But she wasn’t that lucky.
He reached into his trouser pocket. ‘I could...save us.’ Fumbling a cheap, knock-off iPhone free. He thumbed a button on the side and the screen lit up like Christmas.
The screen was smeared with blood, but he wiped it on the shoulder of his T-shirt and held it out.
Natasha’s fingers quivered...but her arms refused to move.
A smile twisted its way across the bastard’s ruined face. ‘Don’t you...want it?’ Waggling the phone. ‘They could save you....Not want...to live?’
‘Why are you like this?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll...phone the police.’
‘YOU ARE THE BLOODY POLICE!’
Squinting one eye shut, Davis poked his thumb against the screen three times. Then held the phone to his ear. ‘Hello?...Is that the police?...I...I need an...an ambulance...quick.’ His voice getting fainter with every word. ‘Quick, we’re...we’re dying...’ Then his arm went limp and his head fell forward.
Now, the only noises were the droning flies and the distant thunder of heavy metal.
‘No! Tell them where we are!’ The dry words burned through her throat: ‘TELL THEM WHERE WE ARE!’
Legs – move your bastard legs.
Get over there.
Get thatfuckingphone.
Get—
Cramp rampaged down the back of her left leg, the muscles tightening like a corkscrew, pulling her foot up and her toes wide, flaying the nerves from her skin. Then her right leg, clamping her jaw shut; arching her back as the cramp rioted along her spine, torturing every muscle on the way.
A scream battered out between her clenched teeth.
Then it was gone, and her body slumped against the dust and rat-piss concrete again. Her headthunking off the barn floor, setting her ears ringing.
Then a dry sob wracked free.
‘Tell them where we are...’
76
Tufty poked and clicked at the borrowed laptop, wheeling a finger round and around the trackpad. Like everything around here, the machine wasfestoonedwith NorrelTech logos.
A bunch of wires stuck out the side, snaking across the BMW’s driver’s seat and into a USB port.
Logan huffed out a breath. ‘Are youdoneyet?’
‘Almost there...Almost there...’
Been saying that for the last five minutes.
Logan turned and parked his bum against the van in the next bay.
And there was Nick Wilson: watching from an upstairs window, chewing away at the fingers on one hand. Probably worrying where all this was going. And how he could spin it so his wife wouldn’t get everything in the divorce.
Yeah, good luck with that.
Logan’s phone launched into ‘Ode To Joy’. Might as well. Just hanging about here anyway. He checked the caller ID, then pressed the green button. ‘Spudgun?’