As Anthony took another step forward he heard a strange sound, one that stopped him dead in his tracks, and brought a halt to his breathing. He wondered if that lunatic was crouched behind the counter, waiting.
The high-pitched moan came again, and someone breathed in. It didn’t sound like Roger, but then it wouldn’t. He’d give nothing away.
Anthony dropped to his knees and carefully opened the bag, removing the syringe, and the pepper spray. See how he liked that combination. He crawled over to one of the chairs and placed the bag with the rope and the gag on the floor underneath it. If he completed his mission he could come back for those, and completely disable King Kong.
Who the fuck was he kidding?
Someone suddenly called out his name and Anthony nearly shit his pants. He actually ducked and tried to become part of the floor before rolling over to see who it was.
There was no one there.
The sound came again.
“Zoe?” said Anthony.
As difficult as the one-word sentence was, she replied, “Yes.”
Anthony sat up, stood up, and dashed around the side of the desk. What he saw freaked him out.
Zoe was laid on the floor beside the chair. Her hair was limp and her complexion pale. Zoe’s eyes were bigger than they should have been, as was her neck. She was taking quick, shallow breaths. She appeared dehydrated and Anthony would swear she had lost weight.
“Zoe? What the hell has he done to you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she croaked.
Despite everything that had happened and no matter how wrong they had been, or what Zoe had done on the night of the hit and run, it nearly broke Anthony’s heart to see her now.
He reached down and cradled her head in his arms, as if she was a newborn child. She may as well have been because Anthony realised how incredibly frail she was. He suspected she didn’t have long.
“Please, tell me, what’s he done?”
She took her time in answering. “I think he might have got the better of us at last.”
Zoe then smiled. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“What for?”
“Everything. If it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” said Anthony.
“It was me…” Zoe stopped speaking and suddenly started coughing.
Anthony tried harder to comfort her, pulling her a little closer, as if by tightening his grip he would somehow stop the coughing.
Eventually she did. “It was me… who wiped you out. He made me.”
“I realise that. No one else would have been clever enough.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Anthony was on the verge of tears himself. Michael and James had gone. Zoe was close, and within the next few minutes, Anthony was sure to be facing certain death.
“Did you bring everything I asked?”
“Yes.”
“Good. He’s frightened stiff of syringes.” Zoe paused, drawing breath, calming down. “You probably won’t have to use it. I’m sure he’ll cave in at the sight of it.”
“I’ll use the bastard anyway.”
Zoe smiled again. “That’s the spirit. Go get him, tiger.”
Anthony would rather not. “What about you?”
She took her time in replying. “Don’t worry about me.”
“You need an ambulance, Zoe.”
“No. No time. Finish him off… and then me and you can start again. We’ll show the world that no one messes with DPA.”
Tears rolled down Anthony’s face. Whatever wrong they had done, didn’t seem to matter. With DPA it was all for one and one for all – the four musketeers. Hurt one, you hurt them all.
Zoe’s eyes widened and she drew in a breath.
“What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” Anthony carefully laid her on the floor and pulled out his phone.
Zoe waved her hand. “Told you. No time. Go now. Sort him out. Then you can sort me out.”
She smiled again and Anthony felt a wave of revulsion for Roger Hunter, despite the fact that he had been the victim from the beginning.
He held Zoe’s face in his hands.
“You’re right, girl. You and me against the world.”
Chapter Fifty-eight
Reilly brought the pool car to a halt inside the gates, parking up behind the other vehicles.
Gardener jumped out and studied them. He glanced at the white Overfinch and strolled over, staring into the interior from the smashed passenger door window. There were fragments of glass across the seats, the dashboard, and the carpet, all of which were covered in white dust from the airbags. A baseball bat laid on the back seat.
“What’s happening?” said Reilly.
“This is obviously the vehicle that killed David Hunter. No wonder it was never seen again.”
Gardener glanced at the industrial unit when he heard footsteps behind him. Two men in their early sixties approached. One was tall and thin with grey hair and glasses; the other short, fat and bald, but no glasses.
“Are you the police?” asked the thin man.
“Yes,” replied Gardener.
“It was me that called you,” he said, offering his hand. Gardener saw no reason not to shake it. “Sam Coulthard. I called you about this place. This is my mate, Brian. We work over the road at Transmech.”
“Thank you,” said Gardener, “but it’s probably a good idea if you two observe from the other side of the gate.”
“Oh we’re not stopping,” said Brian, smiling, “crime scene and all that. We’ve just come to tell you we saw another bloke walking into the place a few minutes back.”
“Did you recognise him?” asked Reilly.
“Yes. He used
