Blood Sun

“Max is in America?”

“Miami.”

“What on earth is he doing there? Have they caught him? Is he all right? How did you know he was there?” The questions tumbled out of Jackson’s concerned thoughts.

“They responded to our request to keep an eye open for Max’s prints.”

“But how did you get his fingerprints?” Jackson demanded, since he had denied them access to Max’s room for the very reason he did not wish Max’s personal data to be entered into a police computer system.

Ridgeway hesitated, then said, “We got a print off his laptop and circulated it. Thankfully, the FBI dislike the CIA as much as we tolerate MI-Six, so they kept it to themselves. The bureau likes to help their English counterparts whenever the occasion arises.”

Fergus Jackson berated Ridgeway even though the means might, in this case, have justified the end. “Max will be a criminal by entering America under a false name using stolen documents. This could irreparably harm the boy’s future, Bob.”

“He knew what he was doing.”

This was no time to argue with the security official. “What happens now? Can you find him? Can you bring him home?”

“We’re the Security Service, not MI-Six. We have no authority beyond these shores. Anyway, I thought you would like to know we’ve tracked him. I’ll pull whatever strings I can, I promise you. We’ll have people pick him up at Miami airport when he checks in again. Your boy has booked a flight onward to Belize.”

“Belize.”

“What’s the connection with Central America?”

Jackson quickly explained what he knew about the Gordon family background. “This is all about his mother,” he said. Another, more worrying thought occurred to him. “What about the mercenary?”

Ridgeway did not have an answer. Riga had dipped below their radar. “I don’t know where he is,” he admitted.

“Then Max is on his own without any protection from us.”

“Yes. I suppose he is,” Ridgeway said, ending the call.

From his office window, the MI5 officer gazed across Lambeth Bridge and the River Thames. The rise and fall of the tide was a certainty, unlike intelligence gathering. But there were times, as in the river at low tide, when muddy secrets might be revealed.

He turned to face Charlie Morgan. “If we know Max Gordon is over there, then so might the people chasing him. How do you feel about a spot of leave in a warmer climate?” he asked.

Despite the clatter and hydraulic hissing of the garbage collection in the early hours, Max slept soundly. Nor did he wake when a ship’s horn bellowed repeatedly into the night; distant police sirens barely penetrated his dead-to-the-world slumber. What snatched him from his sleep at four in the morning were the screams and gunshots.

They boomed. Terrifying blasts that reverberated throughout the building. Screams and shouts of alarm shattered the air like an exploding bomb. Feet pounded up the stairs. Someone was yelling, banging on doors along the corridor. A young voice. “?Por favor! ?Socorro! ?Alguien! ?Por favor!”

A cry for help. Max nudged the bed away a little, peered through the crack of the doorframe and saw a boy about his own age, maybe older. Hard to tell. He had an underfed, skinny look. His long, black hair caught across his face with sweat. He wore shorts, trainers and a T-shirt, and his hand clutched his side, stemming a flow of blood. He staggered, fell, got to his feet, leaving a blood smear along the wall. He was terrified. Max could hear someone pounding up the stairs after the wounded boy.

Max’s actions leapt ahead of any rational thought process. He heaved the bed aside and stepped into the corridor. The boy’s slight frame was easy to support. The look on his face said it all. A mixture of surprise and gratitude that someone had come to help him.

As Max dragged him to the door of his room, the gunman reached the top of the stairs. Latino twentysomething, bandanna on his head, bling jewelry round his neck and a big handgun in his fist. He snarled, screaming something in Spanish Max couldn’t understand. The shooter was in a blood rage and obviously after the wounded boy Max was now pulling into his room. Max was in the wrong place-again-at the wrong time-again.

A chunk of plaster exploded, followed by another terrifying boom from the handgun. Max threw the boy roughly to the floor of his room and wedged the bed back, ducking as part of the door splintered from another shot. Max’s hands shook with fear, but he hauled the wounded boy up, pushed open the window and lifted him out. He held him by his arm and dropped him onto the top of the Dumpster. No sooner had he let the boy fall than he jumped himself. His feet hit the curved lid. Legs together, he fell forward into space and tucked into a roll as he hit the tarmac.

The Latino kid was bleeding, but because he was so weak, his limp body had slithered from the top of the Dumpster and flopped onto the ground. Shock was getting to him now. Max quickly eased the boy’s hand away from the wound. It was a messy scrape of a flesh wound just above the hip bone, so there was nothing broken, and it looked worse than it was. Max clamped the boy’s hand back over the wound and took his weight. The boy pointed toward the darkened streets and alleyways, nodded enthusiastically, speaking rapidly, words Max didn’t understand. But there was no misunderstanding the danger. The gunman was at Max’s window, firing wildly at the garbage area.

Three shots quivered through the air in quick succession-zip, zip, zip-and the heavy bullets thudded into the Dumpsters. Something in Max’s mind clicked. The shooter was using a revolver. It must have six rounds. The gunman had already fired three inside the building. He was reloading.

Max pulled the boy to his feet, grabbed his arm over his shoulder and ran into the night. Fear powered his legs. His mind screamed at him. Idiot! You’ve left everything in the room! But survival was more important now. Max might have only minutes to live if that gunman had friends down here on the street. But now at least he had covered ground and moved out of sight.

He heard the sound of a big-engined car approaching.

Then two more gunshots. Different from the gunman’s. Car tires squealed round the corner, full-beam headlights holding Max and the wounded boy like a searchlight. The driver was going to run them down.

Max had nowhere to hide.

He braced himself for the inevitable impact if he couldn’t jump aside with the injured boy at the last second.

Chances? Rubbish.

The big American SUV shuddered to a halt. Scorched rubber smoked the air. Two men piled out of the car. They were in their twenties. They wore jackets and jeans, and had automatics in their hands. The driver stayed put, engine revving. They looked Mexican or South American. It didn’t matter. Max was going to die. The nationality of the man who pulled the trigger was irrelevant.

A third man climbed out of the passenger side. His leather jacket, black T-shirt, gold necklace and cowboy boots seemed to proclaim him the leader. He eased a wicked-looking revolver from his waistband and pointed it at Max.

Max desperately looked around for any escape route. There wasn’t one. The wounded boy was on the street behind him. Max stood his ground, fists clenched, ready to fight for his life if given the chance. Shuddering fear and expended energy made him gasp for air. He did not want to die. Let me fight. Give me a chance! Don’t just kill me!

“We haven’t done anything!” Max yelled, exploding his own tension and wanting the man to think for a split second before pulling the trigger. “This boy. He’s hurt. Look! He needs help.” He scrambled for Spanish words. “Hospital. Ayuda. Help him. Call an ambulance. Un medico-una ambulancia.”

All of this happened in seconds. Then the boy on the ground opened his eyes and spoke rapidly. Max caught the word amigo. The man lowered his weapon, then barked orders. His two companions grabbed the wounded boy and put him onto the backseat. Police sirens wailed somewhere in the distance. Were they coming here or not? They faded. Max and the gunman faced each other. He raised his gun again. Max was a