Chapter 23

Reunited with his Magnum .357, Larry Bolan stepped out of the rear of le Cœur de la Ville into the blizzard and saw the single set of footprints leading away up the street. The snow was coming down hard, and the prints had almost been obscured, but he could still make out the faint depressions in the snow. Hunter wasn’t that far ahead. He didn’t bother following him. There was only one place that Hunter would go, so he backtracked to the workshop where he’d left Trent.

Now that his blood had settled a little, he regretted killing Aitken and Wallace. His anger, and the whisky, had driven him to act irrationally. But he didn’t want anyone getting in his way. He wanted revenge. But now he didn’t have anyone to look after his little brother while he went after Hunter.

Trent was where Larry had last seen him. He was lying in the shadows at the back of the workshop. One knee was bent and an arm was crooked up as if he was waving, so he looked like he was in the first aid recovery position. But there was no way Trent was recovering from this. The two holes in his back were large enough to accommodate Larry’s fists.

Larry crouched down and touched his brother’s cheek. It was stiff with cold — maybe even rigor — and Larry drew his fingertips away. But then his hand went back to Trent’s face and turned it towards him. Trent’s pale blue eye was gone.

He laughed without humour. ‘Don’t worry, Trent, it’s actually an improvement.’

Larry sighed. He closed the eyelid to hide the mess.

Standing up, he looked down on his brother.

‘I’m gonna get the son of a bitch that did this to you, bro,’ he promised. ‘I’ll make him hurt before he dies.’

Then he got in the SUV they’d brought here earlier.

The stench inside was overpowering. Larry dropped the windows, deciding he’d rather endure the cold than the stink. He backed the SUV out into the loading area, then pulled down the shutter on the workshop and clicked the padlock in place. Trent would be as much at peace here as he would be anywhere. When he was done with Joe Hunter, Larry would see to a proper burial, but for now, the workshop would serve as Trent’s tomb.

He drove to the airport.

He didn’t go inside the departure building.

He parked the SUV in a position where he could see inside. He could look through the glass front, but anyone inside would see only their own reflection. The snow was coming down heavy, swirling in the draughts round the building, but he could still see the doors. If anyone came out, he’d spot them. He sat with his Magnum in his hand. Trent’s Mossberg Persuader was on the seat beside him. He didn’t want to use the guns, though. When he killed Hunter it would be with his hands. He’d only shoot him if he tried to run. Wing him in the leg, or something. Then he’d pull his head off his shoulders and crap down his neck.

Through the snow, he could see Hunter sitting in a far corner of the building, nursing a paper cup. The man had changed his clothes since their last encounter. But he would have had to: his other clothes were splashed with Trent’s blood.

A hundred times he almost got out the SUV. He could walk inside the airport and corner the bastard. But a hundred times he held back. His head was still full of liquor fumes. He wanted to be clear-headed when he killed Hunter. Crystal clear.

Before leaving the restaurant, he’d pulled on a heavy overcoat. But he was cold. The wind was blowing through the SUV, carrying snow with it. He tasted flakes on his tongue. But he didn’t close the windows. The stink of brains was sour in his nostrils and he could smell the whisky coming out of his pores. The cold was helping clear his mind for what was to come.

The snow stopped.

There was a bustle of activity on the runway as a plough and a truck with a heater mounted on its back set to clearing away the snow. Except for visits to a vending machine, Hunter didn’t move. Neither did Larry.

Larry was shivering by the time he watched Hunter stand up and pull a rucksack on to his shoulder. Hunter disappeared through the departures door. Finally, Larry stepped out of the SUV. He left the Mossberg where it was, but slipped the Magnum inside a coat pocket.

He went up to the booking desk.

‘When’s the next flight to Frankfort?’

‘There’s a flight preparing to leave, sir,’ said the airport rep. He didn’t meet Larry’s eyes. Larry was sure the man could smell him and was turning away to avoid the stink. The guy tapped buttons on a computer. ‘There are seats free. I can book you on it if you wish?’

‘How long until the next flight outa here?’

‘Two hours.’ He glanced up at Larry. Then his eyes quickly flicked down again.

‘Give me a ticket for that one,’ Larry said.

He paid cash from his billfold, took his tickets then went off to the public restroom. Inside he studied himself in a mirror. No wonder the guy had been giving him funny looks: he was still covered in dust and slivers of glass. He washed his hair and face. Then he leaned both hands on the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror for a long time. His eyes began to go out of focus, and for the briefest of seconds he saw someone else’s eyes staring back at him. One brown, one pale blue.

Trent was along for the ride. He wanted to be there when Larry ripped Hunter’s heart out of his chest.

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