Kinkaid was starting to lose patience. He had been watching these three adults engage in an inane dialogue for the last twenty minutes, and was seriously considering just shooting the two men. The dumpy man's pandering was getting on his nerves, and the mere sight of the rich bloke's face was making his blood boil. The woman was a calmer, quieter, more bearable presence, though she was clearly listening and taking note of every word. She was so involved, in fact, that she didn't notice the little girl growing bored and fidgety by her side. As the minutes ticked by, the tiny brunette's shoulders slumped, and her attention strayed towards another wing of the museum – a room mostly concealed by a wooden panelled door. He watched her glance longingly at the door, and then at her mother. She repeated the motion, clearly torn between desire and obedience. Her gaze flitted once more towards the door before she bit her lip and backed away from the conversing adults.
'Oh this is just too easy', he mused, watching the child slip unseen across the corridor. He scanned the area and realised that he could easily follow her into the room by taking another corridor – one running parallel to where the adults were standing. He did just that and found himself in what appeared to a reconstructed old street. Two rows of faux shopfronts overlooked a thin street littered with benches and historical artefacts. He glided carefully down the road and grinned as he spied the little brunette. She was sitting on a battered wooden bench, swinging her legs happily from side to side as she examined an ancient Jeweller's shop. She had her back to him and didn't seem to hear his approach until his boot caught the foot of an old lamppost. She whirled round, scrambled off the bench and backed away from him, eyes brimming with suspicion.
"Who are you?"
"Oh, no need to worry," he shrugged, keeping his voice as low and as casual as possible so that the adults outside wouldn't hear. "I'm just looking for someone."
"Who are you?" she repeated, undeterred.
Kinkaid quickly checked the doors to ensure she hadn't been heard. He decided, rather grudgingly, that he'd better answer her question before she went squealing to Mummy.
"My name's Ollie. What's yours?"
"Mummy says I shouldn't talk to strangers."
"Well, your Mummy's right. But I think she probably means 'bad' strangers. I'm not a 'bad' stranger. Like I said, I'm just looking for someone."
The girl eyed him dubiously, and he was quite disturbed to find a maturity in her gaze that transcended her young years. She pouted thoughtfully, as if trying to decide whether or not she should play along or rat him out. When he saw her eyes flicker towards the door, he knew exactly which way she was inclining. Plus he suspected that it wouldn't be long before the woman outside noticed her daughter's absence. He needed to hurry things along.
"What's that?" the tiny brunette suddenly asked.
"What's what?"
"That, in your hand," she frowned, pointing towards his poorly obscured revolver.
For a split second, Kinkaid was tempted to just shoot her and make a break for it. This wasn't the conversation he had envisioned having. He thought questioning a child would be easy. This particular child, however, was rather more precocious than your average infant. Then, to his shock and disgust, he realised that he couldn't. He could shoot rotten English pigs. He could shoot hindering airport officials. He could shoot Karim. He could even shoot Catherine. But he didn't have it in him to shoot this tiny blue-eyed girl. Shooting her wasn't part of the mission.
"It's nothing," he murmured, flashing a sickly sweet smile as he shoved it back inside his jacket. "I was hoping you could help me..."
He retrieved the now battered photo of Catherine and held it out for her to see.
"I'm looking for this woman," he studied the her face closely as her eyes cast over the photo. "Have you seen her?"
The child had one hell of a poker face. Her expression barely changed. She simply stared at the photo, then back up at him, "Who is she?"
Kinkaid sucked in a deep breath, fighting to quell his rising temper. He gritted his teeth, kept up the sickly sweet smile and answered as pleasantly as he could:
"She is a very naughty girl. She's a thief. Do you know what a thief is?"
She nodded.
"Well, she's stolen something that's very important and very, very dangerous. And that makes her very dangerous."
The girl frowned so minutely that had he not been looking for it, he undoubtedly would have missed it. But he had been looking for it, and he hadn't missed it. A swell of triumph surged through his innards and he closed the gap between them.
