Chapter 77
LXXVII
Maybe it wasn’t too late?
Maybe it didn’t matter that Davis hadn’t told the police where they were, because the cops could track people’s phones now, couldn’t they? Triangulate where you’re calling from, based on which phone towers the signal pinged off.
Shit, they were probably racing over here right now.
Wherever the hell ‘here’ was . . .
Course they were.
They were coming for her.
Because even though he was a twisted, murdering, violent, bastard – Detective Sergeant Davis was too fond of his miserable hide to die in this shitty barn.
All she had to do was wait.
They’d be here.
It was over.
She was getting out of this shitty hellhole.
. . .
Davis’s eyes flickered open and a little smile tweaked the corner of his mouth. Then he thumbed a button on the side of his phone, making a pre-recorded voice swell out of the speaker, getting louder and louder.
‘At the third stroke, the time, sponsored by Triple-Five Mobile, will be nine forty-eight and forty seconds.’
Beep. Beep. Beep.
‘At the third stroke, the time, sponsored by Triple-Five Mobile, will be nine forty-eight and fifty—’
Davis smashed his phone down against the barn floor, snarling as he hammered it into the concrete:
Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
Until the screen shattered and bits of glass flew off to make ripples in the lake of blood. Followed by a half-dozen chunks of broken electronics.
Disturbed by the sudden violence, bluebottles leapt into the foetid air, performing a slow-motion waltz to the sounds of heavy metal.
Breathing in harsh, shallow gasps, Davis tossed what was left of his phone into the blood. Then his arm fell limp. ‘No one’s . . . coming . . . to save you . . . . We die here.’ An almost-laugh trembled free: ‘“I turn my body . . . from the sun.”’
Natasha glared at the bastard. ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?’
His voice faltered, getting fainter and fainter. ‘“For hate’s sake . . . I spit my last breath . . . at . . .”’ There was a hiss of leaking breath, then his head drooped forwards, mouth hanging open. Eyes too.
It took a couple of moments for the bluebottles to pluck up courage, but eventually one fat little bastard landed on Davis’s tongue. Then another on his left pupil. And another. And another as the feeding began.
Leaving Natasha to die alone.