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Dillon’s descent into the bowels of Liverpool Street was buffeted by a surprisingly strong wind, which he guessed was being generated by trains pushing air through the tunnels ahead of them. The walls on either side of the escalators were peppered with posters in cheap tacky frames, most of which were advertising West End shows. Nestled between The Lion King and Mamma Mia, a shot of a woman’s legs, long, slim and undeniably exquisite drew his attention. The legs were promoting a well-known brand of tights, and despite the urgency of the situation, Dillon found himself wondering if the model’s face was half as pretty.
He strained his ears for signs of movement below, but the only noises that reached him came from the constant clanking of escalator machinery and the occasional roar of an approaching train. There was no sign of Jack as he glanced across to the down escalator, but he knew his friend was there, waiting for the signal to move.
Dillon stepped over a discarded copy of the Sun as he reached the bottom stair and padded towards the eastbound platform. He was almost certain the shots had come from that direction, although he knew sounds were easily distorted down here. He paused as he reached the platform entrance, signalling Tyler to go the other way, onto the westbound platform.
Dillon caught a momentary glimpse of Jack, a blur moving across the outer edge of his vision as he darted onto the westbound platform. Hopefully, he would be able to circle around behind Winston without being seen. That was the plan; all they had to do now was make it work.
Dillon cautiously poked his head around the corner, ready to whip it straight back at the slightest sign of trouble.
Nothing; the platform appeared empty. He took a deep breath, counted to five and stepped onto the platform, exposed and vulnerable. A wave of relief swept over him when he didn’t immediately find himself staring down the barrel of a gun. He was just beginning to think that he might have picked the wrong platform when he heard the unmistakable sound of someone coughing just ahead.
He took a step forward and then stopped.
What was that?
Vibration travelled up through his feet, and a familiar noise, growing in volume like a banshee’s wailing, emanated from the tunnel’s mouth as a train approached. “Oh shit!” Dillon grimaced as the white, red and blue streak erupted out of the tunnel. He watched, aghast, as the long line of carriages sped by, knowing that Winston was as good as free if he managed to board a train. And then he realised that the train wasn’t losing speed; it was going straight through without stopping.
As the train’s noise and wind faded into insignificance, he heard the coughing again, but it was weaker this time. Whoever had made the noise had to be very close. It seemed to have come from a small recess just ahead. As Dillon moved slowly forward the limbic system in the lower half of his brain was already sending out signals to prepare his body for fight or flight. Taking a deep breath, Dillon geared himself up to pounce.
CHAPTER 14
Jack had managed to sneak onto the westbound platform without being seen. So far, so good, he told himself as he massaged cramped sinews. The fact that Dillon had sent him this way indicated that the big man thought the killer was on the eastbound platform. As he stood there, waiting for his circulation to return to normal, Jack was suddenly engulfed by a sense of impending doom. He couldn’t shake the strangely cloying feeling, which seemed to hover above him like a personalised storm cloud.
Well, it was too late to back out now.
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Dillon recoiled as he came face to face with the occupant of the urine-scented recess. “Oh God!” he breathed, unaware that he had even spoken. Slumped on the floor in front of him lay a young British Transport policeman. A bright red circle was slowly spreading from the area immediately above his chest. The poor man was barely conscious and his pale face had contorted into a painful rictus. Dillon saw that he had somehow managed to prop himself up against the wall.
The officer, his breathing ragged, stared at Dillon through glazed eyes. “Get…back, not safe…get…help…” he rasped, the effort clearly sapping his remaining strength.
Dillon knelt down beside him and squeezed the younger man’s hand reassuringly. “Help’s on the way,” he said, hoping it was. “Just hang in there a little longer.”
There was an entry wound just below the shoulder, so hopefully the boy was going to be okay – unless, of course, the bullet had hit an artery and he was hemorrhaging internally, or it was a light caliber round that had hit a bone and bounced about inside his body. Dillon had attended post mortems on shooting victims where the entry wound was high up, as it was in this case, but the exit wound was down by the hip. The bullet had ricocheted downwards after striking bone, causing catastrophic damage as it did so. He prayed that wouldn’t be the case here. He noticed there was a first aid kit attached to the BTP officer’s utility belt. Hopefully, it contained bandages that Dillon could use to apply pressure to the wound in order to try and stop the bleeding.
Footsteps startled him.
“Don’t move pig, or you’ll get what he got,” Winston announced as he emerged from the shadows, pointing the stubby revolver at Dillon’s chest. Dillon stood up slowly, gazing into the man’s eyes as he turned to face him. They were cold, cruel and full of hatred.
Winston motioned Dillon away from the injured man, gesturing with the gun, towards the track. “Move to the edge, pig. Nice an’ slow, you know what I mean.” He cocked the gun, to show that he meant business.
As he moved away from the wall, Dillon
