Black Run
Cover
Title Page
Praise for Black Run
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four Village of Château des Aigles, Haute Savoie, French Alps Two weeks previously
Chapter Five Tiburon, Commercial deepwater port of La Rochelle
Chapter Six Château des Aigles Thirteen days previously
Chapter Seven Tiburon
Chapter Eight Tiburon
Chapter Nine Tiburon
Chapter Ten Château des Aigles Twelve days previously
Chapter Eleven Tiburon
Chapter Twelve Château des Aigles Eleven days previously
Chapter Thirteen Tiburon
Chapter Fourteen Tiburon
Chapter Fifteen Château des Aigles One week previously
Chapter Sixteen Tiburon
Chapter Seventeen Château des Aigles Six days previously
Chapter Eighteen Tiburon
Chapter Nineteen Tiburon
Chapter Twenty Château des Aigles Five days previously
Chapter Twenty-one Tiburon
Chapter Twenty-two Château des Aigles Five days previously
Chapter Twenty-three Tiburon
Chapter Twenty-four Tiburon
Chapter Twenty-five Château des Aigles Four days previously
Chapter Twenty-six Tiburon
Chapter Twenty-seven Tiburon
Chapter Twenty-eight Château des Aigles Three days previously
Chapter Twenty-nine Tiburon
Chapter Thirty Château des Aigles Three days previously
Chapter Thirty-one Tiburon
Chapter Thirty-two Tiburon
Chapter Thirty-three Château des Aigles Two days ago
Chapter Thirty-four Tiburon
Chapter Thirty-five Château des Aigles Two days ago
Chapter Thirty-six Tiburon
Chapter Thirty-seven Tiburon
Chapter Thirty-eight Tiburon
Chapter Thirty-nine Château des Aigles Two days ago
Chapter Forty Tiburon
Chapter Forty-one Tiburon
Chapter Forty-two Château des Aigles Two days ago
Chapter Forty-three Tiburon
Chapter Forty-four Château des Aigles Two days ago
Chapter Forty-five Tiburon
Chapter Forty-six Château des Aigles Two days ago
Chapter Forty-seven Tiburon
Chapter Forty-eight Tiburon
Chapter Forty-nine Château des Aigles Two days ago
Chapter Fifty Tiburon, off the south Devon coast
Chapter Fifty-one Tiburon
Chapter Fifty-two Céligny, Lake Geneva Yesterday afternoon
Chapter Fifty-three Tiburon
Chapter Fifty-four Tiburon
Chapter Fifty-five Outskirts of Poitiers Early hours of this morning
Chapter Fifty-six Yacht Zuben
Chapter Fifty-seven Yacht Zuben
Chapter Fifty-eight Yacht Zuben
Chapter Fifty-nine English Channel
Chapter Sixty English Channel
Chapter Sixty-one Tiburon
Chapter Sixty-two Combe Wyndham, South Devon
Chapter Sixty-three North Yorkshire
Acknowledgements
The John Tyler series
About the Author
Also by D. L. Marshall
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Praise for Black Run
‘Black Run is an absolutely stunning sequel to Anthrax Island that will delight action and mystery fans in equal measure’
Chris McGeorge, author of Half-Past Tomorrow
‘A rip-roaring, rollicking rollercoaster of a read! Another ingenious locked-room mystery unravelled amidst a series of high-velocity action sequences, the tension and drama expertly maintained throughout. John Tyler is rapidly becoming one of my favourite action heroes and D. L. Marshall goes from strength to strength’
Russ Thomas, author of Nighthawking
‘I slalomed my way through Black Run like a downhill skier on acid. Marshall has again combined an adrenaline-fuelled adventure yarn with an unfathomable locked-room mystery. Packed with brutal action and bodies galore, Black Run is a treat for all the senses. And let’s be clear about one thing: John Tyler would kick James Bond’s arse’
Trevor Wood, author of One Way Street
‘Nobody fuses action and mystery with such punch, panache and verve as D. L. Marshall, sending him straight to the genre’s top table alongside Cussler and MacLean – with a flair for impossible enigmas echoing the best of Christie. A simply outstanding, breakout novel, that’s not so much a statement as an explosive call to arms’
Rob Parker, author of Far from the Tree
‘Spectacular... Brilliantly constructed action sequences so realistic it feels like bullets are whizzing past your head, smart as hell and expertly paced. And Tyler would snap Bond in two then send him back to the 20th century in a body bag…’
Adam Simcox, author of The Dying Squad
‘Blistering action and brilliant plotting. Black Run grabs you from the first page and never lets up. Trust me, when the chips are down you want John Tyler on your team’
Tim Glister, author of Red Corona
‘Black Run is a brilliantly hectic thrill ride, razor-sharp and full of dark humour. A joy to read’
Doug Johnstone, author of The Big Chill
‘Marshall just keeps getting better and better – Black Run not only raises the very high bar he set with Anthrax Island, it flies right over it. This is an adrenaline-fuelled charge from start to finish, and John Tyler drives the action in a way that makes Bond look like an also-ran’
Alison Belsham, author of The Tattoo Thief
