Scott Mariani - The Sacred Sword

His words had been heard by the rest of the men, who’d filtered into the bedroom after Cutter and were standing around looking extremely displeased.

‘I don’t give a fucking monkey’s ringpiece about your Trimble!’ Cutter shouted at Penrose. In his anger he slammed a fist against the wooden partition of the walk-in wardrobe. It was solidly built, but the blow made the whole structure judder. Not enough to cause any damage.

But enough to shake loose a slip of purplish-coloured paper that drifted down in a spiral like an autumn leaf from an overhead compartment and landed at Cutter’s feet.

‘Hello, what’s this, then?’ Cutter said, scooping it quickly off the floor.

‘It’s nothing,’ Penrose said, suddenly more alert.

‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me,’ Cutter said, holding it up for his men to see. ‘Looks a bit like a five-hundred-euro note, doesn’t it, boys?’ He peered up at the overhead compartment and spotted the black garbage bag that had been hastily stuffed into it, ripping the plastic to reveal the bunches of banknotes nestling inside.

‘You sneaky little bugger,’ Cutter said.

‘You leave that alone. It’s mine!’ Penrose tried to stand in his way, but Cutter shoved him easily aside, reached up for the bag and hauled it down. It landed with a thump. ‘About forty grand,’ he said, inspecting the contents.

‘All right,’ Penrose said testily. ‘You can have it. It’s yours.’

‘Too right it’s ours,’ Cutter said. He handed the bag to Grinnall, who stuck it under his arm. ‘Now where’s the rest of it?’

‘Rest of what?’ Penrose said, flushing.

‘Don’t you even fucking think about lying to me,’ Cutter growled. ‘You’ve got a lot more than this stashed around the place. I’ve fucking seen it.’

The others nodded. Cutter had already told them about the cash-stuffed holdalls he’d spotted in Penrose’s office.

In fact, Penrose had over 2.3 million euros hidden in the villa, cash that he’d been siphoning off from the very start of his operation under the broad heading of expenses — the fewer questions had been asked, the more he’d clawed back for himself. The contents of the garbage bag were just what he’d had left over when the holdalls were already crammed so full he could barely zip them up.

But there was no way Penrose was going to let all that loot fall into Cutter’s hands. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he protested. ‘And I object to being spoken to this way by my employee.’

Cutter grabbed him by the collar and shook him violently. ‘I don’t work for you any more, you little shit. Where’s the fucking money?’

‘I don’t have anything more to give you!’ Penrose yelled.

‘Give him a slap, Steve,’ Grinnall said.

Cutter slapped Penrose across the face, hard. The impact sent him crashing into the wall. He slid down to the floor, his face turning white. He touched his fingers to his burning cheek and stared at them, as if expecting to see blood. ‘Traitors!’ he screamed up from the floor. ‘After all I’ve done for you! This is how you treat me?’

‘We’re not leaving here until we get paid off,’ Cutter said.

A wild light came into Penrose’s eyes. ‘Money! That’s all your kind care about, isn’t? Good old hard cash! Well I’ll tell you. There’s millions! Millions, all mine, all hidden away right here in the villa. And guess what, Cutter? You’ll never find a single solitary penny of it. You bloody brainless Cockney ape.’

Without taking his eyes off Penrose, Cutter stuck his arm out behind him. Terry Grinnall instantly pressed a Glock 19 into his outstretched palm. Cutter aimed the boxy black pistol at Penrose’s face.

‘Kill me, would you?’ Penrose screeched. ‘How’ll you find your money then, you moron?’

Cutter pursed his lips, then lowered the pistol so that it pointed at Penrose’s left kneecap.

‘Go on, shoot me! Shoot me!’ Penrose started laughing hysterically, then burst into tears.

‘Leave it alone, Steve,’ said Mills. ‘I mean, look at him. He’s fucked in the head. You won’t get nothing out of him.’

‘I want the money,’ Cutter said.

Penrose was writhing on the wardrobe floor, raking his wet face with his fingertips and babbling incomprehensibly.

‘What’d he say?’ Doyle said.

‘Think he said, “hell rip and roast you”,’ said Suggs.

Prosser said, ‘I told you he was fucking gone.’

‘Shoot the fucker,’ Grinnall urged Cutter.

Cutter stared at the babbling, weeping Penrose for a second, then shook his head and stuffed the gun in his belt. ‘I’m not a fucking animal, boys. Come on. Let’s go and find where the bastard’s hidden that money. It’s got to be around here somewhere.’

In two hours, Cutter’s men had torn meticulously through the rest of the villa’s five bedrooms, its four bathrooms and the lounge and dining room, ripping out drawers, upturning mattresses, rifling through sideboards and bookcases, even tearing up the carpets to check for loose floorboards under which the cash-filled bags might have been hidden. They’d checked the attic space and found only dust and a stack of empty packing cases. Nothing. Now, as the small hours of the morning wore on, they were getting desperate.

‘Kitchen,’ Cutter said, and led the way through the rambling passages. The kitchen area could have served a medium-sized restaurant. There were dozens of possible hiding places. Cutter stormed over to the row of large cupboards on the right, while Grinnall, still clutching the money in the garbage bag, tried the ones on the left and the others crashed about the rest of the room. In moments the tiled floor was rolling with cookware, smashed plates and glasses.

‘I don’t think he put it in there, you twat,’ Mills said to Prosser, who was bending down to gape inside the oven.

‘You never know what that nutter’d do.’

‘There’s bugger all in here,’ Grinnall said, and smashed his foot into the cupboard doors with a crunch of wood. ‘This is bollocks. I’m going back upstairs and making that fucking nutjob talk.’

‘He won’t talk,’ Cutter said.

‘He will when I slice his-’

Grinnall was interrupted by a cry from Mills, who was leaning inside a deep freeze. ‘Hey! I think I found something!’ With a grunt of effort, he wrenched out a frost-covered black cloth holdall and dumped it on the floor. They all ran over and stood around as he unzipped it, revealing the taped stacks of banknotes inside.

‘Nice one,’ Cutter said, and slapped Mills on the shoulder.

‘Good thing paper don’t freeze,’ Grinnall muttered. ‘How much is there?’

Cutter crouched down next to the holdall and poked around inside. It was a big holdall. The stacks were piled four wide, four long and eight deep. The cash was all in purple five-hundred notes, twenty to a bunch. He was quick with that kind of mental arithmetic.

‘One-point-two-eight mil,’ he said.

‘It’s the fucking mother lode,’ Grinnall said.

‘It’s not a bad start.’

‘What’s that come to six ways?’ Suggs asked, virtually rubbing his hands together.

Cutter looked at Grinnall, then looked at Mills. The three of them all turned to look at Suggs, Prosser and Doyle.

Cutter whipped the Glock 19 out of his belt and shot Suggs twice in the chest. Mills pulled his Taurus and put a bullet in Prosser’s head. Before either of the corpses had hit the floor, Grinnall had Doyle in a stranglehold and was twisting his head around. There was a crackling of cartilage, then a crunch. Doyle slipped lifelessly out of Grinnall’s arms.

‘Never liked them much anyway,’ Grinnall muttered.