Page 161 of The Black Trilogy

“Food’s ready,” he called once the timer dinged.

When he shouted for the third time, she slunk downstairs in her pyjamas, feet shoved into a pair of dinosaur slippers that Ash had bought for her. That was a good sign, right? That she’d reappeared? During dinner, he carefully avoided mentioning Ash, and they actually managed a pleasant conversation. Well, Tia talked about her horses and Luke listened. Three months ago, chatting like that would have been impossible. Tia had acted like a spoilt brat by default before Ash came on the scene.

He had so much to thank Ash for, but how?

A movie after dinner, alone, did little to occupy his mind, and he fell asleep dreaming of Ash’s curves. Her smile. The way she’d curled against him in the evenings when they watched TV together.

Man, he missed her.

Please, let tomorrow hurt a little less.

CHAPTER 9

SINCE TODAY WOULD be my last day at Little Riverley for a week or two, I made the most of it with an early morning ride on Stan, who was his usual obliging self. First, he went backwards for about fifty yards before accepting the ride was going to happen whether he liked it or not.

“Get on with it, you little git.”

When he hit the wall of the barn with his backside, he leapt forward, deciding he might as well get it over with so he could go back to his snacks. Eventually he settled, and we enjoyed a nice gallop across the pastures followed by a brisk trot through the wooded trails at the back of my property. Lucy bounded along behind us, occasionally disappearing out of sight as she caught the scent of a deer or rabbit.

When we got back, Stan’s weekly fruit basket had just been delivered, courtesy of Bradley of course. I fed my beloved horse two apples and a banana, which he tried to stuff in his mouth at the same time. That earned me a dirty look when he couldn’t chew properly. Honestly, I couldn’t win.

Back at the house, I changed into running tights and a sports bra and headed straight out for a quick run. Quick because my flight for London left at six this evening and I had a ton of paperwork to catch up on beforehand—my least favourite thing in the world—but the report on yesterday’s jaunt to Florida wouldn’t write itself.

Lucy came too, lolloping along beside me with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. Where did she get her energy from? Because I desperately needed some of whatever she was taking. At least Alex had the day off, probably to weightlift with kryptonite or something, so there was a chance I’d still be able to walk this afternoon.

Although I couldn’t complain too much about Alex—I’d only been home a fortnight, and I was already in far better shape than when I stepped off the plane thanks to his torture regime.

How much time did I have? Just enough to fit in a bit of shooting practice, and that was something I enjoyed. Thanks to the irritating British laws on gun ownership, I hadn’t shot properly for months. The government in the UK had banned all the good stuff—only the criminals had access to that now.

I collected a nice selection of firearms from the weapons locker in my basement and headed out back. The grass airstrip behind my house doubled as a shooting range with targets from ten to a thousand yards set up along one side. To be honest, it was more of a shooting range that doubled as an airstrip, because it didn’t get used for planes much. I had a Pitts Special in the hangar for fun and emergencies, but mostly I flew the helicopter or a jet if I needed to go long-distance.

Two hours, five guns, and a thousand rounds of ammunition.

I started with a Smith & Wesson Model 60 snub revolver. It may have been tiny, but it was easy to conceal and handy for close range work. Next came the silenced Ruger Mark II .22—my favourite for jobs that didn’t go through the books. If you weren’t listening for it, the soft pffft as it fired could easily be missed.

Then came the ubiquitous AK-47. Given the choice of machine gun, I’d go for an M5 every time, but I didn’t always have that luxury. If—when—I got stuck in a hostile country and needed something that went bang, chances were I’d be able to get hold of an AK-47 without too much trouble. Owning one was a rite of passage for any aspiring terrorist. I fired singles and three-round bursts out to a hundred and fifty yards until my bullets grouped nicely into the black.

Thankful it wasn’t too chilly, I unfolded a mat and lay down with an Accuracy International sniper rifle, leaning into the bipod as I fired out to a thousand yards. I never used to be a fan of the long-range stuff, but as team sniper, Carmen had spent many hours teaching me the best techniques. I still had a way to go to beat her—she’d hit a dime at that distance every time while my skill level ran more to a watermelon—but you still wouldn’t want to get on the wrong end of my scope.

Last came my favourite. I’d lavished my beloved Walther P88 with care and gun oil until it became an extension of my arm. Left handed, right handed, standing, lying, and sitting, I practised until I hit the centre of the target on instinct every time.

I could have happily stayed out there all day, but my computer was calling. Literally. I’d got fifty-seven emails in the last thirty minutes and Sloane, my office assistant, had taken the morning off to visit her grandma.

Back to the real world.

My black jeans looked fine for work, so I got the keys to my Dodge Viper out of the lock box on the garage wall, and half an hour later, I skidded into my parking spot outside the office. Why did the guard by the doors look so alarmed? I was great at the J-turn manoeuvre. He must have been new.

Upstairs, I couldn’t bring myself to sit in my own office, not without my husband there to share it. Every time I looked at his empty desk, it made me breathless. Instead, I grabbed my laptop and camped out with Nick. He didn’t mind as long as I kept his coffee topped up when I fetched my own.

“How was Florida?” he asked when I walked in and dropped my bag onto the round table he used for meetings.

I squinted at him as the sun burned through his window then walked over to close the blinds. “Fine, yeah, didn’t take long.”

“No?”

“A couple of hours poking around to see what was going on to start with. The guy might have been the leader of a gang, but he still lived with his mom. She went out to a viewing at a funeral home yesterday evening, so I figured it was a good time to talk to him.”

“What happened with the Rottweilers?”

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