Real Tigers полностью

Because in the years since dealing with Alison Dunn, Diana’s own career had stalled; not as spectacularly as Donovan’s, but just as decisively. Her role had become that of another middle-management drone, while Tearney’s crusade to transform the Service into a bland, national-security delivery system, with herself as CEO, had marched on relentlessly. Budget meetings. Corporate branding. The whittling away of power from individual departments until a more vertical structure was achieved; one in which the traditional routes to power—long service, qualifications, a willingness to crawl over the bleeding bodies piled up in front—had been rendered null. Little wonder Diana’s thoughts had turned to alternative methods of advancement. And she had always prided herself on the elegance of her schemes. When looking for an off-the-book joe, who better than one with a grudge and a skill set?

It had taken little effort to persuade Donovan he’d been the victim of a conspiracy; little more to convince him it was of Ingrid Tearney’s making. Diana had handed him the opportunity for revenge, and he’d brought his service chum, Alison Dunn’s fiancé, along with him.

At the corner, next to a row of bikes, she lit a cigarette and checked her phone. Nothing. And then, before she could change her mind, she called Peter Judd’s number. When she’d fed Judd the tiger team idea, she’d told him nothing of the underlying scheme. This afternoon, he’d made it clear he suspected her of holding out on him . . . He’d be a dangerous friend to have, PJ, but sometimes you were left with little choice. Lovers were the only true enemies. All the others were constantly shifting.

He answered on the second ring. “Diana.”

“PJ. I have a small confession to make.”

“You mean you weren’t being entirely honest with me earlier?” His tone was flat as a road. “I’m shocked, Diana. Shocked to the core.”

“I do know your tigers. Operationally, I mean.” No names on an open line. “But what they did this morning, that was no part of their mission.”

Sentiment didn’t play a large part in Peter Judd’s world, or not when the cameras weren’t running. “Can’t enjoy a scone without spreading a little jam,” he said. “But really, Diana, we’d be much more comfortable discussing this somewhere private. Why not have Seb call you a taxi?”

“Who’s Seb?” she asked a dead connection, then started as a sleek-looking man with dark hair brushed back from a high forehead materialised at her side.

“Cab, Ms. Taverner? Your lucky night. There’s one coming now,” and he raised an arm to flag it down, his other hand ever so lightly on her elbow.

You don’t get lucky twice, Shirley learned.

Her second opponent was a harder proposition.

She hit him with the same tackle that had produced such splendid results two minutes back, already picturing a heap of broken Arrows piling up below, as she despatched the whole platoon one by one. But instead of toppling through the window he threw himself hard onto the floor, regaining the advantage by pulling her with him. She landed hard, felt a sharp metallic crack. For a moment they were spooning almost, and she could smell his body odour, rank in the evening’s heat. The cosh he held looked like something you might buy under the counter; short, fat, ugly. But he couldn’t swing it while they were wrestling, and when he tried to wrap an arm around her throat she bit his wrist. He howled like a dog, and she pushed free from his grasp only to fall flat on her palms when he grabbed her foot. Shirley let her leg go limp then kicked viciously, catching him somewhere, she hoped his face, but the impact wasn’t squishy enough. Her foot came free. She scrabbled forward a yard or two, regained her feet and turned to him, her palms stucco-rough with grit and glass. She brushed them on her trousers, her gaze not leaving the man in front of her.

Bigger than her, but most men were. What mattered more was that he’d tossed the cosh through the window; had produced in its place a wickedly grooved knife.

He grinned, his teeth showing whiter than reality against the black of his balaclava. “I am gonna skin you alive, sweetheart.”

Save your breath, she warned herself.

“Gonna make holes in you.”

She backed along the corridor, feet scrunching on the floor.

“Make you squeal like a piglet.”

He lunged and she parried, her forearm knocking the knife aside, and she slapped the flat of her hand into his face. It should have been enough, but she’d lost some balance and didn’t connect with the force she might have done. He reared backwards, and she reversed too.

“Doing the old quickstep, eh?”

He’d watched a lot of movies, she thought. That was fine. The more they talked, the less breath they had.

“Let’s see what you got, darlin’.”

What I’ve got is anger management issues. Apparently.

“Because we can go easy or we can go hard.”

Fuck it then. Let’s go hard.