The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [166]
The Courier has never been in the military. He’s never been taught to stay off the crest of hills and embankments and never to run in a straight line when someone is aiming a gun at you.
Ruiz waits, scanning the broken edge of the horizon. There they are. Aim. Squeeze. Fire. The Courier spins sideways and falls. Holly goes down with him, disappearing from sight.
Police cars are screeching to a halt outside the motel, bathing the windows in blue and white. The first officers are wearing body armor and carrying weapons. One of them yells at Ruiz to drop his gun.
Ruiz is scanning the fence line, looking for a way through.
“Drop your weapon, or I’ll shoot,” the officer shouts.
Ruiz raises his arms and throws the Glock to the ground.
“They’re getting away! He’s got a hostage!”
Finally he sees where the wire has been cut and peeled back from the metal posts. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawls through, ignoring the orders of the policeman. Up again, running, he crosses the trolley tracks, heading towards the freight yard.
The motel is eighty yards behind him when he reaches the ridge where he last saw Holly. He notices blood on the rocks and weeds, a dark stain like fungus or rust.
Ruiz doesn’t stay on top of the ridge. He drops down and scans the rows of metal boxes, stacked four and five units high. The Courier is hiding somewhere among them. Wounded. Bleeding. He’s still with Holly.
The next fifty yards is open ground. Ruiz decides to run for it, huffing air in his nostrils, feeling like an elephant rather than a gazelle.
Someone like the Courier is trained for this. His reflexes. His instincts. No conscience. No guilt. What will he do if he’s cornered… if he can’t run? He’ll fight. He’ll die. He’ll take Holly with him.
That’s when he sees her. Running. Legs pumping. Chin tilting back. She’s still wearing the vest. Still handcuffed.
Ruiz reaches her in moments, lifting her like a rag doll. She fights at his arms. Squirming. Screaming.
“Get it off! Get it off!”
Ruiz drags at the vest, pulling it over Holly’s head, turning her in a somersault, wrenching the fabric to the end of her arms, where it can go no further.
“Please. Help me!”
The Courier is slumped against the wheel arch of a rusting freight trailer; his head is tilted back and lips parted as though drinking in the sky. He’s drowning in his own saliva from a sucking chest wound. Dying.
Opening his eyes, he watches Ruiz and the girl. Then he glances at the mobile phone in his hand. The screen lights up. This thumb presses “send.” A two-word message: Allahu Akbar. God is great.
Kicking open the heavy metal door of an empty container, Ruiz carries Holly inside and lays her on the floor with her arms stretched in front of her. Then he drags the door closed, trapping the vest on the outside of the door, still attached to Holly’s handcuffs. He pulls at her hands, holding them a few inches inside the closing door. The vest is looped over the chain of the handcuffs and the double door won’t shut completely. He braces his feet against the frame, holding the handles, pulling with all his strength, shielding her body with his.
That’s when the prayer comes to him—the one from his childhood—the one he couldn’t remember in the church.
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on.
There are four corners to my bed,
Four angels round my head,
One to watch, and one to pray,
And two to bear my soul away.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Taj is driving the van, keeping to the middle lane, using the cruise control to keep a constant speed. Being stopped by the cops would be silly. Stolen van. Bombs on board. Syd is in a playful mood. Poking