Target Read Online Free PDF

seen me. Did this mean that my attacker was going to come back and finish the job? Was he just waiting?
    I didn't hang around to find out. I ran wildly through the open roller door and up the ramp, hitting the fresh night air of the street and breathing it in as if my very life depended on it.
    But my life depended on nothing any more. I'd saved it. Now I had to think about Jenny's.
    I kept running up the dark, silent street until I came to an alleyway on my right. I turned down it and, exhausted, took refuge behind a pair of wheelie bins, leaning against a wall and slowly sliding down it until I was sitting down. I had to phone the police straight away and tell them what I'd just witnessed, so, after taking a few seconds to get at least some of my breath back, I reached into my pocket for my mobile.
    And cursed. It was in my jacket, back at the apartment.
    Something else too...my wallet. With all my ID in it.
    Which meant they were going to know exactly who I was.

Four
    A part of me wanted to keep running. To put as much distance between me and Jenny's place as possible, knowing how close I'd just come to death. Another part wanted to go back and keep watch on it, hoping that I might be in time to see the two men leave and pick up any vital clues I could then give to the police.
    As it happened, I could do neither. I was too exhausted, and for a full minute I concentrated simply on getting my breath back.
    As my panting began to ease, I was suddenly jolted back to reality by the sound of a car moving ever so slowly along the street.
    Jesus, they're still here. Looking for me.
    I turned round, looking for a way out, saw only a high wall I was never going to be able to climb. I was stuck up a dead end. Knowing I was hopelessly exposed, I lifted up the lid of one of the wheelie bins and wriggled inside, landing loudly on a pile of stinking binbags.
    The sound outside was muffled but I could hear the car stopping and knew that it was at the end of the alley.
    A car door opened. Shut again.
    I began to pray. I'd never really believed in God, but now that I'd arrived at this single most terrifying point in my life, I desperately begged forgiveness for any sin I may have committed and promised faithfully that if he got me out of this I would be a much better person. That I would give money to charity, help people . . . anything.
    Stop. Don't breathe.
    I could hear stealthy footfalls on the concrete. Approaching me. Something plastic in one of the binbags made a cracking sound beneath me and I clenched my teeth. The silence was killing me. Was one of them right outside now, knife in hand, getting ready to strike?
    I strained, listening.
    Silence.
    The wait seemed to last for ever. Seconds ticking like dull, bored hours.
    And then I heard the car door slam again and the car pull away.
    I exhaled sharply, but didn't move. It could have been a trap.
    Gradually I began to breathe more easily but I continued to lie exactly where I was, listening to the quiet of the night. At some point I think I even drifted off to sleep: I remember opening my eyes and getting a shock because I was still in darkness, and the smell was terrible, and my mouth felt like someone had been sandpapering it. At first I didn't know where I was. Then it all came back to me in a huge rush like some kind of horrible hallucination. Someone had tried to kill me, and they'd come very close to succeeding.
    I took a couple of deep breaths to calm myself, then clambered to my feet and climbed out of the wheelie bin into far fresher air. The alley was quiet, even the night-time sounds of the city seemed strangely muted. I stretched, and looked at my watch. It had just turned twenty past one – over an hour since it had all happened. An image suddenly came to me of an unconscious Jenny being casually flung into the cleaning trolley, and I felt a renewed burst of anger and guilt. I could have done something to help her. And I hadn't.
    Rubbing my eyes, trying hard to focus