Page 4 of How to Kill Your Rival

Which is why these twats using the Hamilton name as cover for a morally bankrupt operation to line their pockets makes my jaw tighten.

No one gets to drag their name through the mud.

I duck under the partially open shutter and let myself into the office. I can hear voices beyond and a radio playing eighties babble.

The unit is dim and reeks of old coffee and rubber. I’m not sure exactly what they repackage here – it’s not my part of the business – but it stinks. Shelving units line the walls as I move towards the chatter. I pass a folding table bowing under the weight of mugs and an urn, packets of Tetley tea spilling over the warped wood. There’s an unopened packet of Jammy Dodgers, and I help myself to one on the way past.

Allan is standing with his back to me, shoving bubble-wrapped packages into a box. Dean, however, is staring straight at me.

The fact I’m there is warning enough that he’s not long for this world.

His ruddy cheeks scream that he drinks more than he should, and the yellowing in his eyes does him no favours. We stare at each other while I finish chewing my yoinked Jammy Dodger.

‘Morning,’ I say, when I finally clear the biscuity crumbs from my mouth, flashing my knife and smiling.

Dean dashes to the left, running towards a table.

I cover the distance faster than he can, stepping in front of him and grabbing his wrist. A rough scream fills the air as I twist his arm up behind his back before tripping him. The floor welcomes him like a bitter ex, the hard concrete making him yelp as he meets it hard. Allan is staring, frozen to the spot with his mouth gaping.

Allan is younger than Dean. Leaner, too. His eyes go from Dean to me to the door, and I can see his brain making his decision long before his feet go into action.

He runs for it.

Groaning, I let go of Dean and bolt after Allan, catching up with him as he reaches the door, and yanking him back by the collar. Turning, I launch him hard into a stack of shelves, which tips and sends a cascade of heavy rubber toppling down on top of him.

When I turn, I’m surprised to see Dean on his feet. Didn’t think he had it in him to spring up that fast. Good for him. Not that it’ll help him much.

A long, thin metal pipe shakes in his fists.

‘I’ll fucking kill you,’ he spits.

‘Oh, look at you. Kill one defenceless woman and suddenly, you’re all billy-big-balls.’

His face blanches before he lets out a growl and comes at me swinging.

Unfortunately for Dean, I’m quite experienced with twats trying to snuff me out before I kill them. And Dean is slow. I step sideways, and the length of the pipe he’s swinging connects with the shelf instead of my skull. I take it off him and whack him over the side of the head.

He goes down hard, and I poke him in the side with the pole. ‘You’re not dead, are you?’

I’m relieved by the groan he gives. A whack over the noggin would have been far too kind a demise for this little shit.

I crouch down to Dean’s level. He’s face down, wheezing, cheek against the cold concrete. Allan is stuck beneath the shelving unit behind me, his face the colour of an uncooked sausage roll.

‘I hear that the two of you have been very naughty boys,’ I say.

Dean blinks up at me, his mouth working like a hungry goldfish, but saying nothing.

‘Not only are you not cleared to take contracts, but Sarah Redland did nothing to deserve her death. A primary school teacher with three kids who decided she’d had enough of her arsehole ex-husband. That’s it. She didn’t fleece people for millions. Or abuse anyone. Or go around killing innocents.’ I tilt my head as Dean rolls, trying to get to his knees but struggling. ‘Her ex decided the divorce settlement was inconvenient to his wallet. And you two cockwombles decided that makes her fair game.’

‘We had a contract,’ Dean mumbles between wheezing breaths.

‘You took it under the Hamilton name. Because you knew it wouldn’t have been sanctioned without it. So you sullied our name for a bit of pocket change.’

Dean reaches for the metal pole I still hold, and I whack him over the knuckles in response. Tears spring, much to my satisfaction.

‘You’re not even a fucking Hamilton. It’s no more your name than mine.’ Dean spits out the words. I’d like to say they bounce off me, but it’s not true. They sink into my soul like clawed beasts, tucking right into my biggest insecurity and deepest desire. He’s right.

Lifting the metal pole, I bring down the blunt tip right into the top of Dean’s thigh, brute force alone allowing me to pierce the skin as he screams.