"Now then... a little birdy told me that you and your Mummy were talking to this woman on the beach not so long ago. Is that true?"
The child gulped and began fiddling with the hem of her dress.
"I said, is that true?" Kinkaid demanded, more forcefully than before.
The girl's breathing hitched and he experienced a sick sense of glee that he had frightened her so. He was starting to lose patience with these nicey-nicey tactics and he revelled in the fear he could incite in this precocious brat.
"Y-Yes," she stammered.
"Is she staying with you at the Caravan Park?"
"What Caravan Park?"
He growled under his breath, "Don't play games with me, please, child. I don't like games. I know all about you and where you live. And I know that you were seen going off with this woman. And if she is with you at the Caravan Park... just remember that she's very dangerous. And I wouldn't want you or your Mummy to get hurt."
The girl's ocean blue eyes widened a fraction, and her gaze flitted desperately towards the door. She was clearly itching to cry out for her mother. Yet at the same time, she seemed glued to the spot; frozen still with shock and fear.
"So I'll ask again," he said slowly, stooping so that his eyes were level with the child's. "Is this woman staying with you at the Caravan Park?"
The girl glanced at the photo, then at him, before swallowing and shaking her head.
"No."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Uh-huh."
His eyes narrowed as he tried to get a handle on whether the brat was telling the truth. Her face was white and stricken and she was looking him with an unwaveringly frightened gaze... and yet for some reason, he felt like there was something missing; like he couldn't fully read her.
"You wouldn't lie to me now, would you?"
"No," the child replied in a plaintive little voice.
"You're sure about that?"
"Uh-huh."
His nostrils flared and he decided he had no option but to trust her for now. He could withdraw the revolver and shove the barrel against her head, but then she might panic. She might scream for Mummy and he had absolutely no idea what security measures the museum had in place. He was confident that he was a better shot than any security guard, but at the same time, the more he recklessly left a trail of bodies, the more chance he had of being caught – and how would he catch up with Catherine if he was languishing inside a prison cell? So he knelt back on his haunches, examined the child's face one more time, before nodding.
"Alright. So what did your Mummy and this woman talk about?"
The child blinked at him for a moment, before stuttering, "She was crying. She was upset about something... like... really upset. So Mummy and I took her for ice cream."
Kinkaid remained stony-faced. Three guesses what Catherine had been crying about.
"Aw, that was nice of you," he crooned, and even though he was aiming for sweet, his tone sounded faintly chilling even to his own ears. "Did she say why she was upset?"
"She wouldn't tell us."
Kinkaid nodded, thankful for that at least, "So what happened?"
"She got angry when Mummy offered to let her stay at the Caravan Park. She said she didn't need our charity. And then she ran off."
He had to admit. That definitely sounded like Catherine: passionate yet emotionally distant, infuriatingly proud and fiercely, fiercely independent.
"Where did she run off to?"
"I don't know."
Kinkaid narrowed his eyes, trying to discern once more whether the girl was telling the truth. If she was, then that meant the trail had ended here in some sleepy Australian town. Perhaps it had just been a pit stop for Catherine; a break from all the travelling. Perhaps she had already turned tail and hopped on another bus to Sydney. Damn it, why did this woman have to make everything so difficult?!
He was about to press the child for more details when shouting broke out from the other room; pained, frantic cries that could only possibly emanate from a distressed mother in search of her lost child.
"Lottie?! Lottie, where are you?! LOTTIE?!"
He detected the panic; the sheer terror in the woman's tone, and for a small second, he was sorely tempted to take the child and run. Having leverage might prove rather useful. But rationally, he knew this would be bad idea. Having a child in tow, especially this precocious little brat, would slow him down no end.
Plus, the child's words seemed pretty in-keeping with Catherine's personality. He could completely believe that his girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?) had flown off the handle at the offer of help. When she got herself into a state, she was virtually inconsolable and usually preferred to be left alone rather than speak them aloud. Karim had frequently teased him about having such a highly-strung woman sharing his bed; asked whether it was worth all the hassle for a little sex on the side. But Catherine's fire had been exactly what made the sex so great.
