Desire

by Louise Bagshawe

  If she moved, she might die. He’d shoot at her first. It did not matter to her. In the heart and belly of her, she wanted Sam Murray to live. She pushed back with her hands, angling her legs out towards the front of the truck, jackknifing herself out on to the verge. She clutched the thick, mud-covered wheel of the truck, lowering her head, hoping the elevation of the cab would protect her.

  ‘Sam!’ she shouted, as loud as she could. ‘Sam! He’s on the roof! He’s got a gun! Get back!’

  There was a soft, vicious sound: phut. Then a strike. She heard the bullet land in the road. Then another, like a hornet whizzing past her head. He’d fired in her direction, but she was too close to the front of the truck, and it landed harmlessly in the grass behind her.

  ‘Baby, get down!’ Sam shouted. ‘Get the fuck down!’

  She hit the dirt, sobbing. This man had killed Josh and now he was going to kill her, and Sam too, the only man she thought she’d ever really loved, the guy she’d just found . . . It was a matter of time, that was all.

  And then she heard the gunshot. Not phut, phut. A terrifyingly loud bang. A scream. Several screams. A dog barking. The killer had a silencer, but now she realised that Sam had a gun too.

  ‘Be careful!’ she screamed. It didn’t matter; obviously the killer knew where she was now anyway. ‘Sam! I love you!’

  Jesus. Lisa buried her face in her hands. She was targeted for assassination on a remote street in the middle of nowhere, and now was the time she chose to admit her love?

  But the English sarcasm didn’t help much. She was desperate for him to know, right now, in case these were the only moments she had left. What if this unknown man killed her, and she’d never said it?

  Sam reacted quickly. He gave himself that. The shot rang out over his head, then Lisa, his Lisa, was shouting, warning him that the guy was above him, and he spun on his heel, and even though he heard the shot at her, he was not distracted. He saw the figure up above him, and he fired . . .

  Boom! The shot rang out in the night. Immediately, lights switched on in the windows of the houses in the street. He didn’t care. Let them wake up, let them all wake up. Let them call whatever passed for a cop round here. Spook the guy into running. Anything, so long as he got away from Lisa. Sam didn’t need to look up to know that he had missed. There was no cry from the fucker, no gurgle, no scream. When he did raise his eyes, the gargoyle on the roof had disappeared. It was obvious that he had gone to get Lisa. Amidst the shouts and the opened windows, and the sleepy burghers of Vaduz becoming alarmed . . .

  Sam moved, fast, into the open street. Lisa’s voice had come from the end of the road. He looked. There was a giant truck. Jesus, had she actually slid under the truck? No wonder he hadn’t got her. He guessed that was the last place round here a pro would look. Smart girl, he thought, and felt a fresh rush of love. He scanned the street leading up to it. Where had that bullet come from? Which house? No time to think. He made a guess, in his gut, and moved around to the right, and there the fucking guy was, not paying attention to his back, just moving towards the truck like a man on a mission from hell. And Sam stopped thinking and pulled back the trigger and shot . . .

  Felix heard the gun. Curses boiled up in his head. This jerkoff, with his loud-ass little weapon. Dimly, part of his brain registered the small gun as unsuitable for a man; it was a woman’s weapon, he shouldn’t have it. It must have come from the dead fat woman at the hotel. But it could still kill. He was halfway down the roof already before the shot was fired. Stupid little Lisa had shouted out to save her man, given herself away. The truck; that was smart. Betraying herself was idiotic. If she had let him take time to kill Sam Murray, she might have gotten away herself. But she had no concept of buying time, and he wasn’t here to explain tradecraft. He ran towards the truck. Pretty sure she wasn’t armed. The Liechtensteiners were shouting things in German; he didn’t give a fuck. By the time the police got here, he’d be long gone.

  Another shot. Christ! He was almost at the truck. That one caught the back of his fucking jacket. The journalist could shoot. He turned around, cursing, and dropped to one knee. Aimed, pointed, fired, all in a single motion. Right at the guy’s head. But he dived to the dirt and rolled on to his back, was firing again. There were screams now, shouts all around them. Felix ignored them all. He was in a firefight. Fuck! The next bullet whistled past him, so close it almost singed his ear.

