I wilt onto Coleman’s street. My lungs are on fire. My legs, rubber. Bastard couldn’t live any bloody closer to the Underground station, could he?
I sag against a car. But I need to keep going, I need to… I stumble forward, bounce off the car’s neighbor. Its alarm blares into life. Flashing indicator lights highlight the sweat dripping off my brow.
The lights in Coleman’s apartment are still turned low. No sign of Devon. No sign of any of the others. I glance down at my watch. Twelve-fifteen p.m. She had his ID in about five minutes. That’s almost two hours of Coleman without his pants on. I can’t believe that’s a good thing.
I cross the street to his building’s door. I’ve given up running for more of a shuffling hobble. I need to think of something that will convince the bastard to buzz me up. No, screw that, I just need to smash the glass in the door and open it myself.
Except someone’s done that for me already.
Oh, we have so definitely left good very far behind.
I shoulder open the door, pull the gun out of my jacket. And for about the first time in my life, I’m actually premeditating murder. If he’s hurt Devon, I’ll kill him. Actually kill him. And I’ll do it gladly.
I crash up the stairs, panting, huffing. I slam into one wall then another. My gun echoes hollowly against wallpaper and plasterboard.
Coleman’s door. The lock busted. Splinters and the exposed bronze of the lock. And what the hell?
But I can’t stop, so I don’t stop. I stagger through, try to suck in air, try to focus. I try to get the breath to call Devon’s name, but I can’t.
A staggering footstep forward. And there’s a body. A body face down on the floor. Someone standing over it.
And Devon. Devon sitting on the couch.
Wait…
Wait… I… On the couch?
Kayla stands in the middle of Coleman’s living room. Stands over Coleman’s comatose form.
“Finally,” she says derisively. “The feckin’ cavalry.”