Vicious Rumer

by Joshua Winning

  I lock eyes with Bolt. Mara’s right. It’s my fault Bolt’s here, and now he’s being used as a pawn in whatever game Mara’s really playing. As a shadow, I’ve learnt to pick my moments. This isn’t one of them, but one will come. I just have to watch for it.

  ‘Fine. Let him go and I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Rumer, no–’ Bolt begins.

  ‘Don’t.’ I cut him off.

  ‘I’ll find you,’ Bolt says.

  ‘Find her?’ Mara sneers. ‘You won’t have to look very hard.’

  Before I can stop them, Mara’s men haul Bolt from the room. I hear the front door opening and I round on Mara.

  ‘You said you’d let him go.’

  ‘I said no such thing. Come, we haven’t a moment to spare.’

  Something inside me snaps and I go to throw myself at the Reverend, but somebody seizes my arms before I get anywhere near.

  ‘Let’s try to keep it civilised, shall we, Ms Cross?’ Mara says softly, leaving the lounge, Rose sailing after him as if she’s attached to his wrist like a balloon. I’m hauled after them.

  ‘I can walk,’ I grunt, attempting to pry myself out of the guard’s hands.

  ‘You heard her,’ Mara says.

  As I’m released, I spot George’s slumped form. His blood has soaked into the rug and his skin’s a horrible chalky white.

  ‘What about George? We can’t just leave him here.’

  ‘Somebody will be along to clean him up.’ Mara says it like he’s talking about dog shit. ‘Come, Ms Cross.’

  I hate how he says my last name. The name I share with her. It sounds like he’s used it for years. Which he has, I guess.

  A guard shoves me away from George, through the front door.

  Four black SUVs hum at the kerb. Darkness has fallen and their red tail lights cast Reverend Mara in a devilish glow as one of his guards opens a door and he slides in.

  Bolt’s wrestled into one of the other SUVs and Rose gets in beside him. My blood boils at the thought of her with him, what she’ll fill his head with.

  I’m directed to Mara’s car. Clenching my fists, I get into the back and one of the guards slips in beside me. The door slams, then the car’s engine roars and we’re on the road again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It’s raining. Two guys ride up front and they’re talking in a language I don’t recognise. Hungarian, maybe. The masked guard beside me hasn’t said a word. I eye the guns strapped to his belt and wonder how fast I can move. The thought of him moving faster and popping a cap in my leg – or worse – stops me from finding out.

  Mara peers out the window, watching the neighbourhoods rise and fall around us.

  ‘You may ask me anything you wish about your mother.’

  I don’t think so.

  I press my lips together. I’m done talking. My head’s full of George. His body in the hall. Those kind eyes telling me everything was going to be okay, and Ellis proving him wrong.

  The best man I’ve ever met, gone.

  My temples throb with anger and guilt and hatred. Hatred for this thing I am. Ellis might have wielded the knife, but I’m the one who killed George, just like I’ve killed everybody who ever got too close to me. I’m so angry I want to scream, but what good would that do?

  Mara. I can be angry at him.

  Even as I resolve to keep my trap shut, I feel the questions coursing into my mouth and I hear myself speak.

  ‘Tell me about the spear.’

  Stupid mouth.

  His long hair swishes and a smile tweaks the corners of his lips.

  ‘The spear. Yes, of course. They’re linked, your mother and the spear, but you already know that.’

  If he’s trying to irritate me, it’s working. I clasp my hands together, squeezing my knuckles.

  ‘We talked of family before; perhaps I should tell you about mine. My father was a great man. Cruel, but it is a cruel world.’ Mara briefly caresses his cheek beneath the smoky eye. ‘He was the head of a powerful corporation, The Silver Tower. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. No? I suppose the world of business is of little interest to you.’

  He’s got that right. I keep my expression neutral. I realise I actually want to hear whatever he has to say. His voice is like the rain. Cold but comforting. A soft patter. We’re on the motorway now and the humming of the SUV is oddly soothing.

