Simon Kernick - The Last 10 Seconds

SIMON KERNICK

Contents

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First published in Great Britain
in 2010 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers

Copyright Simon Kernick 2010

Simon Kernick has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9780593062869 (cased)
9780593062876 (tpb)

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With thanks to my agent, Amanda Preston, and my editor, Selina Walker, for being such a huge help to me over the years.

Simon Kernick is one of Britains most exciting thriller writers. He arrived on the scene with his highly acclaimed debut novel The Business of Dying , and his big breakthrough came with his novel Relentless , which became the best-selling thriller of 2007. Simons research is what makes his thrillers so authentic. He talks both on and off the record to members of the Mets Special Branch and Anti-Terrorist Branch and the Serious Organised Crime Agency, so he gets to hear first hand what actually happens in the dark and murky underbelly of UK crime.

Also by Simon Kernick

The Business of Dying
The Murder Exchange
The Crime Trade
A Good Day to Die
Relentless
Severed
Deadline
Target

For more information on Simon Kernick and his books, see his
website at www.simonkernick.com

Today

8.05 A.M.

An empty shell of a building deep in the heart of the city. Its early, the first spears of bright sunlight advancing through the holes in the wall where the windows are meant to be, and here I am watching my blood form a visibly growing pool on the dusty concrete floor in front of me.

Propping myself further back against the wall, the gun still dangling precariously from my trigger finger, I concentrate on keeping my eyes open, forcing myself to focus on the carnage in this vast, empty room.

Three men dead. Two are lying sprawled on their fronts, arms outstretched theatrically, a dozen feet and hugely differing circumstances separating them. The third a big man in a blood-drenched sky blue polo shirt and jeans, younger than the others is bound to a chair with flex, his head slumped forward, his thick, sandy-blond hair bisected by a huge hole where the bullet exited.

Outside in the distance, I can hear the faint, drifting buzz of traffic. But it all seems so far away, and as I listen it seems to grow fainter, consumed by the leaden silence inside the room a silence that seems to rise up from the floor like some dark, malignant force, extinguishing all the life around it. Its going to extinguish me soon enough too. Im bleeding to death, trapped on the third floor of this deserted place, a bullet in my gut, another in my right thigh, rendering the leg useless, a stiff coldness beginning to envelop me.

Ive thought about death a great deal over the years, but always in a vague and abstract manner, never quite affording it the respect it deserves, even though Ive skirted close to it on too many occasions.

But as I sit here, wounded and helpless, wondering how Ive got myself into this terrible tomb-like place, I can hear deaths steady, inevitable approach and I know theres no escape. Thats the hardest thing to accept, the fact that my life is finally coming to an end, and I wonder briefly in these last few seconds, as the pain and the shock squeeze at my insides, whether theres anyone left to mourn my passing. Whether Ill even be remembered in ten years time.

And then I hear it. A sound directly outside the door. The scrape of a foot on the floor.

Jesus. Is this nightmare still not over? Is there a final act to come?

I clench my teeth and slowly raise my gun arm, the effort almost too much to bear, thinking that Ive fired five shots, so I should have one more left.

A shadow falls across the doorway and then, in an instant, a dark-haired woman in casual clothes is standing there, a warrant card in one outstretched hand and what looks like a can of pepper spray in the other. Police! she shouts, her voice tight with tension as it echoes through the room.

She opens her mouth to say something else, her eyes wide with shock as they take in the scene of slaughter in front of her, before finally her gaze comes to rest on me.

This is when she frowns in startled recognition. Sean?

Even in my weakened state, I manage to crack something close to a smile. Hello, Tina.

What the hells happened? she asks, taking a step forward, ignoring the fact that Im still pointing my gun at her.

And thats when the shooting starts.

Part One

THURSDAY, 7 P.M.
37 HOURS AGO

One

He was short, maybe five seven, with a build that was either slim or scrawny depending on how charitable you were feeling, and he was dressed in cheap grey slacks, a neatly ironed white shirt, and a dark tie with an unfashionably small knot. His hair, dead straight and surprisingly thick, was the only thing unconventional about him, falling down like a medieval helmet to his shoulders. Otherwise he looked a perfectly ordinary, if slightly nerdish, young man. But then, in newly promoted DI Tina Boyds experience as a police officer, even the most brutal murderers tend to look just the same as everyone else.

As she watched from the back seat of the Kia Sorento, its blacked-out windows shielding her from the gaze of the outside world, thirty-two-year-old alarm engineer Andrew Kent walked by a pregnant woman, giving her the faintest of glances as he passed.