“I never leave home without them,” he said to the quietly voiced question and squeezed the spring tensioned handles, making the cutters do a little scissor action, cutting thin air. With little time to waste, George turned his back on his daughter and proceeded to cut the wire mesh fencing, snipping a hole wide enough for large conjoined twins to climb through, quickly pushing the discarded section to one side so not to get entangled or cause further obstacle. On the other side of the fence he could see the back of the warehouse – somewhere within his wife languished, perhaps beaten, perhaps tortured, maybe (he tried to discard the thought) dead... for what?
To get to him, that’s what.
His Harriet, the woman he loved above all others, was trapped and held captive by one or more hostiles just a short distance ahead. He had no idea what he was about to face, how many he would have to confront and what opposition they would make. He’d recently fired a gun for the first time in over fifteen years; would he have to use it again?
Misinterpreting her father’s hesitance for fear or reluctance, Sophie took charge. Crouching next to him, she placed a hand on George’s shoulder and spoke with an assertive tone: “There’s no time to think dad. Come, let’s go and get your wife.” Without waiting, she crawled through the gap in the fence. George replaced the wire cutters back in the backpack, tossed it onto his shoulder and followed the young woman.
A moment later they were standing at the side of the building hidden deep within shadow. Very few lampposts were lit, which served them well. A halogen security light was on at the front of the building, along with a solitary lamppost; both afforded just enough light across the small car park adjacent to the warehouse to assist any who wanted to access their vehicles.
George counted four cars parked up, including the Audi that had been used by his wife’s abductors who’d stowed her unconscious in the boot.
“Are you ready?”
In truth, George felt sick. His mouth felt dry and it felt like his heart had grown claws and was trying to tear its way out up his throat. “As I’ll ever be,” he replied unconvincingly.
“I will go first and open the door.”
“Soph, it’s dangerous.”
“Shhh. You forget, no one can see me without those,” Sophie tapped George’s goggles with her left index finger. “Besides, if the door is locked I am better skilled at breaking in.” Not waiting for further protest, Sophie was running towards what she believed was the entranceway, first passing the large ‘up and over’ garage door, then stopping as she came to the only visible door that allowed entrance. Next to the door was some sort of combination lock. A nine digit keypad confronted her.
“True,” George uttered under his breath but he knew he wouldn’t be the only one wearing these. Back at Willoughby Rising, Kaplan Ratcliff’s man had been wearing a pair. And in London earlier that day, the men in black jumping out of the two vans came equipped with similar garb. The people they were up against were serious and meant business. By definition, their choice of ocular apparatus also spoke volumes as to who they were truly after.
On closer inspection and with some careful probing, Sophie noted that the security lock was not functional; the keypad was not illuminated (it should have been backlit by a soft lime-green hue) and pressing any of the keys, in any order or sequence had no affect or consequence. Slightly perturbed she tried the door handle, not expecting much – and almost jumped a mile from surprise at finding it unlocked.
“Whoa,” she exclaimed, completely perplexed. This was too good to be true, most likely deliberate; she didn’t think anything further of it. Sometimes the simplest solution was the least expected. She opened the door a couple of inches and tentatively, she peered in. The corridor beyond was lit by a single fluorescent towards the end – it gave enough light to penetrate the gloom closest to the door, but not enough to highlight anyone’s presence beyond it. A quick scan showed the corridor itself was empty. Turning to face her father, Sophie signalled for him – a quick flash (on/off) of the torch, indicating the way was clear.
George jogged from his place of cover towards the door now held ajar.
“That was easy,” he said in disbelief. It was a short distance but surprisingly he was out of breath. Seldom did he believe in luck but often recited the phrase: ‘never look a gift horse in the mouth’. He didn’t know exactly where the phrase came from but knew it meant not to be ungrateful when receiving a gift.
“You think?”
“Come, let’s see if we can find your mother.” Using the tablet, George zoomed in on the pulsating dot. The map expanded until nothing of the surrounding area remained – just a faint outline of the warehouse’s schematic. The GPS signal continued to pulse, indicating she was located in a small room deep within the warehouse.
Entering the building, Sophie took the Nexus and led the way. Whilst she’d waited the short time for her father to join her she’d reached into her backpack and removed the gun she’d taken from the Alpha Team agent back at the flat; in its place she left the torch – the flat in Chelsea now seemed like a whole lifetime ago.
With the tablet computer directing her forward, she held the gun in her right hand, pointing ahead. The warehouse door swung closed behind them making more noise than George had wished. The clatter echoed in the dingy corridor. Sophie glared back at him.
“Sorry,” he mouthed.
About half the length of the passage George felt a vibration within his trouser pocket.
His mobile phone.
He’d earlier had the good sense to turn off the ringtone – even so, the buzz of the vibration setting was loud enough for any close by to hear. He glanced at the display for indication as to who the caller was. The ID was withheld. He accepted the call and pressed the handset against his ear and listened.
