make his move. "You killed her?"
"I hope so, Pearce. But you're right. There might be some doubt." He leaned over her and fired again. The slapping sound once more. The flash of light again. The twitch of her body. "I think we can safely say she's dead now."
Pearce felt as if someone had poured a truckload of sand down his throat. It filled his stomach, choked his lungs. He lifted his Uzi.
"Drop it, pal." Behind him, Ray rapped the gun against the base of his skull.
Pearce recognised the voice from earlier. Ray was the gunman who'd fired a shot into the tarmac at Pearce's feet when they'd bundled Julie into their car.
Pearce thought about pulling the Uzi's trigger. Holding it down for the whole two seconds. Firing every last one of those thirty-two rounds. Filling Banksy full of holes.
He thought about it. Wondered what would happen to him if he did. Imagined how it would feel to have a bullet enter the back of his head. Was it worth it? Was it?
He lowered his arm and dropped the gun. Couldn't let Ray win.
"Good boy." Banksy clapped. "You want to pick that up, Ray?"
"Can do. Where's Jack?"
"The hard man here caught him with a lucky headbutt. Jack's lying in the road back a bit."
"Oh, crapbags," Ray said. "Is that what that was?"
"What was?"
"That crunch."
Pearce had heard it too. Could it be?
"Tell me you didn't run him over," Banksy said.
"I think I might have."
"Jesus pishing Christ."
"I couldn't see." Ray's voice rose. "No lights. Wasn't expecting Jack to be lying in the bastard road, was I?"
Banksy shook his head. "Go take a look. See what the damage is. Did you at least get the kids?"
"No problem. They're in the back of the car with the stupid looking dog."
Pearce breathed in, squeezed air into his lungs.
Banksy said, "What about their granny?"
"Put up a bit of a fight. Told her I'd chop off more than a finger this time if she didn't behave."
In front of the kids.
And to cap it off, they'd just seen their mother being executed.
12:15 am
"Very nice weapon." Banksy ran his finger along the muzzle of the Uzi Ray had given him. "Cacked my pants when you pulled that out, Pearce, I don't mind telling you. Serious hardware. Seen a few Mac 10s around, but not one of these little lovelies. Worth a few grand, too." He pointed it at Pearce's chest and pushed. "Makes up a bit for you not bringing any money." He shifted his aim to Pearce's head. "Can you think of a single good reason I shouldn't empty this into you?"
From behind Pearce, Ray said, "Hang on a minute, Banksy. Jack's not breathing."
"Don't say that, Ray."
"It's true."
"Just what we need." Banksy let his arm drop to his side. "Can you get him in the car?"
"Tight fit with those kids in there."
"I meant my car. In the boot."
"OK. Might need a hand, though."
Banksy waved the gun at Pearce. "Looks like you've been granted a moment's reprieve. Would you be so kind?" He smiled, his teeth showing.
Pearce wondered what Banksy would do if he said no. Shoot him, probably, then help Ray carry Jack himself. No point risking it.
He'd only taken a few steps when a sharp cracking sound made him freeze. The sound came from a distance away. Somewhere near the broken staircase. Another of Banky's goons must have been lying in wait over there, ready for the signal to shoot Pearce.
But there was no pain.
He turned to see Banksy on his knees, staring down at his chest.
"Ray," Banksy said. "Ray! Some arsehole's—" He coughed. And again. "Ray! I can't—"
"What the crap?" Ray ran towards him.
Pearce grabbed Ray's arm as he passed, twisted his wrist hard enough for him to drop his gun and scream. More of a squeal, in fact.
Pearce picked up the gun and pointed it at Ray.
"Ow, man." Ray was holding his sore wrist with his good hand. "That hurt."
Pearce glanced at Banksy. "Drop it."
Banksy looked at the Uzi as if he'd forgotten he had it. He started to raise his arm. Didn't get very far, though, before his head snapped back.
