So of course I had to try and look. But Mr. Rodwell was having none of that. The moment the word Zayn left his lips, he pirouetted me around once more so fast my brains mixed inside my head like beaten eggs. By the time my eyes focused again, we were in a different part of the room.

"Hey!" I protested. "What are you doing?"

"Dancing," he replied curtly, looking around once and then focusing on me.

Now, I want to make something clear here. Yes, we were still dancing. But dancing, now, in the crudest sense of the word possible. The only movements resembling actual dancing that we were engaging in were Mr. Rodwell's occasional twirl and spin. The only thing I was doing was rocking slightly and holding on to dear life.

"I thought you said Zayn was behind us."

"Zayn was behind you, Miss Mahal," he assured. Though he kept his eyes on me, I could practically see how his attention was on something else. "But we can't engage him right now."

"Why not?" Let's just say I wasn't at my very best right then.

"Because, Miss Mahal, for one thing, you need to get him alone as soon as you engage him, and that's only possible if we have a set location to get him alone to. And secondly, you can't walk on your two feet right now, and I can't guide you through this."

I looked down to where I was borrowing his legs. Crap.

"This situation," I said sharply, "in its entirety, is your fault. Where are we going to find my crutches again? What if someone steps on them?" As soon as the horrifying thought entered my head, my metaphorical eye wasted no time in showing me how the disaster would happen. It would be the word-stretching Mrs. Harrison, who, in her pink heels, would step on them right in the middle and...bend! I really did not like my metaphorical eye at all.

"No one's going to step on them. That's what all these people dressed in uniform clothes are for. They pick things up after snobs. We can get your crutches from one of them. I am sure they would know where they are."

I glared at him and refrained from commenting. If he always has everything figured out in his head, does he really have to make me complain first? It's not exactly necessary, right?

"Miss Mahal, please place your hand above to my ear."

"What?" My face was doing the hot-and-then-cold thing again.

He had been looking over my shoulder once more, but there must have been something in my tone, for he looked down immediately. "You didn't find doing that so horrifying seconds ago," he pointed out.

I flushed deeper. If this continued, it would be goodbye makeup! in about a minute. "Why do you want me to put my hand in your ear?"

"Not in my ear, Miss Mahal." His tone was dry. "On it. There's a device there. I want you to press the button. I can't very well do it without toppling you all over the floor."

I hesitated for a second. "What device?"

He sighed. "Miss Mahal, can you please just do what you are asked to do for once in your lifetime?"

"We would be saving much more time if you just told me what I was putting my hand on," I pointed out.

He glared at me stonily for a moment, but when my obstinate gaze didn't melt, must have figured there was something to what I said, for he answered, "I had to have something with which I could contact Christopher as and when I spotted Zayn or Frank."

"Oh, like a spy movie?" I asked, thrilled.

"Yes, Miss Mahal, exactly like that," he answered dryly. "Now please, do it."

"Wait, then why don't I have one?" I wanted to know. "I am a part of this mission too."

His glare was so intense this time I was tempted to look around for a fire executioner. "Let us make something clear here. You are not a part of this mission. All you are is bait. And when your work's done, you will be out of here faster than you can blink and back in the penthouse. Is that understood?"

His voice hadn't exactly risen any more than normal, but there was a vicious storm brewing on his brow that other people noticed too. I could only stare at him, not able to comprehend what exactly he was trying to say, and why exactly he was trying to say it.

I knew the anger was only a few minutes away. It would come as soon as his words registered. But for now, I was completely blank, like a whiteboard wiped clean. Like...I just had nothing in my head. Nada. It was a very disorienting feeling.

"Please press the button," he said softly.

I let my finger gingerly slide towards his ear, my hand shaking slightly, and searched around his hair.

"Not that one," he said. "The other."

I fingered his right ear then, and finally met some stubborn metallic resistance. It didn't take me very long of feel a small, upraised circle, which I pressed. The device wasn't very big. No matter I hadn't noticed it before. Its main bulk was concentrated in his hair, the masses of which easily hid it from view. Only a thin, pale tube snaked down and entered his ear.

"Christopher, come in," he whispered when the button had been pressed. He was still looking at me and gazing into my eyes, his lips moving in such a way that an onlooker might think he was talking to me.

There was a pause while he listened to whatever it was Christopher had to say. Then, "Good. I spot the target. We will be closing in soon. No sign of Frank yet. Which door?"

Silence.

"Okay. Fifteen minutes till meeting."

