Severed by Simon Kernick Read Free Book Online Page B

a pulse. There isn't one. In desperation, I pump his chest. Nothing happens.
    Finally, I accept the inevitable. He's gone. I exhale deeply and stand up. The room, already heavy with the heat, is now beginning to fill with the smell of death. I look round at the four corpses, all positioned unnaturally. ShavenHead is on his knees, leaning forward into Miami Vice as if he's kissing him. One hand is still in the other man's inside jacket pocket, where he was hunting for ID. I can hear the blood dripping heavily from what is left of his forehead as it splatters into his friend's lap. It is the only sound in the room.
    Four people dead, all for a measly one hundred and fifty grand. You can't even buy a shed for that in London these days. I shake my head at the futility of it all as I look down at the briefcase containing the money. I could pick it up and take it, and I'd be leaving here one hell of a lot richer, but what's the point? It's blood money, and with Leah gone, I wouldn't even know what to spend it on. The other case, the one I'm here to collect, is far more important, because that'll lead me to the person behind this.
    But as I turn round to go to pick it up, events take yet another turn for the worse. Before I've even taken a step, there's a huge crash downstairs and I realize that the front door to the house has just been smashed from its hinges. A second later come the urgent shouts I'm dreading.
    'Armed police! Do not move!'
    Their footfalls are heavy on the bare, carpetless floor, and I can hear them coming up the stairs. They are moving fast, which tells me that they know exactly where they're going.
    And, worse still, who they're looking for.

8

    As the footfalls get louder on the stairs, I make a rapid calculation. There is no way I'm going out the front of the building, so that leaves only one alternative: the back. I run into the kitchen, scooping up the burgundy case with its mysterious contents. It leads into a short hallway, and I hurry through and into a bedroom that appears to be missing a bed as well as furniture. A set of ancient French windows with peeling paint running down the frames leads out on to an equally decrepit balcony with a less than attractive view to the rear of the houses on the next street. I try the handles but they're locked, and there's no sign of any keys. Behind me, I can hear the shouts of the advancingcoppers. It sounds like they're only seconds behind me. Only a few minutes have passed since the outbreak of gunfire and I don't know how they got here so fast.
    Taking a step back, I karate-kick the midsection of the French windows. The lock breaks and the doors fly open. I run through, clambering onto the balcony's wooden balustrade. Below me, I can see two plainclothes cops with police-issue caps and MP5 carbines strapped to their shoulders climbing over the boundary wall. At least two cop cars are parked out on the adjoining road, and I can hear the sound of sirens converging from several different points in the distance. The balustrade makes a worrying cracking noise as I scramble down the other side of it and hang from the bottom rail by one arm before jumping the final dozen or so feet to the patio below. I hit the ground with knees bent to absorb the impact, and roll to one side - a typical parachutist's landing. A bolt of pain shoots like a bullet from my ankles to my calves, and my shoulder bumps hard against the stone. But I'm uninjured and back on my feet in a second, running for the fence that separates the garden from the rear of the neighbour's property.
    'Stop or I'll fire!' yells one of the armed cops behind me.
    Harsh words, definitely, but I'm calculating that he won't shoot me in the back. The British police have some of the toughest regulations in the world governing the use of firearms and can only pull the trigger if there is an immediate threat to life. And there isn't. At least not yet. Although maybe I'm being a little over-confident, given that these are