Brock Steele Sphere 1g4d1i

First published in Great Britain 2021 by Alex Bloodfire www.alexbloodfire.com

Copyright © Alex Bloodfire 2021

The full right of Alex Bloodfire to be identified as the author of this work and has been asserted in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act of 1998

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means Electronic, mechanical, recording, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to Actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chapter 1

Brock hurried down the dusty tunnels of Leicester Square, stepping onto the Tube’s busy concrete platform. People were spilling out everywhere, and agonising pains thumped through his head like a revolver firing continuously at point -b lank range. An announcement blasted through the Tube’s crackling intercom as a train rushed through the tunnel. Turbulence forced air and dust into the dreary station platform and into the faces of eagerly waiting engers flocking to its doors. The red doors screeched open and Brock pushed himself inside the Tube and its hot, sweltering atmosphere. He stepped over to an empty seat, collapsing into its hard fabric, taking in a gulp of the stale air. The doors slammed shut and the train whizzed through the dark tunnel like a fun fair ride. “Tickets, please,” shouted an inspector. Brock dived into his black tracksuit pocket, yanking out his leather wallet and glancing up through the blur of his eyes, catching graffiti etched across the Tube’s window. He waved his ticket towards the smartly suited inspector, who nodded and turned towards two men neatly dressed in grey suits. One of the men was very tall with a distinctive scar to the left of his face and towered over his companion. The inspector leaned over to them and the tall guy whispered, “We’re on official business.” The inspector stared at him. The other man cracked his knuckles. “We’re police, move on!” People were glancing over now. The tall man glared at the inspector as he moved off and down the carriage. Moments ed and the train screeched into the next station, eventually coming to a halt. The two men pulled themselves out of their seats, stepping calmly towards the door. Brock, head resting on the Tube window, caught the attention of the tall man. “Have we met before?” the man asked, grinning.

Brock shook his head. He didn’t recall the man—after his attack, he didn’t recall who anyone was any more—and the man’s grin turned to a cruel smile as he marched through the doors, stepping off the train. The doors screeched closed, ringing through Brock’s head, driving into his skull. Another announcement blasted over the Tube’s intercom: the driver. “This train is delayed due to someone under a train at Charing Cross.” Any Londoner will tell you: if someone ends up under a train, the whole damn line of trains stops and the whole track comes to a standstill. Brock slammed his rucksack on the floor between his feet, anxiously waiting for further announcements, anticipating one hell of a delay.

After an agonising half-hour wait, the train jerked hard into Camden Town Station. Brock was nearly home. Yanking himself from the seat, he stumbled to the door, rubbing his head. The thick black graffiti caught his eye again and he took a mental note. Struggling forward, he jumped out of the Tube and across the station, throwing some loose change towards a homeless man, and headed for Camden Avenue in NW1. Finally, he stepped up to his blue front door of his basement, the number 13A in cast-iron black letters. Gasping a sigh of relief, he shoved the key into the lock and turned it, pushing the door open. As he did so, he heard a voice behind him. “Parcel for you.” He grabbed it from the hand holding it out, pushed the door open, and charged down the grey-carpeted stairs, grasping at the freshly painted walls for balance. Storming into the basement kitchen, he reached up to a sturdy cupboard, grabbed a box of painkillers, and poured himself a fresh glass of water. He stepped into his beige-decorated bedroom, collapsing onto his unmade bed, slamming his eyes completely shut and falling asleep.