He shook himself. These thoughts really weren't helping right now. He needed to make a swift exit. And so, without another word, he launched himself to his feet and hot-footed it out of the room. As he left via the abandoned corridor from whence he came, he heard the little girl – Lottie – shouting for her mother.
'You got lucky today, lady', he thought, as footsteps came charging into the reconstruction room. 'But if I find out your little brat crossed me, you won't be so lucky in the future'.
"Lottie?! Lottie, where are you?! LOTTIE?!" Ruth screamed.
How could she have been so stupid? How could she have been so utterly, utterly stupid?! She should have held tight to Lottie's hand. She shouldn't have let herself get so invested in the conversation. Lottie was an intelligent, obedient girl, but she was also just that – a little girl. She didn't have the patience or the stamina to put up with long, boring adult conversations. And now she had clearly grown bored and wandered off. At any time, that would have frightened Ruth. But now... now she was absolutely petrified. Oh God, where was she?! Please no. Please, please, no. Not her. Please don't let anything have happened to her!
"LOTTIE?!"
She careered from one room to the next, searching frantically for her baby, whilst Roger Benson, the benefactor, and her boss, Lewis, simply looked on in bewilderment. She was trembling something fierce. With each second that Lottie went unfound, her breathing became more and more ragged. And her heart... oh, her heart. On the one hand, it felt like it had shattered into a million irreparable shards, but on the other, she could feel it galloping a hundred miles a minute inside the hollow cavity of chest. So much so, she had to physically clamp her hand to her heart as she screamed out another frenetic:
"LOTTIE?!"
And then it came. The blessed sound of an angel.
"Mummy?!"
Ruth spun around and realised that her baby's voice was echoing from the Reconstruction Room. Of course. Of course it was. A thin sheen of tears glistened in her eyes as she fled immediately down the corridor. And there, standing by a battered old bench, was Lottie.
"Oh my..."
She didn't even complete her sentence, wasting no time in flying to her daughter's side and scooping her up in her arms.
"Mummy?"
The girl sounded faintly unnerved, but Ruth couldn't even bring herself to respond. She buried her nose in her baby's hair and breathed in the sweet scent of her coconut shampoo. Her shuddery breaths caused wisps of dark hair to flutter lightly against her eyelids, and she felt more than a couple of tears land in the fine hairs behind Lottie's ear.
It took a good while, but she gradually came back to herself. She took a deep, solidifying breath, lowered her daughter to the floor and that's when the anger hit. Deep-seated, panic-filled anger that presented itself in the form of a furious diatribe.
"What were you thinking?!" she scolded. "How many times have I told you not to run off by yourself?"
"Mummy – "
"You promised me you'd stay where I could see you!"
"But Mummy – "
"No 'buts', Lottie. I'm very cross. You had me so worried, you silly, silly girl!"
And without warning, Lottie promptly burst into tears. It took a second for Ruth recover from the shock of this and when she did, she stopped ranting immediately. She could only watch in horror as her baby began to sob helplessly into her hands. Ruth's racing heart splintered and she instantly regretted being so harsh. Lottie had only been behaving like the six-year-old she was. And so, feeling like the worst mother in the world, she fell to her knees and softly cupped her daughter's sodden cheeks.
"I'm sorry. Mummy's sorry, darling. I shouldn't have shouted like that."
Lottie continued to weep, scrubbing at her eyes with her tiny fists. Ruth gently lowered them to her sides, not wanting her to make her eyes sore. Then she wiped away her tears and drew her tightly against her bosom, rocking her from side to side, just as she had done when Lottie was a baby.
