The phone buzzed.
Benito’s eyes flew open. He bolted upright and grabbed it as it slid off his chest. Shit. Had he fallen asleep? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d drifted off to dirty memories of Mickey.
He rubbed his face and opened the text.
Unknown number: 5 mins out. Fuel then KFC. Follow us.
Benito rolled his eyes. What kind of idiot stopped for dinner on a muling run? But again, it suited him. Their stupidity was his gain. Snap to.
It was late. And thanks to the extra half hour it had taken Benito to leave Mickey’s house the night before, he hadn’t slept. Not because he’d lost the time, more that he’d been too keyed up by the second drilling Mickey had gifted him in the hallway. Hard. Fast. Frantic. It hadn’t hurt, but it had been as close to the edge as Benito could bear.
If he closed his eyes, he could still feel Mickey’s thick—
Damn it. Snap the fuck to.
Benito jerked back to alertness, cold muscles protesting as he stretched his arms and legs. A blue Astra cruised into the service station, easing past the dark parking bay Benito had taken up residence in and onto the forecourt. So close to London, the fuel pumps were busy, even at this time of night. It took a while for the car’s occupants to fill up and pay.
The Astra joined the queue at the fried chicken drive-through. Benito watched as it crawled past each window and accepted a big bag of food, and flicked the ignition on the ancient SEAT Ibiza. The old engine spluttered to life. Don’t fucking die on me. Benito pumped the accelerator a few times, warming the engine, then slipped into the exit lane to follow the Astra out of the services.
Toddington was a strange place, both efficiently connected to the capital and surrounding towns and yet remote enough that deserted country roads weren’t hard to find. The Astra passed the M1 junction and headed away from civilisation. It wasn’t the quickest route to where they were going, but so far, the most sensible thing the muling crew had done.
Shame, for them at least, it was also going to be their biggest mistake.
Benito nursed the SEAT along the unlit road, tracking the rear lights of the Astra. The road was littered with tight bends. Three miles in, it narrowed to a single lane, serviced by shallow bays for passing vehicles.
Counting them, Benito covered his face with the camouflage scarf around his neck and pulled his hood up. The fourth bay was tucked under a copse of trees, half hidden by overgrown hedgerows.
The Astra pulled in. Killed the engine and lights.
Benito gripped the SEAT’s steering wheel. Took a breath. Then he stomped on the accelerator and motored around the bend, roaring into view of the Astra’s occupants and blocking them into the bay.
Engine running, he seized the metal pipe stashed in the passenger footwell and leapt out of the car. His combat boots hit wet ground. He sprinted around the bonnet and straight into the path of the driver climbing out of the Astra.
Benito raised the pipe and hit the tall man in the gut, driving him to his knees before hitting him again in just the right place to knock him out without causing serious damage.
The man crumpled. Another took his place. Benito put him down, then faced off with the last man standing, a stocky dude Benito knew could punch like an incoming freight train.
They circled each other, bracing for impact, then the stocky dude stood down, dropping his fists.
He backtracked to the Astra and reached inside.
Benito waited, still armed and dangerous, though if the dude came back with a piece, it was over. Scaffold pole versus a fucking Glock? Yeah. Goodnight, Benito.
Fuck. He couldn’t let that happen. Who would take care of Gianna? The same people who’ll take care of her if the feds pick you up. Prison or death. Same fucking thing. Benito had seen road boys make it out of prison and turn their lives around, but they were better men than him.
The Astra’s passenger door slammed shut, the dull sound unnaturally loud with no traffic noise to drown it out.
Stocky Dude stepped closer to Benito, holding out a package. “It’s all there,” he said. “Find me in a few weeks with my cut?”
Benito nodded, stuffing the package into his front pocket without checking the contents. He pointed the bar at the ground. “On your knees.”
“All right, all right. Make it look good, but mind my teeth, yeah?”
Benito rolled his eyes, then advanced on the kneeling man without stopping to try and make sense of how his life had come to this. He swung with pinpoint precision, catching sensitive skin that would bleed a lot but leave the man conscious.
Stocky Dude slumped forwards, clutching his hands to the wound, smearing blood as it pulsed from the broken skin.
He nodded.
Benito nodded back and made his escape.
He dashed to the SEAT and slid behind the wheel, slamming the door as he gunned the engine and sped away, tyres squealing, dirt clouds misting the night air.
The Astra faded into the distance. Adrenaline coursing, Benito floored it to the main road, then slowed down to drive like a sensible old man in the opposite direction to anywhere he wanted to be.
The quiet stretch of the A5 had no traffic cameras. Benito followed it for an hour, then headed east to the coast, driving and driving and driving until he saw signs for the arse-crack town that could turn his financial fortunes around.
He parked by the beach. A dark van was already waiting for him. Two men got out. Benito steeled himself for the riskiest moment yet and left the sanctuary of his car behind.
The package changed hands. Then an envelope of rolled notes. No words. But Benito didn’t need validation. Just enough cash to—
To what? You want to be king again? For this shit to be your whole fucking life?
Nah. Fuck that. Benito wanted to be free, and the money in his pocket was just a fraction of what he needed to make that happen.
“A hundred Gs. That’s the price, in cash, product, or fucking blood. Else you rot here and spend the rest of your miserable life looking over your shoulder.”
Self-loathing boiled in Benito’s gut. He melted away from the meet and retrieved his car, pointing it back inland in a blind haze.
He was a half a world away before he took a breath. At least it felt that way. Ten miles from home, he skidded the SEAT to a stop in another country lane and killed the engine. With tired legs, he jumped from the car and moved to the boot. Inside, he found the jerry can of petrol stashed there and quickly doused the car interior.
Backing up, he lit a rag on fire. It burned fast, red-hot tendrils snaking up his arm. Benito cursed and tossed it to the open car door, then took off running without stopping to see if he’d set himself on fire.
Farmland surrounded the narrow road. Fields and fields of arable crops and sheep. Benito raced through the mud, jumping fences and climbing stiles, ears peeled for sirens, but none came. The car fire was far enough from any homes that it would burn itself out before it was seen.
He ran for miles until he reached where he’d left his SUV. In the pitch-black lay-by, he stripped his muddy, petrol-scented clothes and stuffed them into a bag with the scaffold pipe. He threw on clean clothes, stamped into his trainers, and dropped the stolen package on the passenger seat.
Despite being abandoned for hours, his car was warm and dry. He cranked the heat and pulled quietly out of the lay-by and made for the main road. Again. I’m so fucking tired. And he still had another stop to make—the woods, to bury twenty grand under a burnt sycamore tree.