Finally, his eyes actually focused on me. Apparently the conversation was over. "You have fifteen minutes, Miss Mahal. You have to get Zayn alone and to that door," he motioned towards a door set on the right wall under the mezzanine, "in fifteen minutes, starting when I leave you. Is that understood?"

Anger was coursing through me by this time. The bastard. Who the hell did he think he was, ordering me around like that? Who the hell was he to just tell me that I was bait? Okay, I knew that I was bait, but he didn't just have to say it in such a way that made me feel like a worm! This wasn't his mission alone! My life depended on it! Who was he to tell me that I would be 'out of here faster than I could blink'? Who-

By this time, we had reached the end of the dance floor. The song we had been dancing to, the one I hadn't heard any of, was reaching its final crescendo. Mr. Rodwell unceremoniously propped me up against a stripped wall like an old man might his walking stick, and then vanished into the crowd, only to return barely five seconds later with my crutches. He pressed them into my hands and helped get them under me. Then he asked again, "Do you understand what you have to do?"

I stepped away from him. "I understand fine," I spat.

He looked at me with his aqua eyes for a moment longer, almost like he wanted to say something. But then he moved back too. "Zayn's there," he pointed towards a long table of refreshments that was, thankfully, close to the door I had to get him to. "I have to get to Frank." Pause. "Be careful." And then he was gone, melting into the crowd like he hadn't been there at all.

I stared at the spot where he had vanished to, and then blinked and looked away. I had work to do. No use dawdling around. I had to get to Zayn. And I had to stop thinking about Mr. Rodwell right this second.

I looked at the place he had indicated, the place where Zayn was. I couldn't see him anywhere. I shrugged mentally. Have to find him, then. Hobbling forward, I did my best to navigate through the crowd without stepping on people's toes and making them pop out. But even though I employed every precautionary step I could, a wave of 'Hey, there!', 'Careful!' and 'Watch it!' followed me as I moved forward. Of course, I was used to it by now and was mostly able to ignore it.

Now, where was Zayn? I looked around, trying to make my gaze circumvent people's sides, because being as short as I was and also hunching over crutches didn't really improve a person's chances of seeing over someone's head. By the time I reached the refreshment table, Zayn hadn't shown up yet.

The smell rising from the multitude of platers on the table was divine and it reminded me that I had, in fact, had nothing to eat for almost a day, what with all the planning and story-telling and screaming and then fainting going on. But I was thankful I didn't have anything in my stomach. If I had, the enormity of the task before me would have made me throw it back out anyways.

"Zara?" a silken, accented voice asked from behind.

I froze. Something huge and cold wedged itself in my throat. I knew that voice, of course. I knew that voice almost as well as I knew my own, seeing as it was a constant companion in my nightmares. I might have been able to forget everything else about him, but I was perfectly sure I would never forget that voice. The exact timber of it. The exact sweet, honey tone.

I turned around.

If I had thought seeing his picture had hit hard, I had been an idiot. For how could a picture even hope to capture the real thing? Could a picture capture the exact coldness of a smile? Could it capture the utter emptiness of one's eyes? No it couldn't. And it hadn't.

Zayn was dressed in a black tuxedo that screamed money. There was a thin flute of champagne in his hand. He smiled, something predatory on his lips. His eyes skittering over me from head to foot, lingering a little too long on the chest, twinkling maniacally. I was going to throw up bile.

He took a step closer. I had to stop myself from running (if I could). My whole body ached, like every single atom in it wanted to fly away in the opposite directing. I couldn't tear my eyes away from him, like one can't stop looking at the monster in a nightmare. His frozen chocolate eyes gleamed.

"Zara, what a surprise," he said (in Urdu, of course; he didn't have to use English with me). "I hadn't expected to ever see you again."

My throat hurt. I couldn't speak. But I had to. I had to force myself to. Think of Ella. You're doing this for her. And think of Mr. Rodwell. Just think of Mr. Rodwell. Don't be stubborn, just think about him! Just think about how you would feel when you tear his smug pretty face apart after you're done with this. Take energy from that. Finish this.

"Zayn." My voice shook just slightly and I hoped he would attribute it to anything other than what it really was. Fear. I was afraid. After all these years I was still afraid.

Don't be, a voice whispered in my ear, Mr. Rodwell's watching.

"Zara, you ran away. Tut, tut. Why would you do that?" He was really close now. Only a foot way. If he extended his hand, he could touch me. I tried not to balk.

"I-" I swallowed. My throat was very dry. This wasn't how it was supposed to go at all.

