by Adam Hamdy
‘That’s how you end,’ Leila gestured at the corpse, ‘if you go for your gun.’
The survivor froze.
‘What’s your name?’ Leila asked.
There was a moment of silent defiance.
‘If you won’t give me answers, you’re no use to me.’ She let the implication hang.
‘Jared,’ he said at last. He looked at the body of his fallen companion. ‘You just made a huge mistake, lady.’
Leila ignored the threat. ‘Well, Jared, you’re going to help me move this man, and then we’re going to go somewhere you can answer some questions.’
Chapter 40
Pearce followed Ziad’s tracker east for a while before turning north and trailing the signal into the heart of Seattle, near the building he and Leila were staying in. He went a few blocks further north and found himself in the business district, surrounded by towers of wealth and power. Ziad’s decrepit Buick was noticeably out of place parked in a line of gleaming luxury cars alongside a skyscraper on Stewart Street.
Pearce pulled into a space at the end of the line and removed his helmet as he dismounted. He went over to a falafel stand and purchased a wrap. As the vendor, a Middle-Eastern man in a surgical mask, prepared his food, Pearce watched Ziad, who remained in his car some twenty metres away. The man’s attention never wavered. His eyes were locked on the entrance of the high-rise across the street, a dark-brown glass building that stretched towards brooding clouds. If Ziad was spying, he didn’t have the first clue about discreet surveillance. Pearce knew to keep his presence low key, to inhabit the character of someone – in his case, a touring motorcyclist – who happened to be in the vicinity. The intensity with which Ziad was watching the building left little doubt he was there for a purpose. In contrast, once he’d got his food, Pearce leaned against a railing and watched passers-by as he ate. He didn’t turn to look at Ziad; he could see the man and his car reflected in the opaque window of a building further along the street.
Pearce had been there for ten minutes and was coming to the end of his wrap when he saw Ziad stiffen. Pearce glanced over his shoulder and saw a woman coming out of the building across the street. She had a Mediterranean complexion, long black hair, and wore a tailored green dress. She looked like a professional, a banker or lawyer, and exuded confidence. It didn’t take a spy to recognize Ziad’s desire. He watched the woman intently as she checked her phone, while pacing and scanning the sidewalk in both directions. She was clearly waiting for something or someone.
Ziad glanced away a couple of times. He looked uncomfortable, as though he was steeling himself for something – mustering courage perhaps? He finally opened the door and was about to get out of the car when a blond-haired muscular man with a square jaw grabbed Ziad and hauled him into the street. The man wore Dockers and a short-sleeve checked shirt, and his muscles bulged as he hurled Ziad onto the tarmac. A cab screeched to a halt inches from Ziad’s head, and for a moment he looked frightened and bewildered.
‘You should never have come back,’ his assailant said, bearing down on him. ‘No one wants you here. Keep away from her, you scumbag!’
The woman in the green dress noticed the altercation and dodged traffic as she ran across the street. ‘Jack, don’t,’ she yelled. ‘He’s not worth it.’
Ziad registered her words and the fear and confusion drained from his eyes to be replaced by pure hostility. Pearce recognized the look and wasn’t surprised to see Ziad get to his feet and rush Jack. He threw a cross that connected and sent the bigger man staggering back, and it was Jack’s turn to feel fear and bewilderment. Ziad attacked him furiously, punching and kicking like a wild animal. Pearce knew never to lay hands on a man he didn’t have the measure of, and it was clear Jack had underestimated Ziad. He’d probably expected some chivalrous frat-house brawl with some loudmouth shoving. Instead, he was fighting for his life against a man who was fuelled by rage. Ziad was landing blow after painful blow and Jack was crying in agony.
The woman finally reached Ziad and tried to restrain him, but he shrugged her off.
‘Zee! No! Please!’ she yelled.
But he kept hammering Jack, who was reduced to trying to fend off the most damaging punches. Ziad didn’t have much technique, but he was a fast brawler, and clearly had some fighting experience.
