Malik's Revenge E-Book

Les Haswell

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Alan Brodie, a highly decorated former Special Forces operative in the British army, is a trained killer with extensive experience in undercover black ops in the deadly battlefields of Iraq, Afghanistan, and other deniable war zones. Retired from the military and now working in the private security sector, Brodie has just agreed to buy a beach front bar/restaurant in the Almeria region of Spain.

Unknown to Brodie, the previous owner was being coerced by a ruthless drug cartel into allowing his premises to be used as an undercover distribution point for their illegal trade and it seems they will not take ‘no’ for an answer. Then they come head to head with the professional killer that is Alan Brodie.

While taking possession of the bar, Brodie is persuaded by local police chief Comisario Moreno into helping him bring down these drug dealers, Moreno insisting that he works with the beautiful, enigmatic Sergeant Anita Malik, but no one is prepared for the explosion of violence that Brodie unleashes on the ruthless cartel.

As Brodie and Malik work together to infiltrate and break the drug cartel, they become close, but is the seductive Sergeant Malik all that she seems?

Leseprobe

MALIK'S REVENGE

Alan Brodie Thrillers

Book 1

LES HASWELL

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Acknowledgments

The Prodigal Son

The Good Samaritan

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Les Haswell

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Diana Brooks

Proofread by Tyler Colins

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Chapter1

The solitary figure ran at pace along the deserted, rain soaked beach. Despite the heavy rain and the soft golden sand underfoot, he was breathing comfortably, his feet hitting the ground in time to the music playing through his Bluetooth earbuds, his lips occasionally forming the words of the now familiar songs. This was a man in a world of his own, solitary, relaxed, enjoying life in his new home, despite the best attempts of the weather to dampen his spirits.

It rarely rains in the Almeria Region of Spain the people he had bought his villa from had told him. It rained very infrequently on the Almanzora region of the Costa Almeria, the desert of Europe, where Hollywood had filmed its Spaghetti Westerns. When it did rain, it tended to rain in short sharp torrents.

The man, well over six feet tall, had a muscular, athletic build, accentuated by the wet t-shirt clinging to his upper body. In his late thirties or early forties, his complexion was tanned, as you would expect of someone who lived in that area and spent much of his time outside. His unfashionably long, unruly mop of blond curly hair was tied back with a red headband.

He approached a beach front development of townhouses and apartments which fronted on to an adjoining paseo and small harbour with a number of berths associated with the development. Originally planned as a “Little Venice” style community, the worldwide financial and property market crash had ensured that the canals and bridges had been trimmed back to attractive avenues and small plazas all designed around the centrepiece of a large, Spanish fountain.

Running up the ramp on to the paseo the man passed the new buildings and harbour area without breaking stride. Along the harbour front was a small number of retail units, all displaying their wares in grill protected windows, wares which would later that morning spill out onto the promenade. In the middle of the paseo, a small harbour stretched out into the Mediterranean, one side of the wall had been formed into a small marina with the berths being allocated to the townhouses and apartments which made up the recently completed development. The other side of the wall had been formed into a small harbour for a select number of local fishing boats.

Approaching the end unit, a popular bar/restaurant, El Puerto, which he visited regularly for a light lunch or a few evening drinks, he noticed with more than a passing interest, a “Se Vende” (“For Sale”) sign in the window. He ran down the ramp at the other end of the paseo and continued along the beach to his home.

The market crash had allowed him to buy what was now his main home, from a Dutch couple, in severe financial trouble, desperate to offload their Spanish property at around sixty percent of the original purchase price. He was in the right place at the right time and as a cash buyer it was an opportunity not to missed

His was a modern, three bedroom beachfront villa, one of six built as part of a recently constructed development, built in traditional Moorish style, popular along that stretch of the Spanish coastline. An open plan living and dining area; ensuite bedroom and a kitchen took up most of the ground floor. A stairway in one corner of the living area led to the upper floor. The first floor consisted of two double ensuite bedrooms, the master bedroom had its own private roof terrace which gave uninterrupted views of the beach, the small harbour and across the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean. The front door opened out to a large garden; two sets of French doors led from the lounge onto an extensive full-width wooden terrace overlooking the pool and the beach beyond. The entire footprint of the house was home to a spacious basement which he was considering kitting out as a gym.

