Page 2 of Kill For Me Kill For You
Amanda took a breath, let it out slowly and put her hand in her coat pocket. Took hold of the revolver. Her gloves were thin leather, but even so it was a delicate maneouvre to snake her finger through the trigger guard without the leather catching.
The two passengers beside her still had their backs to one another, preserving the gap between them. She could see the top of the target’s head, pointed down – his focus centered on his cell phone.
The train slowed down.
Fifteen seconds until the train doors opened.
Fifteen seconds until she pulled the trigger.
Theclickety-clackrhythm of the wheels on the rails slowed down a beat as the train reduced speed.
They emerged from the tunnel. The carriage suddenly lit up. She glanced out of the window. The platform looked busy. Some people to her right made their way through the mass of bodies toward the door.
A screech of steel on steel as the brakes kicked in harder.
Eight seconds.
Click-clack
She turned towards the target.
Five seconds.
Click—clack.
She took a deep breath. Held it.
Three seconds.
Click———clack.
Amanda drew the hammer back on the pistol in her pocket until she heard it . . .
The man’s head shot up. He stared straight at her.
‘You,’ he said, rising to his feet.
Amanda tried to pull the gun, but hesitated. He’d seen her. He’d spoken to her. And that would draw attention. If she shot him now, people might see her do it. Since she’d lost her family, Amanda sometimes went days without another person speaking to her. This man, Wallace Crone, was the last person she wanted to speak to her. And his voice, addressing her, was like being shaken out of a long dream. The train driver hit the brakes hard, throwing her off balance.
That moment’s hesitation was long enough to give Crone the advantage, and ruin her chance. He stood, grabbed her by the lapels and shouted, ‘Help! Police, help!’
He pushed forward and the back of Amanda’s head hit one of the upright poles.
‘Get off me,’ she said.
His face was right up close to hers. She could smell the coffee on his breath. He gritted his teeth, called out again.
‘Help me! Someone call a cop!’ he said.
Amanda managed to pull the gun. Held it low, out of his line of sight.
‘What’s the problem here?’ cried a voice. It sounded deep, authoritative. A man. A cop. Transport police. She could hear him moving toward them.
She dropped the gun, unnoticed, into the half-open golf umbrella of the businessman beside her. He promptly moved away, his eyes wide at the scene in front of him – not knowing whether to intervene and on whose behalf.
Amanda’s balance left her, and she fell backwards. Crone on top of her.
She saw the cop standing over them, pulling at Crone’s arm, asking what the hell was going on.
