by Simon Mayo
Jack waved to Danny and Chris, the security team in the van. They smiled in acknowledgment as Tina, Sam, and Rachel, Jack’s bodyguard, led the way out into the gathering gloom; a soft sea mist hung in the air. Moz and Kirsten followed sixty-five feet behind, as usual.
“Tell Chloe about your girl trouble,” said Jack.
“Your what?” exclaimed Chloe, her eyes wide. “Itch? You have girl trouble?” She started jumping up and down with excitement.
“Not that kind!” said Itch. “They were at the science—”
“They? There’s more than one?” Chloe clapped her hands together and squealed. “This will be a fun walk home.”
Jack laughed. “He’s told me most of it. That new science club might be more interesting than I thought!”
Itch explained what had happened at lunchtime, with Lucy Cavendish being spiteful, and the new girl, Mary Lee, telling him about her element-collector father.
“I thought Lucy was the girl who always smiled when you turned up. Wasn’t she the one who came to see how you were after you were attacked by Flowerdew? I thought she liked you,” said Chloe.
“Well, she obviously doesn’t like me now,” said Itch. “She said she hated me.”
“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you….” Jack was smiling.
“No, seriously,” protested Itch. “You should have been there. She was really angry—wide-eyed and … staring.”
Jack and Chloe laughed.
“You’ll win her over with your charm and your elements,” said Chloe.
Itch was feeling exasperated. “Oh, ha ha. I’m not trying to win her over! Anyway, at least Mary was nice and knows about cesium—”
“The perfect girl!” cried Jack. “Good-looking and knows about cesium!”
Chloe stifled another laugh.
“I know you’re making fun of me, but actually cesium is really cool stuff. Mary’s sample sounded as though it could be worth a fortune,” Itch told them.
Jack and Chloe grinned at each other as Itch crossed the road to the golf course with the others just behind.
Rachel Taylor had peeled away from Sam and Tina and was waiting for Jack by the deserted thirteenth green. “Rachel’s ready to go,” Jack said. “Be seeing you guys!”
“Might call you about that English essay!” called Itch as Jack crossed the road.
“Thought you might!” she shouted back.
As Itch and Chloe walked across the golf course, evening protection protocol had their bodyguards at least fifteen feet closer than in daylight. The golf course was deserted—sunset was in ten minutes. Sam and Tina were keeping to the right, by the road. It was brighter there—Itch watched the sodium vapor lamps give the damp tarmac a bright orange glow.
“You OK?” asked Chloe.
“I s’pose,” said Itch. He kicked a stone out of his way. “I was really hoping to talk to more people this year—make more of an effort. You know, try to make a few friends. But that seems unlikely, the way things are going. Campbell and Potts got a scare from Moz, which will shut them up for a bit, but everyone else just avoids me even more.”
“Anyone you’d like to invite over? Maybe watch a DVD or something? Other than Mary or Lucy, obviously!” Chloe laughed, but she tugged at Itch’s sleeve reassuringly.
“Thanks…. No, not really. Tom Westgate and Ian Steele aren’t actually mean to me, but that hardly makes them my good friends, does it?” Itch brushed his hair out of his eyes; the moisture in the air had plastered it to his forehead. “Just after we moved here, there was a day when I was feeling sick and asked to be excused—from math, I think. I went to the restroom, and Tom came in. He said Mr. Logan had asked for a friend of mine to check that I was OK, but no one had put their hand up. So he volunteered Tom. I don’t know why he felt he had to tell me that, really, but he did.”
Chloe didn’t say anything but tugged again at her brother’s sleeve as they walked on.
Ahead, Tina and Sam had stopped. The pile of logs on the patch of scrubland at the corner of the golf course was on fire. The agents each held up a hand, and Itch and Chloe stood still, while behind them Moz and Kirsten closed in slightly, looking around. A steady stream of vehicles was headed both up and down the hill, most with headlights and windshield wipers on. Looking seaward, the golf course appeared empty—even the flags that marked the holes had been taken in for the night. A few silhouetted figures were hurrying along the path above the beach. The agents absorbed all this in seconds; they saw nothing to alarm them unduly. They could hear the flames crackling now and see the outlines of a few people gathered around the fire. Sam and Tina approached slowly, and the procession moved on behind them.
