Free Vendetta by Dreda Say Mitchell Page B

them, although Elena would have been the collateral damage in that case. Mac couldn’t see how Reuben could have found out about his real role in the gang, unless he’d been careless somewhere down the line. It happened.
    No. It was more likely that Elena had done something to put her brutal boss in a deadly mood.
    Fuck up = death.
    Fuck up = death.
    Fuck up = death.
    But what documents had Reuben – if this was Reuben – been referring to? Did they have something to do with what might be happening at eleven tonight? Maybe copies were in the remains of the fire as well. So Mac dived back into his search, but only found the remains of what he concluded was burnt paper. He rushed back to the kitchen to find a knife and used it to take out the screws on the computer so he could retrieve the motherboard and drives. But they were gone.
    Next he was back in the kitchen emptying the bin. Peelings, wrappers, a discarded invitation to some event at the Russian embassy two days ago and a crushed box. He pulled it out and examined it. Froze. A home pregnancy testing kit. A chill swept through him. Had Elena been . . . ? He couldn’t even think it. Was that why she was so hysterical when she called him?
    ‘You’ve got to get me – us – out of here . . .’
    Her words from their last conversation rang in his head. Us. Did she mean it wasn’t only her life at stake but their unborn child’s?
    Please, please, not that. He couldn’t live with the death of another child of his blood. Couldn’t . . .
    Quickly he checked inside the box. No pregnancy testing stick. His head snapped up when he heard footsteps again in the hall below. Heavier than the last time. No way it was the neighbour. He shoved the box in his pocket as he rushed to the bedroom. The footsteps came up the stairs. Like a disturbed lover, he hid in the wardrobe, but didn’t close the door completely, leaving a small gap to spy. Whoever it was was now in the main room. He heard the continual hissing of what sounded like spray paint. Then silence. The footsteps retreated back across the room. Abruptly stopped. Mac slowly pressed open the wardrobe door. The air smelt different, as if tainted with some type of chemical. His gaze snapped towards the dressing table mirror, which reflected a bright burst of light being thrown into the main room. His mind thought quickly. Flame. The smell: accelerant. The fire started moving and licking a path straight towards the bedroom.

seventeen
    Mac jumped into the sitting room, narrowly missing the line of the fire. He shot towards the landing but stopped short when confronted by a raging sea of flames; he knew there was no escape there. Palm over his mouth to guard against the rising smoke, he ran back to the bedroom and made straight for the window. He heaved at its edge. Shut tight. Swiftly he turned towards the chest of drawers and managed to manoeuvre it towards the window. Bent down and, with a groan that squeezed his chest muscles, lifted it by its bottom end. Tipped it against the pane. Crash. The chest of drawers did its job breaking the window. Chunks of glass and the chest of drawers toppled down to the back garden below. He kicked out the remaining glass. The opening sucked smoke outwards.
    At training college he’d seen a reckoner that estimated how far a man could fall and what injuries he could expect from various heights. But those calculations didn’t include having a fire at your back, singeing your clothes. He climbed backwards out of the window. Held onto the ledge with both hands and lowered himself so he was dangling by his fingertips. As he pushed against the wall to jump off, he remembered the jumping calculations as you often remember things in extreme stress. A man hanging from an upstairs window of a terraced house? About twelve to fifteen feet to fall. Injuries to be expected? It all depended, of course, but if you were lucky it might be bruises and strains. If you were unlucky, broken feet,