By the time the first carriage had struck the caps, the driver had applied the brakes. He knew there were no engineers working on the line, and a gut feeling told him something was wrong.
The smoke was rising up and encompassing the carriages before he even had chance to radio his control room. He couldn’t see flames, but in a tunnel your instructions were clear. Get out and stay out. Let the system do its job.
They had trained for this moment repeatedly. Previous fires in tunnels around the world had caused havoc and claimed many lives and the channel tunnel was no exception when it came to risk. With a clear line of communication to the central control team, the driver edged the train forward, through the enveloping, dark grey smoke until he reached the bright yellow hydraulic door that he knew would lead his passengers to safety.
With alarms activated, the response from both sides of the channel was rapid and effective. Fire, police and ambulance staff were despatched, emergency sprinkler systems and extraction devices were automatically employed and already inhaling the gases as staff implemented the heavily drilled response programmes.
As the first of the four hundred passengers left the train and entered the cross tunnel system, those that were left in Constantin’s group mingled and blended, effectively disappearing.
Quickly through the door the passengers entered a clean air bubble and were protected from inhalation and although now in the more cramped conditions of the service tunnel they were safe. British, French, American, Eastern European, there were people of all races and all became one, shuffling to the orders of one man in a high-visibility vest.
Further back down the tunnel a small group of vehicles were parked up, a man lay on the ground with police around him. It didn’t appear to be the tunnel company’s most fortuitous day.
“Boss, you follow the crowd. I’m staying this side. Call it gut instinct.”
Inside the main tunnel, Constantin Nicolescu was regaining his breath. He had been affected by the initial fire and dense smoke, all of it caused by his own party piece diversion. He was back on board the train, invisible now and hiding from the inevitable authorities – and one in particular. Would he ever give up?
Locking himself in the toilet, he leant against the wall and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked drawn, grey and in desperate need of food and water. It was a blessing that he didn’t crave the drugs that had ruled his life for so long. It had been days now, and he seemed to be coping without the euphoria they provided. How long it would last, he had no idea. He just needed to avoid Cade and his agenda-fuelled quest for vengeance.
He started laughing, adrenaline often did that. Then he held a whispered conversation with himself, still looking in the mirror.
‘To be fair, you did damage his colleague. I can still hear his arm snapping when your foot plunged through it. Snap! And what about the others that you shot at? Complete strangers. What has become of you Nicolescu – son of Nicolae?’
He sipped some water from the tap and ran the remainder over his face.
‘And then there was the girl. She is probably dead. Probably. Whore deserved it. But why?’
He couldn’t remember why he had even entered the Old Queen Street property. Perhaps they were right, those many people who had warned him about the impact of controlled drugs on the human mind.
‘Why was I even there?’
It was revenge. Nothing more. To harm his woman is to harm him.
His head nodded, and he slumped onto the seat and drifted into a micro sleep.
Within half an hour the bulk of the passengers had been screened and escorted back towards the train, assured that there were no problems and that the explosions they had heard were errant track warning devices, left in situ by forgetful engineers. With food vouchers and a discount on future travel, all appeared content to be marshalled back through the tunnel and onto the train bound for the continent.
The small police and tunnel team that had arrived to carry out the rudimentary security checks had been briefed. They knew what they were looking for. CCTV footage had supported that two of the group were now technically in the custody of the Kent Police, they just needed to sort the wheat from the chaff and the living from the dead.
Dragos Saban was en route to William Harvey Hospital, under guard and pleading for his freedom and a rapid recovery from the injuries he had sustained, which were somewhat unfairly caused when the Englishman Cade had deliberately driven into him.
The other male from the footage had been identified and was being photographed in situ, bent double in a side tunnel having been shot in the chest. Local detectives were already keeping the scene sterile and gathering what evidence they could of a potential police shooting. On the face of it, with the testimony of an acting inspector and a detective chief inspector, it would appear to be a prima facie case of self-defence.
That left two or possibly three males. Two were found in among the group as they re-boarded the train. Dropping a bag containing a Romanian passport and a handful of diamonds had eased the investigation somewhat. The other, tried just too hard not to be suspicious and in doing so stood out to an exhausted Cade, who even whilst being questioned by his colleagues about the earlier bedlam was able to differentiate between a legitimate train passenger and a sweating, overtly guilty criminal.
He pointed and shouted to a ‘black-pyjama’ wearing firearms officer. “That’s one there. He’s your man!”
The fact that two men ran in different directions caused consternation for the combined British and French police staff that were now on scene. It would transpire that the first ran because he knew they were likely to shoot him, the second because he was wanted on a fines warrant at a British magistrate’s court and had failed to tell the most important person in the equation, his wife. Of the chaos in the tunnel, he was completely innocent.
A suitably attired police officer with a Heckler & Koch rifle hanging across his chest would later say to Daniel. “Your man here didn’t have a ticket either, guv – so it was hardly twenty-first century policing!”
