So who did that leave? Marty and Fields, alibiing each other in their cabin at the time, and King with me. I put my head in my hands. I’d been in a situation like this before, what had it taught me? To look for the obvious solution. Not to trust everything my senses were telling me, and not to believe anyone. Easy with hindsight but not giving me much to go on right now.
‘Who was he?’ I looked up to see Fields swaying over me. ‘The guy, the job, who was he? What’s he done?’
‘Nothing you need to worry about.’
‘Did you know him?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘Not until this month, you know how it is. Why the interest?’
‘Just wanna know why I’m risking my neck.’
‘He was bad news, you don’t need to know anything else.’
He pulled out the chair opposite and sat down, reaching for a sausage from the plate. ‘But that’s what I mean, how do you know that? Just because someone told you? A folder full of pictures taken out of cars parked across the street and the word of some government stooge?’
I held my head in my hands. ‘I could do without this right now.’
He bit half the sausage and waved it, my stomach flipped.
‘Bloody hell, this is gopping,’ he said between chewing, dropping the rest back on the plate and wiping his hand on his shirt. ‘Look, I was on a job a few years ago, when I was with Cresswell. We were ordered to…’
‘I couldn’t give two shits about your backstory, okay? Keep your brain on what’s happening now, on this ship.’
He sat back, crossing his arms. ‘The point was gonna be that you’re just a tool, aren’t you? Do whatever the man says, yes sir no sir no questions. Now that guy’s dead, that’s on you as far as I’m concerned.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘It’s on all of us. We were hired to transport him back home. You think they’ll throw a party when I turn up with a corpse?’
‘Aye, sorry. I’m just… I dunno. I’m tired, okay?’
‘Go get some rest. I’m heading down myself in a minute.’
We were interrupted by the return of Doc. ‘Eat, eat, what is the point of me slaving in that galley if none of you will eat?’
I gave him a weary smile. ‘The sea’s rolling us around and I’ve not slept for three days.’
‘Anyone would think it were poisoned,’ he muttered to himself. ‘If we wanted to kill you there are myriad easier methods, I can assure you.’ He shook his head and fished out a packet of pills.
I slammed my hand on the table. ‘Doc, you’re a genius.’
‘A stretch, my boy, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.’ He handed me the seasickness tablets.
‘I mean it, a genius. There are easier ways of killing someone indeed, that’s the whole point, isn’t it?’ I shook out a capsule and swallowed it, tossing the pack across the table to Fields. ‘The shit’s gonna hit the fan sooner rather than later, you need to be on top form.’
‘King was right, you do have a screw loose.’ Fields shook his head.
‘Marty!’ I called.
She turned, saw Doc was dishing out the tablets again.
Thanks to Doc, if my theory was right my problems had just halved. I’d have a quiet word with him later on to confirm my idea, but for now, with one problem solved, one at the bottom of the sea, and the rest still several kilometres behind us, I felt buoyed up enough to get some shut-eye.
‘Right, come on Fields, let’s get some rest. Marty, you’re on point until,’ I looked at my watch, ‘two p.m. Anyone wakes us for anything other than a life-or-death situation I’ll be pissed off.’
The passageways of the ship looked entirely different by day, with the sunlight forcing itself through the greasy windows and reflected light from the waves dappled across the ceiling. On one hand finding our way around was easier without the flickering caged bulbs dotted around the walls, but on the other you could really see the filth and grime that’d worked its way into every seam, weld, corner and crevice. The seasickness tablets hadn’t kicked back in yet, and Fields was sliding along the damp wall again, hand at his mouth.
‘You’ll be all right after a kip,’ I said.
He nodded and stumbled down the stairs, sliding along the wall again at the bottom, all the way to his cabin. As soon as I got inside mine I locked the door, put the satphone on charge, and took out my pistol. I slid out the magazine, filled it full of hollow points from a box in my rucksack, then tucked it under the pillow.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Château des Aigles
Two days ago
I ran for the road, felt something on my face. I brushed away muck and flecks of stone, my fingers came away red. That bullet had been far too close. I stumbled on, towards a layby round the corner, where my Audi was parked – our backup vehicle in case the shit hit the fan.
