Her little hand tugged on my larger one to get my attention and that was all it took to break the spell.
I spun on my heel and started to run, sweeping Daisy up in my arms before we'd made it to the end of the path. The door to the apartment banged open, frosted glass shattering in the frame from the force the person had used to thrust it back. Probably hoping to catch me off guard and incapacitate me at the same time.
I cast a glance over my shoulder, knowing I didn't have time to look, but doing it anyway. Unable to stop myself from seeing the face of our pursuer. I needed to know who McLaren had sent. I needed to know if I remembered them. If I had something I could barter with them should they catch up.
I didn't recognise the flat features and stringy shoulder length brown hair. But I recognised the tattoos snaking up his neck, wrapping around his jaw and swirling across his left cheek. McLaren's security wore facial tattoos like that. There was no denying this man thundering down the street behind us, was one of the drug lord's goons.
A whimper escaped my lips, matched in wretchedness by Daisy's own. Bless her, but she didn't say a word. She clung to me, tiny arms wrapped around my neck, legs wrapped around my waist, and kept her face hidden into my chest.
My lungs were fit to burst, my heart was about to explode from my chest and my head ached with all the images of what this man could do to us. Could do to Daisy. Because Roan McLaren was an evil man who would harm a child to make sure I never told anyone what I know.
But I hadn't. I hadn't even caved when faced with the inquisitiveness and determination of a CIB cop. Not that I was going to stop long enough to explain this to the hulk of a man hot on our tails. Any moment now I expected to hear the burst of gunfire from his gun. Or feel the clamp of his steel-like fingers on my shoulder. Or the squeal of his accomplice's tyres as their car cut off our path.
But none of those things happened. McLaren had sent one man after me, maybe thinking I was at work and he could find what they needed at my home. Maybe thinking I was waylaid with Detective Pierce and he could search uninterrupted. Maybe not even aware until he broke into our flat that I had a daughter at all.
I frowned at that thought, as I ducked down a side street I knew would take us out onto the more populated Ponsonby Road. For over five years McLaren had let me be. He'd exacted the price for my crime against him. His warped sense of justice had allowed him to let me walk free, having witnessed my husband's murder because of me. McLaren would have enjoyed the idea that I suffered daily with visions of how and why Rick died. To him that was just. In his world it was as good as an eye for an eye.
I took something precious from him. McLaren took something precious from me.
But now, all of a sudden, one of his men turns up at my door. Why now? Because he's been arrested and he's suddenly calling in marks? Or because I was approached by Detective Pierce?
A crash sounded out behind us. A quick glance let me know the tattooed freak was still chasing us, but had collided with someone's trash on the sidewalk, tripping him up and giving us a modicum of increased distance from our pursuer.
"Faster, Mummy," Daisy murmured against the sweaty skin on my neck. "He's running funny."
"Limping," I corrected out of habit.
I didn't get the standard roll of her eyes in reply, she'd tucked her head back into the crease of my neck. Out of sight, out of mind.
"Not long now, Daisy-girl," I whispered, hoping my words sounded convincing to younger ears.
I spotted a bus slowing ahead, navigating traffic in an effort to pull to the side of the road. It was still fifty feet away, but I saw the opportunity it presented and dug deep, adding a spurt of speed from God knows where. My legs ached, my arms ached, my chest and head ached. Even my vision began to blur.
God, please. Please. Let me make it. The bus stopped, the side doors sprang open and two people stepped off.
Twenty feet.
One old lady with too many shopping bags hauled herself up the first step. I glanced over my shoulder and caught sight of McLaren's man within ten feet of us. I yelped. He was practically within reaching distance. My face spun forward in time to see a bicycle jump the footpath just before my eyes, but not in time to stop our collision.
Someone yelled out a warning. The bus doors slammed closed. And Daisy, the cyclist and myself came crashing down onto the hard concrete ground. The world spun as we went head over feet, my shoulder slamming into the side of the cyclist's helmet, my knee jarring painfully against the spokes of his bike's wheels. My grip on Daisy was yanked free as a scream tore from my throat.
No!
The sound of my daughter's agony and shock fractured my heart in two. I scrambled over the tangle of metal that was left of the cyclist's bike. I ignored his sprawled form on the footpath and pushed well meaning bystanders aside as I fell to my knees next to Daisy.