  ‘Like all powerful men, my father had enemies,’ Mara says. ‘He did things others disagreed with and many sought to dethrone him. They say the bounty was close to a billion pounds. My father was never concerned, though. His advisers were all trusted friends. He had a fleet of bodyguards working around the clock. The closest anybody ever came to putting him in the ground was when an asp was delivered to his office. The post boy was too stupid to check the contents of the box before it landed on my father’s desk. My father was bitten twice but he sucked the venom from his arm himself.’

  Mara tells the story like it’s a fairytale passed down through the generations. I wonder how much of it is true.

  ‘He was a romantic, though, and a collector,’ Mara continues. ‘A lover of stories and ancient artefacts. When he was travelling in Morocco, he came across a shop run by an old man. My father asked to see the shop’s most interesting piece, and the old man showed him an intricate gun. Its chamber held four bullets, pure silver. It had only been fired once, to kill a much-loved Moroccan prince. It was forged by one of the prince’s enemies, a sorceress. She was hanged, but by then her allies had smuggled the gun out of the city. Nobody wanted to keep it. They feared the sorceress had cursed it and it was sold to the first street merchant they encountered.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Henchmen are always wusses.’

  Mara doesn’t seem to hear me. ‘My father bought the gun. He did not believe in curses, but he liked the story. A conversation piece for his parties. He hung the gun on the wall in his living room, and there it stayed, until a young woman took it down and shot him with it. Can you guess who that woman was?’

  I’m squeezing my hands so tightly my knuckles hurt. There’s a glint in Mara’s eye but I don’t know what it means.

  ‘Your mother disappeared with the gun, and neither has been seen since.’ Mara traces a ring on his finger. ‘Curses are tricky things, Ms Cross. My father should have paid attention to the Moroccan man’s story; he might have lived. If he’d been clever, he could have used the gun to cement his power forever. You see, according to the Moroccan man, every bullet the gun held was forged to destroy. Every bullet save the last.’

  ‘All bullets destroy,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, all normal bullets, but these were different. The last grants the victim immortality. That was the sorceress’s plan. Kill her three enemies, then use the final bullet on herself and rule Morocco for eternity.’

  I stare at him blankly. He’s deadly serious and I daren’t laugh. It’s obvious that even though Mara’s father didn’t believe the story, Mara does, fiercely. He’s even crazier than I gave him credit for.

  ‘What’s this got to do with the Crook Spear?’ I ask.

  Mara smiles and he’s beautiful.

  ‘A spoon is not always a spoon,’ he says. ‘The Crook Spear is the gun. Perhaps it was an actual spear once. The metal could easily have been fashioned anew. It has always been referred to as a spear, though. Perhaps to protect it from those who would seek it out. A cloak of protection. But I know what it is and I must have it.’

  I’m speechless. The spear’s a gun? A mystical weapon that has the power to turn a man into an immortal. Anger prickles through me. Everything that’s happened over the past few days has happened because some power-hungry maniac wants to get his hands on a fucking voodoo gun. The pit. Bolt. George. The killer assassins firing at my head.

  ‘You’re insane.’

  I shouldn’t have said it. Mara’s expression darkens and he bares his teeth.

  ‘At last count, there were only two bullets left, which means I have one to spare,’ he growls.
‘Would you prefer I use it on you or your mother?’

  Stupid question.

  I need to change the subject. There’s only so much crazy I can take. Better to deal with the here and now. I’m nervous, though. If there’s anything I understand better than anybody else, it’s curses. I’ve been one for the past nineteen years. What if there’s some truth to Mara’s story? What if the gun really does make you immortal?

  It’s not something I can think about. My head hurts and I still have to figure out how to get out of this mess without me or Bolt being killed. The chances of that happening are getting slimmer by the minute.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  Mara retracts his claws. He looks out the window again, watches the rain as it pebbles the motorway.

  ‘Somewhere safe. Somewhere you can think about what you really want to do with your life, such as it is.’

  Nice and vague. I’m still trying to understand how this all fits together. According to Nicotine Man, Ellis, my mother’s been AWOL for the past two decades. Mara says she betrayed his father, shot him dead. Is it possible she isn’t working for him any more? And if she’s not working for him, who is she working for?

