Chloe Linley woke up that morning thinking about Wayne Carter. His face lingered in her memory, the residue of a forgotten dream. She sat at the kitchen table, staring into her coffee mug while the au pair bathed and fed the kids. She could hear them splashing cheerfully in the bath upstairs, but the sound scarcely registered in her mind. She was picturing Wayne as he had appeared on her doorstep the other day. Like a ghost from the past. He looked good. That accident – or whatever it was – had not left him in such a bad state as she had imagined. He still had that sort of clumsy, boyish charm which had beguiled her when she was younger.
Did he have a girlfriend, she wondered?
Wait a minute, what was she thinking? She was a married woman! And not only that: she had two kids. Two little Linleys, splashing and laughing upstairs. But all the same, she couldn’t help but wonder. Wonder about her life, and Wayne's life, and speculate about what might have been.
She was snapped from her reverie by the doorbell.
As she got up and went out into the hall, something deep in the back of her mind – woman's intuition? – told her that it was Wayne. He was out there on the doorstep, just like the other day, on some other vague errand that was obviously just an excuse to see her again. She glanced in the large, gilt-framed hall mirror and smoothed back her long hair. She felt like a teenager again, waiting for her date to ring the doorbell and pick her up. And here he was – her date. She smiled to herself. So what if she was married? She would be lying if she said she believed that Rob was faithful to her. There was a secretary she had met at some gala function once (what was her name? Rochelle?) with whom Rob had had palpable chemistry.
The question was: how far was she willing to go? She could easily see herself falling back in love with Wayne. The fact that he had begun to haunt her dreams once again was a testament to that. And had she ever really been in love with Rob? At the time, he had seemed like the best option. He was exciting, what with his business prospects. But now – even though he was only in his twenties – he seemed painfully middle-aged. Her life was stifling her. Her kids were stifling her. Her husband was stifling her.
She reached for the door handle and a smile spread across her face. She was picturing Wayne standing there, grinning back at her. Maybe he would bring her flowers...
It was not Wayne.
Standing on the doorstep was a man in a suit. Tall, quite handsome, and strangely familiar... where had she seen him before? Of course! He was at the park wasn't he? Hadn't he asked her for directions at some point?
"Good morning," he said with a polite smile. "May I come in?"
*
Traffic was heavy that morning. Rob swore under his breath as a people-carrier swerved in front of him, cutting him off. Funny, he thought. When he was a kid, he had dreamed of being a taxi driver. It had looked like so much fun. And now here he was, fucking doing it. He glanced at Enrico Brigante in the rear view mirror. The South American was gazing out at the road with a kind of childlike wonderment. Rob wished he could get that excited about anything any more. But no, his life was nothing but misery, from his job to his wife.
So Chloe was fucking Wayne Carter. It shouldn't have surprised him really. But it had.
Then again, could he really be sure the information Yuri had given him was accurate? Chloe had told him no one had called at the house, when he’d asked her the night before. And he trusted her… as much as he could trust anyone.
He chewed his bottom lip and changed lanes. Not far to go now. The plan was simple: he would discreetly pull over when he reached a specified point. He had studied the detour so many times now that it was programmed into his brain like a GPS. The Popovs' men would be there, ready and waiting. They would pounce, seize the car, and give Brigante a beating. They would give Rob a few slaps too, for the sake of authenticity, and prevent awkward questions. Simple as that.
He glanced again at Brigante. It might be best, after all, if the young player was not permitted to walk away from this little fracas. His command of English might not be the best, but he could still make trouble for Rob if he was so inclined. And if he were dead, that would be yet another blow to David Carter's crumbling empire...
Rob's mobile began to ring. "Shit," he said, fumbling for it in his pocket. Yuri, maybe? Some kind of change to the plan?
He looked at the caller ID. Chloe. Fucking Chloe.
He declined the call, shaking his head. What the hell did she want? She knew he was working. She knew today was an important day.
Wayne could fucking have her, he thought bitterly. It was only a matter of time, anyway.
*
"You shouldn't have done that," said Yuri Popov, crushing her phone beneath the heel of his polished leather shoe. He kicked her again.