Her stomach clenched as she realised that this was probably the first time Lottie had openly cried after being told off. Her face would usually fall, and she'd become quiet and pensive, but she would always bounce back quickly. But now... now, Lottie was showing no signs of bouncing back. In fact, the tears were falling faster and harder than ever, and the girl's miniature frame was practically thrumming beneath Ruth's fingers. The overwhelming hand of dread rose up and clasped at Ruth's heart as a chilling thought struck her. Maybe... maybe this breakdown wasn't due to being told off. Maybe it was because of something else. Something far, far sinister that Ruth didn't even want to think about.
"Alright, darling, alright," she hushed, trying to calm her baby in spite of her own racing tempo. "It's alright."
"M-M-Mummy... M-Mummy," the little girl sobbed, her stagnant breathing barely allowing her time to breathe, let alone speak.
"Shhh, my darling," Ruth continued to croon, praying to God that her fears were unfounded. "You're alright. Mummy's got you. It's alright."
"M-M-Mummy, there was a m-man."
No. Oh, God no. Ruth's stomach plummeted to the floor.
"What man?" she croaked. "Where?"
Her eyes darted round the room, as if waiting for someone to come leaping out of the shadows. Thankfully, no one did.
"He's just gone. He was a big man. He s-said his name was Ollie. He had a photo of Catherine."
Ruth had to work very hard not to tremble herself now. Instead she concentrated on Lottie; on familiarising herself with the feel of her baby under her fingertips – her tiny stick-like arms, her beautiful chubby cheeks, her dear little face – all the things that she had just unwittingly come so close to losing.
"Did he do anything to you, darling?" she demanded urgently. "Did he hurt you?"
"No, b-but he was scary. He said Catherine's stolen something. He said that she's dangerous. Is she dangerous, Mummy?"
"No, she's not. I need you to think for me, Lottie, alright? Just think very carefully," Ruth murmured, fighting to keep the panic out of her voice. "What did you tell this man about Catherine?"
The little girl bit her lip and she swallowed anxiously, "I... I lied."
"What do you mean 'you lied'?"
"He... he wanted to know where Catherine was. He said that he knew we lived at the Caravan Park and that we'd been speaking to her."
Ruth was practically panting from the sheer level of emotional restraint she was exercising. Her heart longed for the catharsis of a good cry. But she couldn't break. Not now. Not yet. Lottie was visibly shaken. The last thing she needed was her mother falling to pieces. So even though her face was ashen with terror, even though her worst nightmare was unfolding right before her very eyes, Ruth dug down deep and armoured herself with those reserves of strength she had had to keep endlessly on hand whilst working on the Grid. Because that's who she needed to be right now: Ruth Evershed, analyst. Because if she allowed herself to dwell on this any further at a personal level, she knew she would surely crumble.
"I lied, Mummy. He scared me and I don't know why but I lied. I said I didn't know where Catherine was. I said she got angry and ran off when you asked her questions."
On the one hand, Ruth was surprised by the little girl's cunning. Lottie had always been an honest child. It was a core value that Harry and Ruth had tried to instil, in spite of their supremely secretive past. Yet it was clear that Lottie had also inherited the gut instincts of two spooks. When confronted by Ollie Kinkaid, those dormant spook instincts had risen to the forefront and most likely saved both hers and Catherine's lives. Ruth was convinced that had Lottie given a different answer, Kinkaid might have taken her hostage in order to get to Catherine. Oh, but she had a clever, clever daughter!
"It's okay, darling," she assured her, pressing a large kiss into her hair. "You did the right thing. I'm proud of you."
"But I lied," Lottie frowned.
The tears had waned now; the initial shock of the situation having worn off. Now, she just seemed confused and more than a little frightened.
"For today, that's alright. You did the right thing."
"But why? And why was he looking for Catherine? What's she stolen? Is he the police?"
"He's not the police, no."
"But you weren't here. How do you know?"
"Because... " Ruth stuttered, closing her eyes briefly in a bid to calm herself. "Because I know."
"But how? Mummy, I don't understand."
