Jordan Gray - Unearthed

The man whirled around. Wild-eyed and breathing fast, he stared at Michael. “Just checking on my mate. That’s all. Nothing to get your knickers in a twist over.”

Michael spread his hands away from his sides to show that he meant no harm. “My name’s Michael Graham.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly. “I know who you are. I’ll ask you to clear that door.”

Slowly, Michael shook his head. “Not until you give me some identification.”

The man grinned, but it was a sick expression and tainted with panic. “You don’t need that.”

“Sorry. I don’t succumb to Jedi mind tricks. But I will be having your name.”

“Let me introduce you to Mr. Slicey.” With a quick snap of his wrist, the man pulled a switchblade knife into view. He flipped it open as easily as breathing and the stainless-steel edge gleamed. It would have been an excellent cut-scene in a game. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. I don’t have time for a lot of questions.”

His stomach twisting and turning sour with fear, Michael raised his hands. Until moving to Blackpool, he’d led a rather dull life when it came to criminal affairs. But recently he’d been threatened, beaten and shot at. He wasn’t becoming any more inured to violence—his quivering stomach was the perfect illustration of that fact—but he was determined that he wasn’t going to allow any information this man might have about what Rohan was doing in Crowe’s Nest that night to slip through his fingers.

“Stand aside.” The man held the switchblade before him.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid. I need to know what business you’ve had with my friend.”

“None of yours.”

“I’ll have to be the judge of that.”

Smoothly and without hesitation, the man lunged forward, his body following the knife. Reacting instinctively, reflexes honed from rugby and other sports he’d played, Michael slapped the man’s hand away. The fellow tried to slip through the door, but Michael slammed his body into his attacker’s and bounced him off the door frame.

Off balance and slightly dazed, the thug swept the knife back at Michael, who managed to grab the man’s wrist in both hands, but not before the blade sliced through his rugby jersey and burned across his stomach. Twisting viciously, Michael experienced a momentary thrill of success as the switchblade clattered to the floor. He took just a second to kick the weapon under Rohan’s bed, then the man head-butted him in the face.

The room and the lights swam in Michael’s vision and pain filled his skull. He managed to stay upright despite the dizziness that surged through him. He felt blood running down his face and stomach and told himself he was a proper cretin for trying to mix it up with a man with a knife.

Then his attacker slammed a shoulder into him and knocked him backward. Before Michael could recover, the man shoved him out of the way and ran. Staggering, senses reeling, Michael followed.

MERCIFUL ANGELS WAS SMALL. The second-floor nurses’ station was in the center of the building next to the flight of stairs leading down. Hospital rooms lined halls on either side of the large area. Frightened nurses stepped back from the man as he ran. Michael trailed at his heels and, with his longer strides, gained steadily.

Grabbing the low wall near the stairs, the man whipped around it and took the stairway down to the first floor. Two nurses shouted out in alarm and Michael felt certain security would be alerted. That suited him fine, although the guards he’d seen were all elderly gentlemen and didn’t look as if they’d put up much of a fight. He hoped that Paddington or one of Blackpool’s constables would be nearby. With all the work going on in the marina and the shipwreck discovery, extra men were on duty.

Losing his attacker at the first landing, Michael panicked for a moment till he made the corner and spotted the guy streaking for the front door. By the time the man reached it, Michael was closing the distance again.

The man burst through the door and ran outside into the small yard. Merciful Angels was only a couple blocks back of Main Street and fronted a residential area filled with small, old houses. The tiny visitors’ parking lot in front of the hospital was barely large enough to hold six vehicles. Both of the town’s ambulances sat at the emergency-room entrance.

The streets in Blackpool were small and narrow, built more for wagons and carts than sedans. The citizens got around on bicycles, mopeds and motorbikes. Very few had cars, and only a handful of businesses used delivery vans.

Up to full speed now, the fleeing man sped toward the parked cars. One of them was Aleister Crowe’s green Jaguar. Crowe stood to the side of the vehicle, talking on his mobile.

Another man stood near Crowe. He was about Crowe’s age and prim, dressed in a gunmetal-gray business suit with neatly coiffed blond hair and amber-tinted aviator sunglasses.

Drawing closer to his quarry, Michael launched himself forward and grabbed for the man’s feet. He succeeded in wrapping an arm around his knees and the two of them went down in a sprawl. Just before they hit the ground, Michael heard a sudden, harsh crack.

He knew immediately something was wrong. The man fell too loosely. Normally a person would tighten up a little even if he’d been trained professionally to fall.

Rolling to his feet, Michael kept one hand locked around the man’s ankle so he wouldn’t get away. One glance at the man assured him that wouldn’t be the case. A trickle of blood slid down his attacker’s cheek and dripped off his nose from a round wound on his temple.

Stunned, Michael couldn’t help but stare for a moment, then he ran for cover beside the cars.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” The man who had been standing with Crowe was now huddled beside him, holding his arms protectively over his head.

“Sniper.” Michael fumbled for his iPhone and got it out.

Crowe shifted, turning on his feet while remaining in a crouched position. “One sniper or more?”

Michael shook his head. “Don’t know.” He punched the speed dial for the Blackpool police station. Since he and Molly had started helping the police solve murders, he’d kept the number ready.

“Were they after you or the other man?” Crowe asked.

“Whoever shot him got his target.”

“Are you wounded?”

“I don’t think so.” The mobile began to ring while Michael patted himself down. “You’re bleeding.”

“Had a disagreement with that bloke before we turned it into a footrace.”

“Who was the dead man?”

“I have no idea.” Michael scanned the surrounding houses, wondering if the sniper was already moving into a more advantageous position.

Mercifully, his call was answered. “Blackpool police station. State the nature of your emergency.”

“This is Michael Graham. A man has just been shot dead at Merciful Angels. Ring DCI Paddington, would you?” He spoke much more calmly and rationally than he felt. What had the man been doing in Rohan Wallace’s room? How had Rohan left the man hanging? And who was after him? Had the sniper only been shooting at the dead man? Or was Michael a target, too?

“HAVE YOU AND YOUR HUSBAND lived here long?”

Seated in the limousine’s plush backseat, Molly gazed at Blackpool with affection. “No, not long. We both came from big cities—Michael from London, and I grew up in Queens. We actually met in Los Angeles, if you can believe that, and we were torn about where to live. But when we saw Blackpool, we knew we had to live here. At least for a while.”

Nanny Myrie nodded. “So this is not where you’ll be putting down roots.”