Chloe rolled over onto her side, blood dribbling from both nostrils, sobbing. This was a nightmare. It couldn't be real. It was something out of a bad movie...
The two bodyguards looming behind Yuri watched in indulgent silence as he battered the young woman within an inch of her life. They did not know exactly what she had done to deserve such treatment, but of course it was not their job to know.
Yuri had dragged her through to the spacious living room by her hair and now stood over her as she bled all over the cream carpet. It was days like this that he really loved his job.
He turned to one of the bodyguards: "You. Take the upstairs." Then the other: "You. Watch the door."
The guards did as they were told.
Chloe's head was swimming, and her vision was blurred, but she heard the thumping footsteps heading up the stairs. "No..." she heard herself say, scarcely above a whisper. "Please..."
"Too late for please," said Yuri.
There were screams from the bathroom, then a rapid succession of thumps. Then silence. Awful, wretched silence.
"Not the babies..." she said.
"Yes," Yuri said coldly. "The babies."
The henchman descended. "Upstairs is clear, boss."
"Good. Then it looks as though this-" he nodded at Chloe, weeping and bleeding on the floor, "is the last one."
He dropped to his haunches, studying her carefully. She hawked a gobbet of blood-streaked spit in his direction, but it coasted past his head and splattered into the fireplace. He laughed.
"Give me your gun," he said to the bodyguard.
The hulking figure did as instructed, and handed over a pistol with an elongated muzzle – some kind of silencer.
"Please..." said Chloe, as blood spilled from her mouth and down her chin. "Why are you doing this?"
"It's nothing personal," said Yuri. "Only business." And he levelled the pistol against the side of her head.
*
Rob's phone buzzed again. "Fucking hell," he said aloud, which prompted a look from Brigante.
This time, though, it wasn't a call. It was a text. Rob fished the phone out once again and looked at the screen. To his surprise, it was from Yuri, and consisted of only three words:
CHANGE OF PLAN.
At that moment, a black Range Rover seemed to rear up behind the limo, engine roaring. Its windows were tinted, but Rob did not need to guess who was behind the wheel: Stanislaw. He did not think it would be Yuri; Yuri was too sophisticated for this sort of thing. But Stanislaw was a petrolhead, and this was just his kind of operation.
Alright, so they were launching their attack a little early, were they? Well, that was just fine with him. But did they have to do it in public like this? They were still on the dual carriageway, for fuck's sake!
Then the Rover advanced and, with a quick twitch of the wheel, slammed into the rear bumper of the limo.
"Jesus Christ!" Rob Linley heard himself yell as he jerked in his seat, cricking his neck.
Enrico Brigante was peering anxiously over his shoulder, trying to get a look at what was going on through the rear window. This was just the sort of trick the cartels might pull in his homeland, right the way down to the nondescript jeep they were using. But here? In England? On a busy road? It was the last thing he had anticipated. He leaned forward and said something in his native tongue.
"What the fuck are you on about?" Rob bellowed, but then he realised. The young player was praying.
*
Stanislaw Popov roared with animalistic glee and turned up the volume on his dashboard stereo. He was a sucker for old school hard rock – he needed to have it pumping into his ears as the adrenaline pumped through his veins. It really got him going. In fact, he could feel the beginnings of an erection in his bulky, multi-pocketed camo combat trousers. What better soundtrack for this orgy of violence and destruction than AC/DC?
He eased his foot down on the accelerator and listened to the engine and music throbbing in his ears as the Range Rover lunged forward once more, like a shark closing in on its prey. The limo's rear bumper crumpled inward, as Rob Linley was clearly struggled to keep the car under control.
Stanislaw grinned and pulled the mask down over his face. Then he drew the Desert Eagle from the waistband of his combat trousers and lowered the driver-side window with a jab of a button. Keeping his foot firmly on the accelerator, he leaned out of the window and aimed. He did not care who saw him. He WANTED them to see. Cocking the Desert Eagle's hammer, he gave the trigger a playful squeeze and pumped a couple of bullets into the back of the limo.
