The must-read new blockbuster thriller

by Tony Kent

  Michael would later marvel that the impact with the car had not even registered to Joshua. That his own first tackle had achieved nothing. Joshua seemed to see Michael’s punch before it was even thrown. He also seemed to recognise its power as, instead of taking or blocking the blow, he used Michael’s own weight against him. Joshua moved his body a fraction to his left and, with his left hand, he guided Michael’s punch away. The movement effortlessly sent Michael to Joshua’s right, chasing the momentum of his own blow. Michael stumbled forward, out of control, and was met by an expertly timed knee-strike to his exposed stomach.

  It took the wind out of him. Unlike Joshua, it was not a feeling he was trained to ignore.

  Michael staggered backwards. He was struggling for breath. More importantly, he was struggling for hope. Michael was more than capable in a straight fight. He always had been. But he now realised that this was a different proposition altogether. This man was not just capable of violence. This man was trained to kill.

  Michael halted the backward movement caused by the knee-strike. He desperately wanted to inhale – more than once – but there was no time. A flick of Joshua’s eyes told him that the killer was scanning for his lost gun. Michael could not allow him to find it and so he moved. With no other choice, Michael threw his entire bodyweight at the thinner man. His only hope was sheer force.

  For a moment it seemed to work; Joshua was pushed back for a second time. Michael saw an opening as Joshua seemed to stumble. He went for it. A straight right to Joshua’s exposed throat, in the space between his motorcycle helmet and his leather jacket.

  But once again Joshua was many steps ahead.

  Michael’s blow was met by a blocking arm that felt like steel. His earlier punch had been parried but this time it was simply stopped dead. It left his body open to counter-attack.

  Joshua swung his blocking arm down in a slashing motion, bringing the back of his right elbow first into Michael’s left temple and then downwards. The movement both stunned the lawyer and sliced through his eyebrow. It was not an injury he had time to contemplate, as the next blow was worse. Using his own momentum, Joshua followed up with a crushing left hook into Michael’s mid-rib section, expelling what little wind he had left.

  Michael contorted upwards in agony, which Joshua also seemed to anticipate. It put Michael at the mercy of a straightforward head-butt. After the beating he had already taken and with the extra force of Joshua’s helmet, it was enough to send Michael smashing to the floor.

  If Michael had not been fighting for his life he could have admired the skill with which he had just been dispatched. Three devastating blows, delivered as a single fluid movement. But now was no time for analysis. Joshua was again searching for his lost gun.

  Michael somehow pulled himself to his feet.

  It was not a moment too soon. Joshua seemed to have spotted his pistol and was moving towards it. Michael watched as the fitter, stronger man crouched at the front wheel of the CNN van and stretched his arm underneath.

  Last chance, then.

  Michael drew in as much air as his lungs could hold, steeled himself and ran full speed at Joshua. Just twenty feet. Close enough that Joshua’s search for his gun might distract him and give Michael a chance.

  Might. But did not.

  Michael was two steps away when Joshua span from his crouch and swept out his running knees. Michael’s legs gave way instantly. As he began to fall forward, Joshua brought his own body upwards. The top of his helmet collided with Michael’s face with enough power to change the direction of his fall.

  Michael’s world went black, his mind turned inside out by the blow. For a moment he could not move. Joshua stood above him, making no attempt to move down to Michael’s level and finish the job. Not that he needed to. Unable to shake off the effects of his skull’s second collision with Joshua’s crash helmet, Michael knew that he was beaten.

  Through his hazy vision, Michael watched helplessly as Joshua reached for his boot and pulled out a knife, sensing that he was moments from death. And that the young reporter he had just met would be right behind him.

  Joshua was leaning forward with his knife in his hand, his focus absolute. And maybe it was this – combined with the muffling effect of the helmet he still wore – that made him miss the sound of the growl. That left him unprepared for the impact as a ferocious Cass leaped upon his back.

