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“Blam! Blam!”
The sawn-off shotgun in the hands of the masked man boomed twice in quick succession, filling the shop with the smell of cordite and doing fatal damage to the two women in front of him. The younger of the two, who appeared to be about a decade older than his forty years, flinched when she saw his finger tighten on the trigger; by contrast the older woman, who could have been the younger woman’s mother, didn’t react, she simply stared at him, accepting her fate almost stoically.
They were brave, he couldn’t deny that - much as he disliked the thought, he had to admit the two Indian women were braver than any of the British women he had known, none of them would have been so calm in the face of death - but he had seen the fear they tried to hide, fear which remained even as he stared into their eyes and watched the life fade from them. He took pleasure in their fear, and more in the thought of the pain what he had done would cause to those who cared for them.
At a distance of no more than three feet the shots were powerful enough to lift both women, neither of whom were all that big, off their feet and throw them into the shelves by the counter, from there they slid to the floor. Blood stained the front of their saris, while alcohol from the bottles smashed by their bodies mixed to make a puddle of liquor beneath them, the fumes from which were so strong they overpowered the acrid smell from the shotgun and left him a little light-headed.
With a smile on his lips, Kurt Walker dumped out the spent shells and reloaded with brisk efficiency, his eyes on the women as he watched them for any sign of life. He didn’t see how they could be alive, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. When neither woman had moved after almost a minute he bent to pick up his rucksack, into which he shoved his shotgun, the money the younger of the two women had handed over in the hopes of making him leave, several bottles of whiskey - his preferred drink - and all the cigarettes he could fit.
Once the bag was full he shouldered it and turned away from the two bodies on the floor. Without so much as a backward glance, he left the shop. In a couple of strides, he was at his car, where he slid behind the wheel after tossing the rucksack into the foot-well in front of the passenger seat.
The engine started on the first turn of the key, and Kurt quickly pulled away from the kerb, tugging his balaclava off as he headed down the road. He had never enjoyed wearing balaclavas, he found them uncomfortable - his discomfort was made worse by the heat of the day, it was over twenty degrees, far too warm for the garment - and he exhaled in relief when he felt fresh air stroke his face.
