Read No Going Back for Free Online

were trying to make me as a cop. My English accent would throw them off that line faster than anything.
    ‘You buying?’ the first man asked.
    ‘Depends on what you’re selling.’
    ‘Just grass, man.’
    I shook my head. ‘I’m not talking drugs.’
    A quizzical look shot between them.
    ‘I’ve a little problem to deal with, but I don’t have the tools for the job.’ I was being purposefully vague, hoping that they would offer the conclusion. If they were just low-end potheads, they were no good to me and I’d walk away.
    ‘What kind of problem?’ The stocky one had jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. No way was he carrying, and the manner in which he’d just compromised himself meant he was no immediate danger. Not a good sign, considering.
    ‘Personal problem.’ I just stood looking at them.
    The taller man sucked his teeth, before jerking his head for me to follow him. To his friend he said, ‘Pop the trunk.’
    The boot was full of junk, a toolbox, a blanket, and a spare tyre. The tall man dug around inside the toolbox, lifting out wrenches and hammers and placing them on the rolled blanket. From under the tools he pulled a bundle of rags, and even though there was a musty odour in general, I recognised the more familiar scent of gun oil. Taking a look over his shoulder, he checked that no one was spying on us. His action was the mark of an amateur, but it didn’t matter now. He unfurled the edges of the cloth and disclosed what lay within. It wasn’t a semi-auto handgun, the likes of which I usually carried, but a six-shot revolver, and a box of ammo stained dark with lubricant. It was a workhorse weapon, a Smith and Wesson, chambered for both .38 Special and .357 cartridges, and as good a gun as I could hope for. I leaned past the man and lifted the gun out of the rags, worked the cylinder, checked the piece over. ‘Is it clean?’
    ‘It hasn’t been used in a stick-up, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at?’
    ‘The serial number’s been filed off.’
    ‘Didn’t say it never would be.’ The guy gave me a shit-eating grin, playing the tough guy. He wasn’t the real deal. I considered taking the gun and the ammunition off him. I’d be doing a service, probably to him. During one of his highs he might shoot himself in the foot. But I was no thief. I peeled three hundred dollars off Jameson Walker’s roll. ‘That’s all I’m willing to pay. But that includes the shells.’
    ‘Three hundred? Damn, I’d throw the bitch in as well for that price.’
    Recalling their girlfriend’s pie-dish face, her spindly legs and tottering gait, I declined politely. But that was the deal done. I wasn’t going to shake on it; they were drug-dealing arseholes, not the type I’d normally give the time of day. I took the gun, wrapped it in the cloth, stuffed the box of ammunition into my jacket pocket and then headed for the GMC.
    Now that I’d prepared myself, the hunt was on. It was time to go find Jay and Nicole. Maybe I wouldn’t need the gun. But that was unlikely.

6
    Some time later I came to the gas station mentioned in the news articles Jameson Walker had provided. Coming upon it in the dark, it looked different from the images on the printed sheets. It was no less stark, and if anything even more terrible in real life. The shack that had served as the teller’s booth-cum-convenience store had collapsed down on itself. Fire crews had sifted through the wreckage while recovering the corpse of the teller and much of the building now lay in mangled heaps about the original foundations. The fuel pumps had been taken by the explosion that ripped through the site, as had an awning erected to offer shade to customers as they filled up their gas tanks. The vehicles belonging to the teller and the family who were also murdered had been lifted and taken away for further forensic study. If it wasn’t for the signage at the side of the highway, you’d be hard put to guess Peachy’s gas