"Did you think we would never catch you?" he whispered softly.

No, I always thought you would catch me. That's why I have to catch you first. "No, Zayn. I always knew you would come." I let just the right amount of huskiness bleed into my voice.

His pupils darkened. I was right. I knew it! Zayn could have any woman he wanted, from anywhere he wanted. But he wanted the one girl who had ever refused him. The one girl who had said no. The one girl from home.

Still, he wanted her. After all these years, he still wanted her.

I smiled.

He stepped closer still. "What are you doing here, Zara?" he whispered.

I leaned a little closer too. My heart was thudding so wildly I was sure he could hear it. But his expression didn't change. "I'm tired of running, Zayn." My voice was so soft even I had trouble hearing it.

"You never should have," he said.

Score! "But I didn't want to be back there, Zayn," There was desperation in my voice, perfect in my charade but not fake in anyway. "I-I don't want to go back."

"Then how will you stop running?" Suddenly his hand shot upwards and his knuckles lightly grazed my cheek. The place he touched froze. I wanted to scream.

"Can't I stop running with you?" I asked, widening my eyes as far as they would go, looking up at him with a slight pout on my lips.

His hand stiffened. I could almost feel testosterone hit his blood stream. What's the perfect place to catch a man from? Yes, correct answer. "What do you mean?"

I stepped closer. Leaning my crutches against the side of the table, I placed a hand on his chest and gripped his lapels. I will have to cut this hand off afterwards. My lips were just an inch away from his ear. This was such a mockery of what had happened just some time ago that I wanted to cry. What was happening to me? This wasn't who I was! "I am ready to stop running, Zayn. I am ready to say yes."

His hands suddenly grabbed my face so hard I was afraid he would leave bruises. He wretched me nearer. His breath played on my face. "You want to say yes? After all these years?"

"I might just have seen sense," I breathed, letting my eyes drop to his lips and back again. He got the idea.

"Why are you here with Alexander Rodwell?" he asked harshly. His fingers were digging into my cheeks. I tried hard not to whimper in pain.

"How was I supposed to get here if not with a guinea pig?"

"How did you know I would be here?"

Oh-oh.

What time was it? How much longer did I have?

I pulled his earlobe into my mouth. Zayn jerked so hard I was perfectly sure what had happened. "I am a clever girl, Zayn," I whispered.

He wretched my face away. "Careful, Zara," he warned.

"Or what?" I challenged. Snaking my hands down, I gripped is thigh. He bit his lip just as a sound, very near a moan, escaped him. "Or what, Zayn?"

"I don't like what you are doing," he groaned.

"Really? I don't think all of you agrees."

Then suddenly, before I could even figure out what was about to happen, his lips crashed down on mine. This wasn't a soft kiss. This wasn't the kiss of a lover to a lover. This was the kind of kisses I was used to getting. Demanding. Harsh. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I opened my mouth obediently, like a good little girl. Think of Ella. Think of Granny. Think of Hannah. His tongue swooped inside and his hand tightened around my jaw, his nails digging in hard enough to draw blood.

It was over soon, though. But Zayn wasn't done. My obedience in allowing him entry seemed to have been the last thing he needed. His arm swept down and under my knees and he picked me up. I threw my arms around his neck, like the perfect little damsel in distress, my stomach roiling once again. I was going to vomit.

"Zayn," I admonished. "What are you doing?"

He was already walking. I wasn't sure where to though, which was decidedly a problem. "Just let me find an empty spot, Zara. Then I will tell you."

I pulled myself up by my arms and lightly grazed his lips with mine. "But I already found one."

He stopped moving and looked down. "What?"

I smiled and placed one finger near his lip, stroking it delectably back and forth. "I am a clever girl," I breathed.

"Where?" He sounded like he was going to die. I hoped he would.

Pulling myself up a little more, I looked around and spotted the door Mr. Rodwell had pointed. It was right behind us. Shit, close miss.

"Right there," I pointed over his shoulder. "And," I whispered when he wavered for a moment. "I have a surprise for you there."

"Really? Because I have one for you too. A very big one."

I swallowed the bile that was threatening to overflow again. "Let's see, then."

Zayn turned around swiftly and marched towards the door, fast enough that it wasn't quite a walk, but slow enough that it wasn't quite a run either. It didn't raise eyebrows, but it did make sure people understood the urgency and moved out of the way.

By the time we reached the door, Zayn was panting in thick gasps. And I did not think it was because I was heavy.

