Redemption

by Will Jordan

  This was going too far. She had given him every opportunity, but even she was starting to lose patience now.

  Turning her baleful glare on him, she spoke in a low, cold voice. ‘Listen to me, because I won’t say this again. I don’t want to speak to you or your friend. I just want to be left alone. Walk away. Please.’

  Even he seemed momentarily daunted by the look in her eyes and the cold menace in her voice, and she saw him fight the urge to take a step back.

  With that, she turned her back on him and walked towards the parked Ford Taurus, reaching for the door handle. All the while, she was watching his reflection in the window.

  It took less than a second to see that her warning hadn’t had the desired effect. Now that her back was turned and he was freed from her vengeful glare, anger and indignation had taken over. She was a woman, and she had made him feel fear.

  ‘You fucking whore,’ he growled, jabbing an accusing finger at her.

  Just for a moment, she felt a fleeting sense of disappointment that she had failed to defuse the situation.

  Then something snapped.

  Turning, she grabbed his outstretched hand, bent it backwards and twisted it at the wrist, feeling the taut resistance as tendons and ligaments stretched. In a heartbeat, she had him in a supinating wrist lock. He was no threat to her now. He never had been.

  His first reaction was a grunt of surprise, followed by a cry of pain as she applied more pressure to the overtaxed joint. Instinctively his body went with the rotating motion, trying to find relief, but she knew it was a futile move. She could keep twisting the wrist as far as she wanted.

  ‘What did you call me?’ she asked through clenched teeth, pushing harder. ‘Please, say it again. Say it.’

  ‘Jimmy! Aargh, get this bitch off me!’ he screamed, dropping to his knees. ‘Get her off!’

  Realising at last what was happening, his companion rounded the pickup, reaching into his back pocket. Anya followed his every move. Now she had a second opponent to deal with.

  She couldn’t waste any more time on the first man. But that was fine – she knew exactly how to remove him from the fight.

  With a sudden, violent motion, she twisted his hand as hard as she could. As strong as the bones of the human forearm are, they are poorly designed to cope with radioulnar rotation. There was a moment of resistance, then a faint pop as his radius and ulna bones fractured just behind the wrist.

  His scream of pain was cut short by a sharp knee delivered to the bridge of his nose, shattering it. He went down, blood spraying from both nostrils. He was out of the fight.

  Drake was just handing over his money when he heard shouts coming from the forecourt. Straight away he turned towards the source of the commotion, and felt his blood run cold.

  Turning her attention to the second man, she strode forward to meet him just as he brought something out of his back pocket. A knife. Not a dagger, but a tool – a box cutter. Normally she disliked taking on opponents armed with knives, but she felt less apprehension in this case. He could slash with it and perhaps cause damage if the blade met her face, but otherwise it was a poor weapon.

  And it didn’t take long to decide that its owner presented little threat.

  She ducked one wild slash, then twisted aside as he came at her again. She felt the blade brush her upper arm, but the leather jacket seemed to absorb it. He was slow and clumsy, not used to fighting with any kind of technical skill.

  Still, she wasn’t going to wait for him to take another swipe. Balling up her fist, she drilled him in the face with a hard cross, stunning him, then delivered a second blow to his fleshy stomach that doubled him over. A hard kick to the groin stamped out whatever fight remained in him, yet for some reason she found herself unable to stop.

  A sudden surge of anger and fury rose up within her like a tide, so sudden and powerful she couldn’t contain it.

  The sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor receded. She heard the rasp as Bastard unzipped his trousers.

  She was helpless, unable to protect herself, unable to resist as he grabbed her shoulder and rolled her over onto her stomach. She could barely feel the chill of the tiles on her naked skin, but she did feel the first gut-wrenching penetration as he thrust inside her.

  This man had tried to kill her. He would have cut her throat, slashed that blade across her eyes, plunged it into her chest.

