Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) by Simon Jenner Page B

When the stream dried up John pointed to the stairs and whispered.
    “Get going, I’ll be down in a minute.”
    She returned a puzzled look and shrugged.
    “Go on,” he insisted.
    Savannah complied and set off down the stairs. Once John reckoned she was out of earshot he re-summoned Calvin the pimp.
    “Sorry, darling. Not fast enough. And me don’t like leaving talking evidence. Say hello to your maker.” John rubbed the carpet where it met the foot of the door hoping the sound was convincing. “Der she blows!” he shouted, jumping back for effect.
    He ran down the stairs, catching up with Savannah on the way out the main front door.
    “Let’s get as far away as possible as quickly as possible,” he said, grabbing her by his own coat, dragging her out of the building and circling them around to the back. John pointed up to the window where the top of the fire escape began. A full-figured woman of about forty backed out of the attic window and onto the platform. She was screaming, nothing discernible but as loud as a banshee’s wail. She wore a bright pink dressing gown and matching fluffy slippers with bunny ears attached to the front.
    Savannah looked bewildered and turned to John. “What’s she doing? What did you do?”
    “She thinks the place is on fire,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “I figured after what she did to you, it was the least she deserved.”
    Savannah burst out laughing and wrapped her arms around John again. “You might be crazy but I promise I won’t tell the authorities.”
    “What?” said John, enjoying the experience, putting his arms around her. This girl was a couple of cogs short of a full mechanism but being around her made him forget about all the bad stuff that had happened. He felt the best he had felt all day, sort of exhilarated, high on adventure perhaps? He pushed back a pang of guilt. Mark had always told him to stop wasting his life, and his friend’s murder showed him how precarious life could be. “How much money have we got?” he asked.
    “Three thousand one hundred with the five hundred we got from Amy.”
    “Great. Flag down a taxi. We’re off to Knightsbridge and then Piccadilly.”

9: Saturday 24th September, 18:00
    Herb Johnson and Maxwell Wilson were watching proceedings from seventy-five thousand pounds worth of sleek black Mercedes saloon.
    “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Wilson said, pointing to John Smith and Savannah Jones diving into the back of a London cab. “Those two are laughing and smiling like little children. Smith’s no murderer. I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and if we follow him we’ll end up with nothing.”
    Just then Savannah’s former friend Amy ran past the car, waving her hands frantically in the air.
    “Fire!” she screamed over and over.
    Johnson and Wilson gave her less than a second’s attention. Johnson turned back to his partner.
    “Smith’s thirty-two and Jones is twenty-one. Not exactly kids. Unless you’ve got a better idea then we stick with them and see what happens.” Johnson pressed his foot gently on the accelerator, allowing six point two litres of V8 engine to pull them away with a throaty growl.
    Johnson loved the Mercedes almost as much as he loved his job. Sure, it involved killing, but he prided himself on his ability to only end the lives of those who were a threat to others. Sometimes this meant going against orders but he always got the job done. He had to live with himself, after all. The job didn’t exactly encourage relationships. He could wait until retirement for companionship.
    Johnson’s priority was to find Bradshaw’s killer - which may or may not be Smith - and recover Bradshaw’s deadly invention. All this while stuck with a partner who was a shadow of his former self. If Wilson lost him his perfect occupation, he had meant his threat. He would kill him and not lose a moment’s sleep. Johnson had kissed too many asses and put in too many hours