Mercifully when I reached it the tyres were still full of air, and she fired up immediately. Lennon and Ringo hadn’t messed with it, instead opting for a rapid getaway – and why wouldn’t they? I had no way of catching them now – or so they thought.
I shuffled in my seat and pulled out my phone, unlocking it and putting it in a bracket on the dash. I swiped to a jogging app, and the route tracker. The icon spun on screen as it connected to the smartwatch on Bob’s wrist. As it did I reloaded my pistol, cocked it, placed it handle-up in the cup holder.
The screen flashed to a map display, a little dot pulsing half a mile or so away.
I shifted into first, off the clutch, letting the snow tyres bite, sending me on my way towards the village. Up into second, then third, I drove quickly through the outskirts, one eye on my phone, on that pulsing dot.
It had slowed, navigating the one-way system through the village and the evening crowds. Château des Aigles’ narrow streets would be packed. I pulled a right, down an alley parallel to the centre, slowing for the last skiers making their way back to their hotels, a quick change before tea.
A car reversed into the opposite end of the alleyway, the back end of a Rolls Royce Cullinan. I swore under my breath. Its lights cut out, I realised it was parked facing the restaurant we’d visited a few days ago; no doubt waiting for their mates to finish their ski.
The flashing dot was on the move. I beeped angrily, revving my engine. The passenger got out, Bono, speaking angrily into his phone – no doubt harassing someone into finding out why his mates hadn’t made it down the mountain yet or been in touch. He slammed the door, tucked the phone in his pocket, and started walking back towards my car.
I glanced round, crowds in the main street behind, more people milling in the road ahead beyond the mouth of the alley. I could do the world a favour and get rid of Bono here and now but there’d be heat on, jeopardising the mission. I pictured my friend in the bottom of the ravine, looked at the flashing dot representing the Porsche, still stuck on the other side of town, and decided heat was a price worth paying.
I took off my seatbelt and opened the car door, beeping the horn again just to wind him up. Bono’s huge head turned even redder, he sped up. I grabbed my gun from the cup holder and swung a foot out onto the cobbles.
A shout came from the driver of the Roller as a couple of cops had appeared at the end of the alley, pointing angrily at the one-way and no parking signs on the wall. Bono turned, stormed back to the SUV and climbed in, face thunderous. I closed the car door and put my seatbelt back on, pushing the gun under the seat. Ahead the Rolls sped out of the alley and round the corner.
I pulled forward, gave a nod of thanks to the cops. One of them smiled and shrugged, holding up his hands and shaking his head, international code for stupid tourists. The back of the SUV disappeared up the street.
I turned in the other direction, towards the edge of town, past piles of snow heaped along the edge of the road, dark in the shadows of gingerbread buildings, carved balustrades and balconies under overhanging roofs. The Audi’s Conti Viking tyres made short work of the snow-covered lanes as I took a left at a roundabout and pulle
d up the hill out of town. The road meandered upwards though clouds of woodsmoke rolling from chimneys level with the low wall. Beyond it, children played on the ice rink in the square below, the top of the Christmas tree rocked with the wind.
The little dot came to the edge of town and took the same road, now behind me. I smiled. Predictable. I ground the accelerator deep into the carpet, the dash lit up like the Christmas tree below as the traction control fired all the car’s horsepower to each wheel in turn, seeking grip. I held my finger down on the button to turn it off, then hit the sport button on the steering wheel. The side bolsters on the bucket seat inflated to hug me tighter.
The Porsche hadn’t stopped in the village to set the target free, which meant their motive was likely money. A ransom: send him back where he came from for a tidy fee, presumably more than I was paying them. Double-crossing bastards.
