by Kevin Brooks
I selected the Sowton Lane address and tried holding it down, hoping for some kind of menu to appear, but nothing happened. I studied the screen again, looking for other options, but I couldn’t see anything useful.
It was at that point, just as I was about to go back to the main search menu, that I heard the front door opening.
32
In the second or two between the sound of the front door opening and the sound of it being closed, a whirlwind of thoughts raced through my head. Who could it be? Grandad? Courtney? The police? A neighbour? Whoever it was, they’d opened the door with a key. I’d taken Nan and Grandad’s door key. Did they have another one? Why would Grandad be here? Did Courtney have a key? What about the neighbours? Would the police have a key?
I heard voices then.
Muttered voices from the hallway.
I froze, barely breathing, and listened hard.
The voices were low and muffled, and I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but I was fairly sure there were two of them. And from the sound of it, they were both American.
American? I thought.
CIA?
The surveillance team from the white van?
The footsteps were moving along the hallway now.
Did they know I was in the garage? I wondered. Did they know I was in the house at all? Had they followed me from Nan and Grandad’s? Even if they hadn’t, they must have seen my bike outside. They must know I was here somewhere. I looked over at the door to see if I’d closed it or not. It was shut. But the garage light was on, and I knew the light was visible from the other side of the door. You could see it shining through the gap at the bottom. So even if they didn’t know I was in here, they’d know someone was in here when they saw the light.
Should I turn it off ?
I reached out for the light switch . . . then stopped.
I could hear them approaching the door now. They could probably see the light already, which meant they’d see it being turned off. Then they’d definitely know someone was in here.
What should I do?
Think!
Turn off the light? Leave it on and hope they didn’t see it?
I was still trying to make up my mind, my finger poised over the light switch, when I saw the door starting to open. Without really thinking about it, I hit the light switch, quickly slipped the sat nav in my pocket, and began edging round to the front of the car. As the light went off, plunging the garage into darkness, the door swung open and I saw two figures silhouetted in the doorway. The one on the left immediately reached round for the switch by the door, and as the light came back on again, I could see them both quite clearly. The one who’d switched the light back on was a well-built man in his mid-twenties wearing a dark-grey suit. The other one was a short-haired black woman in a leather jacket and jeans.
The woman was pointing a gun at me.
It was a pistol, a handgun. A matt-black automatic.
I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
The woman was standing perfectly still. She was holding the gun in her right hand, supporting her wrist with her other hand, her elbows tucked in close to her body.
I was too stunned to do anything. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. I didn’t even feel scared, just numbed to the bone. All I could do was stand there like a zombie, staring dumbly at the barrel of the gun.
It was probably only a second or two before the woman lowered the pistol and secured it in a holster on her belt, but it didn’t feel like a second or two. It felt like for ever.
‘It’s all right, Travis,’ the woman said, holding up her hands to show me they were empty. She smiled, trying to reassure me. ‘We just want to talk to you, OK?’
I still couldn’t speak. I just stared at her.
She smiled again, trying to look friendly, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes were cold and calculating.
‘Hey, come on, Travis,’ she said breezily, her American accent soft and unthreatening, ‘why don’t you just—’
‘Who are you?’ I said, surprised at the steadiness in my voice. ‘What are you doing in my house?’
The woman hesitated for just a second, then reached into her jacket pocket. ‘We’re with the CIA, Travis,’ she said, taking out a wallet. ‘I’m Special Agent Zanetti, and this –’ she indicated her colleague ‘– this is Special Agent Gough.’
Gough took a wallet from his pocket, and they both opened them up and held them out, showing me their CIA identity cards. Which was kind of pointless. Because even if I could have seen them from where I was standing – which I couldn’t – I had no idea what a genuine CIA identity card looks like anyway.
‘So can we talk now?’ Special Agent Zanetti said, putting her wallet away. ‘All we want—’
‘How did you get in here?’ I said.
She sighed. ‘Listen, Travis—’
‘You can’t just break into my house and point a gun at me,’ I said, taking out my mobile. ‘I don’t care who you are. I’m calling the police.’
Zanetti glanced quickly at Gough, and I saw him nod his head and put his hand in his pocket. I thought he might be reaching for a gun, but he didn’t take anything out. I held up my mobile, my thumb poised over the screen, letting them know that I meant what I said. Zanetti just looked at me and shrugged, as if to say, Go on then, call the police, see if I care. I wondered if she was calling my bluff, just pretending she didn’t care, but then Gough took something out of his pocket and held it up for me to see. It was a small handheld device with three stubby little aerials sticking out at the top. I was pretty sure I knew what it was – Dad had shown me something similar once – and when I glanced at my mobile and saw that I didn’t have a signal, I knew I was right.
‘Mobile phone jammer?’ I said to Gough.
He nodded, looking bored, and put the device back in his pocket.
They both started moving towards me then – Zanetti edging her way along the right-hand side of the car, Gough squeezing through the clutter on the left. I instinctively began backing away from them, but there was so little room between the bonnet of Dad’s car and the garage door that I simply had nowhere to go.