  Joshua called out in pain as the dog’s powerful jaws dug deep into his shoulder. The unexpected attack and Cass’s sheer weight sent him stumbling forward. The usually docile Rottweiler was already doing more damage than Michael had managed.

  Michael dragged himself to his feet. His head was still spinning; his continuing consciousness not yet guaranteed.

  For just a moment he watched as his dog attacked Joshua with a fury he did not recognise. Cass was fighting hard, but it was a fight that could only end one way. The protection of Joshua’s bike leathers and the knife in his free hand would see to that.

  The urge to help Cass had to be resisted. Michael knew he was outmatched. He had to leave the Rottweiler to do what it could.

  He had to escape while he had the chance. And he had to take Sarah with him.

  Michael turned his back on the struggle and staggered towards the waiting bike. His legs were weak and in pain but he was fuelled by pure adrenaline. It was enough for now. He climbed onto the saddle without a word. Sarah ran from behind the cover of the closest car and he felt her hands grip painfully around his broken body. The feeling told him that she was ready. Without looking back, Michael hit the accelerator and left both his devastated home and Cass behind.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Michael hammered the motorcycle’s engine, determined to put as much distance as he could between himself and Sarah and the violent death they had escaped.

  The traffic made no difference to their speed. Michael manipulated the bike through the slightest of gaps. Within minutes they had reached Holborn. Islington – and their attacker – were now more than a mile behind. It was still too close for comfort.

  Terror could have driven Michael on, but common sense fought back. It asked the right questions. Where would they go? And how long could he last? His injuries were beginning to hurt through the adrenaline. It made his decision easy.

  It was less than a minute later that Michael brought the bike to a halt outside Daniel’s office building. He carefully dismounted. Pain shot through his body but he had to ignore it. Now was not the time.

  Moving fast, Michael jogged to the nearest parked car and pulled off the tarpaulin sheet its owner had used to cover it. He dragged the thick material back towards the bike.

  ‘We’ve got to get this bike covered,’ Michael explained between pained breaths. ‘Hopefully he won’t think to come here. But, if he does, the last thing we need is for him to see his bike. We won’t get away again.’

  Sarah did not respond. She did not even seem to hear. Instead she looked on in silence as Michael pulled the sheet across the parked bike, carefully adjusting it to ensure that the job did not look rushed.

  When Michael was done he stepped back. The vehicle was well hidden.

  Satisfied, he turned and walked towards Sarah. Her eyes did not even seem to register his approach. Michael took her by the arm without saying a word and guided her towards the building’s entrance. Once there he took a ring-full of keys from his front trouser pocket, found the one he needed and unlocked the main entrance door.

  Neither spoke as they took the lift to Daniel’s second-floor office. Michael was in too much pain for small talk. Sarah remained incapable. Only after they had passed reception and entered the staffroom did either say a word.

  ‘You’re hurt.’

  Sarah repeated the last words she had spoken inside Michael’s home. She was still in shock. That much was obvious. But its hold seemed to be weakening. It was Michael’s head wound that seemed to catch her attention.

  ‘It’s bleeding bad, Michael.’

 
; ‘I’ll live,’ Michael replied. ‘More than can be said for anyone else who’s already been dragged into this.’

  Sarah watched as Michael took down a red first-aid kit from the office store cupboard and walked to the staff toilet. He turned on a dim light and stripped down to the waist.

  Sarah did not follow. She rested against the nearest desk and stared into space. It gave Michael the time he needed to clean his wounds. He had moved on to treatment before Sarah spoke again.

  ‘Jack’s dead,’ she finally said, breaking the silence.

  Michael did not immediately reply. He was concentrating on the cut above his left eye, resealing the gashed skin with a tube of clinical glue.

  ‘Jack’s your cameraman?’ he finally asked. He could see Sarah nod in the reflection of the room’s mirror. ‘Then yeah, he is. I’m sorry.’

