Free Rider by Peter J Merrigan

simply couldn’t.
    ‘Anything?’ Darren asked.
    Kane eyed the Swiss knife and half-closed the drawer. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
    * * *
     
    No one could have heard the taxi pull up outside the electronic gates that had closed on near silent pneumatics after Dawson ’s car and come through them.
    Margaret thanked the driver when he had taken her small suitcase from the boot of his car, handed him a little extra on top of the fare, which he took with a nod, and then she walked slowly up the long drive to the house.
    She was at the front door before the fact that every single light inside the house was on had registered in her mind.
    She saw the broken glass panel on the door and hesitated. There was silence from within. She dug her mobile phone out of her purse and dialled 999. ‘Police, please,’ she said. She spoke with them briefly, then ignored their advice to remain outside the property, and she pushed the door open.
    * * *
     
    Dawson and O’Reef entered Ryan’s room. The old man approached Kane and slapped the back of his hand across his face. Kane’s eyes filled with angry tears, his cheek stinging.
    ‘I’m not very happy, Mr Rider,’ he said levelly.
    Kane stammered. ‘I don’t know where it is.’
    ‘Shut up,’ he snapped. ‘I should have had you taken out the same time as your filthy boyfriend.’
    He drew his gun.
    ‘On your knees.’
    ‘Please—’
    ‘ On your knees! ’
    Kane looked around at Dawson ’s men. They were stony-faced and unaffected. He could feel that familiar tightness in his throat and a stinging sensation in his eyes as he slowly lowered himself to his knees beside the writing desk. His mind was turning somersaults. What can I do? How can I save myself?
    Dawson levelled his gun against Kane’s head. ‘You have one last chance before I decorate the room with your brains. Do you know where it is?’
    Kane couldn’t speak, his mouth dry, coppery.
    Dawson cocked the trigger.
    It was then that, like a dream, Kane heard Margaret’s voice break through the fear in his head.
    ‘What the hell’s going on?’
    Beyond Dawson , in Ryan’s doorway, stood Margaret Bernhard, rifle in hand, the barrel aimed at Dawson ’s back as steady as if she was preparing to shoot clay pigeons.
    ‘Don’t move,’ she said.
    Dawson slowly turned to her.

Chapter 8
     
     
    ‘Margaret,’ Dawson said, his voice calm, his palms upturned in a placating manner. ‘How lovely to see you.’
    ‘Shut up,’ Margaret snapped. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ She edged a step further into the room, the rifle gripped tightly in her hands, its long barrel trained almost professionally at Dawson ’s chest. ‘Kane?’ she questioned.
    O’Reef held his gun up, ready to fire should his boss give the command.
    ‘We’re just conducting a little business,’ Dawson said. He frowned. ‘I was terribly sorry to hear of your son’s demise. Most unfortunate.’
    ‘What do you know about that?’ Margaret asked, her eyes darting between Dawson and the other men—O’Reef with his gun pointed at her, Darren standing almost casually in the corner.
    Kane watched as Margaret held firm against the threat of death. He was powerless to do anything, to act in her defence. On his knees behind Dawson , where only seconds before he was about to be shot, his mind ran quick-time, searching for any way out of this.
    Dawson shrugged in answer to Margaret’s question. ‘He was a sweet boy,’ he said. ‘I liked him. I liked him a lot.’
    ‘I want you out of my house. Now.’
    Dawson laughed. Kane couldn’t see his face, but he was sure he was smiling. ‘I’m afraid we can’t do that, Mrs Bernhard. You see, my friend here’—he stepped aside to give Margaret a clear view of Kane in all his fear and pain—‘is helping me out. I’m in a bit of a quandary. Your son rather unfortunately stole something from me. Mr Rider was just helping me retrieve it.’
    ‘I don’t care what you want. Just get out.’ She