Page 21 of Nobody's Hero

Instead of the station wagon going through the barrier slowly, then tumbling down the steep, rocky slope, flipping over and over until every bone in Gibbs’s body had snapped and his internal organs had liquefied, he left the Park Loop Road like he was in a James Bond film. He was airborne for three full seconds before gravity pulled the station wagon back to earth. He hit the slope like it was the down ramp at a stunt show. His spine shattered, but sheer terror made him keep hold of the steering wheel. It meant that, despite being newly blind, newly paralysed and having a car without wheels, he steered the station wagon to a safe stop.

The silence was sudden and awful. Just the tink-tink of a cooling engine.

Gibbs let go of the steering wheel. He started to sob. After a minute he composed himself. Took stock of the situation. Something had happened to make him go blind. Possibly he’d had a stroke. Or a tumour in his brain had chosen that moment to make itself known. Or maybe it was a blood clot. He was a deepwater port expert, not a doctor. He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket. He touched the glass screen. It felt unblemished, didn’t seem to have cracked. He felt for the concave home sensor with his thumb. Pressed down gently. He was expecting to hear a click as his thumbprint unlocked it. Instead, it vibrated. A failed attempt. He tried again. It vibrated again.

His thumb was wet. It must be blood, he thought. He was about to wipe his hands on his shirt when he heard footsteps. More of a scramble. Someone was climbing down the slope.

‘Are you OK?’ a voice asked.

‘I can’t feel my legs,’ Gibbs replied.

‘That was quite the fall,’ the stranger said. ‘Let’s get you some help.’

‘I’ve tried to call nine-one-one, but I think my thumb must have blood on it. It isn’t unlocking my phone.’

The stranger reached in and gently took his cell. ‘I’ll call them,’ he said. ‘Don’t you worry.’

*

Stillwell Hobbs glanced inside the station wagon and nodded in satisfaction. Harper had removed the smiley-face air freshener, like she’d said. He tossed the cell phone into the driver’s footwell. He grabbed the back of Gibbs’s head, held it at the right angle, then slammed his throat against the steering column. He only did it once. Gibbs was unconscious in three minutes, dead in eight. Hobbs waited fifteen to be sure.

Other, lesser contract killers might have been tempted to repeatedly bludgeon Gibbs. Kill him quickly. But that was for the two-grand-a-hit hoods the jails were full of. Hobbs knew that a single, devasting injury was far more convincing than a succession of blows. To an overworked pathologist, a single fatal blow looked like bad luck; a head beaten until it was the size of a pumpkin looked punitive. Turned an accidental death into a suspicious one. Made the cops get off their fat asses and start looking for alternative explanations. It was things like this that made Hobbs feel invincible. No other killers thought the way he did.

It was why he would never be caught.

Chapter 18

Koenig had hoped for a military flight, but Smerconish wanted them in London as soon as possible. That meant flying commercial. He’d gotten them the last two tickets on Red Velvet, a Virgin Atlantic Airbus. The flight would take seven hours, but because of the time difference, they’d land two hours after they’d taken off.

The Virgin Atlantic check-in officer told them he had one ticket in Economy and one in Upper Class.

‘I’ll take the Upper Class,’ Koenig said.

The check-in officer hesitated.

‘Problem?’ Koenig asked.

‘People pay thousands of dollars for Upper Class tickets, Koenig,’ Draper said. ‘They don’t want to sit next to someone who looks like he owns a will work for food sign.’

‘I need space to think. I won’t get that in Economy.’

‘Seat allocation is an airline decision, sir. I’ve already put Miss Draper in Upper Class,’ the check-in officer said.

Draper looked at Koenig then nodded. She planted her elbows on the counter. ‘Mr Koenig has a diplomatic passport,’ she said. ‘How long do you think you’ll have a job if you stick him in Economy? Do the math.’

The check-in officer did the math.

*

Koenig sat with Draper in the departures lounge. They had found an ice cream parlour. Draper was having a coffee. Black. Koenig was having a chocolate milkshake. He’d paid.

‘Tell me about Jane Doe,’ Draper said, nibbling at the Italian biscuit that came with her drink.

‘What’s to tell?’ Koenig said. ‘I met her once. I needed to make sure she understood the risks.’

‘And she did?’

‘Honestly? I don’t think she cared.’

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