Candleburn Read Online Free PDF Page B

foot hammering the pedal. The blade missed his nose by inches as it whipped past his face – first in, then out – as the car shot backwards.
    Metal ground as Mehr changed gears. The four men who’d been milling outside the shop were now charging towards him too, carrying baseball bats and meat cleavers. Mehr released the clutch.
    The car engine stalled.
    “Shit .”
    He tried to start it again.
    Before he could speed away, the Algerian thrust his sword again through the gap in the window. Mehr ducked. The cutting edge skewered the headrest. He hit a button on the door, locking it, then the one next to it.
    Mechanical whirring.
    The glass wound slowly higher.
    Mehr saw the Algerian’s anger: teeth clenched, veins high in his neck as he kicked the aluminium door and wrenched his weapon free. The steel blade grated across the glass as the window trapped it in place.
    Grabbing the grip firmly with both hands, the Algerian began slicing back and forth, jabbing and poking. Mehr weaved. The other gangsters were nearly at the car, bats raised high.
    Mehr tried the engine again. It sputtered to a start.
    His shoe pushed the accelerator back to the floor. The car surged away. A gangster bounced off the bonnet, his shoulder shattering the windscreen before he rolled over the roof and landed prostrate in the car park.
    The Algerian released his sword as the car sped up. Two more henchmen made half-hearted attempts at hitting the car. Their blows swung wide.
    Asp, his eyes still closed on the back seat, spoke for the first time.
    “I hope we’re not going anywhere. I really want to get in to see Chaiwat.”
    “Absolutely,” Mehr replied.
    He skidded the car round violently.
    The three standing gangsters were again charging forward, led by the Algerian.
    The engine revved.
    Mehr sped towards them. Faster and faster. At the last minute, the Algerian tried to dive away. Mehr turned sharply. The Algerian rebounded off the boot. His head hit the pavement. He was out cold.
    Mehr opened his door, smashing it into the first thug to arrive. Winded, the man took two paces back. Mehr climbed out and extracted the sword. He punched the thug in the throat, causing him to collapse.
    The second thug stepped forward.
    Arms high above his head, he brought the baseball bat crashing down.
    Mehr dodged the blow and kicked him in the testicles. The gangster keeled forward. There was a loud crack as Mehr connected the sword hilt with the back of his skull.
    A meat cleaver swung in towards him. Mehr deflected it with the sword. A second swing, a second deflection. It was the winded gangster, back for a second try. Mehr stepped close.
    The head butt is a total stranger to any Middle Eastern fight. For Europeans a standard compliment to the traditional menu of fists and feet – for Scotsmen an almost obligatory requirement of any barroom brawl – in the Gulf, despite all of Hollywood’s best attempts at public education, the move always stuns.
    Mehr’s forehead connected with the gangster’s nose.
    Blood spurted.
    Mehr stepped underneath the reeling attacker and tossed him like a sack of flour. When the thug landed on the tarmac two metres away, Mehr stood tall and brought the flat of the sword to bear on his assailant’s throat leaving him gasping for breath.
    “Come along Zain,” Asp said, hopping out of the car’s back door. “You can’t stay here playing with your new friends all day. We’ve work to do.”
    Mehr let out a deep exhalation as his boss moved through the mayhem of sprawled bodies to the parade of stores.
    “Yes boss,” he said calmly.

 
    9
     
    “Okay,” Alice started. “Let’s begin with my stories, go through to Duncan’s and then discuss Blake’s.”
    The three of them huddled around the conference table in a backroom just off the main office. Alice and Duncan both placed their tablet computers squarely in front of them and clicked to open their notes.
    The room was a confined, grey space, barely big enough for