Free Castling by Jack McGlynn

this. So that’s more than enough for me. But I’m struggling to shake this feeling, I dunno, that something bad is going to happen.”
    “Something bad is going to happen, Mol.” Rook assured her, cracking the knuckle of his left fist. Her expression sunk, drained of its usual mirth and assurance,
    “That’s not as comforting as you might think...”
    “We’re in the busin ess of making bad things happen! We are not pleasant folk. The things we do are not pleasant things. And the outcomes of the unpleasant things done by unpleasant folk are rarely, if ever, pleasant.
    Something bad is assuredly going to happen, Mol. But tonight, by either twisted fate or a decent plan from your Boss, it’s going to happen to the person who deserves it the most. That’ll have to do for now, okay?”
    Molly held his gaze for a long moment. Rook liked to think some newfound affection, or attraction, was suddenly blossoming. But in truth he had no idea. As far as he knew, she could have been concocting some twisted punishment for his patronizing speech.
    Her response did even less to clarify her emotions.
    “Okay.”
    That clears that up then!
    When confronted with doubt, Rook typically resorted to joking. Or punching. But joking seemed more applicable here.
    “Unless of course , I’m utterly outmatched and he ends up killing me.”
    “ A distinct possibility.” Molly nodded, thoughtfully.
    “Or there’s the chance he’ll torture me for the HQ’s location...”
    “I knew you looked shifty.. . Just be careful, alright?”
    There seemed to be something inherently flawed about her suggestion.
    “Eh, we’ve met right?” Rook queried, scanning his actions over the past two weeks for anything remotely resembling caution.
    “Let me put it another way” she rephrased, turning to climb back aboard the chopper. She stopped at the canopy’s entrance, hoisting herself up via the overhanging rail, “You’re not getting back in my jet covered in blood!”
    Rook smirked, waving a hand in farewell. The aircraft climbed twilight heights, engines whirring alongside the thin cabin like a giant, airborne percentage.
    A thought occurred. He took out his phone and thumbed a text to the ascending pilot.
    “What if it’s not m y blood?”
    *
    Ascending the stairs, he relived the day’s activities. His escape was textbook. Or at least it would have been, had he ever gotten round to chronicling his numerous exploits for future generations. Oddly, the novice Big Phil sent into the Alps struggled more than expected. Ultimately this proved beneficial, shaking the rust from his limbs.
    His hand slid up the steel banister as he climbed. Though the clack of piston and gear felt as natural as the antagonistic pull of muscle and sinew, he already plotted long overdue patches and upgrades to his arms.
    A quick shower, costume change and the butt of a thin blade in his hands and it’d be straight off to Edinburgh to settle his account.
    Approaching, he found the door ajar. A shaft of artificial light crept out from the frame, inviting. The clink of glass, slurp of liquid and gentle creak of floorboards enticed further.
    Shrugging, h e strode inside.
    He paid little heed to the figure staring out his window, glass in hand. He was paid none in return. His jacket slipped from narrow shoulders and was hung upon a wall-hook. Rolling his sleeves, he made for the fridge, calling “Drink?”
    The hunched m ass of black and scarlet merely raised his glass, still eyeing the night sky.
    “Your loss.”
    Long fingers pried open the fridge’s tall door. Blasted with cold air, he reached in to retrieve the handgun from the veggie box. The chrome weapon raised. Its iron sights aligned with the intruder’s skull. The trigger depressed.
    The hollow clap of an empty chamber betrayed the situation’s gravity.
    “Felt a little light...” he huffed, casually tossing the worthless gun into the sink. Discovered and disarmed without his knowing, Lancet irritably