Killing for Coin , livre ebook

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd - Bob Bratt

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

78 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

When a job turns sour for hired hitman Dave Leeman, he is left out of pocket and outside the law. And virgin to the killing-for-coin scene, Terry Boston takes on a job to wipe out a police informant that goes south. The old army pals must work together to clear their names and earn the big payday they were promised. But tracking down their only hope of redemption on foreign soil and ensuring a healthy profit along the way may turn out to be harder than they imagined, as the man responsible for setting them up isn''t exactly who they thought it would turn out to be. And the realisation hits home that those who you may think are your friends can often be the first to turn on you when the price is right.

Informations

Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
Date de parution	29 novembre 2019
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9781528954853
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0175€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Killing for Coin
Robert Bratt
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-11-29
Killing for Coin About The Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgement Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen
About The Author
Bob Bratt has turned his hand to many occupations, from Cup Sponger at the age of 15 for one of Stoke on Trent’s long-forgotten pottery firms, to welder, buyer and seller of electrical goods, gardener and, most recently, writer. After travelling through Europe and Africa with his wife, and having the pleasure of meeting some of the world’s oddest and funniest people, through his work life and abroad, Bob felt the urge to give writing a go and put together his first novel, Killing for Coin .
Dedication
For my dad, David Bratt (1950 – 2014), who always believed that I would make something of myself, even when I didn’t.
Copyright Information ©
Bob Bratt (2019)
The right of Bob Bratt to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The views and opinions of the characters are not necessarily shared by the author.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788488242 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781788488259 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528954853 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgement
I would like to thank my wife, Karen; and grandkids, Alex and Ava, for their support during the writing of this book. I would also like to thank everyone at Austin Macauley for their hard work and help.
Chapter One
Adjusting the climate control and slaloming through the twisty, foggy back roads of Manchester like a Formula One driver, Dave Leeman squinted to keep focus on the BMW, he was trying to maintain a reasonable distance from. 9:10 a.m. is what glowed in neon green on Leeman’s 17-year-old digital watch. It was actually 9:13 a.m. but he never bothered to put it right. He reckoned it brought him luck. Ten years previous, Dave Leeman was on patrol in Iraq. His commander had given him and five other guys, three minutes to storm a two-storey house for evidence of recent rebel activity and to report back to him taking up position outside, offering cover and support as he and his men surrounded the compound. The six men were separated into two teams of three and took a floor each. Team one took the second floor and roof terrace, whilst Dave’s team two cleared the first floor and cellar, finding no bedding or food, they were satisfied that this building had not recently been occupied. Three minutes in, Dave had checked his watch, unwittingly, believing he was still within his allotted time to report back before his commander sent another team in after them. Making their way back up the stairs of the cellar towards the main doors of the shell-ridden building the three amigos came face to face with their doppelgängers who were making a beeline back into the building, weapons raised ready to accept incoming fire. It was team one. This could only mean one thing, they were late! Just as team one were midway between the relative safety of the armoured convoy and the main entrance on their way back in, to save their three pals, an enormous explosion erupted beneath them sending shredded arms, legs and SA80s flying across the grounds of the compound. Leeman’s team took cover back down the cellar as it dawned on Dave that they would have been the ones hanging from several different washing lines right now had his watch been correct. He’d wondered if the guy he was tailing this morning had luck on his side today. Leeman powered his beautiful racing red Jaguar XF around yet another right-hander, all the while running the job through his mind. The boss had told him to tail a guy called John Morris, a small-time criminal with sticky fingers and a big mouth. Strictly speaking, Leeman didn’t have to call anyone boss but whoever was paying him at the time was given that respect. Leeman was to find out whom Morris was selling the boss’s product to and then rub him