‘Where is it then?’ Caleb said again. ‘Where’s your ID?’
Rebekah had got far enough to see part of Lima’s profile. As Caleb asked him for ID, he glanced behind him into the parking lot. It took her a second to grasp why: He’s making sure no one’s watching.
But, before she’d even finished the thought, it was already too late.
In the blink of an eye, Caleb stumbled back, against the shelves he’d been trying to grab the hammer from, and crashed into the far wall. Pots of nails emptied over him; chunks of old machine parts, oilskins. He’d barely hit the floor and Lima was inside the shack, bent over, grabbing hold of his neck.
His other hand was inside his coat.
He’s going for his gun.
Rebekah rocked forward, springing to her feet. She saw the surprise in Lima’s face as he looked at her, the horror, his bronzed skin blanching at the sight of a dead woman. Then his eyes went to the shelves next to her: he had no idea what was missing from them, he just knew she’d grabbed something. He tried to adjust, to turn, to pull out his gun. But Rebekah got there first.
The wrench connected with the side of his head.
It made a dull slap, like raw meat dropped onto a chopping board, then Lima lurched awkwardly to his right, collapsing into one of the shelving units. He had hold of the gun now, but he was dazed: he looked for her, eyes drifting and failing to focus, his hands unsteadily trying to gain purchase on the floor.
Rebekah kicked the weapon out of his grip, his fingers springing open; as it clattered against the wall, his arms gave way and he hit the floor. He landed in a blanket of roofing nails, crying out in pain as he pierced himself. Almost instantly, he attempted to get to his knees again, but he was woozy. He couldn’t focus. Rebekah pressed her foot into his back and pushed him down.
She had no plan, no idea where to go from here and, for the first time, she remembered Caleb: he was still slumped against the shelves, motionless. In the frenzy, a chunk from an old boat engine had landed on his head and now he was bleeding from his scalp. He was unconscious.
Lima had started moving again.
Shit.
She looked between him and Caleb and the parking lot: coming down from Main Street, into the harbour, was a black Dodge Ram pickup, pulling a trailer, with another vehicle loaded on it: her Cherokee.
Her eyes met those of the driver inside the Ram.
Hain.
Rebekah grabbed her backpack and sprinted out of the shack. Behind her, she heard Hain’s pickup gun into the lot – but she didn’t look back. She scrambled up a concrete slope, a sea defence built to protect the town during storms, and – thirty seconds later, as she reached Main Street – began looking for help. To her horror, no one was around. Helena was deserted.
‘Help!’ she screamed in desperation. ‘Help!’
She headed towards the store where she’d slept for months, thinking of the men she’d seen outside that morning. She’d assumed they were the owners. She’d assumed they’d open the store on day one.
But she was wrong.
The store remained closed and neither man was around. She went to the bottom of Main Street where the bait-and-tackle store was.
That was shut too.
Panicked, she glanced out to the rest of the town, at the two rows of boarded buildings on either side of her. Nothing was open; there was no sign of life. It was just Hain, Lima, Caleb – and her.
But then she came out from behind the bait-and-tackle place and looked down the ramp to the harbour parking lot, two hundred feet away.
The ferry.
There were two men behind the glass of the bridge.
‘Help!’ she screamed, frantically waving her arms above her head. ‘Help me, I’m being attacked!’ Neither looked in her direction. They couldn’t hear her from this distance. ‘Help me! Please help m–’
She stopped, struck silent.
Hain had emerged, on foot, at the bottom of the ramp. Their eyes met, his expression dark as night. And then he mouthed something.
She couldn’t hear him.
But she understood.
You’re fucking dead.
She sprinted back the way she’d come, up the incline of Main Street, as Hain made a dash to his Ram. She could run, she was fit, she could go on for miles without stopping – but there was one thing she couldn’t do.
She couldn’t outrun a car.
Behind her, she heard the rev of his engine, heard the weight of the Ram’s tyres hitting the harbour ramp.
And then an idea struck her.
A desperate, stupid idea.