Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

The door closes. A padlock clicks into place.

Ruiz tries to pull his hand through the cuff. Ripping one arm back, he almost dislocates his wrist. He gets to his feet, leans backwards, arms outstretched and jerks against the chain, bellowing in pain. He lies on his back, kicking at the radiator, and then hooks his fingers over the top, rocking it back and forth.

The fire has spread from the floor to boxes of curtains in the next room and the bedding. Smoke is filling the ceiling space. Toxic fumes.

He yells for help. Screams in frustration. Someone is rattling the padlock on the door. He yells again, but fire whooshes across a mattress, drowning out the sound.

Then he hears a car engine, a familiar rumbling. Someone is revving the Merc, letting off the clutch, taking aim. The front wall of the room explodes inwards and part of the ceiling collapses on to the bonnet. Luca is sitting behind the fractured windscreen, slumped sideways with blood pooling in his lap.

The impact shakes the entire building. Plaster crumbles and pipes bend. Ruiz rocks the radiator again and this time pulls it clear off the wall. His wrists are still cuffed, but he’s free.

Luca puts the Merc into reverse and spins the wheels, pulling over broken bricks and plaster, using one arm to drive. Ruiz scrambles across the room and reaches beneath the bed, feeling blindly for the Glock. His fingers close around the grip.

Climbing over the debris he tries to open Luca’s door, but the impact has bent the frame, trapping him inside. Ruiz sees the blood.

“I’ll be fine. Just go,” Luca yells. “They went through the back fence.”

Ruiz crosses the forecourt and runs along the chain-link fence, looking for a gate or a hole. He peers into the freight yard to where spotlights create pools of light between rows of containers. He can hear them moving across the screed. The Courier is yelling at Holly to hurry up. Cursing her.

Ruiz aims the Glock with both hands, bracing the barrel in the diamond of the mesh fence. They are visible for a moment as they pass between rows of containers. Silhouettes. Two figures, Holly the smallest, being dragged along behind him. Squeezing the trigger, Ruiz fires six rounds in a row, the brass casings flicking past his eyes. He releases the empty magazine and shoves in a fresh one.

The Courier has never been in the military. He’s never been taught to stay off the crest of hills and embankments and never to run in a straight line when someone is aiming a gun at you.

Ruiz waits, scanning the broken edge of the horizon. There they are. Aim. Squeeze. Fire. The Courier spins sideways and falls. Holly goes down with him, disappearing from sight.

Police cars are screeching to a halt outside the motel, bathing the windows in blue and white. The first officers are wearing body armor and carrying weapons. One of them yells at Ruiz to drop his gun.

Ruiz is scanning the fence line, looking for a way through.

“Drop your weapon, or I’ll shoot,” the officer shouts.

Ruiz raises his arms and throws the Glock to the ground.

“They’re getting away! He’s got a hostage!”

Finally he sees where the wire has been cut and peeled back from the metal posts. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawls through, ignoring the orders of the policeman. Up again, running, he crosses the trolley tracks, heading towards the freight yard.

The motel is eighty yards behind him when he reaches the ridge where he last saw Holly. He notices blood on the rocks and weeds, a dark stain like fungus or rust.

Ruiz doesn’t stay on top of the ridge. He drops down and scans the rows of metal boxes, stacked four and five units high. The Courier is hiding somewhere among them. Wounded. Bleeding. He’s still with Holly.

The next fifty yards is open ground. Ruiz decides to run for it, huffing air in his nostrils, feeling like an elephant rather than a gazelle.

Someone like the Courier is trained for this. His reflexes. His instincts. No conscience. No guilt. What will he do if he’s cornered… if he can’t run? He’ll fight. He’ll die. He’ll take Holly with him.

That’s when he sees her. Running. Legs pumping. Chin tilting back. She’s still wearing the vest. Still handcuffed.

Ruiz reaches her in moments, lifting her like a rag doll. She fights at his arms. Squirming. Screaming.

“Get it off! Get it off!”

Ruiz drags at the vest, pulling it over Holly’s head, turning her in a somersault, wrenching the fabric to the end of her arms, where it can go no further.

“Please. Help me!”

The Courier is slumped against the wheel arch of a rusting freight trailer; his head is tilted back and lips parted as though drinking in the sky. He’s drowning in his own saliva from a sucking chest wound. Dying.

Opening his eyes, he watches Ruiz and the girl. Then he glances at the mobile phone in his hand. The screen lights up. This thumb presses “send.” A two-word message: Allahu Akbar. God is great.

Kicking open the heavy metal door of an empty container, Ruiz carries Holly inside and lays her on the floor with her arms stretched in front of her. Then he drags the door closed, trapping the vest on the outside of the door, still attached to Holly’s handcuffs. He pulls at her hands, holding them a few inches inside the closing door. The vest is looped over the chain of the handcuffs and the double door won’t shut completely. He braces his feet against the frame, holding the handles, pulling with all his strength, shielding her body with his.

That’s when the prayer comes to him-the one from his childhood-the one he couldn’t remember in the church.

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,

Bless the bed that I lie on.

There are four corners to my bed,

Four angels round my head,

One to watch, and one to pray,

And two to bear my soul away.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Taj is driving the van, keeping to the middle lane, using the cruise control to keep a constant speed. Being stopped by the cops would be silly. Stolen van. Bombs on board. Syd is in a playful mood. Poking his head between the front seats. Ketchup stains around his mouth.

“Did you see that girl? Do you think he was going to fuck her? I would have fucked her. She was fit. I mean, wow, she made Jenny Cruikshank look like a slag. Do you think he’s going to do it?”

Rafiq tells him to shut up. “Put your seat belt on. We don’t want to get picked up.”

Syd giggles. “You think they’re going to worry about my sodding seat belt, when they see the hardware we got in here.” He picks up one of the guns.

“Put that away!” says Taj. “What if someone sees you waving that thing about? They’ll call the cops. We’ll never get to London.”

Syd puts down the gun and leans back in his seat, sipping on a can of Red Bull. It’s raining. The wipers are slapping against the bottom of the windscreen, air blasting on the inside of the glass. Taj has to crane forward, trying to see the electric red smears of brake lights. London is still an hour away but already the traffic is building.

Syd leans forward again. “A thousand fucking people-how cool is that? The place is going to be packed. I feel like a fucking soldier. What are you going to do with the money? They reckon fifty grand will buy you a palace in Pakistan. That’s what I’m gonna do. Then I’ll bring my mum and dad over. Show them my palace. Tell my old man he can shove his fish-and-chip shop up his arse.” He crushes the can. “Are you going to bring Aisha over, Taj? Did you tell her? What did you say?”

Taj doesn’t want to talk about Aisha. Their last words had been harsh. He had never seen her in such a temper, so adamant that he was wrong. She had thrown the money at him. Spat on it. Tried to tear it into pieces. She would change her mind, he reasoned. She knows her place.