Darkness surrounded him. Sweat poured off his face and bright lights pierced his eyes like razors. His chest was tight, struggling to pull in breaths. Water swirled

as if from nowhere, hitting his face, forcing him to gasp for air. He hit out with his fist into some kind of wall, screaming for his life. Moments later, his eyes came crashing open, his body sprawling across the bedroom floor. He was under the window, his hand bleeding from the force of his fist hitting the wall. Another gruelling nightmare, and one of many he had lived through over the last nine months. He pulled himself up, still in his clothes from the night before, and hit the light switch; the bulb illuminated to the rhythm of its usual flickering. The wall clock said 6 a.m. exactly. One thing was certain: the reoccurring nightmare was bothering him, affecting his life. Help was out the question; he’d lived through too much of that already. He was on his own now. Chirping birds started their rounds and the sun shone through the cracks of the clumsily closed curtains. He gave out a huge yawn, rubbing his fist. His head felt much better than yesterday—the painkillers had done their thing. After a slow, reviving shower, he threw on a blue T-shirt, pulling up some tracksuit bottoms and kicking his best trainers on—in fact, his only trainers. He stepped into the minuscule white-tiled kitchen. Pulling open the fridge door, he grabbed the milk, gulping it and slamming it back into place. After a quick bite on a biscuit, he flung his rucksack over his shoulders and headed into work.

He got as far as Leicester Square, grabbing a coffee from a small kiosk. A small lad in his thirties, short brown wavy hair, tapped him on the shoulder and started speaking in a faint Irish accent. “Brock, it’s been so long. You are Brock, aren’t you? You me—it’s Tyrone, Ty. Look, I’ve got to split. Take my number. I need to speak to you urgently.” The lad shot a glance to several men at the corner of the busy square, sprinting away. As he darted through the square, they appeared to chase after him, and this Ty, as he called himself, hadn’t given Brock his number. Brock hovered over the neatly built gym, staring at it. It was his workplace—a popular upmarket gym owing to its excellent status and central location. He pushed the double glass doors, stepping into the reception area, clutching his lukewarm coffee. A suited man stood up from the seat and shouted in a fierce broad Russian accent, “You’re late. You’re always late, and what’s your excuse

this time? You have missed the weekly meeting again and someone’s complained about you for the third time. You’re on a written warning. Any more and you’re out.” The manager of the gym, Sergei, a Russian national, body pumped to the point he’d cheated on steroids, was waiting for him. Brock ignored him, staring at the floor as he hurried past onto the bustling gym floor. Weights clanked and chitterchatter filled the air. The floor was divided into three areas, and to the left was an array of free weights equipment. The right was filled to the brim with cardiovascular equipment, and directly in front fixed weights covered the floor. Brock headed past the fixed weights and into the staff room at the back of the room. He pushed the blue door open, coming face to face with rusty lockers and disgusting cups dotted about a small kitchen worktop, stinking the small room out. Gunner stood below the cupboards hung unevenly over the sink, holding onto the lockers. Of average height and build with light brown hair, his bad taste in mismatched casual sportswear had gotten him a name with the crowd. “Stuck-up Sergei’s been moaning at me all morning. Mainly about you this time,” he said. “Do I look worried? This idiot is cracking up. The pressure’s getting to him. Anyway, it’s unlikely I’ll last here much longer. Did I miss anything important at this pointless meeting?” “Unfortunately for you, I’ll never know. I ignored the whole thing.” Brock chuckled and yanked open the fridge door, pulling out some milk, putting it up to his mouth and gulping it down. “What makes me laugh is that I can’t do anything until the first client arrives. That’s at 9 a.m. and look at the clock—it’s only 8.30 a.m.” “Oh, bad news,” Gunner said. “He cancelled. Sergei took the call. Anyway, I’m popping to the gym floor. Some stuff needs moving, apparently.” Brock fell into one of the cheap grey plastic chairs to wait patiently for his now 10 a.m. client. Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes. Moments later, the office door flung open, nearly being torn off its rusty hinges. Brock pulled himself up and Sergei’s red face appeared before him.

“Your 9 a.m. has cancelled, but I hope you aren’t going to lounge about in this chair all day.” “What’s happened to you, Sergei?” Brock asked. “You were such a chilled-out guy. You were all over me in that jazzy cafe in Camden, desperate for someone to train your clients here. You’ve transformed into the Gestapo. Chill out.” Sergei snarled, marching out of the office, slamming the door behind him again —hard. Brock laughed, but it wasn’t funny. Sergei’s persistent attitude wasn’t like him at all.

