The Blue Code

The Blue Code A Jonah Pennance Novel Keith Nixon Table of Contents One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty One Twenty Two Twenty Three Twenty Four Twenty Five Twenty Six Twenty Seven Twenty Eight Twenty Nine Thirty Thirty One Thirty Two Thirty Three Thirty Four Thirty Five Thirty Six Thirty Seven Thirty Eight Thirty Nine Forty Forty One Forty Two Forty Three One Other Novels By Keith Nixon About The Author One Logan Elliott reached out once more, touched the hard, plastic shell of the security case in the footwell, reassuring himself the secured bag was still there. A steel chain united Elliott and the consignment – The Blue Code. He returned to drumming his fingers on the leather upholstery of the rear seat. Deliberately irritating, although Matt Ferrensby, Elliott’s driver, didn’t complain. He was paid not to. Elliott glanced yet again towards the supermarket entrance. Even through the heavily blacked-out windows of the Mercedes, the sunlight reflecting off parked cars was vividly intense. Like God’s brilliance irradiating the Earth, but in here Elliott went untouched. A shimmer of heat rose off the tarmac, corrupting Elliott’s observation of the shoppers wandering back and forth on an unseasonably warm Friday afternoon. Outside, a person could lean right up to the car, nose touching the glass, and detect nothing more than indistinct shadows inside. To passers-by he could be a pop star, a footballer, a pimp. They could only speculate. Even so, Elliott shifted in his seat, feeling exposed. He was taking a risk transporting the package. Elliott removed his aviator sunglasses, squeezed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Where the bloody hell is she?” “I’m sure she won’t be long.” Ferrensby’s eyes, sunk deep in his drawn face, flickered towards Elliott in the rear-view mirror. Elliott checked his watch then his mobile, increasingly annoyed at himself for allowing Olivia to persuade him it would be a good idea to host a barbecue this evening – even though he saw the sense in the pretence of normality. Life carries on, despite the data in his case which hypothesised otherwise. “There she is.” Ferrensby flipped a digit the circumference of a spindly twig towards the large glass doors of the supermarket exit. A brunette in an unfeasibly short skirt tottered out, her usually high centre of gravity, resulting from long legs and high heels, cancelled out by the bulging plastic bags in each hand. Ferrensby’s phone bleeped as Elliott was about to wonder aloud what the hell his girlfriend had bought. Ferrensby checked the screen and then reached for the door handle. “Don’t bother.” Elliott curled a lip. “She can manage.” Olivia lowered the carriers to the ground, fished around in the leather handbag slung over her shoulder (which Elliott had purchased) and pulled out a cigarette packet. She clearly intended to squeeze in a smoke. It was then Elliott realised a car was drawing up beside them, hauling his attention away from Olivia. He blinked. A silver Audi had halted inches away from the Merc. The driver, low in the front seat, stared forward, hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white. Elliott couldn’t see his face or even his hair. Because the driver wore a black balaclava. Elliott registered movement; a guy stepping from the passenger side, sporting identical headgear to his colleague. Slowly, almost nonchalantly, like he was off for a stroll, the second guy ambled round the rear of the Merc, forcing Elliott to crane his neck to keep sight of him. “Shit.” Elliott zoned in on the large, black metallic machine gun the guy held in gloved hands, revealed as he emerged from behind the Audi. Elliott’s heart blasted into overdrive, his chest tightening, while everything else around him went slo-mo. However, something was very wrong. The Merc was stationary. Ferrensby should have been whipping them away from danger, engine screaming, tyres burning rubber, leaving Olivia to fend for herself. Yet the Merc’s engine died as Ferrensby withdrew the keys. His gaze met Elliott’s once more in the rear-view. “Sorry, boss.” Then Ferrensby was moving away quickly, sliding into the rear of the adjacent car as the gunman neared Elliott. Get out. He had to get out. But Elliott couldn’t open his door more than an inch, the hitman’s vehicle was simply too close. He slid over to the other side, bringing the case with him, his palm damp and slippery. A faint hope that maybe he’d exit, use the Merc as a shield. However, the handle flapped uselessly. His soon-to-be-murderer finally took up a stance. Feet spread apart, shoulders relaxed, just a couple of yards away. The gunman lowered the muzzle until it almost touched the darkened glass while, outside the supermarket, Olivia struggled with a lighter, spinning the wheel again and again. The gunman tapped on the window. A grin revealed brilliant white teeth and, bizarrely, both upper canines in gold, like a vampire flaunting his wealth. Then … nothing. Elliott breathed in, out. He felt utterly, shockingly calm. Elliott removed his sunglasses, dropped them, while Olivia shook her lighter and finally got a flame. Then … the rapid BAA-DAA!! of bullets zinging out of the barrel at hundreds of feet per second. The window dissolved, there one moment, destroyed the next, scattering glass like brutal confetti. The projectiles thudded into Elliott, tossing him backwards, as if he was being punched unfeasibly hard all over his body by an unseen, lightning-quick hand. Everywhere Elliott was struck, a hot agony sliced through him. Then … silence. Elliott lay sprawled on the backseat. He blinked, a metallic taste in his mouth, remembered sucking a dirty coin when he was a kid and being told off by his mother. He noticed a red haze splattered on the cream interior, like someone had shaken a ketchup bottle with the lid off. Elliott frowned, puzzled by the mess. Until he realised it was blood and it