  ‘Sam Murray! Stop, we can do business.’ No response. ‘Put your fucking weapon down, maybe I’ll let her live. Maybe your magazine pays more than my client. Don’t be an asshole.’

  It didn’t matter how much the magazine paid; he had taken the fee for Lisa’s death and it was dangerous for any assassin not to deliver. They sent your colleagues after you. He would kill Sam Murray the second he opened his mouth to talk. Maybe kneecap him first, let him lie there waiting for it while he walked over and finished the woman. He had no fear of the fat civilians in their nightshirts and dressing gowns.

  ‘Sam, you want to make me an offer? She’s a pretty girl, Sam. Don’t you—’

  Bang! The fucker had hauled himself to his feet and fired yet again, and Felix suddenly realised, to his horror, that he was bleeding, fucking bleeding. His goddamn shin. It hurt. He looked down, saw blood pumping through his jeans. A second later the shock wore off, and violent pain seized his entire body. He forced himself on to his belly and returned fire. Once. Twice. But the journalist was fast, real fast. He dived to one side, then leaped to his feet and was running towards Felix, gun drawn, and Felix began to feel real fear, terror, mixing with the pain. He lifted his hand and shot again, but nerves were making his grip shaky. The gun wobbled. He saw the shot ricochet harmlessly off a tree.

  Sam Murray was running towards him, gun drawn. The locals were shouting. Murray’s grip was firm. He was not shaken. Hatred pulsed through Felix. Goddamn fucking bastard, in his way, between him and the gold-digger. The agony in his lower body intensified. For a split second he dragged his eyes downwards. There was another hole, in his stomach. Holy fucking shit. He was going to die.

  Murray’s footfalls were closer. He was standing over Felix, pointing the gun down. This fucking amateur, looming over him. Felix spat towards him. Blood bubbled from his mouth, mixing with the spittle.

  ‘Who hired you?’ Sam Murray demanded.

  Felix coughed. ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  ‘I want to know. It’s her life, the rest of her life. You’re hit in the stomach. You don’t have long.’

  Felix groaned helplessly from the pain. ‘Hospital,’ he said, and started to cry.

  ‘I can get you to a hospital. They can give you morphine, maybe. That’s not fixable, man.’ Murray crouched over him. Felix had looked into the eyes of his targets before, but not like this, never like this. The journalist’s eyes had softened. There was pity there. Pity from the asshole who’d just killed him, because Felix knew Murray was right; it wasn’t fixable. Frightened, he felt his heart pump, felt the blood leaking out with every beat.

  ‘Do the right thing. You’re dying. Who hired you? Were they close to Josh?’

  Felix cackled. ‘Very fucking close. She’ll never guess. She was easy to set up. No idea what they thought of her. Dumb bitch.’

  Murray shrugged. ‘Maybe she just didn’t care. And she’s not dumb, man. She’s alive. She’s free. You killed her husband and now you’re dead. She fucking won, remember that.’

  The words burned in Felix’s brain. She won. The bitch won. That half-naked, drunken slut lying on the bed; she had beaten him, found this fucking guy and beaten him. Two steps ahead all the time. Rage surged through him. Fury and despair leaked into his mouth till he could almost taste it, along with the blood. Shuddering, he cocked his gun and fired right up at Sam Murray; he was close, you wouldn’t have to be good, just lucky . . .

  But Sam’s eyes narrowed, and he jumped back, twisting his body away, and his pistol was moving in response. Even as Felix fired, hearing the screams of th
e locals dimly in the background, he felt a whoomph in his chest and then more pain, much more pain. He craned his neck to see the wound in the left side of his chest and he knew it was his heart, and bad, dreadful thoughts, horrors, crowded in on him. He tried to pray for mercy, for forgiveness, and then the blackness rushed up on him.

  ‘Lisa!’ Sam shouted, frantic. One glance told him the assassin was dead. ‘Lisa! I killed him! Get up, get up!’

  He looked around wildly. But there she was, running out from behind the front grille of the giant truck. She was alive, unhurt. Relief flooded him, such violent relief it shocked him. ‘Come here!’ he yelled, and she was already racing towards him.

