Terror's Reach

by Tom Bale

  She

  owed him. Didn’t she?

  'One last chance,’ Valentin said slowly. 'Tell me where my daughter

  is, or Priya will shoot. We start with kneecaps. Very painful.’

  Felton looked unfazed, and Priya knew why. Valentin couldn’t

  afford to hurt him too badly, in case something went wrong and his

  daughter was lost for ever.

  That was the key moment. The moment when Priya saw with

  absolute clarity that Felton was right. He did hold all the cards. He

  had the gold, and he had Sofia, and they had nothing comparable;

  just empty threats and guns that might as well have been toys for all

  the use they were.

  And Valentin was to blame. It was his arrogance and poor judgement

  that had allowed Yuri to deceive him. His sloppy planning that

  had allowed his family to be kidnapped.

  All signs of the fundamental weakness of character that Robert

  Felton had described.

  And Felton, watching with that wise, crafty, penetrating gaze of his,

  followed every tiny stage of Priya’s realignment, took note of every

  single calculation and waited for the inevitable conclusion.

  When it came, his eyes widened and warmed a little, and Priya

  thought he was going to ruin it all by offering his congratulations

  prematurely. But he didn’t get the chance. Because that was also the

  moment his phone rang.

  Fifty-Nine

  In the context of this night, the everyday trilling of a phone seemed

  banal and nonsensical. Joe didn’t know what it meant, that someone

  should call, but he was glad of the interruption.

  He’d followed the conversation between Felton and Priya and saw

  how she might be tempted to jump ship. Soon Liam would reach

  the same conclusion. Felton’s taunt about playing gooseberry had

  struck a nerve: since then Liam had been restlessly shifting his weight

  from foot to foot, keeping his gun hand up and ready. Not trusting

  anyone.

  And this is how it falls apart.

  In the gallery, Priya allowed Felton to ease the phone from his

  pocket. He looked at the screen and did a double take.

  'Oliver?’

  As he listened, Felton made eye contact with Priya. He shrugged,

  then frowned, pressing the phone against his ear as if striving to hear

  or understand.

  Oliver’s impulse would be to gloat, Joe thought. He’d phone to tell

  his father he was safely off the island, and that he’d called the police.

  Joe prayed that he’d also thought to release the other prisoners.

  Then Felton made a stuttering sound, and said, 'Wh-what do you

  mean? Matches?’

  'I kept some,’ Oliver told him. 'I’ve had them for years. Hidden in my

  bedroom, as a test of will.’

  A test. . . ?’ His father seemed incapable of anything but dumb

  repetition.

  'That’s right. But I don’t need to do that any more. I can face up

  to what I am.’

  'Oliver, I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about, as usual.

  They said you escaped. Where are you?’

  'Next door. It may be an ugly house, but the view from up here is

  incredible. The sea is shining like a vast oil slick—’

  'Oliver . . .’ Felton gave a sigh that seemed intended for his other

  audience. 'That’s not really the wisest location, is it? But since you’re

  there you could save me a lot of trouble by coming back with a gun

  and shooting these bastards.’

  Oliver moved the phone away from his ear, correctly anticipating

  the big, ingratiating laugh that followed.

  When it faded away to a flat silence, Oliver said, 'I’m not interested

  in guns. I was pleased to get my phone back, though. They had

  a room full of them downstairs. And then I wasn’t sure if Priya would

  let you answer it.’

  'Priya and I are getting on fine.’ More false jollity. 'Talking things

  over. Like I said, why don’t you join us?’

  'I’m not riding to anyone’s rescue. But I will solve all your problems.

  Can you hear that?’

  He held the phone at arm’s length. It took less than three

  seconds for his father to dump the good-pals routine and snap:

  'What?’

  'Doesn’t matter. It’s not loud enough.’

  'What isn’t?’

  'The sound of gas, escaping.’ Quite unexpectedly, Oliver discovered

  tears running down his cheeks. He sniffed, then grimaced. 'I’m inhaling

  it already, I suppose.’

  Now he had his father’s attention. His full and final attention, Oliver

  thought, recalling a form of wording his father liked to employ in his

  business correspondence.

  'Oliver, think about this. Think very, very carefully—’

  'I have.’

  'No, I mean it.’ His father’s voice was low and husky, like a bad

  late-night DJ. 'Please, Oliver . . .’

  The P-word. He hadn’t heard that from Dad in . . . what?

  A lifetime.

  'It’s too late. I’ve opened a couple of the canisters. Liam’s people

  brought a small quantity of explosive, but I’m not au fait with this

  sort of detonator. Rather than risk any mistakes, I’m going to make

  doubly sure by igniting the gas myself. With my trusty box of

  matches.’

  He laughed, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, and once again

  his father reverted to type.

  'No, Oliver. You’ll stop this nonsense immediately. Don’t be so

  bloody stupid.’

  Stupid. Some epitaph, Oliver thought.

