Blood Money (chapters nineteen and twenty.) (standard:Suspense, 4451 words) [10/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 24 2011	Views/Reads: 2297/1735	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

19 

ISLAMABAD PAKISTAN 

Sucking on a lollypop, Keenan double-checked the address that was
written down on a piece of paper. The shabby-looking, whitewashed 
apartment was certainly not the abode of a wealthy man and was in 
contrast to the more modern architect of uptown Islamabad. 

Keenan knocked at the door and was immediately confronted by an
unsmiling, tall Asian man. An unsightly scar ran from his right eye to 
the corner of his mouth. This feature added to the hostility of the 
character. 

“I'm looking for Mukhtar Ahmed,” said Keenan, more a demand than a
query. 

The Asian man's eyes settled on the bare-armed stranger's tattoo of a
snake coiled around a bloody dagger. “Never heard of him,” spit the 
young Asian. 

Keenan's eyes narrowed behind his designer sunglasses. He removed the
lollypop from his mouth and tossed it into the gutter, watching as an 
emaciated dog pounced on it. “Listen, handsome, I'm fucking melting. 
I've got jet lag and this place reeks like a whore's crutch. I know 
Mukhtar lives or lived here with friends, and an educated guess tells 
me that you're probably one of his pals, so let's stop fucking about... 
When was the last time you saw him?” 

The Asian purposely allowed his unbuttoned shirt slip aside, to reveal a
pistol tucked into his waistband. He bravely prodded Keenan in the 
chest. “Go home, Englishman. You do not come to Islamabad issuing your 
fucking threats. I have never heard of Mukhtar and even if I had, I 
wouldn't tell you where he was.” 

Keenan was repulsed by the strong stench of pungent spices wafting out
from the apartment. He reacted rapidly, reaching out and seizing the 
unfriendly Pakistani by the throat. He pushed against the weaker man, 
forcing him inside before relieving him of his weapon. 

“You little cunt! One, nobody touches me, especially an underfed curry
muncher. Two, don't ever call me an Englishman... Do you see this 
tattoo? Go on, Ghunga, take a look... I gather you've heard of the 
IRA?” 

The choking man nodded. 

“Good. Then you know that you ought to take me seriously... Now, I'll
ask again. Where is Mukhtar?” 

The Asian smiled at his tormentor, an action that provoked Keenan into
slapping him savagely across the face. The Irishman pushed the startled 
host to the ground. 

“Drop your weapon,” came the order from behind. 

Keenan hesitated and felt the cold muzzle against the nape of his neck. 

“I said drop your weapon.” 

The Irishman obeyed, before facing the older man, who was wearing a
white kameez. His face was heavily pocked, his beard unable to hide his 
disfigurement. 

“Who are you?” 

Keenan remained silent. 

The gunman nodded towards his groaning companion, who was picking
himself up from the ground. “Get his passport, Ayub.” 

The younger man aimed a powerful kick between the legs of Keenan, who
fell to his knees. 

“Say your prayers, English,” he taunted. 


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