He reached a count of five hundred.
The taste of blood was in his mouth.
One thousand.
Every muscle in his body felt like it was being torn apart.
Twelve hundred.
He could see his bike on the high ground at the head of the valley.
Thirteen hundred.
He stumbled, nearly fell, knew that at any moment his legs would simply stop functioning.
Fourteen hundred.
He couldn’t count anymore. Or run. His breathing loud, his hair matted with sweat and snow, his face screwed up in pain, he staggered forward until he was standing by the bike. Two hundred yards away, on lower ground and moving closer to him, was the truck. No doubt it was full of cops. In the forest, some of the police on foot had switched on the tactical flashlights attached to their submachine guns. Light was fading, but they were getting nearer. Tossing his gun away, he tried to lift the heavy bike. He got it off the ground a few inches before his oxygen-starved muscles gave up and the machine crashed back to the ground. Dogs barked. Someone in the forest shouted orders. Will knew that the police could see him; in a matter of seconds they would be in range to shoot him. He sucked in air, ignored the fact that his heart was pumping so fast he thought it could fail, gripped the handlebars, and moaned loudly as he tried again to haul the bike upright.
At least two dogs were now continuously barking and seemed to be drawing closer; no doubt they’d been unleashed. He leaned back, his teeth gritted, trying to use his body weight to raise the machine. The bike lifted a few more inches. His back was in agony, felt like it was burning. Gunfire. Most were off target, but one round struck the bike’s seat and ricocheted through the air close to his head. He knew that if he dropped the bike now he’d have no chance of escape, so he screamed, pulled back with every remaining bit of strength, thought that he was going to lose consciousness, got the bike upright, immediately swung a leg over it, and sat on the machine, his breathing rapid. More shouting; the dogs had to be very close now.
He tried to kick-start the bike. Nothing happened.
He tried again; the engine still didn’t engage.
Bullets struck the ground inches from the bike’s front tire.
He raised his body, then thrust down to add weight to the kick-start.
Still nothing.
The truck stopped, just one hundred yards away. Men jumped out of the back.
He stood again. The act sent bolts of pain through his legs and arms. He breathed in and thrust down.
The engine engaged. He immediately revved the throttle, lurched forward as the bike’s gears engaged, and pulled the throttle fully back. From the forest and the truck came multiple sustained bursts of gunfire.
But he was out of the cops’ line of sight, speeding over rough ground away from the valley. He gripped the machine tightly as he drove it over mounds, jumped through air, thudded to the ground, and maintained its traction on the snow.
There was no more gunfire. The police would be running back to the truck to pursue him in the vehicle. And they’d be summoning quicker patrol cars to the area to block his escape. But he wouldn’t be using the roads. For sixty minutes, he drove across farmland, along tracks and open fields, through woods and larger forests, only turning on his lights when he needed to.
He pulled into Arman’s junkyard, turned off the ignition, and lowered the bike’s stand. The trailer’s interior was illuminated. Arman emerged holding a flashlight. Will got off the bike and staggered over to the Russian, then his knees buckled.
Arman grabbed him and held him upright. “Are you injured?”
Will couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Fatigue had overwhelmed him.
The former tank commander gripped him tightly, limping as he guided Will toward his home.
Eighteen
Joanna lifted the instrument case out of the large packing box, placed it on Will’s dining table, and called out, “Be a darling and put the kettle on.”
“Right you are, my dear.” Robert was in the kitchen, washing breakfast dishes. Next to him, leaning against a cupboard, was his shotgun.
Joanna opened the case. Inside was an old German lute. She whispered, “Beautiful,” as she ran a finger along its strings. “Can’t have you hidden away.” She looked around, trying to decide where to put it, and settled on placing it on a shelf next to a framed photograph of a teenage Will playing viola in his school orchestra.
“Bloody rain’s set in for the day.” The former SAS captain poured boiling water into a teapot.
“Yes.” Joanna was not really listening to her husband. Instead she was now staring at another framed photograph that she’d just removed from wrapping paper. It was of a young boy, unmistakably Will at approximately four or five years old; standing next to him was a tall man, wearing a suit. “Must be his father,” she said to herself as she placed it on a mantelpiece. She moved to another packing case and withdrew a box. Inside it was a pristine kepi blanc, the French Foreign Legion cap awarded to recruits upon completion of their arduous training. Underneath it was a worn baseball cap that would not have fit a child much older than ten years old. Joanna frowned and wondered, why did he hide one with the other?
Robert entered the living room holding two cups of tea with one hand and his Remington in the other. “How about lunchtime I leg it to the chippy and get some cod and chips?”
Joanna smiled. “That would be nice. Plenty of vinegar, but not too much salt. You know what the doctor told you.”
Robert huffed. “Load of nonsense.” Placing the mugs down, he asked, “You think you should buy Will some houseplants? All this boys’ stuff isn’t exactly going to charm the ladies.”
“Which ladies?”
“How about some artificial plants?” Robert laughed. “At least they’d give the impression that there’s life in here.”
Joanna nodded, then turned sharply as she heard a noise in the hallway. Withdrawing her handgun from her belt, she said quietly, “Post’s arrived. Usual drill.”
They moved silently into the hallway. Robert got on one knee and pointed his shotgun at the center of the front door. Joanna walked down one side of the corridor, reached the entrance, glanced at her husband, who gave the tiniest of nods, swooped up the mail, and stepped back so she was flush against the wall.
Nothing happened.
Robert stayed in position as she carefully made her way back along the hallway. She leafed through the mail-junk, a couple of utility bills, a local council voter registration card, and a letter that was handwritten and addressed to Will Cochrane.
She opened the letter, read its contents, and said urgently, “We need to call Betty, then Will.”
Dear Mr. Cochrane,
I wonder if you’ve heeded my advice to stay away from me and my business. I hope so, because matters are soon to be concluded and it would be a nuisance for me to have to deal with any interference. As it is, you’ve inconvenienced me enough to the extent that I’ve had to divert some valuable resources to the United Kingdom.
Those resources are dedicated to watching a person you care about. They will not back down unless I tell them to do so or I instruct them to kill the person. The decision I make will be based on the choice you make. I hope for your sake it is one that prioritizes the welfare of the person you care about over your desire to gain applause from your masters.
Are you a protector of the weak, Mr. Cochrane? If so, the decision you need to make is clear.
Time will tell.
And I will be there to listen.
Yours,