Too slowly I noticed the commotion, the birds flapping out of the bushes – the window on the Vauxhall, a black space where it should have been. A faint outline inside, eyes watching. The grim circle of a gun barrel. I turned back to Marty. They’re taking it all from me…
Marty was still drumming on the steering wheel, she hadn’t seen, had no way to know what was coming. Perhaps that was best, I thought, as I started to run back towards her. The gun spat, it was supressed, the commuters queuing for their hash browns didn’t hear it. Another phut of a supressed gunshot. I sprinted, desperate to outrun those bullets, to reach Marty before they did. The gun coughed again.
I tripped, rolling across the tarmac. Another gunshot, the Audi’s V8 howled into life, a screech of tyres. Someone had stuffed cotton wool into my ears, my eyes faded in and out of focus. A wheel appeared next to my head. Louder gunfire exploded, close by, people started shouting, screaming, cars revving. A crash somewhere, horns blaring.
I got my senses back, climbed to my knees and pulled open the passenger door, slid inside.
‘Use this!’ Marty threw her pistol into my lap, turned the wheel and nailed the accelerator.
The Audi leapt forward, threading around two cars that had collided in an effort to get out of the car park. The Vauxhall accelerated behind us. Out onto the main road, I closed my eyes, panting, an alarm was going off somewhere. I opened my eyes to see a roundabout and cars screeching to a halt.
‘Put your seatbelt on!’ shouted Marty as she threw the car into a four-wheel drift the wrong way round the roundabout. She straightened up, weaving onto the wrong side of the road to overtake a stream of people heading for the dual carriageway.
‘Are you hit?’ I asked.
‘What? No. Which way?’
I pointed up to the right. ‘Outpace him on the ring road.’
My head was heavy, full of lead, I leaned it against the headrest.
Marty smacked me across the face. ‘Put pressure on it!’
I didn’t understand what she meant. I looked down, saw black blood pooling in my lap. I pulled up my T-shirt, saw a neat round hole oozing blood down onto my waist.
‘Use both hands!’ she shouted, dropping a gear to overtake someone. I watched a sixty road sign flash past.
‘I don’t have enough hands,’ I mumbled, looking back down at three holes, dark on my pale skin.
I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes, listened to the revving engine. Marty was shouting. Whispers crept in, slowly drowning both of them. Faces joined them, flashing through my mind, fading, darker and darker until everything was black.
Acknowledgements
A huge number of people have supported me with this book, but there are a few in particular I’d like to thank.
Jules, my first reader as always, who took his time to pull his helpful comments together and then we flew through them quickly so we could watch The Mechanic. Thanks in particular for the climbing stuff! Bob, who shared his early thoughts and helped lift it up, not least through abundant WhatsApping of typos in real time. Fordy, who constantly takes the piss and manages to somehow make it feel like he’s supporting me. Burt for the boarding deets!
My elusive advisor on all things military, codenamed Jaz Carpet, for the little but important details. Just like Anthrax Island, anything I got wrong here was my error rather than his. The watch scene is a big tip of the hat to you, my friend!
Mari, always a cheerleader, and always incredibly supportive of others. Thank you so much for everything!
Phil, my agent, the best there is and always guaranteed to spot a reference. Forever on hand for stupid questions, and with an old or obscure film suggestion for every occasion.
My editor, Craig, whose help turned a rough manuscript into a book. It really saddens me that the editing comments are never seen by anyone else, because there were some real belters in there. Everyone else at Canelo that worked on my book, including Francesca, Nicola and Elinor. Thanks to Elodie and Miranda for some great catches, and Mark for a fantastic cover.
Vic Watson and Simon Bewick, masterminds of Virtual Noir at the Bar and Bay Tales. Thank you for giving people a platform and an opportunity to meet like-minded geeks. The first time anyone heard anything about Black Run is when Vic asked me to read an early extract at Virtual Noir at the Bar.
Rob Scragg, the first author to read Black Run. Thank you for the incredible support, look forward to meeting up again soon! Rob Parker, thanks for all the inspiration and kind words! And my circle of trust for keeping me sane through the year and for keeping me overweight.
Bloody Scotland, Theakston’s Crime Fest in Harrogate, Newcastle Noir, and Hull Noir for providing opportunities for writers in the early stages of their careers. All the writers who’ve supported me and the bloggers, booksellers, and others who championed Anthrax Island, including Roxie, Russ, Effie, Chris, Mik, Dr Noir, Nick, Anna, Jonathan, Helen at Forum Books and The Bound, New Writing North, The Blood Brothers, the Northern Crime Syndicate, Barry, Tim, Gordon, Louise, Susi, Ian, Matthew, Shona, and many others.
As always, the best is last. Louby; the most supportive person I could possibly have on this ship with me, who is fortunately far better with words than I will ever be. XXX
The John Tyler series
Anthrax Island
Black Run
Find out more
About the Author
D. L. Marshall was born and raised in Halifax, West Yorkshire. Influenced by the dark industrial architecture, steep wooded valleys, and bleak Pennine moors, he writes thrillers tinged with horror, exploring the impact of geography and isolation. In 2016 he pitched at Bloody Scotland. In 2018 he won a Northern Writers’ Award for his thriller novel Anthrax Island.
Also by D. L. Marshall
The John Tyler series
Anthrax Island
Black Run
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Canelo
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Copyright © D. L. Marshall, 2021
The moral right of D. L. Marshall to be identified as the creator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook ISBN 9781800322769
Print ISBN 9781800322776
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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