Hide Me. Ava McCarthy
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Ava McCarthy
Hide Me
Dedication
To my children, Mark and Megan, who are the reason for everything
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
Copyright
Prologue
Harry pitched head-first over the cliff.
For an instant, she floated. Gunfire ripped the air behind her. Below her, hulking waves exploded, hungry, ready to swallow. Then the cliff rushed skywards and the ocean slammed into her face.
Don’t scream, don’t scream!
Water plunged into her sinuses, packed into her ears. She clamped her mouth shut, choking back the scrap of air she had left in her lungs. Then the current sucked her down into a deep, black tornado.
Her brain clamoured. Growling water thrummed in her ears, funnelling her down.
Don’t breathe, don’t breathe!
The rip tide snatched her. Hurled her in circles. It pitched her upside down and tore at her limbs till her lungs felt ready to burst.
She forced her eyes open. Saw an arrow of white tunnelling past her face. A silent jet-trail.
A bullet?
Jesus! He was going to kill her.
Harry’s diaphragm heaved, fighting for the chance to breathe. Panic screeched through her, and she thrashed her legs, bucked her body. Then the ocean whirled her into another violent twister.
Suffocation crushed her chest. She had to open her mouth, had to inhale!
Don’t breathe!
Her brain lurched, and she felt her eyes roll. Hunter’s face floated before her. Maybe she’d see his body. Was he down here with her somewhere? Had Franco had him killed too?
No more oxygen. Just vapours to fuel her brain.
The undertow grabbed her and whiplashed her into a spiral. She tumbled. Drifted.
Her mother’s face. Always so relieved by Harry’s absences. What would she think when Harry was dead?
Now you don’t have to talk to me, Mom.
Harry glided. Floated in freefall. She felt light. Euphoric, almost. And the reflex to breathe became slowly irresistible.
She couldn’t help it. She opened her mouth. Inhaled.
Cold seawater sluiced down deep into her lungs.
Chapter 1
Twelve days earlier
Cheating the casinos was a dangerous game. A game that could get you killed, if the stakes were high enough.
Harry eyed the roulette wheel, and edged alongside the other punters. Spying on the cheaters out in the open was risky, but she had to get close. She had to know how Franco Chavez was doing it.
‘Coloque sus apuestas.’ Place your bets.
The ivory ball swirled. The fat guy in front of Harry clacked his chips, like a set of castanets, and she stepped around his bulk to get a better view. A tangle of arms reached across the table, and she scanned the faces, wishing she knew what to look for.
She flexed her shoulders and felt them crunch. She’d been in the Gran Casino de San Sebastián for hours, patrolling the high-limit rooms till her feet ached. At this point, she wasn’t sure which bothered her more: the nagging sense that she was wasting her client’s money, or her growing unease that Chavez knew she was watching.
Harry frowned, and drifted away from the table. It didn’t help that no one knew what bloody Chavez looked like.
She slipped into the poker parlour. Roped off from the main floor, it was quieter here. No roulette-rattles, no social chit-chat. Just the tense snick-snick of cards against the baize. She wandered between the tables.
‘Watch their hands,’ her father had said. ‘That’s where the cheating begins.’
Harry started with the dealers. Given enough practice, a crooked dealer could stack the deck, cull cards, fake a riffle, deal seconds, peek at the top, and all with a deftness that was near-impossible to spot. Harry knew because she could do it herself.
‘A good false shuffle is like a monkey tapping away at a typewriter,’ her father used to say. ‘There’s a whole lot of activity, but no end result.’
Harry scoured the dealers’ hands for telltale signs, but saw nothing out of place.
She paused to watch the players at one of the busier tables. Four men and a blonde, none of them speaking. The only sound was the chinkle and clatter of chips. Harry sifted through the