Run

"They've seen her," hissed Femi.

The big black vehicle lurched out of the shadows and rolled across the car park, headlights blazing. Dele spun round. The woman in the raincoat dropped the envelope and bolted. Two men leapt from the SUV, shouting.

"Move!" Femi shoved the Corolla's gear lever into drive. "We have to go!"

"No!" Folake grabbed his arm. "My husband!"

"He knows how to run!"

"He doesn't! He does yoga!"

A crack echoed across the lot. A gunshot. Folake screamed. Dele threw himself behind the Camry, and the woman dived after him. The men were closing in, one with a pistol, one with a baseball bat.

She did not think. She hit the horn.

It was an old Corolla with a wheezing, outraged klaxon, and in the silence of the empty lot it sounded like a dying elephant. The men whipped round. Folake flung open the door and lurched out, waving her arms.