Forever Black

PROLOGUE - PART 1 “YOU KNOW IT’S love when your feelings don’t leave, even if the person does.” It started off as a better than normal day. I’d go so far as to call it good, because when I finished my session with Alex—the ex-Spetsnaz sadist my husband had lovingly appointed as my personal trainer—I managed to walk out of the gym rather than having to crawl. “You should do more squats,” Alex said, following. I flipped him the bird. “I have a meeting.” Speaking of my husband, he was due back from California later that morning. He’d flown there to review staff performance at the LA branch of Blackwood, the security firm we ran along with two close friends, Nate Wood and Nick Goldman. We’d flipped a coin for the trip, but I’d called tails and ended up spending two nights in New Jersey. My phone chirped as I pulled a smoothie out of the fridge, letting me know Black had touched down in Virginia, just in time for our lunchtime appointment with a potential new client. Black hadn’t elaborated on who. That meeting couldn’t be over fast enough for me, because in the afternoon, to turn a good day into a great day, the two of us were heading off to our chalet in France. According to the weather forecast I’d checked over breakfast, there had been fresh snowfall in Chamonix overnight, leaving a couple of inches of beautiful powder. Happy days. Work had been crazy lately, and the thought of a few days of skiing without ringing phones or meetings or emails or people asking me what to do was bliss. “I’ve put clothes out on the bed for you.” Bradley, my assistant, wandered past carrying one of those little books of paint swatches. Now what was he planning? Last time he got it into his head to decorate, he’d created a replica beach at the edge of my swimming pool, and the sand got on everything, not least my nerves. But when I got to the bedroom, I couldn’t criticise his choice of outfit. A practical yet elegant trouser suit, single-breasted, black. I’d never cease to be amazed at the way he always bought me clothes that fitted perfectly without me ever trying them on. On the rare occasions I did go shopping myself, I couldn’t manage it, even if I spent hours in the fitting room. Black called me as I hopped up and down, trying to put on a pair of knee-high stockings. I laddered one, gave up, and answered the phone instead. “All right, Chuck?” I could picture his scowl, and it made me smile. His given name may have been Charles, but he hated it, and ever since I’d known him, he’d been Black. His surname and now mine as well. “Still feeling bitter about your trip to Newark?” “Whatever gives you that idea?” He sighed, something he’d done a lot over the years. “I’m in a cab, and I should get there for twelve. Are you on your way?” “Just pulling out of the driveway right now.” “I don’t hear a car engine.” Trust him to be so observant. “Would you believe I’m driving quietly?” “Just hurry up, Diamond.” Satnav said the drive to the Green Mountain hotel on the outskirts of Richmond should take thirty-five minutes, but if I paid lip service to the speed limits, I’d shave ten minutes off that. The sun shone from a blue sky as I walked to the garage, whistling out of tune. It would be rude not to take my Viper out for a spin, wouldn’t it? My good fortune held when I reached the hotel without hitting any traffic or getting a speeding ticket. Five minutes to spare, not bad. Where was Black? I couldn’t see him outside, so either he’d gone in already or he hadn’t arrived yet. My competitive streak hoped for the latter. I winced as a woman pushing a buggy clipped the mirror of a Ford Taurus parked a few feet away. No way was that happening to my baby, which was not only shiny but also a present from Black. The corner of the lot beckoned, well away from toddlers, careless elbows, and swinging handbags. A minute later, I’d swapped out my trainers for high-heeled instruments of torture and made it to the hotel entrance. The decorative clock above the door told me I was bang on time. Congratulations, Emmy. Take a bow. A battered yellow cab drove into the parking lot, and I paused with one foot over the threshold. Was that Black? Oh, please let that be Black. The car pulled up at the kerb, and sure enough, he was in the back seat. My lucky day. He reached one tanned, muscular arm out to pay the driver, and it was my turn to sigh. How did he go brown so quickly? It took me a week to get a healthy glow. Fifty bucks said he’d been doing too much surfing and not enough work. We’d be having words about that. If Black planned on slacking when Alex had made me run seventeen miles yesterday, he had another think coming. Black needed a haircut too. He’d said that three weeks ago, but clearly lazing around in the sun had taken precedence and now his hair was curling over his collar. I’d just stepped forward, trying to think up some pithy remark about him being a beach bum, when movement to my