As he went upstairs to the shower room, his thoughts turned again to the “Se Vende” sign on El Puerto. He knew the Spanish couple who ran the bar, well enough to help them out on the odd occasion when they were really busy. It seemed strange to him that they had said nothing about leaving. Lunchtime would give him an opportunity to talk to the couple in an effort to satisfy his curiosity.

By the time he had showered, dressed and breakfasted it was almost nine o’clock. The rain had thankfully stopped and the skies were returning to their normal cloudless blue. He wandered around the kitchen, listing things he needed from the supermarket in Garrucha and set off to do his shopping. His car was parked in a garage at the side of the house. Stopping only to power down the roof on the red Ford Mustang, he drove out into bright sunlight.

Supermarket shopping was not an enjoyable experience for the man, more a necessary evil. He grabbed a trolley, strode round the aisles, ticked off the items on his list and hit the checkout all within twenty minutes. He made his way down to the supermarket’s underground car park, dropped his supplies onto the passenger seat of the car, and headed for home.

Chapter2

Dressed in a pair of denim shorts and a white linen shirt, he strolled from his beach house to El Puerto, grabbed a stool at the bar, swivelling round to watch the activity around the small marina and paseo. He watched two men in a small fishing boat lift their catch onto the quayside, then into a little white SEAT van. He smiled and waved as one of his neighbours walked past the bar with his wife. At long last, he had found somewhere which he was happy to call home. He loved the pace of life, the social lifestyle that the climate afforded and although sometimes irritating, the “manana” attitude to life. He had a comfortable villa in a small, quiet development, which overlooked the beach and was a two-minute walk from the marina and the welcoming ambiance of El Puerto. His neighbours, mostly Spanish, with a smattering of northern European expats, were friendly without being intrusive. Some, who were not permanent residents, let out their properties from time to time. They all had their own lives and spent little time intruding or enquiring into that of others. No one was interested in his past.

“Hey! Big Al.”

A familiar friendly voice broke into his musings. He swivelled round to face the petite figure behind the bar.

“Wee Conchie,” he addressed Conchita Gutiérrez, who with Manuel her husband, owned El Puerto. She laughed and came round the bar to get a big friendly hug from her favourite customer.

She looked up at him with a smile, “I swear you get higher every time I see you,” she laughed, patting his chest.

“What you want, a beer?

“No, una cerveza, por favor”

“That’s what I said, you big lump”

“Oh, sorry. Me being Scottish, my English isn’t too good, Conchie.”

“You’re a bad boy, Alan Brodie,” Conchita chided as she opened a bottle of chilled Corona, which she placed on the bar in front of him. “You want some food or just your cerveza?”

“You got any cocido montañés left?” he asked looking at the Menu del Dia.

“Si, plenty left”

“OK, I’ll have that, please”

“She disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a large steaming tureen of Cantabrian Mountain Stew and a plentiful supply of fresh crusty bread.

As Brodie ate, he noticed the bar was very quiet and took the opportunity to nod at the “For Sale” sign.

“What’s all this Conchie? How do I get fed now?”

“Is too much, this place and the bar in Mojácar, so we sell this and keep the other one we’ve had for years. We have built a good business here but now we look for someone to buy it from us.”

“I might be interested Conchie, that’s why I came round today, I saw the sign this morning when I was out running. I’ve been looking for something to do out here for a while. I’ve looked at a couple of other bars, one in Mojácar and one in Villaricos. I’ve worked in bars before and I live just along the beach. It just kind of appeals to me. What do you think?”

“Maybe too busy for you, am not sure.” Conchita shrugged at him. ”You should talk with Manuel.”

