Chapter 57
FIFTY-SEVEN
Harry
“I count three cars still behind us,” Poppy charts quickly, gazing over her shoulder. “One dropped off after the last turn.”
I glance in the mirror. She’s right. Same busted headlight. Same dent in the hood. Same driver – one of the two bodyguards who flank Richard’s side. A glimpse of the second vehicle tailing behind them confirms the second sighting. Shaved head, face like concrete, built like bodybuilders.
“Good.”
Though nothing about this is good. Not the sweat crawling down my spine, not the screech of tyres behind us, not the way my pulse is hammering in my neck.
We take a hard left, wheels shrieking against the pavement. One of the cars behind us clips the corner too wide and slams on the brakes, spiralling just enough to struggle righting the car.
“They’re getting closer,” she blurts.
The black SUV is less than twenty feet back, headlights glaring through the morning fog. I pedal the gas, the engine rising in pitch, and slam my foot to the floor.
I ease on the brake, lowering to third gear and taking a harsh right without signalling, burnt rubber staining the pavement.
Poppy’s hands are colourless against her seat.
The wheel fights me, but I force it through.
One of the dark vehicles follows closely, nearly catching a lamppost. I allow myself a thin smile.
I straighten the car out, racing ahead with a force that throws me back into the leather. They gain speed simultaneously, engine fumes flooding through the window.
I whip my head back to the rearview mirror, watching the SUV gaining distance.
One by one, both the cars peel off. The vehicle closest to us slows, turning suddenly down a side street.
Another blacked-out car lingers behind us for a moment, then it drops away.
“What?” Poppy turns round and leans her hands on the dashboard. “Why are they backing off? We didn’t lose them.”
“No,” I whisper, ice sliding down my back. “They figured it out.”
I slam the brakes at the next corner, throwing the car into a reckless U-turn that makes the tyres scream and the seatbelt bite across my chest.
“Fuck!” Poppy curses, grabbing the handle above her window. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” I grit out. “If they’re not after us, they’re going after Gigi or—”
Andy.
The name doesn’t leave my mouth.
I push the car harder, blowing through red lights, nearly clipping a bike. Its rider screams at me as I swerve. My brain is running ahead of itself, heart climbing up my throat, pulling up scenarios I can’t shut down.
Have Richard’s men caught up to Gigi yet? Have they already been in my home and stolen Andy from the one place he’s supposed to be guaranteed safety? I swore – I fucking swore – I’d never let Richard touch either of them again—
“Call him,” I bark.
Poppy’s already fumbling with her phone. “I’m trying.”
The line rings for a full minute. No answer.
“No,” she whispers. “No, no, no …”
We turn the last street, the apartment finally in view. I kill the engine, the car barely stopping before we’ve both jumped out. Poppy’s right behind me, her phone still to her ear.
I rush up the staircase, striding three steps at a time.
The door meets me, already open, swinging with a lone gust of wind. I rush in and shout, “Andy! Are you in here?”
I check the living room. Empty. The kitchen. Untouched. A half-drunk cup of coffee still on the counter, gone cold. I throw open the bedroom door with a force that smacks the wood against the wall. The sheets are crumpled on the floor as if he was ripped right out of bed.
“His phone is on the table.” Poppy’s panicked voice comes from the hall. “Why would he leave without it?”
“He wouldn’t.”
They’ve taken him.
I step into the living room, turning my gaze over the apartment, every nerve ending in my body screaming. I sink down on the arm of the sofa, trying to breathe, trying to think. Poppy sits across from me, her expression unyielding, waiting for me to make the next call.
The walls feel like they’re closing in. My breath shortens. Something thick crawls up my throat – rage, panic, and guilt. Everything strangles me at once, threatening to tear me down.
But I’m not failing her again. And I’m not failing him.
I’m on my feet, charging for the open door, when Poppy calls, “Where are you going?”
“To burn it down.”