  Silence fell once again. And Michael made no attempt to break it. Instead he finished tending to his injuries. It took time. When finally done he left the washroom and headed to Daniel’s private office. After a few moments he came back through the doorway. In his hand was a t-shirt. Daniel had always kept a stash of clothes in the office for when his workload led to an overnight stay. Michael pulled it on. It clung to his larger frame.

  Almost twenty minutes had passed since they had arrived. In that time Sarah had said little. Michael had welcomed that. It had allowed him to do what he could with his injuries. That was now done, so it was time for them to speak.

  Sarah was seated, staring at the far wall. She was still in shock, unable to focus. The best approach would be a soft one. Michael knew that. But he also knew that they did not have the time.

  ‘Jack’s dead, Sarah.’ Michael placed his hands on Sarah’s shoulders as he spoke, a move designed to breach her personal space and help break through. ‘The bastard that killed him might be just around the corner. We need to decide what we do now, and who we can trust. And that means we need to both be thinking straight.’

  Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, Sarah heard Michael’s words. She began to fight her way back.

  ‘What happened?’ The words came out slowly. ‘What . . . who was that man? What did he want?’

  ‘I don’t know who he was, Sarah, but I know what he wasn’t. He wasn’t an amateur. That guy knew what he was doing and was bloody good at it. A professional killer. That means he came after me for a reason.’

  ‘What reason?’

  The conversation was helping to concentrate Sarah’s mind. To prevent her from dwelling on what she had witnessed.

  ‘Daniel called me last night, after he left McGale. Whoever killed him must know that. They must be worried about what he told me.’

  ‘But how could they know you spoke to him? I mean, know for sure? Jack and I were just hoping.’

  Michael hesitated. He weighed the possibilities. Only one made sense. It terrified him, but he had to accept it.

  ‘There’s only one way. Daniel called me on his mobile. Someone must have accessed his phone records. Which led them to me.’

  ‘But it’s been a day. How the hell can anyone get that information that quickly?’

  ‘Most people can’t.’

  Michael’s reply was immediate, but no less considered for its speed. His mind remained sharp despite all he’d just been through. He continued.

  ‘Even the police can take months to obtain phone records from the networks. It’s a problem in every trial that needs them. The backlog’s massive. So if someone’s gotten hold of Daniel’s in a day then that person’s got access to a serious level of intelligence.’

  ‘The sort of access that could cover up Daniel’s meeting with McGale.’ Sarah continued Michael’s thought process. Her mind shifted up a gear. ‘And get to a man in Britain’s most secure police station.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Michael sat back into his chair. Gently, to lessen the pain. ‘Which means you have your conspiracy. Someone killed McGale to stop him revealing why he shot Matthewson. To stop him telling the world that Matthewson was backing terrorism. Whoever that is, they murdered Daniel and they tried to kill me. It’s a hell of a story for you, Sarah. Now we’ve just got to decide what we do about it.’

  Sarah took a moment to consider her options.

  ‘I think we have to go to the police,’ she finally said. ‘Then they can get us back to my office and we can file the story. Once it’s out in the open we’ll be safe.’

  ‘Jesus, Sarah, are you mad?’ Michael sprang forward in his chair as he spoke. ‘We can’t go to the police and we sure as hell can’t go anywhere near your office. These people can find us anywhere. They’ve killed people inside a police station. And they’ve got access to information even the police can’t get hold of. And you want to go back to the bloody office? We wouldn’t make it through the door!’

  ‘Why the hell wouldn’t I?’ Sarah’s tone was a mixture of indignation and desperation. ‘It wasn’t me they were trying to kill, Michael. It was you. It was your car that Jack was driving. It was your phone that Daniel called. That bomb was meant for you. You’re the one who wouldn’t make it through the door, Michael. Not me!’

  Michael watched as Sarah seethed. He understood where the sudden anger was coming from. She was beginning to see the danger of her position and would do anything to reject it.

  Human nature.

