When Avery wasn’t recaptured by 5 P.M., the governor even got into his own two-year-old Mercedes Kompressor and cruised the drizzling moors, convinced that spotting Avery was just a matter of time and motivation.
And he was getting very motivated.
Every hour that Avery remained at large compounded his sin in not having called the police. And every hour that he didn’t call the police increased his desperation to get Avery back in custody without anyone knowing he’d ever been gone.
When Avery wasn’t captured by nightfall, the governor’s discomfort at not having called the police earlier turned to twitchy foreboding and—shortly thereafter—blind panic.
It was in that condition that he staked his entire future on Avery’s being in custody by morning.
Which meant that when he wasn’t, the numb, soon-to-be-jobless governor didn’t call the police until 7:09 A.M.—almost twenty-four hours after Avery went over the wall.
Chapter 32
SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD PRIVATE GARY LUMSDEN DIDN’T LIKE THE army but—like his father before him—he did like guns.
The difference, thought Lumsden, was that his father had never been in possession of a gun quite as menacing as the SA80A2, with its thirty-round magazine, an accurate range of four hundred yards, and a muzzle velocity of just a shade under a kilometer per second.
Not that his father would have given a shit about any of the technical details, of course, thought Lumsden; Mason Dingle would only have wanted to know how cheap, and could it be traced.
But Gary Lumsden loved the technical details. Certainly, he wished the SA80A2 had a more glamorous name, like Colt .45 or Uzi. But it was the technical details that had kept his mouth watered through thirteen weeks of sweaty basic training, and his fists at his sides as Second Lieutenant Brigstock—all shiny and new from Sandhurst—bossed him about like a hated older brother.
The thought of the SA80 obsessed him. On drill his eyes swivelled illegally to watch other squaddies carrying their guns, and he felt rather than heard the dull metal-on-metal clicks and sharp slides of well-maintained weaponry. As he hung with screaming arms over a pit of mud on the assault course, his ears were attuned to the snappy cracks from the nearby range. At night, while the man in the bunk below his made them both shake to the rhythm of imaginary sex, Gary Lumsden’s skin thrilled instead to the thought of cradling his SA80 in his left hand, while his right forefinger twitched on a phantom trigger.
And now he finally held the culmination of all those technical details cool and heavy in his hands, it was all Private Gary Lumsden could do not to stand up, spin on his heel, and spray his platoon-mates with high-caliber bullets at a rate of seven hundred rounds per minute—just to see what it would feel like. He yearned to feel the weapon heat up in his palms, spit fire from his fingers, ring in his ears, commit distant murder.
Instead Private Lumsden breathed through his mouth as the moment of truth arrived.
The SA80 fitted him like another limb. They’d been separated at birth and now it was part of him again. He’d cleaned it and dismantled it and cleaned it and reassembled it and cleaned it again. He could do it blindfolded. Be good to your gun and your gun will be good to you. By that reckoning, Private Lumsden’s gun should have gone down on him every morning and then cooked him bacon and eggs.
But now—finally—it was his gun’s turn to pay him back.
Controlling his excitement, Private Lumsden drew a bead on a card target that didn’t even have a human shape on it—it was just five bull’s-eyes on a page. Fucking crap.
Still, he focused, relaxed, exhaled smoothly, and squeezed lovingly, and the single round kicked his shoulder and the card rippled briefly to let him know he’d hit it.
“Well done, Lumsden!”
Lumsden didn’t hear Brigstock. The shot had opened a gate of hot pleasure in him that made him wince. He had to bite his lip to keep from whimpering. Never in a million years had he imagined his gun would be
In a rush, he thought of his father.
Lumsden’s father shared his DNA but not his name. Thank god. Life had been tough enough for the Lumsden boys without the added encumbrance of a name like Dingle. No wonder his old man had had a short fuse.
That short fuse translated into quick fists for young Gary and his brother, Mark. The boys did not complain; they had never known anything else. In just the same way, they had never had clothes on their backs that were not shoplifted, food on their table that had been legally purchased, toys they had not bought with stolen lunch money.
Even their mother did not really belong to their father—she was one of six on the Lapwing estate who had borne his children, the first offspring arriving just shy of Mason Dingle’s fifteenth birthday. Gary and Mark had a half sister they had nothing to do with, and knew who their half brothers were by their quick tempers as much as by the angelic blue eyes they all shared.
