The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [165]
Ruiz has seen him before; he was in the crowd outside Colin Hackett’s office when Ruiz was talking to Gerard Noonan. Now he’s holding a mobile phone in his hand, spinning it like a six-gun.
“In case you’re wondering, that vest contains ball bearings packed around plastic explosive—enough to blow this room apart. When I send a text message it will detonate. The wearer will not have a choice. That’s one of the fail-safes I build into a project like this. I plan for cowardice.”
Ruiz glances at Holly. She nods her head. He’s telling the truth.
“They’re not going to reach London. The police are following the van.”
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Ruiz. If the police were coming, they’d be here by now.”
“Suit yourself.”
The Courier is annoyed by his nonchalance, his lack of respect. The girl knows how to fear him. She knows what he’s capable of.
“I am leaving now,” he says. “Perhaps I shall have to take a hostage as insurance. Who shall it be?”
“Take me,” says Ruiz. “Let her go.”
“Are you begging?”
“I’m asking.”
“Perhaps you should beg.”
“I beg you.”
He glances at Holly and smiles. “This one is in love with you.”
“Maybe I just want a chance to rip out your throat,” says Ruiz.
The Courier laughs. “Oh, you sound so courageous, so heroic, but it’s not bravery if you’re lying on a floor, chained to a radiator. All I hear are empty threats from a hollow man. I know all about you, Mr. Ruiz, and there’s nothing heroic about your history. Your daughter. Your son. Three wives. A failed career. Did you really think you could come in here, without a weapon, and hope to succeed?”
He doesn’t know about the Glock. Holly must have hidden it. Ruiz follows her eyes. She glances at the bed.
The Courier raises his hand. Listens. Sirens. He looks at Ruiz with loathing. Then he grabs Holly and pushes her out the door, pausing to strike the wheel of a cigarette lighter. He crouches and touches the flame to the carpet and a thin blue film shimmers across the floor. Liquid fire. Feeding. Growing.
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