‘Leave him alone!’ the woman cried.
Cars stopped on both sides of the street, and drivers got out of their vehicles to watch the fight. Some were using their phones to film the action and others were calling the police. Passers-by had gathered on the sidewalk and were doing likewise. Jack stumbled and struggled to stay upright in the face of the onslaught.
‘Please! Don’t! No! Come on, man,’ he cried pathetically.
‘Zee, don’t do this,’ the woman said, grabbing him by the arm.
Ziad wheeled round and slapped her, and Pearce sensed the collective intake of breath of the onlookers. The woman fell on her backside, and Jack was further humiliated when Ziad kicked him in the face, knocking him flat. Ziad jumped on the man, and Pearce looked at the bystanders, hoping someone would intervene to stop what was in danger of becoming a murder.
No one had the courage to go near the furious creature, and Pearce heard the first sirens in the distance. He realized it would be down to him to save Jack’s life and salvage the investigation, and he slipped his helmet on as he ran down the street. The light-reactive visor was opaque and protected his identity from the phones and witnesses who saw him. He grabbed Ziad by the shoulders and pulled him off Jack, who was dazed and bloody. Ziad wheeled round and unleashed a punch, but Pearce stepped into it and let it connect with his helmet. Ziad immediately doubled up, cradling his right hand in his left.
‘Fuck!’
‘I’m trying to help you,’ Pearce told him. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
Ziad registered the gathered crowd and the sirens and hurried towards the Buick.
‘Give me your keys,’ Pearce said, and Ziad ferreted in his pocket and tossed them over.
Ziad got in the passenger seat and Pearce slid behind the wheel, crouching to fit his helmet inside the vehicle. They were still being filmed and he had no intention of letting himself be identified. He started the engine, which spluttered a couple of times before coming to life. He threw the car into drive and pulled out. He ignored the half-hearted attempts of bystanders who wanted to be seen trying to stop them, drove around the stationary cars and sped north.
Chapter 41
Leila had driven north-east of Seattle for almost two hours, and was in the wild forest that lay south of Verlot. She’d tried to get hold of Pearce, but he wasn’t answering his Ghostlink, so she had to improvise alone. The body needed to be disposed of somewhere secluded and off the beaten track. Her only search had yielded Mount Pilchuck, a remote peak surrounded by wilderness. She’d been on a deserted country trail for twenty minutes, winding through seemingly endless evergreen woodland. She finally came to the mouth of an overgrown track she’d just been able to make out on the satellite image, and turned down it. The car bounced and rocked as she drove along the rutted, grass-covered trail. The temperature was a few degrees cooler than the city and the branches of huge pines and redwoods met high above her, casting deep shadows. Above them, black and purple clouds promised a thunderstorm.
With every jolt and bump Leila heard curses coming from the Yukon’s boot. She’d tied up Jared, the surviving junkie, and had gagged him while she’d driven her SUV up to the little green house. She’d reversed it as close to the front door as possible and had then gone inside and untied her prisoner. She’d pistol-whipped him a couple of times and forced him to carry his dead companion to the car, where she’d made him put the corpse in the boot. Jared had baulked when Leila had ordered him to get in beside the body, but she’d remarked that two kills were as easy as one, and the dirty man had finally cooperated. She’d been bluffing, of course. He was too valuable as a source to kill. When he was huddled next to the corps
e, Leila had smacked him with the pistol and knocked him out.
She’d returned to the house and carried out a quick clean, wiping away all visible signs of the killing with a T-shirt she’d found on the bedroom floor. She’d gathered any items of clothing that might have been hit by blood spatter and put them in the Yukon’s boot. The house would have yielded a trove of forensic evidence, but to the naked eye it looked as though she and the men had never been there. The whole process had taken little more than ten minutes, and after a final check of the scene, she’d returned to the Yukon and headed north. Jared had come round some forty minutes later and had groaned and cursed ever since.
