Angie walked along the dirt road with her backpack on, looking out for the Fenway’s cottage as she went. She thought about the article again. He had to be the one. The one she had been looking for. For some reason he wasn’t on her list of passengers’ husbands. If not for this article she would never have found him at all, as up to now she had been relying totally on the accuracy of her list. So the list was incomplete. It had to be fate. Was it possible he sensed she was alive and searching for him? Did he somehow know? Perhaps she should have worn a dress, she thought, suddenly feeling embarrassed to be turning up on her potential father’s doorstep wearing blue jeans and a denim jacket with cut off sleeves. Despite not having slept well the previous night due to the excitement, she did not feel at all tired. She wondered if she really was Angela Fenway. It seemed there was very little doubt. It would be too much of a coincidence.
Her pulse quickened as she neared her destination. She wondered how the Fenways would react to finding out their daughter was a fugitive from the police, a criminal. Maybe they would insist on her giving herself up and maybe she would be prepared to do that. Her eyes rested on the number of the mailbox of the old wooden cottage. This was it. Her hopes soared. She walked slowly up the driveway, noting the blue Mercedes parked next to the house, then knocked on the door. While she waited she noticed the house and garden seemed somewhat dilapidated. Obviously James Fenway was not much of a gardener, she thought looking around. Then the door creaked open.
‘Welcome, Ryan, we’ve been waiting for you.’
Angie found herself staring straight down the barrel of a revolver, held by a tall man standing in the dim light of the hallway.
He motioned with the gun. ‘Do come in.’
She stepped inside the house and looked around. There were a few chairs on the bare wooden floor and a large table at the end of the room. The man who had answered the door closed it and walked her over to the table. A few other men stood in the room also holding guns. It took her a few seconds to work out what had happened, but when she did her disappointment was so bitter it left no room for fear.
‘A trap,’ she said softly.
The tall man sat down at the table. ‘Search her.’
Seconds later they had taken her backpack from her and also found and removed her knife from its ankle sheath as well. They pushed her in front of the table. ‘Put your arms out,’ the tall man said to her, demonstrating by extending his arms on either side away from his body and raising them to shoulder level. He waved his gun at her as he leaned back in his seat behind the table. ‘Go on.’
Angie obeyed. She stood looking at him trying to remember if she had seen him before, but couldn’t recall his face. Maybe he was a mercenary working for Morgan. He certainly carried his weapon as if he was well used to it. Then she recalled something McFarlane had told her.
‘Lanham?’ she asked. ‘That’s my name,’ he replied. ‘Did you think I was your daddy when I answered the door?’ She didn’t say anything in reply but mentally cursed herself for her stupidity. This was the gunrunner she’d helped McFarlane catch a year ago. The one McFarlane had warned her was out of jail and looking for revenge. The one who sold weapons to Morgan. She should have suspected a trap, she thought to herself, meeting his gaze defiantly. Her gut felt as if it was tying itself in a knot.
‘You look much smaller than I pictured you,’ he continued. ‘Well, I expected a young woman, not a kid. Do you know I did eight months because of you?’
‘You were lucky. It could’ve been a lot longer,’ she replied steadily, her voice betraying no fear. ‘It should have been. If it hadn’t been for your team of highly priced lawyers …’
He had the casual self-assured manner of a man who was very much used to being in charge. If eight months in prison had damaged his psyche it certainly didn’t show.
‘That’s true. Prosecution had to drop most of the charges. Still, it was a long time. Keep those arms up!’ he shouted. ‘So why did you put the cops onto me?’
‘To stop you selling guns to people,’ she answered truthfully.
‘What for? You’re a criminal yourself. And you like guns. I know all about you.’
‘I don’t like people getting killed.’
He glared at her. ‘I don’t kill people. I just supply the weapons. My customers are at war and need them.’ He smiled. ‘I’m just like any other salesman. I merely supply a demand.’
‘So do dope pushers and I don’t like them either.’
‘That’s different. Governments buy and sell weapons, so why shouldn’t I make a buck out of it too?’
‘Yes, that’s just it, isn’t it? All you want to do is make your buck.’ The muscles in her arms were already feeling tired. ‘I’ve seen where guns like yours end up and what happens afterwards.’
‘So what? Does the man in the sports shop care when he sells his customers a high-powered rifle? How many people in this country are murdered each year by legally purchased firearms? And if these people aren’t criminals than neither am I.’ He pointed his revolver at her. ‘I said keep those arms up. Let ’em drop one more time and you’re dead.’ He rested his gun on the table again. ‘I suppose you think cars should be banned because they kill people too? It might surprise you to know I consider myself to be an honest man. In fact, in my opinion you’re the one who needs to go to jail. People who steal from other people are the vilest scum on this earth. I grew up with nothing and unlike you, I’ve worked for every fucking cent I ever got.’