‘What is it?’
‘Shit.’ Etheridge shot a worried glance in Sam’s direction. Sam, hearing the fear in the room, turned back in.
‘What’s going on?’ Sam asked, looking to Singh, who shrugged. Etheridge didn’t answer but rushed up the stairs as fast as his damaged leg could take him. The two of them followed and as they entered his control station, he pulled up the live feed from the BBC news website onto the screen.
A reporter stood in front of UCLH in Euston, with the rain pouring down. Wrapped in a thick jacket and her hair blowing, she spoke sternly into the camera.
‘The situation is a terrifying one for those inside the hospital and their friends and family. The terrorist has allowed the rest of the hospital to be evacuated but has kept the entire Teenage and Young Adult ward inside. With twenty-three patients, eight nurses, two doctors, and a receptionist trapped, the terrorist appears to have also brought in his own hostage. The following image was lifted from the security cameras only a few minutes ago.’
The image appeared on the screen, a grainy, grey image showing the back of a well-built man, who appeared to be holding a device in his hand. The reporter continued.
‘The terrorist has made only one demand, which has baffled the police who are trying, as we speak, to negotiate a peaceful outcome. The terrorist has requested that police bring Sam Pope, the recently incarcerated vigilante, to him otherwise he will detonate the bomb. We will have more information as we get it.’
Singh flashed a look at Etheridge, realising that they were the only two people who knew of Sam’s location. But Etheridge knew getting Sam to deal with the situation wasn’t going to be a problem.
Not when he saw the fury in Sam’s eyes as he scanned the grey, security image that Etheridge had taken a screen grab of and expanded on a wall mounted monitor.
On her knees, cowering beside the terrorist, was Lucy.
With a bomb strapped to her chest.
Sam was out the door within seconds.
* * *
With the road blocked off by the flashing blue lights of several police cars, Ashton watched as her driver was waved through the barricade, pondering her next move.
How the hell did things fall apart so quickly?
Her driver pulled the car up to a safe distance from the hospital, where she was immediately greeted by Sergeant Tom Reynolds, a fiercely loyal man who would have been her choice to manage the situation had it been hers to make.
But it hadn’t.
That became clear as Commissioner Stout marched across the mayhem of the police cordon, weaving between officers who were trying their best to comfort the evacuated patients, while their nurses attended to them in the cold, bitter evening. As he approached, Ashton could tell his mood hadn’t improved from earlier.
It had clearly worsened.
‘We have a situation here, Ruth.’ Stout spoke quietly, ushering her away from the earshot of the surrounding officers and public. There was no press nearby, as they were all lined across the cordon line, all of them relaying the exact same story in their never-ending quest for ratings.
‘Do we know who he is?’
‘Not a clue,’ Stout said firmly, drawing his fleeced jacket tight to shield from the cold. ‘But we know what he wants.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Sam Pope.’
Ashton burst out laughing, drawing a few interested looks from the nearby watchers and Stout scowled.
‘Deputy Commissioner, this is no time for laughter.’ He reprimanded her as quietly as he could. ‘He is threatening to kill dozens of innocent people.’
‘So what, he expects us to just march Sam Pope in there for him? Why does he want him?’
‘We don’t know,’ Stout said, scanning the street in horror.
‘Possible collusion?’ Ashton offered, taking the chance to undermine Sam’s perceived hero status.
‘Doubtful. It doesn’t fit the brief.’
‘Sir, with all due respect, Sam Pope is a violent, dangerous criminal. Experience tells me that birds of a feather flock together.’
‘Your experience hasn’t helped so far,’ Stout spat, crushing Ashton beneath his words. ‘Is there any update on Sam’s location?’
Ashton shook her head, the raindrops flicking from the small bowler hat she wore as part of her uniform.
‘No, sir. Nor do we have any contact with DI Singh.’
Stout shook away the final comment due to its irrelevance, and as a car pulled up, his attention was stolen from Ashton, who fumed at her dismissal.
‘The negotiator has just arrived,’ Stout explained. ‘Hopefully, he can get through to this man and we can shut this down. In the meantime, Ruth, find Sam Pope. And do it now!’
The emphasis on the final word may as well have been the final nail in her coffin. Ashton was furious that after everything she’d done to bring him to justice, Sam Pope would still cost her everything she’d worked so tirelessly for. She watched as Stout met the negotiator at the car, the man clearly overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation and the seniority with which he was welcomed. As Stout explained the situation and the negotiator, a middle-aged man with glasses and thinning hair, Ashton looked up at the hospital, expecting to see the third floor explode in a colossal display of fire and glass any second.
It made her sick to her stomach and Ashton knew she had no cards left to play.
* * *
Singh hammered down the M3 as fast as she could, weaving in and out of the light traffic that was trundling towards the nation’s capital city. It was a drive she’d made a few times in the past few months and she knew this one would be for the final time.
The silence in the car was unbearable.
Singh didn’t regret having sex with Sam, and she knew he didn’t either. The tension was based on the truth that they knew it could go no further, that they’d sampled a life they yearned for but could never attain. Singh wanted to talk about