The office wall clock showed 10.05 a.m. Brock, still slouched over the cheap chair, jumped up and headed out onto the gym floor. He nodded to fellow gym , pacing through like it was a tradition. Gunner stepped in front, pointing towards a bloke in a black Adidas tracksuit: his 10 a.m. appointment. It was the Scottish-born Icarus: late forties, brown hair, moved to London from Aberdeen some years ago. A fairly thin chap of average height who couldn’t keep his gob shut, always asking the wrong questions. Brock had been his personal trainer since he’d started working there over seven months ago. One thing about Icarus—he was fit as they came. Brock shook his hand and took him over to the treill for a light-hearted warm-up. Hovering over, he pressed various buttons on the control as Icarus sprinted, swishing his arms energetically. Ten minutes ed and the machine automatically slowed. “Forgive me for noticing, but you look like you’ve had a right old rough night,” Icarus said, stepping off the machine. “I can see how tight your fists are clenched. Calm down, boy.” “This morning hasn’t been good either. I’ve had a nightmare from hell and a manager from the bloody Gestapo. It’s becoming a huge problem.” “If it’s affecting your wellbeing perhaps you should visit a doctor. You’d be surprised what they can do.” “Sergei requires the doctor, not me. He’ll lose all his staff when he’s finished. Don’t know what’s wrong with him these days. It’s not like he’s not bringing in

the money.” “Forget Sergei,” Icarus said. “I wasn’t talking about him, you know that. Give the guy some space. Between me and you, people in here are suspicious about him. He’s probably picking up on it, could be affecting his psyche.” “I’m planning on leaving here soon.” Icarus nodded. “Let me know, lad.” He stepped off the treill and they both headed towards the fixed weights section. Brock leaned forward, adjusting a pin in the weight equipment. A girl in black gym attire and with long light-brown hair was on one of the spinning bikes, pedalling. Icarus started waffling on about his sister and Brock kept stealing glances at the woman on the bike. “What?” Brock asked suddenly, aware Icarus was looking at him expectantly. “I’ve finished. I’ve finished all the sets.” Icarus shot him a glance, and Brock dropped his gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry, I was distracted. I should have been concentrating.” “Is this wee lassie a problem?” “Let’s move over to the leg press. We haven’t been on this equipment for a while. It’s good for the thighs.” Brock kept his glance downwards, stepping towards the leg press equipment and fiddling with its dumb-bells. “It’s the one with the emerald eyes, isn’t it? She’s a bonnie lassie, and you’re a womaniser. You should approach her. I can manage this on my own.” Brock rubbed his eyes and gave out a little sigh as he adjusted the controls on the leg equipment, clicking them into place. “I can’t figure her out. She made an impression with me on her first day and now no interest,” he said.

“A wee bonnie lass like her, she’s probably waiting for you to make a move, lad. Her name is Sarah, by the way. You should ask her out for a drink.” Brock stepped back and Icarus grinned at his red face as he moved closer to the chest press. Brock stuffed a load of weights on the bars. “See if you can manage that.” Icarus raised his eyebrows at him, took a deep breath, and stepped up to the chest press. Brock stood next to him, shooting another sly glance at Sarah and then turning hastily away when Sergei clocked him from across the room.

The one-hour session ended and Brock called it a day. Icarus stepped away from the equipment, breathing heavier, sweat appearing across his forehead. “Thanks again for today, lad. Look, I know it’s none of my business, but you should concentrate on getting that memory of yours sorted out. For your own sake.” Brock froze and watched Icarus walk through the gym, disappearing through the door into the changing rooms.

