Low Profile Read Online Free Page A

the door knob, turned and pushed it open with a click and a slight creaking sound.
    First the noise, then the voice: ‘Mr Barnes? Percy? This is the police. Can I come in, please? Mr Barnes, this is the police … Detective Superintendent Christie.’
    Hawke froze, standing between the bodies of the two people he had just executed. He shot a glance at Percy’s body, which gave one last quiver from head to foot. A death jerk.
    Hawke’s quick calculation: he had fired four of the six rounds in the Smith & Wesson, two remaining in the chamber. He had two speed loaders in the pocket of his paper suit, so twelve more there; he knew he could reload in seconds.
    â€˜Mr Barnes,’ the cop shouted again. ‘I’m concerned about your welfare and I’m entering your house.’
    More calculations: one cop? Or many cops?
    Either way, Hawke had to find out.
    He stepped over Lottie’s body and went to the living room door, moving confidently into the hallway, happy that he was ready for whatever was before him.
    He almost burst into laughter.
    One man, one cop, a dishevelled, tired looking individual, crumpled jacket, trousers and crumpled face to match. The guy looked old, tired and ragged, his skin a weary grey colour, more like he should be in a retirement home than in the cops.
    That said, he thought, I probably look more like I should be advertising tyres rather than someone paid to kill people.
    Both men straightened up, dramatically tense.
    â€˜Drop the gun,’ Henry said. ‘I’m a police officer.’
    Hawke shook his head and gave a short laugh. ‘You shouldn’t have seen me, you should’ve arrived five minutes later. I’ve nothing against cops,’ he added in some sort of explanation.
    Henry said, ‘Put the weapon down.’ His voice was calm and authoritative, although inside his heart had instantly started to beat rapidly. His eyes were focused on the gun in the man’s hand, not on his face or eyes. He had seen and learned enough in the last ten seconds to know that submission was not on this man’s agenda, so why look into his eyes? It was the gun that would be the problem, particularly for a knackered old cop unlucky enough to have stumbled into this scenario on his own. A firearms team might have brokered a different result, maybe. Henry had put everything together now. The forensic suit, the blood splashes on it, meaning the deed had already been done and Henry was too late to save anyone, but just in time to get himself killed. Percy was undoubtedly already dead as, probably, was anyone else in the house, and killing a dumb cop probably wouldn’t make too much difference to this man who, by the looks of him, was not the sort of person who got caught.
    The revolver came up.
    Henry threw himself sideways, whilst in the same movement he launched his Maglite torch as hard as he possibly could at the man, not even sure it would connect. He hit the floor hard and a judder of agony shot through him; he felt the whoosh of the bullet just above his head as the silenced round destroyed a sheet of glass in the door panelling behind him. A second bullet slammed into the wall.
    What amazed Henry about the shoulder pain as he hit the floor and rolled was that it was indescribable and almost debilitating, and if he’d had the choice he would have remained where he landed and not moved again until the agony had dissipated.
    Unfortunately, being shot at by a gunman didn’t give him any time to feel sorry for himself. He had to force himself through it.
    He drove himself with an iron will and, ducking behind the staircase where it curved and widened, took the opportunity for one glance.
    The gunman had disappeared back into the living room.
    Henry did not need any more motivation than that. Holding his shoulder, he sprinted for the door, out through the vestibule on to the front steps, knowing that his only option was to escape and come back with