by Brad Taylor
I heard nothing else. I looked at Jennifer and said, “Get ready for a crash.”
* * *
Kylie heard the man behind her shout, and she darted through the crowd, knowing he was right behind her. She jerked a man off his feet, causing him to stumble into the path of her pursuer, and kept running, trying to remember the floor plan.
She cut around the corner of the bar, seeing the exit door and freedom. She started running toward it and saw the man who had gone to the bar spring into view, wildly looking around.
She crouched behind a foursome, scooting left, toward an alcove, knowing the other man was closing the distance behind her. She saw the bathroom to her front, a line of girls outside. She sprinted toward it, ducking below the crowd.
She leapt down the stairs, passing the line and ignoring the yells from the girls waiting. A woman tried to stop her, shouting about cutting the queue, and she slammed her into the wall, springing forward into the bathroom. Two girls at the mirror looked at her in astonishment, and she said, “Don’t shout. Don’t say anything. Please.”
She looked around the room in desperation and realized she’d just boxed herself in. Nothing had changed, and there was no way out.
85
We continued rolling forward, the two goons in the rear still eyeing me like they wanted to kick my ass. I was getting tired of the glare. I raised my voice loud enough to get over the engine noise and said, “You want a shot at the title?”
The one on the left said, “You talk fine in here. I’ve dealt with terrorists before. Wait until we get to the station, Yank.”
My earpiece crackled, and I heard, “Brace for impact.”
I said, “We aren’t going to the station.”
He looked at me in confusion, and the van was hammered so hard I thought someone had exploded an IED underneath it. We flew through the air, the vehicle turning over onto its side. The two goons slammed into the roof with a crunch. Jennifer, Nung, and I were jerked up short by the shackles on our wrists and ankles bolted to the bench, now becoming makeshift seat belts.
The vehicle skidded for a moment, then sat still. One guard was out cold. The other began moving slowly, shaking his head. The doors opened in the back and I saw Retro, holding a pistol. He said, “Give me the keys. Now.”
The guard handed him his key ring, then raised his hands. Retro tossed them to me, and I unlocked Nung and Jennifer, then locked up the guards, shackling the unconscious one first. Getting to the other, I cuffed his hands, saying, “Sorry about this. I’m really not a bad guy.”
I crawled out the back, seeing Blaine holding a pistol on the driver, Brett in the cab providing first aid to the passenger. He had a nasty cut on his head, but I could see his lips moving, so he was coherent.
They’d used the van for interdiction, and it was spun sideways, the front end crunched, broken glass littering the roadway. We were on a four-lane, one-way road, and the traffic behind us was stopped, everyone gawking at the massive pileup.
I saw Nick Seacrest and the two commo guys in the sedan. Retro said, “Sorry for the impact. Brett got a little overexuberant. He needs some vehicle-interdiction training.”
I said, “Where is she?”
“A place called the World’s End on Camden Road. It’s only about a mile to the north.”
I ran to the sedan, saying to the men inside, “Get the fuck out.”
The doors opened and Blaine shouted, “What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like? I’m taking your vehicle.”
Nick exited after the commo guys and said, “I’m coming with you.”
I said, “Shut up,” then, “Nung, Jennifer, Retro, and Brett, load up. Brett, bring our weapons and radios from the police wagon.”
Blaine jogged over and said, “I have responsibility for the PC. I can’t let you take the sedan. I have to get him to shelter.”
“Cops will be here in about thirty seconds. You’ll have more protection than you can possibly use.”
My men started loading and I saw Nung swinging to the driver’s side. I said, “Jennifer gets the wheel.”
He paused at the door, and I said, “Sorry, but after your driving in Paris, you can be a passenger.”
He scowled but got in the back. In a louder voice, Nick said, “I’m coming with you.”
Blaine shouted, “No! Now get inside the police wagon. Get off the street.”
Nick looked at me and said, “Give me a weapon. She’s my responsibility.”