“OK.” Brodie said, somewhat deflated by Conchita’s lack of enthusiasm for his approach. “Maybe I’ll pop into Mojácar tomorrow and have a chat with him.”

Having finished his lunch, he said goodbye to Conchita and walked back along the beach, which was now neither rain-soaked nor deserted. This afternoon was all about getting information to his accountant for his UK tax return, so he set about doing that with little enthusiasm. He took his laptop and paperwork out to his roof terrace and sat in a shaded corner where he was able to read the laptop screen, and lost the rest of the afternoon in receipts, accounts and HMRC forms. He only realised how much of the afternoon he had taken up with these when, due to lack of daylight, he found himself unable to read some of the receipts. At that point he cleared up everything, went back down to the living area on the ground floor, and put everything except his laptop into a small safe in the lounge.

He spent the next hour preparing his dinner, which he took out to his terrace with a glass of Rioja Reserva and sat listening to the rhythmic breaking of the waves while enjoying his own recipe, chicken and chorizo paella in the warm evening air. After dinner he returned to the terrace, read some more of a book, pouring a couple more glasses of wine as the evening passed. At around 10.30 he went back inside, set the alarm system then headed to bed.

Chapter3

The next day, after his morning run, Brodie headed to the Parque Comercial shopping centre in Mojácar in search of a couple of new shirts from his favourite clothes shop. He then made his way along the paseo, which ran the full length of Mojácar Playa to talk to Manuel about the bar in Puerto Ricos.

He arrived in Manuel’s bar finding himself the only customer as it was still early for lunchtime traffic. There was no sign of Manuel. He picked a few nuts out of a bowl on the bar and was chewing on these when a tall slim man wearing a light grey suit and pale blue open neck shirt walked out of the kitchen followed closely by Manuel. The two men shook hands and as the tall man walked round the bar he pointed at the table closest to the window and asked Manuel for a coffee and a tostada con tomate, a fairly typical Spanish breakfast choice. Manuel waved him to the table and turning to walk back to the kitchen, noticed his other customer.

“Hola, buenos dias mi amigo. How are you?”

“I’m fine wee man, just wanted a refreshment and a chat”

“OK, two minutes, my friend,” Manuel replied, disappearing into the kitchen. True to his word, Manuel reappeared a couple of minutes later. “Coffee or beer?” he addressed Brodie.

“Cerveza, por favor”

Manuel opened a chilled, dew-coated bottle of Corona and put it on the bar. “So, that’s the refreshment you wanted, what you want to talk about?”

“El Puerto, I’m interested in buying it, Manuel. I’ve looked at a couple of bars before, I need to find something to do out here and that just fits the bill. I have no idea how much you want for it or how to go about getting the licence but I thought if we could talk a deal, you might help me with what I need to do.”

Manuel looked over at the man sitting at the table, now with his coffee and tostada con tomate, then back at Brodie.

“If you’re serious, we agree a price, and you go to the Town Hall and apply for a licence. If the Mayor’s office gives you the licence you can run the bar, but the Mayor’s office might not give you the licence because you are an expat”

“There are loads of expats running bars, Manuel.”

“Ah, that’s the problem, too many.” Manuel’s eyes again flicked towards the man in the grey suit.

“OK, but surely it’s worth a try,” Brodie persisted.

“Sure, but don’t think it would be easy.”

“What about price then?”

“It’s on the market for 270,000 euros. For you, I would take 250,000 euros but a mortgage would be difficult for you, after the property crash.”

“I wouldn’t need a mortgage, Manuel, it would be a cash sale.”

“What, you a millionaire?” Manuel joked.

“Strangely enough, yeah. I sold my parents’ property in Scotland a wee while back, so I’m not short of a bob or two”

“What is a ‘bob or two’?”

Brodie laughed, “Sorry, Manuel, Scottish euphemism. Let’s just say I’ve got funds to buy the bar if you’ll sell it to me. You don’t seem keen. Maybe you think I can’t run it.”