‘There’s no need for this, Travis,’ Zanetti said, pushing past a pile of boxes. ‘We’re only trying to help you.’
Ignoring her, I turned round to the garage door and tried the handle. I didn’t remember Dad locking the door after he’d put the sat nav in here, but either I’d misremembered or someone else had locked it since, because it was definitely locked now. I yanked the handle a couple of times, just to make sure, but I knew I was wasting my time.
I turned back and looked at Zanetti and Gough. They were getting closer, both of them passing the car doors and heading towards the front wheels. There was absolutely no way I could get past them. And I couldn’t run away from them . . .
There was nowhere to go.
I was trapped.
They’d reached the front wheels of the car now. A few more steps, and they’d have me.
I saw Zanetti glance across at Gough – You ready?
Gough nodded – I’m ready.
They both turned back, looked at me, and started moving again – up to the front wings of the car, around the bonnet . . .
I waited until they’d almost reached me, and then I made my move.
33
Using the front bumper as a step, I leaped up onto the bonnet of the car, then straddled up over the windscreen, rolled onto the roof, and started sliding myself towards the back of the car. Gough made a lunge for me, reaching out for my trailing foot, but I was too fast for him. I could hear Zanetti barking out orders as she shoved her way back along the garage wall, and then I felt the car shift beneath me, and I guessed that Gough had climbed up onto the bonnet and was coming after me. I knew he wasn’t going to catch me though. I’d taken them by surprise. I’d given myself the head start I needed. All I had to do now was keep going, keep sliding – down the rear windscreen an
d over the boot – and there was no way they were going to stop me getting to the door.
They didn’t even get close.
As I slid off the car boot and sprinted for the door, I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Zanetti was stuck about halfway along the garage wall. She’d got herself tangled up in the folds of a deckchair that had slipped off the wall in front of her. Gough, meanwhile, was crawling clumsily across the roof of the car. When he saw me looking back at him, and realised how close I was to getting away, he heaved himself up onto his hands and knees – in an effort to crawl faster, I suppose – and promptly cracked his head against a metal strut in the garage roof. As he swore loudly and clutched at his head, I gave him a quick smile, then stepped through the garage door into the hallway and shut the door behind me. I slid the bolts shut, top and bottom, then locked the door and removed the key.
I instinctively started to run then, heading along the hallway towards the front door, but after a second or two I stopped. I thought for a moment, then turned round, went back to the garage door, and just stood there, listening and thinking, taking my time . . .
There was no need to rush now, I realised. Zanetti and Gough were safely locked in the garage. The locked door wouldn’t hold them for ever, of course, but they weren’t going to get through it in a hurry. I had time enough to think things through.
I put my ear to the door and listened. I could hear Zanetti talking, her voice calm and controlled, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Whatever it was though, Gough wasn’t saying anything in reply. All I could hear was a metallic dong followed by a dull thump – which I guessed was the sound of Gough jumping or sliding off the car boot – and then another muttered curse of pain.
‘Get the door open,’ I heard Zanetti tell him.
There was still no reply from Gough, but a few seconds later the door handle turned and the door rattled in its frame. I imagined Gough on the other side, yanking on the handle, trying the door, assessing its strength. I knew it wouldn’t be long before he started trying to smash it open.
Every cell in my body was telling me to run, just turn round right now and get out of here as quickly as possible, but I forced myself to resist the urge. Just think about things for a second, I told myself. Think about what you’re doing. Do you really need to run away? What’s going to happen if you don’t? Are Zanetti and Gough going to hurt you?
Something heavy thumped against the door then, and I saw it bend outwards, straining against the frame. Gough had obviously found something to use as a battering ram.
Time was running out.
Maybe you shouldn’t run? I said to myself. Maybe you should stay here and talk to them after all? You never know, you might get some answers . . .
Gough hammered the door again, and this time it bent even further.
Can you trust them? I asked myself.
I remembered what Grandad had told me. Never trust a spook, Trav.
As the door took another pounding, and I heard the sound of cracking wood, I turned and ran for the front door.
I suppose I should have realised that Zanetti and Gough would have a contingency plan, and I probably should have realised what Zanetti was doing when I’d heard her talking in the garage, her voice calm and controlled. I should have known that she wasn’t just talking to Gough. I should have at least considered that she’d told him to switch off the jammer and then used her mobile to call for back-up.
If I’d thought about that, I wouldn’t have been quite so surprised when I opened the front door and found myself facing a giant-sized man wearing a black suit and wrap-around sunglasses.
34
One of the first things Dad taught me about boxing was that speed is more important than size. ‘It doesn’t matter how big your opponent is,’ he told me. ‘If you’re fast enough to hit them without getting hit yourself, you’re going to beat them every time.’ And he was right. It was how I’d beaten Evie Johnson and countless other kids over the years. But none of those kids was anywhere near the size of the CIA agent standing in front of me. I mean, he was just massive. At least six and a half feet tall, huge shoulders, a great solid barrel of a chest, arms as thick as my waist, hands the size of shovels. He was so big that he completely filled the doorway. And the instant I saw him, I knew straight away that it did matter how big he was. It was obvious. He was simply too big to punch. Even if I could reach his head, which I doubted, my little fists wouldn’t make any impression on that giant-sized skull. And a punch to his belly would be about as effective as punching a whale.
