Billionaire

Начало книги

Two of the men driving eastwards down the M4 Motorway, near London’s Heathrow Airport, were driving particularly badly. One drove badly because he was a rotten driver. The other, who was normally a good driver, was distracted by the blonde girl in the seat beside him who was trying to remove his trousers.

It was five past one on a blazing hot early June afternoon. Both men were late. One was on his way to his office in the City of London. The other was on his way to kill someone not very important.

‘Move over, you bastard, move over!’ Baenhaker pushed down on the horn rim with the palm of his right hand. ‘Oh move over, why can’t you just move over?’ He pushed the horn rim twice more, holding it down each time for several seconds, holding it down so hard that the thin metal cut into his hand.

‘You pig,’ declared Baenhaker. ‘You bloody pig!’ He pulled the head-lamp switch on the dashboard full out, pushed it back in, then pulled it out again. In the bright sun, there was only the faintest gleam from the lights that reflected on the gun metal grey paintwork of the Porsche in front of him. He pushed the light switch back in. ‘Fucker!’ he shouted uselessly through his windscreen, and yanked the switch back out. It came away in his hand; he tried to replace it, dropped it, and it rolled away somewhere underneath his feet.

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