Moved On

Moved On Part Three

Sean didn't believe in coincidences, fortuitous surprises, or serendipity. And he didn't believe for one second that Annie Chambers had no connection to Daniel Nielsen. Was he fucking her? And if he was, what kind of arsehole made her walk home on her own in the dark? Annie could do a damn sight better than moll to a plastic gangster.

Sean watched her pause and take something from her bag.

Was that a crow bar?

Bloody hell! Didn’t the daft bird know you didn't brandish a weapon that could be used against you? Any man worth his salt would have that off her in a heartbeat. She hadn't even realised Sean was following her.

When she led him to the abandoned house it was resignation he felt more than surprise. He knew it well, he should, it was part of his property portfolio.

He took a double take…Was she...?

Annie was pulling her dress up, exposing soft, creamy thighs in hold up stockings.

His breath escaped his lungs as his blood promptly drained south. When she bent double to stick her head in the gap in the fence, Sean had to close his eyes. If Annie Chambers was his, she would be escorted from his bedroom to the diner and back again, not leaving his sight in-between.

Fuck it; if she was his she wouldn't be leaving the bedroom.

Annie dipped through the hole in the fence with the elegance of a prize fighter entering a ring.

A feat of grace Sean very much doubted he could repeat. The breach somebody had kicked into the fence was a tight squeeze for his much larger frame. Crouching on the other side, fence to his back, he carefully surveyed the dark expanse, every cell alert to potential danger.

The garden sparkled with empty bottles of tramp juice beneath the sweeping light from Annie's torch. The redundant swimming pool and the broken lawn furniture in it, was covered in a clinging green crust. By the back door stood a generator that definitely hadn't been in situ when he bought the property. He wondered where that had been stolen from? Could be anywhere. With the economic downturn, so much construction had been abandoned in Vegas it had become a scavenger’s playground. Sean couldn't grumble, he had made a lot of money from other people’s misfortunes. This prime plot was proof of that, and it should have been cleared of squatter’s weeks ago.

He watched her knock, and then disappear inside. Keeping low he crossed the open garden in a loping run. Opening the damaged door, his connoisseur’s nose picked out the aroma of weed and meth. On silent feet he entered the kitchen, saw the amateur meth lab set up on the counter tops and rolled his eyes.

Someone had been watching too much Breaking Bad.

From another room he could hear the nonsense of wasters revolutionising. A bunch of doped up twats with aspirations of skulduggery.

At one time Sean would have courted them, supplied them with their heart’s desire. He knew how to deal with bagheads, had frequented more crack houses than most people had hot dinners. He might not be proud of it, but his past made him the man he was. Sean must have been off his head employing ‘Nobshite Danny’ to clear the premises of squatters. Danny Nielsen was the villain’s equivalent of a jack of all trades, master of none, a wannabe crook. The twat was about to learn you didn't shaft a man who could break your knee caps, and whistle jauntily why he did it.

Sean tiptoed back out of the kitchen, pulling the door closed. He’d come back, do the job himself, he’d no problems getting dirty hands. Danny had been paid for a job not done, that meant Danny owed him recompense. Blighty's answer to the all American pin up would do. In fact, she’d do very well.