Cade walked quietly along the concrete safety platform that separated tunnel workers from a gruesome collision with a high-speed train. He was happier that his boss was with other people, and potentially with medics. He didn’t look too bright. That said, he knew he should also be with other police staff. Searching the tunnel for Constantin on his own was increasing his risk, but in a way it had been deliberate. He had consciously allowed himself to be separated from the pack. It made it a fair fight.
He used the steel rail to support himself, dragging his exhausted frame along and through what remained of the dense smoke. The system was indeed effective. In only a few minutes, it was clearing the tunnel. Now all that remained was a solitary police officer, thousands of tons of curved concrete, a resting locomotive and, betting his pension on it – the remaining offender.
John “Jack” Cade took a moment to count his friends, recall his last few weeks and the series of events that had injured him and his colleagues, and claimed the lives of people that had tried to make a difference. He stood still for a moment longer, checked the firearm and assumed he had one round left, then climbed up and into the train. There was nowhere else to hide – he had to be on board.
‘I’m coming for you, you bastard.’
It was ludicrously late in London when Detective Sergeant Jason Roberts had finally got home. His wife had arrived to pick him up and lovingly tipped him into the passenger seat of their private car.
Before he had left the hospital he insisted on calling in to the guarded side ward, checking on his most valuable staff member O’Shea. He had introduced himself to Tony Hay, the casualty officer who seemed to live at the place.
“Well?” Four letters that replaced a thousand words.
“Pretty outstanding actually Jason.” Hay’s words had taken Roberts by surprise.
Roberts pulled the doctor to one side.
“I was told she wouldn’t make it. You
know, call the family, plan for the worst – I can’t lose two staff in one month,” he whispered, causing the Canadian medic to smile.
“I can bloody well hear you…boss – I haven’t even got any fuckin’ grapes and you are planning my funeral. I mean what’s going on here?” It was an equally quiet sentence, but she was speaking. She was alive. He needed to call Cade immediately.
Cade could feel the vibration in his pocket. He’d forgotten about the phone, he’d actually forgotten about everything ‘normal’, marooned underground and in a subterranean nightmare.
It rang again. This time he let it go to answerphone – the caller would have to wait. If it was important, they would leave a message, along with the other three hundred that he was sure he had received over the last twenty-four hours. He grunted quietly at the thought of his overtime claim. It was an amused grunt as he wasn’t paying the bill.
The phone buzzed once more. The message had come through.
“Jack, it’s me, Ginger. No idea where you are. You could be in bloody Bucharest by now for all I know. Anyway, the missus has picked me up and I’m heading home. I’ll be in a cast for a few weeks, I’ve gone for my team’s colours. The doc is happy with the job he’s done, says I’ll be able to play the violin after all. Right, give me a bell when you’ve done whatever it is you are doing and Jack, some good news. Carrie is conscious and being really offensive. All for now, bye, bye, bye….bye.”
At the Foreign Office in Central London Michael Blake had closed the drawer on his desk, switched the table lamp off and took one last look out across the walkway and out into the great city of London. A text message lit up the screen on his Blackberry and partially illuminated his desk.
‘We have the package. It will be released soon.’
A simple message that allowed the senior advisor to the British government to push back, close the door on his office, locking it securely behind him and in minutes head out in to the night air.
‘Don’t let me down.’
Cade had little idea of the time, the days had blended into one, existing on coffee and take away food he realised that sooner or later he would give in to the tidal pull of sleep deprivation.
The train was still lit but was understandably quiet. He knew that it wouldn’t be long before the passengers would be allowed to re-board. There was nowhere to hide. The seats did not allow for places to secrete anything, let alone a body. The only place would be the toilets, or, further ahead, the driver’s cabin. But he assumed that would be locked.
The first toilet was showing vacant, but he eased the door open, stepping back and pointing the gun into the space. Vacant indeed. He edged down the carriage and into the buffet area, all polished chrome and wooden highlights. Into another carriage, this one more upmarket.
Nothing.
Through a door and into a standard cabin he could see for about fifty metres. At the end, another toilet cubicle waited to be searched.
Constantin shuddered awake. His heart pumping overtime. He tried to stand but staggered slightly. He forced himself to breathe and waited. Everything told him it was Cade.
Leather soles crept across brown industrial floor covering, step by step. Cade was convinced he was making a noise as loud as the train itself, but each step was tactical, gently onto his toes, holding the weapon in the low-ready.
He approached the door, as he did so it swung open. He grabbed it and tried to push it back, but Constantin was out and running down the aisle towards the next set of doors. He prayed that his instinct was right, that Cade wouldn’t shoot him in the back. A British police officer would never do that.
Cade brought the pistol up and into the aim.
“Armed police. Stop or I will shoot!”
He kept running.
Cade started to run after him, cursing conventions. They reached the door between the next two carriages. It was shut and locked.
Constantin started to kick it and punch it with his fists. He stopped and turned around. He was cornered. The mighty lion, now a faded street cat, destined to end his days in prison, lured into depraved acts just to lead an existence. Not again.