Terrified, Rob spotted a traffic snarl-up ahead and knew he had to think of a way out of this. Stanislaw was clearly insane – he was going to get them all killed! Rob swung the steering wheel and bumped the limo up onto the kerb. Pedestrians scattered as the limo skidded past. Enrico Brigante screwed shut his eyes and continued to pray.
They were not too far from the city now, and Rob could only imagine what kind of terror Stanislaw would wreak if he reached London.
Meanwhile, Stanislaw sang along loudly to the music in his heavy accent, continuing to pepper the limo with bullets as the Range Rover drew closer for a fresh onslaught.
Rob was beginning to wish he had taken that call from Chloe. He had left the house that morning in a somewhat fractious and combative mood. He did not want those to be the last few moments he spent with his beloved wife, his darling, the love of his short life...
Tears streaked down his face as he fought to maintain control. The limo skidded a little, which allowed the Range Rover to gain ground and crunch into the bumper once again. Stanislaw fired. He was not aiming at anything in particular – just having a good time – but he got lucky. A stray bullet shattered the limo's rear window and entered Enrico Brigante's body at the base of the skull.
The last words to leave the young footballer's mouth were a hushed prayer.
Rob glanced in the rear view at just the wrong moment, and he saw the lad's head pop like a honeydew melon decked with firecrackers. Blood, brain and other grisly bits splattered all over the limo's exquisite leather upholstery, and Rob screamed.
"Please!" he yelled at no one in particular. "This isn't funny any more!"
He couldn't hold on much longer. This was supposed to be an easy operation. It should have been so, so easy... and didn't they care that the limo was loaded with merchandise? The way things were going, it was all going to go up in smoke.
Then, all of a sudden, the Range Rover seemed to withdraw. It slowed, and all but disappeared from view. "Thank Christ," Rob whispered. "Thank fucking Christ for that."
That's when he saw the grass verge. A second earlier, and he might have been able to swing the wheel. He might have managed to save himself.
Instead, the road reached an unexpected chicane, rising into a high grassy verge. The limo hit the verge at full speed, sailing up and arcing across the sky in a black metal rainbow, with bits of debris dropping from it like petals from a wilting flower.
They say that when you are about to die your life flashes before your eyes. Nothing of the kind happened for Rob Linley. All he could think was this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. The words echoed in his brain like the refrain of an old song. His final thoughts before the wrecked husk of the limo hit the ground was that there had been a mistake somewhere along the line, things had gone wrong but he wasn't sure how. Then all he felt was heat, then nothing.
There were plenty of eyewitnesses, some with their phones out. But funnily enough, not one of them managed to catch a proper glimpse of the other car, or its driver. Not so much as a single second of footage. But even if they had, they wouldn’t have been much use to investigators. After all, with its fake plates and tinted windows it was virtually anonymous. Instead, all eyes were fixed on the limo as it pulled off the kind of manoeuvre you usually saw in action movies, with all four of its wheels leaving terra firma. Then the sickening crunch and tinkle of shattered glass. Then the fireball, pluming up devilishly against the bleak, overcast sky.
Nobody could have survived that.
Stanislaw wrenched off his mask and coasted the Range Rover to a halt in an isolated alleyway. He cackled gleefully as he switched off the stereo, closed his eyes, and came in his pants. It was the greatest thrill he could ever have hoped for. He was a happy man indeed.
*
At almost exactly the same moment on the other side of London, Rob Linley's neighbours began to smell smoke. Of course they could not have known that affable, white-collar Rob had just been burned alive in an apocalyptic conflagration. As far as they were concerned, it might simply have been his pretty, but sad-looking wife burning the brunch bacon on the grill.
But when they ventured outside, they saw what it really was. The townhouse had a kind of satanic glow inside it, as though the building itself were inhabited by an amorphous orange demon. Fire! Quick! Get help!
"There's kids in there!" somebody screamed. "I can see them! For God's sake, there's kids in there." As if to punctuate this observation, all the front windows buckled outwards and shattered, sprinkling the assembled neighbourhood watch with shards of glass. Smoke and flame twisted up and out in an evil-looking plume.