  The SUV swerves suddenly and I’m thrown against the guard.

  ‘What the hell–’

  The shriek of tyres cuts me off and something slams into the side of the car. Somebody’s ramming us. Another car is hurtling along beside us. A grey jeep with tinted windows. It crushes us into the barriers at the side of the motorway and sparks fly as metal grinds metal.

  Up front, the driver jerks the wheel, yelling in Hungarian or whatever. Mara’s guard yells back. Mara’s quiet, though he grips the door handle tightly.

  We’re rammed again and the driver throws on the brakes.

  The seatbelt slices into my chest as we screech to a halt. I rock back in the seat.

  Wailing car horns become distorted as other vehicles shoot by. They weave around another car that’s stopped just ahead of us. The jeep sits there. Nobody gets out. What are they waiting for?

  A prick of hope disturbs my belly. Has somebody come to rescue us from Mara? One of his enemies perhaps? Julian?

  No. There’s nobody who’d rescue me. I grit my teeth. This may be my moment. If I get caught in a fight between Mara and whoever’s driving the jeep, I may be able to escape. Grab Bolt and run.

  ‘Get us out of here,’ the guard beside me shouts.

  The driver revs the engine, then slams his foot on the accelerator. We tear down the motorway, whisking past the jeep. We shoot past it and out onto the open motorway.

  I whip round to stare out the back. The jeep’s speeding up.

  It’s coming after us.

  ‘Who is that?’ I ask. I realise I’ve lost sight of the other SUVs. Bolt’s gone.

  The car bucks again. The jeep’s ramming us from behind.

  I turn to look out the back again and I stare right into the jeep.

  My blood freezes.

  A white-haired woman is in the driver’s seat.

  It’s her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  This is it. There’s no escaping. If Mara doesn’t kill me, my mother will. I can’t bear to look at her. I swing back round in my seat, but her face is seared into my mind. So full of rage. A screaming phantom swooping down the motorway. There’s nothing she won’t do. If I’ve learnt anything from what I’ve read, it’s that she’ll stop at nothing until the job’s done.

  So I’m her latest job. Suppose I should feel honoured.

  ‘You aren’t pleased to see her,’ Mara says. Though he’s mocking me, he’s pale, his expression drawn. Like me, he’s afraid of her, but there’s admiration, too. A desperate kind of respect.

  The guard beside me lowers his window and leans out, gun aimed at the jeep. Shots ring out and I hear the jeep swerve, tyres catching on the tarmac. We’re rammed again and the guard nearly topples out onto the road.

  I eye the other gun holstered at the guard’s hip. He’s distracted. I could grab it, take him out, turn it on Mara.

  ‘Off the motorway,’ Mara orders the driver. ‘Lose her. Now.’

  I glance from the gun to the motorway and the breath catches in my throat.

  ‘Look out!’

  The driver’s been so busy watching his rear-view mirror he doesn’t notice the truck in front of us. He spins the wheel and the SUV careens to one side. For a moment I think we’ll make it, but then there’s a crunch as we clip the back of the truck and the world explodes in a spinning, crunching nightmare of roaring metal and ringing glass.

  The seatbelt threatens to slice me in half and my ears ring as the motorway somersaults. It seems like we’ll tumble forever, but finally we rock to a standstill.

  I cough.

  My chest is killing me and my head feels weird. Pumping with blood. My arms hang upward, scraping the ceiling, and I realise the SUV’s upside down. The seatbelt’s pinned me in place.

  The vehicle creaks and I feel like I’m dreaming, only I can’t be because dreams never hurt this much.

  The guard lies half out the window. There’s blood everywhere and I know he’s dead. Another one bites the dust. When your time’s up, it’s up, right?

  Gradually my ears stop ringing. I hear the whoosh of cars on the other side of the motorway. And something else. A door opening somewhere and footsteps crunching calmly on the tarmac.

  The jeep.

  My mother.

