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Boldwood Books - Owen Mullen

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190 pages

English

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'A masterpiece of the genre' ★★★★★

If you mess with the Glass family, don’t expect to live to tell the tale...

What was meant to be a straightforward jewellery heist goes horribly wrong, and the thieves are forced to take a hostage to make their escape. But when they discover their prisoner is the infamous Nina Glass - one of the bosses of the most dangerous criminal dynasty in London - they soon realise they have made a terrible mistake.

Greed wins out over good sense and the gang decide to make the best of a bad situation. They send Luke Glass a ransom note, but they're messing with the wrong people.

The Glass family have other problems. The crooked cop they have on their payroll - DCI Oliver Stanford - makes an unwelcome discovery. The insider they had all presumed dead, may in fact have survived, and still be feeding information to the police.

Under attack from all sides, and desperate to save his sister, Luke has the reputation and survival of the Glass family in his hands – is this the end of their empire?

Three people can keep a secret - if two of them are dead...

Pacey, explosive and unforgettable, Hustle is perfect for fans of Martina Cole, Kimberley Chambers and Mandasue Heller.

What readers say about Owen Mullen:

'Owen Mullen knows how to ramp up the action just when it’s needed… he never fails to give you hard-hitting thrillers that have moments that will stay with you forever...'

'One of the very best thriller writers I have ever read.'

'Owen Mullen writes a good story, he really brings his characters to life and the endings are hard to guess and never what you expected.'

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Informations

Publié par	Boldwood Books
Date de parution	05 janvier 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781800484368
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,2050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

HUSTLE

OWEN MULLEN
CONTENTS

The Players:

Poland Street, Soho, London

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part II

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part III

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

Postscript

THIEF

Acknowledgments

More from Owen Mullen

Also by Owen Mullen

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
For Devon and Harrison Carney
One of you told me real monsters don’t wear shoes.
Very soon you’ll read this and know that isn’t true.
Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead.
DANNY GLASS
THE PLAYERS:

Luke Glass ... Head of London's most powerful crime family
Nina Glass ... Luke's sister and front woman of Glass Houses Real Estate
Charley Glass ... Luke's sister and face of LBC nightclub
George Ritchie ... Front man/enforcer for all illegal activities south of the River Thames
Mark Douglas ...Head of security north of the river
Oliver Stanford ...Once Danny Glass' pet poodle, now a high-ranking officer in the Metropolitan Police Service and still on The Family payroll
Felix Corrigan ... Gang boss in east London and George Ritchie's second in command

Posh Boys (the Toffee gang):
Rafe ...Henry's elder brother and leader of the gang
Henry ...Rafe's younger brother and reluctant member
Julian ...Rafe's partner in crime
Coco ... Rafe's lover and thrill seeker

Street Gang:
Thomas Timpson, aka TT ...Gang leader
Jethro/Jet ...Gang member
Boz ... Gang member
POLAND STREET, SOHO, LONDON

