“What the hell? This is a complete interior architectural plan of the South Conference Centre in every detail. Secret passageways underneath, catering passageways, fire doors … even the damn codes for the alarm systems are listed. Who does this ruddy Rawlins think I am? He gave me the solemn impression he knew basically nothing. I thought he meant I should meet Sighrus head-on outside the building to put a juicy bullet through his ugly head.”
“Well he wasted his time, didn’t he?”
“Take me there.”
Ty’s eyes bulged.
“We’ve crashed in this spot way too long,” Brock said. “Get the car started. I want to carry out a reconnaissance mission around the South Conference Centre area first. Like you mentioned, security will be crawling all over the place. Quick or we’ll be too late. Time’s getting on.”
Pausing, Ty reluctantly reached under the steering column of the old banger, pulling at the wires and forging them together, turning the engine over. Brock silently cursed that new cars were almost impossible to steal; a bit of luxury—or at least a comfy seat—wouldn’t go amiss.
In the distance, they could see a large concrete and glass building. Bright lights gleamed inside and aerials poked out from the roof. Flags swished in the front of its main entrance and a concrete canopy hung across its shiny glass doors. At first glance, everything appeared bare; it certainly was not a place where a major security conference for Britain was taking place. Could Rawlins have lied?
Brock stepped nearer. Several uniformed security guards appeared to hover around inside the glass doors, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Bin men stood quietly on the pedestrianised concrete slab area, appearing to be idling until Brock clocked one of them whispering into a radio. Several vehicles with random people sitting stiffly upright were sporadically parked along the busy main road. As he weaved through the streets nearby, casing the whole joint, he clocked an unmarked door at the side of the building. That is where he’d make his move shortly. For now, he’d wait.
Slumped back in the Mini, which was parked randomly in a quiet residential area, he inspected and memorised the plans of the building. He nudged Ty in the rib cage.
“I didn’t mean to snap back at the heath if you thought I did. This bust is so important now. Sarah’s life could depend on it.”
“You shouldn’t have forced me to drive here,” Ty said. “This is a suicide mission, and you’ll never get out. You’re crazy.”
“He’s got my girl and I want her back. These detailed architectural plans tell me where the passageways and underpasses are in the conference centre itself. I shot a closer look on the dry run just now. It’s a bit of a maze, but I reckon I can get in the building somehow if I get there early enough before everyone arrives.”
“This is a stupid idea. Don’t you think the security services will have assessed the building too? I don’t want you to go, buddy.”
“I reckon you should make yourself scarce and meet up at dusk in the same lay-by on the heath, say midnight, maybe later if you are still with your girl. I’ll wait. I’ve got some other business to attend to first. Don’t worry, I have something he wants. Afterwards, I’ll jump onto public transport and make my way to the heath. In case I don’t make it out, visit Rawlins. If he wants Sighrus dead, he’ll cooperate.”
Ty’s tired eyes widened. “We’re both wanted by the police. You’ll be recognised at every turn. I can’t let you do this, Brock. This place will be heavily guarded and you’re not thinking straight. There’s probably a shoot-to-kill policy on you!”
“Just make the rendezvous point later. I’ll take my mobile. See you there!”
Brock drifted through the busy streets discreetly blending to the surroundings like a true spy. He headed towards the side door he had spotted earlier, but stumbled on a pair of old dark-brown spectacles lying on the ground. Reaching down, he snatched them from the road and slipped them into his jacket pocket. As expected, undercover agents dressed in ordinary attire were spread far and wide around the venue, crawling around the building like ants. He shot a glance at the unmarked silver side door, watching a young lad with earphones entering. Brock smiled; the catering entrance was still in full swing.