“I don’t have time for this. I’m not giving a pistol to a weatherman. You’d probably shoot yourself.”
“I’m CCT. I can outshoot anyone here.”
The comment gave me pause. CCT stood for Combat Control Team and was Air Force special operations. While we always made fun of the Air Force in a good-natured way, calling them out on never getting dirty, CCT was a different animal altogether. They had a training pipeline that was as hard as anyone else’s, and I’d never met a combat controller who couldn’t hang, no matter how rough it got. Nick could be forgiven his boast of outshooting my men, not knowing who we were, but he could probably come close.
I said, “I appreciate the sentiment, but you’re not going.”
“What if she’s not in the bar? What if she’s hidden somewhere and it’s only Colin? How will you find her?”
“I’ll sort it out.”
“With me. I know what he looks like. I’m the only one who does.”
The words sank in and I said, “Blaine, give him your pistol.”
“No! No way. He’s not going.”
I turned to him in controlled fury, feeling the loss of Kylie in the pit of my gut. Seeing the loss of my daughter all over again. “Give him your God damned pistol, or I’ll knock you out and take it.”
He saw I was deadly serious. He handed Nick the pistol butt first, lamely saying, “Pike, Kurt didn’t authorize this.”
“Yes, he did.” I waited until Nick was inside, then squeezed in the back. Through the window I said, “Call him. Tell him that Nick Seacrest is necessary to save his niece. He’ll authorize anything to do that.”
He said, “Pike . . . don’t take him.”
I heard the weird blaring of British sirens. I tapped Jennifer and said, “Drive.”
We left him on the side of the road, standing between the smoking cargo van and the wrecked police wagon.
Looking at his smartphone, Retro said, “Straight ahead up Eversholt. We’ll run right into it.”
Jennifer began weaving through the traffic, going much faster than the congestion should have allowed. She shot through red lights, leaving slamming brakes and a cacophony of horns in our wake.
Using his own phone, Brett said, “This place looks big, Pike.”
“How many exits?”
“At least three. Probably more.”
I said, “Okay, we get there, the men enter. Jennifer, find a place to stage. Be ready to return within thirty seconds. We get inside and lock down the exits. Nung, Brett, and Retro, that’s you. Pick the most prominent ones.”
I pulled up Kylie’s picture on my phone and passed it around. “You see her, call your position and take down whoever is with her. We’ll close on you. I’ll take Nick and start exploring. We make contact, and I’ll call. Everyone close on me if that happens.”
Retro said, “Two more blocks. At the Y intersection. Veer right.”
I looked out the windshield and saw the road split, the Camden Town Tube station straight ahead. Jennifer took the turn, and the target popped out of nowhere, a red building with large letters spelling THE WORLD’S END.
I shouted, “Here! Here! Stop the car.”
She did so, and we spilled out, running to the door. We entered, and I saw Brett was right. The place was huge, and overflowing with boozing patrons. It would take an hour to clear.
I said, “Get to it,” and the men split off, jogging in different directions. I said, “Okay, Nick. You’re the hound dog on this. Find our man.”
86
Kylie grabbed a lady at the sink and said, “Do you have a cell phone? I’ve been kidnapped. There are men trying to find me. I just ran from them!”
She looked at Kylie in bewilderment, not believing the words. The woman at the other sink saw the bruises on her face and said, “I have a phone. I’ll call.”
She began dialing, and another woman said, “You go hide in a stall. I’ll take a look outside.”
She took one step toward the door and Kylie heard a commotion, the women in line shouting at something. The two men burst into the restroom, and Kylie screamed.
The woman with the phone shouted, “I’m calling the police!”
The lead man punched her in the face, knocking the phone to the floor. The other man reached for Kylie. Two women in line jumped on him, biting and clawing. He got one arm on Kylie’s sleeve and she ripped out of his grasp, running past him to the door. The first man took off after her, dialing a cell phone as he ran.
