“Fucking quit that!” he objected, and then the car swung violently to the left, throwing the DC towards the driver.

There were a few panicky moments of punching and slapping. The car rocked and bounced as it barrelled through bushes and snapped saplings under its wheels.

Tyler heard the click of his seatbelt being undone, saw a drop into the river racing towards them.

Shit, shit, shit!

Not again!

He fumbled for the belt, grasped at the clasp, saw Pete Hill take his hands off the wheel and cross them over his chest like a vampire in his coffin.

And then came the impact, and the airbags. The scream of crumpling metal. The shout of fear. The water surging up over the glass.

The moment of all-too-welcome pain as his seatbelt tightened across his chest.

He slapped away his deflating airbag and turned to see Pete Hill go scrambling into the back of the car. Tyler lunged, grabbed for a trailing foot, and after a moment’s struggle found himself holding a shoe.

The river wasn’t deep here. Only the car’s front end was submerged, its back wheels still on the embankment above, but water was flooding into the footwell, soaking Tyler up to the knees.

“It’s over, Pete,” the DC said, turning in his seat.

An unshod foot flew at him, heel striking the headrest just inches away. Pete clambered up the back seat, pulled up the parcel shelf, then shoved a hand into the boot.

When it returned, it held a small but deadly-looking knife.

But not just a knife, though, Tyler thought.

A murder weapon.

“Don’t you fucking dare come after me,” Pete hissed, then he tugged on a lever and one of the rearmost seats folded flat against the floor, revealing Tyler’s suitcase and a bulging blue holdall. “I mean it. Don’t you fucking dare!”

With that, the taxi driver crawled upwards, and the back door raised as if preparing to launch him out of the car.

Pete grabbed the bag. Waved the knife.

And then, he was gone.

Tyler looked out through the shattered windscreen, then down at his partially submerged legs.

This was, he reasoned, just his bloody luck.

They’d catch him, of course. The driver. Now they knew who they were looking for, they’d get him. Sooner or later. No point chasing him. No point in Tyler taking that risk. Not in his condition. Not when Hill was a killer. A killer with a big bag of money he was desperate to hold onto, and a dirty great knife he was willing to use.

Tyler should phone it in. Call the cavalry. Have them handle the search.

He should leave this to someone else.

Tyler gave his problem testicle an apologetic pat.

“Nah,” he announced. His seatbelt buckle gave a clack as he stabbed down the button that unfastened it. “Bollocks to that!”

* * *