‘Go ahead,’ said Stafford.
‘It’s tucked into the back seat,’ Nicholas said.
‘So much for family unity,’ Ty said, reaching back into the vehicle and securing the weapon.
He hustled them back inside the Hummer, just as the police cruiser pulled in.
A single-officer patrol. More units presumably on the way. Judging from the rapid gesticulations of the attendant, who’d been busy on the phone trying to explain a robbery when he wasn’t being robbed, Ty guessed that the call had been put down as a roll by and report. Still, if he let the situation develop it could go only one way.
He waited for the cop to step out of the cruiser, then he shifted the Hummer into reverse and hit the gas. The rear of the hulking SUV concertinaed the engine block of the Chrysler.
Smiling for the first time since he’d turned into the gas station, Ty took off, leaving behind a very pissed-off cop scrambling for his radio.
Seventy-seven
The Hummer inched between a Nomad Command Post trailer and an up-armoured NYPD Bomb Squad forklift. Van Straten and Stafford could only stare out in bewilderment as more than a hundred men and women, many of them heavily armed, moved carefully between the perimeter and the vehicles.
‘Here we are, boys,’ Ty offered. ‘All ashore that’s going ashore.’
He slowed the Hummer. Over to his left, two regular NYPD cops were taking a good look at him. One of them was on the radio, the other talking out of the side of his mouth to his partner. As they started towards the Hummer, Ty eased down the window to hear what they were saying.
‘Hey. Stop that vehicle.’
Yup, that’s what he thought they were saying.
He closed the window, shifted the transmission into low and aimed straight at the gate. The trick was to hit it at ramming speed, approximately twenty miles an hour, then push on through the very centre. The mistake most people made when ramming, say, a roadblock was to get up as much speed as possible and go straight for it. In close protection circles that was known as ‘crashing’. Very different to what he was about to do.
Ty didn’t look back as he got to the gate. He didn’t have to because he was pretty certain no one would be following him in. The perimeter was more psychological now than physical.
The fence shook on the initial impact. That was followed by the grinding of metal on metal.
By now Stafford, at least, realized what was going on. They were ransom payment, in human form. Next to him, his father sat ramrod straight, tapping into some long-lost patrician fortitude.
As the Hummer breached the fence, the couple of cops who’d been running alongside, banging on the doors like demented groupies chasing a limo, fell away.
The Hummer forged ahead, straight for the building holding the control room. A couple of rounds zinged off the roof, the first metal raindrops of a fast gathering storm.
Ty pulled the Hummer up to the entrance of the main building, got out and opened the rear passenger door on the driver’s side as cover. ‘OK, ladies, end of the line. Better get inside before some over-eager ATF boy scout uses your bony white asses for target practice.’
Van Straten and Stafford scuttled out and inside the building, followed by Ty, all three men met by Mareta’s honour guard. One of them reached for Ty’s gun but he pushed him off. Stafford and Van Straten were led down the long corridor towards the control room.
The door clicked open, and Ty ushered them inside.
Mareta looked the Van Stratens up and down with all the professional detachment of a hangman shaking a man’s hand to calculate his weight.
‘OK, so we’ve delivered what you asked for, the boy and the doctor come with me now,’ Lock said.
Ty stayed by the door, his hand on the butt of his gun. The Glock was tucked uncomfortably into the small of his back.
‘This isn’t all I asked for,’ said Mareta after an uncomfortable silence.
‘Listen, if it’s money. .’ Nicholas Van Straten spluttered.
Mareta ignored him. ‘The boy can go, but the doctor I need.’
Josh rushed to his father and snaked his arms around his waist.
‘Why is he here, anyway?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Ask your son,’ said Lock, gesturing towards Stafford. He then bent down so he was eye level with Josh. ‘How about if I drop you off and then I come back to look after your dad? Would that make you feel better?’
Josh’s head whipped a ‘no’ back and forth.
It was Richard’s turn. ‘Please, Josh. I’ll be fine — really.’
Lock prised Josh from his father, finger by tiny finger.
‘OK?’ he said, finally.
Josh rushed back to give his dad a hug.
‘Ready?’ Lock asked, one hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Josh swallowed hard. Nodded. His hand slipped into Lock’s and they started out of the control room.
Nicholas Van Straten rounded on Stafford. ‘You’re a disgrace!’
‘I did what I had to do. Mother would have understood.’
‘Your mother was a cold-hearted bitch.’
‘Better that than a wimp.’
Mareta eyed the exchange with contempt. ‘I’ll give you both the chance to prove your manhood soon enough,’ she told them.
Stafford and his father stopped arguing and exchanged a worried look.
‘You don’t think I brought you here simply to kill you, do you?’
Seventy-eight
Silhouetted by the spotlight from an NYPD chopper, a piece of white cloth fluttered from Lock’s hand. His other hand clasped Josh’s as he led him to the perimeter gate, one section of which was hanging from a single hinge. He counted at least two sharpshooters with scopes sighted on them. Given the recent terrorist penchant for using both themselves and, in some cases, civilians as body-borne IEDs, it was hardly surprising.
‘Josh, can you take off your jacket for me?’
‘But, it’s cold.’
‘Just for a moment.’
‘Why?’
He could see in the kid’s eyes that he wasn’t doing it without getting a reason first. ‘Because you might have a bomb under it.’
‘Don’t be silly. Little boys don’t carry bombs.’
‘Not usually, no.’
‘But sometimes?’ Josh asked him.
Lock had once seen a twelve-year-old girl with Down’s Syndrome walk up to a Marine manning a checkpoint on Route Irish in Baghdad, shake the soldier’s hand, then blow herself up.
‘Not really,’ he said, ‘but I’d still like you to.’
Josh struggled out of his jacket. Lock lifted up Josh’s top for a moment so that his stomach was visible.
‘OK, you can put it back on.’
The snipers re-sighted fractionally. He guessed they were now both on him. One head. One torso.
Lock opened his jacket and lifted his shirt, giving a full three-sixty twirl, arms spread out to his sides. The snipers stayed sighted on him.
Twenty yards from the gate, he let go his grip on Josh’s hand. ‘Go on.’