Ruth's heart broke as she heard the underlying frustration in the girl's mournful voice. Lottie had endured days of secrets, heightened emotions, and earth-shattering discoveries, and she had coped remarkably well. Yet this had been the final straw. She had just potentially stared death in the face (though she probably didn't know this) and she was desperate for answers. The not-knowing and the constant secrets were probably worse than any explanation her parents could throw at her. Ruth knew that once this particular crisis had been averted – if it could be averted – her little girl wouldn't settle for any more half-baked excuses. She and Harry would have to sit down and work out how to explain everything. They couldn't hide anymore.
But first... first she had to get to Harry and Catherine. Lottie seemed have thrown this man off the scent. But how long would it take for him to realise he had been played? How long would it take for him to return in search of revenge? Ruth was damned if she was ever going to let him go near her daughter again. She was so very fortunate that her stupid, stupid mistake hadn't cost her Lottie's life. It was an error that she knew was going to haunt her for the rest of her days, and perhaps she would allow herself to cry about it later. Perhaps not. But for now, the thought of Harry was beckoning her home like a single light in a world of endless black. Maybe once she saw Harry; felt the shelter of his strong arms around her, warming her, grounding her, keeping her safe, she would be able to breathe again.
"We're going home, Lottie," she announced, brushing the pads of her thumbs once more across her baby's cheeks before grasping her hand.
"But what about school?"
"No school. Not today. We have to get home."
"But – "
"We need to see Daddy and Catherine. Now."
"Shit," Harry whispered, skimming through the details of the USB. He hadn't thought things could get much worse. Oh boy, had he been wrong.
From over his shoulder, Catherine peered down at the laptop screen and frowned, "What? What is it?"
Harry neglected to reply. The way he saw it, the less she knew, the better. Catherine, on the other hand, had no patience with being wrapped in cotton wool. She elbowed him hard in the ribs, inciting a small, pained grunt from Harry.
"Tell me, Dad. What's wrong?"
He tutted, still reluctant to divulge, but the challenging glare being turned onto him had him caving in a matter of seconds, "This group – the Horsemen. No more are they a small-time, crackpot group. This intel... it's catastrophic stuff. The army, the highest echelons of corrupt governments, hell, even major powers like Russia and China would relinquish their right arm for this sort of information. This isn't just a small amount of uranium and plutonium – it's vast quantities. How the hell your boyfriend's mate got wind of it, I have no idea. You'd need a source pretty high up in Five to know the whereabouts of this sort of weapons-grade material."
Catherine blanched white, "Why? How much is there?"
"Enough to give anyone who got their hands on it the sort of power that no-one should ever be allowed to have. Enough to make hundreds of dirty bombs and more."
"How much?"
"The uranium isn't just uranium. It's enriched... uranium 235, and in the wrong hands, it can be lethal. You need about 50kg to make a bomb. If this intel is correct, it's pinpointing spots that contain tens of thousands of kilograms of enriched uranium, plus deadly proportions of plutonium."
He closed the documents, wiped his file history clean and removed the USB, twirling the seemingly insignificant object through his fingers.
"This group can't aren't just planning to incite chaos. They have the power to trigger an international incident. They could cause hundreds of thousands of deaths, and even have the potential to start a full-blown war between Syria and the UK."
"But that's sick! Why would anyone do that?!"
Harry clicked his tongue but refrained from making a more embittered response, "I've never claimed to understand the minds of terrorists. Here."
He held out the USB for her to take, but she shook her head and recoiled from the device as if it held the power to burn her.
"I don't want it. I want nothing more to do with that thing. It's safer in your hands, anyway."
They both knew it was a bit of a cop-out; a transference of the burden from herself to her father. But then, Harry couldn't exactly blame her. It was a burden she should never have had to bear in the first place. And technically speaking, this was what he was trained to deal with. So he simply nodded and slotted the cold metal device into his pocket for safekeeping.
"What happens now?" Catherine asked, chewing her lip anxiously.
But Harry didn't have a chance to answer. Not a second later, there was an audible jingle of keys in the lock, followed by two pairs pattering along the hallway. Ruth and Lottie soon appeared, both looking slightly breathless and rather unkempt, and both looking utterly, utterly petrified. Harry was up from the sofa in a flash.