“Hello?” he tried to speak softly but the acoustics in the warehouse corridor were superb and his voice was resounding.
“Hello George.”
George was quiet. He recognised the voice from earlier. “Ryan?” He said it incredulously.
Sophie looked back over her shoulder towards her father. She was anxious. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was but something didn’t feel right. Her father’s voice was adding weight to her unease, carrying as it was like a klaxon in a football stadium; she feared it wouldn’t be long before their presence was discovered.
George listened to the caller whose part of the conversation was too faint for Sophie to hear.
“Listen George, things have moved up a notch since we last spoke. I don’t have time to explain but when we meet we will have a long chat.” And some... he thought, his mind flitting to images of Clara.
“Ryan, I can’t talk. I’ll call you after…”
“After? After what? Where are you George? Are you all right?”
“I’ve located my wife. I’m about to get her back.”
“Wait! George, tell me you’re not at the warehouse?” he sounded desperate. “Agents are staking it out, waiting. They’ve anticipated your steps. Tom Kaplan knows you are going to go there.”
“Ryan, it’s too late. I’m already inside.”
It was just then that the discordant sound of a whoop intermingled with a jangle started to clang and siren throughout the warehouse. George ended the call with Ryan and without thinking, dropped it back into a trouser pocket.
“Well, I guess the element of surprise is now gone!” George shouted over the cacophony of alarm sounds.
“You think!” yelled Sophie back over her shoulder. They arrived at the end of the corridor above which the single fluorescent bulb burned. The door that barred further progress was secured with a similar device to that placed, though inactive, on the external door – only this one was in full operation. A red light indicated that the door was securely locked. Only the correct combination would allow fur
ther progress.
“Is that going to be a problem?” George queried, pointing at the combination lock with the barrel of his gun.
“Only to a locksmith. Step back a bit!” Sophie raised her weapon and discharged three carefully aimed shots, the bullets pulverising the control panel, sending sparks, electronic components and door fragments up and about, the shorting electrics caused the overhead fluorescent bulb to flicker on and off as auxiliary power kicked in. Further damage resulted in the splintering of the wooden frame around the door handle and where, she guessed, the securing bolt was positioned within.
Walking forward, Sophie pushed the door gently, allowing it to swing slowly inwards. The handle on the other side was loose and fell, clanging to the well-polished white tiled floor. She glanced at the Nexus. “The signal is coming from a small room at the end of the corridor that leads from this one.” She spoke loud enough to be heard over the din of the constant siren that threatened to deafen them.
“Where is everybody?” George had expected some resistance as soon as the alarm had started to whoop around them. He had placed a hand to the ear nearest to the alarm positioned high up the wall; still blaring, the ringing would continue to sound deep inside his head for many hours after.
“I wish this thing had radar,” she indicated the tablet.
“Huh, that’s a nice idea Ellen Ripley. That would make things too easy.” The Alien movie nod was lost on Sophie who’d never even heard of the film, its three sequels or even the two spinoff Alien/Predator movies.
“Easier than this?” Something was wrong. The feeling had intensified and had nothing to do with the alarms being triggered. She couldn’t help thinking that maybe they were expected and that they’d unwittingly stepped into a hornet’s nest.
“Don’t worry; I should be able to see the heat signatures of anyone ahead through my eyepiece. You’re not the only one I can make visible, remember.”
Together they slowly advanced towards the end of the corridor where a T-junction met them. A couple of doors on either side had been met with resistance (George tried one or two on passing) and knowing that Harriet was not behind them they knew not to waste further ammo.
“According to this, mum is down here.” Sophie announced, waving the tablet slightly and nodding her head towards the left. Further progress was barred by another door. This one had a narrow pane of glass in the centre allowing sight of the corridor beyond.
“Great; another security door.” George made to fire his gun.
“Wait! The light is green!” Sophie didn’t like this one little bit. She moved in front of her father without thinking and was opening the door before he had taken his finger off the trigger.
He exhaled intensely. He had been that close to putting a bullet in his daughter’s back. George held back a moment to recompose himself.
“That’s odd,” Sophie muttered as the security door gently closed behind her. She walked ahead, oblivious to her father lagging behind.
“Wait up!” George called out and reached for the door handle. As he pushed down to open it the light on the keypad switched from green and began to burn bright red. A bolt sounded sharply, locking the door – barring any further movement.
“Sophie!” George thumped the door with the heel of his hand. He made an adjustment to the goggles allowing him to read heat through walls and other obstacles and was momentarily relieved to see his daughter returning back to him.
“Dad, why didn’t you follow me?” Slightly muffled by the door separating them.
“I… I… I don’t know. I was momentarily sidetracked. Stop fussing.”
“Why did it lock?”
George could barely hear her.
Why indeed had it locked?
“I will force the door like the other. Step back a short ways…”
Sophie ran back a few feet and waited.
