‘Well, you can worry about it when we get back to New York. For now, we still need to get out of here. Let’s find the others.’
‘Mac had the rocket launcher – he said he was going to try to shoot down the helicopter.’ Eddie stopped. ‘What?’ Nina asked, reading concern on his face.
‘He didn’t even try – we would have heard it.’ He looked around for the most likely spot from which to launch an attack. ‘Up there,’ he said, indicating the tower. He set off again. ‘Mac! Mac, can you hear me?’
Kit had halted once he was out of Macy’s sight, mind a whirlwind of confusion and guilt – until Eddie’s shout snapped him back to full awareness. It wouldn’t be long before the Scot was found—
An idea, the Interpol officer acting upon it the instant it formed. He hurried back into the tower. Mac lay unmoving on the floor, blood pooling around him. Kit sat against the wall behind him, fired two shots into the air – then moved the gun to point at his upper arm.
He braced himself – and pulled the trigger.
Eddie broke into a run at the sound of gunfire. He reached the steps, seeing Macy peering fearfully from a nearby building. ‘Stay out of sight!’ he warned her.
‘Eddie, wait!’ Nina cried behind him, but he pounded up the steps and raced for the tower, the pain of his beating forgotten. Past a junction, up another flight of steps—
He stopped at the top as if he had slammed into an invisible wall. Kit was slumped on the floor, clutching a bloody wound to his left arm – but all Eddie could think about was Mac. His friend lay face down by the wall overlooking the city, the RPG-7 beside him. There were two bullet wounds in his back, lines of blood oozing from them.
‘Mac?’ He took a clumsy step closer, feet as heavy as lead. The figure didn’t stir. Another step. ‘Mac!’
Nina ran up behind him. ‘Eddie – oh, God.’
Kit moaned. ‘Pachac,’ he said weakly. ‘It was Pachac . . . caught us by surprise, then ran . . .’
Eddie reached Mac and stood over him, statue-like. Even through his horror, part of his mind was still functioning with trained, robotic clarity, assessing the injuries. The wounds were close together on the left side of his back. They would have hit the lung, probably also the heart. From the amount of pooled blood, there would also be a much larger exit wound in his chest. Even with immediate surgical intervention the chances of survival were extremely low.
But there would be no surgery. They were miles from any help.
He knelt, the blood soaking into the material of his jeans. Movement – slight, but definite. Mac was still breathing. He reached down, finding that his fingers were shaking. A hesitant touch on the older man’s shoulder. ‘Mac? Can you hear me?’
Silence for several seconds . . . then a faint sigh of drawing breath. Little bubbles formed in one of the bullet wounds. Mac slowly, painfully, turned his head, one half-closed eye blearily focusing on the man beside him. ‘Eddie?’ His voice was barely a whisper.
‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. It’s me.’
The Scot moved his hand, trying to reach up but lacking the strength. Eddie gripped it. The skin already felt cold. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘For what?’
‘Stikes . . . Had him right in my sights before he took off, but . . . not fast enough. I let him get away . . .’
‘No, you didn’t, it wasn’t your fault,’ said Eddie, shaking his head. ‘Look, I’m – I’m gonna try to stop the bleeding.’ He knew it was futile, but he had to do something. ‘Hold still, and I’ll—’
‘No, Eddie.’ Mac groaned, more bubbles rising from the blood-filled holes. ‘Not . . . worth it.’
‘It is worth it!’ His voice cracked as he spoke.
‘No, not going to . . .’ Mac’s whole body trembled. His hand now felt like stone. He whispered something.
Eddie leaned closer, desperate. ‘Mac, I can’t hear you. Stay with me, stay with me!’
With a last agonising effort, Mac turned his head further so he could look up at his friend with both eyes. He spoke again, forcing out the words. ‘Fight to the end . . . Eddie.’
Then nothing. The sagging of his body was so slight that it was barely noticeable, but it was all Eddie