“No, no, I just think it might take up too much of your time. I know you do all kinds of security work.”

“I’m getting too old for that. I left the forces to get away from all that. It’s about time I settled down, Manuel, found a good woman, bought a pair of slippers, traded the Mustang in and bought myself a little SEAT.”

“Hey, I watch you, you have plenty women, some good, some not so good, some bad maybe, you know that better than me,” Manuel laughed.

“Sounds as if you have a buyer for your bar in Puerto Ricos, my friend.”

The tall man in the grey suit was standing just behind them. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said as he placed his empty plate, cup and saucer on the bar. “I should go Manuel. Thank you for breakfast.”

He turned to leave just as a group of British holidaymakers came into the bar and Manuel went to greet them.

“Come down to the bar tomorrow night, early, before we get busy; we can talk more.”

“OK, I’ll do that. See you then.”

Chapter4

The next day was virtually a repeat of the day before, except Brodie spent an hour in his basement gym before showering and eating breakfast. His morning run had not been blighted by torrential rain, rather it was blessed by the blue sky and warming sunshine which was the norm for the region. This was followed by more receipts and invoices, lunch and then reading and answering email.

He spent some time on the internet, reading information and guidance on the Spanish licencing laws required to own and run a bar in the Almeria region. It appeared that the licence was attached to the business not the owner, but would normally require to be transferred to the new owner at a cost of around 600 euros. An ex-pat was required to have a Residencia, a Spanish residency permit and a national insurance or NIE number, which Brodie had acquired when buying his house and opening his Spanish bank account. Similarly, he had appointed a local solicitor to facilitate the purchase of the beach house and he had worked well on Brodie’s behalf, spoke good English, and had introduced him to a local sports club and golf club.

At four o’clock that afternoon, he headed along the beach paseo to El Puerto for a chat with Manuel.

As he approached the bar, a vaguely familiar, tall, slim figure exited wearing a pale grey suit and an open-neck white shirt. Brodie recognised him from the previous day, sitting in Manuel’s bar in Mojácar. The tall figure turned his head and looked in both directions, up and down the paseo; he noticed Brodie, nodded and smiled briefly then made off in the opposite direction.

Brodie walked into the bar, waved to Manuel, and sat at a quiet corner table at the back of the room.

“Your wine?” Manuel enquired.

“Si, gracias,” Brodie replied.

Being a regular customer, Brodie had his favourite Rioja Reserva behind the bar. He bought a bottle of the wine, but didn’t necessarily finish it the same night, so Manuel or Conchita would replace the cork and bring it out on Brodie’s next visit.

Manuel brought his wine over to the table and sat down.

“So, you want to buy El Puerto, do you?”

“Yeah, I would, Manuel. I have been looking at bars in the area for a while now and really wasn’t seeing anything that ticked all the boxes. I’ve always liked the set-up here, the location, atmosphere, the clientele. I see how busy the place is, I know the staff you have, and it ticks all my boxes. The price is about right, in comparison with others that I’ve looked at. I know and trust you and Conchita, so yeah, all things being equal…”

“OK, if you are certain and you’re happy with the price. In Spain we always ask for more than we expect, so as I said, for you, I will reduce the price from 270,000 euros to 250,000 euros.”

“What about the flat above? That’s yours as well and I see you have a ‘For Sale’ sign on the window.”

“Si, yes, it is a three bedroom, two bathroom apartment, with that big balcony at the front. There is an underground carpark with a private space. I can show you if you have time, but you have that beautiful house and it’s not too far from here.”

“Sure, but I could rent that out in the summer; it would make sense for me to live above the shop.”

Manuel took Brodie up to show him the flat.

“This was one of the show apartments when the development was built and it was finished and furnished with no expense spared as you can see. We bought it fully furnished as an investment. Not a good decision, Alan, we will lose about one third of what we paid for it, but sadly, the market crashed just after we bought it. I will leave the keys for you to have a look around and I will see you downstairs when you have seen everything you want to see.”

