Chapters (37)
- Cover
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Chris Ryan Readers’ Club?
- Letter from Author
- About the Author
He pushed through another door and found himself in a bright, airy corridor shaped like a T junction, with bedroom doors to the left and right. Bowman swerved to the right and crashed through the door to the master bedroom. The withdrawal pains were severe now, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The room was tastelessly furnished. There was a diamond pendant chandelier, nude bronze statues of winged cherubs on the desk and bedside table. Bowman staggered over to the king-sized bed. He yanked the table drawer open and rooted through the contents. He saw no pill bottles, no plastic baggies. Nothing containing opioids. Just cigarette packets and condom wrappers, a load of other junk.
He must have something here. Surely.
So where the fuck is it?
He stood up and stumbled through the door to the master bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the waterfront, cars and people as small as ants. He set his Ruger down on the marble countertop and rifled through Lang’s black leather washbag. Nothing. He flipped open the mirror cabinet, scanned the rows of luxury grooming products. On the top shelf, he found half a dozen medicine bottles. Bowman reached in for them, scattering designer shaving products and anti-ageing creams across the vanity unit. He glanced at the printed label on one of the plastic bottles, unscrewed the cap. Aspirin.
This is just a bunch of regular meds. He hasn’t got anything.
Bowman kept searching. He checked three more pill containers. He hit the jackpot with the fourth bottle. It was unmarked, but he recognised the yellow tablets inside. The letters and numbers stamped on the face of each pill identified them as a moderate-strength opioid. The kind of thing prescribed for severe pain relief. Not as powerful as the stuff he bought from his dealer. But better than nothing.
Bowman thought: Lang must be in a lot of pain to take this stuff. Or maybe he’s like me. Maybe he has a secret habit no one else knows about.
Then the sickness came back, cramping in his stomach. Bowman hastily ground down one of the tablets and inhaled it off his fist. A faster delivery system than swallowing the pills. He ran the chrome tap, wiped his face with an Egyptian cotton towel. Turned off the tap.
Looked up.
Saw the figure in the doorway.
Fourteen
Fourteen