We stepped through the doorway and entered a corridor.

It was empty.

Fear pumped into my veins in a thick stream. No, no, no, no... where were they? They were supposed to be here! Was I at the wrong door? Where were they?

Walking only a few feet down the corridor, Zayn decided enough was enough.

He threw me against the wall so abruptly the back of my head smacked against the bricks, making me see stars. And then he was on me like a starving wolf.

His hands were the only things holding me up as his lips crashed down again. He bit my lip till I tasted blood, making me whimper. But Zayn was beyond hearing, carried so high on a cloud of lust that even if I had died under his arms he won't have felt it. His lips left my mouth and delved downwards. He whispered my name. Down my throat he went, biting and sucking. All I felt was pain. I felt like I was being eaten alive.

His knee buried itself between my legs. I stiffened.

His fingers were digging into my shoulders like screws. "Zayn!" I screamed. Yes, I screamed. But there was no one to hear. The ballroom was too loud on its own. The corridor was empty. Mr. Rodwell had abandoned me. Christopher was nowhere to be seen.

I had fallen into the hole I had dug with my own bare hands for someone else.

"Stop, Zayn, please," I begged, trying to bring my hands up to push him away. But I had no purchase. It was no use. He didn't hear me.

I struggled. No, no, no... this can't be happening. Not now. Not after all this time. "Zayn," I begged brokenly. "Stop! Don't! Pl-"

Suddenly, I was on the floor. My head bounced against the wall. I had to narrow my eyes to focus. Why was I on the floor, you ask? Because nothing was holding me up. Why wasn't anything holding me up? Because Zayn was lying on the floor on the other side of the hall in a heap. Why was he lying there? Because a man dressed in black had pulled him off me and thrown him there.

Suddenly the room swamped with black clothed people. I had no idea where they came from but in under a minute, working as silently and efficiently as clockwork, they had Zayn knocked out. Was this help? I couldn't be sure.

One of the black clad men came towards me. I shrank back against the wall. There was a cyclone in my stomach. It was climbing upwards. I contemplated if I should scream or not. Who were these people? I couldn't remember anything!

The man removed the black skull cap from his head.

Christopher.

Oh, god, Christopher!

"Zara, are you okay?" he asked, crouching down and staring at my face. This eyes were troubled, like he expected me to break and crumble any second. "I am so sor-"

I looked around desperately. There was a flower pot only two feet away, one of the chain of pots lining both sides of the hall. I dragged myself towards it. Grabbing the sides, I heaved my head over the edge.

And then I threw up green bile.

By the time Christopher helped me into a dark room way deeper and higher in the house, my stomach had settle as much as it ever could.

The house was so huge that we were miles away from the party, and the owners weren't likely to find out we had borrowed their property until we explicitly told them so. The men, who turned out to be only five, excluding Christopher, had already cleared the way of all staff presence, and personally made sure no one would talk. Locked doors proved as much trouble as cheese would to a hot knife.

All the way up, Christopher alternated between asking me if I was alright, apologizing for being late, and telling me there had been a complication. He didn't tell me what the complication had been. I didn't ask. In fact, I didn't speak a single word.

The room we entered was surprisingly simple compared to what I would have expected. It wasn't much used, obviously. There was nothing inside but heaps of dust, broken ends of tables and chairs, a cupboard with its door hanging from broken hinges, and several other odds and ends. Obviously a store room. A single solitary bulb dangled from the ceiling.

There were two people in the room. Two people standing as far away from each other as possible, arms crossed over heaving chests. The moment we entered the room and the smaller individual saw me, she (for it was a she) bounded forward with a yell.

"Zara! Are you okay? Please tell me you're okay! I wanted to come too, but they won't let me." Tasha threw her arms around my neck.

Tasha? What was she doing here?

Oh... the complication. Through the almost drugged daze clouding my brain, I remembered the blank look on her face when we had left, the softly mentioned protests while she had been dressing me. I wondered how long it had taken her to decide that she needed to be with me, and how exactly she had slipped in. But I didn't ask questions. If there was one thing I knew about my friend, it was that she had means.

Christopher let go of me, trusting Tasha to hold me up, and went over to his men. I buried my face into my best friend's shoulder and breathed her scent in. I don't think I would have been able to hold it together if she hadn't been here. In fact, I think I would have already crossed over into the realms of insanity if she hadn't been there. And she knew it. She knew it and she was here.

"Why are there marks on her face?" a frosty voice asked.