“OK, thanks, Manuel.”

Brodie looked round the apartment. It had a large master bedroom and two further bedrooms, both of reasonable size, all with built-in wardrobes and a large family bathroom. The master bedroom had an en-suite shower and access to the balcony, which stretched around two sides of the apartment. A fully fitted kitchen was separated from the dining and lounge area by a marble-topped worktop and breakfast bar. The lounge had bifold doors on one wall, opening out onto the same large balcony which was also accessed from the master bedroom. The balcony here was much wider than at the side of the property and overlooked the beach, the paseo, and the harbour. In contrast to the traditional exterior of the property, the apartment was fully furnished and equipped in a modern, tasteful manner, which, as Manuel has said, gave the impression of being high quality throughout. As Brodie was about to leave the apartment, he opened a door in the square entrance hall at the bottom of the stairs and found a small but adequate utility and cloakroom.

He was impressed and told Manuel so, when he returned to the bar.

“I like it Manuel. How much is the asking price?”

“I have spoken to Conchita and we have agreed that if you are buying the bar and the apartment, we would ask for 400,000 euros for both. 250,000 for the business and 150,000 for the apartment, which is a good deal less than we paid for it, but, that is the market.”

“Are you sure? You might get more for the apartment.”

“Maybe, but it makes sense, as you say, to sell both together and we are selling to someone we know.”

“Fine by me Manuel. Do you want to shake hands on a deal now or do you want to talk with Conchita first?”

“No, I already spoke with Conchita, she is happy for you to buy. Let’s shake hands on a deal. We can talk to our solicitors, then when they are happy they can get us some contracts to sign.”

The two men shook hands.

“We should celebrate,“ Manuel said as he rose from his seat. “Conchita? Conchita, bring a bottle of Champagne and three glasses.

Manuel’s wife appeared from the kitchen, carrying her husband’s order and placed the bottle and glasses on the table. “Congratulations, Big Al. Manuel and I have worked hard to build a good local trade and we know that you will be good for business. People like you and they will still come here to support you.”

The three raised their glasses.

“Salud!”

“Cheers!”

“Salud!”

They talked about the business, the transfer of ownership and what it entailed.

“You need insurances and a safety certificate from a man who checks emergency lighting and fire extinguishers,” Manuel said.

“And a food safety certificate. You need go to Almeria for training, it takes three hours.”

They chatted about other aspects of the business, Manuel agreed to introduce Brodie to his suppliers.

Suddenly, Brodie asked, “Who’s the guy with the grey suit, Manuel? He was in the bar in Mojácar the day I came in to see you and he left tonight, just as I was coming in.”

Conchita and Manuel looked at him then at each other. “He is a friend of mine. I know him from university in Madrid.”

“OK,” Brodie replied, somewhat unconvinced.

The bar was starting to get busier with the evening trade, some ordering food, others just happy to relax with a drink, picking at nuts or olives from the bar or table. The bar employed a chef and two others in the kitchen as well as three waiting staff. Conchita and Manuel had asked Brodie not to say anything about him buying the business until the deal was completed and he had agreed.

He decided to eat at the bar, as he was there anyway and ordered a chicken and chorizo pie which he washed down with the rest of his bottle of Rioja. He paid his bill, waved goodnight to Conchita and Manuel and headed home.

He checked his email, answered ones needing a response then poured himself a sparkling water and carried that and his Kindle out to the terrace where he sat overlooking the swimming pool, contemplating the purchase of El Puerto and the apartment above. He would move into the apartment and use the beach house as a rental property in the summer months as he had suggested to Manuel. He then read his Kindle for a while before heading for bed. He lay awake for some time thinking about the bar and the apartment and the changes it would make to his life, eventually falling asleep in the wee small hours.