He paced across the street, heading towards the door, checking the pistol stashed in the back of his trousers. He pulled the grim brown spectacles out of his pocket and placed them on the bridge of his nose. Yanking the silver door wide open, he stepped inside. A blurry uniformed security guard sprung, out tapping him on the shoulder and standing tall directly in front of him. Brock knew the glasses were a bad idea, but he’d have to play along now, although he could see nothing but a blur in front of him. Wiping the newly formed beads of sweat from his forehead, he breathed out to calm the fluttering in his stomach. A moment later, a faint uneasiness touched him. He paused, shooting a glance at the security officer while two other men dressed in ordinary jeans and coloured t-shirts walked in, nodding at the officer.
“I’m catering!” shouted Brock, touched again by some faint fear.
The security guard sniffed the air and Brock was conscious he hadn’t bathed for several days.
“Let me see your pass,” he said, running his eyes up and down Brock’s black jacket.
“A rough night, I’m afraid,” Brock said, stifling a yawn. “They didn’t give me one. It’s my first day.”
“These idiots never do and expect me to do my job. Security is mega tight today and I don’t know who the hell I’m letting in. Go on, catering’s in the basement down the stairs. Tell them to give you a pass.” The guard nodded towards the staircase down the hall.
He was in. Brock nodded back as reassuringly as he could, considering he was about to wreak havoc in the place. He was pleasantly surprised how security had let him in so lightly, especially carrying a weapon, without so much as a frisk or proof of identity. Maybe the security guard’s normal etiquette had gone out the window due to his smelly clothes. Another one to Brock. Had he thought all this through? Probably not, but he hadn’t bottled it yet either.
His priority was to snatch a radio, thus bypassing at least some of the heightened security system by tapping into their tight surveillance. They were probably aware of a fugitive like him roaming the streets. Yanking at the door, he pulled it towards him, stepping into a dim grey staircase. Voices echoed through the stairwell above and a radio sang out. He jumped onto the stairs, climbing down.
The voices appeared to be following in his direction, and he raced down through a basement door that led into a neat, quiet hallway. Grabbing at a door handle on the opposite side, he pulled at it, but it was locked and so was the next one. The voices appeared nearer and he moved down the hallway towards another door. The notion of being caught hit him hard in the stomach as he yanked at its handle. It opened.
The stairwell door at the end creaked opened wide. He dived into the pitch-black room, slowly and quietly pushing the door to. Had they seen him? The footsteps became louder, nearing him. He could hear them gassing to each other right outside the door. His heart raced as they appeared to pass, their clunking feet moving away. Slowly, he pulled the door, peering into the hallway. Empty. Slipping out, he made a swift right into the direction of a room at the top of the hallway. The door was wide open, a radio blurting out. Light gleamed from it, and working from his gut, resolute and confident, Brock stepped up to it, easing himself around.
Rawlins’ detailed plans were exactly right: a security room. Not the main one, but it would do. Several creased uniforms thrown aimlessly across a metal chair, someone’s half-eaten sandwich, and a black production conference jacket. More voices echoed through the hallway and he grabbed the big thick jacket, putting it on. As he did, he spotted a radio on the window ledge complete with ear-piece. Now he’d tapped into their surveillance. Voices echoed through the halls outside, becoming louder. He pushed himself into a small wooden alcove a couple of metres from th
e door. Crouched silently, he dare not move as two uniformed security guards entered the room. One of them sniffed.
“Stinks of sweat in here. Where’s my radio? Must have left it upstairs.”
Brock longed to make a move, but he was stuck, unable to leave the alcove or he would be seen. The other security guard spoke into his radio, calling for housekeeping. Brock dared himself to move and he quietly slipped out of the alcove into the hallway, practically tiptoeing along the corridor into the stairwell and running up the dim-lit staircase. He came across some gents’ toilets, slipping inside to the end cubical. He examined the radio, placing the ear-piece in and listening to the communications between the security. Everything that unfolded would be radioed right to him from wherever he stood in the building. He picturing meeting Sighrus face to face and he grinned. It was becoming fun.
