Money Run (20 page)

Ash couldn't take her eyes off the spa. Buckland was only visible in the water for a moment before the water turned dark, clouds of blood billowing through it. Buckland had tripped over the switches for the jets as he fell in, and now the water bubbled sickeningly.

The hit man was keeping his gun trained on the water, checking that Buckland wasn't coming back up.

He wasn't. Two shots to the chest and one to the head – Buckland would have been dead before he hit the water.

Ash started to back away, slowly. Maybe she could make it out the door before Peachey turned around. One step, two steps…

Peachey's body turned before his gaze, which hovered over the water for a second longer. Ash put her hand on the door handle.

He saw her.

His eyes widened with recognition and astonishment. Ash remembered that the last time he'd seen her she'd been flying off the top of HBS in a Bugatti Veyron. He must have assumed she was dead.

He raised the gun, and Ash found herself staring down the barrel. She didn't have time to get out of the way before he pulled the trigger.

Click
.

No more bullets.

Ash stood frozen for a moment. She willed her legs to take her out the door, but it was like they were manacled to the floor.

Peachey laughed. He wiped his prints off the gun and tossed it into the water.

“You,” he told Ash, “might just be the luckiest girl alive.”

Then he walked past her, pulled the door open, and left. The door swung slowly shut behind him.

Ash fell to her knees. It wasn't intended as a dramatic gesture – her legs just gave way. She put her hands on the carpet, which was freckled with droplets from the pool.

What do I do now? she asked herself. What do I do?

Keighley watched Peachey leave the office. He hit SEND on his phone and pressed it to his ear.

“I'm listening,” Tania Walker said.

“The job is done,” Keighley said. He hung up – no more needed to be said.

“We need to get over there,” Wright said. “Are you in touch with the officers on the perimeter?”

“Sure,” the leader said.

“Make sure they don't let anyone through,” Wright said. “No one. Everyone involved in this fiasco is right here, and I want to keep it that way.”

“Got it.”

It was at that moment that the yellow cube on the roof of HBS exploded.

Wright fell backwards into the cabin of the helicopter as the flash lit up the sky, and the force of the blast rippled outwards. When he looked up again, he saw that the cube had turned to dust, and was raining down from the heavens like a giant shower of sparks. The spotlights on the top of HBS shimmered through the cascading particles, which shone like gold as the light caught them.

Wright frowned. Actually, it really did look like gold.

The people in the quarantine zone below stared up in confusion as the noise of the explosion dissipated into nothing and the first of the dust particles hit the ground. The streets were full of people crouching to examine the debris, then looking up again and stretching their arms towards the sky, trying to catch some of the gold rain.

A few particles, sucked up by the helicopter blades, wafted in through the cargo door. Wright pressed his fingertip against one to pick it up, and stared at it.

As far as he could tell, yes, it was real gold.

Some of the gold dust was blown over the edge of the quarantine zone by the breeze, reaching the crowds on the other side of the roadblock. There was the same initial pause as the people examined the dust, and then the upwards stare of astonishment. And then they pushed forward, fighting the police with more energy than before, trying to break into the quarantine zone, money rain motivating them more than fear for friends and loved ones had.

Police officers were shoved aside, concrete road barriers were toppled, and thousands of people ran towards HBS, scooping the dust up from the concrete, catching it in their hands and on their faces, stuffing it into their pockets.

Belle's going to freak when she hears about this, Wright thought.

Ash had heard the crack of the explosion, and could see the yellowish dust pouring down past the window, but hadn't worked out what had happened until now.

“No,” she said. “No. No. No, no,
no
!”

Buckland had found a way to dispose of his $96 billion. He was sharing it with the people.

Ash had the sudden paranoia that Buckland wasn't dead; that he was somewhere out there laughing at her. She knew it couldn't be true, she'd seen him die, but…

Had she?

Ash crawled towards the spa, switched off the jets, and dipped her arms in. She flattened her hands against the bottom, searching for Buckland's body. The water was shallow, shallower than she remembered.

She ran her fingers all over the bottom of the pool. She found a Glock 7 pistol, but nothing else. There was no sign of Buckland's body.

Ash whirled around, splashing bloody water across the carpet. The room was still empty. Buckland had vanished into thin air.

Could he have climbed out while she was staring out the window, and snuck out the door behind her? No way. She would have heard him.

The room wasn't as she'd last seen it, she suddenly realized. The scuba suit she'd noticed this morning had gone.

The water was shallower than she'd remembered. The scuba suit was gone. So was Buckland. But where?

Ash felt like she was on the brink of a realization, but couldn't quite wrap her head around it. Until she peered out the window, looking down into the street again, and saw the rest of the fake TRA team. They were still in their hazard suits, goggles on, hoods up, carrying the box of fake anthrax towards their truck. They'd wrapped it in a giant plastic bag and were carrying it with great care, ignoring the people scrabbling for the gold dust. They put the box in the back of their truck, and climbed inside.

Ash watched the truck as it started to move, driving towards the roadblock.

Water shallower.

Scuba suit gone.

Coffin-sized box, taken away.

The driver flashed some ID at one of the struggling cops on the roadblock, who waved the truck through with little hesitation.

Hammond Buckland had faked his own death, Ash realized. He had staged his murder so well that even the supposed murderer thought he was dead. That's why he didn't want her whacking Peachey over the head. Peachey had to think he was dead too for the trick to work.

She jumped into the pool and started stamping down on the tiles, one at a time. This was the only way Buckland could have escaped. There must be a—

Ash jumped back as a hole opened up in the floor of the pool. Water whirlpooled around her legs, draining into it, pouring down into the room below, where it splattered against the mound of fake anthrax, turning it into soggy grey slush.

