On the way, they heard snippets of what had gone down on the base.
“Control, this is Sierra Seven-Two. Be advised, suspect Malcom Braithwaite, male, mid-fifties, sustaining GSW to upper thigh, now detained. Requiring paramedic escort. ETA Royal Stoke, estimated twenty minutes. Transfer to secure medical.”
There was a brief pause, more static…
“Four additional individuals in custody, all linked to the site. Scene secured. No officers injured. Perimeter holding. Base code black. Awaiting Crime Scene and SOCO team.”
The cab of the car was filled with scent of desperation.
The silence was hollowed out by blood and memory.
Thane’s hands were stiff, his nails edged in crimson. His black shirt was crusted with a mix of Trish’s and Theodora’s blood. It had dried, curling the fabric tight across his chest. Every time he moved, it crackled like paper. He hadn’t washed or changed.
His mind kept looping.
Theodora’s arm rising.
Trish pulling the trigger.
Her bloodied lips, her whispered words:
“Take your contacts off.”
“I want to see.”
“That’s twice I’ve saved your arse.”
Was it her?
Dorothy? Dory?
Could she really be the girl who had haunted his dreams for so long? Why had they called her Fee?
They didn’t have the whole story, only fragments, half-whispered through shock and adrenaline by officers coming and going.
She’d coded once en route.
CPR performed mid-air.
Transfused five units.
Still in surgery.
Words floated through the corridors like ghosts:
Lacerated lung…flail chest…bullet nicked an artery…massive blood loss.
She might not make it.
She may already be gone.
He had searched for so long, only to see her die?
Thane’s fists tightened.
Then the man from the farmhouse—the one who had screamed her name, who had run through the door like the world was ending—stormed into the waiting room.
He spotted Thane instantly. “You.”
