Contents ( 84)
- 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
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- Acknowledgements
‘AirGen.’
‘We’ve seen them come here. We know they’re your supplier.’
‘They are. But . . . they don’t . . . they don’t deliver to a Mr Quilty.’
Boiler Suit smiled.
‘Fake name, eh? You really are a paranoid old bastard, aren’t you? I guess we should have caught that.’
He drew his pistol and aimed it towards Quilty.
‘But then it hasn’t made much difference, has it?’
‘Still . . . still worth . . . a try.’
Quilty could feel his breathing become more laboured. He did not have long.
‘Is it worth me asking what you told your visitor last night? If I promise to make this quick?’
‘You’ve read . . . my file. What . . . what do you . . . think?’
‘I think you’re a determined old sonofabitch and I shouldn’t waste my time.’
‘Then you . . . you have read my . . . file.’
Quilty managed a laugh. It quickly became a hacking cough, causing him to wheeze as he fought for air. It was time.
Quilty reached up and fumbled with his mask. His hands were now shaking wildly from lack of air.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I need . . . I need . . . a . . . cigarette.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘What . . . harm . . . can it do . . . now?’
The man stood still for a moment, considering the answer. An answer that was unarguable. Whether it was compassion for Quilty’s suffering or just guilt from what was to come, he made a decision.
With his gun still aimed at Quilty’s chest, he stepped forward, pushed the old man’s shaking hands aside and took the oxygen mask from his face. With his free hand he took a cigarette from Quilty’s pack, placed it between his lips and picked up the cigarette lighter.
Quilty moved his head forward, bringing the cigarette nearer to the lighter.
And nearer to the oxygen tank.
And watched as the man flicked the aged, long unused lighter into life. Once. Twice. Three times.
The explosion was both instant and devastating. It sent fiery gas and the deadly shrapnel from the oxygen tank in every direction around the apartment. An instant inferno that no one could survive.
Exactly as Quilty had intended.
For five full minutes he had gone without air. Starting from the moment he had taken his seat, moved the tank and disconnected his mask’s supply hose from the output valve.
It was the longest he had breathed unaided in almost two years. But as damaged as Quilty’s lungs were, he still had his determination. Determination to fill the air around him with highly flammable, concentrated oxygen from the tank’s open valve.
It was a last act of defiance. Quilty would leave this life on his own terms. And he would take one of them with him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jack Meyer scanned the small secure meeting room, located within the White House Office. The door was closed and the space was filled to its capacity of six. Meyer himself and five of the Secret Service agents under his immediate command.