Chapter 2

Brock snatched a protein shake powder from the overhead cupboard, throwing a couple of scoops into a mixing cup. He was suddenly distracted by a pizza box glaring at him from the table. He dived his hand into the box, pulling it open to reveal three slices of deliciously fresh chicken and sweetcorn pizza. The smell hit him and he grabbed a slice, stuffing it into his mouth until he came to the last one. The staffroom door swung open, slamming against the wall, and Gunner appeared in the doorway. Tiny beads of sweat glistened across his fore head. “Buy your own pizza. Sergei’s back there. I don’t like it. He’s doing something unusual with the till. Something’s out of character, I know it. I’ve dodged out the way.” Brock snatched the last slice, stuffing it into his mouth, remnants of pizza smeared across his face. Gunner frowned at him and then both simultaneously burst out in laughter. A sound hailed over the gym’s PA; Sergei had put a call out for Gunner. Brock necked his protein mix and he and Gunner glanced at each other. “He can go do one. I’m keeping out of this,” Gunner said. He yanked at the staff room door again, slamming it hard against the wall as he charged out. Through the crack of the open door, Brock spotted Sarah and her mate Lacy—jet-black hair and in full gym attire—walking past. She returned his gaze with a glare to kill. She was trouble. He ignored her, throwing his plastic cup into the sink. He stepped out into the corridor into the bustling gym floor, making his way towards Sarah. “Sarah, I wondered if you were going to the party later.” Lacy jumped up, standing between them. “Get stuffed. She’s not interested. Don’t make me have to write another complaint.” Lacy grabbed Sarah, nearly knocking her off balance as she yanked her in the direction of the spin bikes again. But as they left, Sarah looked back briefly over

her shoulder, discreetly nodding.

Brock breathed a sigh of relief—the end of the shift had finally come and it was the start of his two days off. Falling out into the busy bustling square in his casual green shirt, smart blue jeans dangling over his brand-new brogues, he headed for the party. He wasn’t about to miss this party for the world. He knew she’d be there. Lights glistened from tall buildings and music blared out from colourful venues. It was a busy crowd as usual at this time, and he pushed himself into the flow heading for the Tube station. He stepped onto the escalator, where a group of students at the bottom were falling about with laughter. The moving stairs came to a sudden halt. They’d pressed the red emergency stop button, and everyone started charging down the stairs, glaring at them. As Brock approached the warm tunnel, a train screeched into the busy platform, blowing up dust before coming to a halt. The doors slid open. The crowd surged towards them, cramming themselves into the tight carriage. Brock reached out, grabbing at the yellow metal handrail to balance his exhausted body. People packed around him, banging into him, and a deafening vibrating voice from the underground speaker system broadcast through the tunnels. “Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.” For goodness’ sake, this is the twenty-first century. Surely that gap should have been sorted out by now, he thought irritably. After a painfully tight squeeze in a boiling hot carriage and a quick Tube change —breathing in stale thin air the entire way—he finally reached the front door of a small house in Stratford, east of London. He scrunched his hand into a fist, banging on the door a couple of times, eagerly stepping back. Moments later, the door swung open and an aroma of beer hit him in the face. Dan, a well-built bodybuilder, stood over the doorway, his chest ripped through a tight white shirt. “Hey, how you doing, man? You look like how I feel,” Danny said, laughing. He was a regular at the gym and worked around the corner in some office. He beckoned Brock through a picture-laden hallway, wallpaper peeling off in places and flakes of paint littering the red carpet. The lounge wasn’t much better, stinking of beer with bare cream walls desperately in need of a lick of paint.

