Page 81 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

Bradshaw had worked her magic. She’d played about with SEO – an acronym that stood for Search Engine Optimisation, a fact that Poe immediately tried to forget – until PledgePower became the most viewed website in the UK.

The media – who’d been leaned on by Alastor Locke – got stuck in.

Dissenting voices were shut down. It kickstarted a national debate on toxic masculinity that ended up in the House of Commons.

#SaveTheSmithysForge trended on the artist formerly known as Twitter.

And the money poured in. They passed the three-millionpound point, when all donations would have had to be returned, in a day. They reached fifteen million pounds within a week.

Fifteen million daggers in the heart of Ezekiel Puck.

Now he had a big fat red target on his back, Poe was restricted in what he could do.

Every move he made was planned out in advance, agreed with the cops charged with his protection.

Agents from the United States Secret Service’s Presidential Protection detail advised on how to secure perimeters against a determined sniper.

He spent his days indoors. Edgar was with Uncle Bertie in a fishing lodge on the River Foss.

The spaniel had jumped out of Doyle’s old Land Rover, excited to be somewhere new.

His tail had wagged like a twanged ruler until he realised Poe wasn’t staying with him. No dog could sulk like Edgar.

His wedding to Doyle had been postponed, but that allowed her to take up a lecturing opportunity in Arizona. She’d been putting it off but agreed to leave the country until Puck was caught.

Flynn and Bradshaw continued to work. Bradshaw managed the website and the donations, Flynn made sure the logistical arrangements were running smoothly.

They were. Flynn told Poe that in all her dealings, she could detect the hand of Alastor Locke.

If someone as much as paused before saying yes to her, she bobbed him a text.

Within minutes the pauser would be on the phone, effusively promising to bend over backwards.

Ten days after Poe’s press briefing, Flynn finally called to say they were ready. If he was adamant that he wanted to do this, it was time to let Puck make his move.

‘Thank fuck,’ Poe said. He shucked his security detail, marched through Highwood’s double front doors, faced the hill, ripped off his T-shirt and screamed, ‘Come on then!’ He panted and thumped himself on the chest. ‘What are you waiting for?!’

And 2,000 yards away, Ezekiel Puck, safely hidden in his ghillie suit, smiled.