Killing Time

Killing Time Robian Elbar All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Robian Elbar. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Published by Robian Elbar This book is also available in print at most online retailers. eBook Edition, Licence Notes This eBook is licenced for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. First Edition Copyright © 2023 by Robian Elbar All rights reserved. ISBN-13: ISBN-10: 9798391735694 http://robianelbar.com Dedication F or Julie 1 Am I dead? If I am, why does heaven look like my lounge? There’s a strange smell to the carpet, but then I rarely sniff the carpet. My throat aches, lips are dry with splinters of skin spiking up and my tongue brushes them. One side of my face seems slightly adhesive from drool, I have to peel myself from the twist pile. Maybe it’s hell. I suppose hell could look like my lounge – complete with bay window, three-seat sofa, IKEA framed black-and-white photo of a couple in gay Paris, and my wall-mounted TV. Blinking as hard as my eyeballs can handle, my neck creaks to look around. My wig has become tilted with falling to the floor. Have I passed out? An empty wine glass is beneath the coffee table. A brown pill bottle lying on its side reveals white chalky pills scattered across the glass surface. I thought I had taken them all? What for? What was I thinking? Oh, that’s right, I’m childless, cancer-ravaged, divorced, and hanging on to an uneventful business in an uneventful life by the finest of threads. Now I’m on all fours. The wig has toppled off completely. It’s my seventies cheapo Jane Fonda, so I’m not too concerned. My eyes try to focus. Everything is blurry. I can feel one of my eyelashes dangling beneath my right eye. I laugh at how I must look. Sniffling, I get to my feet. It’s still pretty early even though it’s not light outside. I know that familiar blue-black of a winter morning. Dragging my heavy carcass up the stairs to the landing, I fall into my tiny bathroom and undress. Lots of grunting and pulling as my tights come off, eventually. I can feel my hand wafting into the shower cubicle fumbling for the controller. Water sprays. It’s 2 I’m a survivor, that’s what I am. Not a victim, but a hard core survival nut. That’s all I need to do. Keep on with the treatment. It’s a trial drug, so I’m on trial? Stick with Dr Solomon’s advice. Sure, it’s uncomfortable, but I can make it. I know I can. Brushing my teeth, my mind reaches back to the court documents that have to be presented today. There is no way out for Braqueur now. But, do I really believe this? That’s the problem. I don’t think I do. This guy is a stone-cold career criminal. He’s been working outside the law and giving them the slip for years. Young enough to hold command, ruthless and ambitious, the perfect profile for a psychopath. His only mistake was moving money around the world and allowing me to find a trace. Like droplets of blood in an ocean of data, but the right shark in the right vicinity will sense them. And follow its quarry for the kill. Each drop connects. They can’t be mistaken, misguided, or misunderstood. If the investigating officers have done their bit, then Braqueur goes down, today, for a very long time. Remember: you're only alive once. And you're only dead once. This is it, no second tries. I’ve worked on this for far too long to let it go now. A pain in my stomach makes me wince. Maybe this is the price I’ll pay, karma and all that bullshit. When you’re dying, it’s amazing how time distorts. The one thing we walking dead don’t have is time to waste, and it’s heading towards lunchtime. Make-up check. My face and cheeks, mascara, foundation – all look professional. Expensive, human-hair wig secured in position with tape. This is my court evidence-giving look. Straight dark hair braided into a ponytail at the