Rider (9 page)

Kane eyed the Swiss knife and half-closed the drawer. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

* * *

No one could have heard the taxi pull up outside the electronic gates that had closed on near silent pneumatics after
Dawson
’s car and come through them.

Margaret thanked the driver when he had taken her small suitcase from the boot of his car, handed him a little extra on top of the fare, which he took with a nod, and then she walked slowly up the long drive to the house.

She was at the front door before the fact that every single light inside the house was on had registered in her mind.

She saw the broken glass panel on the door and hesitated. There was silence from within. She dug her mobile phone out of her purse and dialled 999. ‘Police, please,’ she said. She spoke with them briefly, then ignored their advice to remain outside the property, and she pushed the door open.

* * *

Dawson and O’Reef entered Ryan’s room. The old man approached Kane and slapped the back of his hand across his face. Kane’s eyes filled with angry tears, his cheek stinging.

‘I’m not very happy, Mr Rider,’ he said levelly.

Kane stammered. ‘I don’t know where it is.’

‘Shut up,’ he snapped. ‘I should have had you taken out the same time as your filthy boyfriend.’

He drew his gun.

‘On your knees.’

‘Please—’

‘
On your knees!
’

Kane looked around at
Dawson
’s men. They were stony-faced and unaffected. He could feel that familiar tightness in his throat and a stinging sensation in his eyes as he slowly lowered himself to his knees beside the writing desk. His mind was turning somersaults.
What can I do? How can I save myself?

Dawson
levelled his gun against Kane’s head. ‘You have one last chance before I decorate the room with your brains. Do you know where it is?’

Kane couldn’t speak, his mouth dry, coppery.

Dawson
cocked the trigger.

It was then that, like a dream, Kane heard Margaret’s voice break through the fear in his head.

‘What the hell’s going on?’

Beyond
Dawson
, in Ryan’s doorway, stood Margaret Bernhard, rifle in hand, the barrel aimed at
Dawson
’s back as steady as if she was preparing to shoot clay pigeons.

‘Don’t move,’ she said.

Dawson
slowly turned to her.

‘Margaret,’
Dawson
said, his voice calm, his palms upturned in a placating manner. ‘How lovely to see you.’

‘Shut up,’ Margaret snapped. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ She edged a step further into the room, the rifle gripped tightly in her hands, its long barrel trained almost professionally at
Dawson
’s chest. ‘Kane?’ she questioned.

O’Reef held his gun up, ready to fire should his boss give the command.

‘We’re just conducting a little business,’
Dawson
said. He frowned. ‘I was terribly sorry to hear of your son’s demise. Most unfortunate.’

‘What do you know about that?’ Margaret asked, her eyes darting between Dawson and the other men—O’Reef with his gun pointed at her, Darren standing almost casually in the corner.

Kane watched as Margaret held firm against the threat of death. He was powerless to do anything, to act in her defence. On his knees behind
Dawson
, where only seconds before he was about to be shot, his mind ran quick-time, searching for any way out of this.

Dawson
shrugged in answer to Margaret’s question. ‘He was a sweet boy,’ he said. ‘I liked him. I liked him a lot.’

‘I want you out of my house. Now.’

Dawson
laughed. Kane couldn’t see his face, but he was sure he was smiling. ‘I’m afraid we can’t do that, Mrs Bernhard. You see, my friend here’—he stepped aside to give Margaret a clear view of Kane in all his fear and pain—‘is helping me out. I’m in a bit of a quandary. Your son rather unfortunately stole something from me. Mr Rider was just helping me retrieve it.’

‘I don’t care what you want. Just get out.’ She jerked the rifle. ‘I’m not afraid to use this.’

‘I’m sure you’re not,’
Dawson
said.

‘Let’s kill them both,’ O’Reef said.
Dawson
told him to shut up and O’Reef lowered his gun just a little.

‘Kane, get up,’ Margaret said.

‘That’s not advisable,’
Dawson
retorted.

Kane didn’t move.

The small, black gun in
Dawson
’s hand lolled as though he had forgotten it. ‘If you’ll kindly let us get on with our work,’ he told Margaret, ‘the sooner we’ll—’

‘My husband is—’

Dawson
cut her off with a chortle. ‘Your husband is in
England
. You should have been with him.’

‘That shows how much you know,’ Margaret said, her voice as steady as her hands. ‘He’s downstairs calling the police.’

‘We both know that’s not true,’
Dawson
said. ‘Why aren’t you with him?’

‘I’m a woman,’ Margaret said. ‘I’m allowed to change my mind.’

Dawson
grinned. ‘How is David these days?’ he asked. ‘Still taking time out to play squash?’

Margaret looked confused, her head twitching slightly.

‘Oh, yes,’
Dawson
scoffed. ‘He and I go way back. Years, in fact.’

Kane was just as confused as Margaret was, but Margaret had quickly composed herself.

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘He was never any good on the golf course,’
Dawson
said. ‘But on the squash court, you’d never tell he was a man in his fifties.’

Margaret shook her head. ‘Get up, Kane.’

‘Silence!’
Dawson
shouted.

A shot went off and everyone ducked, followed immediately by another shot. Kane rolled forward, head dipped, shoulder taking the brunt of the fall on the carpeted floor, and knocked against the side of the desk.

He saw Margaret and Dawson both fall away from each other, Margaret’s body slamming against the doorframe,
Dawson
hitting the back wall.

Kane reached into the drawer and pulled out the Swiss army knife, extended the blade, and lurched over
Dawson
as O’Reef raised his gun. He jabbed the knife forward, into O’Reef’s chest, knocking his firing arm off aim as he spat off a round. The bullet glanced off Kane’s shoulder, tearing skin and spewing blood. Simultaneously, Kane pushed upwards with his other hand against O’Reef’s chin. His head bounced off the wall behind him and he fell, the knife still in his chest.

