The plane stood ready to go on the crumbling airstrip, and as dusk darkened the rural sweep about them, Tye stared at it longingly. She was standing in the doorway of a barn built alongside, keeping watch. Motti had given the usual forged papers and paid off the owner for use of the airstrip. But this time he’d thrown in a bit extra to be allowed to use the site’s X-ray security systems. All kinds of stuff must pass through this secret strip.
‘Last time we came here, we’d just sprung Jonah and were taking him back to Geneva,’ she remembered.
‘Yeah, that day’s tattooed on my heart,’ said Motti gruffly from inside the barn.
‘It’s tattooed on my fart!’ Patch blew a raspberry by way of demonstration, and Tye rolled her eyes.
‘C’mon, Cyclops, would you get going?’
‘You wanna fly tonight or fry tonight?’ Tye glanced back at Patch as he placed Heidel’s well-worn leather briefcase on a small conveyor belt in front of the X-ray camera. ‘If there is a booby trap inside this thing, let’s hope it ain’t triggered by X-rays.’
Con wriggled off her hay bale and hid behind it instead. ‘Not funny.’
‘Not meant to be.’ The scanner hummed into noisy life. ‘But there can’t be anything too dodgy inside this case. I mean, why would Heidel risk taking it past Heathrow security?’
‘Yeah. Like, nothing gets past those airport guys,’ Motti deadpanned. ‘Anyways, could be he didn’t risk nothing. Could be a back-up booby trap he made over here and left in the room in case we got past the bitch with the bow.’
‘We can’t underestimate these people,’ Con agreed.
As if on cue, Tye felt a whole storm of pain as something cold and solid chopped into the side of her neck. Looking the wrong damned way, she realised. With an exaggerated scream of pain to warn the others, she collapsed to the ground with her eyes shut; pretending she was out cold until she knew what they were up against.
‘None of you move!’ she heard a man bellow in a fierce Scottish accent. From the sound of things, no one was arguing. And now she saw a second man emerge from behind the barn, striding up to join his friend in the doorway. He was wearing a balaclava and holding a sawn-off shotgun, and Tye guessed the first man was packing the same – he’d probably hit her with the stock.
Two of you, Tye thought, trying to ignore the numbness in her neck. Any more?
‘Who are you?’ she heard Motti drawl. ‘The cops?’
‘Shut your mouth,’ the second one said, a Londoner by the sound of it. ‘Dunno who you are or what your game is, but the boss don’t like being snooped on.’
‘You are working for Heidel?’ Con enquired.
‘Who the hell is Heidel?’ said the Scottish man. ‘Just hand over the camcorder.’
Someone saw us filming outside the auction house, Tye realised, must’ve followed us here. But the Scot’s tone of voice and speed with which he answered suggested he really didn’t know who Heidel was. Perhaps they only called their boss by a codename?
‘Camcorder, now!’ The Londoner was skittering about in the doorway like the ground was burning his shoes, cranked up on adrenaline. ‘Or I’ll waste the lot of you.’
‘All right, take it easy!’ Patch’s voice sounded high and strained. ‘You can have it.’
‘Throw it here.’ Tye heard a faint slap and shuffle as the Londoner caught the camcorder and jammed it into his jacket pocket. ‘What’s this other stuff you got here? What’re you doing with it?’
Tye swore in Creole under her breath. If these gorillas made off with the rest of their evidence, their mission here would have been a complete washout. She braced herself to move.
‘It is only our luggage,’ said Con languidly. ‘We’re going on holiday.’
‘Don’t get clever,’ the Scot warned her.
‘I won’t get clever. But you are getting tired, I think, yes?’
‘Shut up.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper, but Tye still caught it: ‘Street only told us to get the camcorder, Fin. It’s sorted. Come on.’
‘Yeah, but what’s this other stuff?’ the man called Fin persisted.
‘Look at me, both of you,’ Con tried again. ‘You need to look at me, listen to me –’
‘I warned you, bitch!’ Fin shouted, his voice wilder, breath quickening, psyching himself up to fire. ‘I’m gonna split you in two!’
His finger twitched on the trigger of the sawn-off.
Tye lashed out with her foot and knocked Fin’s legs from under him. The man fell backwards – firing the sawn-off as he went down. The Scottish man screamed as the top of his shoulder was scattered over the barn wall, the impact knocking him backwards. He dropped his own gun, crashed into a hay bale.
Stomach churning, Tye threw herself towards Fin, but he recovered quicker than she expected and rolled clear, knelt up. She hit the ground, looked up and found herself staring into the barrel of the shotgun.
Single selective trigger, she realised, recognising the model in a long, frozen moment of shock. No need to reload, he’s going to –
Then Motti’s boot smacked into the barrel and knocked it clear even as the cartridge discharged. Tye flinched from the thunder of the blast, felt the heat on her face from the fierce spit of shot, smelt the overpowering reek of cordite. Forcing her eyes back open, she lunged towards Fin and punched him in the face. But the blow was stiff and weak, he rolled with the impact and she lost her balance, falling forward. She heard Fin scrambling up, but Motti jumped over her and kicked him in the balls. Fin’s whoop of pain was silenced by a punch to the jaw that left him reeling. He shambled away without another word. Motti made to follow, but then –
‘The other one!’ Con shouted.