The whipcrack
"I hope so, Pearce. But you're right. There might be some doubt." He leaned over her and fired again. The slapping sound once more. The flash of light again. The twitch of her body. "I think we can safely say she's dead now."
Pearce felt as if someone had poured a truckload of sand down his throat. It filled his stomach, choked his lungs. He lifted his Uzi.
"Drop it, pal." Behind him, Ray rapped the gun against the base of his skull.
Pearce recognised the voice from earlier. Ray was the gunman who'd fired a shot into the tarmac at Pearce's feet when they'd bundled Julie into their car.
Pearce thought about pulling the Uzi's trigger. Holding it down for the whole two seconds. Firing every last one of those thirty-two rounds. Filling Banksy full of holes.
He thought about it. Wondered what would happen to him if he did. Imagined how it would feel to have a bullet enter the back of his head. Was it worth it? Was it?
He lowered his arm and dropped the gun. Couldn't let Ray win.
"Good boy." Banksy clapped. "You want to pick that up, Ray?"
"Can do. Where's Jack?"
"The hard man here caught him with a lucky headbutt. Jack's lying in the road back a bit."
"Oh, crapbags," Ray said. "Is that what that was?"
"What was?"
"That crunch."
Pearce had heard it too. Could it be?
"Tell me you didn't run him over," Banksy said.
"I think I might have."
"Jesus pishing Christ."
"I couldn't see." Ray's voice rose. "No lights. Wasn't expecting Jack to be lying in the bastard road, was I?"
Banksy shook his head. "Go take a look. See what the damage is. Did you at least get the kids?"
"No problem. They're in the back of the car with the stupid looking dog."
Pearce breathed in, squeezed air into his lungs.
Banksy said, "What about their granny?"
"Put up a bit of a fight. Told her I'd chop off more than a finger this time if she didn't behave."
In front of the kids.
And to cap it off, they'd just seen their mother being executed.
12:15 am
"Very nice weapon." Banksy ran his finger along the muzzle of the Uzi Ray had given him. "Cacked my pants when you pulled that out, Pearce, I don't mind telling you. Serious hardware. Seen a few Mac 10s around, but not one of these little lovelies. Worth a few grand, too." He pointed it at Pearce's chest and pushed. "Makes up a bit for you not bringing any money." He shifted his aim to Pearce's head. "Can you think of a single good reason I shouldn't empty this into you?"
From behind Pearce, Ray said, "Hang on a minute, Banksy. Jack's not breathing."
"Don't say that, Ray."
"It's true."
"Just what we need." Banksy let his arm drop to his side. "Can you get him in the car?"
"Tight fit with those kids in there."
"I meant my car. In the boot."
"OK. Might need a hand, though."
Banksy waved the gun at Pearce. "Looks like you've been granted a moment's reprieve. Would you be so kind?" He smiled, his teeth showing.
Pearce wondered what Banksy would do if he said no. Shoot him, probably, then help Ray carry Jack himself. No point risking it.
He'd only taken a few steps when a sharp cracking sound made him freeze. The sound came from a distance away. Somewhere near the broken staircase. Another of Banky's goons must have been lying in wait over there, ready for the signal to shoot Pearce.
But there was no pain.
He turned to see Banksy on his knees, staring down at his chest.
"Ray," Banksy said. "Ray! Some arsehole's—" He coughed. And again. "Ray! I can't—"
"What the crap?" Ray ran towards him.
Pearce grabbed Ray's arm as he passed, twisted his wrist hard enough for him to drop his gun and scream. More of a squeal, in fact.
Pearce picked up the gun and pointed it at Ray.
"Ow, man." Ray was holding his sore wrist with his good hand. "That hurt."
Pearce glanced at Banksy. "Drop it."
Banksy looked at the Uzi as if he'd forgotten he had it. He started to raise his arm. Didn't get very far, though, before his head snapped back.
The whipcrack
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