Hoping to God he had a few seconds in hand, Spiro was going like a bat out of hell and saving nothing for a longer effort. Fear was fuelling him, fear and self-preservation.
From deep in his panic-stricken psyche, the rational part of his brain insisted on being heard. Running flat out, eyeballs bulging, can only get you so far, Spiro. Soon you’ll be unable to go another step. Get a sense of where you are and where this mad dash is taking you.
The block of terraced buildings to his right had ended — he must be on the edge of town. About fifty metres ahead was a row of swaying poplars, and, beyond, more trees filled the landscape and stretched away to a distant hill.
Too distant.
Across the street was a waist-high stone balustrade overlooking some sort of public park with well-kept lawns and paths. His first thought was to climb over and out of sight, but a glance between the bellied pillars told him he’d kill himself because the ground was so far below. Instead, he pressed on, up the street, towards those poplars, willing his aching legs to support him long enough to reach the trees.
The early morning traffic cruised by, most of it facing him, coming into the city. A man out running was nothing remarkable, even a man wearing T-shirt and jeans and moving as jerkily as a seven-legged spider. This was a time of day when fitness freaks took to the streets.
He had come to a stretch where the street narrowed and the long line of the balustrade was interrupted by a four-square stone building that might have been a toll collector’s booth in times past. The door looked as if it hadn’t been opened in years and weeds were growing on the roof. He realised he was about to cross a bridge. Large lanterns on wrought-iron columns and plinths were built into the balustrade.
A glance to his right showed him a broad, silver band of water fringed by trees and — man oh man! — a path along the riverbank about eight metres below street level. The path to freedom. Find a way down there, Spiro, and you might actually make it.
But his stride was shortening with every step and he was hurting. His breath rasped and his thighs had turned to lead. Keep going, he told himself. To stop will be suicidal. Somewhere ahead will be steps or a ramp.
At the far end of the bridge was another booth-like structure matching the first, except for one thing. Where the other had the closed door, this had an open entrance.
A chance to step out of sight and catch his breath — but at serious risk. He’d be trapped here if he was found. He was so spent by this time that he had no choice. He’d collapse if he went any farther.
A gap in the traffic allowed him to hobble across the street for a closer look.
He stepped inside and was elated to discover he was at the top of a spiral staircase, steep, narrow and dark, with grimy paint flaking from the wall, but surely the way down to the river. Boosted by a fresh adrenalin rush, he took a deep breath and started the descent, gripping the handrail, trying to ignore the spasms of different leg muscles in play.
But fortune is fickle.
He was almost at the bottom when he heard the sound he least wanted to hear, the rapid, purposeful slap-slap of rubber on stone above him. He was not alone. He groaned in despair. To have come this far.
He wouldn’t make it now.
He’d be as obvious on the riverbank as in the street he’d just left. In fact, an easier hit, invisible to the passing traffic.
With the Finisher so close behind, what could he do? Stand his ground and fight? No chance. He was a physical wreck. Jump in the river where less of his body would be exposed?
No other choice.
Emerging into daylight, he dashed across the path — and was forced into a split-second adjustment because a large longboat was moored alongside a jetty in the shadow of the bridge. A railed-in ramp and landing stage.
Most of the words meant nothing to him, but the tables with furled parasols on the open deck suggested this was some kind of eating place.
A floating restaurant.
Nobody was aboard this early and a locked gate barred entry to the vessel, so instead of jumping straight into the river, Spiro took a leap and hit the upper deck with a thump like a beer keg striking a cellar floor.
Now what?
There was a cabin below, but no way into it. A tiny foredeck and a poop at the stern end offered no cover at all. In the split-second left, he got out of sight the only way he could. He climbed over the rail on the far side.
This longboat was designed with maximum width for the cabin. All it had along its side for a foothold was, in effect, a rub rail. But there was enough purchase for his feet. By flattening himself against the outer bulkhead of the cabin, he became a far-from-secure limpet attached as much by willpower as muscle and hoping to God he was hidden from view.
He heard the footfalls on the lowest steps of the spiral staircase and then the lighter sound of the shoes on the tarmac footpath. The pursuit paused.
Heart thumping, he waited.
How smart was the Finisher? How keen? How scared? He’d be in deep shit with his superiors if one of his charges escaped. But would he risk leaving the other twenty-two unsupervised for long? The most optimistic hope was that he’d see nothing, give up and go back to the van.
What Spiro heard next crushed that hope. It was almost certainly the crack of gunfire. A shot echoed off the stone walls of the jetty. Then another. And another, as if the firer was discharging at random.
Gulls took to the sky and screamed and circled overhead.
The sound of gunfire is deceptive. Survivors of mass shootings sometimes say they thought at first it was some other sudden noise, like a car backfiring or a firework. This was no car and no firework.
So the arsehole was armed, just as Spiro had feared, and had no qualms about causing injury. Killing, even.
But who was he firing at? Some bystander he’d mistaken for Spiro?
It would be suicidal to check, so Spiro hung on grimly and waited for the shooting to stop. He hadn’t been counting the shots, but the number easily went into double figures. Several more and then silence.
As if he wasn’t in enough trouble, a fresh problem hit him now. Cramp in his left leg, the tell-tale tightening of the muscle before it hardened and locked. The pain at the back of his thigh became excruciating and he had no room to stretch. He tried hanging onto the bulkhead with one hand and massaging his leg with the other and almost fell off.
Change position, he told himself. But how? This was the only possible stance, legs astride and feet bent along the ridge of the rub rail while the upper half of his body was hunched to keep out of sight.
You need to stretch, Spiro.
In the end, the urge to stop the pain topped everything, even the high risk of showing his head and shoulders. He braced and straightened.
For a few insane seconds he stood like a proud man facing the firing squad, resigned to what would happen. Nothing did, except the blissful, merciful inrush of blood to his leg. The spasm eased and he was still alive. With a view of the entire riverbank, he could see no one.
Any confidence was short-lived. The crack of gunfire started again. He ducked and only just hung on to the boat. Steady reports followed at short intervals, as if the shooter was taking aim.
But not at Spiro.
He’d noticed a subtle difference in the sounds. A stone wall about two metres high bordered the path as far as he could see and the firing was going on behind it.