He was moaning now, locked in the dark space with his companion’s corpse, but Leila couldn’t feel sorry for him. Even the most savage tiger cried like a kitten when beaten. If they’d taken her, she was in no doubt those men would have done dark things to make her talk.
After another ten minutes, Leila found what she’d seen in the satellite image. The trail ended and gave way to a small meadow that stood at the summit of a high cliff. She parked ten metres from the edge and climbed out. She could hear Jared’s cries for her to let him out, but she ignored him and grabbed her cane. She walked across the spongey ground, through the long grass to the very edge of the cliff. The drop must have been at least three hundred feet and the valley floor was covered in huge boulders where part of the cliff had collapsed long ago. It was the perfect place to dispose of a vehicle that was now tainted by a killing, and she could send the corpse over with it. Her plan was to knock Jared out and wait with him until Pearce could get there. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best she could do in the circumstances.
Leila returned to the huge car and positioned herself a couple of metres behind it. She pressed a button on the fob and the tailgate rose slowly. A foot lashed out angrily; Jared had clearly expected her to be standing right next to the car, and she was happy to disappoint him. She drew her pistol, and when the tailgate had risen high enough for them to see each other, she gestured with it.
‘Get out,’ she said.
The man shuffled round, swinging his legs over the lip of the boot and away from the crumpled corpse that lay behind him. As he sat up, he shocked Leila by hurling the tyre iron at her. She ducked as the heavy length of metal whirled towards her, and felt sharp pain as it glanced off her shoulder. The force almost knocked her over, but she knew she couldn’t go down, because Jared was sprinting towards her, his face twisted in anger.
‘I’m gonna fucking kill you,’ he yelled.
He barrelled into her at full pelt and they went flying, the impact sending shards of jagged pain up her spine. The gun fell from her hand and tumbled into the long grass, and the two of them collapsed in a jumble of limbs. He fell onto her, unleashing more agony, but Leila fought through the pain and dug her nails into his neck. He yelped and kicked and punched her before springing round and diving for the gun.
Leila saw him scrabbling through the grass, searching for the weapon. She cast around, and when she caught sight of her cane, she rolled over, ignored the electric stabs that shot up her legs, and forced herself to her feet. Jared was still in the long grass, frantically searching for the gun. Leila hobbled over to her cane and stooped to pick it up. When she turned towards Jared, she saw he’d found her pistol. She hadn’t run in years, but pure survival instinct forced her forward. She was ten paces from the man as he rose and turned.
Seven paces.
His eyes focused on her.
Five paces.
His hand came round.
Four.
She looked down the wavering barrel.
Three.
The gun steadied, locking on its target.
Two.
His trigger finger tensed.
Leila swiped wildly with her cane and it connected with his arm, knocking it away from her. The gun discharged and a bullet cracked into the trees.
Jared punched Leila and brought the gun round, but before he could shoot her, she drove the metal tip of her cane into his neck. The blow puckered the flesh around his windpipe, and she saw it collapse. He dropped the gun and screeched in agony. Leila didn’t want to kill the man. He was too valuable alive, but the situation was out of control and she was fighting for survival. She lashed out wildly and the second strike connected with his ear, the brass-capped cane burying itself in the canal, folding the ear in on itself. Jared’s eyes rolled back and he fell to the ground. He spasmed wildly, before falling still. A stream of blood flowed from his ear.
Leila sat in the long grass and wept. Her sobs were rapid and loud, so violent they could have choked her. Her body burned with pain and she was trembling. Yet again, she’d come within touching distance of death’s cruel hand, and had added another body to her tally. Her jihadi husband and Artem Vasylyk, the man she’d killed in London, had been joined by these two. Most of all she cried at the thought she might have died without ever seeing her sister again.
The minutes she spent sobbing seemed like an age, but finally the sound of the wind through the trees and the call of a bird of prey pierced the fog of anguish and she returned to reality. She took a few moments to compose herself and then got to her feet. High above her, the clouds rumbled and the first drops of heavy rain burst against her skin. She headed for the car, where she’d wait out the storm before disposing of the bodies.
