BooksBarbecue
Back Angels of Vengeance
Chapters (68)
  1. Blurb
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Dedication
  4. CHARACTER LIST
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. TWO MONTHS LATER
  60. ONE YEAR LATER
  61. TWO YEARS LATER
  62. FOUR YEARS LATER
  63. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  64. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  65. Also by John Birmingham
  66. ALSO BY JOHN BIRMINGHAM
  67. Copyright
  68. Cover

She had never seen the man before. He wasn’t even vaguely familiar – and he was the sort of chap you would’ve noticed. All elbows, knees and awkward angularity, this man looked like he’d stand about six and a half foot. Had he been standing.

When Jules first saw him, he was slumped in a chair, his hands secured behind his back, and his feet fastened to the legs with plastic zip ties. One of Shah’s young Gurkhas – Baran, if she remembered correctly – stood behind him with a drawn kukri dagger. The shining silver blade remained free of blood, so far. But she knew that Baran would not return it to his scabbard without a few drops to taste. She wondered if the man in the chair knew that.

‘Miss Julianne, I would like you to meet Norman Parmenter,’ said Shah, handing her the captive’s wallet.

She ignored the man’s murderous glare. The wallet was thick with plastic and paper, some of it quite old and faded. Dockets, receipts, a few handwritten notes, all of it the sort of thing one found in any man’s wallet when he didn’t clean it out very often. It lent credence to the notion that this might well be Norman Parmenter. Whoever the fuck he was.

Of course, that credence could have been very carefully constructed. But she thought not. Commando Barbie, back in New York, she was the sort of person you might expect to lob into your life with an artfully constructed false identity. Even Nick Pappas, she thought, might have had a passing acquaintance with such things. But there was something about Parmenter’s old, battered wallet, with a couple of faded photographs of him posing with some woman at the seaside, that suggested authenticity.

Downstairs, the rock concert, dogfight, mixed martial arts tournament, or whatever, was rolling along at high volume, the punters seemingly unconcerned with a brief outbreak of gunplay on the upper floors. The room in which they were enjoying a chat with Parmenter appeared to be an unused office. An old metal desk, some plastic chairs and the 2007 Pirelli calendar – the first published after a three-year hiatus – constituted the sum of its furnishings.