The first man slowed. ‘Not yet.’
‘I definitely saw footprints. Try down the hill.’
‘No,’ said someone else. Nina recognised the voice: Simeon. ‘Maintain spacing. If you spread out too far or bunch up, we could miss her.’ The Witness came into view, his rough clothing instantly recognisable. He stopped to gaze into the trees ahead, his back to her.
More people passed, some of them panting. Not all Cross’s followers were super-fit ex-military or CIA, it seemed. ‘Are you sure she came this way?’ someone gasped.
Simeon turned towards the unseen speaker. Even though he was not looking directly at Nina, merely seeing his eyes filled her with terror. The slightest movement at the edge of his vision could draw his attention…
‘I’m sure,’ he replied, glowering at the unseen man — then setting off again. ‘Okay, remember she’s pregnant!’ he called as he ran. ‘She’ll get tired long before we do!’
He disappeared into the trees. More figures in white flitted between the palms, then were lost to sight deeper in the jungle.
Nina let out an exhausted breath. She waited for a minute to be sure her pursuers had moved away before hesitantly lowering the frond and emerging.
No voices, no flickers of white clothing amongst the trees. As far as she could tell, the hunters had gone.
How long before they came back, she couldn’t guess. All she could do was keep going. She regained her breath, then resumed her ascent.
It did not take long to reach the summit. The trees thinned out, the sun’s position high above helping her get her bearings. She finally cleared the undergrowth, looking west to see…
‘No!’ she gasped, heart sinking in despair.
She was looking at Antigua — in the distance. Between the mainland’s coast and the jungle below was a stretch of open ocean, the Atlantic’s winds kicking up churning whitecaps. The two shores were well over a mile apart, far beyond her ability to swim. She had escaped one prison only to find that it was nested within another.
Nina closed her eyes as the hopelessness of the situation rose to swallow her… then snapped them open again. ‘No,’ she said again, this time with determination. ‘Not happening.’ She had come this far; no way was she giving up now.
She turned, taking in the entirety of the island. It was an elongated rough triangle, about a mile in length. Its westernmost tip pointed towards the mainland; the Mission, the church spire rising above the trees, was near the south-eastern corner. Nothing was visible beyond it except the empty Atlantic. Trapped…
Wait, she told herself. There had to be some way on and off the island other than by helicopter; it would be insanely expensive to ship everything by air. That meant boats. The shoreline at the enclave itself was a wave-pounded cliff, so nobody would be able to land there. They would need somewhere more sheltered…
There. A small cove south-west of the Mission, almost perfectly circular behind its narrow entrance — and visible within was what looked like a jetty. Any boats would be there.
She judged the distance. Not much more than a quarter of a mile. Even moving through the jungle it would not take long to reach — if she didn’t get caught.
No sign of any pursuers below. Resolute, Nina set off downhill. Occasionally she paused on hearing calls and shouts on the wind, but none were close by. She pressed on.
The terrain flattened out. She crossed faint paths through the woods — the Mission’s residents were not forced to stay within its boundaries, then — but still nobody was in sight. Crashing waves gradually became audible. She hurried through the undergrowth towards the sound, emerging at the edge of a low cliff overlooking the cove.
A pounding whump and whoosh to her right. Some quirk of geology was forcing incoming waves into the western corner of the little bay, where they hit a narrow ridge and surged upwards before erupting like a geyser. Given time, the sea would eventually gnaw entirely through the barrier to join up with the coastline on the far side, but for now the Atlantic was still dashing itself against a near-vertical wall rising ten feet above the frothing waters. Nina had read about a similar feature on the Antiguan mainland called Devil’s Bridge; this was less impressive, but both had been carved by the same almost metronomic blasts of spray.
The ragged spit arced out to form one side of the cove. The curving cliff on which she stood made up the other, a stony beach at its foot. The wooden jetty extended out from it; a boat was tied to its end.
She ran along the cliff until the slope to the beach became shallow enough to traverse, then scrambled down and headed for the jetty. The boat had an outboard motor; if she could start it, she should be able to reach the mainland in minutes—
‘Down there!’
Nina glanced back at the shout with renewed fear. Simeon and a couple of others were on the clifftop. They ran after her, Simeon leaping down to the shingle as his companions rounded the cove’s perimeter. There was an open-walled shed near a path that she guessed led to the Mission, a couple more boats inside. The cultists could pursue her, but they would have to carry their craft to the water, giving her a head start — if she could launch before being caught.
She hurried along the jetty. The bobbing boat was secured by two ropes. She unfurled the one at the prow, then ran back to the second at the stern — seeing Simeon sprinting across the beach towards her.
She struggled with the coils of wet rope. A knot snagged on the metal cleat. She tugged at it, for a moment unable to pull it free, then it popped loose. The final loops came away, and she leapt into the boat.
Simeon reached the jetty and pounded along it. Nina grabbed the outboard’s starter rope. The motor grumbled as she pulled, but didn’t turn over. ‘Come on!’ she cried, tugging again. ‘Come on!’ Another pull, Simeon’s feet banging on the planks as he sprinted at her—
The motor caught, coughing out blue smoke before fully turning over. Nina twisted the throttle on the tiller as far as it would go, and the boat surged out into the little bay.
She looked back — as Simeon made a flying leap from the jetty’s end, slamming down on to the stern beside the outboard.
The extra weight pitched the boat’s nose upwards. Legs dragging in the water, he clawed at the hull, trying to pull himself fully aboard.
Nina hit him in the face. ‘Get off my boat!’
The African American slipped backwards, dropping into the water up to his hips. He scrabbled to keep his grip as she drew back her arm to strike again—
Simeon grabbed the tiller and yanked it hard.
The sudden turn threw Nina against him. Before she could regain her balance, he clamped his left arm around her throat. ‘If I go in, you go in!’ he snarled. ‘Slow it down.’
She struggled, but his hold tightened, cutting off her air. ‘Slow down now,’ he ordered. ‘Or I’ll choke you out. You don’t wanna know what that might do to your baby.’
‘Son of a bitch…’ Nina croaked, but she had no choice except to comply. She reduced the throttle. The boat slowed and settled into the water.
Simeon levered himself aboard, releasing Nina, then pushing her away. ‘You’re lucky you’re pregnant,’ he told her, breathing heavily. ‘If you weren’t…’
He left the threat unspoken, but it was enough to send a chill through her. She hunched up in one of the front seats, defeated, as Simeon brought the boat back towards shore.
18
Cross was waiting when Simeon brought Nina back to the Mission: not in the control room, but in the church, glaring down at her from the pulpit. The light shining through the stained-glass windows cast a malevolent red tint over his face. ‘Did you really think you could escape, Dr Wilde?’ he asked. ‘There are cameras all around the island, not just at the Mission — we saw you as soon as you came out into the open.’