Chapter 42
Pearce drove five blocks before pulling into a parking garage. He’d felt the silent hum of the Ghostlink and itched for the opportunity to answer, but whoever had been calling would have to wait. He went up to the fourth level and found a space near the stairwell.
‘Thanks,’ Ziad said, his head hanging with shame. ‘Sorry about . . .’ he winced as he turned to face Pearce.
‘No problem,’ Pearce replied. ‘It hurt you more than me.’
‘You really helped me out of a jam. Can I give you something? As a thanks.’
Pearce thought for a moment. What he was about to do went against all his training. He removed his helmet. If Ziad recognized him from the port, he didn’t show it.
‘It’s probably too much to ask, but if you know anyone who’s looking, I could really use a job,’ Pearce said, as his companion studied his face.
‘Inta masry, mish keda?’ Ziad asked, quizzing Pearce on his Egyptian heritage.
Pearce nodded. ‘I have a British passport, so I can’t get a job in America legally, but I need money. I work hard and I’m prepared to do anything. If you know anyone who could use an extra body . . .’
Ziad cradled his injured hand. ‘Let me talk to some people. Do you know Al Jamaea? It’s an ahwa near 140th Street.’ Ahwa was the Arabic word for cafe.
‘I can find it,’ Pearce replied.
‘Meet me there tomorrow night at eight,’ Ziad said. ‘Ana masry kaman.’
I’m also Egyptian. The brethren of migrants. It wasn’t a card Pearce had played much, because his heritage was only obvious to those who knew the Middle East well, but it had worked in this instance – in combination with the debt Ziad owed him for saving him from a hazardous situation.
‘Thanks,’ Pearce said, and he got out of the car.
‘See you tomorrow,’ Ziad called out as Pearce headed for the stairwell. ‘What’s your name, brother?’
‘Amr,’ Pearce said.
‘Ahlan wa sahlan, ya Amr. Ana Ziad.’
Welcome, Amr. I’m Ziad.
Pearce nodded and went through the stairwell door. He reached street level and was on his way back to his bike when he felt his Ghostlink vibrate again. He pulled it out of his pocket and Leila’s unique ID displayed on the tiny screen.
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘You busy?’ she asked.
‘Not anymore.’
‘I need a ride.’
‘Problem?’ he asked.
‘Yes. But I’m OK. I’m going to give you my coordinates. If you’re in the city it’ll take you about two hours to reach me,’ she said.
‘Any family with you?’ Pearce asked, using the code phrase that would give Leila the opportunity to warn him if she was under duress.
‘I’m alone,’ she replied. If she’d been taken hostage, she would have said, ‘I’m on my own.’
She gave him a string of GPS coordinates which he committed to memory.
‘You sure you’re OK?’ he asked.
‘I’ll survive,’ she replied.
Something bad had happened. ‘I’ll be there as quickly as I can,’ he said. ‘Over and out.’
He’d never forgive himself if Leila had been hurt doing a task that should have been his. Pearce broke into a run and headed for his bike.
Chapter 43
Everything felt wrong. Real but somehow not. Pearce was battered and beaten, his wrists bandaged, his face full of fear and uncertainty, lit by a flickering fire. Behind him, waves caressed the shore and stars sparkled on the swells of the firth. But when Wollerton returned his gaze to the man opposite him, he was gone, replaced by the woman who’d torn a hole in his heart, his ex-wife, Esther.
‘Where are you, Kyle?’ she said. ‘Lift him up.’ Her mouth formed the words shortly after they were spoken, but the sound came from somewhere else. ‘Get him on his feet.’
Wollerton was perfectly still, seated on a log on the beach outside his house, but he felt as though he was being lifted. It was utterly surreal.
‘Don’t drop him,’ the same voice said. The accent was familiar. French.