  Drawing back her fist again, she slammed it into his face, feeling the cartilage of his nose give way beneath the force of the blow. The box cutter fell from his hand, and she caught it on the way down.

  Gripping him by his shirt, she shoved him backward against the chassis of the Ford pickup. The vehicle shuddered under the impact.

  He was limp meat in her hold, dazed and frightened, blood dripping from his nose and burst lip. His eyes met hers and she saw wild, primal fear in them. It sent a shiver of excitement through her.

  Weakness will not be in my heart. Fear will not be in my creed.

  She raised the box cutter to slash the exposed throat. But as she did so, a pair of strong hands seized her by the shoulders and threw her backwards.

  She whirled around to face the new threat, gripping the weapon tight and preparing to lash out with it. No one could stand against her.

  I will show no mercy. I will never hesitate.

  Then she froze. The man standing before her wasn’t an enemy.

  ‘Stop it. Right now,’ Drake said, bristling with anger.

  The weapon fell from her grip and the uncontrollable rage vanished in an instant. For several seconds she just stood there, breathing hard, almost perplexed by what had happened.

  Beside her, the man in the shirt had slumped to the ground beside the truck, clutching his nose and moaning softly under his breath.

  ‘Get in the car,’ Drake ordered, his voice cold. The anger had dissipated. He was all business now. ‘I said get in the car. Now.’

  She could think of nothing to say. Exhaling slowly, she turned, opened the passenger door of the Ford Taurus and calmly sat down.

  Drake was in the driver’s seat a few seconds later. Throwing the car into gear, he stamped on the accelerator and floored it out of the garage, leaving the two injured men in their wake.

  Chapter 38

  FRANKLIN WAS NOT in a good mood as he strode past Cain’s private secretary and onward to his inner sanctum. She made no move to stop him. Cain had made it clear that Franklin was not to be delayed or questioned.

  The director’s expansive office made his own feel like a cardboard cubicle. Everything in it was expensive and meticulously crafted, from the leather sofas to the antique mahogany coffee table, the eighteenth-century bookcase crammed with leather-bound volumes, and the huge ornate writing desk.

  Behind it sat Cain himself, busily working away on his computer. He glanced up and stopped working as Franklin approached, though one look at his face made it plain he had little time for idle talk.

  Cain might have projected an aura of genial good manners when it suited him, but at times like this the cold, ruthless machine beneath became all too apparent. Heads were going to roll for this, and Franklin had a horrible feeling that his would be one of them.

  ‘What’s the situation, Dan?’ he asked without preamble.

  Franklin grimaced inwardly, bracing himself for the shit storm that was about to erupt. ‘Not good. Drake switched cars without any of the security cameras picking it up. He removed the prisoner’s tracking device and escaped before the tactical teams got there. Now they’re on the run.’

  ‘So it would seem,’ Cain remarked with barely concealed scorn. ‘Explain to me how this happened. You vouched for this man, you recommended him.’

  ‘I’ve known him personally for years,’ Franklin countered. ‘He’s never once given me reason to doubt his loyalty.’

  Cain sighed and leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. ‘Well, you’d better start making sense of this real quick, son, because this is a situation that
needs to be un-fucked right now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Drake gave your boys the slip two hours and forty-seven minutes ago. That’s two hours and forty-seven minutes during which our search area has been growing exponentially larger. What are we doing to find him?’

  ‘We’ve put out an APB to all law enforcement agencies and border patrol units. Airports and customs units are all on alert—’

  Cain waved his hand dismissively. ‘Drake knows the system. If he’s half as smart as he should be, he’ll know how to avoid all that. And if he doesn’t, Anya will,’ he added. ‘Inspire me, son. Give me some reason to justify your pay cheque.’

  Franklin could feel a trickle of sweat run down his back. ‘We’ve brought in Drake’s own Shepherd team. They’re the best in the world at what they do, and more importantly they know him. They know how he thinks, how he reacts. They can pre-empt him. Drake got this far because he caught us off guard – we won’t make that mistake again.’

