Jack Cornel was drunk, and he was not a friendly drunk at the best of times. He was, in actual fact, a paranoid drunk, looking for problems where none existed, and willing to follow his hatred wherever it might take him. He was already looking for a row, a reason to kick off. He had been waiting all night for that ponce Flynn to arrive and now he was bored. He had come to London to take out Michael Flynn. Every time he thought about it he felt the excitement stir in his belly. This was going to give him and his brother the kudos that they craved. He wanted to step into the limelight, show people what he was capable of, convince the world that he was not a man to be ignored.
Cecil was also drunk. Unlike his older brother, though, drink mellowed him out. He loved the world, and everyone in it. Jack watched as Cecil staggered to the men’s room, all smiles and camaraderie. He was disgusted by his brother’s antics – he was like a fucking big girl’s blouse, so gormless it was embarrassing to watch him. Jack Cornel had one thing in his favour: even as drunk as a skunk, he was shrewd, and he never missed a chance that came his way. He had an in-built cunning that copious amounts of alcohol seemed to bring to the fore; he was one of the few people who actually functioned far better while under the influence of alcohol.
Glancing around, he noticed that the club was already almost empty. When he saw the doorman watching him, he knew immediately, without any doubt whatsoever, that there was something radically wrong. Years of living round two hopeless alcoholics had prepared him for the worst, and it had also taught him the need to have an escape plan at all times. He had not trusted the two young fellows who promised him Michael Flynn on a plate. He had felt from the off that they were just stooges. But he had counted on them producing the man in question at some point. He would then have happily taken his chance and, as he was in possession of two firearms, he felt his chances were much better than average; all he needed was a decent shot. He wasn’t about to play games – he just wanted to get in there, take the fucker out, and then bask in the glory.
Now, though, he felt the cold fingers of fear on his neck. There was something more going on here. He swallowed down his drink quickly, before turning to his young hosts and saying craftily, ‘I need a piss, lads, and I need to make sure that my little brother is still capable of cognitive thoughts and behaviour! Fill us up again – the night is young.’
He walked towards the men’s room slowly and carefully, knowing he was being observed from all angles. Inside the toilet, he looked at his younger brother, who was trying unsuccessfully to drain his bladder without soiling himself and his trousers too badly.
Cecil looked in the mirror at his brother and he grinned idiotically. ‘What a fucking great night, bruv!’
Jack Cornel rolled his eyes. His brother was never a man who could hold a drink inside him – he either pissed it out, or spewed it all over the floor. It was a cross he always had to bear, but tonight it annoyed him more than usual. Ignoring his brother, he walked into the stall. There was a window in there. It took him two minutes to open it – someone had painted it shut, so he had to use his penknife to open it. Once it was open he stood on the toilet bowl and climbed outside, calling to his brother to follow him. They found themselves in a small alleyway. Scaling a three-foot wall that took them on to another level, Jack grabbed his brother none too gently by the arm and pulled them both up a flight of rickety stairs until, finally, they were out on the street.
‘What’s going on, Jack?’
Jack Cornel didn’t even bother to answer.
By the time they were missed, the two brothers were long gone.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
‘What do you mean, Declan? How could you have fucking lost them?’
Michael Flynn was genuinely perplexed. This wasn’t happening, surely? The Cornels were fucking idiots. How the fuck had they escaped?
Declan Costello was mortified; this was like amateur night. ‘Look, Michael, that Jack is a lot more fucking with-it than we gave him credit for. He followed his brother into the john, and they went out the fucking window. No one could have foreseen that.’
Michael Flynn was looking at Declan Costello as if he had never seen him before in his life. He was so outraged at the man’s complete fucking dereliction of his duty, he wasn’t sure he could be trusted not to hammer him into the ground.
‘This is fucking unbelievable! I have been entertaining the Colombians all night. All you had to do was keep an eye on two northern fucking wankers, and you are telling me that they outwitted you? They scrambled out of the crapper window, and no one fucking noticed anything? Are you telling me no one was outside?’
Declan shook his head in abject denial; he was reeling with amazement. He had kept a low profile, waiting for Michael to arrive, and now it was completely fucking naused up in the worst way possible.
‘Was he armed?’
Declan nodded once again. ‘He had two firearms, a Glock, and a smaller handgun.’
Michael laughed sarcastically. ‘Oh, that is just fucking great. Just what I need – a drunken fucking northerner after my blood, running the streets of London without a care in the fucking world. You useless crowd of cunts. If anything happens to cause problems with Salvatore, I will personally hunt every fucker involved down, and I will kill them myself.’