  A fat man burst out of the doorway of one of the chalet houses to his right. He was wearing a nightshirt and a hastily pulled-on pair of corduroy trousers. He was also carrying a shotgun. He brandished it at Sam, then cocked it, ready to fire. ‘Mörder!’ he bellowed. ‘Ich werde die Polizei rufen!’

  Sam sighed and fired one shot into the air. Then he levelled his pistol at the guy’s chest.

  ‘Back off, buddy,’ he said, calm and clear. ‘We’re leaving. Just back off.’

  Lisa had reached him. She looked at the man, frightened. He was shaking now, but still gripping that gun.

  ‘Baby. Run through his pockets. Get anything. Phone, watch, rings, wallet. Anything. Be quick.’

  She was already crouched over the corpse. Sam saw her narrow shoulders shaking as her hands dipped into the bloodstained pockets of the guy’s clothing. Poor kid; she still was a kid really. She shouldn’t have to see so much death, shouldn’t have to see anything like this. Now the still-bubbling, warm blood of his fresh kill was running over her hands. Blood on both their hands, he thought grimly. It couldn’t be helped, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

  In his peripheral vision he saw another couple of men approaching down the street, warily, but they were still coming. He was only one guy. He was certain that if he and Lisa were caught, separated by the cops, put into cells, they would both be dead within twenty-four hours. He didn’t fool himself based on the death of one hired killer. Whoever had picked this man had the resources to send more. Lots more. And it was easy to hit a stationary target.

  ‘Lisa,’ he said, his voice as calm as he could make it. ‘You done?’

  She stood up, covered in blood; her hands looked like something from a horror flick. It was on her top, her trousers, splashed on her shoes. All over her skin. Wherever they went, she would be utterly conspicuous.

  ‘Yeah. I got what he had.’ She lifted her hands, and he saw a jumble of stuff. A phone, a wallet. Superb. There would be clues, at last, real clues.

  ‘OK. We have to go, we have to move. Come on, sugar.’ Sam spun around, gesturing with his gun at the men who were approaching them. ‘Wir gehen,’ he shouted. ‘Bleiben Sie weg oder ich schieße!’

  The men fell back. Lisa was next to him. He took the stuff from her and packed it into his pockets. She could be killed for it. Then he took her hand and started to run with her, straight down the hill, back the way they had come.

  ‘What did you say?’ She was panting, racing after him. She smelled of blood and sweat. He wondered how hard the assassin had chased her. But she had survived, his clever little beauty.

  ‘I told them to stay back or I’d shoot. It won’t buy us long.’ He slowed to a fast walk and she did the same. ‘We have to get out of this street. They’ll be waiting for us at the bottom with police.’

  ‘He shot at you . . .’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. We can’t be caught now. We’d be trapped. Understand?’

  Lisa nodded, tight-lipped. Sam glanced around him. To his left, a little below him, was a pharmacy, the large neon cross outside it switched off at night. It had a flat roof.

  ‘We’re going up there, across the roof, down the other side. You first.’ Sam gestured. They only had seconds. To his relief, Lisa did not argue. She ran towards the sign and jumped, trying to loop her arms around it. He lifted her up by the waist, and as she grabbed, he pushed up against the soft curves of her ass and she got a purchase and hauled herself up. The sign shivered a little in its mountings, but held steady.

  He could hear the sounds of shouting, footfalls at the top of the street, and in the distance the whine of a siren. Lisa was crouched on the roof, waiting for him. Sam moved to the other side of the street and ran, pounding his feet as hard as he could, then leaped against the wall, his hands grabbing at the sign, his feet pushing up hard, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth granite of the pharmacy. Nothing but the sheer strength of his muscles held him up there. His thighs screamed; the lactic acid burned through them. But there was nothing else, no other way out. And suddenly, with one last desperate push, he swung himself up and over, through the wall of pain, and landed on the roof, hard, feet first, and she was in front of him, alive and safe.

  ‘Here.’ He grabbed her hand and led her to the edge. There was a drop of twelve feet to the ground; effortlessly he swung her over, then grabbed the rough edge of the flat roof with his hands, grazing his palms, and dropped himself down. They were now in the next street over. The police siren was coming closer.

  ‘This place is tiny. They’ll find us,’ Lisa warned.