Chapter5

It took Brodie three days to get an appointment with his solicitor and Manuel two days, but both solicitors pulled out all the stops to move the normally slow and convoluted Spanish legal process along as quickly as they could. Fortunately, because El Puerto was part of a recent development and Manuel was well known at the Ayuntamiento or Town Hall, as he was a good friend of the local Mayor, the documentation flew through the approval process and went to Brodie’s solicitor in a matter of days rather than weeks.

While all this was happening, Brodie spent 50 euros and three hours in Almeria getting his food safety certificate. The survey for the safety certificate was arranged and Brodie’s solicitor paid the 600 euro fee for the transfer of the licence together with his ten percent deposit which was legally required, to secure the purchase of the bar. Brodie also lodged the balance of the funds in his solicitor’s client account. All that remained was for the contracts to be signed by both parties and the Ayuntamiento to approve them and transfer the licence. It had taken just over three weeks to get to this stage.

During this period, Manuel had informed the staff that Brodie was buying El Puerto; all of them were delighted that their new boss was someone they knew and liked and not a stranger, or worse a national chain. Brodie was also taken to meet all the main food and beverage suppliers. Some had asked him to fill in forms to open accounts, others didn’t bother and were happy to continue with business as usual. Manuel also allowed him to work behind the bar for a few shifts to acquaint him with the equipment.

One evening, he decided to check out what would become his nearest competition to El Puerto so he walked along the beach to Villaricos, just over a kilometre from Puerto Ricos. This had been a small fishing village whose popularity with tourists had seen a number of, mainly high end developments with a mix of apartments and townhouses spring up over the years. As a result, almost a third of the village’s population was expat British.

Brodie had been told that Spain had more bars per capita of population than any other country in the world and walking into Villaricos did nothing to contradict that fact. There was a varied selection of bars and restaurants in the village, from the small and traditional ones which sold no food, to one or two fairly upmarket eating establishments. The one Brodie had chosen to visit was run by a British couple who had lived in Spain for almost twenty years and had run a small pub in London’s east end before settling in Spain. Barril Rojo, or Red Barrel, was so named as a reminder to its owner of his favourite pint, Watneys Red Barrel.

This wasn’t Brodie’s first visit to the Barril Rojo and the owner acknowledged him as he stood at the bar.

“All right, mate, good to see you again. What’ll you ‘ave?”

“I’ll have a nice Rioja, thanks,” Brodie replied looking at a blackboard on the wall displaying the menu.

“And a bowl of your chilli,” he added.

“No problem,” the host said as he handed Brodie a glass of Rioja. “Grab a table while you got a chance and we’ll bring the food over.”

“I’ll sit outside if that’s OK?”

“Yeah, yeah, go for it, mate.”

Brodie found a table on the wooden decking at the front of the outside area and sat facing the road, watching people and vehicles as they passed. He loved people-watching.

A few minutes later a young waiter brought his food to his table. Brodie asked him for another glass of Rioja, then attacked his sizable bowl of food with vigour. As he sat, eating what was a very passable chilli, he noticed four people walking toward the bar. Three young men, who looked and sounded as if their next drink would not be their first of the evening but otherwise everything about them was pretty average; height, build, hair, clothes. The woman with them on the other hand, was anything but average; she was absolutely stunning. Taller than two of the men, slim, with dark skin, which suggested a mix of Spanish and African heritage, long black curls fell past her shoulders. She wore white leggings with a tight fitting emerald green top and a heavy multi-coloured necklace with matching large hoop earrings. This was a girl who dressed to be noticed, Brodie mused as they passed him.

The four entered the bar and Brodie heard them order drinks; he was seated looking out to the road rather than into the bar. He continued to watch the comings and goings from the Barril Rojo and was considering leaving to walk home when he became aware of raised voices in the bar and turned to see the young woman’s three friends shouting at each other and then at her. The shortest of the three, had obviously had drink spilled on him and was remonstrating with the others. Brodie’s Spanish was passable but these people were shouting very quickly and in an extremely agitated manner, in an already noisy environment, making it difficult for him to fully understand what they were saying. It was obvious, however, that they were having a heated argument.