All kinds of crap spewed over the radio. Security was already cottoning on a radio was missing. Coded words cracked through, obviously being used for important people. Something jumped into Brock’s mind. He only had Rawlins’ word that Sighrus would be there. What happens if he wasn’t? Or worse, what if it was a dirty set-up all along. His hands trembled at the notion. The main toilet door flung open, banging against the wall. Brock peered through a small crack in the door as a tall figure entered the toilets.
“I’m sick of this shit! He’s becoming a massive problem,” he shouted to another man Brock couldn’t see.
“The girl’s safely detained in the installation, sir, and she’ll talk. He won’t be a problem today, I can assure you,” said the other man.
Brock reached into the back of his trousers, grabbing the pistol and pointing it towards the door. Through the tiny gap, he watched what appeared to be Sighrus.
“I need this man caught. The trouble he’s causing is damaging us.”
Brock noted another man, neatly dressed in his grey suit, tightly holding a radio.
“He’s disappeared off the radar, sir, but don’t worry. That lab rat can’t hide forever. We’ll pick him up.”
“Sooner the better, he can do a lot of damage. How on earth was this debacle allowed to unfold? Meet me behind the conference area. I want to go over this script to make a couple of changes,” said Sighrus. “I left the amended version back at the bloody box.”
Brock raised his eyebrows as footsteps clanked and water splashed in the sink.
“Hang on, there’s someone in the cubicle over there!” shouted Sighrus.
Shoes clanged towards him and someone banged hard on the door.
“Who the hell is this?” Sighrus demanded.
“No English, señor,” said Brock in a cute Spanish accent he didn’t know he could speak.
“Who are you?”
“Catering, señor.”
They left. Brock pulled himself together, tuning into the radio, which was crackling all kinds of unnecessary rubbish. Someone had lost their handbag, but the main concern was the missing radio. He chuckled, walking from the gents into the backstage of the conference area. Some guy noticed his exhibition jacket, pushing him towards a big black curtain and telling him to get out of the way. There was an announcement over the loudspeaker.
“This year’s conference is about to start, please take your seats.”
Perfect. Brock took his position behind the curtain of the main stage, noticing two emergency exit doors. He glanced to his right, directly at Sighrus, who was stepping onto the stage, rustling his papers. He was so close to him. Facing the audience, Sighrus tapped the microphone and cleared his throat.
“Never before has Britain been forced unequivocally to deal with rising threats of terrorism of a different kind. Our security services are having to adapt and rethink new strategies and, indeed, procedures in our changing modern world. We need more investment in our country’s security services to build and become stronger and train more recruits. One of the fundamental points I want to make in our security services is training. Training is, key and that’s what I’d like to talk about today.”
The room was filled with a roar of cheering and clapping from the audience. An old bald man popped his head through the far side of the curtain, trying to get Sighrus’s attention. Sighrus leaned over towards him, raising his eyebrows.
“It’s that Brock! We’ve traced the mobile. He’s here in this building right now.”
Brock grabbed his phone. In all the commotion it must have come on. Something dawned on him like a flashback. As though it was no accident him being here like this. Or just paranoid, perhaps, he couldn’t decipher which. He was about to turn the phone off, although he knew it was already too late. It vibrated in his hand. Quickly, he accepted the call.
“Hello?” he whispered.
“Brock, I can’t talk. I’ve managed to escape. Meet me at my favourite place. Hurry!” cried Sarah.
“Where did you—”
The phoned gave three beeps and cut off. Brock had no idea where her favourite place was. He rang the number back from behind the black curtain. It rang and rang but no one answered. It had been Sarah weeping down the line for sure.
Was it a trap? Was she really out? How?
