Page 38

Thirty-Eight

Thursday 9pm

Charlie hoped Sabrina decided against shooting him because they were too close for her to miss. The vest protected his chest, but that left big areas of head and body she could shoot him in. And he had promised Tom . He knew that to anyone watching he looked in control, and when he spoke, it was without a quaver in his voice.

“Did you kill your husband too, Mrs Sully? Was he stealing money from you as well?” The gun in her hand didn’t waver.

“Politics. It was all politics. President Trump does a good job, but he’s a rich man. He has resorts all over America and the world. I’ve read his books. He’s successful. He doesn’t need my money. Roger wanted to give my money away. He said the President needed funding for his campaign and if he didn’t get enough to run for office again, the immigrants would take over. The last election was rigged, you know, but he’ll win this time.”

“But you shouldn’t have to pay for it,” Charlie said.

Sabrina nodded. She almost smiled. Her expression showed her relief that Charlie understood. But she was still pointing a gun at him. He’d spoken to her on the phone the previous year and thought her merely irritating, and that had been his impression when he spoke to her in person. Until the moment she appeared he hadn’t been sure … She was the only person who fitted the gunman’s description, and she was as divorced from reality as her son, but still, he hadn’t been certain.

“So, are you going to get me the bank account details?” she asked. “Because I will get the money in the end anyway. But Andrew thinks he should have some. I’d rather … well, I think it would be better …”

“Kaylan stole some of that money, Mrs Sully,” Charlie said as gently as he could. “The people he stole it from are going to want it back. It might be better not to be too closely associated with stolen money.”

Like I give a shit. But I really don’t want to tell you I haven’t the faintest idea what Kaylan did with it.

“He inherited a lot of money from his grandmother.”

“I think he spent that money.” If it ever existed.

Sabrina’s face hardened, and she jerked the gun. “I want those bank account details. My son would give me the money. Are they inside the office? Have you got a key?”

“It’s in my car,” Charlie said. “Over there.” He pointed toward the cement plant where Special Agents Mead and Bart were parked. He hoped to God that they’d heard everything Sabrina had said. If they hadn’t, he was going to have to make her say it all over again. Before he could move, he heard the car doors open and the sound of shoes on gravel. It was difficult to make out the figures in the darkness, but Charlie could see them coming in their direction. As they appeared from the gloom, he saw they both had guns in their hands. Relief rolled over Charlie. He might not be armed but they were.

“Did you hear what Mrs Sully had to say?” he called as the two FBI men approached.

“We didn’t need to,” Mead said, and Charlie could see the look of disgust on his face as he looked at Charlie and Sabrina.

“So, you know I didn’t kill anyone.”

Bart laughed and mock punched his colleague. “Rees didn’t kill anyone, John. Fancy that. We already know you didn’t kill anyone, Rees. Which is not going to help you unless you help us, asshole.”

Then he shot Sabrina Sully.

She fell to the ground, gun flying out of her hands, skidding across the stones and mud of the car park. Blood spurted from a wound in her chest.

“You can be next, asshole. Or you can give us the bank account details.”

Two guns pointed straight at Charlie. Sabrina Sully lay on the ground crying and cursing, clutching at her chest, trying to cover the wound.

“She needs help,” Charlie cried. “Call an ambulance.”

“Bank accounts first,” Mead said, and jerked his gun.

* * *

He had got everything catastrophically wrong. He couldn’t have been more wrong if he had tried.

Suddenly a voice boomed out of the darkness. Charlie thought it came from behind the offices, but it echoed all around so he couldn’t be sure.

“FBI. Stay where you are. Drop the guns. Do it now. Drop the guns. On the ground. You’re surrounded.”

The voice filled the air, disconcerting Charlie, but not John Mead. He moved like lightning, grabbing Charlie before he had time to react and jabbing his gun into Charlie’s neck.

“Oh, yeah?” he shouted. “You want this guy?” He started pulling Charlie back toward the car. Bart walked backward waving his gun around.

“Special Agent Mead,” came the voice. “Special Agent Bart. This is over. We have snipers. Have a look. Give it up.”

Bart dropped his gun and put his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot!”

Charlie didn’t understand until saw the red dot move up and down Mead’s arm where it grasped his body.

“They won’t risk killing you. No sniper is that good. You’re my ticket out of here.”

Charlie let himself go limp, forcing Mead to drag him.

“On your feet, dickwad. You think I won’t shoot you? I’d love to shoot you.”

“You kill me, they kill you,” Charlie gasped.

“Who said anything about killing?”

“I did,” said Murphy from right behind them and Mead’s head exploded, showering Charlie with blood and brains.