Not that I actually thought about any of this.
I just opened the door, saw this man-mountain on the step, and in a split second my instincts told me what to do. Do what Grandad would do, they told me. Fight dirty. He might be big, but he’s still just a man. Every man’s got a weak spot.
I backed away, making sure I looked really scared of him – which wasn’t difficult – then I turned round and started running down the hallway. As soon I heard him stumbling after me, I quickly changed direction – stopping on the spot, spinning round, and running back towards him. His sunglasses had mirrored lenses, so I couldn’t actually see the look of surprise in his eyes, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t expecting me to turn on him. Which was why, just for a second, he hesitated.
A second was all I needed.
As he lumbered to a halt and just stood there staring at me, not quite sure what I was doing, I ran up to him, feinted to one side, then dipped my shoulder the other way and kicked him as hard as I could between his legs. I put all my weight and momentum into it, imagining that I was volleying a football into the top corner of the net, and from the sound the big man made as he doubled over and fell to his knees – a deep, breathless, pitiful groan of agony – I knew I’d put him out of action.
He didn’t do anything to stop me as I squeezed past him and ran for the door. He was too busy trying to breathe.
My bike was just where I’d left it, leaning against the wall. As I sprinted over to it, my head was spinning with a crazy mixture of relief, disbelief, and sheer exhilaration. I couldn’t quite believe that I’d done it. I’d actually done it. I’d outmanoeuvred Zanetti and Gough, I’d neutralised their giant-sized back-up . . .
I’d beaten the CIA.
I mean, how mad was that?
I’d beaten the CIA!
All I had to do now was get on my bike and get going.
But that was the last positive thought I had.
Because as I reached my bike and grabbed hold of the handlebars, I saw that both of the tyres had been slashed to ribbons, and all of a sudden I was back in the real world again. Of course I hadn’t beaten the CIA. Who the hell did I think I was? They were the CIA. I was just a kid. They knew every trick in the book. I was making things up as I went along. They didn’t just have contingency plans, they had contingency plans for their contingency plans . . .
Pull yourself together, I told myself. So they slashed your tyres. So what? You can still run, can’t you? You can still beat them.
I started to run.
Just as I got going I heard a crash of wood from inside the house, and I guessed that Gough had succeeded in smashing down the garage door. I ran faster, pelting along the driveway towards the gate, hoping to get out of sight before Zanetti and Gough came out of the house. If they didn’t know which way I’d gone, I might still have a chance of getting away. I knew the streets round here like the back of my hand. I knew all the little tracks and lanes, the shortcuts and pathways, the places where cars couldn’t go. I was already picturing them in my mind as I got to the gate. I was already planning out my escape route – turn right at the gate, along Dane Street, left at the end, then over the road and cut down the cycle path into the kids’ playground . . .
I saw the men getting out of the Range Rover just as I was turning right out of the gate. Two more black-suited men, undoubtedly CIA agents, their eyes fixed on me as they got out of their car and started walking along the
street towards me. I turned round and started running in the opposite direction . . . then stopped again. Another two CIA agents were blocking the pavement up ahead, about twenty metres away. As I stood there staring at them, they began walking towards me as well.
I glanced back at the other two. They were fifteen metres away.
I heard a shout, looked over my shoulder, and saw Zanetti and Gough coming out of the house.
I was trapped again.
Two men to my left, two to my right, Zanetti and Gough behind me.
Nowhere to go.
And they were all closing fast.
Fifteen metres away . . . twelve . . .
My only option was to just go for it. Just run. Right or left, it didn’t matter. Just run at them, get past them, and keep going.
Ten metres . . .
Could I get past them?
Nine . . .
Probably not. Almost definitely not.
Eight . . .
And even if I did . . .
Seven . . .
Don’t think. Just do it.
I took a breath, got ready to run . . . and then stopped at the sound of a speeding car. I looked down the road to my right and saw a black BMW with tinted windows racing up the street. It didn’t slow down as it approached the two CIA agents, and if they hadn’t leaped out of the way at the last moment, hurling themselves into the gutter, the BMW would have run them over.
I watched, bewildered, as the BMW screeched to a halt right in front of me. The rear door was already opening as the car pulled up, and by the time it had stopped – with the engine still revving – the door was wide open. As I stood there, rooted to the spot, a calm voice called out to me from the back of the car.
‘Can I offer you a lift, Travis?’
I’d never heard the voice before, but I was fairly sure who it belonged to. And as I leaned over and looked inside, my suspicions were confirmed. The man in the back of the car had short grey hair and steely grey eyes, and he was wearing the same dark suit he’d worn to the funeral.
