herself up by her fingers. And there was no point: the glass was reinforced with wire mesh. Bad. All bad.
She heard footsteps on the other side of the door â Brendan pacing the corridor, stopping outside her cubicle. She shut her eyes, held squeezed fists in the air and clenched her teeth on a long, internalised scream. There was noescape here. No gaps under the doors she could belly-crawl through. No lipstick in her pocket she could write a note with. No keys to scratch a message. Tears filled her eyes as she sat. She gave in to them this time, her face crumpling, breath jagged, mouth open in a soundless wail.
The crash on the door jerked her out of it.
âCome on!â he hissed. âWe need to â¦â
More footsteps: the click-clack of high heels.
âOh.â A womanâs voice.
âYeah, sorry,â Brendan said. âMy wifeâs sick. I want to make sure sheâs okay.â
Jax stood, yanked at her underwear. âNo. Iâm okay, Iâm ââ
âMorning sickness,â he said, talking over her. âActually, all-day sickness.â He laughed a little.
âOh, right. No problem. Iâll come back.â Footsteps moving away.
No, stay! Jax fumbled the lock, pulled the door, saw Brendan filling the space. Stepped past him in time to see the swirl of a floral skirt disappear around the corner.
âItâs all right, sheâs gone.â He placed a firm, solid hand on her shoulder as he spoke.
Shoving it off, she watched herself in the mirror as she washed trembling hands at the sink. She looked like shit. Pretty much the way she felt. Sweaty and dirty and panicky. She splashed her face with water, wiped mascara from under her eyes, their pea-green dulled and darkened by fear and exhaustion. She tugged the band from a shoulder-length mess of blonde hair and refastened it, pulling herself together, steeling herself for the next bit. Hoping there was a police tactical response team armed and waiting for them in the cafe.
There wasnât. It was just the same crew: eating, drinking, waiting, staring. She thought about shouting â and about the gun. She couldnât duck, Brendan was holding her too tight; she didnât want to get shot and she didnât want to be responsible for a massacre. So she searched faces again, passed customers and staff, food in the fridges, three cappuccinos waiting to be collected. She wanted one. She wanted all three. And a stiff drink followed by a lie down.
At least Zoe wasnât here. She could be grateful for that.
There was a smoker at the single table outside. A semitrailer blowing exhaust. A queue for the McDonaldâs drive-through. Way down, in the slot where the three twenty-something guys had been, a man was talking on a mobile. As she walked beside Brendan, his arm holding her close to his side, she watched the man. He was between two vehicles, only head and shoulders above it â dark hair, sunglasses, collar and tie, phone to his ear. As they approached, his head turned and he faced them over the roof of a dark-blue sedan.
Her pulse picked up. Was it the guy from the centre lane? The one whoâd turned off the motorway behind her? Hope swelled in her chest â and an impulse to wave and shout. But Brendanâs hand was clutched firmly around hers and she remembered his words: rambled ones about people looking for them, about being a target.
The guy lifted an arm and rested his elbow on top of the sedan. Jax couldnât be sure where his eyes were behind the sunglasses but she fixed her own on him, willing him to see her desperation, hoping he wasnât there to pick her off. Three cars from her own, another two from his, she watched as he pulled the phone from his ear, tapped the screen and laid it on the roof. He didnât leave, made nomove to walk away or open a door. He just turned his head left and right in a brief, casual glance around the car park, then back to her. Or
She heard footsteps on the other side of the door â Brendan pacing the corridor, stopping outside her cubicle. She shut her eyes, held squeezed fists in the air and clenched her teeth on a long, internalised scream. There was noescape here. No gaps under the doors she could belly-crawl through. No lipstick in her pocket she could write a note with. No keys to scratch a message. Tears filled her eyes as she sat. She gave in to them this time, her face crumpling, breath jagged, mouth open in a soundless wail.
The crash on the door jerked her out of it.
âCome on!â he hissed. âWe need to â¦â
More footsteps: the click-clack of high heels.
âOh.â A womanâs voice.
âYeah, sorry,â Brendan said. âMy wifeâs sick. I want to make sure sheâs okay.â
Jax stood, yanked at her underwear. âNo. Iâm okay, Iâm ââ
âMorning sickness,â he said, talking over her. âActually, all-day sickness.â He laughed a little.
âOh, right. No problem. Iâll come back.â Footsteps moving away.
No, stay! Jax fumbled the lock, pulled the door, saw Brendan filling the space. Stepped past him in time to see the swirl of a floral skirt disappear around the corner.
âItâs all right, sheâs gone.â He placed a firm, solid hand on her shoulder as he spoke.
Shoving it off, she watched herself in the mirror as she washed trembling hands at the sink. She looked like shit. Pretty much the way she felt. Sweaty and dirty and panicky. She splashed her face with water, wiped mascara from under her eyes, their pea-green dulled and darkened by fear and exhaustion. She tugged the band from a shoulder-length mess of blonde hair and refastened it, pulling herself together, steeling herself for the next bit. Hoping there was a police tactical response team armed and waiting for them in the cafe.
There wasnât. It was just the same crew: eating, drinking, waiting, staring. She thought about shouting â and about the gun. She couldnât duck, Brendan was holding her too tight; she didnât want to get shot and she didnât want to be responsible for a massacre. So she searched faces again, passed customers and staff, food in the fridges, three cappuccinos waiting to be collected. She wanted one. She wanted all three. And a stiff drink followed by a lie down.
At least Zoe wasnât here. She could be grateful for that.
There was a smoker at the single table outside. A semitrailer blowing exhaust. A queue for the McDonaldâs drive-through. Way down, in the slot where the three twenty-something guys had been, a man was talking on a mobile. As she walked beside Brendan, his arm holding her close to his side, she watched the man. He was between two vehicles, only head and shoulders above it â dark hair, sunglasses, collar and tie, phone to his ear. As they approached, his head turned and he faced them over the roof of a dark-blue sedan.
Her pulse picked up. Was it the guy from the centre lane? The one whoâd turned off the motorway behind her? Hope swelled in her chest â and an impulse to wave and shout. But Brendanâs hand was clutched firmly around hers and she remembered his words: rambled ones about people looking for them, about being a target.
The guy lifted an arm and rested his elbow on top of the sedan. Jax couldnât be sure where his eyes were behind the sunglasses but she fixed her own on him, willing him to see her desperation, hoping he wasnât there to pick her off. Three cars from her own, another two from his, she watched as he pulled the phone from his ear, tapped the screen and laid it on the roof. He didnât leave, made nomove to walk away or open a door. He just turned his head left and right in a brief, casual glance around the car park, then back to her. Or
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