People clustered around the bare brick fireplace, several hovering over a table at the end of the room. Brock gave each a nod, but his gaze caught Sarah standing tall in a beautiful pink dress chatting to her troublesome friend. Lacy stood out like a sore thumb in her dazzling over-the-top red dress and stiletto heels. Sarah noticed him and he shot her a smile, slowly heading over to her. His heartbeat began to thump faster, uncontrollably, as he neared her. Someone grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him away. It was Gunner, dragging him towards the other end of the room, pushing a bottle of Budweiser into his hand. “Didn’t mean to be rude but Sergei spoke to me as I left today. I reckon I might not have a job.” “Wouldn’t worry about him. He’s probably doing you a favour. I’m calling it a day there myself very soon.” Gunner sighed and Brock shot another glance towards Sarah. A short guy, bushy hair and of average build, wearing a smart black pleated suit, was blocking his view. “Er, I’ve not met you before, have I?” he said. “Are you a member of the gym?” “No way. It would be inconceivable to see me in a place like that. Anyway, I’m Meriden. Pleased to meet you.” He grabbed Brock’s hand, giving him a firm handshake, noticing his arm tattoo and beckoning him to sit in the armchair. Gunner stepped back. “This dagger tattoo upon your arm,” Meriden said. “It’s a bit worse for wear isn’t it? And why are the initials BH? The man over there said your surname’s Steele. Anyway, I’ll be honest, I’ve been hearing some chitter-chatter about you and wanted to come over and meet you.” Brock glanced up at him. A shooting pain pierced right through his head and he howled, bringing his hand up to rub it. “Are you OK, mate?” Meriden asked warily. “Nah, my friend was beaten to a pulp by some scummy thugs a while ago.

Knocked him out and left him for dead,” said Gunner. “I said I’m alright, it’s nothing. Look, the head pains disappeared already,” said Brock. Meriden’s eyes widened as he shook his head, moving closer to him. “Forget it, it’s nothing,” said Brock. “You call being in a coma for three months nothing, man?” interrupted Gunner. “That sounds horrible. I do hope the police arrested them and they’re banged up for a very long time,” said Meriden. “Sadly not. Not even a lead. Anyway, it’s nice meeting you. I’m popping over there I’d like a chat with the girl standing by the fireplace. Catch you both shortly.” Sarah was by herself, standing tall, holding on to the bare brick fireplace for as she necked down the last of her martini and slammed her empty glass on the mantelpiece. He made his way moving through people, shaking hands along the way until he had reached Sarah. “Can we talk?” She let go of the fireplace, stepping towards him. “I wondered if you want to go out for a drink sometime? You know, me and you?” She frowned and glanced up at him, opening her mouth to speak. As she did, Lacy dashed from the kitchen door with two full glasses gleaming at him like a poison chalice, placing herself between them. She grunted at him. “She’s unavailable.” Grabbing Sarah by the arm, Lacy slowly pulled her towards the kitchen. Sarah looked back, widened her eyes, and mouthed “one minute”. Both disappeared into the kitchen and the door slammed shut. Brock nodded at a couple of gymgoers, who were in such deep conversation they appeared not to notice. A pat on the shoulder made him jump and he swung around. Meriden pushed a Budweiser

into Brock’s hand. Brock nodded, taking a big gulp and then another. “You must be parched. Don’t worry, there’s plenty more where that came from. So, these animals are still at large in our community?” “Excuse me?” “The criminals who attacked you and left you for dead.” “Oh yes, mate. Still running loose out there somewhere.” Meriden was silent, staring at him. “Err, I was distracted earlier. Tell me, how do you know everyone here?” “Oh me? Work in the same place as Dan over there. Boring computer job, I’m afraid. Tell you the truth, I have a few problems there, but let’s not go into that. Are you not worried these people will strike at you again?” Brock sucked in a breath and his body tensed. Putting the Budweiser to his mouth, he downed it all and placed the bottle on the worse-for-wear mahogany table. “To be honest, it’s a long story, of which sadly I cannot a damn thing,” said Brock. Meriden threw his head backward with laughter and Brock took a step back. “The baseball bat hit my head so hard it’s knocked out my memory,” he said. “Amnesia . . . that is so interesting,” a woman’s voice said. Brock’s eyes widened as a woman in her forties dressed in black with a black hat turned around, her eyes wide open. “You have amnesia,” she said. Brock clenched his jaw, fidgeting with his hands. Meriden mumbled to the woman—something about his job. Brock wasn’t interested, instead glancing around for answers. But there were none. His gaze hit Sarah’s beautiful pink dress and she signalled him over.