  Cain held his gaze a moment longer before releasing him and leaning back in his chair. ‘That’s not bad,’ he conceded. ‘Let’s just hope they have something to report back on soon.’

  ‘I’ve got every confidence in them.’

  Cain’s eyes flashed. ‘Good for you. Let me know the moment you find anything.’

  He didn’t say anything further, just went back to work. Franklin had been dismissed. Taking his cue, he turned and hurried out, already reaching for his cellphone.

  ‘Goddamn it, Ryan,’ he hissed as he dialled Dietrich’s number.

  Anya stared listlessly out the window as they hurtled along the interstate highway, trees and fields and small towns skimming past.

  She hadn’t said a word since they left the gas station, and neither had Drake. He was just sitting there staring straight ahead, clutching the wheel in a white-knuckle grip. His simmering anger was obvious even to someone who couldn’t read body language. But to her, he might as well have been screaming and pounding his fist against the dashboard.

  She was more than a little unnerved by her own actions earlier. Using force to defend herself was one thing, but she had gone far beyond that. If Drake hadn’t been there, she knew she would have killed both men and not regretted it for a second.

  With Bastard, it had been different. He had deserved death many times over, and she had been more than happy to give it to him. But those two men at the gas station weren’t out to kill or torment her – they were just idiots filled with pride and bravado, and she had almost killed them both.

  She felt the need to speak, to say something, to offer an explanation, but she didn’t know the right words. She wasn’t used to explaining herself or apologising for her actions.

  ‘Drake, I—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ he snarled. ‘I don’t want to fucking hear it, Anya. There’s nothing you can say to me. Nothing!’

  For a few seconds, she just stared at him, completely taken aback by his outburst. She hadn’t seen him truly angry before and wasn’t sure how to deal with it. It wasn’t that he frightened or intimidated her, but for some reason it made her feel guilty.

  ‘You are right to be angry …’

  ‘Of course I’m right!’ he raged, twisting around to glare at her. ‘You’ve compromised us. You’ll draw their search grid right here. Don’t you get it? Christ, you’ve done nothing but fuck up my life from the moment I met you. I wish I’d never even heard of you. I wish you were still in that fucking prison where you belong!’

  Her heart sank, and she felt a sudden pang of hurt and sadness at his words – a reaction made more unsettling because it was so unexpected.

  ‘I … I’m sorry,’ she said, groping for the words.

  Drake didn’t respond. There was no angry rebuke from him, no storm of insults or expressions of hatred. He was silent and brooding, his eyes on the road ahead.

  His silence encouraged her to go on.

  ‘I’m sorry you are caught up in this, Drake. You don’t deserve it, and neither does your sister. And I’m sorry for what happened back there. I lost my temper. It was … unprofessional, and it won’t happen again.’

  She watched him intently, studying every movement of his face, the set of his shoulders, the strength of his grip on the wheel, the look in his eyes.

  For a few moments, she genuinely didn’t know how her apology had been received. His expression didn’t change, and she wondered if he just didn’t care any more.

  That made her feel even worse.

  ‘Talk’s cheap, Anya.’

  ‘I don’t make a promise unless I intend to keep it.’

  Then, at last, he turned to look at her.

  ‘I’ve got your word on that?’ he asked, staring at her just as intensely as she’d been watching him.

  ‘You do.’

  He said nothing, as if torn about how to respond. ‘This isn’t going to work if we can’t rely on each other.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘I don’t trust you,’ he said.

  She sighed and looked out the window at the green countryside sliding past. ‘I don’t blame you. But if you are worried about me running away, don’t be. Munro will find me no matter where I go, so I have little choice but to see this through.’

  Drake stared at her a moment longer before turning his attention back to the road. ‘If you try to fuck me over, I’ll shoot you myself.’

  It took a lot of effort to hide the smile that threatened. He forgave her. Despite his threat, she could see that some of the tension had left his shoulders. The look in his vivid green eyes had softened just a little.

