115

I sped along the runway towards the crash site as hundred-dollar bills fluttered out of the sky. Thousands of the things papered the wet tarmac – it looked like Broadway after a ticker-tape parade.

In the distance, the Falcon looked like a broken toy in a lake of mud. The back third of the fuselage had snapped clean off and lay about a hundred metres from the main section.

I swerved round another chunk of twisted aluminium. The last thing I wanted was a puncture. We still had to get out of this fucking place and I reckoned the Ural had already done its bit.

Brin was moving – staggering – across the tarmac. I swung the wheel towards him. He took another couple of steps, turned and looked me in the eye. His face and hands were charred, his clothes tattered.

My foot hit the accelerator. The people-carrier must have been doing at least forty when it hit him. It didn’t connect with the same explosive force as one of his 16s, but it was the best I could do.

He flew backwards three or four metres. I hoped he’d have massive internal damage. I wanted him to know the meaning of pain before I killed him. I turned back and came to a halt a couple of metres from his burnt and shattered body. I pulled myself out of the wagon. He was face down on the tarmac. His back heaved a couple of times, but each breath sounded like a death rattle.

I pulled him over onto his front and stood above him. Brin’s eyes stared at me. His brow furrowed. Maybe he was trying to work out where he knew me from. He was welcome to try, but it wasn’t going to happen.

He gasped and jerked as I raised the weapon. I didn’t care if he was about to die anyway, I wanted to make sure the job was done – and I wanted to make sure it was me who did it. I had some promises to keep.

I flicked off safety and aimed at his head. I fired just once. I was going to need every round I had.

He lay completely still. His eyes stayed open.

I turned away, leaving him lying in a fast-spreading pool of his own blood, just like he’d left Dex and Red Ken.

I surveyed the wreckage five hundred away. Smoke curled from the gaping hole at the back of the Dassault, but there were no flames.

Neither was there any movement.

Fuck that. I needed to take a closer look. I climbed back into the wagon and drove.