Black fired back. His last bullet. A pause. His adversary was reloading. Black had no bullets left. He took his chance. He vaulted over the remains of the corner suite, sprinted across the room, hurdling over a long coffee table in front of the fire. The man was reloading the cartridge sleeve. No time. He flung the pistol at Black, and dodged from behind the high chair, just as Black cannoned into it.
The man produced a knife. Black spun round, produced his own flick-knife. They faced each other. The man was four inches shorter. Wide shoulders. Long arms. He was wearing a loose white shirt. A short neck as wide as his head. Cropped white hair. Stocky, muscular. A slab of a face. He weaved the knife left and right, then a circle, metal glimmering in the firelight.
“Come on, you fucker.”
Black made a sudden hard motion. He threw his blade. It flashed through the air, penetrating the man’s chest. The man gasped, staring in shock, incredulous at the sudden turn of events. He reached up to pull the blade from his suddenly soaked shirt.
Black stepped in. The man staggered back to avoid him, bumping into a footstool. He pulled out the blade. Black was on him, hacking at his neck, then driving his fist into the man’s face. The man grunted, but seemed to absorb the blows, maintaining his stand. He scythed the blade through the air with one massive arm, trying to slice Black’s jugular. Black blocked, but the effort sent him off balance. The man lashed out with his other arm, rocking Black with a thunderous blow to the side of the head. It felt like he’d been hit with concrete. Black stepped away, disorientated. They stood, regarding each other, panting.
The man lurched forward, waving the knife, the movement uncoordinated, sluggish. He was losing blood fast, and was dying on his feet. Black moved aside, caught the man’s wrist, pressed a pressure point, jerked the wrist round hard, then rammed the palm of his hand against his elbow, feeling the bone snap. The knife fell. The man sucked in his breath, bending over to protect his broken arm. Black grabbed the back of his head, yanking his face down against his knee. Teeth broke.
The man sank to the floor. Black retrieved the knife, and slit his throat. He picked up the man’s pistol, a Walther PPK, similar to his dead friend in the hall, loaded the cartridges.
The suite was a series of interconnecting rooms. Time was precious. He made his way through double glass doors, emerging into a long dining room complete with full-size dining table and ten cream leather chairs, and a bar on one side. No sign of Rutherford.
Black went from room to room. The last was the master bedroom. Locked. This was it. If he wasn’t here, then he was a fucking magician.
Black fired once. The door cracked open. A large room, all oak cladding, blackened rafters on the ceiling, king size bed. Beside the bed stood Donald Rutherford, hands above his head.
“I’m unarmed!”
Black appraised him. It was almost humorous. Two lawyers dressed for a formal evening. About as civilised as you could get. In Black’s case, his crisp white tuxedo stained with the blood of three men. This was a million miles from being civilised.
Black raised the pistol.
“I’ve called the police,” said Rutherford.
“Quite right,” replied Black. “But we’ve still time for a chat. Gilbert Bartholomew got too close for comfort, and you had him killed. Yes?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The police will be here in five minutes.”
His eyes flickered from Black’s face to his gun. Black almost admired his bluster. He fired a round into the bed, six inches from Rutherford’s leg.
“Jesus Christ!”
“The next one you get in the balls. It won’t kill you, but the agony will be fucking unbelievable. Tell me why you’re so keen on killing me?”
Rutherford blinked, forehead glistening with sweat. His lower lip trembled.
“I don’t know what you’re…”
“Fair enough,” said Black, aiming.
“No, please!” shrieked Rutherford. He talked, the words staccato, rattling out his mouth like bursts of machine gun fire. “Bartholomew was proving dangerous. Asking too many questions. He needed to be removed. I was told to get into the firm, find out all I could. About why he’d gone there. When I discovered he wanted a will prepared, and mentioned you, we needed to find out more.”
“You were told to join the firm?”
“Ordered. These people are fucking powerful. They can do anything.”
“But you are one of these people, Rutherford,” said Black.
“No! I get orders. If I don’t do what they say, they’ll kill me. My family.”
“Your family?”
Rutherford nodded. The seconds were ticking by. Black took a deep breath, swallowing down his urge to get out fast before any more goons appeared at the door. Or the police, for that matter. But he needed a piece of vital information.
“You’re just a foot soldier. Is that it? Innocent. Just following orders.”
“That’s all I am.”
“Gilbert Bartholomew. Fiona Jackson. And only five minutes ago you told your handsome friends to kill me. Who are all dead, by the way.”
Rutherford sobbed. “Please. I don’t know anything.”
“And the little girl?”
Abruptly, Rutherford’s face straightened, eyes fixed on Black.
“The little girl?”
“Sure. The one in the video. Though I dare say it’s a regular thing, so I might need to be specific. About five years old. Blonde hair. Being passed about. Remember that one?”
Rutherford’s lips worked, but managed only a mumble.
“You see, Rutherford, I know what you and your circle of acquaintances indulge in. I know what you’re trying to keep quiet. You have a family? Christ knows what you do
