But that did nothing to lessen the shock when he, Alexander Cain, saviour of mankind, bowed to them. Then he threw his arms over Agatha, who evidently scarcely recognised him, and rested his head on her shoulder. Agatha patted his cheek and crooned.
Alex held her tighter.
It took Allie some time to realise she had been crying.
Sarah appeared beside her at some point. They took one look at one another, and knew exactly what the other was thinking about: Robert and Norman.
“They’ll be back,” Allie said. “They will.”
Sarah’s eyes swam. Seeing her smile was like watching the end of a long winter. “Men always come crawling back.”
CHAPTER 29
Lucian crouched amidst ferns, his breath caught in his throat. The stunted pistol in his hands felt flimsy, liable to snap if he manhandled it too much, but it was better than nothing. The others would have to make do with the knives.
It felt wrong, holding back like this while the others crept forward from the cliff edge toward the tent. The canvas structure was much larger than it had looked from below; more of a tepee, at least twenty feet across and ten feet high.
His fingers burned with inaction, and the muscles in his legs felt wound up tight like springs. He had always been in the thick of things, been the first to jump. Sticking out back and waiting for somebody else to do all the hard work ate at him by the second.
But that was the way it had to be. If they were lucky they would have one shot from the pistol. They had to make it count.
He didn’t trust the others to sink the round into its target. He didn’t care how tough they were or what hellholes they were from. There were too many lives hanging on whether the little metal ball in the pistol’s chamber found its mark. He didn’t trust anybody to do it but himself.
The sun had risen some time ago, but there was still plenty of cover thrown down by the gnarled trees lining the cliff. Zigzagging between slate and mottled heather and twisted shadows, the dozen hulking men crept toward the canvas tent like leopards slinking closer to a grazing gazelle. They were ten metres away, then eight, then seven …
Max’s last words to him reverberated in his head. “You wait until we’re in and I give the signal, you hear? And don’t give me that look. Stubborn as bloody anything, you are. Don’t make me come back out here and kick your arse.”
Lucian grunted—what passed for a peel of laughter in his book. His jaw ached from the tension. He made a conscious effort to keep breathing; every scrap of concentration was going to count. As soon as they were inside and the guards were down, he would have to move fast. He picked out his route to the tent’s entrance over and over, tracing every inch, imagining the precise movement of each step. There was no room for failure.
Four metres, three …
Max turned, low to the ground, and gave Lucian a last nod.
Lucian nodded back, though he knew there was something wrong. But they all knew something was wrong. They had felt it since they had first slunk away from the forge. It had all been too easy.
But there was nothing they could do about that. A case of the willies was no excuse for losing your bottle.
He could see the acceptance in the glint of Max’s eyes. Whatever was about to happen was beyond their control.
One metre …
Lucian’s finger touched the trigger, and he braced to spring forward.
The rest happened in the space of three seconds. Max pulled back the canvas flap, revealing the orange glow of a crackling fire inside, and the others spilled inside silently, blades glinting. Max followed after, and the flap fell back behind him. Flickering shadows were thrown against the tent walls, caricature silhouettes of odd proportions and exaggerated gestures: men with sickle-like machetes raised over their heads, bearing down on their victim; tussling brutes tearing at one another’s faces; torsos impaled and limbs disfigured in real time.
The rumble in Lucian’s ears was deafening. He listened for the tiniest sign, the one that would release him, the slightest let-up in the shuffling of feet and sloughing of clothing that would mean the tables had turned. He waited as long as he dared, then launched himself from the thicket. Every footfall made its mark, every inch of him