He released her, and she edged away, widening the gap between them so Kendrick had to keep turning his head to see them both. And, God, what was to say he wouldn’t just kill Kier the moment she bolted?
But Kier was looking approval at her, edging away himself, perhaps slightly more subtly.
Jenny realised with a start that she wasn’t shaking. That she felt steady, capable. Kier was still holding her eyes, and she revelled in that connection, and the sense of power it gave her.
But they didn’t have any power, after all. Kendrick made his decision, swung his gun in her direction. “Don’t move again, sweetheart,” he said, and Kier stilled faster than she did.
“You’re in trouble, Kendrick,” said Kier.
She broke his gaze, glanced at Kendrick over that gun, but Kendrick didn’t take his eyes off her. The corner of his mouth lifted a little, but he was breathing hard. “Don’t you ever learn? The guy with the gun is never in trouble.”
“The UK authorities don’t take kindly to foreign citizens murdering other foreign citizens on their soil.”
Kendrick nodded slowly, a mock considering expression on his face. “Now that’s very true, McAllister. But who said I’ve murdered anyone? Or, rather, who’s to say I did it, when we’re finished here? They already want you for attempted murder.”
“Of you.”
“Sure. But since I’m going to be nowhere near here when they finally turn up, and all they’ll find is three dead bodies … well, everyone likes a nice, neat, open-and-shut case, don’t they?”
She was barely three feet from the open door. It wasn’t far. She just had to move fast, be lucky.
She’d been lucky in the US, and three men were dead. John hadn’t been lucky at all.
Damn it.
She was poised on the balls of her feet, ready to move.
“So what are you waiting for?”
“What?”
Kier shook his head. “Why aren’t we already dead?”
Was he crazy? But in the next breath, Kendrick’s eyes flicked to Kier, and she knew he wasn’t.
“A bit keen, aren’t we?” Kendrick sneered.
Kier shrugged. Carefully. “If it was me, you’d be dead by now. I don’t need to feed my ego with a performance. It’s all drama to you, isn’t it? Putting on a show at the cottage, grinning at us in York, coming alone, playing it your way. Doing everything that made you worse than useless to your employers.”
There. A real look at Kier, a split second of wavering attention. Outside the wind gusted, rattling the windows in the kitchen. Jenny breathed deeper, biding her time.
“Oh, yes,” Kier continued. “They chose you because you’d be willing to do anything. But you can’t trust a man with no morals, Kendrick. And just how useful to them will you be, when your name is bound inextricably with my downfall. Don’t you think that will make future clients a bit suspicious?”
“It won’t matter when you’re gone,” he hissed.
Kier snorted. “Oh, you made it personal, didn’t you? It’s never personal, Matthew Christopher Kendrick, it’s never personal!”
Kendrick swore at him, viciously, and the gun wavered as he looked Kier’s way.
Kier’s brows climbed. “Is that your considered argument?”
“D-Davids … Groven—”
“Will be falling over themselves to put distance between you and them. You’ll be lucky if they admit to remembering your name by the time this is over.”
Jenny slipped a little closer to the door. It was closed of, course, but not locked. And it would open inward, giving her some cover. If she didn’t fumble the catch, if she didn’t… She tried to remember to breathe.
“You bloody idiot,” Kier said dispassionately. “You could have had it all for the asking. Barely days ago, if you’d have asked me to walk away, take Jenny and walk away, I’d have thanked you, laughing at my own good fortune.”
Kendrick’s eyes were on Kier, now, but the gun was still trained on her.
“You should have handed this whole project to someone else, you know. But you were greedy, you wanted to play this game to your own rules. You were greedy, Kendrick. And you’ve failed.”
The word was like a curse, and that was it. Kendrick snarled, the gun dipped, moved—and so did Jenny.
Snatch at the door, the lock giving miraculously under her hand. Swing it wide and out, moving, running as her feet hit the ground, heading left, for the lane, and for the shore, because it was downhill, and faster. The wind hit her in the face like a cold slap, sending her hair tangling round her face.
