What about it, hardman? Would you shoot a kid?
He squeezed her hand a little harder but his expression didn't alter.
So? Would you? Or are you going soft? If the time came, could you put the barrel to her head and blow her fucking brains out?
'I need to see your dad,' he told Lisa. 'It was the only thing I could say to make him speak to me.'
Ah, very touching. Bottled it, have you?
Lisa didn't look too impressed.
There was a blast of warm air from the tunnel mouth signalling the arrival of the train.
Doyle took a step towards the edge of the platform, pulling Lisa gently with him.
'It's going to be OK,' he said, without looking at her.
She didn't hear him. The rumble of the tube train drowned out his words.
They stepped on as the doors slid open, Doyle ushering her towards the nearest seat.
If he noticed the thin-faced man in the flannel shirt step aboard at the far end of the carriage, a copy of the Standard stuck in the back pocket of his jeans, he gave no indication.
Northern line, southbound, mused Frank Mallory.
Where the fuck was Doyle going?
He stood at the far end of the carriage, not bothering with the paper this time, simply leaning against the partition, eyes scanning the other occupants of the carriage but coming to rest time and again on Doyle and Lisa.
The counter terrorist also glanced around the carriage.
Has he spotted you?
Mallory thought not. However, he had no way of being sure.
Not yet.
The train pulled into Leicester Square station, disgorged some passengers, welcomed aboard others, then pulled off once more.
Doyle and Lisa hadn't moved.
Mallory took a seat which had been vacated at Leicester Square, feeling that it was still warm when he sat on it.
This time he did pull the newspaper from his pocket but he only rested it across his lap, tapping slowly on the paper with his fingers.
He saw Doyle lean across and say something to Lisa, saw her glance at the counter terrorist briefly.
He wished he could hear what Doyle was saying. There was no way he could get closer now without alerting his quarry. The only thing to do was wait.
'So, when we see your dad, you stay close to me, right?' said Doyle, leaning close to Lisa.
'You're going to hurt us both, aren't you?' she whispered.
'Just do what I tell you and you'll be fine,' Doyle said, as reassuringly as he could.
Just don't get in the way if me or your father starts blasting.
'I need to go to the toilet,' she told him, looking almost apologetic.
'You'll have to wait,' he said, trying to soften the edge to his voice.
'But I can't.'
Doyle looked at her, pinning her in the full glare of his steel grey eyes.
'You'll have to. It won't be long now. We're nearly there.'
7.24 P.M.
Arrogant, stupid, shitheaded, fucking piece of crap.
Robert Neville gripped the handlebars of the Harley Davidson so tightly it seemed his fingers would cut through the thick leather of the gloves he wore.
Doyle.
Smartarse fucking bastard.
Who the hell did he think he was? Threatening Lisa.
Neville eased the Tour Glide around a van which had stopped close to the pavement outside a restaurant in Monmouth Street.
The traffic was heavy, as streets in the centre of the capital had been closed after the bombs. Diversions were in force. The traffic was jam-packed, bumper to bumper.
Neville guided the motorbike expertly through the traffic where he could, cursing the other vehicles, cursing the police.
Cursing Doyle.
How dare he?
Arrogant fucker.
Trying to play Neville at his own game. Trying to bargain.
The ex-para felt the bulk of the. 357 beneath one armpit, the. 459 beneath the other.
When he finally got his hands on the counter terrorist he'd empty both fucking guns into him.
Then he'd take Lisa.
Doyle wouldn't shoot her, he was sure of that.
Relatively sure.
Fairly sure?
Fuck it. He had no way of fathoming how the counter terrorist's mind worked. How far he was willing to push this game.
You said you were alike. How far would he go? Would you kill a child if you had to?
Some had died already in the bomb blasts earlier. They must have.
How many young lives do you want on your conscience?
How many had Doyle already got on his?
Would one more matter to him?
Neville thought it wouldn't.
As he headed into St Martin's Lane he felt, he knew, that the man he would shortly be meeting was every bit as ruthless as himself.
For some reason, the thought made Neville smile.
'Say that again, you're breaking up, over,' said PC Nigel Butler, the two-way held close to his ear.
He listened more carefully as Mallory repeated his message.
Through the static and beneath the steady hum of the helicopter's rotor blades, the policeman nodded, picking out the words as if he were sifting through some kind of verbal jigsaw, searching for the right pieces.
'Doyle and the kid are at Charing Cross, heading down the Strand towards Trafalgar Square,' Butler repeated.
The pilot glanced across at him then moved the joystick of the Lynx a few degrees to the left, the vehicle banking.
PC Duncan Clark looked down at the maze of streets and tangle of buildings that was central London, a thousand feet below.
