Page 1

One

Sunday 7pm

The gasp wrenched Charlie’s attention from the podium where the MC was introducing: “Orianna Wildwood, a truly unique voice in poetry, all the way from Wales!” The air was charged with hands about to come together in welcoming applause. Orianna had taken one last drink from her gin and tonic from the temporary bar and had pushed her chair back to rise and take her place on the miniature stage. One single cry changed everything.

Charlie’s head whipped round at the sound, and he saw the gunman. His vision sharpened as adrenaline surged through his body. Shock rendered the audience still and silent for a single heartbeat, and in that heartbeat only Charlie moved , toward the danger. Because that was the job, that was what he was trained to do, that was who he was. Instinct.

“Gun! Get down,” he shouted and then he was plunging his way through the crowds and the tables toward the entrance as the man began to shoot.

“Get down, get down!” He pushed through the jungle of people and furniture, ignoring the cries of terror and pain, and the clatter of gunfire. Adrenaline gave him strength to duck and weave, trying desperately not to be a target. He picked things off the tables: empty bottles, books, someone’s handbag, and threw them at the gunman. Anything to distract him. It didn’t work. The gunman was staying in the dim space where the bookshop merged into the cafe, firing in short bursts.

He’s hunting.

This wasn’t a random spraying of bullets; this was someone deliberately picking off individuals for death. The horror of this evil pushed bile into Charlie’s throat. It also brought calm.

If he wants to shoot me, I’m dead.

Charlie was helpless to protect himself, but he would protect as many of the innocent as he could. He kept pushing forward, looking for weapons, telling people to move, get down, get away …

Then Charlie saw the shooter for the first time as more than a shadow. A tall figure dressed in black with a balaclava showing only the white of his eyes. Eyes that realised Charlie wasn’t screaming and trying to hide. The gun swiveled and Charlie threw himself to the floor, scrabbling to the nearest cover. The gunman fired a long rattling burst and dust poured from the ceiling, coating the chaos below. The gunfire stopped, and Charlie saw the man was gone. He leapt to his feet and ran through the bookshop, only to see the gunman, still wearing his balaclava, dive into a black SUV with its engine already running and speed off. There was no numberplate on the back.

Charlie ran after the car for a few yards, but it was lost, absorbed into the New York traffic, indistinguishable from hundreds of other black cars. Adrenaline washed away, leaving Charlie weary and weighed down with his own helplessness. He turned back, replaying the events in his mind, rehearsing the next steps when he heard a cry from the bookshop. A cry that cut through all the clamour.

“Charlie! Charlie! Help me!” It was Orianna. He ran back inside, ignoring the blood and the terror, the stink of human wastes and the smell of fear.

“Charlie!” This time it was a cry of agony. “Tom’s bleeding and I can’t make it stop.”

Tom’s right thigh was soaked in blood, bright red blood, blood that spurted.

Oh, fuck this is not good. Oh Jesus, Tom.

Tom was white as a sheet, sweat rolling off him, keening in pain.

Panic vied with training. Training won, but it was close.

“I’ve got you, Tom.” Don’t fucking die.

He ripped off his sweatshirt and then the T-shirt underneath, twisting it into a makeshift tourniquet. “We need to wrap this round his leg, above the wound,” he said, as much to himself as to Orianna because he knew what he was doing, but this was Tom . Quick. Be quick. Be quicker.

“What should I do?”

Charlie thrust his sweatshirt into her hands. “Put this on the wound and press hard. ” He could see the panic in her eyes and hear it in her voice and he wanted to panic along with her, because this was Tom, and Tom could die, would die, if the bleeding didn’t stop. The scream rose in his throat, but he gulped it down, wriggling his T-shirt underneath Tom’s leg and pulling it tight, explaining calmly to himself and Tom what he was doing, as his heart thumped loudly enough to burst from his chest.

“Stay with me, Tom,” he begged. Nothing else mattered.

Then he heard the sirens from the street.

* * *

The paramedics loaded Tom onto a stretcher and forced a way through the aftermath like Moses parting the Red Sea, with Charlie and Orianna close behind. But the door to the bookshop was barred by a uniformed policeman.

“Please stay here, people.” It wasn’t a request.

“We need to go with him.” Charlie heard the desperation in his own voice, felt tears rolling off his chin. “Please.”

“No one leaves except the injured, sir. Please wait here.”

They were trapped.

“Maybe there’s something we can do to help?” Orianna took Charlie’s hand.

“I need to be with Tom.” But it was too late, the ambulance had gone, siren and blue lights fading into the night. Tom could die and Charlie wouldn’t be there. Wouldn’t even know.

“He’s in good hands, sir,” the policeman said.

“You know what? That doesn’t help. Who’s in charge? I saw the gunman leave in a car.” The sooner Charlie got rid of the information he had, the sooner they’d let him go to be with Tom. His ribs ached with the effort of keeping his heart contained.

“I’ll tell them, sir, please wait here.” The cop’s patience was visibly wearing thin. Voices came from behind them.

“Make way! Coming through!” Orianna pulled Charlie back as another crew of paramedics ran toward the door, one holding a drip above the injured figure, all shouting numbers to each other.

“Losing him, BP dropping fast. Go!”

Outside another ambulance waited, lights flashing, doors open.

The policeman on the door stopped anyone else leaving.

“Charlie, I want my bag, and I want to sit down.”

Charlie responded to the weight of Orianna’s weariness, even as he was ready to burst out of his own skin with the need to do something, anything. He led her to a leather tub chair near the shop window.

“Wait here, and I’ll get your bag.” He didn’t want Orianna to see any more of the carnage they had, somehow, survived.