start rowing as hard as you can against the current. Got that?'
Jack and I nodded as Ferguson used his oar to steer us as close to the bank as possible. Although the blizzard was providing us with the best possible cover, there was no point in taking foolish chances; the further out we were, the easier we would be to spot.
I was astonished at how fast we moved, and we were floating alongside Parliament within ten minutes. As we neared the farthest tower, Ferguson gave the signal. Jack and I dipped our oars and began paddling frantically against the tide, trying to slow us down. The Ranger took his bow and notched an arrow. Attached to the shaft was a small metal grappling hook from which trailed a slender nylon rope. Despite all our efforts, we continued to sweep down the river, but Ferguson did not allow himself to be distracted. As we reached the tower he let the arrow fly. It soared away into the white and although we listened, we never heard it land. But the rope didn't tumble back to the water.
He grabbed the end of the rope and looped it through one of the metal rings on the rim of the dinghy and pulled. I sighed with relief as the rope went taut and he pulled us in to the edge of the river, where the dinghy nestled underneath the concrete lip that marked the ground floor of the Palace. He tied it off and Jack and I gasped with relief as we dropped our oars. My arms were burning from the effort of rowing against a current that laughed at my exertions.
We looked up at the blue nylon rope that trailed up into the night sky. The snow was so thick now that the top of the tower was lost to view. The rope seemed to rise up into nowhere. We all pulled on the rubber-coated climbing gloves that Ferguson had looted for us from a sports store on our way into town, and put on the strange climbing pumps which were soft and lacked soles, but had rubber moulding all over, for purchase.
'Climbing in these conditions is extremely dangerous,' said Ferguson. 'So we'll go in the first window we come to. Take your time, don't hurry, and remember — there's no safety rope, so whatever you do, don't lose your grip.'
I handed him the heavy kit bag that was the key to our success. He slung it over his back, took the rope in both hands and launched himself off the dinghy. He scrambled up over the concrete lip in no time at all. We waited until we heard a muffled crack and saw shards of stained glass tumble past us into the water. I gestured for Jack to go first.
He nervously followed Ferguson, but whereas the Irishman had been speedy and confident, Jack was all over the shop. His prosthesis slowed him down, and his fibreglass foot scrabbled uselessly against the wet concrete and he slipped backwards more than once as the nylon rope got wetter and more slippery. Eventually he also disappeared over the concrete lip and the rope went slack indicating that he'd made it inside.
I grabbed the rope and pulled myself up. Every set fracture and old bullet wound protested as I hauled myself skywards, but I focused on doing everything slowly and carefully, and managed a steady, unwavering ascent.
When I crested the concrete rim I saw a gothic arched hole where a stained glass window had nestled. I reached up to grab the window sill and two things happened in quick succession: there was a burst of gunfire from inside the room, and Jack crashed out of the window to my right, flying backwards in a cloud of glass and lead, clutching Ferguson's black kit bag, plummeting soundlessly into snowfall.
I braced my feet against the stone, looped the rope around my left hand, reached into my coat, pulled out my Browning and then pushed up with my legs, propelling my head and shoulders in through the gaping stone window frame, firing as I went.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Caroline hit the floor hard with her right shoulder, which made an awful crunching sound. She rolled with the momentum, tumbling like a drunken acrobat.
She screamed as she hit, but it was more battle cry than fear. There was anger in it too, that none of them had reckoned on so obvious a reversal of fortune. That plane was huge and made a perfect billet. Somebody should have worked that out.
When she finally stopped moving and skidded to a halt, she hurt everywhere. She just wanted to lie down, close her eyes and rest for a while. But she did what she always did in moments like this: she asked herself what Rowles would do. As soon as she asked herself that question, she opened her eyes, gritted her teeth, gripped her gun and got the fuck up.
Her shoulder was useless and there was something pulled in her left leg; her hearing was muffled and… woah… her balance was a bit off. But she limped back towards the plane, ignoring the pain.
The kids were pouring up the stairs and through the jagged blackened hole that denoted where the door had been a minute ago. Small circular windows ran the length of the plane on two levels, which meant that this plane was a double decker. The windows along the lower level were lit by the strobe flashes of gunfire; the upper windows revealed blurs of movement but no fighting yet.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and she whirled, gun raised. It was Tariq. He was looking at with concern and his lips were moving.
'Speak up,' she said. 'Part deaf. Explosion.'
'I said are you okay?'
'What do you bloody think? Come on.' She turned and kept moving towards the steps. Tariq fell in beside her as Wilkes and the ten kids that had come in the other end streamed past them towards the stairs. Caroline glanced up at Tariq, who waved them past, obviously determined to stick with Caroline.
'I don't need a baby sitter,' she said.
'Well I do,' he replied, still focused on the stairs ahead. 'And you're the designated adult.'
Caroline smiled as she swung the gun back up to her hip.
'This plane is huge,' she said as they reached the foot of the stairs. The last few kids were disappearing into the belly of the plane above them.
'A380,' said Tariq. 'Biggest airliner ever made. Lap of luxury.'
A huge explosion blew out the rear doors and a man dressed entirely in black and with an Uzi in his hand, tumbled backwards out of the resulting gap in the fuselage, arms flailing. He fell onto the concrete head first, his brains and lungs suddenly finding themselves colocated.
'They do know we want some of them alive, don't they?' asked Caroline as she dragged herself up the stairs.
A man appeared in the hole above them, firing back down the body of the plane. Caroline hardly blinked as she squeezed the trigger and cut him down where he stood.
'I don't know, Caroline. Do they?' asked Tariq as she stepped into the plane.
She glanced down at the dead snatcher then looked up at Tariq and made a sad face. 'Sorry,' she said.
Tariq tutted as he stepped across the jagged metal edge. 'Just don't let it happen again.'
They turned and walked into the passenger section, guns raised, and all their wisecracks died unspoken as they beheld the carnage before them.
The two aisles were littered with corpses of children and snatchers alike. The air was thick with cordite and the walls and ceilings were sprayed with blood.
Caroline couldn't have told you whether it was her post-explosion balance problem or the sight of that charnel house which caused it, but she turned, bent over and was violently sick.
'Fifteen of our children dead,' said Tariq as he sat down next to her in the business class compartment an hour later. 'Seven of yours, eight of ours. Plus the thirty-two kidnapped kids they blew up in their attempts to escape.'
Caroline shook her head in disbelief. 'And?'
'Two of the Rangers are down.'
'Wilkes?'
'No, he's fine.'
'What about captives?'
'Two. Wilkes is just getting started on them. Thought you might want to come along.'