The woman left her empty glass on the bar and turned to leave. As she got to the door the shortest of the three men moved quickly, slapping her on the back of her head. The woman shouted at him and tried to step out of his reach, bumping into Brodie’s table, but the man grabbed hold of her arm pulling her back, causing her to knock Brodie’s table away from him, tipping over his empty wine glass.

Brodie stood up and stretched his arm across the front of the woman and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Enough, let her go!”

The man looked at Brodie, but kept a grip on the woman.

“Go back to your own country. This has nothing to do with you,” the man growled in heavily accented English and pushed Brodie back.

“You just made it my business. Now let go of her arm and if you push me once more, you’ll regret it!”

The smaller man stared at Brodie for a second, then placed his free hand on his chest and tried to push him.

“Bad move, pal,” Brodie snarled and slammed a sledgehammer fist into the soft flesh of the man’s solar plexus. The unexpected blow sent him flying across the open doorway and he crashed into the upright, hitting the back of his head on the woodwork as he fell over an empty table by the door.

As he lay on the floor, barely conscious, gasping for breath, the man’s two friends came running out of the bar. The woman moved onto the road and shouted something that Brodie didn’t hear. The first man out looked at his friend sprawled on the floor and turned to aim a punch at Brodie’s head but he saw it coming, blocked the punch with his left arm, stepped forward, and delivered a perfectly executed head-butt to the man’s nose. The man’s nose broke and began to gush blood onto the front of his shirt as he collapsed in a heap on the floor. The woman’s third companion was by this time shaping up to deliver a haymaker right hook to the side of Brodie’s head, but was halted in his tracks as Brodie stepped inside the well telegraphed blow and brought his knee up viciously into the man’s groin. He dropped to the ground, emitting a high pitched moan, holding his damaged genitals with both hands in a vain attempt to ease the excruciating pain.

Just then, someone grabbed Brodie’s shoulder roughly from behind. He reacted immediately, swinging his right elbow into the person’s midriff and turned to face his new assailant. He was faced with a rather portly police officer holding his belly and became aware of a second officer standing on the road in front of a green and white Nissan Patrol of the Guàrdia Civil, its blue roof lights flashing. This officer was pointing a pistol at him.

Brodie raised his hands and looked at the officer he had hit. He was still obviously in pain but recovering.

“Really sorry, I didn’t realise who you were. Having said that, you shouldn’t approach someone the way you did, it’s asking for trouble, mate.”

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” the police officer with the gun shouted at Brodie.

“Sorry!”

“I said turn around and put your hands behind your back. Do as I say.”

“Why, what’s your problem?”

“Not my problem, your problem. Now, do as I say.” The police officer took a step forward and lowered his pistol to point it at Brodie’s leg.

“OK, OK, don’t get carried away,” Brodie turned round and put his hands behind his back as instructed and immediately felt the, now recovered officer, handcuff his wrists.

Both officers pushed him roughly towards the waiting police vehicle.

“What’s all this in aid of? What have I done to warrant being handcuffed?”

“You are under arrest for assaulting three members of the public and a police officer.”

Brodie stopped beside the vehicle. “You what? They attacked me, not the other way around, I just defended myself.”

“Ask her,” Brodie suggested, looking round for the woman who had been with the three men. The woman was nowhere to be seen.

“Get into the car,” the first officer demanded, pushing Brodie into the Patrol slamming the door shut.

Chapter6

Brodie was taken to a police station in Mojácar, his pockets emptied, his belt and watch taken, then he was dumped unceremoniously into a cell, his handcuffs removed and the door slammed shut. He looked around the cell. It was a Tom Jones room, four grey walls now surrounded him. There was a narrow bed against one wall and a small stainless steel toilet and basin in one corner. No windows just one locked door. The main overhead light was switched off and a solitary weak bulb shone from above the door, shedding only enough light into the room to allow someone from outside to see if a prisoner was up to no good.

