Free Shoot to Kill by James Craig Page A

need glasses as we get older, it’s just a fact of life.’ Sliding off the stool, he moved to the door. ‘Let’s go upstairs and find a nice pair for you.’
    Extracting himself from the examination chair, Carlyle followed. Ten minutes later, he had chosen a pair of half-rimmed, gunmetal grey Police frames. Effortlessly relieving him of £300, Denzil cheerily informed the inspector that his new glasses would be ready the next day.
    ‘How is your wife getting on with her reading spectacles?’ Denzil asked, as he walked Carlyle out.
    ‘Fine,’ the inspector smiled wanly, still feeling the pain in his Visa card. He didn’t have the heart to tell the optician that Helen had lost her glasses again.
    ‘Pass on my regards,’ Denzil said, giving him a gentle pat on the back. ‘We’ll let both of you know when it’s time for your regular examinations.’
    Great
, Carlyle reflected;
something else to relieve us of our cash
. He shook the optician’s outstretched hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said insincerely. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
    Belatedly realizing that they were a long way from home turf, Dominic Silver watched the silver-haired gentleman standing next to him flick off the safety on the Italian pistol that nestled all too comfortably in his right hand. Taking a deep breath, he glanced over at the impassive face of Gideon Spanner. Sticking his hands into the back pockets of his Firetrap jeans, Spanner gave the slightest of shrugs. All they could do was indulge their host.
    In front of them stood three guys – teenagers, Dom guessed – in regulation hoodies and sweat pants. All three had been relieved of their shoes and socks. And beaten, badly beaten. One had his left eye almost completely closed by a massive shiner. Another had blood still spilling from his left ear. Indeed, it looked as if the ear had been half-sliced off. Silver was mesmerized by it, even as he wanted to look away. As the forlorn trio stood, heads bowed, shifting from foot to filthy foot on the cold, clammy concrete floor, he wonderedhow much of this show was for his benefit. Maybe about half, he concluded. There would be others who were meant to get the message as well. Dom sighed; he wasn’t a fan of violence. Invariably, he had found it to be unnecessary, if not counter-productive. But, in the business that he was in, he knew that it was often unavoidable.
    The barrel of the gun was pointed casually at the middle hoodie. ‘
Lorsque vous devez tirer, tirez – n’en parlez pas
.’
    Silver and Spanner exchanged another look.
    The old man with the gun glanced over at Silver. ‘Do you speak French, Dominic?’
    Silver smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not. You know what it’s like in England, we’re all useless at languages.’
    ‘It’s understandable,’ the man sighed. ‘English is the international business language, after all. If everyone else has to learn your language, why should you bother learning theirs?’
    Dom shrugged. ‘People are lazy.’
    ‘I suppose they are.’ Squeezing the trigger, the man shot the middle hoodie in the face, before dispatching his squealing comrades in similar fashion with a minimum of fuss.
    Whoa! Dom held his ground as a pool of blood began moving steadily towards him.
    Carefully putting the safety back on, the man tossed the semi-automatic to one of his henchmen.
    ‘
Un deuxième tour pour chacun,
’ he growled, ‘
juste pour être sûr
. Then ‘Get rid of them,’ he snapped. Then, placing a hand on Dominic’s arm, he steered him towards the exit. ‘Now that little problem has been dealt with,’ he said, ‘I think it’s time for some lunch.’
    ‘What the hell is that?’ Carlyle picked up the A4-sized transparent plastic evidence bag from Angie Middleton’s desk and lifted it up to the light. Inside was a slim white cylinder, maybe seven inches long and a couple of inches in girth, rounded at one end. It looked like a quarter-sized light sabre, except that it had a wind-up