Crap. I had completely forgotten about the other man in the room. Forgotten about him but still knew who it was.

Mr. Rodwell.

"I am not sure," Christopher's voice replied. "But I think this piece of shit had something to do with it." There was a thud. I had a feeling Christopher had kicked Zayn. Tasha tightened her arms around me.

"Zara? Let me see your face," Mr. Rodwell said. There was a slight tremor in his voice, as if only a thin layer of self-control held him together.

I buried my face harder into Tasha's shoulder. Embarrassment clawed up my body. I knew how my face must look. I had felt Zayn's nails dig into my cheeks, his fingers tighten around my jaw. My lips still throbbed from the force of his kiss, if you could even call it that. They felt swollen and bruised, and I knew there was blood on my chin too.

I don't know why I felt embarrassed. This was the plan, after all. This was what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to woe him to someplace deserted and they were supposed to get to him. It had worked flawlessly. It was perfect.

Tears prickled my eyes.

"Zara? Please."

I think it was that plea, the broken sound of it, that made me lift my head. Mr. Rodwell never said please, not in a way that showed he actually meant it. He threw the word around all the time of course, but it was always underscored with derision and contempt. But this time it was soft and uncertain, as if he wasn't sure it was his place to ask me anything.

It made me angry. It made smoke curl out of my ears and my teeth to gnash together. What was his problem? Why couldn't he choose what he wanted to be? Why did he have to change all the time?

The moment my gaze found his and he took in my face, his eyes erupted into mile high columns of flame. Very slowly, he removed his suit jacket and threw it on the pile of broken furniture. Then he loosened his tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Wake him up," he said.

I broke my gaze to look at Zayn, who had been propped up against the wall on the ground, his head hanging from a spineless neck. A little thread of drool lined his cheek. His black tuxedo was dusted beyond recognition. Suddenly, he didn't look handsome at all. He didn't look like the Zayn I knew and hated. It made me feel so much better.

Maybe I could still survive this with my sanity intact.

One of the men--who, I suspected, was in fact a woman, as evident from her very impressive chest--stepped forward and passed a little open bottle under his nose. His head jerked upwards a little. Then his face slowly lifted and he looked around with confused eyes. There was a very vivid bruise on his forehead.

"Wh-"

Mr. Rodwell rushed forward like a loosened spear and punched him on the face so hard his head rolled backwards and fell to this chest again.

Straightening, Mr. Rodwell wiped his fist.

"Wake him up."

Twice more the same thing happened. The woamn with the bottle would unscrew it and pass it under Zayn's nose, Zayn would wake up, look around groggily for a second until Mr. Rodwell put him to sleep again.

When this happened the second time, Christopher, who stood at the side with his arms crossed, not moving forward or stopping his brother, said, "If you keep doing this, you won't have anyone left to question."

"It doesn't matter," Mr. Rodwell bit out. "Wake him up." There was Zayn's blood on his fist. The sight rejuvenated me somehow.

"It will all be for nothing if that happens," I interjected. All of them turned towards me, even the other men, who hadn't bothered to take off their masks. But I only saw Mr. Rodwell. There was murder in his eyes. His mouth was so hard I bet it had to hurt him.

"What are you saying?" he asked, his voice harsh. "Do you want to defend this..." apparently he couldn't find a word bad enough for what lay at his feet.

"It will all be for nothing," I repeated. "We have to question him now."

Mr. Rodwell just stared at me. It was clear I had just crossed the road to crazyville in his eyes.

"She's right," Christopher said. He still didn't bother to move, continuing to look down at Zayn like he was the filthiest, lowliest, slimiest specimen of worthless human beings he had ever seen.

It took Mr. Rodwell nearly a minute to decide it he would rather listen to reason or not. Then, finally, he turned around sharply and looked at the bottle of vapours again. "Wake him up," he said. "Then leave the bottle and get lost."

The woman hesitated, not sure what she was supposed to do with such an order, but then, after a nod from Christopher, waved the bottle under Zayn's nose again. Then she put it on a broken table and left, followed by her companions, the last of whom closed the door behind him.

Zayn's head lifted again, pitching unsteadily like a ship at stormy sea. There was blood on his chin along with drool. Guess he doesn't have all his thirty-six teeth anymore. His eyes took a long time to focus, crossing and uncrossing repeatedly. When they finally did, he looked around in confusion. Then his eyes finally fell on Mr. Rodwell and the blood on his fist.

"What the fuck?!" he yelled, his voice sounding stuffed. He tried to move his hands, but wasn't able to. It seemed Christopher's men had made sure he couldn't.