‘Marshall’s Anthrax Island was a terrific debut, but Black Run is even better – a smartly constructed plot, a baffling murder mystery, a claustrophobic and sinister setting, a cast of fully-rounded characters and, above all, a relentless pace that grips from page one and never lets up’
Alex Walters, author of Lost Hours
‘Marshall has done it again, your fingers are going to be sore from turning the pages so quickly! All action, all thrills and an altogether terrific read that picks up the impressive gauntlet laid down by Anthrax Island. Truly a wonderful new voice on the thriller scene who is going from strength to strength’
Jonathan Whitelaw, author of Hellcorp
‘Black Run is the very definition of high stakes on the seas and slopes. Raced through this in two sittings. Marshall has doubled down on the danger levels and produced one of the finest action thrillers in years. Bond and Bourne need to shuffle along to make space at the table for John Tyler’
Robert Scragg, author of End of the Line
‘Black Run takes the all-action baton from Anthrax Island and runs with it. It’s an incredible thriller with a claustrophobic setting, whip-cracking dialogue, a swaggering hero and more bullets than I could count. With Black Run, D. L. Marshall cements himself as today’s go-to writer for heart-pounding, blistering action adventure’
Chris McDonald, author of A Wash of Black
‘Tense and terrifying, Black Run took a grip of me and did not let go. A cracking tale, brilliantly researched, vividly told and shockingly good’
Marion Todd, author of Next in Line
‘Murder, confined spaces, corruption and car chases... it must be a D. L. Marshall novel! With exhilarating chase scenes through snow-capped mountains, pulse-pounding fights to the death on stormy seas, masterful plotting and a healthy dose of Marshall’s wit, Black Run boasts more action than a box office bestseller and is twice as th
rilling. This book was glued to my hands for three days straight’
Roxie Key
For G and A
Chapter One
There was near silence as I switched off the ignition, just the ticking of the big V8 engine as it cooled, the soft patter of Atlantic sleet on the windscreen, and the muffled thuds coming from the boot.
‘If you don’t knock it off, I’ll drive us into the sea.’
The thuds stopped.
I coughed, winced, angled up out of the seat and crept my fingers under my hoody. They came away wet so I already had my answer, but I held them up to the moonlight anyway. Sticky blood; the wound in my side was worse than I’d thought. I wiped my fingers on my jeans then drummed them on the worn-shiny steering wheel, scanning the dim road through the steam rising from the bonnet. My left hand flexed on the gear stick, clenching and unclenching my fingers, wincing with every click but refusing to let my damaged hand seize up. Not now, not when I still needed it. Not when I was so close to the end.
I should have been sat in a ride with dubious provenance, something still filled with someone else’s CDs and sunglasses and sweet wrappers, the worn banknotes I’d handed over the only papers denoting ownership – at least until it was burned out. Unfortunately problems in the Alps meant I’d gone with plan B, hence sitting in my own Audi RS4 estate, albeit sporting false plates.
I looked at a scrunched-up cardboard tablet packet in the passenger footwell, a tear forced itself up into the corner of one eye. I blinked it back down, pushing the memories with it, down to join the others, at least until this was over.
Across the empty square, La Rochelle’s Cathédrale Saint-Louis finished marking two a.m., its chimes rolling around the old buildings of the Place de Verdun. The Alps to the Atlantic coast in under eight hours, my hands buzzed, legs ached. I brushed hair from my clammy forehead, scratching at a tingling scar through my eyebrow. There was time enough to finish this before the meet. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, let the pattering sleet on the windscreen and distant gulls briefly carry me away.
The thudding in the boot started up again, but it was outdone by the sound of an approaching engine, I opened my eyes to see headlights shining on the wet cobbles and shops in front: a car approaching on the narrow road behind me. I slid down as it cruised past, leaning over into the passenger seat. When it turned at the end of the road I looked over the dash, catching police markings reflecting the dim streetlights. Thanks to my ageing Audi’s unassuming appearance, its dull salesman road-furniture disguise, I hadn’t warranted any attention.
I prayed the flashers didn’t light up as I followed the cop’s progress, watching as it crawled alongside the Place de Verdun. She didn’t look back my way, I saw a ponytail flick as her attention was drawn to the far side of the square. I looked out of my side window, over the narrow road I’d parked on. Across the empty bike racks, the bony trees of the old town square webbed with twinkling Christmas lights, all the way to the cathedral.