out, with a bonus if he took out the competition too. He had learnt in the past few days that Morris had been stocking up with the boss’s product for a few months now and had set up a meeting to offload it as a sort of final ‘fuck you’ private, pension funding plan. Leeman could see the Greasy Spoon about 300 yards on the left, where he was told Morris would be making his 9:30 meeting. Not an ideal spot to take his target out, Leeman thought, but since he hadn’t been given enough time to reccy the job, he’d just have to drop Morris as quickly as possible and hopefully deal with any other targets or witnesses within the confines of the café. Although, retrieving the product that Morris had somehow found himself in possession of was a must. Leeman was matching Morris’s speed of 40mph and wondered why he wasn’t slowing down for the car park just beyond the café, which was coming up fast but instead increasing his speed and heading out of town. For a moment, he thought he’d been rumbled but then realised where Morris was headed. Leeman knew little of Morris other than he was a scrawny, little fucker that drank too much and stunk of sump oil from his shitty scrapyard! Or at least that’s the description the boss had given him and the scrapyard was Leeman’s best guess on where Morris was really making the meet.
Ten minutes later, Morris steered his old BMW 5 Series into the yard. He turned it to face the exit and got out leaving the engine running.
May be, Leeman thought, because the old girl may not start again given the screeching the fan belt was making and the blue smoke pluming from the exhaust or may be, which was more likely, he just didn’t want to leave himself without a solid exit plan in the event of a shitstorm.
Morris reminded himself of the uncertain territory he had placed himself in, stealing from a guy that he had witnessed kill a man for breaking into one of his many money laundering sidelines and helping himself to a mere two hundred quid in loose change! Probably just to force home a point not to fuck with him or his money. This played on his mind as he walked the forty-foot or so from his car to his portakabin.
With Morris’s back to him and the noise from the burbling three-litre covering the sound of his footsteps, Leeman had just enough time to grab his rifle and exit the Jag into the scrapyard. He quickly scanned the immediate area for any potential extra targets. With no signs of life or cigarette ends glowing in the mist, he deemed it safe enough to make his way towards a wooden shed that smelt like it was being used as a makeshift shithouse. He pushed himself up against the splintered frame trying not to leave too much of a visible shadow for any lackys he may have missed to call him out on. He checked the portakabin for any movement, nothing. Just the sound of one, seriously, pissed off dog barking incessantly in the distance and the constant drip, drip, drip as the moisture from the morning’s dew made its way down the broken guttering of the shithouse’s roof and into the murky puddles forming at his feet. He moved quickly and quietly, finding himself a reasonably elevated spot to set up his weapon with good cover just to his left, should he need it. He glanced at his watch, it now read 9:22 which meant it was really 9:25, giving him 5 minutes until Morris’s contact showed up. Leeman yawned, screwing his already craggy looking features into some kind of gargoyle creature. Leeman’s training for what was basically murder had come from his days in the army. Dave didn’t see his current career choice as murder however, nor did he take any particular pleasure in it. His background was as a butcher’s apprentice. His dad had owned the local shop in which he worked and lived above and didn’t exactly give his son much of a choice as to his future career path. His mother, a slight, shy woman, had taken her own life after years of abuse from his father. School had played its part on Leeman’s ‘fuck this!’, ‘fuck you!’, ‘fuck everything’ attitude, after not only failing to stop the relentless bullying he was receiving from the other boys every day, but a couple of the teachers themselves wanted a piece of him too. Each day was either double mental abuse before lunch with Mrs Winsor or a nice spot of physical abuse in the afternoon with Mr Schneider and the boys. 9:30 had come and gone 3 minutes ago, leaving Leeman wondering if this meet had gone tits up.
Suddenly, there was movement at the portakabin, Leeman slowly presented the crosshairs of the scopes sights to his bloodshot right eye, resting his cheek on the buttpad and his right index finger out-stretched to the side of the trigger. Morris stepped out onto the gravel, which made a satisfying crunch underfoot as he strolled back to his car, lighting a badly rolled cigarette as he shuffled along. A blue and white striped 2005 American Mustang burbled into the scrapyard. Parking alongside the BMW, two stocky guys exited the 4.2 litre beast. A well-built white man in his 30s with a buzzcut and a tall, bald, smartly dressed black guy with fashionable modern glasses stood facing Morris. Each of Leeman’s targets must have had a weapon, he figured, but from his position he could see no