The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [50]
In front of her, two women pushing prams, a toddler on a tricycle, a man reading a newspaper on a long bench; so normal. Something moves from behind the screen of foliage to her left, dressed in black, an object in his hand.
She kicks harder, dodging through the prams, hearing a cry of alarm from one of the mothers. The man on the bench seat has dropped his paper and found his feet, set himself to catch her. Confident. She has nowhere to go.
Holly swings her bag. It’s heavy. A half brick will do that. Zac’s idea. Always have a weapon. She has all the momentum. The bag hits him in the side of the head and he goes down, the newspaper fluttering across the concrete like an injured swan.
It’s low tide, the muddy bank exposed, gulls fighting over scraps. Holly is growing tired. Lactic acid building in her muscles, slowing her down. Ahead she sees a small wooden boat moving slowly. Two fishermen.
The jetty is ten feet below the path, supported by pylons buried deep in the mud. She doesn’t wait. Slinging the satchel around her neck, she goes over the side, face to the wall, holding on to the edge and then dropping, falling, landing hard. Her knees buckle. Bones jar. She’s up, running along the pier, waving her arms at the fishermen.
One of them nudges the other. Points. A brief discussion and he pulls on the tiller. The boat swings towards her, bouncing on the swell. Holly turns. She sees the silhouettes of three men on the path above the jetty. One of them scrambles over. The others grip his arms and let him down.
The boat is coming in straight, spinning at the last moment, the engine in neutral. The man at the tiller has a battered cloth cap and a khaki vest. He’s about to speak. Holly jumps, clattering into the wooden shell, landing amid tackle boxes and fishing rods. The boat lurches. The propeller leaves the water and whines.
The other fisherman catches Holly before she goes over the side, pulls her back, and she collapses between his knees. Her satchel swings loose. She tries to catch it but it lands in the water; floats for a moment before the brick takes it under.
The man on the jetty is twenty yards away. His forearm bent. A gun held upright.
Holly pleads, “Help me, please!”
So many questions, too little time. The first fisherman opens the throttle. It responds with a high-pitched roar, slow at first, picking up speed. The bow rises. The jetty sways in the wake.
Fifty yards… seventy… ninety…
Away.
Safe.
25
BAGHDAD
Daniela can tell something is wrong long before they arrive. Black smoke rises above the rooftops like a genie being released from a bottle. Five hundred yards from the Finance Ministry and the traffic is at a standstill. Sirens are competing to destroy the silence. Police. Fire engines. Ambulances.
The first blast destroyed the concrete safety barrier to the right of the outer checkpoint. A second vehicle tried to drive through the hole but crashed into the crater. It didn’t reach the Ministry, but the blast has shattered some of the windows on the northern side. Curtains are flapping from the gaping holes and torn scraps of paper swirl across the ground.
Edge is out of the car and running. Daniela can’t keep up. She can only watch him.
Avoiding the first security cordon, he uses a fire engine as cover and follows two paramedics who are carrying a stretcher. There are bodies in the foyer. One of the security guards is lying across the counter with a bullet hole in his forehead. Another is beside the X-ray machine, having dragged his body across the marble floor leaving a red smear like a snail trail. The cleaner is face down beside his polishing machine, a pool of blood beneath his chest.
Edge leaps the metal barrier, ignoring the shouts of two policemen, who draw their guns. He shoulders them aside and reaches the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time. Already he can see what happened. The scene is