Nightshade

90





Marcus Fairchild lit a cigar and blew a cloud of bluish smoke across the back seat of the Jaguar. His driver didn’t complain; he was a heavy smoker, one of the reasons that Fairchild had hired him ten years earlier. They were driving into central London. Fairchild had three meetings fixed up at his City office, high-powered clients who paid seven-figure retainers for his legal expertise, and later he was going to take Jenny McLean for dinner. And after dinner he would do to her what he’d been doing to her ever since she was a child. He felt himself grow hard as he pictured himself on top of her, entering her. She never remembered, of course, A combination of drugs and hypnotic suggestion mean that she had no idea of what they did during their time together.

He opened his copy of the Financial Times and turned to the editorial comment page. It always amused him to see what journalists thought was important in the world. Most of them had next to no idea what really went on behind the scenes, which is how it was supposed to be. The true rulers of the world preferred to stay hidden from view and they would certainly never let journalists know what they were up to. And on the very rare occasions that a journalist did discover the truth, well, there were ways of dealing with them.

The Jaguar slowed and Fairchild looked up to see a red light ahead of them. He sighed. London traffic seemed to be getting worse year by year, which was why he tended to avoid the city centre whenever possible.

There was nothing on the editorial page to hold his attention so he flicked through the paper to the share prices. The traffic light changed to green and three cars moved forward, but the black BMW in front of the Jaguar stayed where it was. Fairchild’s driver waited a couple of seconds and then beeped his horn, a quick blip to alert the driver. Road rage was something else that was on the increase in London and a mistimed horn could easily result in a violent confrontation. The BMW stayed put and the driver blipped the horn again.

‘Why the hell isn’t he moving?’ said Fairchild.

‘Engine trouble, maybe,’ said his driver. ‘The road ahead’s clear.’

‘Well, pull around him, we can’t sit here all day.’

The driver turned on his indicator, but before he could turn the wheel a powerful motorcycle roared up next to them and came to a halt next to the rear passenger door.

‘Now what?’ said Fairchild.

The motorcycle rider was a big man dressed from head to foot in black leather. He was wearing a red full-face helmet with a tinted visor. He gunned the engine and turned to look at Fairchild.

‘Tell him to get out of the way,’ said Fairchild. He looked at his watch and tutted in annoyance.

As the driver began to wind down his window, the motorcyclist reached inside his jacket and pulled out a squarish gun with a snub barrel. Fairchild knew enough about weapons to recognise it. A MAC-10. It wasn’t the most accurate of weapons but at such a close range accuracy wasn’t an issue.

Fairchild opened his mouth to roar with rage, but before he could make a sound the motorcyclist had pulled the trigger with a gloved finger and the gun spat bullets at a rate of more than a thousand a minute. The clip emptied in a fraction of a second and more than half of the thirty-two bullets slammed into Fairchild’s face and chest. He was dead before he pitched across the seat and the motorcyclist sped off down the road, followed by the black BMW.





Stephen Leather's books