He stood in a half crouch and unslung the shotgun, the bass from next door matching his heartbeat. No sound of that car. Although he guessed most people’s instinct would be to call the police and just keep going. Absence is better than valour when it comes to gunmen. And motion stands out. A glimpse is all it takes, and the imagination builds the rest.

And now you’re waiting here, running down the clock, wasting time.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket: no doubt Beauden, worried he’d been seen.

But all he needed was a few minutes.

A concrete path led through shrubs along the left of the house. He could see a glow from the rear of the property. A security light came on as he moved across the front lawn, and the gate to the side yard gave a yelp as he unlatched it. Darkness again. Damp and verdant scent of flowers. A long rank of darkened windows on his right. He made it to the corner and put his back to the wall.

The rear portion of the house was narrower—one quadrant missing to accommodate an in-ground lap pool. A trio of deck chairs was positioned on the long side of the pool facing the water. Beyond them a glass door showed a kitchen area: modern, minimalist, with a stone-top island counter.

Delroy was seated at a dining table, hands behind his head as he talked to another man Vincent recognised: Terry Page, Sylvester Crow’s lawyer, looking five years older and ten pounds heavier than his touched-up website photo. Page was in a suit, tie loose and collar open, hair lightly electrified. He was holding a glass tumbler—an overhand grip around the rim—swilling the last of a whiskey on the rocks.

Vincent’s phone was still vibrating in his pocket, but he ignored it. The dull bass note from the neighbouring house went on and on.

He stepped into the rear yard.

Coming at them out of the dark, he knew he would be invisible until it was too late. He walked a straight line for the sliding door, cutting one corner of the lap pool, a light step from tiled edge to tiled edge, and as he reached the house Delroy looked over with sudden and complete shock—hands unlaced and palms raised—and Vincent brought the shotgun through a big overhand jab and smashed it butt-first through the glass. The whole pane appeared frosted in the instant before it fell, and Vincent stepped in behind the rain of bright shards with the weapon at his shoulder.

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-TWO

Terry Page had an arm up, protecting his head, and he’d ducked slightly, as if the next round of damage might be bodily. Delroy seemed better suited to intrusions. He’d lowered his hands and had them flat on the table, fingers spread as he looked up at Vincent inquiringly.