The Courier

‘You can’t shoot me,’ he said.

Harry’s eyes widened. Behind her, Beth had stopped moving.

‘Someone will hear.’ Garvin sounded close to tears. ‘There’ll be witnesses.’

‘I never leave witnesses.’

Harry’s hand flew to her mouth. She ducked back into the vault and swung the door to, leaving it open a slit.

‘The light!’ Beth pointed at a button on the door jamb.

Harry pressed it, keeping her finger down, and like a fridge light the bulb went out. She peered through the crack.

A heavy-set man was backing into the room, hands in the air. Crescents of sweat stained his shirt under the arms.

‘I’ve got money,’ Garvin said. ‘Take whatever you want.’

He stumbled against a chair and whimpered, his shoulders sagging. A middle-aged man in a baseball cap followed him in. His hands were clamped around a blocky pistol trained on Garvin’s face.

Harry swallowed. Her fingers felt slippery with sweat. Beside her, Beth had frozen.

The man gestured with the gun. ‘Face the window.’

Garvin swivelled obediently to his right, like a child anxious to please. Harry could see his profile: the trembling lip, the puffy face. The other man scanned the room, his gaze sliding towards the vault. Harry shrank back, pressing up against the shelves, her finger still on the light switch. Beth had flattened herself against one wall.

Metal snapped and clicked. Harry flinched, waiting for the shot. When none came, she inched forward and peeped out through the slit.

Garvin’s hands were handcuffed behind his back. The man jabbed the gun into his shoulder blade.

‘Kneel.’

Garvin dropped to his knees, making small mewling sounds. The man with the gun touched the elongated barrel to the back of Garvin’s head.

‘Any last requests? Sorry, too late.’ Phut-phut. The muffled shots spat into Garvin’s skull. He jerked once, then crumpled to the floor.

Harry gasped. Her finger slipped, and light flooded back into the vault. The man in the baseball cap whirled round and for an instant they locked eyes. Then he raised his gun to her face. Harry screamed, slammed the vault door shut. Bullets zinged against metal, and the door’s automatic bolts clanked home.

Harry backed away, her heart pounding. She could hear Beth moaning in the dark.

‘Who is he?’ Harry whispered, but Beth didn’t answer.

The door handle rattled, and Harry held her breath. She cocked her head, straining for more sounds. Nothing.

Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dark. Beth had slid to the floor, knees up, hands over her ears. Harry had a sudden image of Garvin’s bulk, towering over Beth with a broken chair. She hugged her arms across her chest, and tried to be glad he was dead.

She squinted into the gloom. The only source of light was a small red dot blinking on the door, the twin of the light on the security panel outside.

Harry stiffened. The keycard! Had she left it in the slot? She couldn’t remember. But she’d dropped the wine gum to the floor, hadn’t she? Even if he found it, he couldn’t possibly guess its purpose.

Unless she’d left it on the sensor.

Dammit, why couldn’t she remember?

The light blinked amber, and Harry froze. He must have found the keycard and fed it back into the slot. She backed up against the wall in line with the door and lifted her case, ready to strike. It was the only weapon she had. Her eyes fastened on the amber dot, waiting for it to turn green.

Nothing happened.

‘What’s he doing?’ Beth whispered, clambering to her feet.

Harry shook her head. She pressed her ear up against the door. The steel was like ice on her cheek. She could make out a faint, scuffing sound, like something heavy being dragged.

Nausea slithered inside her. Dear God. He was going to use Garvin’s fingers on the sensor. Harry closed her eyes, blocking out the image of him roughing up a corpse to press dead flesh against the pad.

The numbers. Concentrate on the numbers. Ten fingers, three shots. Maybe they’d get lucky and he’d strike out.

The scuffling grew closer.

Who was she kidding? Those odds weren’t real. After all, who used their pinkie on a biometric scanner? Chances were, Garvin had used his thumb or index finger, something the man in the baseball cap had probably worked out for himself.

Four fingers, three shots. Those odds were on the killer’s side.

The scuffling stopped. Harry waved Beth to the other side of the door, and raised her case back over her head. She stared at the amber light.

Handcuffs clicked, then clattered to the floor. A trickle of sweat ran down Harry’s back. There was a grunt, a final heave. Harry counted to three. Then a soft beep sounded from the other side of the door.

Strike one.

Harry took a deep breath and flexed her fingers on the case. Beth had found a metal cashbox on one of the shelves and was holding it high over her head. She traded looks with Harry and nodded, her eyes wide with fright.

They waited. One, two, three.

Another beep, faint but unmistakable. Harry let out a long breath. He had one shot left. If he failed, he’d need a code to reset the device before he could try again. And the only person who knew that code was dead.

Sweat ran into Harry’s eyes and the amber light blurred. Beth’s breathing came fast and shallow.

Beep-beep-beep. Amber flashed to red. The man outside roared, and gunshots pumped into the lock. Harry screamed, spinning away from the door. Metal screeched as the vault’s anti-attack bolts slammed into place, dead-locking it against assault. Bullets blasted the door, round after round, until finally the shooting stopped.

Harry glanced over at Beth. She was cowering on the floor, arms over her head. Had that become her only means of defence, curling into a submissive ball? Harry rubbed at her ears. They still pounded with echoes, or maybe it was her own blood exploding through her veins.

For a long time, neither of them moved. Hot metal ticked into the vault. The air grew muggy, heavy with exhaled moisture, and for the first time Harry worried about being able to breathe. The walls seemed to crush in on her, and she fought an urge to hyperventilate. How long could they last in here without fresh air?

‘Maybe he’s gone,’ Beth whispered eventually.

‘Maybe.’ Harry slid to the floor and tried to regulate her breathing. ‘Or maybe he’s just waiting us out.’

Beth’s face crumpled, making Harry feel like a brute for pointing out the truth. She studied her for a moment: the cropped hair, the bruised eye, the fingers that plucked at the black duffel bag.

‘Are you glad Garvin’s dead?’ Harry asked.