NO
PRISONERS
When
Leon Cazador discovers the body of a fellow investigator who was working with
the British National Crime Agency to infiltrate a pedophile group that uses the
pursuit of golf as a cover for their organized abuses, he refuses to chalk it
up to coincidence. Seeking justice for his fallen friend, Leon is presented
with another missing person’s case. But this one is decidedly different. Diving
deeper, Leon finds himself one step closer to uncovering the deadly pedophile
ring that took down his comrade. Finding missing persons is all in a day’s work
for Leon. But can he fight his ultimate nightmare in a race against time to
save a group of innocent children and exact revenge on their abusers?
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1.
“But you can’t tell me about it,’ Leon said. A statement, not
a question.
“I’d like to – you know, unburden myself. The luxury of
catharsis. But no, I’ll leave you out of it. Just breaking bread with you
helps, even if I don’t divulge any details. I tell you what, though – I’ll
never look at golf in the same way again!”
And with that cryptic remark he seemed to cheer up and they
had finished the bottle of red.
If only he had quit the job, Leon reflected. Instead, the poor guy had quit this mortal coil. (p5)
2.
Carlota Diaz had high cheekbones which flushed at sight of
him. She was twenty-four yet had a mature head on relatively young shoulders,
which had served her well in the police – until she was shot in the leg by an
escaping felon. Afterwards she’d been offered a desk job but she decided to
resign instead. Leon made her a better offer.
She limped up to him, her warm and smooth hands clasping his.
“I waited in for you.”
“Thank you. There was no need.” He gently released her hold
and shut the door. He was pleased to see her. She was always full of life, a
beacon of hope in the gray world he tended to inhabit.
They had a good relationship, despite the difference in their ages; God, it didn’t bear thinking about: he was thirty years older! His heart held a special place for her, but they had not taken it further than the occasional kiss. That age difference inhibited him. (p10)
3.
Wanda stood up at the head of the table and explained: “You
all may not appreciate that this is a fairly radical venture. For too long
paedophiles have been shunned by society. You’re probably aware that in the bad
old days homosexuals were ostracized, hated and hounded, and yet, nowadays,
they are widely regarded as ordinary, healthy people, no more ‘ill’ than people
who are left-handed. It really is time that paedophilia should perhaps gain
similar acceptance.”
“I can’t see that happening any time soon,” moaned Curtis.
“I’m no youngster and I fear it won’t happen in my lifetime.”
“Oh, don’t be so pessimistic,” countered Nige. “What PG is doing is quite exciting! The fervent following of a popular sport – what could be more innocuous and acceptable, eh?” (p93)
4.
From the office safe he took out his Astra A-100 automatic
snug in its black leather shoulder holster, and dumped it on his desk.
Then he opened the closet in the corner. He removed his
shirt, bunched it in a roll and gave his underarms a swift wipe with it then
dropped it in the wastebasket. From the closet he took a black silk
long-sleeved shirt and put it on , kicked off his shoes, unbelted his pants and
replaced them with a black pair of cargo pants.
Carlota was unfazed. The first time he’d needed to change in
a hurry, he’d asked her to go into her office. She’d complied but halfway
through changing she’d entered with an urgent phone-call. “Don’t worry,” she’d
said, “nudity is no big deal.” So this wasn’t the first time he’d undressed in
front of her. Nor would it be the last, he suspected.
He selected a pair of black rock hopper neoprene shoes and
fastened them.
She delved into a filing cabinet and handed him two magazines
for the gun.
He distributed them in the various pants pockets so they
wouldn’t make a noise knocking against each other. Finally, he pocketed two
pairs of latex gloves and a set of wire-cutters.
“I guess you’re ready to go?” she said, stroking his cheek. (p111)
5.
Victims don’t stop being victims once they’re dead, Leon
thought, facing the sick individual. “I’m not going to shoot you,” he said.
Andrés let out a sigh of relief and hastily crossed himself.
Hypocrite.
Instead, Leon kicked Andrés between the legs, putting as much
power and anger he could muster into the movement. The contact was immensely
satisfying.
Andrés yelped and bent forward, wobbling with his pants round his ankles, trying to retain his balance while intent on clutching his damaged manhood. Next instant, Leon deployed the ninja Fudo-ken, the clenched fist slamming full into the bastard’s nose, shattering the bone structure. While the bone and cartilage probably wouldn’t penetrate this sick person’s brain, the blow would undoubtedly cause subdural hematoma which was bound to deny the brain adequate blood flow. As a result, a biochemical cascade was in all likelihood happening right now as Leon dispassionately watched. Brain cell death was imminent. No great loss to humanity. (p121)
6.
Myriad stars and a full moon shone in the deep blue night sky and
reflected in the waters of Marsaskala Bay. Other reflections, from the odd
occupied moored boat and buildings, bars and restaurants, diminished the
magical effect. Dressed in their gray-and-black wetsuits and wearing their
buoyancy compensators, an air tank each, and neoprene gloves and footwear, Leon
and Carlota carried the rest of their scuba gear down to the rocky shore. Here,
in the light of the moon they did their pre-dive checks on each other – air
switched on, all quick-releases and straps secure, visible and within reach,
and contents gauges showed “full”. Then they put on their fins and face-masks
and swam a short distance into the wide bay and then submerged. (p184)
7.
The far door opened and a man walked in carrying a full bottle of
vodka. Replenishment time. He saw them immediately. He was right-handed and the
bottle was in his right hand. He fumbled. Instead of dropping the bottle –
which would have smashed on the tile floor – he grabbed it with his left hand,
clutching it to his chest, then reached for the revolver in his shoulder-holster.
Leon fired once. His bullet went through the vodka bottle,
shattering it, soaking the man, and penetrated his chest, the vodka doubtless
anaesthetizing the wound in the process. Not that it would do any good. He
collapsed noisily to the floor amidst the shards of glass and liquor, dead.
“No prisoners,” Carlota whispered behind him. (p189)
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