Page 3 of The Black Trilogy

I didn’t have a lot of choice. I needed to get out of the US sharpish or I wouldn’t be able to make a clean break, and there weren’t any other viable options.

“Yes, I’ll take it,” I told him, digging out the cash to pay. It would have to do.

I cleared security without any hitches. I hadn’t been expecting any because the guy who sorted out my passports was the best. Over the years he’d procured sources for blank documents from any number of different countries so whatever he produced for me was indistinguishable from the real thing.

As I collected my bag from the scanner, I was pleased to note that karma had raised her ugly head, and the obnoxious guy from the check-in line was having his carry-on luggage emptied out by a security guard.

At least it wasn’t just me she hated at the moment.

The departures screen told me I had a while before I needed to head for the gate, so I stopped at a newsagent and bought a couple of magazines to try and occupy myself on the trip. Usually when I flew commercial, I spent most of the time working, but with my employment status somewhat hazy and my head filled with rocks, that wasn’t a viable option. Plus the pounding in my temples at any sudden movements told me thinking wasn’t a good idea right now.

I wandered aimlessly around the shops, fitting in nicely with the tourists. The amount of junk you could buy at airports never ceased to amaze me. The only reason I went to them was to leave again as fast as possible, but some people seemed to treat the terminals as shopping destinations in their own right. I marvelled as one family staggered past carrying, among other things, two designer handbags, a games console, a surround sound speaker system, and a pair of cowboy boots. Good luck trying to stuff that lot into the overhead lockers.

With nothing better to do, I bought a hot chocolate with whipped cream in a vain attempt to make myself feel better then slumped into an empty chair outside the cafe to watch the display monitor.

Twenty minutes passed… Thirty… Why did time go more slowly when a girl’s heart was breaking from the inside out? After an interminably long time, my flight status changed from “Wait” to “Boarding.” I trudged to the gate and joined the rest of the throng as we were herded onto the plane like cattle, turning right into economy class as directed by an overly perky air hostess. Once my bag was safely stowed above my head, I buckled myself into my seat and closed my eyes.

Please let this trip go quickly.

Nobody listened, and we hung around on the tarmac for another half hour before the plane took off. I relaxed an infinitesimal amount as the wheels left the ground. The first part of my plan had gone as smoothly as I could have hoped, but now I was left to deal with the worst bit. Loneliness. I only had my thoughts for company now. As soon as the pilot turned out the seatbelt light, I took the only sensible option—pressed the “call” button and ordered a large gin and tonic. I needed something to help me forget.

Memories and frustrations and pain invaded my head, and I wished I could flip an off-switch to give myself inner peace. But I couldn’t, so alcohol would have to substitute.

With little to distract me, my thoughts turned back to earlier in the day. Darkness descended as I recalled the events that led me to be sitting here with my bottom slowly going numb, eating tiny cardboard crackers out of a plastic wrapper, instead of being back at home with those I considered my family.

CHAPTER 2

I’D SAY I woke at dawn that morning, the day of the funeral, but the truth is I never really slept. As soon as the sun cleared the horizon, I headed into the office to work on the case that had occupied my every waking moment, as well as my dreams, for the past week.

The murder of my husband.

I felt like my heart had been ripped out, set on fire, and then put in a blender. My head told me I should be out looking for his killers, that they needed to pay for what they’d done, but inside I was paralysed.

My friend Daniela had moved into my house and each morning, she’d herd me out to the car and drive me to the office. We had a routine now.

“How are you feeling?” she’d ask.

“A little better,” I’d lie.

“We’re getting closer. We’ll find them; I promise.”

Dan was heading up the investigation and had a team of our best people working for her, but so far, every lead had petered out. I offered little help as I sat behind my desk, staring at the wall.

“Hey, watch it!”

I looked across as one of our technicians bumped into a chair, waking Evan, who’d been slumped sideways in it.

“Sorry.”

Evan shook his head. “No, it’s me who should apologise. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Tension crackled through the air. Not a minute passed without somebody yawning, and tempers were frayed. The equipment in the company gym took a battering as the guys tried not to vent their frustrations on each other. The punch bags bore the brunt of it, and we’d replaced two of them already.

Nick stomped in at ten, wearing a scowl. “Every cop I’ve spoken to in Mexico is either corrupt or incompetent.”

“You didn’t learn anything, then?”

“Apart from how to swear more creatively in Spanish? No.”

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