Free Breaking Point by John Macken Page B
Authors: John Macken
sort of lead that had almost gone out of fashion. Get behind some fucker with one of them around his neck, squeezing and crushing, closing off tubes and biting into skin, and he would fucking bark if you asked him to. Just ask Sol.
Valdek looked down at the thin line of spine and ribs beside him. No meat, no muscle, just skin and bone. Jaws that looked like they’d snap on a decent-sized bone. This wasn’t a dog, a proper dog, an Alsatian, a Rotty, a Staff. This was an artist, a thoroughbred, an aesthete. Dogs were meant to fight and to fuck, to be low down and dirty, to hunt in packs and scare people shitless. But greyhounds acted like they were above all those things, as if their ability to run meant they were somehow exempt. Valdek hated walking the fucking thing, and picking up after it. Any dog whose shit was bigger than its brain, he had long decided, went against the laws of natural selection and deserved to be executed.
‘This way, Rico,’ he growled, tugging hard.
Valdek was well aware that every job came with its bad points. His previous employer, Kieran Hobbs, had made Valdek clear up other people’s blood once too often. And now he was dead. Valdek wasn’t happy about that, but the knowledge of Kieran’s business activities had helped him come to the attention of Maclyn Margulis. And now, as part of Maclyn’s crew, Valdek was back to doing the things he liked best. Lifting weights, cracking skulls and torturing thugs. A little less dog walking and his life would be complete.
Valdek tugged the collar again and the greyhound trotted back next to him.
Maclyn had once told him that he rescued Rico from execution. As Ricochet Lad, he was a failed racer, one of the hundreds of greyhounds that outlived their usefulness by running too slowly or getting themselves injured. Valdek had heard numerous human pleas for mercy that Maclyn had ignored, men fighting for their lives, owing money, encroaching on his business, stealing his goods or trying to take him on. Men who had been tied up in his underground base, a dog lead around the neck, Maclyn facing them with his eyes alight and his teeth bared. And not one of them had experienced anything like the mercy Maclyn had shown for this dog. In fact, in the four months he had been working for him, Valdek had helped torture over a dozen men, one of whom could no longer walk, one of whom had been beaten so badly that he was still in hospital, and Sol, who wouldn’t be smelling anything or smoking any cigars for many years to come. Mercy for a dog, but no mercy for a gangster. That seemed to be Maclyn’s stance. It worked though. None of the men would be bothering Maclyn Margulis or his business interests ever again.
Valdek left the parkland through a short alley infested with weeds and broken bottles. Rico trotted lightly across the tarmac, nails clicking on the surface. Valdek encouraged it through a gate against its will. He cursed. It was forever wanting to take gargantuan strides across the grass, to find real rabbits to chase now that it no longer had to pursue plastic ones.
The large black X5 was directly ahead. Valdek stopped in disbelief, and the dog stopped too. The car was fucked. Valdek started walking towards it, quicker and on alert, scanning up and down the road. There was glass everywhere. All of the BMW’s windows had been put through. Even the glass of the wing mirrors was shattered, the rear-view too. This had been systematic. A message.
Valdek pulled out his keys and pressed the keyfob. Nothing. He paced round to the front. The bonnet was slightly raised. He lifted it and peered inside. The alarm wiring had been cut. This was not random vandalism.
Valdek stepped back, small cubes of glass fracturing under his boots. He picked the dog up and held it in his massive arms. A fucked car was one thing. A bleeding dog might send Maclyn over the edge.
Valdek pulled out his mobile. As he held the dog, he took a few shots of the vehicle from different
Valdek looked down at the thin line of spine and ribs beside him. No meat, no muscle, just skin and bone. Jaws that looked like they’d snap on a decent-sized bone. This wasn’t a dog, a proper dog, an Alsatian, a Rotty, a Staff. This was an artist, a thoroughbred, an aesthete. Dogs were meant to fight and to fuck, to be low down and dirty, to hunt in packs and scare people shitless. But greyhounds acted like they were above all those things, as if their ability to run meant they were somehow exempt. Valdek hated walking the fucking thing, and picking up after it. Any dog whose shit was bigger than its brain, he had long decided, went against the laws of natural selection and deserved to be executed.
‘This way, Rico,’ he growled, tugging hard.
Valdek was well aware that every job came with its bad points. His previous employer, Kieran Hobbs, had made Valdek clear up other people’s blood once too often. And now he was dead. Valdek wasn’t happy about that, but the knowledge of Kieran’s business activities had helped him come to the attention of Maclyn Margulis. And now, as part of Maclyn’s crew, Valdek was back to doing the things he liked best. Lifting weights, cracking skulls and torturing thugs. A little less dog walking and his life would be complete.
Valdek tugged the collar again and the greyhound trotted back next to him.
Maclyn had once told him that he rescued Rico from execution. As Ricochet Lad, he was a failed racer, one of the hundreds of greyhounds that outlived their usefulness by running too slowly or getting themselves injured. Valdek had heard numerous human pleas for mercy that Maclyn had ignored, men fighting for their lives, owing money, encroaching on his business, stealing his goods or trying to take him on. Men who had been tied up in his underground base, a dog lead around the neck, Maclyn facing them with his eyes alight and his teeth bared. And not one of them had experienced anything like the mercy Maclyn had shown for this dog. In fact, in the four months he had been working for him, Valdek had helped torture over a dozen men, one of whom could no longer walk, one of whom had been beaten so badly that he was still in hospital, and Sol, who wouldn’t be smelling anything or smoking any cigars for many years to come. Mercy for a dog, but no mercy for a gangster. That seemed to be Maclyn’s stance. It worked though. None of the men would be bothering Maclyn Margulis or his business interests ever again.
Valdek left the parkland through a short alley infested with weeds and broken bottles. Rico trotted lightly across the tarmac, nails clicking on the surface. Valdek encouraged it through a gate against its will. He cursed. It was forever wanting to take gargantuan strides across the grass, to find real rabbits to chase now that it no longer had to pursue plastic ones.
The large black X5 was directly ahead. Valdek stopped in disbelief, and the dog stopped too. The car was fucked. Valdek started walking towards it, quicker and on alert, scanning up and down the road. There was glass everywhere. All of the BMW’s windows had been put through. Even the glass of the wing mirrors was shattered, the rear-view too. This had been systematic. A message.
Valdek pulled out his keys and pressed the keyfob. Nothing. He paced round to the front. The bonnet was slightly raised. He lifted it and peered inside. The alarm wiring had been cut. This was not random vandalism.
Valdek stepped back, small cubes of glass fracturing under his boots. He picked the dog up and held it in his massive arms. A fucked car was one thing. A bleeding dog might send Maclyn over the edge.
Valdek pulled out his mobile. As he held the dog, he took a few shots of the vehicle from different