He charges past obstacles, hard and fast, comes in low. His whole body grinds like bone in a dry socket when he collides with Kirke, and normally he’d brace for impact but he’s in no shape to really do that. Smashing into Kirke’s midriff, he just goes with the momentum, throwing Kirke back and sprawling on top of him.
Kirke makes a startled bark, a gutturaluhhhwhen his head bounces off the concrete floor. His hand releases the big silver pistol and it goes flying, spins toward the wall and skitters away under the upright piano.
Travis knows that the only way to do this is to be thorough. He kneels up over Kirke, straddling his body, pushing the cardboard aside. He rolls the guy to face him and starts punching. He punches once, twice, three times, Kirke’s glasses falling away, blood on his mouth. Travis keeps hitting, even though his head feels ready to burst apart –
‘Travis!’ Emma’s voice, anguished.
Travis makes himself stop. The guy’s face is a mess. Travis wants to be sick. Breaths heaving, he pushes back and off Kirke, lying prone on the floor.Don’t throw up.Travis hears the words in his father’s voice.Don’t throw up and don’t black out.
Travis staggers, turns around to find Emma.
She’s standing still under the moonlight in the dark building. Her expression is tormented: pale, pinched lips, dark circles around her eyes. Her hands are shaking.
Behind Emma, with one hand on her shoulder and the other hand holding Travis’s Smith & Wesson Model 13, is Simon Gutmunsson.
He’s smiling fit to burst.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
‘Oh, bravo!’ Simon Gutmunsson’s voice rings out in the echoing dark of the shed. ‘Well done, Mr Bell! And welcome to our little party.’
Emma wants to curl into a ball. Wants to close her eyes, but she can’t. She owes it to Travis to stay present. He looks terrible. His hair is a dirty tangle. Smears on his white shirt, tie drooping. Sweat dewing his face, blood on his brow. Standing in place, swaying under the skylight, his gaze is transfixed as he absorbs what’s happening. What they’re up against. What the stakes are.
‘Emma,’ Travis rasps. His hands are still curled into fists.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Nothing to be sorry for.’ His eyes hold hers.
She wants to cry. He looks green, like he’s just woken up, like he’s about to pass out. Something has happened to him, and she wants to kill Kirke for that. But she can’t do anything now. Can only stand here, feeling the weight of Simon’s heavy hand.
‘What a touching demonstration of loyalty and affection.’ Simon is so much taller, she can hear his icy words emanating from over her head. ‘Although was the pummeling really necessary?Beating your opponent bloody after he’s down – it’s like somethingIwould do.’
Travis’s gaze snaps to Simon’s. ‘No, you’d just bite off their face.’
Simon is surprised into a laugh. ‘Well, goodness, Mr Bell – I suppose you’re not wrong. So whose face will I bite off today, hmm?’
He lowers his head; Emma feels his chin touch her shoulder. The way Travis is staring, Emma can only assume that Simon’s expression is diabolical.
‘Should I ravage dear Emma?’ His jaw brushes hers as he speaks, soft, soft. ‘Tear off her lips, her nose … Strip the skin from her cheeks? If she’s no longer pretty, will the foolish boys like Peter Kirke stop hounding her? It’s a curse to be lovely, isn’t it? Everyone wants a piece …’
Emma holds herself frozen as Simon’s breath warms the skin of her neck. He runs his lips gently up to her earring, across to her cheekbone, and she can smell him: dried blood, the harsh bleach of jail laundry, the cold sizzle of ozone. She keeps her eyes on Travis, shaking with the effort of not flinching.
Six feet away, Travis swallows. ‘How are you here? How did you know where to come?’
Simon straightens, moves his face away, and Emma exhales, trembling. A temporary release of tension.
‘Oh, it’s a long, tedious story …’ Simon waves the gun in his hand. ‘But in a nutshell, Kristin told me. She saw the fax with the address here, while she was at police headquarters. I’m sure that very boring man, Special Agent Carter, will be absolutelyfurioustodiscover that Crafton is a dead end, yet another in a long string of spectacular FBI failures …’
Travis’s jaw tenses. His fists are so tight, Emma can almost hear the tendons crack.
Simon’s tone sharpens, becomes supple. ‘But surely you can appreciate the poetry of this moment, Mr Bell. You’re standing here, confronting me as I hold a hostage – just like your father did before you. Will you make the same mistake as he? Will you offer to take dear Emma’s place and—’
‘Yes,’ Travis cuts in immediately, and Emma’s heart breaks into a million pieces.
She can only imagine Simon’s raised eyebrows. ‘Yes? You’re prepared to exchange yourself? Even at the risk of—’
‘That’s what I said,’ Travis interrupts, stepping a pace closer, face stony and stalwart.