  ‘You can try.’ It was the closest she had come to playful banter in a very long time.

  He gave her a sidelong glance before his gaze flicked to her left arm. ‘You’re hurt.’

  Frowning, she looked down to see a straight gash cut in the leather sleeve of her jacket. She hadn’t even noticed. Pulling it off, she examined her arm.

  The box cutter had sliced through the leather and nicked the skin, leaving a long straight cut across her upper arm. The pain barely registered, in the same way that shaving cuts often go unheeded, but it was a sobering reminder of how close she had come to more serious injury.

  The blade could have sliced right through muscle, tendons or nerves, putting her arm out of action for good. And it wasn’t as if they could just drive to the nearest hospital.

  Saying nothing, she reached for the first-aid kit on the back seat.

  Ten years ago that blade never would have come near her. She’d become slow, sloppy, careless. Her time in prison had dulled her reflexes, eroded her skills.

  Or maybe it’s more than that, she thought to herself. Maybe you’re just getting old. That was more frightening than any injury.

  ‘So you are human after all,’ Drake observed.

  It was just as well his eyes were on the road, and he missed the look she gave him.

  Chapter 39

  CLUTCHING THE EDGE of the sink, Dietrich grimaced as his stomach constricted in another painful heave, its contents flying into the bowl. There was nothing he could do but ride it out and wait for it to be over.

  When at last the sickness subsided, he was breathing hard, a thin line of mucus hanging from the corner of his mouth. He turned on the tap and did his best to clean himself up, splashing cold water on his face several times.

  When he looked up at his reflection, he almost baulked at the sight that confronted him. Four years ago he had been a ruggedly handsome man, tall and muscular, with a piercing gaze and strong features. Now he looked like a walking corpse, his complexion pallid, his cheeks sunken, his eyes dulled.

  Jesus Christ, what have you done to yourself?

  He couldn’t even remember when he’d first started shooting up, only that it had been a long time ago. When he worked in West Germany twenty years earlier, drugs had been ubiquitous. Everyone was high on something, and being young and reckless and invincible, it hadn’t taken him long to jump on that particular bandwagon. Heroin, cocain
e, LSD … he’d done it all.

  Only when he’d moved to America in the mid-nineties and joined the Agency had he learned to curb his habit. It had been a new decade and a new employer; one who didn’t take kindly to their operatives showing up on the downside of a weekend-long cocaine binge.

  For a time, he’d learned to live on the straight and narrow. But life had a way of throwing him curve balls, and after a failed marriage followed by a messy divorce, he found himself using again. Heroin this time. The feeling of euphoria and invincibility the drug imparted reminded him of his carefree youth. It provided an occasional escape, an outlet for a million frustrations and regrets.

  But far from an escape, his growing drug habit soon became a prison in its own right. Now he needed it just to get through the day.

  The withdrawal was kicking in hard, and it was going to get worse before it got better. But he had to keep going. His career, and perhaps his life, depended on it. If they found out his secret now, at such a critical time, it was over for ever.

  ‘Come on, you bastard,’ he whispered in his native German. ‘Pull yourself together.’

  He could beat this. He had to.

  He was limping back out to the parking lot when he heard his name called out, and glanced up to see Frost striding towards him with a laptop clutched under her arm.

  Snatching up his cup of coffee, he downed the tepid contents. ‘If you don’t have good news, I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘You’ll want to hear this. I think we’ve got them.’

  Opening the laptop, she set it down on the hood of a nearby police car. The unit had been sitting on standby and booted up immediately.

  Selecting a video file, she hit play. Straight away a black-and-white image of the parking lot’s entrance ramp appeared. It was a wide-angle shot, taken from a building further down the street.

  ‘This was taken at 10.04 this morning, approximately five minutes after Drake hijacked the vehicle.’

  Dietrich watched as a black Grand Cherokee turned off the main road and tore down the ramp into the darkened recesses of the building.