  ‘You haven’t thought this through.’ Michael’s voice remained calm as he spoke. ‘Even if they haven’t got wind of the questions you were asking, your van was outside my house. They know we’re together and they’ll assume I’ve told you everything. Just like they assumed Daniel told me. If you weren’t already a target before we met, you sure as hell are now.’

  Sarah opened her mouth to answer. Not a sound came out. Michael knew why. His logic was unarguable.

  He watched as Sarah looked down at her own hands. They were still shaking as she took a cigarette from a battered pack within her jacket pocket. She lit it with difficulty and inhaled deeply to calm herself.

  ‘So what do I do?’

  Sarah looked up at Michael from her seat. Her green eyes bored into him. Fixed him to the spot.

  ‘If they want me dead, Michael, what do I do?’

  ‘There’s no “I”, Sarah.’ Michael’s tone was firm. ‘We’re in this together. They want us dead, not just you. And I don’t plan to go that easy.’

  Michael stood up and moved towards her. He knelt at her feet and put his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘We won’t be safe until we know who we’re dealing with. Until then we can’t trust anyone. Not the police. Not your network. No one. The only way we get out of this alive is by finding out the truth.’

  ‘You can’t be serious?’

  Sarah stood up as she spoke. She seemed angry. A last-ditch attempt to reject the inevitable. Michael had seen it many times, from clients keen to delude themselves on the evidence against them.

  She stepped away from him before continuing.

  ‘These bastards want us dead – they damn near managed it tonight – and you want to fight fire with fire? After what I saw that guy do to you? Michael, we’re screwed if we try that.’

  ‘No we’re not.’ Michael needed Sarah to understand. ‘Not if we play it right. We get out of London, Sarah. Hell, we get out of England. We follow the trail to Northern Ireland. We find out what McGale knew and then we find out the rest.’

  Sarah shook her head as Michael spoke. Her nervous energy made her stride around the room as she listened.

  ‘But how do we even get to Ireland?’ she finally asked. ‘We’ve no cash, we’ve no passports and we’ve no one to help us.’

  ‘We do have money, Sarah.’ Michael’s mind was overcoming every problem. ‘Daniel keeps . . . kept . . . cash in his safe. We can use that. And we don’t need passports. Northern Ireland’s internal.’

  ‘What about the airport? What if they’ve put out some sort of warrant for us? You say we can’t go to the police because we don’t know how much influence these guys have
. Well, if that’s the case, who’s to say they won’t stop us as we board the plane?’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ Michael explained. ‘They will be able to trace us, but it’ll take a few hours. By the time they know where we’ve gone we’ll have disappeared into Belfast. With people I know. People we can trust. That’s a lot more than we can say about London right now, right?’

  Sarah listened carefully. Michael could tell that she was still unconvinced. He let silence fall. Gave her time to digest what she had been told.

  ‘There’s got to be another way.’ When Sarah spoke again her tone was fearful. ‘Michael, we can’t do this on our own.’

  ‘What choice do we have? All we know is that the more people we trust, the more likely it is we die. So tell me: is there anyone left who you trust with your life?’

  Michael’s words cut to the point. They exposed their situation for what it was: a question of life and death. And they left Sarah with no option.

  ‘No. No one.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘I guess we do things your way.’

  Michael slowly nodded, watching Sarah as he did so. He was looking for doubt. For a change of heart. The first was there in abundance. There was no sign of the latter.

  Satisfied, Michael stood up and disappeared into Daniel’s unlit office. He returned a few minutes later with an envelope that was filled with cash from the safe.

  ‘Time to pull ourselves together, Sarah. We’ve got to do this now.’

  Sarah stood up from her chair.

  ‘Where to first?’

  ‘Stansted Airport,’ he replied. ‘But there’s something I’ve got to do first. I’ve got to call Daniel’s family. If this guy came after me, they could be next.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Hugh Lawrence walked into what had been Daniel’s sitting room, to his remaining family members. He could feel how slow his movements were. It was an unconscious delay. He knew that what he had to tell them would not be welcome.