“Bit early to light the fire, isn’t it?” said Itch. “I thought it was for the weekend.”
“It is,” said Chloe, frowning. “Maybe it was a mistake. The weather’s getting worse, so perhaps they thought they might as well light it before the rain set in …”
Itch turned around, seeking reassurance, and Kirsten, unsmiling, nodded for them to continue. Ahead, Tina reached the fire first, with Sam just behind. The damp burning wood was spitting and hissing, but Itch clearly heard Tina call, “Anyone in charge here?”
And the bonfire exploded.
The flash was a brilliant yellow and orange, the explosion deafening, and it started to rain burning wood. Itch and Chloe were thrown to the ground, ash and flames landing all around them; they started swatting at their clothes and hair to extinguish the little fires that had landed on them. Itch was just picking himself up when the bunker behind them erupted. With a roar, sand and earth were blasted in all directions. Lumps of smoking soil crashed to the ground. Shaking sand out of his eyes, Itch realized he couldn’t see Kirsten or Moz. Looking back down the hill, he couldn’t see Sam or Tina either.
His stomach lurched. “Whoa. We’re in trouble!” His ears were ringing as he grabbed Chloe’s hand. He looked around for the van, but all he could see was a row of unmoving cars with their emergency lights flashing.
“Itch?” There was panic in Chloe’s voice, and it spurred him into action.
Turning up the hill, he pulled her along through the smoke. They had only gone a few feet when they saw a large motorbike climbing the bank from the road. It shot up into the air, landed, and headed straight for them.
“He’s not one of ours!” shouted Itch. They spun around and started back down the course, when three black-clad figures came running toward them through the smoking ruins of the bonfire.
“This way!” Itch gripped his sister’s hand more tightly, and they ran into the darkness, toward the beach. His legs felt heavy—a reminder that he wasn’t as fast as he had been before his bone marrow transplant—but fear drove him on.
They could hear the roar of the engine getting closer—it had changed course to intercept them from the left, while the three men were sprinting from the right.
“Where are we going?” cried Chloe.
“I don’t know,” Itch panted. “Maybe if we can get to the beach, we can lose them in the rocks. Head for the cliff path!”
He and Chloe weren’t slow, but they could tell from the roar of the bike that it would reach them long before they got to the edge of the course. Its powerful headlights hadn’t picked them up yet, but there was still enough light from the western sky to pick out two figures running at full speed.
“What are we going to do?” Chloe sobbed.
Itch didn’t answer—he was looking over his shoulder toward dual beams of light that were now throwing long double shadows across the wet grass. Halfway up the golf course, the security van was hurtling toward them. It was still fifty yards behind the motorbike, but closing the gap with every second.
“There! Look!” Itch shouted, pointing.
Chloe glanced up as the bike rider suddenly realized he had company. He started to change course, but he was too slow. The van’s front bumper plowed into the bike’s back wheel, sending the rider flying in an arc before he crumpled in a
heap on the twelfth green. He didn’t move.
Itch and Chloe had paused only briefly to watch the van, but within seconds the men from the bonfire were on them. One pushed Chloe roughly to the ground while the other two rugby-tackled Itch. Lying stunned on the grass, Itch twisted around desperately. Straining to get free, he caught sight of his attacker taking a syringe from his pocket. Itch cried out, but then heard a double thud, and the man on his chest was blown away from him, like a leaf tossed by a gust of wind. He crumpled and lay face down on the turf; a gun and a glistening needle lay on the ground nearby.
The remaining two men flung themselves down in front of him, their guns drawn. Their only visible target was the van, and they both started firing. Itch flattened himself on the ground. A few feet away, a wide-eyed Chloe did the same. He crawled toward her until he could touch her fingers.
“Stay low!” he mouthed, and she nodded. More shots, and Chloe squeezed her eyes shut. Itch didn’t know where the shot that hit the man with the syringe had come from—he still couldn’t see any of their bodyguards. How many of them had survived the twin explosions? Were the agents in the van OK? Itch decided he didn’t want to wait and find out. He grabbed Chloe’s hand, and she opened her eyes.
