FIFTY-EIGHT
‘It’s not just me any more,’ said Harry, thinking fast, eyes fastening on Zubac’s and trying to drill into his brain. ‘The word is out; the Protectory is going to be ripped apart anytime soon. Their time is up along with anyone associated with them: Deakin, Turpowicz, Nicholls, the lot. For you, using any of the conventional ports is out of the question. They’ll be watching every exit from here to Inverness.’
Zubac slowly relaxed his grip on the gun, flexing his fingers around the butt as a frown knotted his brow. The barrel dipped as he absorbed what Harry was saying. Then, ‘You better hope not.’ He shifted the gun and angled it down at Clare’s head. ‘Or I shoot her right now. You think I care about shooting a woman? She is nothing to me. We did it all the time where I come from. It was sport.’
‘OK. OK.’ Harry wanted to call his bluff, but he couldn’t take the chance. He’d seen what Zubac was capable of. He lifted a hand to placate him, anything to stop him pulling the trigger. ‘Let me think how. First, though, where’s the man you took?’
Zubac blinked. ‘Ah, you mean your colleague, the boy?’ He tilted his head back towards the bridge. ‘Him I nearly forgot. He’s fine. He’s my other insurance, in case this one dies too quick. . or you refuse to help.’
To emphasize his point, Zubac reached down and placed the gun barrel against Clare’s forehead. He took the first pressure on the trigger as Clare stared up at him, looking helplessly past the gun. ‘You like this woman, Englishman? Huh? She’s not pretty already; this will make her even less so, I promise you. Difficult to like her much then.’ He grinned, showing yellow teeth. ‘But at least she won’t fight back, yes?’
Harry didn’t say anything. He was too busy trying not to look at Clare. Her right hand was moving. He told himself that it was probably a subconscious motor motion, a reaction to shock and pain drawing in the muscles. God knows what she must be feeling.
‘There’s no need for that,’ he said. ‘I’ll help.’ It was bullshit, of course, as they all knew. Zubac would no more allow them to go free than he would give himself in to the police. First Clare, then Rik, then Harry; all expendable in exchange for his freedom. And with Harry, Zubac had a score to settle. ‘So what was the plan, then, before this? If you’ve got a vehicle, it would help.’ Keep him talking, opening the idea that he could get away even now.
‘There is another car with fresh plates. In the town called Grinstead.’ Zubac had trouble with the ‘Gr’. ‘One kilometre east from here, by crossing. . but not used any more. You understand, crossing?’
‘I understand. All you have to do is walk along the track until you reach it.’
Clare had brought her hand down to her hip, moving with excruciating slowness. It must have been agony. Harry kept his eyes on Zubac’s face, demanding his full attention. He had no idea what Clare was up to, but if she could distract him long enough. .
‘That’s easy enough. You get the car and then what? What did Soran say to do next? What was the plan?’
Zubac spat to one side. ‘Soran is going to be dead man,’ he muttered. ‘The Renault he gave us was supposed to be good. It was shit machinery with shit engine, fit for scrapyard. So maybe there is no car in Grinstead and he cheat us. That is why you will help.’
Christ on a bike, Harry thought. What a time to lose confidence in your supply line.
‘There will be other cars, no problem. I can get one.’
Clare’s hand had disappeared. She was now trying to move her body, to roll slightly. Was she going for a back-up weapon. . or was the pain so acute that she was trying to ease it? Whatever, the final movement was sufficient to catch Zubac’s attention.
He glanced down with a muttered query.
Harry began to move, his gut lurching. It was no good; he would be too late. All it would take was the pressure of Zubac’s finger-
Fortunately, Zubac was even slower to react. Clare gave a grunt and her hand came out from under her body trailing a glint of silver. She brushed the back of Zubac’s hand, leaving behind a heavy veil of blood as the blade of her compact knife sliced deeply through the skin and extensor tendons. The Bosnian cried out in pain and tried to pull the trigger, but his fingers were useless and the gun fell on to Clare’s face. As it slid to her side, she scooped it up in a flash and thrust it into his chest, screamed furiously, and pulled the trigger twice in quick succession.
Zubac was thrown backwards by the force of the shots.
By the time Harry got to her side, Clare had dropped the gun and was nearly unconscious. He made her comfortable and checked her airways were clear, then tore off his shirt and used his belt to hold a wad of the cloth against the wound.
As he worked on trying to save her, she watched him, her eyes unnaturally bright. If there was a message in there, he failed to see it. But then she whispered something and it was simple, desperate.
‘Help me. .’ Then she passed out.
Harry took out his phone and rang Ballatyne’s office.
‘One woman with a gunshot wound,’ he told the man who answered, and gave him his location. ‘She needs urgent medical attention. Ground access is rubbish — a chopper would be quicker. Tell them to look for a railway cutting near a bridge. Landing area is good.’
‘Understood, sir. Air ambulance on the way. I’ll tell Mr Ballatyne. Any opposition likely?’
‘There was — they’re both dead.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The man cut the connection and Harry switched off his phone, not sure if his final words had been an acknowledgement or a congratulation.
Rik. He had to find Rik. Must be under the bridge if Zubac had been telling the truth. As he scooped up his gun and stood up, Harry glanced back along the track, eyes drifting towards the grit bin where he had shot Ganic.
But Ganic was no longer there.
FIFTY-NINE
Harry jogged across to the bin, staying low. The skin on his neck was prickling with anticipation, expecting the slam of a gunshot. But nothing came. He scanned the area, hoping for some signs showing where the Bosnian had gone. How the hell had the man survived the two shots? He must have the constitution of an elephant.
But he wasn’t bulletproof. There were blood spots on the ground. More on the remains of the bin’s wooden doors and the grass leading towards the slope. It didn’t look as if he was bleeding profusely, but still more than enough to have slowed down or stopped most men in their tracks.
And no sign of his gun.
A tangle of bushes littered the slope, some at head height and covered with greenery. Too dense to see anything clearly until you were right on it, by which time it was too late. If Ganic was up there waiting, it would be suicidal going up after him. He’d have done this kind of fighting before. All the Bosnian had to do was wait and Harry would walk right on to his gun.
He turned towards the bridge. He had to find Rik, or Ganic would have a bargaining tool and they’d be back to square one. And somehow he doubted Ganic would be as patient or as talkative as Zubac.
He stopped before going in, trying to see inside the shadowed structure. It was probably forty feet wide, the ground clear as far as he could see. But there were bushes and weeds growing along the base of the walls, ideal cover for a man to lie in wait. If Ganic had worked his way round and was already in there. . Harry shook his head. Pointless worrying. After all, what else was he going to do — turn round and walk away? This had to bloody end some time.
He stepped forward, braced for a movement, a sound. According to the close quarter combat instructors many years ago, it was more a feeling you had to look for, a shift in the atmosphere that gave a hint of the threat to come. If the opposition was good enough, they’d make no sound, have no need to move until they were ready. But the air around them would shift, and that was what they had to look out for. The good students used their instincts and tuned in immediately, picking up the signals. The bad ones ended up dead. At the time, Harry had thought it was instructor mumbo-jumbo, thrown in to make them try harder. But he’d soon learned different.