  I fumble for the seatbelt. Panic threatens to bubble up, flood my mouth with frantic mumbling, but I can’t let it. This is my moment. If I can get out of the car and run, I’ll be free. It’s my only option. Run like fucking crazy.

  Click.

  The seatbelt comes undone and I slump to the car ceiling. I’m all tangled limbs, flailing like a newborn lamb, and it’s gone eerily quiet. I manage to untangle myself and flip over onto my hands and knees, wincing as shards of glass slice into my palms.

  Mara’s unconscious. He’s suspended the way I was, slumped against his seatbelt, long hair covering his face. I’m trembling and my hand hurts and I realise I’m clutching a shard of glass, blood thumping between my fingers.

  All thoughts of running vanish.

  George. The pit, all those dead bodies. Bolt.

  I inch closer to Mara’s slumped form, forgetting everything else. Killing him is all I want now. I can end it right here. He’s going to die anyway. Everybody who gets close to me ends up dead, but it could be months, years. Mara doesn’t deserve that long.

  I’ve been a killer my whole life. Why not become a murderer?

  Before I get any nearer, boots appear at the side of the car and I freeze. Whoever it is – my mother? somebody working for her? – drags at the car door, inching it open.

  Fast. I have to move fast. I thrash towards Mara and grab him, shoving his hair aside to expose his throat.

  I raise the glass shard.

  ‘Rumer!’

  I’ve never heard my mother speak before. Her voice is sing-song sharp, cotton wool coiled in barbed wire. It cements my joints and I can’t move. The shard shakes in my grasp and my gaze flickers to the face that’s appeared through the open door.

  She looks at me.

  There’s electricity in the air. A storm in the crumpled car. I can’t breathe.

  ‘Rumer–’

  No. I have to do this before she kills me. I raise the shard and now my mother’s scrambling inside, a wild animal, her teeth exposed, hands scrabbling. She grabs my wrist and the shock of her touch makes me gasp. I try to wrestle free but she’s too strong. I drop the shard and my mother drags me out onto the tarmac. I could never imagine she’d be so strong.

  I lash out, try to shake her off me, but she hoists me to my feet.

  ‘You’re injured.’

  Again that voice. Glass sprinkled over ice cream.

  I’m caught in her gaze.

  A popping sound breaks the spell. The other SUVs in Mara’s fleet have returned and his men ar
e leaning out with their guns aimed at us.

  As I turn to duck away, my mother seizes my wrist and yanks me towards the grey jeep.

  ‘Get off me!’

  Her expression is deadly and I can’t shake her grip. She opens the back door and bundles me inside, slamming the door. I move to open it but there’s no handle on the inside. I raise a boot and pound it against the window but it must be some kind of reinforced glass.

  My mother jumps into the driving seat and then we’re tearing down the motorway.

  Article from The Sun

  ‘Razor’ Stanley makes dog’s dinner of m ob links

  By JIM GREEN

  Reporter

  A London tycoon eaten alive by his own guard dog was killed by a rival gangster, his ex-wife claims.

  Vile criminal Bob ‘The Razor’ Stanley, 45, died after he was torn limb from limb by Daisy, a Rottweiler he’d purchased a week earlier to protect his new £3 million penthouse in Canary Wharf.

  The CEO of Bright Tech was in the middle of a £35 million divorce from his ex-wife, glamour model Suzy Price, 32, and had fielded numerous accusations that he was in league with local mobster Gino ‘Smiffy’ Smith.

  Price, whose tell-all book I Married A Mobster is being published next month, said: ‘Bob pissed off too many people and they finally got him. That dog was always going to kill somebody – she hadn’t been trained properly yet. Somebody let her out and she went straight for Bob.’

  Cops are trawling CCTV footage for evidence of a break-in at Stanley’s home amid claims a hit squad van was spotted in the area the same night the mobster died.

  Part Four

  THE CAMP

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I’m being driven to my death by a ghost. It sounds nuts, but it’s no more nuts than anything else that’s happened over the past few days. The chill of certainty floods my veins and all I can do is stare at my mother’s reflection in the rear-view mirror.