Free Tarantula by Mark Dawson

brutality and, now, the barely credible prospect that he was about to attack their boss, too.
    Ernesto stumbled backwards. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a holstered pistol. He aimed it straight at Milton’s head.
    Milton raised his hands. “Sorry.”
    Ernesto held his aim steady. The big man groaned on the floor. Milton knew: this could go either way. He was counting on Ernesto’s greed.
    The fat Italian drew his bottom lip back between his teeth, sucked in his breath, and then started to laugh. It began as a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and then a glint in his cruel eyes, and then a chuckle that became louder and more vociferous.
    Milton stepped back and manufactured a wry expression. He shook out his fist for emphasis, shrugging as if to say that he knew what he had done was stupid and reckless, and that served to amplify Ernesto’s hilarity. The atmosphere changed on a sixpence, the men taking their cue from their capo.
    “You are a crazy man, Signor Smith,” he said, accentuating his point by stabbing the gun in the direction of his head.
    “I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.”
    “I nearly shot you.”
    Milton shrugged. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
    Ernesto convulsed with laughter.
    “The deal would have been off, yes? But business, Signor Smith, I can make allowances for business. It is the only thing that matters. Guiseppe”—he indicated the man on the floor—“he is an oaf. He gets what he deserves.”
    Milton spared the man a glance: he had come around and two of the others were dragging him onto his feet.
    Ernesto holstered the pistol and clapped Milton on the shoulder. “You are foolish, Signor Smith, but you are a dangerous man. Your fists… you know how to use them.”
    More dangerous than you could possibly know.
    “Now,” the Italian said. “One more drink.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
    MILTON RETURNED to the hotel. His room was still undisturbed. He moved quickly, taking the P226 from the safe and the MP5 from beneath the mattress. He wore the Sig Sauer in the shoulder holster and the H&K on its shoulder strap, both hidden by his leather jacket. He packed his bag and then spent an hour cleaning the room. He wiped down all of the surfaces, paying special attention to those that he knew he had touched, cleaning away his prints. When he was done, he took his passport and his credit cards, and slipped them into his pocket. He took his bag downstairs and went to reception.
    “I’d like to check out,” he told the late duty clerk. “Room six hundred and one.”
    “Of course, sir,” the man said. He busied himself with his computer and, when he was done, looked back up at him and smiled. “Thank you for your custom, Signor Smith. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
    “Yes, there is. Could you see to it that my bag is delivered to the airport, please. I’m flying with British Airways tomorrow morning.”
    “Yes, sir. Of course.”
    Milton paid the man and went down to the parking lot. He started the Ducati, letting the engine growl through the basement, and pulled away, traversing the slope onto street level and then gathering speed as he pulled away.
    He rode south, out of town, stopping in Pontecagnano. It was an empty lot on the edge of the town, facing out to sea. He took off his helmet to let the salty air wash over his hot skin. The rolling tide was all he could hear, the waves washing up the sand. There was nothing else, not even the crying of gulls. It was as if he was the only person abroad at that hour.
    He looked down at his watch, the luminous hands showing three-thirty.
    He got off the bike just as he heard the sound of tyres rolling over the gravel at the edge of the road. He reached into his jacket for the pistol. A pair of high-beams swung across the darkened space, glowing yellow against the rolling emerald waves down on the beach, and then they winked out.
    Milton walked across, the gun held ready in case it wasn’t who he was expecting. He