Pinchot wiped bubbling blood from his cheek. “I was only trying to do good, you know. I was trying to help.”
“I know that’s what you think.”
“Then you forgive me?”
“No.” Nash’s word was a slab of ice. “You killed too many innocent people. You killed my friend. All I can do is understand, but I’ll never forgive you.”
Pinchot chuckled, but the effort caused him to wince in pain. “I admire your honesty, you sickeningly good son-of-a-bitch.” He winced and coughed up more blood. He didn’t have long. “Go to wheatusfans.org, you can access the back end with the username admin. The password is the first chorus of Teenage Dirtbag.”
“Are you… are you serious?”
“I never joke about Wheatus.” Pinchot convulsed, turned to his side and spat blood. “There’s a whole mess of hidden files in there, your Harry will have no problem finding them. It has everything on the terrorist attack, the board, me, Cavendish, Tartarus, everything. You’ll clear your names.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“You should.” Pinchot looked Nash in the eye. “You’re a good man, Mason Nash.”
His eyes glazed over and after a couple of deep inhales, drew air no more.
Jack Pinchot was dead.
Looking up at Hawk, Nash rummaged around in the pockets of Pinchot’s jacket. “Did you hear what he said?”
“About Wheatus?” Hawk scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, but—”
Hawk stopped suddenly as Nash leapt up. “Help Bishop and Harry, the fire’s getting out of control.”
Without waiting for a reply, he ran for the door, pausing only to pick up one thing. Sophia was still consoling the weeping Eva and saw him running.
She called out, “Nash, stop. Wait.”
Nash did not stop. He did not wait.
Holding the keys to Pinchot’s Ferrari LaFerrari in one hand and a shotgun in the other, Nash sprinted outside. One friend was dead, but the information supplied by a dying Pinchot meant the rest of his friends would be safe.
Nash tossed the shotgun onto the passenger seat and started the Ferrari with a ferocious roar. Dropping the sportscar into gear, he spun the wheels and took off at speed. There was only one thing for him to do now. Nash was going to end this.
Chapter Seventeen
Trees were a blur.
The Ferrari LaFerrari’s hybrid V12 had a maximum speed of three hundred and fifty kilometres an hour. It was the fastest road car Ferrari had produced at the time. Nash was reasonably sure he could catch a Land Rover. The winding country roads wouldn’t let him redline the beast of a car, but the way it hugged the curves allowed Nash to claw back the gap between him and Cavendish in no time at all. Within a minute he had the bastard in his sights.
Turning a corner near the Hangman’s Inn, the Land Rover was pelting through the centre of the town, its driver desperate to leave, his plans for eliminating Nash in his home having fallen apart so dramatically. Cavendish would be frantic that his small army had been picked off one by one, leaving only their ruthless leader at large.
Not for long.
Nash took a racing line on the corner and threaded the Ferrari through the tiny gap. In seconds he was bearing down on the SUV. He didn’t take his foot off the accelerator, which was flat the floor. Nash saw Cavendish’s head whip around as he heard the howling V12 coming at him like a bullet.
It was an apt simile.
The front bonnet of the Ferrari hit the rear right wheel of the Land Rover at ninety kilometres an hour. The shunt lifted the SUV into the air, sending it careening over and landing on its side. The impact deployed the Ferrari’s multiple airbags and Nash’s chest and arms were thumped with the protective devices as white powder impeded his vision. The Ferrari crashed to a halt.
Dazed for the second time that night, Nash staggered from the wreckage. The Land Rover was on its side, the front of the vehicle resting against the exterior wall of the pub. Cavendish shouldered the weight of the driver’s side door slid against it’s mass to squeeze out. He landed ingloriously on the asphalt with a thud, staggering away from the crash stunned.
Nash fired the shotgun into the air. That got Cavendish’s attention. On the hill, St. Stephen’s lit the night, the fire now visible through its stained-glass windows. The village was bathed in a haunting orange glow.
Cavendish stood with his hands in the air, although in one he held a pistol. He turned slowly to face his nemesis.
Nash pumped the slide of the shotgun and held it at hip height, aimed at Cavendish. “You killed your own son.”
“I can still call the police, tell them you did it.”
“My god, man, you’re still trying to get out of this? Not even lamenting the death of your own child? You really are a psychopath.”
“The police will believe me.” Cavendish’s arrogance was as steely as ever.
“No, they won’t. We have Pinchot’s evidence. All of it. He hated me, but he abhorred you even more. We have your men captive, some of whom have juicy stories they’re willing to tell in exchange for immunity. You’re cooked, Cavendish.”
“I’ll survive.”
Never one to believe in clichés, Nash was surprised to find that his entire body felt like his blood was boiling. This man, this bastard, was utterly unmoved that Paul—his own flesh and blood—had died because of him. It took every ounce of strength not to pull the trigger in that instant.
The worst part was that Cavendish was likely right. Even with all of Pinchot’s evidence, MI5 and MI6 would rather sweep it all under the carpet than face the ignominy of a trial where they would have to publicly admit how royally they’d fucked up. The esteemed and trusted former head of MI6 would likely escape the worst punishments; he’d get a light slap on the wrist at best. For all the death he had dished out, his own son included, he’d face little to no justice. Ramsay Cavendish would be a free man in no time.
Swallowing the bile that crept up the back of his throat, Nash lowered his head. “Did you know you were going to be a grandfather?”
“Wh… what?” Genuine surprise crossed his features.
