Ultimatum

Eighty

21.50

After he’d broken the boy’s neck, Voorhess allowed himself a well-deserved sigh of relief.

Given the numbers of police who’d been trying to catch him, he’d been extremely lucky to have made it this far, but Voorhess was a firm believer in the maxim that ultimately you made your own luck. He’d remained calm when others would have panicked, had adapted his plan to suit the rapidly changing circumstances, and even though he’d been betrayed, he’d outrun his pursuers and beaten their roadblocks.

On the seat next to him, the boy sat facing Voorhess, his neck tilted at an awkward angle. Voorhess pulled the boy’s baseball cap down over his face so that he didn’t have to look at him. The boy had told him that he was eighteen, and Voorhess felt a pique of sadness that he’d had to kill him. At least it had been quick. As the boy had pulled into the parking space, Voorhess had reached over, slipped an arm round his neck, like they were old rugby buddies, and done it one swift movement, so that the boy hadn’t had to suffer. Eighteen was a very young age to die, just when you were on the cusp of adulthood, with a whole bright world of adventure about to open up. But it didn’t look as if this boy — with his bad skin, his poor looks and his terrible taste in music — appreciated life in the way he should have done, and as a result, in Voorhess’s mind, his death was less tragic than it might otherwise have been.

He got out of the car, closing the door gently behind him, and stretched. It had been an uncomfortable as well as nerve-racking journey here, and his back was aching. Rolling his shoulders, and keeping his head down, he looked around. He was on the fourth floor of the short-stay car park at Heathrow’s Terminal 4, parked in a dark corner, and at this time of night it was mostly empty. Surprisingly, he could still hear the sounds of the occasional plane taking off and coming in to land, which meant that despite his missile attack, flights were still going in and out of Heathrow.

A lift bleeped, and Voorhess stepped into the shadows as a couple walked out pushing a luggage trolley. He waited until they’d got in their car and pulled away before transferring the boy from the driver’s seat to the car’s boot, so that he was hidden from view, only just managing to squeeze him in.

Then, grabbing the bag that contained his few possessions, he flung it over his shoulder and walked away from the car, feeling a sense of satisfaction at a job well done, and already dreaming of sunshine and money.