Then, up ahead, Donald stops. Moira sprints towards him. The distance between them is closing – fifty yards, forty. Now twenty. That’s when she realises why he’s not running any more – the alleyway is a dead end.
Behind the line of big industrial-sized skips for the apartment block’s rubbish and recycling is a high wire fence. It must be ten or twelve feet high at least, and it looks flimsy – not easy to climb.
‘Stay back!’ yells Donald. He shifts his gaze from Moira to something behind her. ‘Both of you.’
Moira turns and sees Rick approaching directly behind her. It feels good to have backup.
Rick slows down as he reaches Moira, but keeps walking towards Donald.
‘No, no!’ yells Donald. There’s fear on his face. He looks around, searching for a way out. But he’s trapped. The only way out is up and over the wire fence, but Moira and Rick will be on him before he’s free and clear, he has to realise that. In that moment the game is up, and all three of them know it.
Then Donald changes the rules.
‘I said stay the hell back,’ he yells, fumbling with something around the back of his jeans. ‘I won’t warn you again, man.’
‘Take it easy, Donald,’ shouts Rick. He sounds every inch the DEA agent, but he’s missing two things – a badge and a gun. ‘Keep your hands where we can see them.’
Moira realises what’s about to happen. ‘Move back!’ she shouts to Rick.
But he doesn’t listen. Keeps his eyes focused on Donald, and keeps stepping forward, narrowing the distance between them. ‘Let’s talk, Donald. Tell me what’s going on.’
Moira tenses. Adrenaline spikes her blood. ‘Rick, don’t . . .’
It happens fast. Donald pulls a little revolver with a pearl handle from the waistband of his jeans and swings the gun up, aiming it at Rick. Rick doesn’t hesitate. He launches himself at Donald. The gunshot echoes in the alleyway. Rick and Donald hit the asphalt. There’s blood. There’s a lot of blood.
Moira doesn’t move. She can’t. It’s happening again. Shit.
Her hands fly to her chest. Her breath is coming in gasps. It feels like there’s a vice around her chest squeezing the air from her. In her mind’s eye the alleyway in front of her morphs into the apartment in London and she’s hearing the aftershock of a different gunshot.
She sees McCord standing in front of her; an unregistered, non-police issue weapon in his hand. Their colleague, Jennifer, is lying in a fast-spreading pool of blood, her eyes open and unseeing. Porter and the goons have disappeared. There’s noise from outside the apartment – an armed response team are on their way up. Moira doesn’t move. ‘Why?’ she yells at McCord. ‘What the hell have you done?’
He’s backing away. Saying nothing.
She’s charging after him.
They’re on the balcony. The lights of London stretch out for miles beneath them. The wind howls and swirls around them. The rain is hammering down.
She yells at McCord again. ‘Why?’
He says something, but she can’t hear it. He’s shaking his head. Saying more, but the wind takes most of the sound. ‘ . . . never . . . don’t trust . . . I can’t . . .’
Then McCord is gone. He lurches sideways, and takes a dive over the balcony railing. Disappears from sight.
They’re twenty-four storeys up. There’s no surviving that fall.
The panic embraces her like a cloak. Holds her captive in its grip. Crushing the breath from her. She hears the armed response team enter the apartment. She’s gasping for breath but no air comes. Her vision swims. Her knees buckle. She’s falling then. Hits the porcelain tiles of the balcony hard. Still can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.