The security officer nodded. “It is,” he confirmed, “but if they waited outside and jumped someone who was about to swipe themselves in, there would be no way of stopping them from inside.”
Dillon paled. If the fugitives gained access to the helicopter facility, they might force the pilot to airlift them from the building.
Dillon turned to Nick Bartholomew. “Do you know how to get up there?”
“Well yeah, of course, but…”
“No buts. Take us up there, right now,” Dillon ordered, looking across to Pat Connors for support.
He was rewarded with a firm nod of agreement “I’ll have to come with you, Tony, to provide armed support,” Connors said. He spoke into his lapel microphone, informing the other members of his team (they worked on an independent radio channel) what was happening, then he signalled for another shot who was standing up by the hospital entrance to come over and join them.
“I’ll stay here and hold the fort,” Speed said, “but let me know the moment you have an update.”
“I will do,” Dillon promised.
They were joined by an intimidating looking man in sunglasses who carried a carbine across his chest. “Tony, this is Eric, one of the best shots on the team,” Connors said, making the introductions.
“The best shot,” Eric, a shaven-headed man of about forty, corrected, and Dillon could imagine hawkish eyes narrowing behind his wraparound sunglasses. He nodded casually at Dillon and Bartholomew in turn and then checked that his magazine was seated properly.
“We need to get up to the HEMS team on the seventeenth-floor,” Connors explained to the newcomer. “There’s a possibility that our suspects are trying to break into their base.”
Eric merely raised an eyebrow. He was clearly not an overly talkative chap, Dillon realised.
The four men: Dillon, Connors, Eric and Nick Bartholomew, started up the stairs towards the hospital entrance; their mission to find and secure the helipad on the hospital rooftop.
◆◆◆
Peter Myers left his helicopter, having ensured that it was ready to go at a moment’s notice. You never knew when the warning claxon was going to sound or a call was going to come in requiring immediate action. Mike Cummings walked beside him.
“Right, I’m going down into the mess room for a cup of rosy and some nose-bag,” Cummings declared with a huge grin. He was a rotund man who enjoyed his job immensely. “You coming?” he enquired casually.
Myers smiled back and then blew into his hands to stave off the cold. “You bet. I could murder a hot drink right now.” As they approached the entrance to the muster room, it suddenly burst open in front of them.
Two men, one of them dressed in operating room attire, emerged. They looked ruffled, out of breath and in a big hurry. The doctor – at least he looked like a doctor – was supporting the other man, who appeared to be in considerable pain.
“What the hell?” Cummings mouthed, stopping in his tracks. Who did these people think they were? Didn’t they know that it was a secure area, for authorised persons only?
A third person appeared behind them, this one a dishevelled looking female wearing the uniform of a nurse. She was sweating profusely and her hair was as lank as it would have been had it just been put through a mangle. There was a large scar running down one side of an otherwise attractive face.
Cummings raised his hands to stop them. “Excuse me folks, but you can’t come out here. It’s off-limits to anyone who doesn’t have the proper authority,” he explained, wondering how they had bypassed security.
Winston lunged forward, grabbing hold of the supervisor’s overalls. “Here’s my authority, motherfucker!” He rammed the muzzle of the pistol under Cummings's’ chin, forcing his head back.
Cummings instinctively recoiled. Whimpering in fear, he stared up into the hate-filled, watering eyes of the hulking brute. “Please!” he begged, raising both hands submissively, “don’t hurt me.”
“Shut up,” Winston growled, now jabbing the gun into the side of his face and grinding it into his flesh.
A cry of pain escaped Cummings quivering lips.
Ignoring him, Winston turned to Peter Myers. “You – can you fly that thing up there?” He nodded at the helicopter sitting majestically on its pad.
“Well, I…” Myers stalled, trying to buy them some time. Surely someone in the control room would see what was going on and call the police?
“Don’t fuck with me, man!” Winston screamed. He rammed the gun deeper into Cummings’ cheek to emphasise the point, eliciting another cry of anguish.
“Pete, Please!” Cummings implored, knowing that his life hung in the balance.
Myers raised his hands in defeat. He was wearing a HEMS jumpsuit with four stripes on his sleeve; he could hardly pretend to be anything other than a pilot. “Okay, okay, you win. Yes, I can fly it.”
Winston grunted. “And do you need him to help you?” he asked.
“No.”
Winston allowed himself a cruel smile. “Good.” He released his grip on Cummings, who staggered back, almost fainting with relief.
As the ground crew supervisor leaned towards Myers for support, Winston lashed out, pistol-whipping him across the side of the face. With a dull thud, Cummings dropped flat on the floor, his hands flailing uselessly as he fell. Myers could only stare on in disbelief. There had been no warning. There had been no need.
“You bastard,” Myers said through gritted teeth, his fists clenching and unclenching helplessly by his side.
“Let’s move it, man,” Winston gestured up the ramp with the handgun, pointing it towards the helicopter.
Leaning into the wind, the party of four made their way over to the aircraft. Garston and Angela got in first, moving as far over as they could. Winston gestured for Myers to board next. As the pilot opened the cockpit door, Winston placed a hand on his arm, pulling him near.
“And remember, no funny business,” he warned.
Myers grunted unhappily. He would do as he was told. He wasn’t paid to be a hero.
When they were all aboard, Myers began the pre-flight