Tye turned in horror to find the Scottish bloke gripping his sawn-off in one bloody hand. His eyes were wild and staring behind the black mask, his breath coming in ragged snatches.
‘Back off!’ he screamed, aiming straight at Tye’s head.
Motti put up his hands and did as he was told. Still on all fours, praying fervently to any gods that might listen, Tye crawled slowly backwards. Too frightened to speak, she knew she had to keep eye contact, had to keep some kind of connection between them. If she lowered her head it might be all the excuse he needed to blow it off. Don’t do this, she thought, as a tear teased down her cheek. Please don’t. Don’t.
‘Know why they call them “wristbreakers”, pal?’ she heard Motti say softly. ‘Use a sawn-off one-handed, recoil’s gonna jar it right out of your fingers. You might kill our girl … but then how’re you gonna stop the rest of us from killing you?’
‘Your friend has run away.’ Con’s voice was as hard as her stare. ‘Run after him, and you might even make it to a hospital before you pass out from blood loss … yes?’
Grunting and moaning with pain, the man turned abruptly and fled into the darkening night.
Tye let out a long, long shaky breath and lowered her head to the ground, fighting the nausea rising inside her. A moment later, she felt Motti’s arms around her, hauling her up, holding her close. She held him back for a few seconds, staring numbly at the bloodstained straw on the floor.
‘I’m OK,’ she mumbled, straightening up. ‘Everybody else?’
‘Alive, at least,’ said Con, hugging herself tightly. ‘Thank you, Tye. I’m sorry – I nearly got us killed.’
‘You tried,’ Motti told her. ‘He was too wired, too strung out for you to –’
‘I appreciate the kindness, Motti.’ Con closed her eyes. ‘But don’t.’
Then Tye saw Patch’s pale face peeping out from behind the X-ray machine. ‘Thought they’d never go,’ he joked weakly. ‘Whoever they were.’
‘I heard them say they were working for someone called Street,’ said Tye, wiping sweat from her face with her sleeve. ‘Someone who must have seen us filming Heidel and come after us.’
‘Weren’t you checking for tails?’ Motti asked.
‘Weren’t you?’ she retorted, her voice rising without her meaning it to. She bit her lip, willed herself to keep calm. ‘I didn’t see anyone following us. Sorry.’
‘Oh, and you were great too, Cyclops.’ Motti glared at Patch. ‘You gave those psychos the camcorder just like that.’
‘Fair play, I gave ’em the camcorder,’ Patch agreed, holding up a small back rectangle. ‘But I never gave ’em the tape, did I?’
Motti was shut up for once, and Tye forced a little smile. ‘Good work, Patch.’
‘Not only that, but while you kept them tosspots busy, I was getting Heidel’s case open.’ He stooped behind the X-ray machine. ‘Just as everything kicked off, I saw on the scanner there’s an incendiary device inside hooked up to the combination locks. Put in the wrong numbers and – phtt! – everything goes up in smoke.’ He held up a small firework-sized device attached to a length of wire. ‘Couldn’t keep me out, of course. I was about to lob it over there and start a distraction when you persuaded him to scoot.’ He frowned. ‘They have gone, haven’t they?’
‘They might be fetching back-up,’ said Motti moodily. ‘This Street character could be on his way –’
‘Or her way,’ said Con.
He nodded. ‘The ’strip owner might even be in on it.’
‘We should clear out,’ Tye decided.
‘We’re all loaded up,’ Motti said, turning back to Patch. ‘Except for that case.’
‘You opened it, Patch,’ said Con, acting composed again, smoothing her fingers through her hair. ‘What’s inside it?’
Patch blew out a long breath. He looked like he didn’t know quite where to start. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘Just you wait …’
They cleared out of the barn, quietly and efficiently, leaving the bloodstains and the sawn-off behind them. Soon Tye was taking the plane up into the moonless sky, relief thumping in her chest like a second heartbeat.
She flew low over fields and cities, hugging the landscape to avoid radar detection. Then the plane struck out across the Channel. The churning darkness of the ocean below was mirrored in the black, scudding clouds above. As if the night could know no peace.
Tye felt just the same. She put the controls on to autopilot and sank back in her seat. She was tired, an aching tiredness that seemed to groan through her whole body. Over the rushing whoosh of the turbines, she heard nervous laughter and chatter from the cabin, as if from a million miles away. She looked at the seat beside her, where Jonah usually sat.
‘Nearly never saw you again,’ she murmured, pretending he was here. ‘Twice in one day.’
Suddenly Patch came up behind her, made her jump. ‘Sorry, mate … just wanted to show you a little picture we found in Heidel’s briefcase.’ He perched a battered photograph on top of the altimeter. ‘Thought it might brighten up the flight deck.’
He ducked back to join the others and Tye stared at the creased, faded picture, at two men with slicked back hair and sideburns. They were sitting on a spotless white terrace, in sunlight and sharp grey suits, drinking champagne. One of the men was young, in his twenties, maybe, dark and lean, smiling like a shark. The other was older, grey-haired. His eyes held shadows and his smile was strained, as if he felt he’d been left posing for the picture too long.
Tye could almost sense the resentment still lingering as he stared out at her across the years. And she felt the thump of her heart in her throat.
The smiling shark was a youthful Coldhardt, and he was pallying up to Heidel. But now Coldhardt was old himself, while the man she’d seen getting into a black cab that afternoon had barely aged a day since the picture was taken.