The two gunmen looked huge to Itch; their enormous black boots were barely three feet from his face. He could now see that they both wore ski masks, leaving only their eyes and lips visible. Their heads flicked nervously between the van and the remains of the bonfire. With no agents to aim at, they kept peppering the van with bullets. The noise gave Itch the confidence to speak to Chloe.
“Come on!” he said, and started to shuffle backward to put some distance between him and the enemy. Chloe saw what he was doing and followed suit. It was a snakelike slither, but when Itch judged they were far enough away, they rose to a crouching run. They had covered over fifty feet before they heard loud shouts of alarm. Itch didn’t recognize the language, but it sounded Eastern European.
“They’ve spotted us! Hurry!” he cried, and they sprinted across the rough grass that marked the outer edge of the golf course. It was a gentle climb and then a sharp descent to the cliff path fifty yards away. Itch glanced over his shoulder; both men were up and giving chase. A burst of fire from the direction of the van: one of the men crashed to the ground, screaming with pain.
The pair crested the ridge and flew downhill, but their remaining pursuer was too fast. A gloved fist made contact with Chloe’s cheek, and she stumbled to the ground. With the next step, the man grabbed Itch and forced him down too.
A black-jacketed arm came around Itch’s throat and the masked face was close to his ear. “You struggle, I kill your sister.” The man pointed his gun at Chloe’s head. “Is not a problem for me.” His accent was thick but the words were clear enough.
“OK, OK!” cried Itch. “Please! Whatever … I won’t struggle! Leave her, leave her, please! She doesn’t know anything!”
The man nodded. “Get up. Down there …” He pointed toward the beach. “Go. You try anything …” He gestured toward Chloe.
“No! I’ll come with you! Please don’t!”
The man grabbed Itch and, leaving Chloe behind, they half ran, half stumbled down toward the coastal path. It appeared to be deserted now, as did the collection of huts that sloped down along the beachfront. At the far end stood a streetlamp; the mist had become a steady drizzle and the raindrops briefly shone yellow as they fell around it. There was still a thin line of light on the horizon too—just enough to see the dark mass of black granite rocks that ran out into the Atlantic and formed the southern end of the beach.
The man shoved Itch against the first beach hut and held him there while he spoke rapidly into a radio. The response squawked back and he scanned the beach. He produced a small pair of binoculars and looked again along the rocky promontory. Itch looked too but saw nothing. The man spoke into his handset again, and this time they both heard a powerful outboard motor approaching from the south. Holding Itch by the collar, the man stepped out from the cover of the beach hut—and Itch wondered why it had taken him so long to realize what was happening.
He was being kidnapped.
Nicholas Lofte was in the backyard, raking up the last of the autumn leaves, when he heard the explosions. He dropped the rake and ran toward the house next door. Fairnie was already emerging, his Glock 17 held in front of him.
“What’s happened?” Nicholas’s voice was urgent, demanding.
“There’s an attack underway. Danny and Chris are in the van but the traffic’s solid and they can’t reach the kids. You have to stay here.”
“Like hell I will,” said Nicholas, sprinting away.
He was a hundred yards down the road before Fairnie caught up with him. “Listen. He’s your son, but he’s my responsibility and this is an MI5 operation. Got it? If you’re with me, you take orders, OK?”
Nicholas looked at him, but didn’t reply. They turned the corner at the bottom of the hill and saw the chaos and destruction that the twin explosions had caused. Splinters of wood and clods of earth covered the parked cars. There was a large hole in the ground; some of the logs had fallen back in and were burning fiercely. They ran across the road and saw Sam Singh and Tina Greaves lying face down, covered in sand.
Nicholas knelt down beside them while Fairnie ran over to the bunker. He found Moz Taylor still standing, but swaying as he bent to help Kirsten.
“Where’s Itch?” the colonel yelled over the roar of the flames.
Moz shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”
“There!” Nicholas was at Fairnie’s shoulder, pointing to the edge of the golf course. The unmistakable figures of Itch and Chloe were silhouetted against the darkening sky. An assailant followed swiftly behind them.
