Page 294 of The Black Trilogy

The guy disappeared from view, and I thought my warning had worked, but it turned out he’d just gone to get the grenade launcher. It looked like Lady Luck was at home with her feet up while Mr. Murphy, of Murphy’s Law fame, rode pillion.

The gunman let one fly at me, and I swerved to the left, non-swearing under my breath as the grenade took out a tree at the edge of the road. I eased off the throttle to put some space between us, but rather than speeding away, the van mirrored me. The gap closed, and door guy started up with the pistol again.

Well, it wasn’t the first time someone had tried to kill me, and I was good at playing that game too.

My first shot hit to the left. Another squeeze, red blossomed across his shoulder, and he stumbled back inside. Then I shot out the right rear tyre. Slow down, idiot. Trying to balance the bike and shoot and dodge flying bullets while zipping along at a hundred miles an hour didn’t look good for my life expectancy. One wild fishtail and I’d be joining Black on the other side.

The good news was, my plan worked. But unfortunately for the men in the van, it worked a bit too well, because when the tyre popped, the van swerved right, left the road, and hit the side of a bridge. I slammed the brakes on, barely keeping the bike upright as it went into a skid. As soon as it stopped, I leapt off and ran towards the wreckage in a crouch, hugging the treeline so they couldn’t get a clear line of sight.

I tried the driver first, but someone should have told him to wear a seatbelt because his brain had created a Jackson Pollock masterpiece on the inside of the cracked windscreen. Not only that, his bowels had let go, and the stench of faeces mingled with smoke as the first flames licked out of the engine bay.

With him a lost cause, I ran to the back. Had idiot number two fared any better? The door swung in the breeze, and I approached cautiously. Would he be in any state to fight back?

No, was the short answer. He lay motionless among piles of broken flowers with a tyre iron protruding from his stomach. Oops. Blood bubbled from the wound, leaving a scarlet trail as I dragged him out onto the damp grass verge. Just in time, because the fire had taken hold in the cab by then, and the flames were spreading fast. The smoke made me cough as I checked for a pulse. Nothing. I fought down the bile rising in my throat, made sure his airway was clear, then started chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Why, you may ask, did I try to save my husband’s killer? Good question. Let me tell you, I’d have liked nothing better than to give him a good kicking and leave him to rot, but I only had one connection between the man who pulled the trigger and the person who hired him, and right now, that connection’s life was seeping away into the muddy grass at the side of the road.

How did I know he was a hired gun and not just some lone wolf with a grudge? I didn’t at that point, not for sure, but I’d had enough experience in the business to suspect it was the most likely scenario.

Rarely did two amateurs carry out a hit as organised as that one. The men knew who Black was and where he would be, and the killing itself had been dramatic but precise. Not to mention they had access to some pretty nasty weapons. If I hadn’t been there, they’d have made a swift exit in their no doubt stolen van and be heading straight to the nearest bar in a non-extradition country to celebrate a job well done. So I figured they had to be professionals.

And professionals got paid. I wanted the person holding the purse strings.

To me, these men were nothing. Nothing. Just tools hired to do a job. For them, it was nothing personal, and I could identify with that. So, seeing the bigger picture, even with grief starting to set in, I did what I could to make the pig breathe again.

Several cars stopped, and their occupants gathered to watch, hovering in front of the trees. Ghouls. Not one of them offered to help. They just wanted to get their sick kicks by watching someone else struggle, and I almost emptied a clip at them.

After what seemed like forever but was probably only a few minutes, Nick arrived. His Ferrari was swiftly followed by blue lights then red as cops and an ambulance turned up too.

Nick took hold of my arm and gave me a gentle tug. I tried to shake him off, but he pointed at the medics fast approaching behind him. They could take over now. I let him pull me to my feet and got in a sharp kick to the man’s side before I stepped back.

“Breathe, you piece of scum.”

The emergency crew did their thing while Nick carried me to his car. In one of those strangely irrelevant thoughts, I noticed his hair was wet and smelled of shampoo. How many more lives would be disrupted before the end of the day?

“Sorry I dragged you out of the shower.”

He gave me an incredulous look then deposited me in the passenger seat, my legs haphazardly stuffed into the footwell. I’d started shaking when he wrapped me in the blanket he always carried in the trunk.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

He perched on the door sill and drew me close, stroking my hair.

“It’s not okay, Nicky. It won’t ever be okay. He’s dead.”

And I might as well be.

PROLOGUE - PART 2

NICK DREW BACK and tried to look me in the eye, but I couldn’t meet his gaze.

“You don’t know for sure that Black’s dead.”

He clearly hadn’t been to the hotel and seen the carnage outside reception.

“Yes, I do. Nobody survived that explosion. Trust me; I know.”

Nick went quiet. Any words he could have offered would have been inadequate. Instead, he tucked me in his arms, shielding me from onlookers and two dozen cops who didn’t have an ounce of tact between them. One tried to approach, full of questions, and got the sharp end of Nick’s tongue.

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