Free Sentinel Five (The Redaction Chronicles Book 2) by James Quinn

which was fraying at the cuffs and pockets. He hoped he looked like a gambler who had put everything on red, only to have it come out on black. He was nursing his second drink of the evening, a Navy rum, and he was determined to make it last as long as he could. He watched as Trench made his way to the rear of the club, to a small reserved table, waving to several people on his way. It was a good position Gorilla noted – near a backdoor exit and allowing him full view of the people in the club. Trench scanned the room once, twice and then settled back to sip at the drink a waiter had brought for him.
Obviously a regular, if the waiter knows his poison,
thought Gorilla.
    Gorilla continued to sip at his drink while keeping Trench's reflection under surveillance from the corner of his eye. The club was starting to fill up now; at least twenty people had come in during the last few minutes, mainly businessmen looking for a good time with the girls, but there was also the odd European couple, canoodling in the corner and listening to the jazz band playing – playing what, Gorilla didn't know, it sounded bloody awful and not like the jazz he was used to in London. This sounded like someone was torturing a cat.
    A few minutes later and nearly at the end of his rum, he felt a tap on his shoulder and was surprised to see Trench's tame waiter standing next to him. He had a stupid grin and a large drink of dubious concoction sitting on the tray in his hands. “The gentleman in the private booth wishes to buy you a drink, sir,” said the waiter in a half Chinese/half cockney accent. His bow tie was crooked and he looked about twelve, Gorilla thought as he weighed up this intelligence. Gorilla shook his head. “Must have the wrong guy, mate, I don't know anyone here. Send it back.”
    The waiter shuffled nervously, but stayed static. “Please sir, the drink is an offering from a Mister Janner, a very important customer… please, see for yourself.”
    Gorilla turned slowly towards where the waiter was pointing. He knew what was coming next – the face off, his first foray into Trench's new world. They locked eyes, and Gorilla squinted as if he was trying to establish who the man was… then he let dawning realisation spread over his face in the form of a frown. Still the staring contest continued. He turned to the waiter. “Okay, leave the drink, and thank him for me.” By the time he'd taken his first sip of the cocktail – something rum-based which was quite good – Trench was stood next to him, hanging on his shoulder like a vulture. “Hello, Frank. Thanks for the drink, cheers. How you keeping these days?” said Gorilla. He was being deliberately blasé, keeping it light and sipping at his drink.
    Trench smiled as he sat on the next stool along and stared at the smaller, dishevelled man. “I'm doing fine, thanks Jack, keeping the wolf from the door.”
    “I can tell. I like your costume,” said Gorilla, indicating Trench's ensemble. “What you trying to do, get down with the hippy kids and the youths?”
    Trench ignored him; the only sign of his annoyance was a slight flaring of the nostrils.
    “You still in?” tested Gorilla. “You on a job out here?”
    Trench smiled, and it was a cold hearted, stone killer's smile. “What, you mean you don't know Jack? Is that why you're here? You come to take me back to Blighty in shackles?”
    Gorilla deliberately masked his face in confusion, and for the first time that evening, regarded Trench in full. “Sorry Frank, I haven't a bloody clue what you're talking about. I got out a little after Marseilles, after that blow up in Rome. I only went back to quit. SIS did me no favours, I'm afraid.”
    “Ah… I heard they treated you badly after the girl got murdered,” Trench said cruelly. He obviously knew it was one of Gorilla's few weak spots and was testing him for his reaction.
    “They can go fuck themselves,” said Gorilla bitterly, before downing the rest of his drink