Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

‘I’ll make sure he recommends you for a medal,’ she said with unrestrained sarcasm.

It rolled off his back like water. ‘First things first: I need to get out of the country. Seems my former employers — the DEA — never quite bought the story about my innocence, and they’ve slammed most of the doors on me. I bet they’ve got photos up at every port, too. But I figure a kick-ass reporter and a former British Ambassador might know where all the gaps are — am I right?’

Riley stared at him. He was actually expecting her to get him out on a boat or plane? He must be mad. She had no more idea of a back door out of the country than he did. At best she could take a stab at guessing, like stealing a boat and hoping to get across the channel without being run down by a super-tanker. But that wasn’t what he meant.

He wanted a plane, preferably something with a lot of range to put himself quickly beyond the reach of Weller and Portius. That meant a corrupt pilot or a busy commercial flight, neither of which could be rustled up in the middle of the night on a whim.

But if she suggested that, Myburghe would get another bullet.

She had to stall for time. Time for Mitcheson or Palmer — and where the hell was Palmer? — to come and narrow the odds. And time for Weller’s men in black to come abseiling through the windows.

‘I need to think about it,’ she said, hoping it sounded convincing. ‘There are a couple of places, but I’d have to check.’

‘Okay. That’s cool.’ He surprised her by agreeing readily, then added the killer line: ‘Say, twenty minutes. That do you?’ His smile was a cold, empty facial gesture, like a death mask in a museum, and she realised that sometime in the past few hours, maybe even days, Toby Henzigger had strayed over the borderline from paranoia into the cloudy realms of madness. ‘Ten seconds longer and he dies.’

He picked up the steel briefcase and walked out, leaving Riley staring after him. At least he hadn’t tied her up. Then she realised why as the key turned in the lock.

She hurried over to the bed. Myburghe was groaning softly, his body quivering with shock. Gently, she eased him over so she could locate the wound. He cried out, his voice shrill as a child, and she felt for where the stickiness was worst. It was a stomach wound, and deeper than Henzigger had probably intended.

Riley fought to quell a rising sense of panic. Unless she got him out of here, he was going to die.

She crossed to the window. What she could see of the garden showed nothing likely to help her out of the room. She didn’t fancy her chances of climbing down, as there was no handy drainpipe, merely a glass conservatory roof below, waiting to break her fall.

And if she survived that, there was the man on the roof; he’d have her in his sights the moment she appeared. It would be like potting lame ducks.

She went over to the door and listened. No sounds from out there, but it didn’t mean Henzigger wasn’t within reach, waiting for her to make a break. It would be what he’d expect her to do. She tried the handle, anyway. Locked.

She heard a sound behind her. Myburghe was watching her from the bed, his face creased in pain. ‘I have a spare key,’ he said with surprising clarity. ‘In the dresser.’ He moved his eyes to indicate the piece of furniture where Henzigger had been standing.

‘Don’t move,’ Riley urged him, and checked his stomach. It was seeping blood in a faint but steady flow. His skin was horribly pale and covered in a film of perspiration, and she could feel a faint tremor running through him, as if an internal motor was chugging away but gradually running down, starved of its vital fuel. Grabbing a pillow off the bed, she ripped off the covering and wadded it under his shirt, pressing it tight against the wound. It wasn’t ideal battle-trauma treatment, but it was all she could think of for the moment.

‘Top… top drawer left,’ Myburghe whispered. ‘Socks.’

Riley stepped across to the dresser and pulled open the drawer. Under a pile of socks she found a large, ornate bronze key with a cloverleaf top. She hurried over to the door and tried it. It turned with a slight grating sound.

She inched the door open, praying the hinges stayed silent. The landing was clear. She pulled the door shut behind her and ghosted across the thick carpet to peer over the banister. No sound from the foyer downstairs, no sense of anyone waiting to blow her head off. On the other hand, that didn’t mean they weren’t there. She chewed her lip. It was a stark choice: either go down and face whatever was there, or stay up here and wait for Henzigger’s twenty minutes to tick away.

She checked her watch. Two minutes gone. Eighteen more and Henzigger would be in here with his tame vaqueros. She didn’t want to be here when that happened.

She went down the stairs as quietly as she could. If Henzigger or his men put in an appearance now, she wouldn’t stand a chance. Still, she could always pelt them with the portraits of Myburghe’s ancestors, who were still glaring down at her as if she was responsible for everything that was happening right under their starchy noses.

The Chinese vase. Her mobile was still inside where Henzigger had dumped it. The top was too narrow to get her arm in, and when she turned it upside down, the mobile wedged across the neck. With a sigh, she looked round for inspiration, and spotted a narrow run of Persian carpet. She eased the vase onto its side and rolled the carpet around it, then stamped on it as hard as she could. She was rewarded with the muffled sound of breaking porcelain. She unravelled the carpet to find the vase in a million pieces, with the mobile among the fragments. Hopefully, Myburghe would think the sacrifice of the vase worthwhile.

As she scooped up the mobile, she spotted the automatic lying on the floor. There were no bullets because Henzigger had slipped the magazine in his pocket. She grabbed it anyway. If things got truly desperate, she could always throw it at someone. She was contemplating going to see what else Mitcheson might have in the rear of the Land Cruiser when there was a double-tap in the distance. She froze.

A handgun?

There was silence, then the heavier boom of a shotgun. Palmer or Mitcheson?

Alarmed voices echoed close to the house in urgent Spanish. One of them must be the lookout on the roof, directing operations for his colleagues below.

Riley ran back upstairs, abandoning all attempts to keep quiet. Now Henzigger’s men knew Riley had company, they would be coming back in double-quick time to begin a classic hostage situation. She hit the bedroom door on the run and made straight for the bed. She had to get Sir Kenneth out of here, whether he was ready to move or not. Without him, Henzigger and his men couldn’t do much but stand and fight or turn and run. Either way, they wouldn’t be able to use hostages if they couldn’t find them.

‘Come on,’ she said, and shook Myburghe gently by the shoulder. He didn’t respond, so she slapped his face. He gave a start and looked up at her, eyes dulled with pain and shock. He looked even worse than before, yet she’d only been gone a couple of minutes. Riley realised he must be losing blood at a terrifying rate, his energy and life-force seeping away with it. ‘We have to move,’ she told him fiercely. ‘If we stay here, Henzigger will kill us.’

He gave a faint nod and tried to lift himself off the bed, gasping in pain. Riley put her arm beneath him and eased him upright, then helped him to stagger towards the door.

The only problem was, where to go?

The roof? It’s where everyone goes in films, she thought, when they’re being pursued by bad guys. God knows why, because they always get caught. Downstairs, then. It would also be easier for Sir Kenneth than climbing stairs.