Mack had hugged his daughter before ushering her out his front door after Will.
‘Stay with him,’ he urged. ‘It’s too dangerous to be near me now. Rossiter will hunt me down, for sure.’
‘What are you going to do?’
She grasped hold of his wrist, and he gently peeled her fingers away from his sleeve, then kissed her hand.
‘I’ll think of something,’ he said. ‘But you need to go. Rossiter’s going to be looking for all of us.’
‘But where do I go?’ Erin had looked from him to Will, her expression bewildered. ‘I can’t go to the hospital – it wouldn’t be right.’
I’ll take you back to the motel,’ said Will, and then caught the older man’s gaze. ‘It’s on the way.’
Mack had nodded, watched the pair of them hurry down the short garden path away from him, and had then closed the door before Erin had the chance to turn and see the tears that streaked his cheeks.
He hurried through to the kitchen, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his cardigan.
He opened a cupboard door and rummaged amongst the jars of pasta sauce and tins of food until he found a shallow box. Flipping open the lid, he pulled out a pair of the latex catering gloves, tossed the box back into the cupboard, and slipped the gloves over his hands.
He dragged one of the dining chairs across the linoleum floor until it was next to the kitchen cupboards, then climbed up onto the padded seat, placed a hand on one of the cupboard doors to steady himself and reached up, his fingers working along the gap between the top of the cabinet and the ceiling.
His brow creased, then he grunted as he found what he was looking for.
He dragged the bundle of rags to the edge of the cupboard, then grabbed it in his fist and stepped down. Turning, he set the bundle on the kitchen table and unwrapped it.
The gun was over twenty years old, but gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
His thoughts turned to Will, and the fact that the man had been led here all along by Amy, solely for the purpose of exposing the politician for what he really was. He wondered if the journalist had known about Will’s past, or had uncovered it while investigating Erin’s accusations.
His gaze shifted to the calendar on the wall, the election date of May seventh circled with the thick line from a felt permanent marker pen.
Why now? Will had asked.
‘Why not?’ Mack had asked flippantly.
The reality was, once Erin had told him the truth, once he knew the suffering Rossiter had caused her since she was seven years old, his days were numbered.
The significance of the election date and Erin’s age when Rossiter had first made her endure his sickening habits had not been lost on either of them.
In fact, it was what had driven them, then Amy, to wreck Rossiter’s career once and for all.
Except Mack had to be sure.
He trusted Will, had grown to like him even before he’d met him, thanks to Amy – who seemed to know more about Will’s past than the man himself had been happy to admit.
She’d been thorough, for sure. Although he felt bad that Amy’s survival was unlikely, he was pleased to see the effect Will had on Erin.
He picked up the revolver. At least he’d be leaving her in safe hands.
He pulled open a drawer built under the table and grasped a small cardboard box fixed to the back of it.
Setting it on the table, he slid the box open and tapped six of its brass contents into his palm.
The thirty-two calibre rounds were small, but effective.
Mack tipped open the revolver and methodically pushed each of the rounds into its individual chamber.
When he was done, he re-wrapped the gun in its cloths, put six more rounds in the pocket of his cardigan, and swept his car keys from the china dish on the window sill.
He paused next to the back door for a heartbeat, then hurried through the back garden, through a gate in the fence, and made his way to the lock-up that housed his old two-door hatchback.
He trusted Will, but he had to be sure.
One way or another, Ian Rossiter wouldn’t be elected Prime Minister next week.
***
Mack had pulled his small car to the side of the road after leaving the motorway and had paged through his battered old road atlas until he’d found Rossiter’s house.
Newer maps would omit the ministerial candidate’s home for security purposes but Mack’s version was already a decade old and still clearly marked the location of the property, its heritage listing punctuated by a blue icon next to its name.
He traced his finger over the lanes around the perimeter, found one within walking distance of the house, and half an hour later had parked on its verge.
The car held no indication of its owner’s identity to a would-be thief – the glove compartment was empty, no litter filled the back seats, and the ancient CD player had been torn from its housing before Mack had taken delivery of the vehicle.
In short, it would need a police officer with access to the UK vehicle registration database to work out who the vehicle belonged to, which was exactly what Mack wanted.
If anything went wrong, he wanted the police to knock on Rossiter’s door.
Mack reached into his back pocket and wiggled the latex gloves over his fingers once more. He’d removed them while driving, not wanting to arouse immediate suspicion if the police had pulled him over during his journey. Now, his hands covered once more, he opened the back door of the car and felt around under the seat until he located the concealed gun.
He climbed out, locked the doors, and began the short trek to the electric gates that led to the house.
He’d seen the news, and Will had confirmed what he’d gleaned from the television – following the attack, Rossiter announced he’d be spending the remainder of the election campaign working from home.