It had been a cold day in the capital, the coldest of the year, and with the temperature dropping snowflakes fluttered and fell on the crowds hurrying about their business on Shaftesbury Avenue. A guy in a Santa beard and jeans torn at the knees knocked seven bells out of the Wizzard classic ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’, loud and raw, his breath condensing in the chilly air. He wore a red and white woolly hat, and gloves with the fingers cut off so he could play. On the ground in front of him a collection of coins, mostly silver, lay in his open guitar case. The woman in a cashmere coat rushing by had gone for a walk to kill time before her appointment. Now, she was late and didn’t give the busker a second glance. In Wardour Street, she passed St Anne’s churchyard and kept going. Across from The Ship public house, once a watering hole of John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix, she made a left, then a right into Poland Street where her car was parked, walking purposefully, in no doubt where she was going.
The entrance to the building was lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling inside the doorway. She hesitated, drew her expensive coat around her and climbed the stairs. Behind her, a car pulled to a stop near the green and gold façade of the Star and Garter. Like the busker with the guitar, she didn’t notice the three people in black reefer jackets who got out, or the good-looking guy with the stylish blond hair leading them.
In his office on the second landing, Jan Stuka was waiting. With more than sixty years in the trade, the old jeweller had no need to advertise his talents. He’d owned the room in Poland Street for decades, though only came here when he had a client to meet. Stuka was a craftsman, an artist, a stout little man with a goatee and spectacles, who could’ve set up shop in Hatton Garden like so many others and guaranteed himself a comfortable living. Instead, he’d gone a different route, fashioning bespoke pieces using only top-quality gems, singular creations for those interested in the best.
When she’d explained she wanted a bracelet for a man with the inscription From N to M – all my love, he’d stared balefully over his wire-rimmed spectacles; romantic messages on an item she could’ve bought from any high-street shop left him unmoved, and for a second the woman was convinced coming to him had been a mistake. The necklace had brought a different reaction. As she’d described what she imagined, he’d mellowed, making notes in a small dog-eared book, asking questions in a guttural accent, even finding the enthusiasm to suggest the male jewellery might be a classic design, eighteen-carat gold cuff – simple and stylish.
Perfect; she was delighted: someone was going to be very pleased.
During her second visit he’d shown detailed charcoal sketches based on their previous conversation, including the otherwise plain bracelet and its inscription. Stuka was an old-school artisan craftsman; he didn’t understand high-tech computer-modelling software and made everything by hand. The third time he’d proudly unveiled wax replicas of what he intended to produce, subject to her approval. This evening, they’d select the stones to make the necklace a reality – FL diamonds, flawless and clear, and pure blue sapphires, AAA quality. Finally, he’d tell her how much it was going to cost.
Not that she gave a damn about that.
On the landing, a bodyguard stood to attention, steroid-induced man-breasts pressing against the fabric of his shirt, thick arms folded. He didn’t turn his expressionless face towards her until she reached him. When he did, there was no recognition in his dull eyes and she realised the guy was on more than hormones. Swollen fingers tapped the door, the electronic lock buzzed and released. Before he could react, the three figures she hadn’t seen on her way in rushed from the shadows wearing balaclavas and pushed her through the door; the butt of a revolver crashed against the side of the guard’s head and they dragged him into the room, screaming threats at the old man.
‘Open the safe! Don’t fuck me about or I’ll blow you away!’
Rafe Purefoy’s well-modulated voice was at odds with the jargon. The jeweller didn’t blink. ‘Do this the easy way, granddad, and nobody gets hurt. Don’t be afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid.’
‘Good for you. Just don’t be a hero.’
Stuka was telling the truth: by the time the Soviet army arrived, Jan was ten kilos underweight, suffering from tuberculosis and barely able to stand, yet he’d survived in a place where more than a million had perished, his parents and grandparents among them. After that, what was there to fear?
He pulled up his sleeve to reveal the tattoo – 6613145 – faded into the mottled skin.
Defiance burned in the old Jew’s eyes. Anger thickened his accent. ‘What would trash like you know about heroes?’
The slight didn’t faze the robber. He said, ‘On another day, I’d buy you a drink and you could tell me what it was like. We’d have an interesting conversation. Except, that isn’t where we are, is it? And respecting what you’ve been through won’t stop me putting a bullet in you. Whatever you believe, believe that. Now, open the fucking safe.’
Stuka spat on the bare floorboards at his feet. ‘Nie.’
Behind his mask the thief smiled. ‘I’m guessing that’s Polish for no.’
He grabbed the woman by the arm, pulled her towards him and held the gun to her temple. She stiffened but didn’t cry out. Rafe spoke to the jeweller. ‘You should’ve died a long time ago. Somehow, you got lucky and didn’t. Eighty years down the line you’re fine about it. I understand.’ He dug the muzzle into the female’s smooth skin. ‘Take a look at her. She’s what? Thirty-five, thirty-six, maybe? How does she feel about it being all over? Ask her.’ His finger closed round the gentle sweep of the trigger. ‘In thirty seconds, we’ll be leaving empty-handed and you’ll both be dead. What I’d call a lose-lose situation. Imagine making it out of a Nazi camp for it to finish in a grubby little cubbyhole in Soho because of a few stones. What would the poor bastards in Auschwitz, Buchenwald and the rest of those hellholes say?’ He shook his head at the irony. ‘Do what I’m telling you or she gets it. Right here. Right now.’
On the floor the bodyguard groaned, regaining consciousness.
‘The old fucker thinks we’re bluffing. Let’s show him we’re not.’
Under the reefer jacket and the balaclava, the speaker was indistinguishable from the other two. The words were hard despite the soft tone. Coco went to the helpless man on the ground and straddled him, arms straight, pointing down, both hands on the revolver. staring into his terrified face, savouring his fear. The bodyguard realised what was coming and held his palms up impotently against it. ‘No! No! Don’t! It was me who told you.’
‘And we’re grateful.’
The silenced shots popped like balloons. Nobody would hear them outside the room. She stepped over the limp body and took up position at the only window as though nothing had happened.
Through the frosted glass, snow was falling on Soho. Stuka said, ‘I’ve met your kind all my life. You’re animals.’
The gun barrel carved a perfect circle on the hostage’s neck. Tomorrow – if there was a tomorrow – there would be a bruise.
Rafe said, ‘We’re serious people – you saw what we did to the guard. Tell this old fool you don’t want to die. Tell prisoner 6613145 to open the bloody safe before I blow your pretty head off.’
The jeweller’s resistance was admirable but it was fading – he was afraid, though not for himself. For her. She took a deep breath. ‘Don’t open it. They’re going to kill us, anyway.’
Stuka had seen unbearable inhumanity, yet he couldn’t allow himself to believe what she was saying. He shook his grey head. ‘No, no, they won’t. Not if I give them