The Drop

Gladwell had still been a scussy wee shite from the tenements of Glasgow, like his old man, he would have settled for his father’s idea of heaven; three former council houses next to each other, all knocked in together to make one big monument to bad taste. But Gladwell and his missus had grander ideas, which is why he had grounds and a big clump of trees and bushes just inside the gated walls of his huge house. It was ideal for our purpose. That big house was about to cost Tommy a lot more than he ever could have imagined when he was buying it.
    Danny dropped Gladwell’s first bodyguard smoothly and, as he hit the floor, Palmer took out the second. Before the bloke could even react he was on the ground too, collapsed in a heap on the gravel driveway. Neither of them was getting up again. Got to hand it to our Our-young-’un, he was still a cracking shot and Palmer looked like he did this kind of thing every day of the week.
    Gladwell just froze in shock. He was peering out towards us in disbelief, because the men he’d entrusted his life to were both dead and he’d only just walked out of his own front door. He’d got a good inkling he was going to be next but he couldn’t see us, so he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t even run, because it all happened too fast.
    The next thing, Palmer put a bullet right into his leg, just above the knee and Gladwell went down wailing and shouting. His missus was clambering back out of the car and screaming blue murder, shouting, ‘Tommy, Tommy!’ at the top of her voice - but no one was going to hear her out here, miles from anywhere.
    My brother paused for a second and looked up just long enough for me to nod at him. ‘Do her,’ I told him. Tommy Gladwell’s missus was still screaming like a fish wife, frantic to save her husband. The next shot took her right in the chest, which finally put an end to her caterwauling.
    I watched her body twist and fall back against the front side panel of their big BMW. I didn’t give a fuck for her, because of what she had said to Sarah when she left her alone with that Russian.
    Gladwell was trying to make sense of what had happened to him, trying to crawl but he was having a problem because of the bullet in his leg. His arm was stretched out despairingly towards his wife, even though he must have known by now it was hopeless. I patted Our-young-’un on the shoulder, climbed to my feet and walked calmly out of the bushes towards him, carrying the small black bag Hunter had given me. Palmer and Danny followed.
    I crossed the land between us before Gladwell could drag his fat bulk to his wife and I called out to him. ‘Time to pay what’s owed Tommy,’ he turned his head to see me then. I swear I will never forget the look of amazement on his stupid face.
    ‘You?’ he managed to splutter and it was clear he thought he had about as much chance of being attacked by the ghost of Mother Theresa, than of being gunned down outside his own home by me.
    ‘That’s right,’ I reached into the bag and slowly, deliberately pulled out the long, flat case then I slid the razor sharp machete free and showed it to him. Instinctively he tried to get to his feet and run, so scared that he’d forgotten his legs didn’t work any more. There was a look of plain terror on his chubby face. I made sure I held the machete high so he could see the edge and I marched right up to him. He somehow managed to slide himself round until he was slumped on his back, propped up against the rear door of the car. ‘You killed my wife, you bastard,’ he half screamed, half sobbed at me.
    ‘Mmm, not yet,’ I said, ‘looks like she is just about to breathe her last though,’ I was no doctor but I reckoned I had that diagnosis just about nailed. Even though Lady Macbeth was technically still alive, the last few breaths were coming out of her now, slow and hoarse.
    I got right up to her, knelt down on one knee and was close enough to almost whisper in her ear. ‘I’ve got a message for you from Bobby Mahoney’s daughter,’ there was the slightest glimmer of recognition in her eyes, “get over yourself Hen”.’
    Then I watched her die right in front of me.
    ‘Your wife’s dead Gladwell,’ I told him, ‘so now I guess it’s your turn’
    ‘Fuck you,’ he said but the defiance was unconvincing. He was sobbing and there was a pool of piss all around him.
    ‘I want you to know this isn’t going to be quick,’ I told him, ‘not after what