Dead Heat by Nick Oldham Page B

ever. She did not want to have any form of interaction with Al Major, particularly after this evening’s very unsuccessful operation against Andy Turner, which, she was certain, would be put down to her. She would be Major’s scapegoat.
    After the coffee at the motorway services, she and O’Brien drove east along the M61 into Lancashire. They came off at Chorley. Instead of looping back on to the motorway as they should have done, Jo – who was now driving – went towards Chorley down the A6.
    As they circuited the town centre, she suddenly turned left and headed towards Rivington.
    â€˜Fancy a little drive through the country?’ she said.
    â€˜Seems I have no choice in the matter,’ smiled O’Brien. ‘Just so long as you don’t pretend to run out of petrol in the middle of nowhere and expect to have your wicked way with me.’
    The withering glance from female to male told him there would be zero chance of that happening.
    Verner knew what he had to do and did not dawdle. Turner stormed out of the restaurant ahead of him, his fuming rage apparent with every footfall. Verner followed as Turner went out and stalked toward the 4x4, amused by the antics.
    â€˜Come on, get the car open,’ Turner demanded.
    Verner pointed the remote and the doors unlocked with a squelching noise. Turner swung in and dropped on to the front passenger seat.
    â€˜Who the fuck does he think he is?’ he insisted.
    As he slid the key into the ignition, Verner said, ‘A very powerful man – and you should not have spoken to him like that.’
    â€˜When I say he’ll regret it – he’ll regret it,’ Turner said dangerously.
    Verner was fiddling with the ignition – apparently. Trying to get the key turned.
    In reality, he was reaching to the small shelf under the dash on which loose change might normally be stored, though in this case a small revolver was resting on it. Verner’s hand slid over it, his fingers slotting into place around it.
    He moved silkily, almost without speed it seemed, yet he was lightning quick. He sat upright, twisted towards Turner slightly and raised the weapon. It had a stubby barrel and was loaded with bullets designed to enter the heads of victims, ping around like a bagatelle causing massive brain damage and hopefully not exit outside the other side of the head. Turner did not see it coming. He was facing away from Verner, staring moodily out of the door window.
    Verner put the muzzle against the back quarter of Turner’s head, just above the ear. As soon as he touched, he pulled the trigger – twice. The sound was dreadful in the confines of the vehicle, but no so bad as the damage caused to the inside of Turner’s cranium.
    Verner’s wrist recoiled slightly with the power of the shots and he ducked quickly in an effort to dodge the inevitable back-spray of brain tissue and juice as Turner’s head twisted grotesquely and smashed against the window.
    After a series of brutal jerks of his body’s nervous system, Turner’s whole being relaxed as he died.
    Verner pulled him upright and drew the seat belt across his chest, then pushed him up against the door jamb and wedged him there at an angle. His head lolled down, chin on chest.
    Verner set off with his dead passenger.
    The roads around Rivington were dark and winding, often unlit by street lamps. Jo decided she needed a razz to get something fundamental out of her pent-up system. She floored the accelerator pedal and told O’Brien to hold on for the ride of a lifetime.
    He did as instructed.
    Jo threw the car around the unlit country roads, going for broke around blind corners and long straight stretches, braking hard, changing up and down, fast and accurately, pushing the car to its screaming limits.
    She was thoroughly enjoying herself, though her companion had a look of abject dread on his countenance. Even without being able to see him properly, Jo