  He dropped the phone and picked up the matches.

  Joe heard snatches of the conversation, and then only Felton’s side of

  it, but that was enough to figure it out.

  Oliver was inside Dreamscape, and he had matches.

  After swearing at his son, Felton listened for a moment and then

  shook his head. He stared at Priya and said, 'The propane.’

  She didn’t get it at first. Didn’t react when Felton retreated across

  the games room, out of Joe’s sight. She watched him go, curiosity

  giving way to anger as she decided this must be a ruse. She raised the

  MP5 but Valentin screamed and lunged for the barrel, knowing its

  power might tear Felton apart, and Priya swatted him away while also

  nodding that she hadn’t forgotten his concern. The gold was at stake,

  never mind Valentin’s daughter.

  Priya fumbled with the selector switch, perhaps trying to set it to

  single fire, so she could wound him, bring him down with a leg shot

  but keep him alive.

  Madness. Joe saw that, and so did Liam, for both men began their

  dive for cover in what must have been the first millisecond of the

  explosion. Long before they heard it. Long before they felt anything

  but the greedy suck of air as every window on the northern side of

  the house blew out.

  Joe hit the floor and rolled, seeking the relative protection of the

  squash court’s side wall. He was facing upwards for just long enough

  to witness the first devastating impact of the pressure wave: Valentin

  and Priya, snatched off their feet and hurled across the games room.

  Then a searing flash of light had him throwing his arms up over his

 
face and pressing his head into the space where the wall met the floor.

  He felt the whole house shift, and heard a boom louder than thunder

  as the sound of the blast caught up. It was accompanied by a deep,

  rending noise that scared him more profoundly than anything he’d

  ever heard in his life: it was the sound of stone and timber and brick

  and glass being torn apart; a sound like the end of the world.

  to destroy Dreamscape. Valentin hadn’t been too worried whether any

  of the other homes were damaged in the explosion: just as long as

  Felton’s extravagant design was obliterated.

  So in that sense Liam should have had a good idea of what to

  expect. But the reality was far worse than anything he’d imagined.

  Too much gas, he thought as the world turned to hell around him.

  They should have kept the canisters on the ground floor so the house

  would absorb more of the blast.

  Got it wrong.

  And now they were all going to die.

  Priya was still conscious when the shock wave picked her up. Her

  head snapped back and her arms and legs splayed out and the submachine

  gun went flying off in another direction. She tried to keep

  control of her limbs, tried to reach for Valentin as he too was caught

  in the blast, and for an instant she thought her hand might have

  grasped his – she was sure she felt the soft, comforting touch of human

  flesh for a single fleeting moment – and along with her belated understanding

  of Oliver’s betrayal came the knowledge that this was the

  very last touch, the very last moment.

  Liam was better placed than most to comprehend what was happening.

  He’d been responsible for acquiring the propane. He was the one who’d

  researched its effects and made a rough estimate of the quantity needed

  Sixty

  There weren’t any guards patrolling the island, and there was no roadblock

  on the bridge, but Liam’s man nearly got them killed just the

  same.

  Terry charged into his house, opened the garage doors and rolled

  out at the wheel of his huge black Hummer. Angela had always

  regarded it as a ludicrous vehicle: a hideous, planet-killing beast.

  'Very small penis,’ had been Donald’s inevitable wisecrack whenever

  Terry Fox thundered past in it. Now Angela made a silent vow never

  to criticise the Hummer again, if only it transported them to safety.

  They piled in, Angela still fretting that they’d left Oliver Felton

  behind, then Terry gunned the engine and she was thrown back in

  her seat as he accelerated away. She assumed he’d maintain the same

  furious velocity until they were well clear of the island, but after less

  than a hundred yards he slammed on the brakes.

  By the time she’d recovered her equilibrium Terry had jumped out

  and was crouched over a dark shape by the side of the road. He turned

  and motioned at her to join him, and when she did she found that

  the shape was human, unconscious, and bleeding heavily from wounds

  to the head and chest.

  It was one of the original gang. Pendry, she thought his name was.

  He was barely alive, and must have fallen foul of Felton’s men, or

  possibly Yuri.

  The new, battle-hardened Angela could almost have told Terry to

  leave him there. Get back in the Hummer and just go. Thankfully,

  the day’s experiences hadn’t quite brutalised her to that extent.

  Even with the four of them working together, lifting the injured

  man into the Hummer ate up precious seconds. It was hard, hot,

  messy work. All the time she had to ignore an insistent voice in her

  head, reeling out horror after horror: that moving him would kill

  him, or they’d get him to a hospital and he’d die anyway, or he was

  exaggerating his wounds and might spring up and attack them. Worst

  of all, that Priya would come after them . . .

  But none of these things happened, and they set off again, moving

  cautiously once the bridge came into sight. There was a Range Rover

  parked at the side of the road, and Terry watched it closely, holding

  the gun in his right hand while steering with his left. Thankfully it

  was unoccupied.

