“I’ll need to work on that.” He crouched down, untied one shoe, then the other, removed them both, turned to the bench. This was his chance. His only chance.
“I take it she’s dead,” he said, his back to Lincoln.
“Very soon. There was never any other way.”
“There’s always another way.” Black placed his shoes beside his shirt and jacket. Next to a heavy spanner. He focused. He curled his hand round it. Pointless throwing it at Lincoln. He would just laugh at such an effort. And maybe kill him on the spot. But that wasn’t Black’s intention. “Try this, for example.”
He spun round. He threw the spanner hard and fast, upwards, to the strip light. It burst into fragments on impact; a popping sound as the glass exploded. Suddenly, darkness. Another sound. A muffled cough. Black recognised it all too well. No cough. Rather the sound of the Glock spitting a bullet through its silencer. Had Black remained stationary, he’d be coping with a hole through his chest. But he had moved, the instant he’d flung the spanner, diving to the ground, rolling, springing to his feet.
Total darkness. He heard Lincoln moving, back towards the barn door, presumably to open it, to allow in some natural daylight. When that happened, Black was as good as dead.
The building was not big, with nothing but space, save the old workbench. Still crouched low, Black kept moving. Another bullet, alarmingly close to his head. It thwumped into the gambrel roof, which, unlike the walls, was constructed of timber. Lincoln was guessing. Firing randomly. A random bullet could kill as effectively as one well-aimed.
Black kept going. Sudden daylight. Lincoln had reached the door, opened it. Black saw the outline of his head, his body. Lincoln turned directly towards him, Glock held at waist height. Black charged, propelled into him, shoulder first, using his full weight, one hand grasping Lincoln’s gun. They both tumbled out, on to a grassy stretch between the barn and Black’s car. Lincoln rolled free. He still had the gun. He aimed. Black was on his feet. He darted around the other side of the Mini.
“Bravo!” shouted Lincoln. “Adam Black’s given himself two more minutes of life.”
Black had to run. He darted from the car, past Tricia’s car, towards the main house. The windscreen of the Beetle suddenly shattered. Black got to a side door, turned the handle. It was unlocked. He opened it quickly, slipped through, closed it behind him. A second later, it flew open, the top shredded under the cannon power of the Glock.
Black was in a hallway. Shoes in a neat line on old newspaper on one side. A wooden coat hanger. He got to another door. Then a kitchen. Large, merging to a living room, wide patio doors at the back wall, opening to a carpeted conservatory with white table and chairs. Beyond that, a long sloping garden, cut from the wilderness and rock. A hundred yards beyond that, low cliffs crowned by stunted trees.
No sooner had Black closed the door, when it exploded open. Black had seconds. The kitchen was modern. A fleeting memory of a conversation, months back. She’d spent a fortune doing it up. A central island. On it, a modern electric hob. Drawers, cupboards. He pulled one open, another. There! Cutlery, knives. He grabbed up a large butcher’s knife. Pointed, its edge sharp enough to cut a throat. He moved to one side of the door, back to the wall. And waited. Silence. Except for the drum sound in his head – his heartbeat.
43
Lincoln could hardly believe he had allowed events to spiral off course like this. He had underestimated Black’s sheer audacity. Lesson learned. And Lincoln was a quick learner. His shock had lasted all of two seconds. Now down to the hard business of killing his target. Fulfil the contract. See it through. He had a gun. Black had nothing. Though he guessed he may have acquired a knife. Lincoln knew the layout of the house, having enjoyed Tricia’s company the previous evening. When this little drama was over, he might enjoy her company for a little longer, before she tasted a bullet in the mouth.
The hall led directly to the kitchen. Lincoln slowed right down. He crept along the hallway, but the wooden flooring creaked with every footstep.
“Where do you think you’re going, Mr Black? There’s no point in running.”
But of course, there was every point in running. What would he do, if the situation were reversed? A waste of effort thinking like that. Lincoln had a very different set of values from the average human being. What would Black do?
Escape through the back, through the conservatory? Into the Millport countryside, hiding in bushes? Wait until the coast was clear, then hand himself into a police station? Unlikely. That wasn’t Black’s way. Maybe circle round, and try to rescue the woman? Possibly. Probably. Black lived by a moral code. His Achilles heel. Like one of the fucking knights of the round table, he thought. He cursed himself, for his negligence. He should never have had to think about this.
“Not talking to me?”
He sidled forward, pistol held up in front, shoulder height. The door he faced was half blown away, hanging off its hinges. He looked back, thinking he heard a noise from the barn. Black was probably untying the woman, while Lincoln fucked about talking to nobody. For the first time in as long as he could remember, indecision gnawed into his mind. Which was not his way. Everything was planned, structured. This was chaos.
He would go to the kitchen, check it out quickly, then head back to the barn.
He thrust forward, kicked the door open, swivelled round.
And straight into Black.
44
Black thrust his hand up hard, catching Lincoln’s wrist. The Glock fired, punching a hole in the ceiling. Black held on, trying to twist the weapon out of Lincoln’s hand. Lincoln simultaneously brought his knee up into Black’s groin. Black grunted,
