ammunition, the pants were an easy clue. The Police tended to like easy clues. It saved them from having to think out of the box.
Simon looked at him briefly.
“You sure? I must admit I’m knackered and every minute counts when there’s another early start.”
Nicks looked back at him. He could see how tired he was. They’d spent the whole day driving around the North-East of England to no avail, waiting for the surveillance to highlight an opportunity for him to use his skills.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, slipping the suppressor into his left leg pocket.
“Just here, Si, on the corner will be great. Go and get your head down and I’ll see you later on. Same place as you picked me up.”
Simon pulled over and Nicks got out. As he walked away Simon called after him.
“Don’t forget, seven o’clock.”
Nicks turned and waved. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Stop worrying.”