"What's wrong?" he asked, crossing to his family and sticking out an inane hand. He didn't touch them; just let it hover someway between them, as if the simple act of closeness was enough to detect any harm that might have been dealt towards them. "What's happened?"
All of a sudden, Lottie launched herself against him, sobbing nonsensically into his waistband. Trying to ignore the prickles of fear that were rippling up his spine, Harry instinctively lifted his daughter into his arms, swaying her gently from side to side in a bid to hush her crying.
"Hey, Squirt, hey," he crooned. "It's alright. Whatever it is, it'll be alright."
He had never seen Lottie like this. Never. Lottie was instinctively bright and bubbly; his and Ruth's little ray of sunshine amidst a once-constant tide of despair. Whatever had happened had obviously been serious. Each weighty sob jabbed like a needle against his battered heart and he gulped, at a loss as to what to do. His eyes sought Ruth's, only to find a world of terror in those ocean orbs. A terror that chilled him to the core. She just stood there, frozen; eyes round, unblinking and glistening with unshed tears.
"What's happened?" he demanded urgently.
The force in his tone and the startling similarity to how he used to drive the very best from his officers on the Grid seemed to finally get through to Ruth, who shook herself slightly, as if waking from a vivid nightmare. She caught a glimpse of Catherine who was half-sitting, half-standing behind Harry, concern – genuine concern – written across her face. Then, with what Harry suspected to be a monumental effort, Ruth tamped back her tears, drew herself up a little taller and took a deep, solidifying breath.
"Ollie Kinkaid," To her credit, her voice was only slightly unsteady as she spoke. "Ollie Kinkaid was at the museum. He saw Catherine talking to us the other day. He knows where we live, what we do. He wanted to know where she was."
Harry's heart erupted with a silent roar of rage and he immediately bridged the gap between them, needing to be close to her. She was chalk white and clearly still in shock. He himself was having a hard time dealing with the numerous scenarios inundating his mind; all the things this madman might have done to his family while he hadn't been there to protect them. Each one was worse than the last.
"Did he hurt you?" Harry demanded, his voice shaking with barely-controlled fury. "Did he hurt either of you, in any way?"
"No. No, I don't think so," Ruth murmured vaguely, her voice faint and distant, as if she was only half there.
"What do you mean, 'you don't think so'?"
"I... I... " Ruth stammered, tears flooding back into her diamond-bright eyes, and she pressed an unconscious hand to her mouth in a bid to steady herself. He saw the imperceptible flicker of her gaze towards Catherine and knew that she was only just holding herself together for the sake of his daughters. "I didn't speak to him. Lottie ran off – just for a moment. I was stupid. I was so unbelievably stupid and I didn't see her run off. The next thing I know, she's not there by my side. And... and she was okay. I found her. But... but he had been speaking to her. He'd tracked us down and he'd..." she trailed off, unable to continue anymore.
"I'm sorry, Mummy. Sorry, Daddy," Lottie wept, burying her face in Harry's neck. "I'm sorry."
Harry tried not to stare aghast at Ruth, for he knew that his horror would do nothing to ease the guilt that was already running rampant in her pain-filled eyes. He didn't blame her for what had happened. Of course he didn't. He knew that Lottie, for all her sweet innocence, could be impetuous and single-track-minded. She had had her eye on that bloody Reconstruction Room from the instant Ruth told her she was taking her to work. He'd bet his finest bottle of Talisker that that was where Lottie had run off to. And that was probably where this bastard, Kinkaid, had cornered her. So then, no wonder both of his girls were in such a state. He shook his head and silently tried to communicate to Ruth that it wasn't her fault. But she was having none of it. She wasn't looking at him. She only had eyes for their tiny daughter, sobbing her heart out on her daddy's shoulder.
