Rage (Benson Security 3)

“I don’t know, and they paid cash.”

From the way he said it, Callum assumed that he’d asked for cash so that there was no record of the transaction and he wouldn’t have to pay tax on it. This guy was scamming everyone.

“And there’s nothing left from the bag Isobel brought in? Nothing?” Callum saw a flicker of guilt in the man’s eyes and didn’t give him a chance to lie. “Get it for me. Now,” he barked.

The owner reached under the counter, pulled open a drawer and rummaged around a little. He came up with a little black box that fit in the palm of his hand. There were wires protruding, and a serial number and make on the back. But Callum recognised it instantly. Everything within him stilled.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked the guy, keeping his voice even.

The owner wet his lips again, a habit Callum was beginning to hate. “It’s military, I know that. The company here”—he pointed at the label—“they supply military technology. I haven’t figured out what it is exactly yet.”

Callum knew. “Put it beside the jammer.”

His tone brooked no argument, and the man hurried to do as he was told. Callum looked up at him once he’d placed the device on the counter. “How much did you give Isobel?” The man paled even further and started to bluster. Callum pulled out his phone. “I can call her and ask, but I’d rather you told me.”

The owner looked at the phone, then at Callum. “Four hundred pounds.”

Callum cocked an eyebrow. “I will be checking this with Isobel.”

The man’s cheeks flushed. “Okay, two hundred. But it was obviously stolen. She had no idea what it was or what it was worth. She couldn’t even tell me where it came from. And everyone knows the Sinclair sisters can’t afford equipment like that. It was obvious that her delinquent son had stolen it and his mother was hawking the goods.” He looked disgusted by that. Callum wasn’t buying it. The guy had bought what he knew were stolen goods. Not exactly the moral high ground.

“How much did you sell the stuff for?”

“I don’t have to tell you that!” His face was a deep red now.

Callum lifted the gun and pointed it at the man’s knee, keeping the barrel steady. “No. You don’t.”

“Put the gun down,” the man screeched. “I sold it for three thousand.”

Callum had to fight the urge to pull the trigger. He placed the gun on the counter, but kept his hand on it. “You owe Isobel two thousand eight hundred. I’ll take that now.”

“I don’t have that kind of cash around here.” The owner threw his hands up. “And what about my cut? I found the buyer. I was the one who sold it. It’s not my fault the stupid bitch didn’t know its worth.”

“Make that the full three thousand,” Callum said evenly. “Cash.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” the owner shouted.

Callum picked up the gun again. “I’ll take whatever you have on the premises right now and I’ll come back for the rest. And you can add three hundred to the total to make up for the money you just conned that young mother out of.”

“You can’t do this!” The guy made no move to get the cash.

Callum shifted the gun slightly to the left and pulled the trigger. The bullet made more noise hitting the cupboard than it had coming out of the gun. The pawnbroker clutched his chest and looked like he might be having a heart attack. Callum didn’t give a crap.

“I’m going to count to three, and then the next bullet goes in you. And I will still want every penny I’ve asked for.”

It took the man exactly two minutes to empty his till and remember that he had a small safe in the back. Callum got every penny he asked for. After warning him to keep his mouth shut, Callum walked out into the afternoon sun to find the woman waiting like he’d asked her to.

“Here.” He handed her the extra three hundred pounds she should have been given on top of the hundred she’d received.

“Thanks, mister.” She pocketed the money.

Callum nodded and headed back to his car.

CHAPTER 12

ISOBEL LEANED OVER THE TINY basin in the staff toilet of the store and looked at the reflection above it. Her eyes were red and swollen, but at least she’d managed to stop the tears. Her throat was still raw from emptying her stomach into the toilet, and she was shivering. Slowly, gently, she lifted the hem of her shirt to see the damage.

She gasped at the sight of the darkening bruise developing low on her ribs. Blinking back yet more tears, Isobel gently prodded the red area and winced. It was too sensitive to tell if Ray had cracked any ribs. The only way to know for sure was to get an x-ray, and there was no way she was going anywhere near a hospital. The doctors would take one look at the fist mark, complete with ring imprints, on her side and call the police. What she needed to do was get home and put some ice on it. But that wasn’t going to be possible until she finished her shift.