A Silent Death Peter May (i read book TXT) 📖

Cristina’s mouth is dry as she follows suit. The gun feels familiar in her hand, but somehow heavier than during target practice. Fear lends it weight. She has never fired it in anger. Has never expected to.

Matías steps through the gate on to a driveway of crazy paving that wends its way through tall palms and a profusion of flowering shrubs. Cristina moves carefully in his wake, the barrel of her pistol pointed toward the night sky, her elbow drawn in at her side. She breathes in a heady fragrance that lingers in the warm air, and identifies it as jasmine. Off to their left a double garage is attached to the house, and a path leads around it towards the front garden where hectares of paved terrace overlook a shimmering infinity pool. Ahead, steps lead up to a porticoed porch, and a large studded front door lies ajar. The faint glow of yellow light suffuses the stillness beyond. Matías waves Cristina around the far side of the house, off to their right, while he heads in the other direction towards the pool. He hopes to catch a glimpse of the intruders through the glass doors that open on to the terrace. Better to establish what or who they are dealing with before entering the property.

Cristina reaches the far side of the terrace. Slabs of light fall across the paving stones towards the pool. She moves cautiously around its perimeter to steal a look inside. A sprawling split-level room is illuminated by lighting concealed around the ceiling. There are large, soft armchairs and a settee, an enormous, luxuriant white rug spread across a marble floor. An eclectic display of modern artwork breaks the monotony of shadowed white walls. But the room is empty, with the hallway beyond it mired in gloom.

Her eye catches a movement on the far side of the terrace and she sees Matías lurching forward as he stumbles on something unseen in the darkness. There is a resounding clatter, and then the sound of his SIG-Sauer skidding away across the paving stones. Cristina’s heart fills her throat and pushes up into her mouth.

*

Inside, the man who calls himself Ian Templeton is emerging from a bedroom converted to a home office when the clatter from the terrace outside brings him to a dead stop. He has several folders in his hand. He stands completely still, heart pounding, as if someone inside were trying to punch their way out. Turning back into the office he crosses to the desk and extinguishes the desk lamp. He lays his folders on its polished surface and quickly opens a drawer to remove a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol. A window on one side gives on to the garden and he moves towards it, pressing himself against the wall before daring to turn and peer out into the darkness.

By the light that spills across the terrace from the living room he sees a figure moving among the shadows, heading towards a copse of dark palms. A strange, loping run. He spins away again from the window. His face stretched taut with tension, and he presses himself once more into the wall. He has always known this might happen. That one day they could find him. That someday they would come for him. And he has always known that he would not go down without a fight. That he would rather die than let them take him.

But still, he is very nearly overcome by regret. Just a few short years ago he had lived his life without fear. When death means nothing, fear has no traction. But now . . . Now he has everything to live for, everything to lose. Undreamed-of happiness. How could he ever have known that such a thing was possible?

He wonders if he should alert her. She went to the bedroom. But he decides it will be safer for her if she does not know. She will hear the shots, of course. But by then it will all be over. And they have no reason to hurt her. She is the one innocent in all this.

He can feel sweat moistening his palm as it grips his gun more tightly. And he slips quietly into the hall, past the master bedroom, to switch off the lights in the living room. The house and garden are plunged into darkness, and beyond the shimmer of moonlight on the surface of the pool he sees silver coruscations on the black lacquered surface of the Med. He starts cautiously back along the hall towards the open front door where a narrow shaft of light from the street falls across the tiles.

*

Outside, Cristina is retracing her footsteps to the back of the villa where they entered from the street. She expects to encounter Matías circling around to meet her. No reason for stealth any more. Whoever is inside knows they are there. But there is no sign of him. She runs her tongue lightly across dry lips and climbs the steps one by one to the portico. The door still lies ajar, and she sees her shadow from the streetlights stretching into the hallway beyond, announcing her presence to whoever might be waiting there. Where in God’s name is Matías?

She hesitates by the door, paralysed by her own fear, becoming acutely aware of a presence just beyond her line of sight. Nothing in her training or years of service has prepared her for this. She glances towards the garage, willing Matías to appear, but still there is no sign of him. Then she hears the sound of soft footfalls on marble from within, and knows that she must take the initiative.

‘Police!’ she calls out, and her voice sounds both feeble and inordinately loud at the same time. The echo of it propels her forward. Swinging her pistol level with her shoulder in a two-handed shooting stance. She pivots through the open door to point her weapon straight into the dark.

He sees her in silhouette. An easy