Wouldn’t take someone like that long to rustle up cash, he was a multimillionaire with friends in low places. Lennon and Ringo would want rid of him as soon as possible so they could crawl under a rock. So where would they take him? Bob’s place was over the other side of the valley, with our chalet above it. Neither was neutral ground, and they’d probably want to put some distance between them.
They were about a quarter of a mile behind me now, the gap was widening. I was driving faster on the snow-packed roads; they had a precious cargo, after all. I kept it up, wipers on overtime battling the snow driving straight at me, drifting sideways on each corner as all four wheels spun.
A crossroads asked me where I wanted to go. A back road north, towards Geneva, the dual carriageway south, towards Chamonix. What had Ringo said? Shame we can’t head to my place in Geneva. I turned right, away from people and houses, further into the mountains. The snow was worse here, less traffic. The indicator poles along the side of the road said the drifts and plough piles were over a metre deep, and the way the car was handling told me the plough hadn’t been through for a while. I pulled over to get the snow chains from the boot, spent a couple of minutes fitting them before I was off again. Even with them, the threat of getting stuck and stranded was very real. Beyond the poles the ground dropped away steeply, tiny lights at the bottom giving an indication of the altitude I’d reached. There’d been no houses for a while, just the twisting road and swirling snow.
On my phone screen the little pulsing dot turned right, following me up the mountain pass. Good call. I made the final turn, my satnav told me the road in front straightened now, a run all the way down into the next valley. I couldn’t see beyond the swirling clouds of white in front of me. I flicked off the headlights as a test, couldn’t see a thing. At the rate the low clouds were depositing snow it was like trying to drive with a blindfold on, even the snow markers were invisible in the darkness. Perfect.
I flicked the lights back on and accelerated, powering down the hill at sixty-plus in an effort to get to the bottom before any traffic appeared. Behind me, the pulsing dot climbed the winding mountain road.
I slammed the brakes, turned left, yanked the handbrake and pressed the clutch, sliding to a halt sideways across the road with the passenger side facing uphill, in the direction I’d just come from. I turned the lights off again, driving lights and sidelights, too. Leaving the engine running I jumped out, ran round to the boot and retrieved my HK rifle.
I jumped back in, wound the passenger window down, cocked the rifle, and leaned it on the door. I kept one eye on the little dot. They were about to reach the top of the hill.
The rangefinder struggled to get a reading on the road at the top through the thick snow. The rifle was still zeroed at 400 metres, I turned on the scope and squinted through the flakes, adjusting the focus, then tried to estimate the distance and wind. Judging by the satnav the distance was easily over twice that, wind was about 20 mph from the left. I adjusted the scope, flicking the top and side turrets with my thumb a few clicks. It’d have to do, adjust as you go.
The snow lit up in the magnified image as headlights rounded the corner. The car was travelling slowly, no prizes for guessing why on the lonely mountain pass. I exhaled, rested my cheek against the stock, flicked the safety off.
The headlights drew closer. The scope sorted out most of the glare and took the brightness down, but it was still impossible to be accurate. I could pump lead directly into the windscreen and be pretty much guaranteed to nail them, but I needed them alive. Similarly, I could pump lead into the front of the car and hope to stop them mechanically, but the Porsche was a hybrid with batteries under the floor and motors in the rear, so wouldn’t be stopped by the loss of its petrol engine.
I squeezed the trigger. The rifle thumped my shoulder, the crack quickly smothered by the wind, in front nothing happened, the headlights steadily advanced. I squeezed again, still nothing. I adjusted and squeezed a third time, this time the lights dimmed as flashes of broken glass spun away across the snow-covered fields. The Porsche kept advancing, they’d be wondering what the fuck just happened and why their passenger headlight had exploded, I had an extremely limited time window. I breathed, focused on the other light, adjusted for the reduced distance, squeezed again. The driver’s headlight shattered.
I propped the rifle in the footwell and pulled my seatbelt on, into first, slamming the accelerator down and dropping the clutch to spin the car round on its axis, easing off and changing up into second when the car was aiming up the hill, right at the oncoming Porsche.
