He stood, rubbing away the grooves the seat had scored into him, and headed back out to his car. The clouds hung low, smothering the city, squeezing colour from the day. The breeze kissed his forehead cooling the beads of sweat. He offered up a silent prayer in hope that the next six days wouldn’t be like the last few, each stretching out longer than the last. He had cut a few corners over the years, but always with good intent. Six days then he was home free. Six days until he could leave all this behind. A man as resourceful as James Bolton could hide for eighteen years if he wanted. As long as he stayed out of jail for eighteen days, Anderson couldn’t give a damn what he did next. He planned to be on a golf course in Florida with nothing more to worry about except whether a gator ate his ball.

He started the engine, but left it in neutral, fiddling with the volume on the CD player as the opening riff from ‘Hotel California’ drifted through the speakers, fingers dancing against the wheel. The timing was almost comical as he checked his rear-view mirror to reverse. Don Henley had just struck the last iconic beat of the drums to signal the end of the intro when they rounded the corner.

His lips got as far as mouthing what the fu—before his brain caught up. It processed the scene like a series of stills. The slight tilt of the van as it rounded the corner at speed. The three cars following the same swerving path, like Formula One drivers hugging the racing line. The split-second delay between seeing the barrier snap like it was made of papier mâché and the sound reaching his ears, a sharp report like a starter’s pistol. It kick-started his survival instinct, and jerked him out of spectator mode.

His first inclination was to look for an exit. Twisting in his seat, fence to the left and right, protector turned captor. No way past the oncoming vehicles. No way forwards.

Fuck! Not like this.

His six days shrank down to six seconds, before he would be out of options, unceremoniously hauled from his car, face pressed to the warm bonnet, cuffs biting into wrists. He threw the door open, leaving the engine running, and bowled back through the door. He had one chance and one chance only. He had to reach the office before they did. Behind him, above the rumble of the Honda’s engine, and the whine of the approaching motorcade, Don Henley sang on, blissfully unaware of events.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

‘When will you be back?’ asked Patchett.