Sighrus continued with his speech but his hands were shaking. Brock’s priority was now to find Sarah, wherever her favourite place was. Logic told him to get out immediately, but the situation called for a much tougher stance. After all, Sighrus, the target, was now directly in front of him. But Brock’s intentions were never to kill him—not yet anyway. Deep into his speech, Sighrus caught Brock’s twinkling eye peering at him. His body recoiled in disbelief. Pointing the pistol at Brock, Sighrus swung it towards the ceiling lights, letting off a round of bullets. Glass poured down from the roof, hitting the floor like a whale belly-flopping in the ocean.
Screaming erupted in the room and panicked people ran in all directions, diving for cover and trampling across the seats. Several high-profile figures were flung to the ground with security hovering over them, pointing their Glocks in Brock’s general direction. The room was in entire chaos. Another chunk of glass fell out of the ceiling, and people screamed at others to get out of the way.
Brock made his way through to the back, switching off the lights on a control panel and turning the entire hall into darkness. Gunfire erupted behind him. Sprinting down the corridor, he spotted an open window. He jumped through it, climbing down to land on the road below—and straight into the view of two uniformed security guards. Thinking quickly, he pointed out his exhibition jacket and shouted, “Run! There’s a madman loose upstairs, firing a weapon.”
Chapter 21
Particles of glass and dust settled throughout the conference hall. Some of the crowd were glancing towards Sighrus as though looking for answers. He brushed his suit down, stepping over glass, his cheeks blazing. He headed in the direction of his assistant, Martha.
“He’s humiliated me. I want you to find that animal and cage him.”
She slapped a hand against her suit. Particles of dust swept into the air and onto the floor. Pulling her jacket together, she looked at him.
“They’re out searching for him now, sir. I’ve ordered a shoot-to-kill, as you suggested.”
“No, you fool, he’ll grab too much attention. I reckon he’s starting to remember. He knows. That sneer upon his swashbuckling face said it all.”
Martha darted her glance away. “Surely we can plead self-defence, sir? After all, it’s clear to everyone he wanted to put a round of bullets into everyone.”
Coughing to clear his throat, Sighrus pulled his face into a vicious frown. “That ugly smirk nearly made me puke.”
“This fugitive failed, sir. The odds are stacked against him.”
“Underestimating him is a mistake, He’s playing with us and not to be trifled with.”
Martha adjusted her hairpin, shaking her head. “The man is on his own. Doesn’t stand a chance, sir. Our
men are stationed on every corner.”
“He knows what he’s doing. This is deliberate. He’s playing with us, laughing at us right now. He’s certainly got a sting in his tail. This imbecile has something I need. Bring him in.”
Chapter 22
Darkness fell over the heath and the wind howled. Brock had searched everywhere he could think of for Sarah, avoiding the security services and police at all costs. Hours passed and he had ended up on the heath. Some stupid big house she had mentioned sprang to mind, but she had probably given up and disappeared. Wading through grassland and without a clue, he kicked a branch in front of him, about to give up. A cyclist headed towards him, shooting a curious glance.
“Strange question,” Brock shouted. “Where is everyone’s favourite place here?”
The cyclist pulled up, slamming his feet onto the ground. “There are lots of places people value here. More of a clue perhaps?”
“She mentioned this big house I think.”
“Ah, now you’re talking. A big country house sits on the estate in the distance, one of the finest houses around here. But I’m afraid you’re out of luck—it shut a couple of hours ago. Open to the public tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. I believe.”
“Can you direct me? It’s for a private event.”
“Oh, I see. Head for the enclosure over the hill. The gate will be locked, but if it’s a private thing, you can jump over. Once inside, walk up the path between the trees and pass the bridge and it’s ahead. But security patrol it, and they’re pretty keen.”
Brock’s stomach churned, raking up his phobia of bridges. He imagined it violently collapsing onto him.
He scrambled up the hill in the direction of the big enclosure and swung himself over the gate. Violent wind rustled through the trees, the creaking white bridge stretching out before him across a moonlit lake. Butterflies yanked and churn inside his stomach and he doubled over and vomited onto the ground.
Brock Steele Sphere Page 13