Beneath its decorations a big black BMW had just been illuminated by the cop’s headlights, the same big black BMW that’d been on my tail since I’d filled the car up outside Poitiers. I’d hit the outskirts of La Rochelle with the Beemer’s headlights still in my rear-view mirror, so instead of heading straight to the port and my rendezvous I’d diverted here into the old town.
The police car slowed to inspect the BMW. A bored copper on night patrol wondering why a car full of people was parked up here, away from the bars and clubs – not that they were open at this time in December. I could picture her running the plates. She’d get fuck-all from them: they were Swiss and, like mine, probably false.
The police car moved on, darkness again beneath the cathedral. I ran a hand across my jaw, tracing the scars beneath the stubble, waiting for my eyes to readjust. Dim orange pinpricks moved inside the car, occasionally glowing brighter as the car’s occupants dragged on their cigs.
In the cop’s headlights I’d seen the BMW properly for the first time. Undoubtedly the same one that we’d seen in the ski resort, the stance fat, low, aggressive. Top-of-the-line M5. It had two extra cylinders and maybe a hundred more horsepower than my Audi, but the extra weight and all that power going to the rear wheels on these icy cobbles would make things interesting for them.
One cig winked out. Less than a minute later another fired out of a window to join hundreds more in the gutter. A silent signal: they were ready.
The G28 marksman rifle on the back seat was out of ammo, as was the MP5 submachine gun in the footwell. I hummed the Band Aid tune as I reached over into the glovebox, removed a Heckler & Koch VP70 pistol, slowly unscrewed the suppressor from the modified barrel, inserted a full magazine. I cocked it and stuck it between my thighs, handle upwards. Now I was ready, too.
The red digits on the dash winked to 02:03.
The BMW was illuminated a second time as another car approached, this time from behind. Blue flashing lights strobed the square: it was the same police car, she’d done a circuit around the block and returned, cruising to a halt a few metres off the Beemer’s rear bumper. Obviously her plate check hadn’t revealed anything but she’d decided to speak to them anyway. Good cop, big mistake; I could see what she couldn’t. Multiple heads moving inside, arms reaching.
‘Stay in the car,’ I muttered. ‘Drive away.’
She wouldn’t. I flicked the window down and reached for my pistol.
Leaving the flashers on, the cop got out of her car, adjusted her hat, strode forward. Her bleeping and crackling radio cut through the icy air. The rear windows were down on the black car, shadows moving inside. Even at this distance I could see the fairy lights glinting off dark steel.
The crack of the gunshot echoed around the square. The cop dropped to the ground, the BMW’s driver-side window exploded. I squeezed the trigger again, punching a hole somewhere in the car’s bodywork. No more pissing around, time for the conclusion. As if to confirm their understanding of the new rules a flash replied, and chunks of pavement sprayed my car. The cop rolled away, scrabbling at her holster, then – realising she was in the middle of a gunfight – did the wise thing and crawled back to her car. A bullet punched through my rear door, another ricocheted off the bonnet.
Time to leave.
I twisted the key. The starter spun, the V8 caught. She roared angrily at being denied a rest. The BMW’s headlights flared in response, cutting a path through the sleet. A burst of automatic gunfire tore up the night but missed me entirely as I floored the loud pedal. At the end of the street I turned left, along the main road.
Up into second, metallic snarls bouncing around the medieval walls. Too tight even for third gear, the revs screamed, past the ancient arcades that lined the streets of La Rochelle’s old town. 450 horsepower and 0–60 in four seconds might be disgusting in a car with suit hangers in the back, but it meant I was out onto the wider road past the Natural History Museum, on to the next junction, before the lights appeared in my rear-view mirror.
They grew as I slammed the brakes – skidding to avoid a stupid cat – then took a right, accelerating hard again, into third gear. I hit eighty on the short stretch before nailing the clutch, toe on the brakes, side of my foot blipping the accelerator as I downshifted to turn again, heading right back into the old town.
My car was nimble and I had four-wheel drive on my side which meant the big BMW lost time on the corners, but its brute force caught up again on the straights. I backed off the accelerator and let it; losing them hadn’t worked, it was time to end this.
We sped down the narrow street, the shopfronts flashing past getting shinier and more welcoming the closer we got to the centre. At an open corner with a memorial of some kind I turned right, clipping a Christmas tree and sending it spinning towards a terrified couple pressed hard into a doorway.
The Audi’s V8 engine wailed, the Beemer’s V10 roared, no doubt half the inhabitants of La Rochelle were out of bed and at their windows.
I braked, they t
ried to tap my bumper as I slowed to turn left, but too late as I was pulling away again. A fragment of limestone exploded from a column in front, bouncing over the bonnet and up the window as I sped past. Cracks of automatic gunfire chased me up the street and back out onto the square we’d started from, past the cop still ducking and shouting frantically into her radio, past the cathedral, onward towards the harbour.
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