  On the bridge itself there was a Citroen van, also empty, and beyond

  that a line of interlocking plastic barriers. Terry eased past the van

  and then blasted right through the barriers, muttering something about

  his paintwork, and then they hit the mainland and at last the island

  was behind them and they could dare to relax.

  Angela let out a long breath, thinking she understood how astronauts

  must feel when the space shuttle touched down on the runway

  at the Kennedy Space Center. Now they were only minutes away from

  civilisation, working phones, normality.

  Then Terry glanced at his rear-view mirror and said, 'What the

  hell …?’

  As Angela turned to him, she caught a flash of light in the corner

  of her eye. The Hummer rocked on its suspension and the rear window

  shattered. Both Angela and Maria screamed, and all four of them

  ducked in their seats, assuming they were under attack. The noise of

  a tremendous explosion drowned out all other sound, and only when

  it passed could they hear the rattle of debris raining down on the roof.

  Terry brought the Hummer to a stop in the middle of the road,

  applied the handbrake and twisted round to get a proper look. In the

  passenger seat, Angela did the same, their shoulders pressed together

  as they stared at the island behind them.

  A huge fireball was climbing into the sky above Terror’s Reach. It

  had the shape of an atomic explosion, boiling and swelling like something

  alive and malevolent, forming an enormous mushroom cloud

  that blotted out the night sky.

  On the back seat, Maria shifted upright and then leaned over to

  make sure Pendry was still breathing.

  'Is he all right?’ said Angela.

  'I think.’ Maria’s eyes were red from weeping, and her face twitched

  as she glanced back at the island. 'What was that?’

  'Someone blew the whole place,’ Terry said.

  'Oliver,’ said Angela.

  Terry grunted. 'Christ knows how. I mean, there are the LPG tanks,

  but I don’t see how they’d produce an explosion like that.’

  'Maybe Liam’s gang brought a bomb with them?’

  'Or maybe Felton did.’ Terry shifted in his seat, facing forwards

  again. 'We need to get Pendry to a hospital.’

  Angela reached for his hand and squeezed it. She couldn’t quite

  control her voice as she said, 'Do you think they’re dead?’

  Terry sucked air between his teeth. 'Depends if they got any warning,

  I suppose. But it doesn’t look good, does it?’

  'No.’ Angela turned away and shut her eyes. 'No, it doesn’t.’

  Sixty-One

  Joe wasn’t certain whether he blacked out, or if it was simply that the

  turmoil following the explosion scrambled his senses. But after what

  might have been seconds or minutes he moved his head slightly and

  realised he was alive.

  After that, his first thought was: Felton. And then: Cassie.

  He was lying under a pile of rubble, his face caked i
n dust. He

  tried opening his eyes and felt grit scraping against his eyeballs. Next

  he flexed his arms and legs and got the desired response. Not

  paralysed, then. But he might still be trapped.

  He felt for obstructions around him before easing first one and

  then the other arm free of the wood and plaster that lay on top of

  him. He wiped his eyes and blinked until his tears washed them

  clean.

  With his vision restored, Joe was able to see how lucky he’d been.

  A large slab of masonry had fallen and ended up propped against the

  wall about a foot above his head, shielding him from the worst of the

  debris. If it had landed any differently he would have been crushed

  or buried alive.

  After making sure he wouldn’t dislodge it when he moved, he was

  able to wriggle out from under it and look over the rest of the room.

  It wasn’t a pleasant sight.

  The gymnasium was hardly recognisable: two of the squash court’s

  walls destroyed, the floor punctured and pitted and strewn with rubble.

  And there was a lot of blood.

  The first body Joe noticed was Valentin’s. The blast must have thrown

  him off the gallery, which had itself partially collapsed, with loose sections

  of balustrade dangling just inches above the floor of the squash court.

  Valentin was sprawled on a pile of bricks and splintered wood, his

  right leg twisted at an obscene angle. Looking more closely, Joe saw

  that the limb had been almost torn from his body. His right arm was

  also severed, and the back of his skull had been caved in.

  Joe stared at the body for a moment but found it hard to summon

  any real regret. Too many innocent people had paid the price of

  Valentin’s stupidity and greed. What sympathy Joe felt was directed

  towards Cassie and Sofia.

  And that sympathy won’t be worth a damn if I can’t find them, he

  reminded himself. It looked as if those on the upper floor had borne

  the brunt of the explosion, and the severity of Valentin’s injuries didn’t

  bode well for Priya or Felton.

  Now standing, Joe checked himself over. He had a few minor lacerations

  and a lot of bruises, but no broken bones, no serious cuts or dents.

  The fight with Yuri had done more damage to him than the blast.

  The boiler suit he’d taken from Manderson was tattered and filthy.

  He tore it off, and was gratified to find the jeans and T-shirt beneath