Ли Чайлд - The Fourth Man

She spat at me. Not the first time it had happened, but always a surprise. I swapped the gun into my left hand, and with my right I grabbed her by the throat. And squeezed. It was a small throat, but not tiny. But a very big hand. She was gone in a couple of minutes.

I got out of the car and walked back the way I had come. The guitar players and the bongo drummers were still at it. Beyond them Pete Peterson was leaning on the fender of his car.

‘We put a tracker on the brown car,’ he said. ‘We knew where you were and we worked out how you would do it. With the phone, and the outflanking manoeuvre.’

‘OK,’ I said.

‘Now I’m here to drive you to the airport.’

‘Already?’

‘Better that way.’

‘When is my flight?’

‘Now, basically. We’ll just about make it.’

I left Australian airspace less than five hours after entering it. Which made me resent the price of the visa. On the other hand, it was valid for an extended period of time. All was not lost. I decided I would come back one day. For a proper vacation. When it was winter in America. Maybe via Bali again.