Killing The Taxman by Giles Ekins

Author:Giles Ekins [Ekins, Giles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Next Chapter
Published: 2023-05-28T00:00:00+00:00

FIFTY-EIGHT

The Plight of Chloe McMurderess, continued …

‘IT IS WALTHER PPK, the same like James Bond. Very good gun for you, I think,’ Manuel the Dumb Waiter said as he handed me the pistol.

‘You think I’m like fucking James Bond?’ I said, holding the Walter balanced on my palm.

‘More like Pussy Galore, you slut,’ muttered the bear when I told him.

‘Si, it is very good gun. James Bond, he use all the time, so must be good, yes?’ Manuel continued, trying to reassure me.

‘So, yeah, it might be a good gun, but what the fuck am I supposed to do with it? Shoot you?’

And he flinched and held up his arms. ‘No, no, Sally, no, not me. You joke, no? You know who. Sammy Whitlock.’

‘I’ve never shot a gun in my life. Is the fucking thing loaded?’

‘No, no, not yet. We learn about the gun, how to hold, how to stand, then, only then, I load, and we practice. Is good, no?’

‘Is good? Definitely not. I don’t want this fucking gun. No fucking way.’

‘Senorita Sally, you must. To refuse is not possible, this you know.’

‘Yeah, fuck it, yeah, I know,’ I said reluctantly. I knew I had no choice, none whatsoever,

We had driven into the Parque National de la Serra Gelada, which was to the northeast of Benidorm. It was about six km in length and rose to a height of more than 400 metres, with steep cliffs dropping into the Mediterranean along its length. It was a popular place for Benidorm residents, but we drove further north, away from the main tourist areas, always climbing higher. The tarmac road degenerated into a rough rock-strewn pitted track, passing between thin treed forests, scrubland, and rough-hewn fractured rock walls. Eventually, the track petered out altogether and Manuel parked the car.

I was glad to get out of it, to get some clean fresh air, away from the stink of his aftershave, deodorant, and cigar smoke, which still lingered in the fabric of the seats and his clothes.

He opened the boot and took out a dark blue backpack and gestured me to follow him. ‘Now, we walk’ he said. ‘Not far. Just to the top.’

‘Why? What’s at the top?’

‘Nothing, nothing. That is why we go there, because there is nothing.’

‘Yeah, that makes total fucking sense.’

We climbed this rough steep path and, despite the chill of the day, I was soon sweating, and unzipped my jacket, allowing the chill breeze to cool me.

It was hard work, no doubt about it, as the path grew steeper. I was panting heavily, my thighs and calves aching, my jeans and t-shirt damp with sweat, but then we were there, at the top. About 50 metres away stood a pair of trees and another twenty metres past them, the cliff fell away, more than 300 metres to the rocks and sea below. Was the fucker going to throw me off, claim it was a tragic accident?

High up, away to the left I saw a big bird with a massive wing span riding high on the thermals.

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