The doors are locked and the car won't stop moving. Tracey sits back on the leather seat, her head reclined against the head rest and her feet a little raised from the floor. She's tried opening the doors several times and it's all been futile. She's hammered on the glass partition between her and her dead driver, and it's as solid as rock. She's opened the minibar and tried using the cocktail shaker as a weapon; its crushed aluminium form now rests in the footwell. She is resigned to being taken somewhere by the car, by a man she saw shot through the eye. The horror of it is long passed, and now she is just bored.
Out of the left-side window there is a cornfield which she has been passing for over an hour now. She is sure that there are no cornfields of that size anywhere she knows, so she is sure that she is being taken somewhere new. She wondered why a while ago, but now she's just waiting patiently to arrive.
The CD player burps, but the blood stopped dripping when they first reached the cornfield, and the seagull's cries died away as the traffic vanished around them. The front of the car, on the other side of the compartment, is a slaughterhouse; congealed blood on the seats and dashboard, blood-spray on the glass partition, and a dead chauffeur staring eternally out of the window, his hands resting on the steering wheel.
There's a sudden taste of salt in the air, and Tracey stirs, sitting up again and looking out of the window. For a moment she can smell something familiar, and a sense of panic runs through her. She reaches for her handbag, on the floor by her feet, and yanks it up. She rummages quickly through it, pulling out the piece of paper stating that the contract has failed and letting it fall to the floor. Then she finds a manila envelope, and she relaxes just a fraction. Freeing it from the handbag, she checks inside. There is a copy of a will, signed by Tony Alekhin in the presence of two witnesses, neither of whom is her, ensuring that all his estate transfers to her, and in the event of her death, to her son. Who, she knows, is not Tony's son.
As she finishes reading it, she cannot understand why, instead of elation, she finds herself crying.