The Courier

‘Is that the trainer?’ Callan said.

The man with the pipe followed his gaze, then shook his head. ‘That’s the owner, Tom Jordan. TJ, they call him.’

Callan watched the red-faced man. He was standing eye-to-eye with the jockey, trying to stare him down, but Devlin seemed to be doing all the talking. A bell sounded, and the pair broke apart. Jockeys scattered to mount their rides, and a tall, scowling man broke away from another group to give Devlin a leg up.

‘That’s the trainer,’ the man with the pipe said. ‘Dan Kruger. One of the best.’

Callan narrowed his eyes. So that was Kruger. He edged around the ring to get a better view. The trainer looked to be in his late thirties, with prominent, dark brows and a tanned face. He patted the horse’s neck and saluted the jockey. Then Devlin gathered up his reins and headed out of the ring.

Callan glared at the jockey’s swaying back. For now, he was out of reach. But that still left the other two. He fixed his sights on Jordan and Kruger and followed them as they left the ring. They mingled with the crowd now flowing back towards the stands, and Callan melted into their slipstream.

He unzipped his bag a fraction and slotted a hand inside, grasping the butt of his gun. Keeping the weapon in the bag meant he could place the barrel right up against the target. Two silenced shots and the target would go down. The crowd would think he’d fainted, Callan would disappear, and his ejected cartridges would be caught inside the bag. Neat and tidy.

He followed the two men across the concourse. Kruger disappeared inside one of the bars, and Jordan was about to follow when a small boy of nine or ten raced up and grabbed him by the hand. Jordan turned and laughed, allowing himself to be dragged away.

Callan clenched his fingers around the gun. He tracked the pair along the side of the stands as they hurried towards the bookies’ enclosure.

He checked his watch. It was almost one o’clock. He lengthened his stride, closing the gap between them. The boy scampered off to the nearest bookie and Jordan stood alone, like a springbok separated from the herd.

Callan hesitated, checking his cover. The crowds here had thinned, the punters deserting the bookies for a place on the stands. He hung back. Too exposed.

The tannoy system crackled. ‘They’re under starter’s orders.’

The boy reappeared. Jordan took him by the hand and together they hiked up into the stands.

‘And they’re off.’

Callan strode after Jordan, circling, weaving, slipping through the crowds, using whatever cover his combat zone offered him. The commentator droned out his inventory of horses.

‘And racing now away from the stands, it’s Forest Moon the leader, from Holy Joe and Dutch Courage. Then comes Rottweiler’s Lad, with Honest Bill the back marker.’

Jordan and the boy stopped halfway up the grandstand. Callan was already four steps higher, and he stared at the back of Jordan’s head.

‘Rounding the turn now, it’s Forest Moon and Holy Joe. Then Rottweiler’s Lad improved into third place.’

Callan sidestepped into a gap, lining himself up behind Jordan. Suddenly, the man ducked, squatting low. Callan froze, then relaxed again as he saw the boy climbing up on to Jordan’s shoulders. By the time Jordan was upright, Callan had moved one step down. Two more, and he’d be right behind him.

The commentator’s voice shifted up a key. ‘And into the back straight, it’s Holy Joe, Forest Moon weakening into second, challenged by Rottweiler’s Lad, Honest Bill, then Dutch Courage.’

A murmur rippled through the crowds. ‘Come on, Honest Bill.’

Jordan handed the boy a pair of binoculars. People craned their necks to get a clearer view and Callan took another step down.

‘As they round the final bend, it’s Holy Joe the leader from Rottweiler’s Lad, then Forest Moon, Honest Bill making ground on the outside but Devlin has left him a lot to do.’

The crowd buzzed, shifting restlessly. ‘Come on, Billy-boy!’

Callan inched forwards. Suddenly, the boy swivelled and stared at him through the binoculars. Callan’s scalp prickled. He flashed on another ten-year-old boy. Matted black hair, wild eyes. The child soldier with binoculars around his neck and a machete in his raised arms. Chills swept through Callan’s frame.

A roar went up from the crowd, and the commentator’s pitch shot up an octave. ‘And they’re into the home straight, it’s Rottweiler’s Lad, Holy Joe, Honest Bill accelerating on the outside!’

Callan’s vision blurred. He could smell the child soldier’s unwashed body. He recalled how the boy’s shirt had fallen open, exposing red welts where the initials ‘RUF’ had been carved into his chest with a razor. Callan hadn’t hesitated. He’d fired his sniper rifle, spitting two bullets into the boy’s forehead.

‘And they’re inside the final two furlongs!’ The commentator was in a frenzy, the yells from the crowd filling the stands. ‘It’s Rottweiler’s Lad, but here comes Honest Bill surging up on the outside!’

Callan remembered standing over the boy’s body. He’d stared at the bloody initials where the rebels had rubbed cocaine to induce the boy’s savagery. Beside him stood a line of wailing children. The child soldier had been about to hack off their arms.

‘It’s Rottweiler’s Lad from Honest Bill, I’ve never seen anything like it, Devlin has turned him loose, calling on him for everything he has!’

The boy on Jordan’s shoulders turned away. Callan’s chest tightened, the memories choking him. He took a deep breath, then descended the final step. He was right behind Jordan, close enough to smell the scent of cigars from his clothes.

The commentator was yelling now. ‘It’s the final furlong, it’s Rottweiler’s Lad and Honest Bill, stride for stride, Honest Bill digging deep.’

Callan stretched the canvas of his bag taut around the gun barrel.

‘They’re neck and neck, what a race between these two!’

The roars had reached a deafening pitch. It was the crescendo he’d been waiting for, the perfect cover. He pressed the gun barrel into Jordan’s back.

The commentator hadn’t drawn breath. ‘It’s a desperate finish as they come up to the line, Rottweiler’s Lad trying to fight back!’

The stands were a blaring wall of noise. Callan squeezed the trigger twice. The commentator’s voice was off the scale.

‘And it’s Honest Bill the winner! What a horse!’

Callan stepped backwards and sidled through the heaving crowd. From the corner of his eye he saw the boy tumble to the ground, his father crumpling beneath him.

Callan strolled towards the exit.

Winner all right.

6 (#ulink_e5cbc95d-8333-501c-9f9a-21a822ff8275)

The most important thing about pilfering confidential data was not to get caught. Harry flicked a glance in her rear-view mirror and wondered how she’d get away with it this time.

A flash of heat washed over her. What the hell was she thinking? She should have taken Garvin’s laptop back to Hunter the minute she’d realized the mistake. The longer she held on to it, the worse it would get. Already, she felt as if something radioactive was glowing through the boot of her car.

Harry geared down into third, negotiating the bends on the coast road. Waves slapped against the wall to her left, tossing spray into the air like confetti.

She came to a T-junction and slowed down, considering her options. Turn right, and she could loop back to Garvin Oliver’s house and hand the laptop over.

Turn left, and she could be home in fifteen minutes. Harry chewed her bottom lip.

When you got right down to it, the police had been the ones who’d screwed up, not her. After all, it wasn’t her fault the officer had snatched the first laptop case he’d seen.

She checked left and right. Naturally, she wouldn’t dream of withholding evidence. She gripped the steering wheel and swung left. She’d hand over the laptop just as soon as she could, but not until she’d peeked at it herself first.

Harry wound her way south, her whole body clenched, her eyes darting to her mirror. No one seemed to be following her, but it was hard to tell. On her left the beach curved like a bow, the slate-grey water reflecting the rain clouds above. Her arms ached from gripping the wheel, but relaxing them was beyond her.