‘Silva!’ Itchy shouted, and Silva was aware of him scrabbling for his own pistol, useless at this range. ‘We’ve got to do something!’
And then, for the briefest moment, the world dissolved away and Silva was gone, floating somewhere above the ravine and the house as if she was viewing an aerial photograph. As if she was in the heavens looking down. As if she was God.
Ever since Fairchild had come up with the plan to kill Karen Hope, Silva had wondered if she’d be able to pull the trigger when the moment came. In Positano she’d been so close, but circumstances had intervened. Here, they’d waited and waited. Still she’d been unsure. Now, though, there was no time to ponder or prevaricate. Whether her mother approved or not, whether Karen Hope deserved death or not, was irrelevant. The decision had been made for her. There was a second, perhaps two, and then the old man would die. The only person who could prevent that was Rebecca da Silva.
She was back on the ground, the hard rock under her body, the rifle in her hands. There was no time for composure, for steadying her breathing, for recalculating the ballistics in her head, for making a final adjustment to the scope. There was only time to move the rifle a fraction so Karen Hope was lined up in the reticle. If she missed, likely she’d hit the old man and he’d die anyway.
Which meant she couldn’t miss.
‘Silva!’ This time Itchy’s voice came distorted, as if in slow motion. ‘Now!’
Hope stepped forward, both arms outstretched, the gun pushed hard against the old man’s head. There was a look of utter determination on her face, and in that instant Silva realised this woman craved absolute power like a drug.
Silva touched the trigger.
The bullet took approximately half a second to reach Karen Hope. In that time she’d moved slightly and, although Silva couldn’t see it, Hope’s forefinger had already begun to squeeze the trigger on her own gun.
The bullet hit Hope just below her right eye. It exited through the back of her head, a spray of blood and brain matter splattering outwards. The head jerked back in a delayed response, the body arcing forward, the arms flying upwards, the effect like a crash test dummy flung from a moving car. Then came a double crack as the echo from Silva’s gun came back along with the bang from Hope’s pistol.
‘Shot,’ Itchy said in the same pan-flat manner he used when they were on the practice range. He reached out and patted Silva’s back. ‘Now the other one.’
Taher was moving fast towards the door to the house as Silva reloaded. She fired again but the shot smashed into the stone lintel and he was gone.
‘Shit,’ Silva said.
‘Don’t sweat it, we’ll get another chance.’
Silva reloaded and raised her head. The two men had fallen over the edge of the veranda and into the olive grove. They were invisible beneath the trees.
‘Are they alive?’ Silva said.
‘I don’t know,’ Itchy said. ‘But Taher’s going for the pick-up.’
Silva moved the rifle to the left. Taher had raced through the house and emerged at the other side. He clambered into the truck. She had a split second to act while the vehicle was stationary, because hitting a moving target with a rifle was next to impossible – something for the movies, not real life. Taher was in the vehicle now, but his head was partially obscured by the door pillar. Silva squeezed the trigger and a moment later the glass on the driver-side door crazed in a spiderweb pattern. Inside, Taher jerked sideways, but even as he did so the vehicle was moving forward, the back wheels spinning in the dry dirt. The pick-up slewed round in the yard and shot towards the gates to the complex, causing an explosion of wood as the bull bars smashed through. Then the truck was away and heading down the track, weaving back and forth, dust rising.
‘Last chance,’ Itchy said. ‘But take your time.’
Silva already had the rifle aimed down the track way ahead of Taher, anticipating the moment when the vehicle would crest a small rise and she could get a shot in through the rear window. She couldn’t see Taher’s head because he was hunched down, but that wouldn’t matter; the bullet would pass through the seat. Just a couple more seconds and—
And then she could see nothing. The dust had risen to obscure the track.
‘Damn it!’ Silva fired anyway, but the odds were minuscule and when the dust cleared the vehicle was gone.
When the shot cracked off Holm thought the report would be the final thing he’d hear, his last conscious thought. Death seemed to take a long time coming though, and in the seconds remaining he considered his lot. He hadn’t been a bad man. In fact, on balance, he’d done more good than evil. He regretted the way he’d treated his wife and was sorry he hadn’t spent more time with his daughters. Some extra R & R with Billie Cornish would have been nice too, but she deserved happiness and it looked as if she’d found it. The one big regret he had was involving Farakh Javed in this mess. He was gay, he had annoying habits like slurping his coffee and cutting his fingernails, and was generally a right pain in the backside, but the lad, in a way, was the son Holm had never had.
Holm turned his head, surprised he was still lucid. There was no pain, no feeling at all. He reasoned the bullet must have destroyed his nervous system. And yet if that was the case, how come he was staring at Javed and thinking all these
