Free Killer Instinct by Zoe Sharp Page A

tilted to one side. He was wearing a dark suit that he hadn't bought on his local high street, over a hand-stitched shirt that even someone with my limited sartorial knowledge could tell was Italian, and damned expensive.
     
    “I picked it up, here and there,” I said cautiously. I wasn't about to tell him about the rather specialised training I'd been through. It felt as though it was all a long time ago, in another life.
     
    Before you can attack a building, they'd taught me, you have to know how to secure it. Points of entry, minimum number of personnel, and their most effective positioning. The New Adelphi had too many twists and turns, too many dark corners. It would not have been my first choice of somewhere to try and make a stand. It was too perfect for an ambush.
     
    “Here and where would that be?” Marc pressed now.
     
    “Army, mainly,” I said and watched his eyebrow lift.
     
    Behind him Angelo made a succinct and uncomplimentary remark about the Women's Royal Army Corps. I turned my head to meet his eyes without flinching, but then, I'd heard them all before, and worse. Much worse. Angelo stared back at me as he put a match to the end of a cigarette, challenging.
     
    Marc backed him down with a single look, then turned back to me. “How long were you in?”
     
    I knew to the day, but I shrugged. “Long enough,” I said.
     
    “Why did you leave?”
     
    “I was asked to go,” I said, forestalling any further questions on that tack by adding, “It's personal, and I'm not prepared to talk about it.”
     
    He heard the finality that flattened my voice, and those pale eyes searched my face for clues. I didn't give him any.
     
    “So after you were asked to go ,” he went on, putting emphasis on the last three words, “what have you done since?”
     
    “I've done a bit of keep fit and aerobics training, a bit of personal training at the local gym, but mostly I teach self-defence to women.”
     
    Len reappeared at this point. He obviously had more domestic graces than I'd given him credit for, because he neatly placed two plain white cups in front of us. Individual portions of cream and sugar were balanced with the spoon on the saucer of each. I was impressed.
     
    Len ignored my murmur of thanks, but Marc's nod of approval seemed to keep him happy. He retreated to a bar stool next to Angelo, holding station a discreet distance away.
     
    “Textbook theories are all very well,” Marc said, stirring the cream into his coffee, “but unfortunately the sort of opponent you'd have to deal with in a nightclub has probably never come any closer to martial arts than watching a Bruce Lee film. They have an unpleasant habit of not playing by the rules, don't they Len?” he called.
     
    Len came to his feet again and moved back across the dance floor with a nasty swagger, flexing his fingers by his sides. He was grinning in a way that made sweat break out on my palms. “Martial arts, eh?” he said. “Load of bollocks. Go on, then, how about you try having a go at me?”
     
    Ah shit, I thought. Just what I need. I glanced back at Marc, but his face was shuttered, withdrawn. It was clear this was a test, and I was on my own to prove I could pass it.
     
    I slid a fairly big smile onto my face and forced myself to stay sitting down. I didn't want to put forward any form of provocation. If I stood up now, took up any sort of stance, or appeared to be taking him seriously, things were going to get way out of hand.
     
    I knew little about the sort of ability Len had. I had to guess from his behaviour the other night that he'd started – and finished – more than his share of brawls. If he'd been working club doors for any length of time he was going to know at least as many dirty tricks as I did, and probably more. He was also maybe twice my weight, and a good six inches taller.
     
    I was further handicapped by being dressed in bike leathers and boots, which would cut down my speed. Plus the fact I