The man was running south along the narrow track between the fields that they’d driven up just minutes before. It was about a mile to the bridge that would take him across the river and into the main part of the city. Mac realised that if he hadn’t caught the fugitive by then, the man would be able to evaporate into the warren of narrow streets and alleyways – and with darkness falling quickly, there would be no hope of tracking him through the shadows.
In other words, it was now or never.
He cursed himself for having neglected his fitness as he felt the burn of lactic acid in his calves and thigh muscles. But he wasn’t going to stop.
In the dusk, the fields had become featureless expanses of grey and sepia interspersed with the squat black silhouettes of the mud-built houses. None of them had the luxury of light, though the smell of woodsmoke from their fires hung on the air. Mac could hear nothing but his own breathing and the crunch of his boots on the gravelly surface.
Where the hell were Ginger and Nagpal? Surely they would have come after him in the Land Rover by now.
A dog barked close by. It ran at him, snarling, giving chase through instinct. A man called out to it, but the dog took no notice, jumping up at Mac’s legs, trying to get a grip with its teeth. As its jaws scraped his flesh, Mac smashed a fist at the side of its head and it lost balance, sprawling away behind him with a whimper. He hated doing it, but in a country where rabies was endemic, he wasn’t taking any chances.
Mac pressed a hand against his thigh, still running. His jeans were intact, the damage would be no more than a graze. But the encounter had cost him a couple of valuable seconds. His quarry had reached the road, and was turning onto the bridge now. In moments, he would disappear into the urban landscape.
Mac pushed on harder, regardless of the fact that if he actually caught up with the man, he’d be too winded to even talk to him, let alone tackle him.
After the silent run through the fields, the dull roar of traffic on the main road sounded louder than usual. The runner ahead of him was silhouetted over and over by the headlights of the cars coming towards them. He glanced back, checking to see if Mac was still in pursuit, picking up his pace when he saw that he was still being chased.
Ginger, where the fuck are you?
There was no pavement on the bridge, just a foot-wide strip of pebbles, litter and automotive detritus at the side of the carriageway. Mac leapt over a shredded lorry tyre, almost tripping on a strip of twisted bumper as he did. Cars whizzed past him within touching distance, the fumes from their dirty exhausts catching in his throat, depleting the oxygen he needed so desperately to keep going.
The man had reached the far side of the bridge now and was heading into Lash. Where was he going? Mac wondered if he had a destination in mind, or was simply running because someone was chasing him.
Mac was halfway across the bridge, but the gap between them never seemed to lessen.
A sudden stitch stabbed under Mac’s ribs, making him gasp with pain and slow down to a jog. He pushed both fists against the affected area, gritting his teeth, but it did no good. It felt as if a piece of string had been threaded through his viscera and was being pulled tighter and tighter.
Gasping for breath, he stumbled, just as a car coming towards him swerved to avoid a piece of debris in the road. Headlights blinded him as he felt himself falling. There was a sickening crunch as he collided with the vehicle’s nearside wing. He felt himself being thrown clear with a rush of air. Then he crashed against the concrete side wall of the bridge, and was sucked into a maelstrom of pain and darkness.