Free A Dark Place to Die by Ed Chatterton Page B

motherfucking way.
    And now Kolomiets is going to find out about it too.
    Jimmy puts one hand in the nylon pocket of his heavy black G-Star zip-up. He is sweating lightly in the warm evening air, but the coat is needed to hide the gun. Don't want Kolomiets getting any warning, do we? Jimmy walks casually across the floodlit grass, his hand raised in greeting, the sounds of the boys getting sharper, their voices insistent, passionate about the game. He is smiling.
    About twenty metres away, Max sees him. Jimmy registers The Russian's hesitation as he shades his eyes against the floods. That's right, Max, it's me. Just deal with it.
    Jimmy sees Max glance towards the Beemer. Anton's head and shoulders are silhouetted against the clubhouse lights and Max relaxes a little. He and Gelagotis are in business, after all. True, there have been some minor difficulties lately, Jimmy not happy about taking a smaller cut of the Liverpool thing, but what business doesn't get the odd bump in the road now and again? And with more than one hundred and fifty million dollars floating around, did Jimmy really think he was going to continue on the same percentage?
    Still, Max will have to have a word with Anton later. It doesn't look good letting anyone get so close without him being there, not even a trusted ally like Jimmy Gelagotis.
    'Friend!' says Max, a warm smile crinkling his broadface. 'This is surprise.' He pats Mitch Barnes on the head. 'You come to see future Socceroos?'
    Jimmy doesn't reply. There's no point. Talking is for amateurs.
    Jimmy glances at the boy, draws out his Sig Sauer and shoots Max three times in the face and chest. The boy jerks involuntarily, his eyes wide, his face speckled with blood as Max drops to the grass without a sound. Jimmy Gelagotis bends and places the barrel against Kolomiets's temple and pulls the trigger one more time. Now the boy makes a kind of squeaking sound and begins to tremble violently. Jimmy expects the boy to wet himself but he doesn't. He is paralysed.
    Jimmy Gelagotis stands and looks at the boy, weighing the business decision before him. After a couple of seconds, he places a finger against his own lips and raises his eyebrows. The boy nods, his entire body shaking violently.
    He understands. Say nothing.
    Jimmy seriously doubts the boy will ever talk again. Even if he does, runs Jimmy's logic, his evidence will never stand up. It just doesn't seem to work that way. And killing the boy would be a mistake. A dead villain is one thing, a murdered schoolboy quite another, and the last thing Jimmy Gelagotis would want in the coming weeks is the full attention of the law. It would be bad for business.
    He places the Sig Sauer back inside his jacket and, leaving the boy standing uncertainly next to The Russian's body, starts walking across the sports field towards the black-shadowed trees on the far side, and beyond them, the car. Behind him, the footballers are silent, many of them not noticing what has happened, and those whohave, not computing the information – their brains unwilling to interpret what they have seen as a murder. They gather round Max and the boy like confused puppies, unclear about what to do. Not one of them would remember Jimmy Gelagotis's face if asked. Not that Jimmy cares. He knows that if it came to questions being asked he will have been at a dinner at a restaurant in Broadbeach. In court, at least.
    An overweight man wearing a tracksuit runs towards the boys from the direction of the soccer clubhouse.
    'Hey!'
    Jimmy hears him shout. His accent is English. A Londoner. Jimmy glances back and sees the man start moving his way. A hero.
    'You! Hey, you, stop!'
    Jimmy sighs and comes to a halt. He turns and lifts the Sig Sauer from under his jacket. The hero is now about forty metres away. Jimmy knows that, from the other man's point of view, he will appear as no more than a black silhouette against the lights from the road. Jimmy waves the gun in the air and starts