Ash jumped back out of the spa and watched it drain itself completely dry. She guessed there must be some kind of switch to close the hole from the other side.

She sat down on the floor, and laughed.

Peachey sipped his macadamia nut latte at the table by the window, watching the chaos from a distance. People were still scraping gold out of cracks in the pavement, cars were still trapped at the intersection, and the police were still trying to get the crowd to disperse.

He'd made it out of HBS without any trouble – since the fake TRA agents were no longer guarding the entrances, the more enterprising members of the public were storming in through the doors, hoping to reach the roof where there was presumably lots more gold dust. Some of the HBS employees, confused and frightened, had given up waiting in their offices and were moving in the other direction, trying to escape. Peachey had slipped through the crowd unnoticed.

When he was outside, he'd edged towards the fallen roadblocks while the police officer nearest him was looking the other way. Then, when the guy looked at him, Peachey started moving back towards HBS, like he was trying to get into the quarantine zone rather than out. Sure enough, the cop grabbed him and threw him over the safety line, telling him to go away, there was nothing to see here. Peachey was free to wander down the street in search of a good coffee shop, like he did after all his jobs.

This particular shop was doing great business. Many of the people who'd tried to get into the quarantine zone and been turned away seemed to be looking for a caffeine hit – Peachey was one of very few customers sitting with a free seat opposite him.

And not any more, he realized, annoyed. Someone was sitting down. He turned to the window, hoping the guy wouldn't try talking to him.

“Good evening, Peachey.”

Peachey turned his head back. At first he didn't recognize the man sitting opposite him. He'd shaved his head, and he was wearing different clothes. He was pale, as if he was wearing make-up – or perhaps like he'd been wearing it all the time and had only now scrubbed it off. It was Hammond Buckland.

Peachey was not a superstitious man. But it only takes one ghost to convince you that they're real.

“You're dead,” he whispered.

Buckland smiled. “So everyone believes. Thanks to you. They'll go on believing it until they can't find my body, and I'll be long gone by then.”

“I killed you,” Peachey said. “I shot you.”

“With blanks. Did you even wonder why I left your gun right there on the floor of my office? Didn't you think it was strange that Alex de Totth was firing tranquillizer darts at you, and that she left you alone after taking away your Beretta?” He chuckled. “Actually, I only hired her so
you
would kill her. Otherwise the government would send her after me when they realized you had failed. I had no idea Adam Keighley, of all people, would do the job for me. I feel a little short-changed, actually. Do you know how much it costs to hire the world's number-one hit woman for a whole six months?”

“I saw the bullet holes in you!” Peachey's voice was shaky, weak. Confusion replacing shock.

“That's a disadvantage of firing the same three shots into every victim,” Buckland said. “It's easy to pretend to be hit.”

Peachey gritted his teeth. If the job wasn't done yet, so be it. He would finish it now. He lunged forward and wrapped his hands around Buckland's throat to squeeze that smug smile out of him—

Only he didn't. He couldn't move from his chair. He couldn't even lift his arms.

“Oh yes,” Buckland said. “The drug I had the staff slip into your drink should have kicked in by now. Don't worry, the paralysis should wear off in an hour or two. I own every coffee shop on this street, you see – and I had plenty of pictures of you from the surveillance footage to give them, so they knew who to give the special order to.” He shook his head. “And that's a disadvantage of staying nearby for a coffee after a mission. You see where routine gets you?”

“I…will…
kill…you
,” Peachey growled. His lips were stiff, and the words came out slurred.

“You just don't get it, do you?” Buckland said. “You won't. You can't. And that's the reason I'm here.”

He leaned forward. “I need everyone to know – government, business rivals, gangs, criminals, everyone – that anyone they send after me will be crushed and defeated as totally as I have crushed and defeated you. I need everyone to know that this is what happens when you mess with me. That I am indestructible.”

He smiled. “You are my living message. Just count yourself lucky I didn't pick a worse task for you.”

He stood up, and Peachey tried again to charge at him, but the drug had taken total control. He felt his muscles move, or he thought he did, but he was as still as a statue.

Buckland didn't say goodbye. He just stood up and walked out. The door jingled shut behind him.

Come on, Michael, Peachey told himself. Move.

He tried to wiggle his fingers, but the paralysis was only getting worse. They didn't budge.

Come on. You can do it.

Buckland had stranded him here for a reason. And he didn't want to be here when whoever was coming to pick him up arrived.

Move. Move, damn it!

He couldn't even let go of his cup of coffee. His fingers seemed to be glued to it, just like his forearms were glued to the table, and his feet were glued to the floor. He was a photograph instead of a man.

The door jingled again, this time more forcefully. A man in a brown coat walked in, raised a Colt .45, and pointed it at Peachey's chest. With his other hand he held up a police badge.

“I'm Detective Damien Wright,” he said. “I'm arresting you for the murder of Hammond Buckland. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you by the state. Put your hands on your head.”

Peachey's jaw was frozen in place. His tongue was stuck to the floor of his mouth. It was hard to breathe.

“I said, put your hands on your head,” Wright said, approaching slowly.

Peachey thought of the recording in his pocket, the one that implicated both him and Tania Walker. He wondered what sort of sentence he would get if he confessed and turned in Adam Keighley as well.

Presumably it would be shortened once the police realized that Buckland wasn't actually dead.

“Put your hands on your head, now!” Wright said. His gaze was cold and hard.

Peachey's fingers still wouldn't move. Gold-speckled people swept past outside the window, pockets overflowing. In a dark alcove, some children were making a small gold snowman.

He thought of the money that should have been his. He thought of the girl who'd escaped. He thought of the man who'd outsmarted him and the prison cell that would be waiting and his first-ever mission failure.

Then he thought of the imaginary movie about his life, and his frozen lips stretched into a slow, numb smile.