A shot sounded behind her, inside the house. She sobbed, for a moment it was like running in treacle, like a nightmare, but she fought through it, every second expecting a bullet in the back, every breath believing Kier had already taken one.
Don’t split my attention. I have a plan.
She cried. But there was no breath for sobbing, no time for blurred sight. So the crying was only in the way her face twisted, in the way she ached, because she wouldn’t let it be any other way.
The haggard blackthorn that edged the lane danced and creaked in the rising wind, looming over her, and blocking out the fading sun. She stumbled, her foot twisting on a smooth, loose stone, and a hand grabbed her arm.
She spun, a harsh cry tearing up her throat. But it was Kier, it was Kier apparently whole, and urging her on, forcing her to run.
God. “Where—” she gasped.
“Incapacitated. Temporarily,” he said, and didn’t slow.
What? Why? She had time to think, why not dead? and time to be wholeheartedly, passionately glad Kier hadn’t killed him.
The lane spilled onto the shore, a jumble of stone and mud, mixing with the sand, stirred by the wind. Which hit them, full force, coming straight off the sea, and carrying half a mile’s worth of grit and sand. It stung her skin, burned it, blinding her. For a moment it filled her mouth and she skidded to a halt, choking.
Kier caught her, his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. Swiftly he unzipped his jacket and pulled his shirt out of his trousers. Two sharp moves ripped the shirttail off, and then he was wrapping it around her mouth and nose, tying it behind her head, catching curls painfully in his haste.
“I’m sorry,” he raised his voice over the hissing of the sand-laden wind. “I can’t give you my jacket, it’s too much of a target.”
Confusion cleared, then—fast—washed out in a rush of terror, dread, and anger.
“He’s still armed?”
“In his place, I’d have more than one,” Kier said.
Rage won out. She shook with it; it pumped in her blood till her ears roared with it. How dare they … how dare they hunt her like this? How dare they threaten Kier? But there was rage at Kier, too, mired in that heart-thumping mix. It’s too much of a target.
Don’t you die, Kier. Don’t you dare.
He tugged on her hand, urging her on, and they broke into a run again. She stumbled on the smooth, black rocks that dotted the white sand, searching through narrowed, sand-blinded eyes for the flat, darker patches of sand that were harder, and easier to run on.
Setting a hard pace, Kier dropped her hand, leading them round the high-water mark. To their right, the dunes loomed higher, shimmering grey-green in the wind. Risking a glance back, she saw a figure emerge from the shelter of the lane. Kendrick. Armed.
“Kier!” she shrieked, but he’d already seen him.
“Don’t be afraid,” he yelled. “He can’t hit us at this distance, in this wind.”
I know, she thought, but she saved her breath.
They hit a patch of seashell shingle, shifting and treacherous underfoot. She struggled to keep lifting her legs, to keep the pace up. Her thighs burned.
“He’s got a choice—aim or run.”
Run, she prayed. Keep running.
She did the same. The passed through the shingle back onto sand again. Wet sand, pockmarked with worm holes and casts, smooth and agony on
the calves.
She kept running.
Then he veered, leading them out to their left, towards the centre of the bay.
“Where are you going?”
“There.” He raised an arm, pointed to the far shore, lines of brown and green and pale sand.
“You’re crazy,” she gasped, and looked over her shoulder. She could see Kendrick now, far behind, and yet way too close.
“Don’t look, move!” Kier roared and she ducked her head and pumped her legs. They’d hit smoother, wetter sand now and the going was easier and sloping slightly downhill. Hard on the ankles, though, and Jenny grimaced behind her makeshift mask.
Feet pounding on wet ground, heart thumping in her ears. Breathing hard, fighting the wind that buffeted her right side, and the sand it flung in her eyes. Kier was ahead of her, not far, but far enough to keep her legs pumping, her arms moving, wrestling every stride from a tired body.
Then she looked up, and couldn’t see Kier.