At the top of the stairs Kylie slammed into a wall of people, slowing her down. She fought her way forward, spilling pints of beers and generating shouts. She cleared the scrum and saw the door on the far side of the room.
Freedom.
She ran toward it and saw two men flying down the circular staircase. They would beat her to the exit. She felt the fear blossom inside her, panic flooding her body. She turned to run deeper into the bar when the first man tripped, going faster than his balance could hold on the narrow, twisting stairs. He spilled onto his face, sliding on the floor and tangling up his partner. She got a blessed two-second gap and raced to the door, slamming it open just as the two men stood back up.
She reached the street and began running in a blind panic, her brain fixated on one thought: escape.
* * *
We walked slowly through the crowd, Nick’s head on a swivel, looking left and right for Colin, but not seeing him. I got a call from Brett saying he was at an eastern door, then Retro, saying he was also at an eastern door deeper in. The place was simply too big for the force I had. With Nung at the main entrance, that left the western side completely open. I called him, saying, “Nung, penetrate inside. We’ve cleared the first bar area. Go down the western side and position on a likely exit.”
The pub had so many nooks, alcoves, and crannies that clearing them of suspicion was slow and tedious. I could see Nick growing antsy, moving faster. We left one alcove and moved to the next, another large bar area at the back of the building opening up. Nick started to look inside, then did a double take before jumping back into the first alcove.
I went in behind him, ignoring the two tables of patrons. “What did you see? Where is he?”
“Upper deck, above the bar. He’s staring over the railing with another man.”
I looked out and said, “The guy with the beard?”
“That’s him.”
I clicked my radio. “All elements, all elements, jackpot. I say again, jackpot. Subject is on the upper deck at the back of the pub. Six feet, Caucasian, blond hair, full beard, also blond. Two men next to him, both appear to be part of his team. One stairwell to the eastern side of the bar. Acknowledge.”
Not waiting, I turned to Nick and said, “You stay here. He knows you on sight, and I’m not putting you in danger.”
He started to say something, and I leaned in close. “Don’t fuck with me on this.”
He nodded, and I left at a fast walk, seeing Retro and Brett crossing the floor. I glanced up and saw Colin arguing with the man to his left, waving his arms up and down.
We reached the stairwell at the same time, Brett in the lead. I looked behind and saw Nung running toward us. I said, “Guns out,” and we started to climb, winding our way up. Almost at the top, a man appeared in front of us and Brett said, “Back up, shithead. Hands high.”
The man yelled in what sounded like Russian, then attempted to draw a gun. Brett drilled him between the eyes, the noise from the suppressor overshadowed by the hum of the bar. He slid down, sitting on the steps like he’d passed out, blocking our way forward.
Brett grabbed his shoulders, and I slid my hands under his feet. We hoisted him up, then flipped him over the side of the narrow stairwell. He hit the ground and I heard a girl scream just as I cleared the stairwell to the balcony, right behind Brett.
There were four men on top, three with weapons out, and Colin standing with his hands in the air. For a second there was a pause, nobody wanting to start the gunfight. The man next to Colin snarled and aimed his weapon right above Colin’s beard. Colin shouted, “No! They aren’t with me—” and the man pulled the trigger. Then all hell broke loose, like the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, bodies diving and guns going off all over the place. It lasted for a long four seconds, but they had no cover standing by the railing. We cut all three down.
I rose from behind the couch I’d dived over and said, “Give me an up.”
Miraculously, everyone was unhurt with the exception of Nung. He’d taken a bullet through his bicep, but it hadn’t hit bone. It also didn’t faze his nonchalant attitude. He said, “This may increase my payment.”
Brett started working on him and I surveyed the deck, checking behind couches and overstuffed chairs, looking for Kylie. She wasn’t here.
My earpiece crackled. “Pike, Pike, this is Koko. I think I just saw Kylie running down the road.”
I looked at Retro, and he’d clearly heard the same thing. I said, “Say again?”
