He also made the biggest mistake of his life. He didn't shut the door behind him.
Bolt took a deep breath. Moving as quietly and swiftly as he could, he followed them into the house.
Fifty-one
The chain round her neck was choking Emma so badly she could hardly breathe as he dragged her through the hallway. The cellar door was still open and he pushed her towards it.
Oh God, she couldn't go back in there again, not having come so close to freedom. And she knew that if she went back in, this time she definitely wouldn't be coming back out. Not alive, anyway. She went limp in his arms, and he cursed.
'Come on, move it,' he snapped, angry now, pressing the blade of a penknife he'd produced earlier against her ribs.
She stayed limp, and started to make horrible choking sounds, as if she was dying.
'If you're fooling me about . . .'
He let her drop to her knees and loosened the chain a little.
'Water,' she gasped.
'All right,' he said, hauling her to her feet and manhandling her through the hallway in the direction of the kitchen. 'You can have some water. Then we'll have some—'
He suddenly stopped as they reached the kitchen door and he switched on the light. She felt him go tense.
'Where is it? Where the fuck is it?'
He shoved her roughly inside, letting go of the chain and sending her sprawling to the floor.
'The bag!' he yelled, his voice filling the room. 'The bag with the fucking money! It was on here!' He pointed a gloved hand at the empty kitchen table. 'Where the hell is it?' He paced about inside the room, rubbing a hand over his face beneath the balaclava, his eyes wide and angry. 'I can't believe this. Someone's taken it. Someone's taken my money.' He stopped and slammed his hand down on the table, hitting it so hard the legs wobbled. 'My fucking money!' he roared at the ceiling.
Emma cowered, terrified, pushing herself into the corner of the room, away from his rage and frustration.
'I'm going to find whoever's done this,' he muttered. 'I'm going to find him now. And when I get hold of him . . .' He shoved the penknife he was holding back into the pocket of his jeans, then yanked open one of the drawers, took out a huge kitchen knife and ran a finger along the blade. 'When I get hold of him, I'm going to fillet the bastard.'
He turned and pointed the knife at Emma. The blade shone in the glare of the overhead lights.
'Stay there, all right? Don't you dare move an inch if you ever want to see your mum again. OK?'
She nodded, trying not to sob. 'OK.'
He swung round and stormed out of the door, knife in hand.
And immediately cried out in surprise.
The next second he was flying back through the door with another man hanging on to him and shouting something that filled her with sudden and delirious relief: 'Armed police! Drop your weapon!'
Fifty-two
But that was the problem. Bolt wasn't armed when he charged Scott Ridgers. He wasn't even carrying standard-issue pepper spray, which had been taken off him earlier. He had nothing but surprise. He grabbed Ridgers' wrists and twisted them away from his body, paying particular attention to the hand holding the kitchen knife, and trying to butt him as he'd done Marcus Richardson earlier that day. But the blow he caught Ridgers with as they both crashed into the kitchen barely glanced the other man, who had the good sense to move his head, and as they hit the kitchen table, disaster struck. Bolt lost his footing and slipped, sliding along the tiled floor on one knee, desperately trying to keep hold of his foe, even though his head was now only level with the other man's groin.
Ridgers was fast, and he took advantage of Bolt's plight to tug his wrists free and slam a knee into his face. A piercing, hot pain shot through Bolt's nose and he wobbled in his kneeling position, unable to react as Ridgers then lifted a leg and delivered an accurate kung-fu kick to the side of his head. This time he fell backwards, landing against something white and hard. His head throbbed savagely where Ridgers' boot had connected and he could feel the blood pouring out of his nostrils and on to his lips. He tried to focus through the pain, saw the huge knife in Ridgers' hand, and knew that he was helpless.
Jesus. After all this, he'd failed.
Then he saw Emma crouching in the corner of the room, her eyes wide with shock.
'Run, Emma!' he shouted. 'Run!'
Ridgers took a step forward, pointing the knife down at Bolt, ignoring Emma now. 'Where's my money?' he roared. 'Where's my fucking money?'
Bolt rolled on to his side, thinking fast, assessing his options . . . knowing full well that he didn't have any. Emma leapt to her feet, but instead of running for the door, she ran at Ridgers and sank her teeth into his knife arm, just above the elbow. He cried out but didn't relinquish his grip on the knife. Instead, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her off in one movement, the force of his attack sending her crashing into one of the worktops.
Adrenalin born of pure rage shot through Bolt, briefly substituting the pain and dizziness. He started to get up.
But it was too late. Ridgers was bearing down on him, and there was murder in his eyes as he brought back his knife arm to deliver a blow that Bolt knew would not only end his life, but would mean the end of Emma's too.
And then there was a loud crack, followed a second later by the sound of breaking glass, and suddenly Scott Ridgers pitched forward as his legs went from under him. His head smacked hard against the fridge and he collapsed to the floor, landing on his side on Bolt's legs. A thin stream of blood poured from the smoking hole where his right eye had been.
Emma screamed as he convulsed in his death throes.
'Stay down!' Bolt yelled at her, kicking Ridgers' body off him.
Four more shots exploded through the night air in rapid succession, showering the table and floor with shards of glass. Emma screamed again, and Bolt crawled over to her, moving as fast as he could and ignoring the glass beneath him. Grabbing her in his arms, he pulled her under him so that she was shielded from the gunfire. She was shaking with fear and sobbing, and he held her tight, thinking how small and vulnerable she was. Even in those dramatic moments he felt a kind of love he'd never experienced before.
'Just stay still,' he whispered. 'I'm here now. You're going to be all right.'
For ten seconds they lay there together in a tight, tangled embrace. There were no more shots. Silence had returned, and Ridgers had stopped moving. But the fact remained that someone had just murdered him, and that person was close by.
'Stay where you are,' Bolt told Emma as he got to his feet.
'Where are you going?'
'Just stay there, help's coming.'
Keeping low, he killed the kitchen light and crept over to the back door. A yard, with outbuildings to the left and right, ran about twenty yards to the beginning of the tree line. It looked empty, but, as Bolt turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door, he knew he was being foolish. It was one thing risking your neck to save your daughter, it was quite another to chase a gunman while he was unarmed.