“Fuck!” he screamed, slapping the steering wheel over and over until his palm ached and his bones creaked warningly. “Bloody fucking hell!”
An image of his daughter flashed in front of his eyes. Bella. Beautiful, sweet Bella. She would pay for this mistake. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know when, but he knew it would involve pain. Spider would make sure of that. He he almost vomited up the bean salad he’d eaten at the bar.
He had not banked on the foursome splitting up back at the square. He had imagined they would all be on site to apprehend Winterfield, and his plan had been to catch them by surprise and take out the lot in one go. When only the men arrived on scene, he’d had to make a split-second decision. Wait and follow, and hope the quartet met up again so he could kill them together with Winterfield as he’d intended. Or take his shots when he had them and count on locating and dispatching the women afterward.
He’d gone with the second option. Unfortunately, it had turned out to be the wrong choice. Because he’d been the one taken by surprise by the former Secret Service agent who’d hammered his location with gunfire, forcing him to duck and cover. So now not only were Winterfield and the two blokes still alive, but both women as well. Bringing the total up to five witnesses and five loose ends.
Bella…my sweet, innocent Bella…
A lump grew in his throat like a metastasizing cancer, threatening to strangle him. He wondered when exactly his life had turned to shit. Was it the moment he received a surprise leave from Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force and came home to find Bella’s duplicitous whore of a mother in bed with his squadron leader? Or was it the instant he killed them in a red-eyed rage?
No. In reality, it was neither of those.
His life had turned to shit the second he tossed his revolver in the Thames.
Because some of Spider’s “employees” had been in the shadows—doing what exactly George had never discovered, probably disposing of a body or something equally sinister—and they’d fished the gun from the murky water the minute George walked away.
Yes, that was it. That was the moment. Because even though George escaped being convicted of the crime—without the murder weapon, there was no solid proof he’d been the one to pull the trigger—he hadn’t escaped Spider’s web. He’d been caught up, trapped, and forced to quit the RAF and join Spider’s minions, or else Spider would hand over the weapon to the police, sealing George’s fate and leaving Bella all alone in the world.
But perhaps being alone is better than living with the shadow of Spider’s wrath hanging over her head. If he could go back, he’d do it all differently.
“Fuck!” he screamed again, resuming his abuse of the steering wheel, trying to see a way out, and finding none. But just as he was about to give in to the fear and regret, the sorrow and shame, an idea occurred and his heart thundered with renewed vigor.
Snatching his mobile from the pocket of his overcoat, he shoved the stolen truck into gear. He’d managed to hot-wire the rusting old banger not thirty seconds after the group had careened out of the square with Winterfield in tow—another handy skill he’d picked up since coming to work for Spider. Pressing on the gas, he gritted his teeth when the bare rim screeched against the tarmac. He headed straight for the van and the ground crewmen who scrambled from beneath it. At the same time, he dialed Benton.
“Is it finished?” Benton asked once the call was connected.
“No!” was all George allowed on the subject, trying to see through the shattered windshield and the frigid rain blowing in through the broken window. “I need you to monitor air-traffic control for a flight with tail number…” He rattled off the twin-turboprop’s designation, raising his voice above the sound of the wind and the truck’s engine. The little plane didn’t have the fuel capacity to get Winterfield and his captors all the way back to the United States.
If George was lucky, he could follow them to whichever Central or South American airport they were forced to land in and kill them while they were refueling or waiting to catch another flight. It was a long shot, but it was a shot. And he had to take it. “I’m going to steal a plane and go after them! But I’ll need you to find out where they’re headed!”
“This does not sound at all reassuring,” Benton said, censure in his voice. “What happened, Georgie Boy?”
“Later!” George growled. “Just do your Boy with the Dragon Tattoo routine and track that flight!”
He hung up before Benton could say anything more. Standing on the brakes, he slid to a jolting stop, the truck’s bumper barely an inch from the van’s. In the next instant, he was slapping on his cap and slamming in a new clip.