“I’m staged on Camden and a girl just went running by. She went into some large bazaar selling T-shirts called Camden Market. I swear she looked just like—”
Nothing came through, then “It’s her. It’s her. There are four men running down the road. They all just went into the same market.”
I said, “Let’s go. Retro, give me a lock-on to the market she’s talking about. Brett, lead the way. Nung, you got Nick. Get him out of here and somewhere safe. Call with a location, but be prepared for a little bit of a stay.”
We barreled back down the stairs and I heard sirens on the street to the west. I said, “Eastern door. Eastern door. Nung, go get Nick and get out of here.”
The crowds saw our weapons and parted like they were escaping from zombies, girls screaming and guys stumbling all over themselves to get out of the way.
We hit the street, Retro staring at his phone. He looked up and pointed. “That way. Camden Market.”
87
Kylie sprinted through the stalls, the area overflowing with T-shirts blowing in the wind. She twisted and turned, going left and right and getting lost in the maze. She slowed, breathing heavily. She crouched down and looked underneath the hangers, trying to spot her pursuers. She couldn’t see more than five feet. She began jogging again and unexpectedly broke into an alley, outside of the T-shirt stalls.
She heard a man shout, then another, and began blindly running up the alley. She hit a main road and looked behind her, the sight freezing her in fear.
Two of the men were in the alley, and they were running flat-out, so close she could see the sweat on their faces. Her body exploded in panic and she ran as fast as she could make her legs move, pumping harder and harder, her lungs screaming in pain. She reached a bridge over a canal with a walkway paralleling the water, a large brick building proclaiming Camden Lock. She made the mistake of glancing back and saw all four men on the street, running hard.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.
The words cycled through her head over and over, the terror almost debilitating. She leapt over the bridge, falling and slamming hard onto the walkway. She rolled, feeling as if someone had driven a knife into her ankle. She sprang up, ignoring the pain, and ran down th
e walkway. She saw an outdoor eating area and veered into it, continuing straight through into some type of shopping area.
She looked left and right, seeing stalls full of vendors stretching out, selling everything from leather jackets to lamps, like a giant flea market. She slowed to a jog, running into a tunnel incongruously full of statues of horses, thinking she’d lost her pursuers. Gaining confidence. She heard a shout behind her, and the fear returned, cinching into her soul.
She exited the tunnel, turned the corner into an indoor section full of antiques, and was ripped off her feet and thrown to the ground. She screamed and began clawing, fighting for her life.
She heard, “Kylie, Kylie, stop it! I’m from Kurt Hale. He sent me for you.”
She quit struggling, seeing a woman with a blond ponytail, holding a huge pistol. Kylie heard the men exit the tunnel, shouting, and said, “They’re right behind me.”
The woman pushed Kylie behind a large oak desk, took a knee, raised her pistol, and began rapidly firing. Kylie heard a shriek, then return shots from the men, their weapons infinitely louder than the woman’s. She dove on top of Kylie, getting behind the cover of the desk, and the stall owner ran into the hail of bullets, screaming for help. From underneath, Kylie saw him fall. Saw his leg twitch, then grow still. The other shoppers in the hall began fleeing, shouting in terror and getting away from the gunfire.
Trembling, Kylie said, “They’re killers. They’re going to kill us.”
The woman smiled, her confidence flowing into Kylie. She changed magazines in her pistol and said, “I’m a killer too. Don’t worry.”
She clicked a Bluetooth earpiece and said, “Pike, Koko, I have PC, but I’m penned in. I’ve got hostiles, all armed. One is down, but three remain. In a shopping mall called Camden Lock.”
Two rounds slapped into the desk, and Kylie heard one of the men moving closer. The woman handed her a smartphone and said, “Take a picture, then text it to the contact called Retro.”
She rose up, popped off four rounds, then ducked back down, the air around them snapping with bullets. Kylie said, “What do you want me to take a picture of?”
