Free Castling by Jack McGlynn Page A

snatched a glass from the adjacent cupboard.
    Sighing, the visitor straightened, unveiling a back lashed with long muscle. Speaking at last, Rook’s voice was grave.
    “We need to talk, Sean.”
    Alarm pierced Lancet’s eyes. Thin lips and a clenched jaw stopped it from spreading through his remaining features.
    Stalling , he poured malt scotch into a fat glass while his senses quested, gauging the danger. He heard nothing, smelt no gunpowder or chemical residue, felt no pulse of hidden heartbeats, saw no indication, no suggestion that the lone stranger looking out his window was anything other than just that.
    Alone.
    Like him.
    Sean relaxed, sipping his whiskey, happy to indulge the intruder with some chit-chat before snapping his neck. Or opening his throat. Or stopping his heart. Sean hadn’t quite decided yet, but the night was relatively young.
    “So we’ ve met?” he opened, tilting his glass in a welcoming gesture.
    “We have.”
    “I can’t place you” the criminal admitted, coolly making his way for the cutlery drawer.
    “Well, you a re getting on in years...” Rook teased as his mark was unable to find anything sharper than a wooden spoon “Besides, you’ve been busy.”
    Smirki ng, Sean pushed the drawer home. He propped himself up on the kitchen counter. His feet dangled, heels bouncing off wooden cabinet.
    “Well if I hadn’t, I’m guessing I’d be spared the house call? And its tedious small talk...”
    Having fun, Rook slurped at his glass, wagging a finger at his perched target,
    “Oh , come on! I think I’ve earned a few minute’s catch-up. Can you even remember the last time you were ambushed?” Rook didn’t really need to clarify what was happening. But he had a question in need of answering before the evening’s entertainment could begin in truth.
    “Just about, though I don’t recall them ever being so... sedate. Go on then, jog an old man’s memory; where did we meet?”
    Rook spooned some froth from the top of the glass, let the sweetness linger on his tongue. For the moment at least, his withdrawal was satiated. His head was clear, his limbs were relaxed and his heart rate was scarcely even elevated.
    Rook reflected on such moments of serenity. And their inherent absurdity. He was as content now, moments away from a confrontation with the continent’s most capable killer, as he was decades past, in the rubble of a communist dystopia.
    “Cuba.” he responded eventually.
    Sean put his beverage down to better snort his derision.
    “Listen , just because you’re naive enough to think coming into my house without back-up was a good idea, doesn’t mean I’m a gullible old crone.
    I remember Cuba.
    Wild times! Made a name for myself that day, you know? Put a scalpel through Cracker’s eye and kicked him off a building. Not that it killed him, mind... or slowed him down all that much. But, the world watched me do it. Worked wonders for the old reputation.
    You wouldn’t recognize Havana now , young man. It’s nice, sterile, filthy rich. A different place. None of the smoke or rubble or toppled buildings. None of the screams...
    I’m disappointed.
    You went to the effort of learning my name. I doubt that was cheap. But if you wanted me rattled, the least you could do is pick an event I’m unlikely to remember. Yes, it’s been almost twenty five years, but I made my bones at Havana’s little street party.
    And y ou’d have been what? Eight years old at the time?”
    “Nine.”
    Silence engulfed the apartment. Sean’s memory churned, digging through a lifetime of disregarded brawls and forgotten rivalries. His expression leapt as realisation finally dawned.
    “Rook?!”
    “Sean. Long time.”
    ‘ Lancet’ leapt down, scotch still clasped firmly in his grip, “My God. You filled out!”
    “It’s all diet.” Rook grinned sheepishly.
    “Isn’t that a coke float?”
    “ Diet coke float.”
    Rook raised the murky brown foam for another swig. Chuckling, Sean