  ‘The hell they will. We’re stealing a car. Then another. Come with me.’ He glanced around and saw a dark-blue, beat-up Skoda parked on the street. The driver’s door looked rickety to him, a little loose on its hinges. Lisa watched as he bent over the lock. He took the handle in his hands, set his shoulder against it, and wrenched the door open with sheer strength, then unlocked the other side. Then he carefully placed it back in position. It was broken now, but it only needed to last him a few hours. Lisa scrambled into the passenger seat while he ripped open an interior panel and wired the thing. It sputtered into life, and he briefly checked the gas, wrenched the wheel, and set off down the street, back to the wide roads and the anonymity of Vaduz centre, heading towards Switzerland.

  As he drove, forcing himself to keep his eyes dead on the road, Sam saw the police cars, grey and blue, heading past him into the old town. This was serious now. They had both been seen, there would be descriptions, APBs. But it was early morning, and he thought he could drive over the border without being stopped. There were enough euros for a motel, but they dared not stop in one for a little while. Anyway, he wanted to get away, take Lisa somewhere far from here, somewhere they weren’t looking for a couple. The shape of a plan was starting to form in his mind, emerging out of his consciousness like a city from the mist. He thought he knew exactly how to run with her. After that, the hunt was going to be on. Sam Murray did not enjoy being the prey. He far preferred to be the predator.

  Chapter Eleven

  The party was in full swing. Artemis Studios was throwing a bash for their tentpole movie of the summer, Animal Instinct, and they had spared no expense. Peter Mazin, now Hollywood’s biggest producer, moved amongst the studio executives, accepting their tributes. They all hoped they would be the ones to land his next release in development. But then again, there was a slight air of doubt that hung in the air, and he could feel it. Doubt that Mazin could deliver on Steen/Mazin projects. The insolence drove him crazy. Josh was dead; didn’t they get that? He was not coming back. And these guys were gonna have to deal with Peter and his new-found power, whether they liked it or not.

  Peter looked across the room, over to where Hannah was conversing with Michael Alamo, the business affairs supremo of Artemis. Normally, he would have been proud of her. The perky, fake, paid-for tits. Her supremely round, high and fuckable ass. She did Pilates four days a week, and he loved the way it made her look. Her caramel-honey blond hair, long and luscious, was around her shoulders, and she wore a dress by Hervé Léger that combined body-conscious, sexy fashion with the social-permission-to-wear of haute couture. Indeed, assessed purely aesthetically, Hannah Mazin was the ultimate trophy wife, a possession other men would drool over and envy.

  Had J
oshua Steen envied him? Had he done anything about it?

  The perennial question rolled back to Peter as he watched Hannah move. Josh’s victory was that he would always be suspicious. Their life in bed together - and Hannah was enthusiastic and skilful; she knew, at least, the bare minimum required not to be divorced as a Hollywood wife - would always be tainted by the spectre of his suspicions, that Josh had had his way with her, but taken that secret to the grave.

  Hannah looked hotter than hell. But these days he could barely speak to her. Jealousy gnawed at him like a starving dog with a bone. How could he articulate those doubts?

  Peter looked again. She was nursing a champagne glass, the same one she’d been working on for hours, and chatting lightly now to some Middle Eastern-looking diplomats. Her body language, leaned back, defensive, said she was no more interested in them than Peter was. She was playing along, doing her duty.

  He tore his gaze away from his wife and regarded the room set before him. There were fairy lights, strung from the ceiling in satin ribbons. There were displays of Diptych candles, arranged in trios around the space, keeping the atmosphere fresh and the light soft and beautiful. There were huge, heaped stands of fruit, and further stands choked with orchids and foxgloves. The table decorations were low-slung baskets, or soaring vases, full of the hottest designer arrangements. A-list stars milled around, and waiters circulated with the extremely precious vintage champagne. As Peter moved across the floor, neatly suited Artemis executives in their bespoke Savile Row threads came up to him, and asked if they could book in an appointment, have a word. Meanwhile, the wait staff moved through them like obsequious ghosts. He glanced to one side and saw the bank of television cameras there. Not that it fazed him - Peter Mazin was used to the cameras - but it was certainly useful in gauging the studio’s pulling power. Fame, money, influence . . . all rolled into one.