Knife Edge

10.29 A.M.

The cat had obviously been dead for a number of weeks.

The stench it gave off was almost palpable.

Neville wondered how it had managed to get inside the lock-up in the first place. The building had always been secure.

It had needed to be.

The two large wooden doors at the front of the building had been held firmly shut by a series of locks and a rusting chain he'd used to manacle the handles. There was a window in each door, but the glass was so caked in dirt it was practically opaque.

Inside, the walls were bare brick, dark with mildew in several places which looked like mouldering cankers on the stonework.

Neville was certain he hadn't been followed.

Positive he hadn't been seen abandoning the car, or entering the lock-up.

He'd heard the explosion when he'd detonated the bomb.

Hard to miss it, he mused.

They'd come looking for him now and that was what he wanted.

The police would come.

Doyle would come.

I'll bury the fucking lot of you.

In one corner of the lock-up, boxes were stacked high. He'd put them there himself the last time he'd been here about a month earlier.

No one had seen him come or go then and if they had, there would have been nothing unusual to alert them.

Neville crossed to the boxes and began pulling them away, dismantling the makeshift rampart with gleeful speed.

As each discarded box hit the floor it sent up fresh clouds of dust, motes twisting lazily in the rancid air.

The object hidden behind the boxes was covered by a tarpaulin.

Taking hold of one corner, Neville tugged hard on the canvas.

More dust billowed upwards but Neville merely smiled.

The Harley Davidson's sleek bodywork gleamed, even inside the dismal confines of the lock-up.

Neville placed one hand reverentially on the petrol tank, feeling the cold metal against his palm.

The FLTC Tour Glide was dark blue, the chrome exhaust pipes even more striking against the bodywork. The entire machine, capable of over a hundred miles an hour and weighing just under a ton, seemed to give off an aura of power and Neville looked at it admiringly for a second longer before flipping open the top box.

From inside he pulled out a pair of thick leather trousers, which he hastily slid over his jeans before fastening himself into the matching jacket.

The folds of the jacket easily hid the. 459 automatic which he wore beneath one arm and the. 357 revolver strapped to his right side in another shoulder holster.

The Steyr he slid into the top box.

The leather creaked loudly inside the stillness of the deserted building as Neville moved about, finally lifting the black helmet into view.

It glistened like a black skull.

With it wedged firmly on to his head, only his eyes were visible through the visor.

Neville swung his leg over the Harley, settled himself on-to the seat and flicked the ignition switch.

The four-stroke V-twin l340cc engine roared into life, the sound reverberating inside the lock-up.

He twisted the throttle, exhaust fumes spewing from the tail pipes, the roar building steadily.

Five thousand rpm.

Like a fucking dream.

Beneath the helmet, Neville was laughing.