She opened her mouth to shout, but the next two breaths brought him into sight. They’d come to the big tidal channel in the middle of the bay, invisible from the shore. At her level, it was almost ten metres wide, but down where Kier stood below her, up to his knees in water, it narrowed to barely four feet.
He flung a hand up towards her. “Cross. Now!”
Catching his urgency, she flung herself down the sculpted slope, mud and sand crumbling under her and sending her sliding down into the cold water. She gasped at the impact, but she was barely in before Kier was hauling her bodily across the channel, almost throwing her at the other side. She dug in with fingers and toes, and threw herself forward and up, scrabbling for purchase, not allowing herself to stop for second.
Breathing was for later. Thinking could wait.
Now was only movement.
Only now she was cold, and her wet clothes dragged at her, weighing her down. Making the top of the channel’s far side, she faltered, and Kier’s hand caught her arm, driving her on. She fought to find the rhythm she’d made before, but her lungs burned, her joints protested and she couldn’t find her stride.
She let out a frustrated cry, strangled by lack of breath. “I can’t outrun him!”
“We don’t have to,” he was breathing hard, too, thank God. “Look.” He flung a hand out to their right, out to sea. At first she couldn’t see what he meant, only the grey heave of the ocean. Then she saw it. A thin white line, rough and indistinct.
And closer.
In the second it took her to sweep her hair out of her eyes and refocus, it came closer still.
The tide was coming in.
And it was coming in fast.
Her legs burned, her ankles and knees felt stiff and jerky. But she only realised she was really slowing when she felt Kier’s hand at her back.
“Not far,” he gasped.
Was he mad? It looked like miles. That wavering pale shore, misted by windblown sand. The shadowed bulk of Lindisfarne, beyond, looking like a mirage, an impression of a myth.
Kier passed her, pace-setting again, and damn it all to hell there was no way she was giving up in this. She dug deep, and kept running by force of will alone.
Her world narrowed. Kier’s back, like a beacon in his red coat. Foot down and push. Lift the other leg, pump your arm, watch the line. Each foot slamming down, propelling her on, hurting her, but carrying her forward. Every breath fought for, every heartbeat laboured.
Run. Move.
It took her a moment to realise Kier had stopped, was waiting for her. But no—he wasn’t looking at her, he was looking beyond her. She stumbled to a halt, swept hair and sand out of her eyes, and looked back, dragging air into her aching lungs.
Kendrick had stopped, too. Somehow he’d made it across the channel; his clothes were dark from the water. But the tide was spilling over the edge of the channel now, spilling into dips and troughs they’d never seen, revealing the treachery of a surface that had seemed flat. It turned the landscape into a relief map—here the sand was dry, here it was higher—there, the water seethed, a low point, danger.
She was close, she could hear Kier’s voice. He said, “No. Leave it,” and she saw that Kendrick was empty-handed, had stopped, was turning to go back. He’d stumbled in the rising water, and dropped his gun.
She knew then why Kier had said, leave it.
Dragging her hair out of her face again, she fought the gusting wind, digging her fingers into her scalp. Kendrick was a black figure in a grey shifting scene. Each blink brought the waters higher, cutting them off from him in streams of frothing brown. He was bending now, reaching down, searching blindly in the water around his feet.
“Move,” said Kier, but this time he wasn’t talking to her.
Jenny realised she was holding her breath. She sucked in air, pulling the cloth against her lips, and clenched her jaw hard, feeling the grate and squeak of grit against her teeth, tasting salt.
The next surge of dirty brown water took Kendrick to his knees.
She whimpered, dragging the mask off her mouth, and made a move to go back, but Kier wrapped his arms around her and held on. “Not this time, love,” he muttered into her hair. “Not this time.” His arms were solid, her eyes were wide open, straining to see as Kendrick struggled to his feet. Even at this distance, she could see the way he swayed as he tried to keep his feet under him. The water was up to his thighs, and still climbing.
He lifted his head and looked their way. His mouth opened, his face twisted while the tide tugged at his jacket and foamed around his waist. For a moment he stood there, shoulders slumped, defeated. Then the sea took him.