He’s got his back to the wall, thought Mack.
Which meant that Rossiter wasn’t convinced that Gregory had the situation completely under control.
And, until Will announced it, Rossiter wouldn’t find out about Amy’s rapidly deteriorating health until it was too late.
Although unspoken between them, they both knew it changed everything. Now, the tables were turned, and they were in control. As long as Will remained alive long enough to expose the corrupt businessman.
As he neared the gate, he adjusted his cardigan to camouflage the bulge of the gun and cracked his knuckles.
Mack checked over his shoulder. The lane was deserted in both directions, devoid of any traffic noise.
Satisfied, he adjusted the gun in his waistband, then removed the gloves, bundled them together, and tossed them into the undergrowth at the side of the road.
The sun had begun its descent over the horizon, its last rays flickering behind the grey clouds that had threatened more rain all day. Leaf litter stuck to the soles of his shoes as he walked along the lane towards his destination, and he felt the cool spring air begin to seep into his joints.
He began to cough, and stopped, leaning over with his hands on his knees until the spasm passed. He hawked the contents of his mouth into the undergrowth, ignored the now familiar pink tinge, and instead picked up his pace.
Approaching the entrance to the driveway that led up to the house, he gazed up at the enormous wrought-iron gates that loomed over him, two concrete pillars supporting their weight. They were closed, but Mack couldn’t see a chain around them.
He moved his head and saw the security panel set into the right-hand pillar, then raised his eyes to the camera perched at the top of the pillar, a red light blinking on its surface.
Mack threw a mock salute at it, then stepped forward and pressed the intercom button with the knuckle of his index finger.
A man’s voice answered, no doubt the same man who was monitoring the live feed from the camera.
‘Identify yourself, and state the purpose of your visit.’
A sly smile began to twitch at the corner of Mack’s mouth, and he turned away from the camera so the security man wouldn’t see.
‘Mackenzie Harris,’ he said, bending down to the microphone to make sure the man at the other end of the line would hear him clearly. ‘Tell your boss and his creep of a press secretary that the ghost of Christmas past is here to see them.’
***
Mack had been waiting at the gates for almost ten minutes before he heard a metallic click and the ironwork began to swing inwards on its hinges.
Impatient, he slid between them as soon as the gap was big enough to accommodate him and began to walk up the driveway, his feet crunching on the gravel beneath his shoes.
He half expected to be apprehended by Rossiter’s thugs halfway up the driveway when he reached a small copse of trees, but the landscape remained still, save for the evening singsong of a blackbird.
He stood for a moment, entranced by the sound, aware that it could well be the last time he heard the beautiful melody. He shook his head as, beyond the trees, another bird echoed the song, and then he adjusted his waistband to counteract the weight of the gun, recalling the last time it had been fired.
A grim determination seized him, and he took a deep breath before striding towards the house.
Will might have the photographic evidence now, but the lad needed a push in the right direction if Rossiter was going to be stopped.
Mack’s mind turned to the image of the calendar on his kitchen wall. The election was less than a week away, and the news coverage had reached fever pitch.
Rossiter wouldn’t stay holed up at his house forever, Mack was sure. At some point, he’d have to work the crowds face-to-face, to drive the frenzy to his advantage.
It had to be now or never.
The driveway opened out into a large turning circle in front of the house.
Mack stared at the towering gables, trying to recall when he had last been at the property, then quickly dismissed the thought, the memory too painful given what he’d learned from Erin in recent months.
The front door was already open, a large man in a private security uniform standing on the threshold, glaring at him. He moved to one side to let Mack pass, and then slammed the door shut.
Mack had no time to react as a second man emerged from the shadows and shoved him against the wall. Instead, he concentrated on keeping his breathing shallow, despite his racing heartbeat, while the man frisked him.
It took seconds for the revolver to be discovered, the extra rounds moments later.
‘What have you got?’
Even after all the years that had passed, the voice still managed to fill Mack with dread.
He turned his head.
Rossiter stood, silhouetted in a doorway off the hallway, lamplight glowing from the room beyond to ward off the failing light from outside. His arms were crossed over his chest, his legs slightly apart.
He cast an imposing figure, and Mack inwardly cursed at the cancer that had weakened his own body.
The security guard kept one hand on Mack’s shoulder and passed the gun to his colleague, who strode across to where Rossiter stood.
He reached out and took the gun from the man and turned it over in his hands.
A second man stepped into the doorway from inside the room, a crystal glass held delicately between his fingers.
‘Well, well,’ said Gregory. ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’
‘Tell your men to stop searching for Will Fletcher and my niece,’ said Rossiter, his eyes gleaming. ‘I’ve thought of a way we can make them come to us.’
Mack turned his face back to the wall and closed his eyes.
He knew what would happen next.