Ultimatum

There was a single shadowy figure in the driver’s seat. He gave her a brief half-second glance, and their eyes met.

Tina grabbed the handle and the Shogun accelerated on to the road, taking her with it. She tried to yank the door open but the damn thing was locked. She saw Bolt drive towards the Shogun, trying to cut it off, and then she let go, hitting the tarmac with a painful thud and rolling over and over.

Looking up, she just had time to see the Shogun slam into the Ford Focus side-on, shunting it round ninety degrees in a crunch of metal, before it reversed back just as suddenly, forcing her to scrabble out of the way on her hands and knees. Tina thought he was trying to kill her, but he wasn’t. He was just getting some extra purchase so he could drive into the back of the Focus and force it off the road. Once again he slammed against it, and as Tina got to her feet, the Shogun made a hard right and sped down to the end of the road. Hopelessly, pointlessly, Tina chased after it, ignoring the pain that seemed to come from every part of her body, as the Shogun made another right at the junction and disappeared in an angry screech of tyres.

Behind her she saw two marked patrol cars drive on to the road, sirens blaring. Turning round, she ran towards them, holding up her warrant card, yelling at the cops in the lead car to continue the chase. And then, as they manoeuvred around the battered Focus and accelerated away after the Shogun, she ran over to where Bolt still sat in the driver’s seat, looking dazed.

‘Mike, are you OK?’ she asked. They may have been on the verge of a real row a few minutes earlier, but the fact was she cared about him far more than she liked to admit.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he grunted, just managing to open the crumpled driver’s-side door and get out.

‘The other cars are on his tail but he’s got a bit of a head start.’

‘Shit,’ he said, leaning against the car and rubbing the back of his head, still unsteady on his feet. ‘We can’t let him get away. Not after what he’s done. I just heard on the radio that they’d already started the evacuation of the observation deck, but that they took a hell of a lot of casualties.’ He glared at her. ‘I thought I told you not to do anything stupid.’

‘I didn’t. And before you start giving me a load more crap, remember this: I got a look at him.’

Bolt’s expression brightened just a little. ‘Would you recognize him if you saw him again?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Tina with a cold certainty in her voice. ‘And if I ever do, I’ll kill him.’

Fifty-six

20.00

Garth Crossman held his seventeen-year-old daughter and stroked her soft blonde hair as they sat together on the chaise longue. Lucy was a beautiful girl in so many different ways, and she’d taken the death of her mother earlier that morning in the first of the day’s attacks extremely hard, as was only to be expected.

On the TV, the news was showing the flames pouring out of the upper reaches of the Shard, and the male voiceover was reporting on the third of the day’s terrorist attacks in a tone that was coming close to panic.

No one yet knew the extent of the casualties, but many of the guests from the opening-night party, which not only included leading politicians, businesspeople and celebrities but even, it was rumoured, at least two minor royals, were carrying injuries as they were led from the building. There were also a number of bodies visible behind the glass on the observation deck, even though the camera was trying to avoid them, focusing instead on the first of the fire crews that were now desperately tackling the blaze. But what was obvious to everyone watching was the sheer scale of the disaster, and the ease with which the terrorists had been able to strike at the heart of London, and at one of its most iconic landmarks.

It was like the Stanhope siege all over again, and Crossman felt an elation so pure and ferocious it made him want to shake. Not only had he got rid of his wife, who’d found out far too many of his secrets for her own good, but the attacks that he’d masterminded and invested in — attacks he hoped would push the UK to the brink of social breakdown — had been carried out with near-perfect precision. The missile had hit the Shard before the ultimatum they’d given the government, but it didn’t matter. Crossman had always known that the government would never agree to the demands they’d made. In fact, he’d banked on the fact that they wouldn’t, and that the Prime Minister would refuse to negotiate. Now that the third attack had taken place, he looked weak and ineffective, a spent force.

Garth Crossman loved his country. He loved the fact that it had pioneered the industrial revolution, colonized half the world with its armies, its culture and its ideals, and had stood proud and stable for generations while the hurricanes of change battered the nations around it. That had been the land of his grandfathers. But like the other members of The Brotherhood, he hated what it had become, and it was this feeling of anger, combined with the cold ruthlessness that had served him so well in his business dealings, that had pushed him on to the path he was following now, a path that was littered with death and destruction.

There was another reason too. Garth Crossman would never forget the day when as a twelve-year-old boy he’d been mugged and beaten by a group of local youths after leaving school one day. There’d been four of them — two black, two white. They hadn’t just robbed him. They’d tormented him, cutting up his blazer and cap with a Stanley knife, putting the knife up against his face, laughing as he wept and begged for mercy. They’d threatened to scar him for life. They’d made him take off his trousers, and thrown them into the river. They’d laughed at his tears.

Bastards.

Crossman lived with that ordeal every day of his life. It simmered beneath the surface, filling him with hatred and anger and a constant desire for revenge. Not just against the four thugs who’d put him through that humiliation, but against every piece of lowlife scum that walked the streets, as well as the weak-kneed scum in authority who stood up for them.

‘Who could be doing something like this, Dad?’ Lucy whispered, her face pressed against his chest for comfort, as the sound of the news presenter’s tones reverberated around the room in surround sound.

‘People with no conscience, sweet one,’ said Crossman in soothing tones, using the pet name for his daughter. ‘I’m afraid there are a lot of bad people in the world. But I’m here to protect you. I’ll always be here.’

He fumbled for the remote control, enjoying the warmth of his daughter against him, and switched off the TV, knowing he could enjoy the coverage later. Right now, it was his duty to make Lucy feel better, and loved, again.

One of three mobile phones on the coffee table beside him rang, the ringtone immediately identifying it as the phone used only for emergencies. He tensed. Only two people in the world knew that number. He checked the screen. It was an inner London landline. Almost certainly a payphone.

‘I’m going to have to take this,’ he said apologetically, lifting her head from his chest and getting to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, I promise.’

She gave him a small tear-stained smile to show she understood, and Crossman smiled back at her, thinking what a beautiful, charming girl she was.

He took the call in the adjoining room. It was Cain, and when he spoke, his words sent a cold shiver up Crossman’s spine.

‘We may have a problem.’

Fifty-seven

20.01

Voorhess knew he had to dump the Shogun fast. There was no way he was going to drive it back to the airport now.

Somehow the police had known about the Stinger attack before he’d carried it out. It was the only thing he could think of to explain the way they’d suddenly appeared on Mr Butt’s doorstep when he’d driven out. A few seconds later and they’d have had him, and although he’d tried to run them over, that hadn’t stopped the