Big City Jacks Read Online Free PDF

potted the blue, then a red, then laid the cue down across the green baize. ‘Got to go.’
    It was 3.32 a.m. when they found the guest house and parked the car in the street outside. Bignall had been driving. He killed the lights and engine and the two of them sat in the dark of the car, watching the front of the premises.
    Nothing moved. The street was dead. Few lights were on in the buildings and in the one they were watching there was a dim light at one window on the top floor.
    â€˜He’s in there,’ Lynch said quietly.
    Bignall nodded nervously.
    â€˜We do this right, it does us a lot of good.’
    â€˜I know.’ Bignall’s voice rasped dryly in his throat.
    â€˜You up for it?’
    â€˜Yeah.’ Still rasping.
    Lynch reached into the footwell and pulled up the sawn-off shotgun and revolver, handing the latter to his companion. The shotgun was double-barrelled. He snapped it open and loaded two cartridges in with sure, steady fingers, then clicked it shut, flicking the safety on. He knew how sensitive the trigger was. He rested the weapon across his lap and pulled on the stocking mask.
    Bignall did the same.
    It wasn’t as though they were worried about Snell recognizing them, it was a defence against other witnesses. Just in case.
    Keith Snell was awake. The mainlining of heroin had helped him to sleep deeply for a couple of blissful hours, but now he was very much eyes wide open, splayed out on the ropey bed, scratching and sweating, twitching nervously, the cold shotgun across his chest.
    The chill breeze from the slightly open window made his skin goosebump.
    From outside in the street below he heard a click, then another click.
    Keith’s heart lurched. He froze on the bed, his whole being tensing up, his senses razor-sharp. He did not really know why. There had been lots of noises outside. Blackpool rarely slept. But somehow and for some reason, his gut instinct told him this was different.
    He spun his legs off the bed and sat up, a puzzled, worried expression on his face. What made those noises so different? Two clicks . . . car doors closing quietly. Why hadn’t they been closed noisily, with a bang? People in Blackpool did not close car doors softly, they didn’t care about waking other people. It wasn’t that sort of town.
    Switching the low-wattage bedside light off, he gripped the shotgun and took two strides across to the bedroom window, flattening himself against the wall. Using the muzzle of the shotgun, he moved the curtain just wide enough to peek through the gap, down into the street.
    Two dark figures moving silently and quickly down the pavement confirmed Snell’s worst fears.
    He was on the run and they had found him.
    Vomit rising in his throat, he thought about how his supposedly good friend had betrayed him.
    â€˜Fuck you, Troy Costain,’ he said under his breath.
    The front door of the guest house was open. They went straight in, down the short hallway, then up the stairs on to the first floor, twisted back along the landing, then up the next set of stairs, which took them up to the top floor. They knew where they had been going, had been well briefed.
    They came low on to the landing, now extremely cautious, knowing that Snell was armed.
    Lynch put a finger to his lips.
    Bignall nodded.
    Both men took a couple of seconds to control their breathing. Then, wordlessly, Lynch mouthed a slow, ‘One . . . two . . . three,’ and they began to progress slowly along the landing, taking careful steps, attempting complete silence.
    They knew which door opened into Snell’s squalid room. They paused a couple of metres short of it. Lynch signalled for Bignall to go past the door – which he did with long strides and a shuffle – then both men were in position either side, their backs tight against the wall, weapons ready in their hands, Lynch with the shotgun held vertically and Bignall with the revolver in a two-handed