Then his eyes fell on me. The hatred I saw there was enough to send any normal person into throes of panic and fear. But I wasn't as normal anymore as I had been. He had made sure of that. "You bitch!" he spat. "What have you done?" He was speaking English now.

I didn't answer. It won't have been very useful either, because the moment Zayn's eyes located me and he spewed his words out, Mr. Rodwell grabbed him by the hair and jerked his face back towards himself.

"You look at her and address her again," he said, his voice so silent I felt goose bumps rise on my arms, "and I pop your eyes out and threw you out the window. Do you understand?"

Zayn's eyes widened, the bloodshot whites showing through horribly. Nothing came out of his mouth. He didn't look at me.

"Now," Mr. Rodwell said. "I am going to ask you some questions, and you better answer truthfully. You see, I am not feeling very nice towards you right now, and," his voice hardened, "you don't want to know what I do to people who I don't feel nice towards."

Again, Zayn's mouth seemed sewn shut.

"Tell me, what are you doing here, you filthy piece of fuck?"

Something blubbered out of his mouth along with spit and blood.

Mr. Rodwell tightened his grip on his hair. "I didn't get that. Mind repeating?"

"I-"

Mr. Rodwell punched him again. "Let's try again, shall we?" he asked. There were little drops of sweat on his brow that shone in the dim light. I was transfixed. Even Tasha was watching him now. "What are you doing here?"

"I-I came with Master Frank!" he said hurriedly when his voice started to break on its own accord.

"That's more like it," Mr. Rodwell encouraged. "And why is Frank here?"

"I-I don't kn-" Wrong answer. Mr. Rodwell's fist made contact.

Zayn's eyes rolled backwards into his head. And then his head slumped down once more.

"You will kill him if you keep doing that," Christopher remarked.

"Who said I was trying anything but?" Mr. Rodwell muttered, grabbing the little bottle and unscrewing it again. He waved it under Zayn's nose and pulled his head up. "Thank you for joining us. Now, why is Frank here?"

Tears of pain and fear were flowing down Zayn's face. "I swear!" he screamed. "I swear I don't know!"

"What did he tell you?" Christopher asked, crouching down alongside his brother before Mr. Rodwell could do more damage. As it was, Zayn's words were already almost imperceptible.

Zayn looked at Christopher almost like he had thrown him a lifeline. How wrong he was. "He told me nothing!" he shrieked. "Nothing whatsoever! He doesn't trust anybody!"

"Is that so?" Mr. Rodwell asked. "Then why the fuck does he keep you close?"

"I have my jobs!" Zayn hurried to reassure. "I manage his operations, but he doesn't trust me. He only orders me! He doesn't tell me anything."

Mr. Rodwell's fist was dangerously close to his face again. "You must have some clue..." he prompted.

"I-I don't know. I thi-" Mr. Rodwell lifted his fist but this time Christopher caught his arm.

"Listen to him," he hissed. Then to their captive, "What do you think? What's he planning?"

"I don't know, but," blood and spit flew from his mouth, some of it landing on Mr. Rodwell's shirt, "but I don't think it's about work. It-it's personal, whatever it is!"

"Personal?" Christopher asked.

"He's bluffing!" Mr. Rodwell roared like a restrained lion, trying to wretch his hand away. "He's lying!"

This time Christopher actually grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back with all his might. "No! The man's scared out of his wits! He's not lying."

Mr. Rodwell fought against his brother, his eyes solely on the man whimpering on the floor. "Yes! Yes, he is!"

"Mr. Rodwell, please," I whispered, more to myself than to him.

But the sound must have carried, for he stiffened. For some imperceptible reason, the moment the words left my mouth, he stopped moving and looked at me. He didn't say a single word.

"Listen to Christopher. You can't kill him," I said a little louder. Zayn was blubbering and snivelling in relief at my words. He stopped doing that when he heard what I said next. "Not now, at least."

Christopher released Mr. Rodwell when he was sure it was safe. Then he took his brother's place on top of the prisoner.

"Now, tell me," he said softly, "why do you think it's personal?"

"I-because he... he throws darts, you see. He likes throwing darts. He always throws darts at pictures. At the faces of who he is after. One day I saw him. I saw him throw darts-"

"Yes? Who was it? Who was he throwing them at?"

Zayn's face was barely recognisable by now, but the fear in his eyes was as clear as day. He looked at Mr. Rodwell.

"Him."