I glanced at the pulsing dot, it was moving much quicker now. Standard defensive driver training – if an unknown attacker is taking shots at you, don’t stop to see who it is and where they are – just bug the fuck out of there. It’s what I was banking on.
I checked the dash, changed up into third. My headlights still off and driving blind, the dot was closing fast, except they didn’t know we were converging on each other. Looking out of the windscreen was pointless, I kept my foot down and drove purely by my satnav screen and my phone. The blue dot was heading straight for me.
I looked up, could just about see one of their dim sidelights glowing, no brighter than a torch in the blizzard. The big Porsche was close, I was playing chicken with three tons of super-SUV barrelling down on me at a combined speed of over eighty miles per hour. Problem was, they didn’t know we were playing chicken. The darkness told them the road was clear, that trouble was somewhere in the snow-filled pastures behind them. That huge Porsche would tear through me like a hammer through a Kit Kat.
Time to let them know I was here. I looked down. Fifty metres. I waited a fraction of a second longer then turned on my headlights, full beam.
The Porsche was damn close, I caught a flash of Ringo’s startled face directly in front of me, he threw a hand up, dazzled, less than a second to make a decision. His body automatically made it for him, self-preservation slamming on the brakes and spinning the wheel. I won the game of chicken, kept going straight, the Porsche missed me by centimetres as it slewed violently, hitting the snow piled high at the side of the road, pushing straight through.
I watched in my mirror as the brake lights disappeared, changed into second and raced up the hill. I drifted at the top, looking out of my side window down at the red lights sliding around crazily in the dark below. I turned down the twisting road, cutting back across the hillside, looking out at the snow-covered fields where the big Porsche was sliding down the hillside completely out of control, disappearing from view.
I kept going, the road criss-crossing the Porsche’s toboggan run straight down. I passed cartoon-like SUV-sized holes in the snowdrifts either side where the big car had punched through, slid across the road, and kept going down the other side. I drove on, turning the corners back down the hill. Near the bottom I found my quarry, stuck in a wall, half-buried in the snow, teetering over the edge at the side of the road.
I stopped the car, watching the Porsche carefully. I noticed my hand was trembling, I held the wheel firm and reached over to the glovebox with the other. I fumbled with
the latch and rummaged inside, finding the box of tablets. It felt light.
I opened it and held it by the windscreen. Empty. She’d ditched the contents.
My left hand started shaking too, I thought back, when had I last taken one? That morning I’d finished off the pack in my bag, the pack in the car had been supposed to last me on the ship home. Fuck.
I grabbed my pistol and climbed out, striding towards the mangled SUV. The road glowed red in the swirling haze of its rear lights, every panel was crumpled and dented. The windows were obscured by what looked like dishevelled curtains hanging limply: the airbags had all deployed. Nothing moved, the undisturbed snow told me no one had got out.
I held my pistol back, out of reach, as I ploughed through the snow round the car to the bent driver’s door. Inside, Ringo looked at me blankly.
I jabbed the pistol into the window, cubes of safety glass rained down. I reached through to press the lock release, a few tugs and I got the door open. Ringo went for me half-heartedly, he was still dazed. I pointed the pistol into the car, the other seats were empty. I presumed the mark was in the boot, but there was no sign of Lennon. I swatted Ringo’s arms away, swung the butt of my pistol hard into his face, feeling the pop of cartilage. He made no sound, arms still flailing drunkenly. I leaned in close, the blood pouring from his broken nose steamed in the frigid air. I bit the cap off a backup syringe and plunged it into his neck, depressing it all the way. He flailed some more before his arms sagged.
I popped off his seatbelt and dragged him out, dropping him on the snow while I opened my Audi’s boot, one eye on the road and mountainside, black as the sky, the other on the Porsche, at the puddle of steaming water melting through the snow beneath it.
Black Run Page 20