Adding, “Oh, by the way, you’re fecking fired,” before he slammed the door.
The dancer who had tipped him off received a healthy tip and was invited to see Boyle at home after she got off work. When she’d arrived, a little after two o’clock, he’d thanked her properly. And twice more in the time since then, leaving her limp and snoring softly on his king-size bed.
No worries there, Boyle thought. He had no wife to scold him, and no kids to barge in without knocking first. After he’d satisfied his thirst, he might go back and thank the lady one more time. It would be fine if she woke up; if not, so be it.
Boyle was all about the gratitude.
Pouring his third straight double shot of Glenmorangie whisky, he thought about Murray again. In the old days, say ten years ago, he’d have likely killed the man for the money he’d stolen. Things had been tight back then, relatively, but now Boyle could dabble in mercy.
Unless Murray was stupid and tried to make trouble.
Boyle didn’t mind if he stayed in Glasgow. Murray could serve as a living example of what befell those who screwed with the boss. Telling the story to selected listeners was also fine, as long as Murray was straight about it, laying out his sins. But if he started agitating, or considered talking to the filth…
Boyle sipped his whisky, savored it, deciding he could always have the boys drop Murray in the Clyde or take him for a ride onto the moors if there were indications of his acting up. Until then, there was no point second-guessing his original decision.
One more shot before he went back to the dancer?
Boyle considered it, weighing the pleasure against any possible decline in his performance, and decided it was worth the risk. These days, it took a fair amount of booze to get him blootered, and in his opinion, he still bounced back in good time for a man his age.
Forty and counting. Who in hell would’ve believed that Frankie Boyle would last so long? he wondered.
Smiling, he took the shot glass with him. Back to thank his friend once more, before he sent her home.
BOLAN HAD USED the day to get his bearings, gather information and to follow Frankie Boyle at a discreet distance. He’d noted the addresses that, given the length of time Boyle spent at them, he had to have an interest in beyond having a drink or watching strippers work a pole.
Mapping the darker side of Glasgow, one stop at a time.
He had been parked a block away from Night Moves, south of Bath Street, when a weeping man had lurched out of a nearby alley, cradling hands that looked like shattered bird’s nests. Bolan let him go and wished him well if he deserved it.
Either way the man turned on Pitt Street, he would find help waiting for him. Go south for police headquarters, north to reach the nearest hospital ER. Both stood within a quarter mile of where Bolan had parked his rented car to wait for Boyle’s next move.
As it turned out, that was the highlight of his evening, until he followed Boyle home and started getting ready for his unexpected meet with Glasgow’s unofficial boss. The city council and police would angrily dispute that title, naturally, but the fact remained that Boyle controlled a major portion of the city’s underground economy.
This night, that would be coming to an end.
Bolan was dressed in black street clothes with sturdy boots, and he wore a light raincoat to hide the Spectre SMG slung underneath his right arm, muzzle-heavy with its sound suppressor in place. He always came prepared for trouble. Bolan didn’t know how many men Boyle had inside his great pile of a house, or how they would be armed.
Ideally, he would have a private moment with the boss and persuade Boyle to give up his terrorist contacts. But that was looking on the rosy side. Things rarely went that way for Bolan, and he guessed that Boyle would be the usual tough nut to crack.
If he had to ice the boss and squeeze somebody else, he’d do that. Ian Watt had named Boyle’s number two as Erik Heriot, presumably well versed on all of Boyle’s big deals. If one nut wouldn’t crack…
Bolan had picked his time deliberately. Countless studies had revealed that human beings generally hit a slump at 4:00 a.m., no matter how much sleep they’d had. Reflexes lagged, distractions were routine. In hospitals, statistics showed a spike in births and deaths.
It was the Hour of the Wolf.
Or, in this case, the Hour of the Executioner.
The closest place he’d found to park was four blocks northeast of Boyle’s place, but the neighborhood had alleys where the well-to-do could leave their garbage cans for pickup without ruining the trim look of their streets. Taking the back way cut his hike by half and gave Bolan a chance to come at Boyle’s house from behind, instead of strolling under streetlights to the tall front door.
The backyard was surrounded by a seven-foot brick wall, but Boyle hadn’t bothered to spike it or set up motion detectors. Bolan scaled the wall and lay on top of it to whistle softly, calling any dogs that might be lurking in the shadows down below, but none responded to the call. No gunmen, either, indicating that the Boss of Glasgow didn’t know that he was under siege.
There had been nothing on the radio about police discovering Watt’s body in the pawn shop, nothing about weapons found or anything related to them. Bolan knew police could keep things under wraps if they collaborated with the media, but unsolved homicides normally rated coverage, even if details were suppressed to weed out false confessions.
So, he had no reason to suspect that Boyle was on alert. All systems go.
Bolan rolled off the wall and dropped into darkness, landed in a crouch and struck off toward the house.
ERIK HERIOT LIT his fortieth cigarette of the day, spent close to a half-minute coughing, then expelled the smoke from his lungs with a sigh or relief. Ought to quit that, he thought, then smiled at the old game he played with himself every day.
He wasn’t ready for a life change at the moment, whether it was swearing off the coffin nails, taking a pledge on booze, or looking for a so-called honest job to fill his time from nine to five.
He had one life, and this was it. He’d come a long way from the borstal time he’d served as a delinquent kid, serving these days as second in command to Frankie Boyle. Hard men all over Strathclyde knew his name, and Heriot could name a few in London who regretted crossing him.
The ones who were alive.
His life was damn near brilliant, when he thought about it, but if there was one thing he could change, it would’ve been the idle waiting that he had to do while Boyle had himself a frolic with a fancy bit. It was a waste of time for Heriot, in his opinion, when he could just as well be shaking down a debtor, say, or getting into some young lovely’s panties himself.
Still, Heriot knew better than to bitch about it, which would certainly rebound against him. It was better if he just—
Now, what in hell was that? he thought in response to the sound he’d just heard.
It was a scuffling noise of some kind from the kitchen, he realized. The last thing that he needed was a couple of his boys banging the pots and pans around like Gordon Feckin’ Ramsey on the telly. If they had to scuffle,
