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Peake turned to see the hooded man leering at him in the dark, just a few metres from where he stood.
‘I’m going to blow this man’s head off, Jawahal,’ Peake snarled.
His hostage closed his eyes, trembling.
The hooded man crossed his arms patiently and gave out a small sigh of annoyance.
‘Do so if it pleases you, Lieutenant. But that won’t get you out of here.’
‘I’m serious,’ Peake replied.
‘Of course, Lieutenant,’ said Jawahal in a conciliatory tone. ‘Shoot if you have the courage required to kill a man in cold blood and without His Majesty’s permission. Otherwise, drop the weapon, and that way we’ll be able to reach an agreement that is satisfactory to both parties.’
The two armed henchmen were standing nearby, ready to jump on Peake at the first signal from the hooded man.
‘Very well,’ Peake said at last. ‘What do you think of this agreement?’
He pushed his hostage onto the floor and, raising his revolver, turned towards the hooded man. The first shot echoed through the warehouse. Jawahal’s gloved hand emerged from the cloud of gunpowder, his palm outstretched. Peake thought he could see the crushed bullet shining in the dark, then melting slowly into a thread of liquid metal that slid through Jawahal’s fingers like a fistful of sand.
‘Bad shot, Lieutenant. Try again, only this time come closer.’
Without giving him time to move, the hooded man leaned forward and grasped the hand with which Peake was holding his weapon. He then pulled the end of the gun towards his own face until it rested between his eyes.
‘Didn’t they teach you to do it like this at the academy?’ he whispered.
‘There was a time when we were friends,’ said Peake.
Jawahal smiled with contempt.
‘That time, Lieutenant, has passed.’
‘May God forgive me,’ muttered Peake, pulling the trigger again.
In an instant that seemed endless, Peake watched as the bullet pierced Jawahal’s skull, tearing the hood off his head. For a few seconds light passed through the wound but gradually the smoking hole closed in on itself. Peake felt the revolver slipping from his fingers.
The blazing eyes of his opponent fixed themselves on his and a long black tongue flicked across the man’s lips.
‘You still don’t understand, do you, Lieutenant? Where are the babies?’
It was not a question. It was an order.
Dumb with terror, Peake shook his head.
‘As you wish.’
Jawahal squeezed Peake’s hand. The lieutenant felt the bones in his fingers being crushed under his flesh. The spasm of pain made him fall to his knees, unable to breathe.
‘Where are the babies?’ Jawahal hissed.
Peake tried to say something, but the agony spreading from the bloody stump that had been his hand paralysed his speech.
‘Are you trying to say something, Lieutenant?’ Jawahal whispered, kneeling beside him.
Peake nodded.
‘Good, good.’ His enemy smiled. ‘Frankly, I don’t find your suffering amusing. So help me put an end to it.’
‘The children are dead,’ Peake groaned.
