When she didn’t raise her head, he shrugged. He grabbed her hair to yank her up and quickly slashed her throat. His hand was guided by frustration but it was still a clean cut that opened her up almost all the way to the spine. The woman died instantly. There wasn’t even a shudder—with the vagus nerves severed, there was no route between the brain and viscera to send any residual commands to her system. Killing the woman had formed no part of his original plan. He’d intended stealing her car, before dumping it nearby and transferring to another stolen car less obvious than this. He had wanted the woman alive in order to raise the alarm about her stolen car so that while the cops were busy searching for the Focus he’d have a clear run out of town.

“You should have looked at me, goddamn you,” he said, as though her death were her own doing.

He walked out of the office and approached the Focus. He glanced all around then. Pretty certain that no one was observing him, he unlocked it and climbed in, then drove out of the lot. The car stank of cigarette smoke and was flecked with ash. Even the windscreen was discolored with nicotine. He opened the windows to let some fresh air inside, feeling the draft ruffle his hair. He drove off the industrial estate and back under the highway, noting distractedly that the Taurus remained undiscovered, before taking a ramp to join the northbound traffic.

He decided to keep the Focus for the time being. The woman looked like she’d spent most of her days alone, smoking herself into oblivion, so it wasn’t likely that her murder would be discovered anytime soon. If there were roadblocks ahead, he’d take the chance that the identification he carried would get him by without question, so it was more important to put distance behind him now than lay false trails. He only required a couple of hours and then he’d be out of the country and free of pursuit.

Since arriving home at his apartment yesterday, his mind had been working in a mode commandeered by a strange sense of disassociation. He was driven by a self-righteous wind that pushed at him insisting on immediate and positive action for all the betrayal he’d suffered. Alisha—and the man whose arms she’d run to—demanded punishment. So too did the one that had sent men to kill him at his apartment. This was what he must concentrate on.

Now that his pulse had calmed somewhat and the breeze was helping to clear the smell of smoke from the car and the cobwebs from his mind, he was beginning to think a little sharper. Draft plans were beginning to take shape.