bench. The van rattled violently as it travelled over some rough road and as Stratton felt his bonds loosen he suddenly lashed out, his first blow to the officer’s throat sending him across the van onto the opposite bench. Then he grabbed Hendrickson by the hair and rammed his fist up into his jugular, cutting off the blood supply for a second. Sputum ran out of Stratton’s mouth uncontrollably as he fought the severe stomach cramps to channel his strength into his limbs, driven by the all-consuming incentive that this was his last chance.
Hendrickson made an effort to reach for Stratton who slammed him in the jaw, almost knocking him out. Then Stratton grabbed the handcuffs, threw Hendrickson over onto his front, cuffed his hands behind his back, ripped off his tie and secured the police officer’s hands in a similar manner. Stratton’s gaze flicked up to the small hatch into the driver’s compartment. He prayed it would not open as he dragged both men off the bench to the floor on their bellies. He put his mouth close to their ears and dangled Hendrickson’s keys in front of their eyes.
‘Either of you struggle or shout out, so help me I’ll gouge your eyes out before this van comes to a stop. Do you hear me? Ask yourself if being blind for the rest of your life is worth it.’
Both men blinked wildly, still struggling to breathe properly, their throats swollen due to the blows. But they understood Stratton and, more importantly, believed him.
Stratton raised the bench, pushed the two men beneath it and let the bench come down on them, partly to keep them immobile but mostly to help protect them from the next phase of the escape.
He worked quickly as the van turned down the slip road onto a freeway and joined the slow-crawling mass of traffic as it snaked along the four-lane road towards the towering city centre several miles away. He dug the rest of the RDX out of the tread of his boot with the end of the key, pausing to control a wave of nausea before throwing up again and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He pressed the explosive into a cube the size of a dice.
Stratton got to his feet and dismantled part of the other bench until he was holding half the sitting section that had chains hanging from its centre. Taking the central chain he lifted its free end to the small vent in the ceiling and threaded it past one of the bars. Then he secured it. He aimed the end of the bench at the door and released it, letting it dangle from the ceiling. The end slowly turned away from the door like a compass needle so he took a second chain and secured that to another bar in the roof vent. He released the bench again and this time it swung back and forth like an ancient battering ram, its end staying true and not turning away from the door.
As a final test Stratton pulled the bench back away from the door and then released it so that it swung forward and up. It was a bit noisy when it struck the door and Stratton quickly glanced around to see if the driver’s hatch might open. It didn’t. He went to the door and inspected the mark where the bench had struck it. It was near the lock. Deciding that it would have to do, he took the small piece of RDX, spat some mucus on it and pushed it over the mark, pressing it home until it stuck.
Hendrickson strained to look over his shoulder at whatever Stratton was doing. All he could make out was the improvised battering ram, which he did not think would be enough to break open the door.
Stratton got down on his knees, checked the floor area beneath the remaining section of bench where he would take refuge and looked to make sure that the two men were secure beneath their bench. Hendrickson stared back at him.
‘I’d cover your face if I were you,’ Stratton said.
Stratton pulled the battering ram all the way back and then threw it forward while at the same time diving for cover. He hit the floor at the same instant as the bench struck the RDX. The resulting explosion rocked the vehicle and filled it with smoke – and with daylight as the doors blew open.
Stratton immediately rolled onto his knees and cursed as he hit the swinging bench with the side of his head. He got to his feet just as the driver slammed on the brakes, sending him hard into the front of the van beside the hatch, which then opened. Stratton looked at the back of the van as the smoke quickly cleared and launched himself out.
He flew from the van, landing hard on the bonnet of a car which had stopped close behind. A family inside, frozen in horror, stared at him. He felt the blood trickling down the side of his head where he’d hit the bench, rolled off onto the road and started to run, aware that the next immediate danger might be shots from the two officers in the front of the van.
Stratton did not look back as he ran faster, dodging between the lines of cars that had now stopped. No one dared to challenge the desperate-looking indiv idual who had emerged from the exploding doors of a police van. One officer who jumped out of the van’s front did bring his gun up on aim but as Stratton weaved between the cars he decided against the risk of hitting a civilian. At the same time he wrote off any thought of giving chase to the guy who was running as if he was on fire and whom the cop was clearly never going to catch.
35
Hobart and two police officers approached the entrance to Skender’s building, which had returned to some form of normality as staff continued to prepare for the big event. Hobart had taken a moment in the square to make some calls and confirm any initial contact that had been made to set wheels in motion to evacuate Skender’s business centre, set up a police cordon and bring in EOD teams. He also checked that the relevant utilities such as power, gas and water which might need to be shut down had been notified, as well as emergency services like hospitals. The two police officers had arrived in response to the alarms that had since been switched off and Hobart asked them to accompany him to the building. As he walked across the concourse he paused to look at the statue of Skender, shook his head, and carried on to the entrance.
Klodi was in charge of an enhanced search team at the main doors. When he saw Hobart and the cops approach he stepped forward to meet them.
‘Hey, officers, can I help you?’
Hobart ignored the large thug with the bandaged hand and forced smile to talk to a woman who appeared to be a senior member of the event staff. ‘Who’s in charge here? I’m talking about the catering and everything?’
‘That would be Mr Mathews,’ the woman said, look ing at Hobart and the two cops either side of him.
‘And where would I find Mr Mathews?’ Hobart asked, like a schoolteacher talking to a child.
‘He’s inside,’ she said.
‘Get him out here – now, please,’ Hobart said.
As the woman walked inside Hobart turned to face Klodi, trying hard not to show an anger that was gradually bubbling up inside him. He was expecting to receive resistance from Skender and was getting ready to meet it head on. ‘I want to see Skender.’
‘Mr Skender is a little busy right now,’ Klodi said with a cocky smile, wiping his nose with his bandaged hand. ‘We got an openin’ ceremony today.’
‘I didn’t
‘Do you wanna hold on a moment? He could be anywhere in the building.’
‘You’ve got one minute and then I’m looking for him myself.’
Klodi moved to one side and raised his radio to his mouth. ‘Mr Vleshek. This is Klodi at the front door.’
‘What is it?’ Cano’s voice crackled over the radio.
‘That FBI guy’s down here. Says he wants to see Mr Skender.’
‘Tell him to come back in an hour when the bar’s open.’
Hobart was listening and bit his lip. He was here to kick some Albanian butt but he needed to save himself for the top man. ‘You got thirty seconds,’ Hobart said.
‘You better get down here,’ Klodi said into the radio. ‘I don’t think he’s here on a social visit.’
There was a pause, then the voice came back. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘He’s on his way,’ Klodi repeated, maintaining his smile.
A man stepped through the doors with the female event-staff member in tow and presented himself to the police officers. ‘I’m Mr Mathews, the event manager. Can I help you?’ he asked with a smile.
Hobart took out his badge and showed it to the man. ‘I’m head of the FBI in California. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Well, yes – quite a lot,’ the man said, his smile waning a little at the edges. He was beginning to look a little nervous.
