She gazed at Max for a second longer, a look of both regret and tenderness. “It’s almost over,” she whispered.
With almost surgical skill she laid a razor-sharp knife next to the slowly pulsing jugular vein that carried his life’s vital blood supply.
She kissed his forehead.
The blade cut.
Sayid knew Bobby would make his break for freedom at any moment. The American had taken his time stripping out the diesel van’s faulty injector, and their captors had relaxed their guard. Earlier, one of the older men whom Sayid had seen fixing the damaged bikes at the industrial estate nodded as he checked Bobby’s progress. The kid knew what he was doing, so why should he do the job? he had asked Sharkface. The broken-toothed killer turned to Peaches, said something to her, and she climbed into the back of the van. Then he got back into the passenger seat. Sayid didn’t want to look too long at the killer in case those dead eyes read his thoughts.
The others had found somewhere to sit. One of them had clambered back into Bobby’s van. Sayid had begged to be allowed to sit out at the picnic table bench, wanting the cold night air rather than the confined box of the van-besides, he was hardly going to escape, was he?
Sayid couldn’t concentrate on the numbers in his head, his heart beat too quickly as he anticipated the moment Bobby might make his break. Sayid had worked out that if he stumbled and fell down the grassy incline from where he now sat, that might distract a couple of the thugs. One might even run towards him, away from Bobby, though he hoped it wouldn’t earn him a beating.
Watch Bobby.
Wait for a glance. A nod. Anything.
Peaches stepped out of Sharkface’s van again. She had a cell phone. Why? Sharkface must have given her instructions to phone someone. Who? It had to be Sophie. That was it. Sharkface had told her to phone Sophie, pretending everything was all right, and if Sophie answered they might find out where she was in Morocco-and where Sophie was, so too was Max. No. That didn’t add up. Sophie had told him that she had dumped her cell after those men in Biarritz had followed her. He watched Peaches. Now she thumbed a text message. For all Sayid knew, she had convinced Sharkface that she had wealthy parents who would pay a ransom for her. Or maybe Bobby’s family. Whatever the reason, it made no difference now. Bobby was bent over the engine, his right hand reaching for a wrench. It fell from the van’s bodywork. Bobby’s head was still looking down into the engine when Sayid heard him mutter.
“Damn. Get that for me, would you?”
Without thinking, the thug who held the flashlight did the most natural thing in the world and bent down. And that was when Sayid cried out and threw himself down the slope-the second before Bobby lashed out and kicked the thug flying.
As Sayid rolled and tumbled, kaleidoscope images blurred his vision.
Bobby ran, the kicked boy staggered, van doors yanked open and Sharkface screamed commands, spittle flying from his mouth. He pointed at Bobby’s dark form as it ran beneath the lights’ yellow glare, and then at Sayid, who was now almost at the end of his fall. One man ran towards him; others burst away from the vans, scattering like a net cast outwards from a fisherman’s hands to snare the escaping prey.
Peaches ran towards Sayid.
“Don’t! Leave me! Run!” Sayid screamed.
But it was too late. The man got to him first, yanked him to his feet and slapped him hard across the back of his head. The impact sent Sayid spinning. Flashes of light and dark scattered across his eyes. The blow momentarily deafened him. He saw Peaches shout at the man and then she ran for the road.
Go for it, Peaches!
Cotton-wool silence in his ears suddenly popped clear as the thugs screamed instructions to each other. The last glimpse he had of Bobby was of the wet-suited figure limping from his previous injuries but running as hard as he could for the possible safety of the tree line across the road.
Then a sickening sound came out of the night. Car tires locked in a terrifying skid. Tortured rubber compound tore from the treads. Shouts mingled, headlights skewered the night with yellow glare-a car spun out of control, its driver attempting to avoid Sharkface’s men on the road.
Moments later a stomach-churning thump.
A body was hit.
Metal screamed. Glass smashed.
Silence.
Sayid watched as some of the gang ran to the damaged car. Sharkface ignored the slumped driver behind the wheel and ran back twenty meters. Peaches leaned into the wreck as two of Sharkface’s men helped ease the driver to his feet. The man was alive, groggy on his feet; then he collapsed.
Sayid’s eyes picked out Sharkface and the others. They bent over a body on the grassy verge. A black-clad body.
And then they turned away.
“Bobby!” Sayid screamed into the night.
Sullen faces turned towards him. Sharkface and his men ran back towards the vans. Sayid was thrown into the surfer’s van. The door slammed closed. The thugs were back in charge.
The van rumbled across the verge, rolling Sayid against the walls. Fear coiled around him-a snake squeezing the life from his lungs.
Max. Help me. Please.
Think, Sayid! Think! Another part of his brain shouted back, ridiculing his silent cries for help.
What was it? What didn’t fit? What had he seen?
The car’s lights-whipping out of control.
The gut-churning impact.
The crash-slow motion.
Bobby lying dead or injured. Sharkface shouting to the others. Everyone running back to the vans. The gang running back to the vans … the gang running … the gang and Peaches running back to the van.
And that was when Sayid knew what was so terribly wrong.
21
The sandstorm’s ferocity was not as violent at this time of year, so it did not scour the soul of anyone caught unaware. The dust swirled, bending heads, covering eyes, a shield behind which enemies could hide. And Max Gordon’s enemies were close.
Dark-eyed, blue-skinned men who lived in the wilderness, whose ancestors fought vicious and brutal battles and who still lived by these skills, crept closer to the town’s walls. There were still places a 4?4 could not go as easily as a horse, and as the sand buffeted the town’s walls, half a dozen of these desert warriors threw covers across their horses’ eyes and muzzles. Their own turbans, several meters of blue gauze wound across their faces, not only kept the sand from penetrating their mouth and nostrils but also, according to their beliefs, kept evil spirits from entering their body.
Their grappling hooks snared the walls. While two men held the horses’ reins, four of the blue-skinned warriors began to climb.
Fauvre’s concern lay not only with the fever-stricken boy but also with Aladfar, who had been forgotten in the turmoil and was still caged. As he turned his wheelchair onto the ramp that would take him down to the tiger’s pit, he saw the dust clouds take the edge off the stars as the first wave of sand spilled over the town walls.
Out of the blurred night, ropes dropped down; the wind caught the intruders’ billowing robes. Fauvre knew these assassins would have struggled to scale the height of the walls, and their intense determination meant they were here to kill.
The big cat was already on its feet as Fauvre hurriedly unlocked Aladfar’s pen. He took the length of chain hanging on a hook and whispered a soothing murmur to the tiger. Clipping the snap-hook to Aladfar’s collar, he turned the wheelchair and urged the beast on.