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The sky was a dull, charcoal grey. Clay drove back to Brighton in the pre-dawn din, arriving a few streets from where he’d parked the black Escort. He wore his new clothes and his leather gloves. The mask was in his pocket, as was the make-up for his eyes.

He got out, walked along the road, breath trailing behind him. He looked to see nobody was watching, then unlocked the car and got in. It was bitter cold inside, even with the gloves. It took two attempts to get the engine started. Clay drove it to Hammer Road. Not too slow, not too fast. The key was to stay as inconspicuous as possible. Although it was a simple enough hit, and he’d covered all his bases, there were a lot of variables. A lot could go wrong, still.

The road was on an incline, and there was a gap between two cars affording him just enough room to swing out in a pinch and speed away. He reversed into it with the nose of the car sticking out. He spun the front wheels to the right, then clamped down the handbrake.

Clay sat low in the seat, no radio on, waiting. The sky lightened outside from something akin to the colour of television static, transitioning to a light, dusky pink. He had time to think about things—about the life he was about to snuff out, as if Stephen Collins’s old candle had been lit far too long and needed someone to come blow it out.

He thought about Evangeline. What had been a simple job—“Kill my husband, I’ll pay you,”—had transformed into something a lot more troublesome. A part of him considered leaving the job. Driving off while he had the chance and forgetting the whole thing. But he knew he couldn’t do that. When he got paid to do something—deliver a package somewhere; beat somebody for some indiscretion; commit an act of arson—he did it. He carried it through.

The sky had brightened to a light blue. Clay applied the black make-up around his eyes. He caught movement up ahead. Stephen Collins approached the road, checking left and right for oncoming vehicles.

Clay slipped the mask on, then started the motor, slipped it into gear and pulled out.

Stephen crossed.

The Escort tore up the road, engine growling, tires giving a yelp as they bit into the tarmac. The old man turned at the sound of the approaching vehicle, but there wasn’t time to move out of the way.

Stephen held his hands out in front of him, his mouth a big O.

The bonnet slammed into him with a wet sound; like a fish getting pounded with a mallet.

Clay broke hard.

Stephen flew through the air, took flight, before landing on the pavement. Sprawled out in the middle of the road on his front, his arms and legs bent this way and that.

It’s done, Clay thought.

But as he watched, Stephen moved.

Clay’s stomach swam with dread. “No.”

He spun the wheel, aimed for where Stephen lay, and floored the pedal. The Escort jumped as it mounted the pavement, tearing over him like a speed bump. Clay reversed back into the road, and watched for further signs of movement—just a lot of blood and exposed flesh.

Stephen wasn’t moving anymore.

Clay got out of there, the streets empty. The city only beginning to wake. He ripped the mask off and threw it out the window. Clay drove the Escort to a side street he’d had in mind since he decided he’d kill Stephen with a hit and run.

Clay parked on a narrow side street in the shade of houses either side. Perfect. He wiped the make-up off his eyes, stuffed the used wipes into his pocket, got out and smoked a cigarette leaning over the roof of the car. Taking a moment. His heart returned to its normal rhythm, and he felt calm wash over him, like the cool surf at Burleigh Heads.

Maybe I’m too used to doing bad things, he thought.

Clay checked the interior of the car over to be sure he’d not left anything behind, then locked it up. He got down by the driver’s side wheel and left the keys under the arch.

For Layla, it’s one last job before she goes straight for good; for Clay, another hit that could spell the end of a life of crime, if only he can keep ahead of the double-crosses; and for Inspector Jack Finch–scarred by the pain of the past–the trail of bodies and bricks are a puzzle to solve before it’s too late…
A thief trying to put her life back together, a hitman falling for the wrong woman, and a grieving police inspector are launched on a deadly collision course in this fast-paced UK-set crime thriller. With twists, turns, reveals, and double-crosses every step of the way, ROGUES will keep you guessing as all the threads come together.