Zal considers it might be abusing Shaw’s goodwill to steal his ride, but Hewitt did leave the keys in the ignition, and with there being cop cars, roadblocks and even helicopters everywhere, he figures it’s the least conspicuous way to get out of there. He drives back out through the gap in the fence and on to the main road, then turns left into the adjacent dockyard a hundred and fifty yards before the western roadblock. He’s guessing it won’t look suspicious: just another car covering a part of the perimeter they may have overlooked. The gate is padlocked, which is perhaps why the police didn’t venture in there already just for recon. Takes him about ten seconds, then he’s able to drive on through.
The dockyard is about as derelict as Darcourt’s place next door. There’s a crane by the waterside, the metalwork so rusteaten that it looks like one attempt to swivel it on its turntable would cause it to disintegrate in a big flaky brown cloud. For company it has three freight containers in only marginally better shape.
He ditches the car where it won’t be visible from either the road or the dry dock next door, and scrambles his way to the summit of a shored-up embankment topped by the mesh fence separating the two properties. He crouches down and gets comfortable, ready to wait it out. The rain isn’t letting up any and he’ll be soaked pretty soon, but he ain’t leaving until he’s seen her come out of there safe and sound.
Zal has an elevated perspective upon the container ship and the dry dock, but the darkness and the rain mean there isn’t much to see right now. Then he makes out some movement: a single cop down on the apron of weed-strewn broken concrete, who leans into one of the cars and switches on its headlights. In a matter of seconds, the cop has repeated the operation on all the vehicles arced around the ship, bathing the gangways with light. No issue of stealth any more, so the show must be over. Confirming this, he hears the sound of sirens and sees a quartet of ambulances on the main road, the cars comprising the roadblock reversing out of the way to clear their path. Meanwhile, some more cops are busy busting open Darcourt’s sliding gate to allow direct access for the emergency vehicles.
Down on the bigger of the gangways, he sees the first figures emerge just as the ambulances reach the arc of police cars. They come out two by two at first, each pair comprising a staggering, enfeebled figure accompanied by a cop. Paramedics jog towards them, wrapping them in blankets and leading them towards the ambulances. He watches one guy emerge alone, shaking off an offer of assistance from a cop but then being urged to let the medics take a look at him. Zal figures him for Dale.
Still they keep coming, until he’s also accounted for the TV presenter, the soccer player’s wife and the asshole comedian. Then, proceeding more slowly and anxiously than the others, comes the talent-show kid, Anika, who all but collapses when the paramedics reach her. Still no de Xavia, though, nor Shaw; nor Darcourt.
Then two cops lead a couple of the paramedics forward with a gurney, which they roll up the gangway. Zal feels a brief pang of fear and concern, but only long enough to remind himself who he’s waiting for here. There was only ever going to be one person sure to need carried out of there tonight: the one who fucked with Angelique.
And yep, there he goes a few minutes later. Hard to tell from this distance, but as they’re holding some kind of pack to one side of his face, it looks like Zal was on the money when he predicted Darcourt would be using a retinal scanner. Yeah, you had your playtime, dude, but I guess your mom never warned you: it’s all fun and games until...
Darcourt is wheeled into one of the ambulances, which takes off at speed, blue lights and sirens. It’s followed by one of the squad cars, and once it hits the main drag, it picks up two motorcycle outriders who take the vanguard. Adios, motherfucker, you got off easy.
Zal turns his gaze back to the gangway and now, finally, he sees her. Her mom is in front, being helped along by Shaw, while Angelique herself has her arms around and her head tucked against her daddy. When they reach the bottom of the ramp, Mrs de Xavia ditches Shaw and turns. The three of them coalesce into one tight and tearful hug, from which they don’t look likely to emerge any time soon.
She’s whole again. They’re all whole again.
Zal allows himself a sad smile, thinks of what might have been, but he can’t dwell on that. He feels happy for her, and proud of the part he was able to play when she needed him, but he still has work to do, one last gift to give her. The gift of leaving.