George stepped back and levelled the gun, firing three shots.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Two bullets destroyed the keypad, smashing the lock indicator lamps and sending sparks once again flying; the ricochet of the other bullet bounced to the side and punched a three-inch hole into the ceiling. A cloud of plaster dust descended like snowflakes. Unlike the previous door and frame, this one did not splinter. He tried the handle, pushing it down. There was little resistance but the door did not open. The lock was bolted fast. Peering in close and running a finger along the door frame’s edge he felt its cold, smooth surface. It was solid metal.
George cursed, slamming a hand against the door, utterly dejected. Looking through the pane of glass he saw Sophie had returned on the other side, her face pressed up to the window peering through.
“What are we going to do?” Through the thermo goggles, George read his daughter’s lips rather than hearing her words; the alarms still continued to shrill, seeming louder as though building to a crescendo.
“Hold on,” he had an idea. “I’ll shoot out the glass. Maybe you can climb through. Take cover.” George aimed the Beretta again and squeezed off two rounds in quick succession.
BANG! BANG!
The glass did not break; instead two crystallised, perfectly circular discs appeared within the window. Evidently, it was bullet-resistant.
“Damn it!” George spat, thumping the toughened glass with the heel of his weapon, futilely. Dispirited, he accepted Sophie would need to find another way.
“Go get your mother,” the words were muffled but Sophie could just hear them. “I will try and find another way in, but if not… meet me by the hole in the fence!” George was shouting over the constant noise that by now everyone on the industrial estate would have heard.
Sophie acknowledged her father with a nod and a mouthed “okay,” before turning in the direction of the room where her mother’s GPS tracker continued to transmit her location.
“Be careful,” George said knowing that she would not have heard him. With the goggles he was able to watch his daughter through the door and beyond. So far there were no other signs of life. The significance of this did not register.
With one last look he turned his back on his daughter to make his way back out of the warehouse. His intention was to locate an alternative way in – there had to be a fire exit somewhere. Legally, where large buildings are concerned, you couldn’t run a business without more than one escape route; two was the expected minimum.
No longer needing the goggles he flipped the lens up so that he could see normally, an action that he would shortly regret.
At the security door that Sophie had forced, George hastily pushed it open, not thinking about being careful or taking precautions. Instead, he came face to face with three heavily armed men waiting in the corridor beneath the single fluorescent tube that lit the entire passage to the exit. Still not thinking, George raised his weapon and aimed the gun at the lead man. Before he was completely through the door, obscured by his body, his other hand had pulled out his mobile phone and tossed it backward into the corridor behind him. It bounced harmlessly, the clatter inaudible over the noise of the alarms.
“Drop your weapon!” the lead figure bellowed, his own weapon, a laser-guided rifle, brought to bear on the man who’d just entered the passageway, a red dot of light shining in and out of George’s right eye, settling on a spot to the centre of his head just above the thermal night vision goggles.
“Don’t shoot!” George loosened his grip on the Beretta and allowed it to twirl around his index finger harmlessly. He crouched down and lowered the weapon to the floor. He thought about the smoke grenades in his backpack, wishing they were near to hand. The knife at his belt was totally useless.
The front door to the warehouse burst open and in came a tall, heavyset man wearing light grey trousers, black shoes and a white shirt. His jaw line was chiselled and he looked too handsome to belong t
o anything away from a movie studio, perhaps the lead in a romcom or an action feature, the type that yielded a collection of action figures and a plethora of different outfits. He walked purposefully towards the back of the three armed men and George, who had returned to standing after discarding his weapon. He raised his hands in surrender.
“Well, well, well. George Jennings, what a pleasure.” Speaking with an American accent, the newcomer had walked ahead of the armed goons so that he was just a foot away from George. Bending down he picked up the Beretta and stood up. He studied the weapon for a moment before releasing the magazine clip, placing it into his trouser pocket. He placed the gun into the waistband of his trousers.
“Who are you?” George spat the question angry at his capture. “What have you done with my wife?”
“George, George, George… I thought you’d remember me.” Brayden removed the thermal goggles from George’s head and unclipped the scabbard securing the knife at his waist. “After all, it’s not been that long since training… though I may have had longer hair back then.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Tom Kaplan
The klaxon alarm whooped and warbled suddenly, filling the night’s silence with a harshness that initially startled the waiting Bravo Team in their two vans and Tom Kaplan, in his Bentley. Together, through their inertia, they had all been guilty of ‘taking one’s eye off the ball’, having failed to see the obvious intruder enter the warehouse just a short distance away, the shadows and encroaching darkness not entirely concealing his advancement.
Tom once again opened a line of communication with Bravo’s team leader. “What’s happening?” he barked, simultaneously looking out through the tinted glass of the offside window in the hope of seeing the cause of the commotion at the warehouse.
Jack Wyatt was peering through binoculars towards the warehouse, the security lighting and the single lit lamppost providing just about enough luminance to see. He focused on the entrance. It looked undisturbed, but that didn’t mean anything. Using the binoculars he searched all around the building. He shook his head. It was useless. They’d been caught napping.
The Girl in the Mirror Page 29
