Sands moved with a nervous energy. His hands trembled, his face twitched, blinking sweat from his eyes. No wonder, thought Black. His world had just been destroyed. Sands picked up what looked like a TV remote, tapped out a sequence of numbers. A wooden panel above the corner suite folded back, a screen levered up into the space. He tapped a button. Names, dates, addresses appeared.
“What was her name?” he asked, his voice a dry croak.
Black took a second to absorb what he was looking at. “Natalie Bartholomew,” he said slowly.
Sands typed in the name. “We don’t have her,” he said. “But she was supposed to have been delivered. Several months ago. It’s all there. Everything.”
Black stepped closer, scrutinising the details. Name, age, address. A photograph. The price. £250,000. Sterling. Particulars of the abduction. Everything, from start to finish. How it ended.
And the source. A particular name. Black was stunned. His mind reeled at the implications, which were staggering. And unbelievable. “You’re sure this is correct?”
“It has to be.” Sands’ voice diminished to barely a whisper. “We were running a business, you understand. Information was the key.”
Black snapped his head away. “A business?”
Sands nodded, blinking.
“Do you have GPS co-ordinates for this shithole?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Phone the cops. Give them the location.”
“What do I say?” he stammered.
“You tell them the truth. That there’s a whole bunch of kids, kept prisoners in a fucking basement, ready to be sold on to paedophiles. That about sums it up. Or have I missed something?”
“I’ll go to prison,” said Sands, words tumbling out. “Arizona still keeps the death penalty. Please let me go. I never touched any of these kids. I’m an accountant. I just kept track of the figures.”
“How many children have been sold on?”
Sands swallowed. “I don’t know exactly.”
“Roughly. Please, humour me.”
Sands raised his hands. “I don’t know – over the years, maybe 800?”
Black regarded him with a measured stare.
“Okay. I get what you say. You don’t want to face the authorities. I understand. You only did the accounts. The number cruncher. What are the co-ordinates?”
Sands gave a small tremulous smile. “Thank you.”
He gave Black the co-ordinates. He smiled back at Sands, then shot him twice in the chest, at close range. Sands fell back on to the couch, rolled on to the floor. Black stepped forward, shot him again in the forehead, his skull bursting in a sparkle of rich red colour.
Suddenly, a noise – outside. He whirled round.
The girl from the basement, screaming, squirming in the arms of a man he’d seen before. The man in the hospital tunic. The man from the basement. Heading for the Jeep.
Black gave chase.
Lampton had the girl. The adventure was over. The devil Adam Black had ruined everything. But the girl was his. Promised to him. He had so much to teach her, to give her. He would not be denied. He’d take the Jeep, drive into the desert. To a dark place. Let her see how much he loved her, under the stars, on the desert floor. Then, he would disappear. To another state, maybe. Another country. Perhaps take the girl.
Probably not. She would awaken in the desert. And die in the desert.
73
There was a glass door directly from the living room to the front courtyard. Locked. Black blew it open with a single shot. The man turned, kept running. He gripped the girl in his two arms, close to his chest, her face on his shoulder, pale, screaming, terrified.
It was difficult for him to keep a hold, and get his keys out of his pocket. He stopped at the car door. She writhed and struggled.
“Keep fucking still!” he screamed.
Black sprinted towards him. He fired in the air, hoping it would scare him into dropping the girl. It didn’t. He got the door open, bundled her inside, started the car up, swerved it round, facing him, full headlights on. Black was dazzled. He stood, legs apart, aimed. Too risky to fire at the driver. He couldn’t see him in the glare, and he might miss, and hit the girl. Instead, he fired at the lights, both guns blazing, the front tyres, the front grill. The car veered to one side, careened onto the fountain, slamming into the blue marble mermaid, where it lay, one end up off the ground, balanced precariously, both wheels spinning. The driver’s door opened. The man spilled out, dragging the girl with him.
He had her by the hair. Her screams cut through the desert night. He brandished a knife.
“She’s mine. You can’t have her.”
He moved backwards, away from Black. The girl kicked and screamed. The man slapped her hard across the face. Black’s heart rose to his mouth. Her body sagged. She hung limp. The man let her drop to the ground, and placed one boot on her neck.
“If you come any closer, I swear to Jesus fucking Christ, I will snap her neck like a fucking twig.”
Black stopped. He was maybe six yards away.
“Drop the fucking guns.”
“Of course.” He dropped them on to the courtyard tiles. They were useless to him. He was out of bullets. Otherwise he would have gunned the bastard down. “What’s your name?”
“Stanley Lampton. But they call me Stan.”
“Sure they do. What now, Stanley?”
“Now I take this little one with me, into the desert, where no one can find us.”
“In the desert? Really? Without transport? How long do you think you’ll survive? Without water.”
“I’m a survivor, Black. You failed. And I’ve won.”
“Interesting point of view. I have a gift for you.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, slowly, and produced the hunting knife the Grey Prince had used to slice one side of Black’s face.
“That knife you’re holding looks like a penknife. This one’s much better.”
“What’s your fucking game, Black?”
“No game. You