Once, twice, they saw his head, his arm break surface. Then there was just water, angry and triumphant, and a sudden flock of oystercatchers, flitting across their line of sight, making for safe ground.
“Excuse me?” Jenny got to her feet. The three women—one police officer and two others dressed for the office—turned to face her, wearing identical expressions of concern.
The Police Station wasn’t exactly busy. A greasy-haired man occupied a plastic seat in the corner. There’d been a couple of track-suited girls there when they’d been brought in hours ago. But when they’d finished questioning her, and returned her to the, for want of a better word, waiting room, Kier was nowhere to be found. And no one would tell her where he was.
They’d told her they’d picked up John Dawson, that he was stable, and was likely to recover. They’d told her they didn’t expect to find Kendrick’s body any time soon. Maybe on the next tide. Maybe next month.
And they’d informed her she was free to go. There were no charges. John had led them to the file when he regained consciousness, and although there was much to concern them, and a hell of a lot to communicate to the American Embassy, it was obvious that she was blameless, and the charges against McAllister were dropped, as well.
She prayed they never ran the plate on the car Kier had lifted from York.
But that wasn’t the information that she’d just overheard the older woman say, the one in the soft grey suit. “Excuse me,” Jenny said again, “what did you say?”
The older woman assumed a broad, caring smile. “Miss Waring, Jenny? My name’s Lisa. I’m a counsellor. Now, I know the kidnap charges have been dropped, but why don’t we have a bit of a chat about what’s been happening to you?”
Jenny blinked. “No, that’s okay. But you said—”
Lisa lifted a hand, coming close to, but not quite touching her shoulder. “It’s perfectly normal to feel a little confused at this stage. And I want you to feel you can tell me anything. Why don’t we make use of one of the interview rooms here, and—”
“Actually,” Jenny bit out, “I never want to see another interview room as long as I live.” She smiled. Hard. “But I do want to know why you said Stockholm syndrome.”
The hand withdrew. The other women stood still. The police officer bit her lip.
Lisa looked concerned. Jenny was willin
g to bet she’d had training in looking concerned. “Jenny, we’re going to go somewhere private and have a chat about what you’ve been through.”
“No,” said Jenny, putting everything Kier had taught her about strength of will into the word, “you’re going to tell me why you said Stockholm syndrome. Now.”
Lisa pursed her mouth, bringing a forest of little lines into being. Telling Jenny that for as many professional smiles she had to dish out, there were reasons to frown. Jenny felt some of the tension slip, some of the anger fade.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m tired. And I just want to know what’s going on. Please tell me.”
Lisa sighed. “Stockholm syndrome is a psychological condition, a sort of emotional attachment, dependence, that can develop between a captive and captor. It’s quite common in situations where someone is in another person’s power, and although they’re at risk from that person, they depend on them for safety, too. It’s so easy for the weaker character to submit to the stronger. And in your case with all the emotional and physical strain … and with Mr. McAllister … well, it was almost inevitable, wasn’t it?”
Jenny wound her fingers into her palm. “Inevitable?”
“We’re concerned that you might feel an emotional attachment to him, a dependence on him, that is very, very damaging for you both,” Lisa explained, reached out a hand that stopped just short of physical contact.
It made sense. With the world shuddering, jerking, and groaning to a halt around her, Jenny was forced to admit that, logically, intellectually, it made sense. Hadn’t she feared this very same thing? Hadn’t she dreaded losing herself in him? But it hadn’t protected her, had it? She was still lost.
She couldn’t quite focus on Lisa. The other woman was weaving and blurring.
Jenny concentrated very hard and managed to inject a few words into the chaos. “But I thought…”
Lisa jumped right in on her hesitation. “But you see that it’s not natural, don’t you? I mean, it’s just not right to … to fall for someone under those circumstances. There’s a great deal about Mr. McAllister in Mr. Dawson’s file, and we’re very concerned. He even called it the ‘McAllister Method’—a way of manipulating and controlling people.”
Run Among Thorns Page 24