He takes a final look but can’t see her face. She’s still all wrapped up in her parents’ arms, and that kinda says it all. He turns to make his way back down the embankment, but loses his footing on the scree and scrambles the last few yards on his ass. He’s about to pick himself up when a figure emerges from behind one of the freight containers, brandishing a shotgun.
‘’Allo again, my son. Long time no see. Real blast from the past, this, innit?’
‘Oh, shit.’
‘And there was me worryin’ you might not recognise me after all these years.’
‘The cockney Bobba Fett. How could I forget?’
‘Ah, now, see, I’m not really in that line any more, but I was convinced to pick up Mr Spank one last time by a lady who reckons she has some unfinished business regarding a bank job up in Glasgow.’
‘Fuck. Don’t you guys have a statute of limitations in this country?’
‘I’m not a lawyer, mate, but I’m bloody sure there’s no loop-hole’s gonna get you off the hook on this one. She’s got very strong feelings regarding this matter. Very motivated, if you catch my drift.’
‘Is this you saying I could alter your motivations if I topped her fee?’
‘’Fraid not, my son. I’m a man of integrity these days. And you should never break a promise to a lady. Come on. This way.’
Fleet leads him to a high-sided van, opening the rear doors to reveal a steel loop welded to the ceiling inside. He then produces a set of handcuffs. Zal can guess what’s coming next; unfortunately he doesn’t guess quite all of it.
‘Clothes off, matey,’ Fleet orders. ‘Down to your drawers. See, I’ve been reading up on your sort. Got your clever little tools squirreled away somewhere, ain’t you? Well, not tonight, my son.’
Zal peels off the wet clothes. He pleads to be allowed to keep his trousers as a token gesture of defiance, given that his hands will be chained up overhead, but he knows Fleet isn’t for budging. Fleet keeps the gun pointed at him the whole time, carefully observing as Zal puts the cuffs through the loop and fastens them around his wrists.
Once he is secured, Fleet has a root through Zal’s discarded trousers. He holds up a small wallet full of picks and taps the side of his head, flashing Zal a smug smile.
Oh yeah, you the man.
‘You know, I really should be wearing a seatbelt,’ is Zal’s parting shot as Fleet closes the rear door. ‘Wouldn’t want you to get a ticket.’
To his credit, Fleet does drive pretty smoothly, and indeed slowly, which ensures that the journey seems to take an interminably long time. Certainly it feels that way when you have to keep your arms above your head the whole time, as Zal does purely for appearances’ sake. He freed himself from the cuffs about half a mile in. The wallet was a decoy for precisely this kind of situation: he’s got another set sewn into his jacket, but his real emergency picks he keeps in his wristwatch. Well, duh. Jesus, what good would something hidden in his trousers be when he’s strung up like this?
Eventually the van comes to a stop and the engine quits. Sounds like they’re inside: a warehouse or a real big garage. He hears Fleet close his door, then the sound of footsteps walking away. Okay. Zal is deciding whether to try and spring the rear doors or bust his way into the cab and hotwire the engine, when he hears more footsteps, this time coming towards the van.
Shit. He puts his hands back in position. He’ll need to choose his moment very carefully, wait until Fleet is real close, and when he hits him, it’ll have to be a knockout blow. Can’t afford to take any chances with that shotgun around.
Zal tenses as he hears the rear handle being pulled. It jams a bit, takes a second creaking tug. The doors swing open and he finds himself looking not at Fleet, but at the woman who hired him to make sure Zal didn’t get away.
She’s smiling apologetically, sniffing away tears.
‘You need a hand out of there?’ she asks.
Zal nods. She climbs up inside, holding Fleet’s keys. He waits until she’s a foot away, then drops his hands and hugs her. She doesn’t sniff back any more tears now, just lets them flow.
They hold each other for a long time, neither able to say anything. Then she reaches into her pocket and produces her phone, which she hands to him.
‘I got a text from an unrecognised number, came during that press conference after Holland’s men tried to lift you. That’s when I knew what it was I needed to do.’
Zal looks at the screen. It says simply:
He loves you.
Don’t let him leave.
Morrit.