He ran at Cade. ‘Shoot me if you must, but do it with one round.’
The aging pistol came up and Cade challenged him once more.
A human can close down the gap on his aggressor very quickly, especially if the aggressor knows he or she is about to end someone’s life. There is always the chance that the person with the weapon will freeze, just stare at the target and hope it will all just go away.
Cade waited for Constantin to get within ten metres and fired. The Nagant revolver kicked like a wilful child at bedtime, putting one round straight through the door, before releasing the last of the seven rounds, which left the barrel and in a fraction of the standard muzzle velocity had reached its target.
It had probably last been fired in anger in a war or rebellion long forgotten, but fire it did. The bullet entered Constantin just above his right hip and sounded like a hammer hitting a piece of over-ripe fruit. The weapon pulled to the left and down; Cade had been aiming for his heart.
What shocked Cade was seeing his target running towards him – and angry. He looked over the weapon and fired again. It was empty. Dropping it onto the floor, he prepared for the collision. Constantin hit him hard. Both men were of a similar build, Cade fitter and younger but still surprised at the force used by the wounded animal who had now driven his attacker back and partly into a chair.
The Romanian’s arms were wind-milling now, hitting anything, the chair included. The now-familiar, small, bright blue tattoo was visible on the inside of his right wrist. A wave. A simple curved outline.
He landed a few blows on Cade’s jaw and neck before the police officer was able to drive a palm strike up and into his opponent’s chin. It forced his head back and gave Cade a second to grab hold of Constantin’s face and claw at his eyes.
His screams could be heard by the arriving passengers who were being corralled back to the Eurostar train. As if their day couldn’t get better they were now witnessing a fully engaged fight between two males. The one in the seat looked as if he was fighting for his life.
“Stay here! All of you.” A constable from the Frontier Ops team had seen it too and was running onto the train, CS spray in hand and wondering just what more the day would bring in the way of better work stories.
Constantin was oblivious, and thrashing out at any part of Cade he could reach. He leaned into him and feeling flesh against his mouth bit down and crushed the skin between his decayed and jagged teeth.
The pain was unbelievable. Cade could feel the teeth sinking into his collarbone, almost ripping out the muscle and nerves that it protected. It was then, somewhere in the distance, he heard the familiar racking of an ASP baton. Metal on metal, sliding open and ready to be used.
‘For God’s sake, man, use it.’
The Frontier officer didn’t issue a warning or say a word. Instinct told him that the taller of the two targets was the aggressor and the third man they were hunting for. He swung the baton over his right shoulder and slammed it into Constantin’s left arm. Holding the metal bar in place for a split second transferred some of the force and hurt him even more. With the return strike, swinging past his head, the officer struck again, from left to right hitting him on the right side of his neck. It was enough to bring him to his senses. In fact, it was enough to almost kill him, the bar hitting the carotid sinus area with such force that he became momentarily unconscious. Any harder may have caused him to have a stroke or heart attack.
Cade pushed him off and onto the floor.
“I’m on your side!” He yelled as he struggled for footing.
“I guessed that boss. Either that or I’m a terrible judge of character.” He handed his Speedcuffs to Cade who was wiping a trace of blood from his nose. The first link snapped onto Constantin’s wrist as Cade pulled the unresponsive right one towards him and locked on the second cuff. He didn’t bother to doub
le lock them, caring not if his circulation was cut off.
He lowered his head down and spoke.
“I know you can hear me, you piece of shit. If this officer wasn’t here, I’d tie you to the back of this bloody train and deliver you to the custody area myself. I hope you enjoy your time in prison. I may even visit one day just to remind you what freedom is all about. I’ll be doing my utmost to make sure you die there.”
He looked up at the younger officer, six foot plus, triangular upper body and a well-groomed beard.
“Thanks, pal. Nice work with the baton. I’ll make sure when I write this all up that I’ll say that I feared death or GBH. I owe you.”
“No problem, boss. Your mate said you’d be on the train. It was nice to give the baton a run out, to be honest. First time I’ve used it other than breaking windows.”
He put out his hand and helped Cade to his feet.
“Thanks. Been in long?”
“No sir, I haven’t. Two years now.”
“Good stuff. Call me Jack.”
“Dale Barnett. Nice to meet you, Jack.”
“Ever arrested someone for murder, attempted murder, GBH, firearms offences and driving a vehicle with no insurance?”
“Not yet, boss, no.”
“Well, you have now. He’s all yours. Could make a name for yourself with this one.”
More staff arrived and dragged Constantin unceremoniously along the carpeted floor until they reached the door. Paramedics were called to check him over, it was a necessary gesture before they manacled him to a wheelchair and took him through the cross tunnel to a waiting van.
Cade followed them through the air locked system and met up with Daniel, who had coordinated things the other side. He looked up when he saw Cade approaching.
“Don’t tell me, I should see the other guy?”
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 54
