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He was stuffing things into a holdall—clothes, money, three passports in an elastic band. He was barely paying me a second glance. I could have leaned over and pulled the gun out of his waistband and held it to his head, but I didn’t need to.
“Give yourself up, Cole,” I said softly. “Come on. This is over and you know it. You won’t even make it to the port.”
“Stay. Away,” he ground out, and brandished the gun at me one-handed, the other reaching for his bag. Tears were running down his face, but I didn’t think they were for Gabe. He was crying for himself. “Stay away.”
“Where are you going?” I followed him to the door. “Cambodia? Belarus? It’s not just the police you have to worry about, you know that, right? These people may be government, but I doubt they care about extradition treaties—they’ll hunt you down wherever you run to.”
“Shut up.” He was out in the hallway now, jabbing at the lift, and when it didn’t come, he opened the door to the stairs. “Stay back or I will shoot you, Jack.”
“Give yourself up,” I said again, but now the pain in my side had come back, more intense than ever, the rush of adrenaline that had got me through my encounter in the bedroom beginning to ebb. I could feel trickling wetness against my skin.
But Cole said nothing, he just shook his head, swiping away the tears with one arm, and headed for the stairs. I followed, pressing my hand against my ribs to try to quell the throbbing.
“Cole, don’t do this.”
“Who the fuck’s going to stop me?” he said, and beneath the sob in his voice there was something close to a choking laugh. “You? You’re practically crawling, Jack. Look at yourself—you should be in hospital, not destroying yourself for a man who’s already dead.”
“Don’t do this,” I said again, but he was halfway down the first flight, and I could only follow much more slowly, holding on to the banister.
“Leave me alone,” he shouted back up over his shoulder. “Leave me alone.”
“What are you going to tell Noemie?” I called, but I was panting now, my breaths coming sharp and shallow, and I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me. He was two flights down. I suppressed a groan and made my legs move faster. “Are you just going to abandon her?”
“Fuck you,” he sobbed back.
Three flights down now, and I had barely made it round the fourth-floor landing. Was he really getting away? That wad of notes wouldn’t last him very long, but the three passports spoke of someone with a plan in place—a plan that probably involved a fat crypto wallet and a bolthole somewhere without extradition to the UK—and much as I’d talked the talk about his bosses hunting him down, in truth, if he kept below the radar and didn’t shoot his mouth off, I wasn’t certain they’d waste their energy.
Malik, I found myself thinking, Malik, dear God, please be the cop I think you are…
And then, as I rounded the corner of the next flight, I heard them: sirens.
Cole was at the ground floor; I heard the screech of the fire door into the lobby, and then the clang as it slammed shut.
Every breath felt like a knife in my side, and when I looked back, I saw I was leaving a trail of blood up the stairs, little drops the size of pennies on every step, more where I had paused to try to gather my strength for the next flight.
What if I didn’t make it?
“Cole,” I croaked, but I was sure now that he couldn’t hear me. “Cole, give yourself up.”
No answer, just the wailing sirens. I forced my feet to go faster, but they were numb and stupid, and now I tripped, stumbling down the last half flight and only saving myself from falling completely by grabbing hold of the rail with a jerk that made me cry aloud.
“Cole!” I shouted again, as strongly as I could, but my voice was drowned beneath the rising scream of the sirens, and there was no answer.
I was at the door to the lobby now, but it was heavy, so incredibly heavy. I put my shoulder to it and leaned with all my might, sobbing with the effort. It creaked open. I pushed, and pushed, feeling the muscles in my side ache with the effort. How had Cole barged through so effortlessly?
And then the door opened enough for me to slip through, and I stumbled into the lobby, blinking at the blinding blue lights that were suddenly flooding the little room.
Outside I could see police spilling out of patrol cars, and they were coming for me, I knew it. I just had to pray that Malik had been listening, watching, taking note. Because Malik, of all people, had been the one who had known something was wrong. She just had no idea how wrong.
The police were opening the lobby door now, moving in formation, like hunters taking down a wounded animal. They were holding out weapons—guns, Tasers, I wasn’t sure. I put my hands up. My legs were trembling so hard, I wasn’t sure I could stand for much longer.
“Did you arrest him?” I tried to say, but the words seemed to stick in my mouth, hard to get out.
“On the ground!” shouted one of the cops. “Get on the ground! You are under arrest!”
I obeyed, shakily kneeling, though the phone sticking out of my hip pocket jabbed into my stomach and made the movement awkward.
“Did you arrest him? Cole Garrick? Did you arrest him?”
