‘It doesn’t matter any more,’ replied Peake. ‘I must go. Right now.’
He took one last look at the babies, who had settled quietly by the fire. They smiled as they looked at him, their eyes bright and filled with a playful curiosity. At last they were safe. The lieutenant walked to the door and took a deep breath. Exhaustion and the throbbing pain in his leg overwhelmed him after the few moments of rest. He had used the last reserves of his strength to bring the infants to this place, and now he wondered how he was going to face the inevitable. Outside, the rain was still lashing down but there was no sign of his pursuer or his henchmen.
‘Michael …’ said Aryami behind him.
The young man stopped but didn’t turn round.
‘She knew,’ lied Aryami. ‘She knew from the start, and I’m sure that, in some way, she felt the same for you. It was my fault. Don’t hold it against her.’
Peake replied with a nod and closed the door behind him. For a few seconds he stood there, under the rain, finally at peace with himself, then he set off to meet his pursuers. After retracing his steps back to the abandoned warehouse, he entered the dark building once more in search of a hiding place.
As he crouched in the shadows weariness and pain fused slowly into a drunken sense of calm, and his lips betrayed a faint smile. He no longer had any reason, or hope, to go on living.
The long tapered fingers in the black glove stroked the bloodstained tip of the nail poking through the broken plank near the entrance to the warehouse. Slowly, while the assassins waited in silence behind him, the slender figure, whose face was hidden under a black hood, raised the tip of one forefinger to his lips and licked the dark thick blood as if it were a drop of honey. A few seconds later the hooded figure turned towards the men he had hired a few hours earlier for a handful of coins and the promise of further pay when they’d finished the job. He pointed inside the building. The three henchmen scurried through the opening made by Lieutenant Peake a short while earlier. The hooded man smirked in the darkness.
‘You’ve chosen a sad place to die, Peake,’ he whispered to himself.
Hiding behind a column of empty crates in the depths of the warehouse, Peake watched the silhouettes of the three men as they entered the building. Although he couldn’t see him from where he stood, he was certain that their master was waiting on the other side of the wall; he could sense his presence. Peake pulled out his revolver and rotated the cylinder until one of the two bullets was aligned with the barrel, muffling the sound under his tunic. He was no longer running away from death, but he was determined not to travel this road alone.
The adrenalin coursing through his veins had eased the pain in his knee until it was just a dull, distant throb. Surprised at how calm he felt, Peake smiled again and remained motionless in his hiding place. He watched the slow advance of the three men through the passage until his executioners came to a halt about ten metres away. One of the men lifted a hand to stop the others and pointed at some stains on the ground. Peake raised his weapon to his chest, cocked the hammer, and took aim.
At a new signal, the three men separated. Two of them went sideways while the third made straight for the pile of crates, and Peake. The lieutenant counted to five, then suddenly pushed the column of boxes forward. The crates crashed down on top of his attacker while Peake ran towards the opening through which they had entered the warehouse.
One of the killers surprised him at a junction in the corridor, wielding his knife close to the lieutenant’s face. But before the thug could even blink, the barrel of Peake’s revolver was thrust under his chin.
‘Drop the knife,’ spat the lieutenant.
Seeing the ice in the lieutenant’s eyes, the man did as he was told. Peake grabbed him by his hair and, without removing his weapon, turned to the assassin’s allies, shielding his body with that of his hostage. The other two thugs moved menacingly towards Peake.
‘Lieutenant, spare us the drama and hand over what we’re looking for,’ a familiar voice murmured behind him. ‘These are honest men. With families.’
Peake turned to see the hooded man leering at him in the dark, just a few metres from where he stood.
‘I’m going to blow this man’s head off, Jawahal,’ Peake snarled.
His hostage closed his eyes, trembling.
The hooded man crossed his arms patiently and gave out a small sigh of annoyance.
‘Do so if it pleases you, Lieutenant. But that won’t get you out of here.’
‘I’m serious,’ Peake replied.
‘Of course, Lieutenant,’ said Jawahal in a conciliatory tone. ‘Shoot if you have the courage required to kill a man in cold blood and without His Majesty’s permission. Otherwise, drop the weapon, and that way we’ll be able to reach an agreement that is satisfactory to both parties.’
The two armed henchmen were standing nearby, ready to jump on Peake at the first signal from the hooded man.
‘Very well,’ Peake said at last. ‘What do you think of this agreement?’
He pushed his hostage onto the floor and, raising his revolver, turned towards the hooded man. The first shot echoed through the warehouse. Jawahal’s gloved hand emerged from the cloud of gunpowder, his palm outstretched. Peake thought he could see the crushed bullet shining in the dark, then melting slowly into a thread of liquid metal that slid through Jawahal’s fingers like a fistful of sand.
‘Bad shot, Lieutenant. Try again, only this time come closer.’
Without giving him time to move, the hooded man leaned forward and grasped the hand with which Peake was holding his weapon. He then pulled the end of the gun towards his own face until it rested between his eyes.
‘Didn’t they teach you to do it like this at the academy?’ he whispered.
‘There was a time when we were friends,’ said Peake.
Jawahal smiled with contempt.
‘That time, Lieutenant, has passed.’
‘May God forgive me,’ muttered Peake, pulling the trigger again.
In an instant that seemed endless, Peake watched as the bullet pierced Jawahal’s skull, tearing the hood off his head. For a few seconds light passed through the wound but gradually the smoking hole closed in on itself. Peake felt the revolver slipping from his fingers.
The blazing eyes of his opponent fixed themselves on his and a long black tongue flicked across the man’s lips.
‘You still don’t understand, do you, Lieutenant? Where are the babies?’
It was not a question. It was an order.
Dumb with terror, Peake shook his head.
‘As you wish.’
Jawahal squeezed Peake’s hand. The lieutenant felt the bones in his fingers being crushed under his flesh. The spasm of pain made him fall to his knees, unable to breathe.
‘Where are the babies?’ Jawahal hissed.
Peake tried to say something, but the agony spreading from the bloody stump that had been his hand paralysed his speech.
‘Are you trying to say something, Lieutenant?’ Jawahal whispered, kneeling beside him.
Peake nodded.
‘Good, good.’ His enemy smiled. ‘Frankly, I don’t find your suffering amusing. So help me put an end to it.’
‘The children are dead,’ Peake groaned.
An expression of distaste crept over Jawahal’s face.
‘You were doing so well, Lieutenant. Don’t ruin it now.’
‘They’re dead,’ Peake repeated.