“Oh great!” Brodie sighed. It was obvious to him that he was there for the night, so he accepted the inevitable and laid down on the thin mattress, which barely covered the bed. He lay awake for a while contemplating his predicament, eventually falling asleep.

He didn’t sleep well or for long. He got up, walked over to the sink and splashed his face with cold water. He had no towel so wiped his hands dry on his jeans, then proceeded to do a round of exercises: one hundred sit-ups followed by a similar number of press-ups. He was about to start his squats when the door to his cell opened and two guards appeared.

The older guard, who was very overweight and sweating profusely, stood at the door while the other, a younger, almost skinny officer with a prematurely receding hairline, brought a tray of food and a cup of coffee into the room, laying it carefully on the end of the bed. He kept well out of Brodie’s reach and looked extremely apprehensive, never taking his eyes off him.

Brodie stood up quickly and growled at the young guard then laughed as he watched him scuttle quickly into the safety of the corridor. The older guard could not stop himself from smiling at his young colleague’s reaction. The door slammed shut again.

Breakfast consisted of bread, two boiled eggs and a polystyrene cup of unexpectedly palatable, hot, black coffee, all of which Brodie ingested hungrily.

Brodie lay back on the bed for a few minutes, his mind straying back to the events of the previous night and wondered what the Spanish police’s next move would be. He hadn’t assaulted anyone, they had attacked him. All he had done was robustly defend himself, while trying not to cause serious injury to any of the men. He had known that none of them were likely to be capable of hurting him unless he gave them the opportunity. He had simply denied them that opportunity, using what he considered to be reasonable force.

The cell door being opened interrupted his ruminations. He found two police officers standing in the doorway, one of them holding a pistol and the other, a small heavily built man with a receding hairline and, a set of handcuffs.

“Put your hands behind your back,” the officer with the handcuffs said in his heavily accented English, holding up the cuffs to show his intent.

Brodie stood up and complied; the officer cuffed his wrists and pulled on his arm.

“Come with me.”

The other officer stood back from the door and showed Brodie to the left down the corridor and into the main office area. He led him into a large corner office and instructed him to sit on one of two tubular metal chairs padded at the back and seat. both facing a large dark wooden desk, with two piles of files, two telephones, two large computer monitors and a keyboard. A large, executive office chair sat behind the desk. The room also had the usual array of filing cabinets, with more files stacked on top of them. A large window opened out on to a view of the car park and the gable end of a small supermarket. The two police officers stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind their backs, eyes blankly staring out of the window.

Brodie became aware of movement by the door and turned to see a tall slim figure, still wearing a light grey suit standing in the doorway. He gestured to the two officers at the door, “Please, I see no need for the handcuffs.”

One of the officers stepped into the room and deftly removed the handcuffs from Brodie’s wrists

“Thank you, that will be all,” the man nodded to the two officers. They left the room and stood in the corridor. The new arrival closed the door, walked across the office and sat in the high backed chair behind the desk and leaned back, smiling at Brodie.

“So, we meet again Señor Brodie.”

“Are you stalking me?” Brodie enquired.

The man hesitated.

“I suppose in a way I am. I don’t think we have been formally introduced, Señor Brodie. I am Comisario Xavier Moreno and yes we have a mutual friend in Manuel Gutiérrez. I met Manuel at university in Madrid, we have kept in touch ever since. He is a good man, successful in business and has a lovely family, as you know. But what you do not know, is that he has a very large problem which is threatening both his business and his family, which I became aware of in the line of my duty.”

“What kind of problem?”

“I will get to that, but first, let us talk about your problem. Last night you assaulted a number of men in a bar in Villaricos.”

“Eh, no, let’s get this straight before we go any further. I assaulted no one. I was attacked by three men in Barril Rojo last night. I defended myself using what I considered to be reasonable force, I could have killed all three of those guys last night, but I chose not to. I used only enough force to discourage them from hurting me. I think I am entitled to do that, Comisario.”

Moreno picked up a pale blue file from his desk.