Margaret, bleeding from the stomach, weak, her face distant, fired point blank at Darren before he had time to react. His face exploded as he went down.

Kane turned, a cold sweat on his face, and saw
Dawson
slumped against the wall in an oddly wretched sitting position, his legs outstretched, spread-eagled. A lopsided grin played on the left half on his mouth. The first shot he had heard must have been from Margaret.

Breathing hard, he watched as
Dawson
gurgled, something between a laugh and a cough. ‘Margaret,’ he said, his voice thick, clogged.

Remembering Margaret, Kane dropped to the floor beside her. ‘Margaret? Are you all right?’ he asked.

Dawson
gurgled again.

‘Margaret, listen to me,’ he said.

Margaret’s head turned, her eyelids closing and opening in a painfully slow blink. She looked at Kane. ‘You’re bleeding,’ she whispered.

He touched his shoulder, pulled his hand back. He hadn’t felt the pain until she brought it to his attention.

‘Mah-gret,’
Dawson
choked. His arms flopped to the floor at his sides, his fingers loosening around his gun. He wheezed as he breathed. ‘You think…it’s over,’ he said. His half smile returned. ‘It isn’t.’

And then he was silent. Kane thought maybe he was dead. But his eyes flickered and his bloodied tongue protruded to moisten his lips.

Margaret pushed her shoulders back and winced. ‘Why,’ she tried, stopped, started again. ‘Why do this?’

Kane took her hand.

Dawson
breathed. ‘If David could see us now, eh?’ His words were interrupted by a fit of coughing, blood running down his chin to his suit jacket.

Kane watched Margaret blink, the name of her husband almost lost on her. She tried to say something, then stopped.

‘Ryan had something,’
Dawson
said. He had let go of his gun completely now, his fingertips coiling in towards his palms. ‘Something incriminating. Something David wanted back.’

His head drooped forward and he whispered, ‘Documents. Damaging documents.’

Kane twisted onto his knees, one hand on Margaret’s shoulder. ‘Why are you telling us this?’ he asked
Dawson
. ‘Why now?’

‘You think…I care?’ he said. ‘I owe nothing to David Bernhard.’ He coughed blood onto his shirt.

Margaret choked.

‘Why did you have to kill him?’ Kane asked. ‘What’d he ever do to you?’

Dawson
’s head turned just a fraction to look at the prostrate form of O’Reef, the small Swiss knife protruding from his chest. ‘You’ve…had your revenge,’ he said.

He looked at his gun on the floor beside his hand. ‘Kill me.’

Kane rose, kicked the gun away. ‘Tell me what Ryan took from you. What was it?’

Dawson
didn’t move. His eyes were glazed.

Kane crouched beside him. ‘You said Ryan had documents. What documents?’

When
Dawson
said nothing, Kane punched him in the wound. But there was no reaction;
Dawson
was dead.

‘K-Kane,’ Margaret breathed.

He turned and rushed to her side, dropping to his knees, reaching out for her but afraid to touch her. The gunshot wound in her stomach looked ripe and crimson.

‘Margaret.’

He patted his pockets but couldn’t find his phone. He shuffled over to Darren’s faceless body and searched his pockets, gagging as his hands were covered in blood. He pulled out Darren’s phone and called for an ambulance.

When he hung up and dropped the phone, Margaret said, ‘Who—?’

He soothed her. ‘Don’t. Don’t talk. It’s okay.’

She closed her eyes. Kane thought he could hear sirens already.

A deep guttural sound came from her throat. She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘Kane…’

‘It’s okay,’ he said again.

‘Prom…Promise me,’ she said, her voice a whisper. He had to strain to listen to her. ‘Don’t let them res…resuscitate me.’

He blanched. ‘Margaret, no—’

She twisted uncomfortably. ‘Yes. If I…die. Please. Don’t let them resuscitate me. Promise.’

Kane was crying. ‘Please, Margaret. I can’t.’

Margaret reached up and feebly clasped his hand. ‘Promise me,’ she said.

His lips trembled. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Promise me.’

He looked away, clenched his eyes, bit his lip. ‘I promise.’

When he looked back at her, she had her eyes closed. Shallow intakes of breath made her throat rattle. He kept hold of her cold hand. ‘They’ll be here soon,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll be here soon.’

In the moments of silence that followed, he was reminded of the last time, just recently, that he was kneeling beside a dying person. Ryan resembled his mother so much that it was hard to look at her without seeing his face, the eyes, the shape of the nose, the curve of the lips.

Margaret pushed her tongue out between her lips and quickly drew it in again. She looked up at him. ‘Kane…’ she said, her voice a rasping whisper. ‘David is…in
London
.’

Blood glistened on her shirt.

‘I won’t let you die,’ Kane exhaled, his own voice sounding strange, distant.

‘Damaging documents,’ Margaret said as though to herself. Her fingers gripped tighter around Kane’s hand. ‘Find him.’

‘What?’

He could hear the whistle of ambulance sirens getting closer.

‘Find out…what he’s doing.’

‘Margaret, I—’

‘Stop him. Whatever it is.’ She paused, breathed. ‘I never…I didn’t…’ She choked. Kane waited as she caught her breath. ‘Stop him,’ she said again.

‘I will,’ Kane said. ‘I’ll stop him. Look, the ambulance is here.’ Someone was pounding on the front door.

‘Don’t leave me.’

‘I’m not leaving. Just hang on, okay?’

She released her grip and he got to his feet, the pain in his shoulder forgotten. He stumbled down the stairs, opened the door and let two paramedics and some police officers in.