left caught my attention. Thirty yards away, the side door of a white van slid open. The “Flowers 2 You” logo emblazoned on the side in Pepto-Bismol pink peeled around the edges, but that wasn’t what bothered me. The door was opening all on its own, or at least it seemed to be. Where was the delivery guy? That picture wasn’t quite right. Something poked out from the gloom inside. A cylinder with a bulbous tip. Dark grey or green, perhaps. As I focused, the figure of a man inside became clear, holding... Holy f**k! He was holding a f*****g RPG launcher. “Black! Blaaaaaaack! Get out!” The world moved in slow motion as I spun and ran towards the car, but my bloody heel broke and I went down on one knee. I scrambled up just as Black turned his head and looked at me, probably wondering why the hell I was making so much noise. As our eyes met, a streak of flame flew past me and hit him. Dead centre. He didn’t even see it coming. Glass shattered all around as the car exploded into a ball of fire, then to make doubly sure nobody walked out of it, a second grenade followed the first, causing the flames to jump even higher. It took a second for my brain to register what had happened, then Black was gone. Nobody could have survived the inferno raging in front of me. The blaze was so intense I couldn’t even see his outline, and there was no sign of the driver either. My heart beat in a crazy rhythm, a stubborn refusal in Morse code to accept what my head knew was true. Two lives had just been lost. Three, if you counted mine. A blur of pink and white shot past as the van peeled out of the parking lot, and the training Black had spent the past thirteen-and-a-bit years drilling into me took over. I didn’t have time to think, and I didn’t have time to feel. That would come later. Right now, I gave chase. My first thought was to run for my car, but the huge expanse of tarmac between it and me quickly put an end to that idea. Instead, my gaze landed on a kid sitting astride a Yamaha R1 motorcycle. He’d stopped to stare at the fireworks, eyes wide behind his visor. “Get off!” I yelled, belting in his direction. He took one look at my hand and leapt to the side. Why the horror? I glanced down myself and saw the gun I was carrying. When did I get that out of my bag? I shoved it into my waistband to free up my hands then caught the bike before it toppled to the ground. The engine was still running, and I revved it, leaving a black streak of rubber as I accelerated after the van. By the time I hit the road, I already had my red phone, the one I used for emergencies, clamped against my ear. One ring, two, then Nate picked up. “Black’s dead. I’m going after the shooters. Send help.” I didn’t wait for his reply. I didn’t need to. Nate knew I’d never kid about something like that, and he’d track my phone to find me. No, I only had one job to do now, and that was to catch the van. It already had a good head start, and if the driver had taken one of the multitude of small tracks that branched off the main road, there was every chance I wouldn’t find it. I sped along the highway, putting myself in the shoes of a fleeing murderer. Left? Right? Straight on? They’ll want to disappear. The tyres squealed as I took a left-hand turn towards Richmond. Please, say I’ve guessed right. A minute later, I flew over the brow of a hill and spotted a van ahead in the distance. It might have been travelling fast, but the bike was faster. Was it the right vehicle? Or just a plumber running late for a job? I’d memorised the licence plate as the bastards drove away from the hotel, and those digits burned in my mind as I leaned into the bends, my one goal to get close enough to confirm my suspicions. What if I was right? Well, I’d hang back and wait for the cavalry to arrive. For once in my life, I hoped the cops would get there before my own guys. Team Blackwood would have murder on their minds, and I didn’t want any of them going to prison. Not only that, I wanted Black’s killers alive for questioning, and after I’d found out what I needed to know, I planned to peel their skin from their bodies, piece by f*****g piece. And I’d smile while I did it. Why? That was the question I wanted to ask. Why had they killed my husband? Something told me this was bigger than just two men. But you know what they say about best-laid plans? Yeah, that happened. The arsehole driving must have looked in the mirror, because the back door of the van opened and a hail of bullets came at me, that shooter hanging on so he didn’t fall out. I returned fire, aiming wide. I wanted to stop him temporarily, not permanently. That would come later. The fucker disappeared from view, and I thought my warning had worked, but it turned out he’d just gone to get the grenade launcher. It looked like Lady Luck was at home with her feet up while Mr. Murphy, of Murphy’s Law fame, rode pillion. The asshole let one fly at me, and I swerved to