Page 27 of The Black Trilogy

“Yeah, I’ll do it. Just let me know the time.”

I could get up early and work late to fit everything in. Anything to help the poor horse get her leg treated.

“How about half past eleven?” the vet suggested.

“Works for me,” I said.

Luke nodded. “I’ll be there.”

After that depressing Saturday, I ran myself into the ground on Sunday. Quite literally—I set off early and went for a long run up in the hills. If I hadn’t been so miserable, I might have enjoyed it because the scenery was picture perfect. Morning mist swirled around the bare trees, and muntjac deer skipped over the path ahead of me.

I’d regained a little more of my fitness, and I jogged along for hours, covering something in the region of a marathon by sheer determination. The heavens opened in the afternoon, and I spent the remainder of the day curled up in my duvet with hot chocolate and a book I’d borrowed from George on the local area. By the time the moon rose, stiffness had set in, and all I wanted to do was sleep. What was I? A special forces operative having a…hiatus? Unwanted holiday? Breakdown? Or an old-aged pensioner? At this rate, I’d be peeing in the middle of the night and missing the morning shuffleboard tournament while I hunted for my false teeth.

I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind as I crawled into bed. Forget the mess in Virginia, Ash. Get some sleep. With a fun-filled Monday morning to look forward to, I needed the rest more than anything.

CHAPTER 11

ON MONDAY MORNING, I got up an hour early to do my chores and get Samara ready to travel to the vet. Luke had promised to arrange transport for eleven, which I assumed meant a driver for Portia’s outrageously expensive horsebox. A horsebox that spent its time parked up behind the barn because, according to Susie, Portia had only used it twice in the last year.

At five past eleven, there was still no sign of a driver. I checked my watch again then compared it to the clock in the tack room. Yes, it was spot on.

“Have you got Luke’s number?” I asked Hayley.

“I wish.”

Should I call the vet? Hotwire the horsebox and drive it myself? No, Ash, forget that option. At ten past eleven, just when I was wondering what Bradley would do in a situation like this, Luke’s Porsche swung into the car park. He jumped out and jogged over.

“Ready to go?”

“As I have been for the last half hour. But the driver hasn’t turned up.”

“Yes, he has. I’m driving.”

“You?” Not what I’d been expecting. “You’ve got an HGV licence?”

“Surprised?”

“You don’t strike me as a lorry driver type of guy.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover. Or a man by his Porsche.”

How many times had I heard that sentiment? An ex once told me I looked like a prom queen and fought like a Velociraptor.

“Fair enough. Dare I ask why you learned to drive a truck? I’m betting it wasn’t so you could spend your weekends taking your sister to horse shows.”

Luke snorted. “You guessed right. No, I used to go motor racing with a group of friends, and I got the licence to drive the car transporter.”

“What kind of racing?” I’d always loved cars, ever since I learned to steal them as a teenager. When I could afford to buy them legitimately, I’d started up a collection. Driving was yet another thing I’d missed since I’d been away.

“We started off with Caterhams then ran a Porsche in the British GT championship. A friend and I shared that drive.”

“How long were the races?”

“Anything from one to three hours. I loved that car. There’s nothing like driving around Brands Hatch, flat out at the head of the pack.”

Hmm… Driving a stolen Camaro with six cop cars chasing you could be pretty exhilarating.

“Did you win?”

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