Barbed-wire ribbons of pain ripped across his bicep and seared so painfully through his pectorals that he felt as if they were ripping his heart out of his chest. He screamed and rolled, clutching his left arm with his right. He heard the ring of metal on concrete as the knife fell from the stalker’s hand. The guy was dazed, but already struggling to his feet. Foster wanted to throw up. Or pass out. Or both. But he forced himself upwards and towards the attacker, smashing a fist into his throat. The guy twisted away and ran.

It was a slow-motion chase, both men stumbling like drunken brawlers on the concourse. Foster would have reached him if the alarm hadn’t gone off, but it did. Years of training fired through his body, and his mind switched instantly to his client. Kirsten Keller. Alone and in danger.

CHAPTER 18

FOSTER MOVED AS quickly as his body would allow. Every step sent new explosions of pain through his arm. His GPS told him that Keller was at the other end of the park, beyond No. 1 Court, somewhere in amongst the practice courts. He saw her a minute later leaning against the ivy-clad wall, a big guy standing over her. Both of them smiling. Foster instantly slowed and relaxed. It was Tom Abbot.

Keller’s smile faded as Foster came closer into view and she could see the pain in his eyes. His breathing was laboured. The adrenalin had begun to seep from him and exhaustion was kicking in.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Keller said. ‘Are you alright?’

Tom Abbot could see the delicate way Foster was holding his arm.

‘What do you need, Chris?’

Foster held onto Abbot’s shoulder for support and Keller stayed close as they made their way back across the concourse.

‘I got your call,’ Abbot said as he took the strain.

‘So I see,’ Foster said. ‘I appreciate it. Have you got your phone on you?’

Abbot nodded.

‘Call the police,’ Foster said. ‘Ask for Cullen.’

He was in a world of hurt as they walked across the concourse. He relayed the details of what had happened through Abbot, as Cullen listened at the other end of the line. He told her about the guy in the cap, and the knife, and the way the sly bastard liked to sneak up on people from behind. Foster knew he should have ended it there and then, outside Court 12. But he hadn’t. One miscalculation, and the guy had gone free. And there was no way to fix it, except to get it right next time.

‘Do you need codeine?’ Abbot asked when he came off the phone. ‘Or something stronger?’

Foster shook his head.

‘Shouldn’t mix codeine with alcohol,’ he told Abbot. ‘And God knows, I need a drink.’

CHAPTER 19