the left, swearing under my breath as the grenade took out a tree at the edge of the road. I eased off the throttle to put some space between us, but rather than speeding away, the van mirrored me. The gap closed, and door guy started up with the pistol again. Well, it wasn’t the first time someone had tried to kill me, and I was good at playing that game too. My first shot hit to the left. Another squeeze, red blossomed across his shoulder, and he stumbled back inside. Then I shot out the right rear tyre. Slow down, asshole. Trying to balance the bike and shoot and dodge flying bullets while zipping along at a hundred miles an hour didn’t look good for my life expectancy. One wild fishtail and I’d be joining Black in hell. The good news was, my plan worked. But unfortunately for the men in the van, it worked a bit too well, because when the tyre popped, the van swerved right, left the road, and hit the side of a bridge. I slammed the brakes on, barely keeping the bike upright as it went into a skid. As soon as it stopped, I leapt off and ran towards the wreckage in a crouch, hugging the treeline so they couldn’t get a clear line of sight. I tried the driver first, but someone should have told him to wear a seat belt because his brain had created a Jackson Pollock masterpiece on the inside of the cracked windscreen. Not only that, his bowels had let go, and the stench of s**t mingled with smoke as the first flames licked out of the engine bay. With him a lost cause, I ran to the back. Had asshole number two fared any better? The door swung in the breeze, and I approached cautiously. Would he be in any state to fight back? No, was the short answer. He lay motionless among piles of broken flowers with a tyre iron protruding from his stomach. f**k. Blood bubbled from the wound, leaving a scarlet trail as I dragged him out onto the damp grass verge. Just in time, because the fire had taken hold in the cab by then, and the flames were spreading fast. The smoke made me cough as I checked for a pulse. Nothing. I fought down the bile rising in my throat, made sure his airway was clear, then started chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Why, you may ask, did I try to save my husband’s killer? Good question. Let me tell you, I’d have liked nothing better than to give him a good kicking and leave him to rot, but I only had one connection between the man who pulled the trigger and the person who hired him, and right now, that connection’s life was seeping away into the muddy grass at the side of the road. How did I know he was a hired gun and not just some lone wolf with a grudge? I didn’t at that point, not for sure, but I’d had enough experience in the business to suspect it was the most likely scenario. Rarely did two amateurs carry out a hit as organised as that one. The men knew who Black was and where he would be, and the killing itself had been dramatic but precise. Not to mention they had access to some pretty nasty weapons. If I hadn’t been there, they’d have made a swift exit in their no doubt stolen van and be heading straight to the nearest bar in a non-extradition country to celebrate a job well done. So I figured they had to be professionals. And professionals got paid. I wanted the person holding the purse strings. To me, these men were nothing. Nothing. Just tools hired to do a job. For them, it was nothing personal, and I could identify with that. So, seeing the bigger picture, even with grief starting to set in, I did what I could to make the asshole breathe again. Several cars stopped, and their occupants gathered to watch, hovering in front of the trees. Ghouls. Not one of them offered to help. They just wanted to get their sick kicks by watching someone else struggle, and I almost emptied a clip at them. After what seemed like forever but was probably only a few minutes, Nick arrived. His Ferrari was swiftly followed by blue lights then red as cops and an ambulance turned up too. Nick took hold of my arm and gave me a gentle tug. I tried to shake him off, but he pointed at the medics fast approaching behind him. They could take over now. I let him pull me to my feet and got in a sharp kick to the bastard’s side before I stepped back. “Breathe, you piece of shit.” The emergency crew did their thing while Nick carried me to his car. In one of those strangely irrelevant thoughts, I noticed his hair was wet and smelled of shampoo. How many more lives would be disrupted before the end of the day? “Sorry I dragged you out of the shower.” He gave me a “What the f**k?” look then deposited me in the passenger seat, my legs haphazardly stuffed into the footwell. I’d started shaking when he wrapped me in the blanket he always carried in the trunk. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” He perched on the door sill and drew me close, stroking my hair. “It’s not okay, Nicky. It won’t ever be okay. He’s dead.” And I might as well be.