"Squirt," Harry murmured bleakly, pulling her back until he could see her tear-soaked face. "Squirt, we're not angry. Mummy and I aren't angry. I just need to know a couple of things. Did this man hurt you?"
Lottie sucked in a great big sniff, but shook her head in the negative. Harry heaved a sigh of relief. Thank goodness for small mercies.
"And what did you tell him about Catherine?"
Catherine stood now, her expression loaded with anxious trepidation.
"N-Nothing. I s-s-said nothing. I lied. I said that she got angry at us and ran off."
Harry practically gave a sob of relief, pressing a big fat kiss to the bewildered child's cheek.
"Good girl," he whispered.
One day when things weren't quite so messed up, he'd have to have a talk with her about why exactly she had responded in such a way – and why, despite all their warnings, she felt it okay to talk to a stranger. But for now, he was just thankful that Lottie seemed to have inherited her parents' spook instincts.
"He probably won't have gone far," Ruth reasoned. "He could come back at any moment looking for more information. And when he does..."
"He'll find me," Catherine finished hoarsely, every atom of her being beginning to shake.
Ruth bit her lip and nodded, "Yes. And if he does, he'll realise that he's been lied to. And he won't take kindly to that. Plus Lottie told me he had a gun."
Harry blinked. How did little Lottie even know what a gun looked like? His mind drifted to the handgun he kept concealed in the back of his and Ruth's underwear drawer. Oh God. Please don't let her have found that.
"It looked like the BB gun Jamie's brother has," Lottie mumbled into Harry's shoulder, as if having read his mind.
They fell into a short, uneasy silence, all parties trying to decide how best to respond.
"That's it then," Catherine mumbled into the quiet. "He's found me. It's over."
"No," Harry said sharply, whirling round the face her with an air of the hardened Section Head he had once been. "Nothing's over. We don't give up."
"But – "
"No buts. We'll find a way out of this. We will."
"How, Dad? They sent a hitman – my own boyfriend – after me! And he's found me. We're not soldiers. We can't fight our way out of this."
"The three of you could hide in the basement. I could wait here. Face him."
He was immediately overruled by Ruth, who stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his bicep, "No, I won't let you do that."
"I won't let any harm come to you," Harry argued fiercely.
The stubbornness that always touched and frustrated him in equal measure intercepted Ruth's formerly shaky demeanour. All trace of her fear drained away as she stared back at him with heart-stopping defiance, "And I won't let any harm come to you, Harry. I meant what I said last night. What we do, we do together. And no good will come of you playing John Wayne."
"I don't see what other choice we have."
"Yes you do. We both do. And I think we've both known what we'd have to do from the moment we found out about the Horsemen."
Harry swallowed, unable to tear his eyes away from her unwavering gaze. He could see his own emotions reflected in her face: fear, reservation, anger, hurt, but most of all, a steely resolve; a quiet acceptance of their fate. She was right. It had been a truth they had been denying themselves for over twenty-four hours and yet it had been obvious which path they would ultimately have to take. Unintentional though it had been, Catherine, like a harbinger of doom, had brought upon them a world of trouble that there was no hiding from. Their wonderful little haven had been tainted, destroyed. Now that Kinkaid knew where they lived, it wouldn't take more than an hour for one of his cronies with half a brain cell and a laptop to realise the link between him and Catherine. They were all in danger. It would be reckless to stay. Plus he needed to get the USB to the Grid as soon as possible, and he wasn't sure which channels of communication were compromised; who the MI-5 moles were. What was the old adage? If you wanted something doing right, do it yourself.
He sighed, balancing Lottie on his hip with one arm and capturing Ruth's hand with the other. This was it: the moment they had been trying to keep at bay. Henry and Rebecca Knight had to fade away into the sunset, and Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed had to be reborn. It was time to go home.
Apologies for the delay. I've been becoming a little disenfranchised as a writer but I've been slowly forcing myself on with the story. Thank you wolfdrum and Gregoriana for your constant support and thank you to the anonymous guest who reviewed the last chapter. Take care and stay safe x