“This way!” Fairnie ran right, along the road that led straight to the parking lot and the beach. Nicholas heard him talking to Kirsten and Moz, who were already back in action. “Moz, you and Kirsten get Danny and Chris, and follow them. I’m going around to the right!”
They stormed through the parking lot and skidded around the corner of the first beach hut.
And froze.
Fairnie and Nicholas stared at the man who held Itch in one hand and a gun in the other.
“Itch!” Nicholas yelled as Fairnie pushed him into the gap between the first two huts.
“Dad!”
The man now had his right arm around Itch’s neck. With his gun in his left hand, he dragged Itch in front of him and held him firmly.
Fairnie emerged slowly, his gun aimed at the man’s head. For a few seconds no one dared move. Then, from the slope behind, the clatter of guns being loaded made the man turn around. Moz and Kirsten were scrabbling down to the path, lining up their weapons as they ran. But they pulled up fast.
“Chloe’s back there. She’s hurt!” called Itch before his kidnapper tightened his grip, choking off any further words.
“OK—we’ll find her!” Fairnie shouted. “I’ll get Chris to pick her up. Don’t worry about her now—we’ll make sure she’s safe! Keep calm and do what he says!”
The man was walking backward toward the steps that led down to the beach, the gun still pointed at Itch’s left temple, his right arm still firmly across Itch’s windpipe.
Fairnie’s voice filled the beachfront again: “You know you’re not going anywhere. I’m counting three guns pointing straight at you. Give the boy up now!”
“And I have one gun pointing at his head,” called the man in the ski mask, his voice cracked and hoarse. “I think I’m going wherever I want to go. And you will let me.” He reached the steps, barely a hundred feet from Fairnie and Nicholas, and, his eyes darting between the agents, descended onto the beach. He turned his head and shouted something in the direction of the rocks. In reply, the outboard motor roared back into life.
Still holding Itch tightly, the kidnapper walked backward across the sand. None of the agents could risk a shot: attacker and hostage were approximately t
he same height, and in the near darkness the two figures had effectively merged. All they could see was one rapidly retreating shadow. At one end of the huts, Fairnie and Nicholas crawled across to the railings that ran just above the beach, while Kirsten mirrored their movements at the other end. She had the advantage of her Yukon Tracker night-vision goggles: she could see the infrared image of Itch, wide-eyed but not struggling, being dragged toward the rocks.
She spoke into her lapel mic. “They’re nearly at the rocks. The boat looks like a 23-foot rigid-inflatable, two engines. At least one man on board. It’s a fast one—let’s not let it go.”
Fairnie, cursing his lack of night vision, spoke fast. “Moz, Danny—do you see them?”
“Got them,” came Danny’s voice. “I’m south of the rocks, sixty feet away. Moz is in the water.”
A few seconds passed before Moz’s whisper came through. “I’m closing in on the boat. There are two on board, repeat two. Both armed, but we could take them! I’ll have a clear shot in thirty seconds.”
“Not yet.” Fairnie’s voice was firm. “While Itch is a human shield, we can’t risk it.”
Nicholas was beside himself with frustration. “What’s happening, Fairnie? Surely one of you can take a shot?”
Flashes of orange, and then two shots came from the rocks and the colonel had seen enough. “Kirsten, you’re my eyes. I’m going in. Give me cover.”
Kirsten’s Glock 17 started firing; a deeper, thudding sound. She was aiming high, but close enough to draw the attackers’ attention away from her boss.
Fairnie swiveled under the railings and hit the sand running. He hadn’t spoken to Nicholas because he knew there was no point. He could hear him at his shoulder, matching him stride for stride.
“Sir! He has his back to you now! He’s pushing Itch up onto the rocks!” Kirsten’s voice was more urgent now, and Fairnie lined up his Glock.
As he sprinted across the sand, he saw Itch being herded toward the boat. It was rising and falling as its twin engines churned in the swell. Two men, also masked, crouched inside—one in the bow, the other at the stern, both facing the shore. Kirsten’s sweeping fire was keeping them down. They were returning shots but without taking proper aim.
