Page 4 of Retribution

I go back the way I came as fast as I can, hearing the tunnel settling around me and hoping against hope that it doesn’t collapse with us still in it.

I’m slower than I’d like, but in the dark and with all the debris around, I can’t move any faster. I slip in the mud underfoot without warning and bang into the bricks, swearing low as I twist to protect the woman in my arms but smacking my shoulder hard.

But I don’t dare slow or stop because, as the tunnel descends deeper, I’m sloshing through ankle-deep water that I’m pretty sure is rising. It wasn’t like this a few minutes ago. I’ve never been down here when it’s this wet, but I know that the river, so close to the Atlantic, is tidal. It must be on its way in.

I’m not sure how high it floods down here, but the walls on either side of us in the light of my phone show a myriad of different water lines. I guess it depends on the time of year. The highest marks are over my head. Not sure I’ll be able to swim in the freezing water with Daisy, I gather her more tightly in my arms and try to pick up the pace.

When I finally reach the fork, higher and in safer territory,I let my body unclench slightly. The water is lower and the further we get from the bombsite, the less likely we’ll be trapped down here.

When I finally slog up the cement stairs I came down earlier, my body feels like I’ve climbed a mountain. I call 911 as soon as I have the bars after I lay Daisy down on the sidewalk outside the warehouse with my jacket under her head. I can see now in the light of one of the only working streetlamps, that her dark hair is covered in blood.

She’s dirty and scratched up, her hand grazed. But she doesn’t look like she was caught in the fire.

I tell the dispatcher everything I can as I try to rouse her, but she doesn’t wake up.

Sitting down hard next to her, tears cloud my vision, and I force them back. I can’t be what she needs if I give in to them now.

I hear sirens in the distance within five minutes and, as they get louder, I rise to my feet, ready to run after them if they go the wrong way. But I see them turn down the street in front of me and I wave my arms to get their attention. The paramedics are out as soon as the vehicle stops, firing questions at me that I try to answer as succinctly as possible.

They bustle around her and load her onto a gurney. I don’t take in much except for the fact that she’s alive and in bad shape. I get in the back with her, watching from the side while they bandage her up and hook her up to machines, my mind detaching from the scene in front of me.

I look down. I’m still holding the plastic bag she gave me. Blinking, I look inside and let out a harsh breath.

There’s bag after bag of little green pills.

All at once, I want to throw them away.

This is my fault. I should never have let her get involved in all this. I should have made sure she was sent back to England,away from danger, not down there in that fucking tomb making drugs for me and my friends.

Jesus, what kind of a man am I?

What kind ofa brother?my guilty mind supplies savagely.

I shove the thoughts away as I stare at her, lying on the narrow bed. Pale. Bloody. Broken.

One of the paramedics is saying something to me.

I try to focus.

She’s asking me if I’m hurt.

I shake my head. ‘Just help her.’

The driver says we’re three minutes out.

‘Is she going to be okay?’ I hear myself whispering.

But they don’t answer.

MAV

The waiting.

For the fire engines to put out the fire.

For the authorities to search the club.

For them to ask meagainif I’m sure there was someone else in there.