Page 68

She fidgeted nervously, tugging insistently at a stray tress of hair, the tension now almost unbearable.

Emilia Garanita had been at the Westquay for well over an hour now, checking out the entrances and exits, scanning the concourses for signs of suspicious activity or concealed thugs, before eventually taking her place in the third-floor café.

With each passing minute, her nerves had increased, her shirt sticking to her back, as her anxiety slowly peaked.

She had planned for this meeting, had fantasized about it many times, but now that it was here she felt utterly out of her depth.

She had faced down many threats before, but this guy was a hardened, sadistic criminal who thought nothing of taking a hammer to a young woman’s knees, of tossing sulphuric acid in her face.

What’s more, he was seriously pissed off.

A noise startled Emilia, making her look up sharply.

But it was just an old man, scraping his chair back as he struggled on his way.

Nervously, Emilia wound her fingers round the strap of the holdall, nestled between her feet, as if fearing someone might tear towards her, knocking her to the floor and seizing the booty.

But the café seemed sleepy, its few customers utterly unaware of the drama playing out beneath their noses.

Privately, Emilia urged herself to be strong, to be calm.

She had thought this through carefully, had chosen her spot well.

She was at the highest point of the shopping centre, her sight lines to the escalator, to the lifts, unimpeded, so there was no way anyone could surprise her.

If her nemesis was smart, he would obey her instructions, play by the rules, retrieve his haul.

Yet how could she assume that he’d do so?

She didn’t know him, would have walked past him in the street and, besides, hadn’t he made a career out of breaking the rules?

Trying to calm her breathing, Emilia glanced over the café once more, surveying the quiet scene.

And now she spotted something, a tall, tanned man in his early forties cresting the escalator and stepping out onto the third floor.

He was athletic and muscular, with a lived-in, slightly pitted face and wary, shifting eyes.

Dressed in jeans and a dark blue blouson jacket, he looked like a casual shopper, but his behavoiur gave him away, his body language tense, his gaze wary.

Scanning the café, he spotted her. A fierce energy seemed to pulse from him, projecting itself towards the journalist, but Emilia maintained eye contact, refusing to buckle.

A moment’s silent communication ensued, Emilia inclining her head in a gentle nod, then he was on the move, making his way directly towards her.

Emilia straightened up, determined to appear confident, powerful. Without a word, the man who’d haunted her dreams for years seated himself opposite her. At first, he didn’t look at her, his eyes taking in the perimeter of the café, before straying over its occupants, searching for hidden threats.

‘There’s no need to worry,’ Emilia said calmly. ‘I haven’t brought you here to trap you.’

Slowly, he brought his gaze to rest on her. Unzipping his coat, he leaned back in his chair, the hilt of a knife visible just above his belt, but he never took his eyes off his adversary as he replied:

‘Why have you brought me here, Emilia?’

Instantly, she reacted, unnerved by the way he lingered on her name, but more startled still by his strong Dutch accent. Gathering herself, she replied:

‘Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to look the beast in the eye.’

He snorted, raising a contemptuous eyebrow, half amused, half annoyed by the insult.

‘But we’ve already met. So why the need for all this …?’

He gestured airily at the café.

‘Well, you’ll forgive me, but you didn’t give me much warning last time we met, just stepped out of the shadows and bam!’

Once more, her nemesis shrugged, as if it was obvious that he’d had no choice.

‘Plus, I was writhing in agony, trying to keep the acid from my eyes, so the whole thing’s a bit of a blur. I guess it must have been different for you. You seemed very focused, taking advantage of my agony, pinning me down, taking a hammer to my kneecaps …’

Now his expression hardened, her derision annoying him.

‘Tell me, what was that like?’ Emilia continued, warming to her theme. ‘What did it feel like, brutalizing an innocent girl?’

‘You weren’t so innocent,’ he countered dismissively. ‘You were a drug dealer, like your father.’

‘I was a drug mule,’ Emilia spat back. ‘Who was acting under duress. Forced to swallow condoms of cocaine, to risk our lives, just so you could peddle drugs to your continental friends.’

‘I know, I know,’ he said, looking amused, rather than ashamed. ‘It was embarrassingly … how do you say it? … small fry, but everyone has to start somewhere.’

‘And you started with us. With children, for God’s sake. Putting their futures in jeopardy so you could make a buck.’

‘You could have shared in that, Emilia. We asked you to carry on, we wanted you to carry on, you said no.’

‘And this was my reward.’

She gestured to the scarring on her left cheek.

‘My prize for having some fucking morals, for doing the right thing.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do, which is why I want to know what it felt like, what went through your mind during your attack on me. Did you feel excited? Exhilarated?’

‘Are you serious?’ he countered, aggravated.

‘You must have got off on it, right? You must have enjoyed it. All that pain, all that power.’

‘Do you really want to do this?’

‘I’ve spent years trying to work out what possessed you to do this to me. I could have been blinded, I could have died. Yet you don’t seem bothered at all. Looking at you now, I can’t see a single shred of remorse. Tell me I’m wrong.’

She was glaring at him, emotional, but her attacker just shrugged, as if bored by the whole conversation.

‘You ask me what I felt,’ he eventually answered, his eyes glued to her ravaged skin. ‘I felt … nothing. Nothing at all.’

Emilia felt like she’d been slapped. His indifference, his boredom, was beyond evil.

‘I did what I had to do,’ he continued coldly. ‘It was just … business.’

His eyes locked onto hers, boring into her. And though tears of indignation, of outrage, pricked her eyes, she refused to blink.

‘Talking of which, where is it?’

For a moment, Emilia couldn’t speak, so inflamed were her emotions, but eventually she found the words.

‘It’s underneath the table,’ she replied calmly, releasing her grip on the holdall and pushing it towards him with her foot.

‘You can take it now and walk right out of here.’

Once more, the Dutchman hesitated, his eyes flicking around the café as if sensing danger. Satisfied that undercover police officers weren’t about to spring out, he looked down, unzipping the bag quickly to check the contents.

‘It’s all there, payment in full,’ Emilia intoned dryly.

‘I’m glad to hear it, as I really do have to go.’

Rising abruptly, he pulled the holdall onto his shoulder. A quick check that his route to the escalator was clear, then he turned back to Emilia:

‘Well, what can I say? It’s been nice doing business with you, Emilia.’

He smiled contemptuously at her as she rose, but Emilia now surprised him, lurching across the table, grabbing him by his collar and pulling him in close.

‘This isn’t over,’ she hissed, her nose touching his. ‘This will never be over.’

Startled, angry, he pulled back sharply, batting her hand away.

‘Yes it is, you mad bitch. You will never see me again.’

Turning on his heel, he hurried away. Emilia watched him go, ignoring the startled looks of the other customers, her heart pounding in her chest. Though breathless and exhausted, she was nevertheless elated.

She had handled herself well, had said what she needed to say, and the whole thing had gone completely to plan.

Her Dutch tormentor was wrong. They would meet again. And sooner than he imagined.

Judgement Day was at hand.