He stepped away from Meriden, pushing through some people in the direction of Sarah, knocking his leg into the dilapidated coffee table and nearly tripping. “Lacy said you’re not available. Is that true?” “Lacy doesn’t speak for me, so ignore her.” “Oh, speak of the devil.” Lacy appeared, nostrils flared in full thrust, and bent over to reach into her handbag. “Hope that’s not a gun.” Brock laughed. She pulled a face at him, barking a false laugh and raising herself from the ground. “Your glass is empty,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to get you both a drink.” Brock raised his eyebrows at her as she scuttled off like a witch into the kitchen. “She’s OK, don’t worry about her. She’s a good friend, always looking out for me. She took me to my favourite place today with her dog.” “Nice. I could take you there if you want,” said Brock. “You could, but you don’t know where it is. Look, Brock, I think you’re a nice guy, it’s just my career …” The kitchen door swung off its hinges as Lacy appeared storming out of the kitchen as though she owned it, holding a black tray with two glasses of wine and a bottle of Budweiser. As she stepped closer, she swung the tray up towards Brock, giving out an unusually innocuous smile. “Drinks, guys. I would like to apologise for my behaviour earlier, how rude of me. Enjoy your drink, Brock.” He didn’t believe a word that girl said. She dragged Sarah across the room and Brock sensed someone behind him. He swung around and Meriden appeared. “That horrific ordeal…I mean it must have been horrendous.”

Brock nodded at a guy in the corner, a regular gym-goer and someone who always spoke to him. “Hope I didn’t bore you earlier with my problems at work,” Meriden went on. “I’d inputted some coding into this program today and unknown to me it ruined the whole thing. Knocked everything off completely. I’ll never be forgiven. It was quite bad.” “Computers are not my thing. Hate the damn things. Hope you manage to fix it.” “Sure they will, eventually. Your parents must be horrified and worried sick, not knowing if you would—” “Sadly they never came.” Meriden paused, staring into Brock’s skull as if looking for answers inside. He shook his head and Brock spotted a couple of free armchairs. “I need to sit down over there. I’m feeling a little light-headed.” “Of course. Brock, are you feeling OK?” Brock sank into the seat, gulping the last of his beer. Meriden tapped his foot anxiously. “Let me get you another Budweiser?” “I’ll give it a miss.” There was a long pause. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Lacy turning up the music. He pulled himself up, but as he tried to get out of the chair, he became so dizzy, it was as though some part of his body had left him. Meriden stared at him. “I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “For what?” asked Brock. “You parents. You must be going through hell being attacked like this and everything.” “Oh them. Haven’t a clue where they are. Been tracking them down for months

with absolutely no leads whatsoever.” “That sounds messed up. I have a friend who might be able to assist you. She’s a bit of a bossy so and so is our Audrey, but she works at some sort of agency tracking people down. She’s exceptional at her job, comes highly recommended. I’ll give you her number if you like.” Meriden reached into his tro pocket, pulling out his mobile phone. His phone lit up as he tapped in a few keys. “Found her. It’s the Bureau for Missing People, I think. Take the number. Actually don’t bother, I will call her now.” Meriden stuck the phone close to his ear. Brock leaned heavily on the chair, the music deafening. His head whizzed as though the room was spinning around and dizziness encircled him. What on earth is happening to me? “She never answers the phone. Are you sure you are OK, Brock? You have gone a little pale.” Brock fell back into the chair. His focus had become unusually sharp. And the walls around him seemed like there were about to crash on top of him. Somehow, he had managed to pull his phone from his jeans. Meriden screamed the number over the loud music, but Brock couldn’t hear a thing. Without warning, Meriden snatched his phone, pressed digits into it, and threw the phone back to him. Brock grabbed, but the springy upholstery of the chair suddenly felt like it was preventing him moving. Hyperventilating now, he sat upright, trying to focus around the room. Everything was blurry, but he could just make out Sarah in deep conversation with somebody he didn’t recognise. The room was spinning like a roundabout, his brain malfunctioning, and Meriden hovered over him like the Grim Reaper. Meriden’s voice hit the air as though it was travelling much slower. “You’re acting strange, Brock. Anyway, I’ve saved Audrey’s number in your phone. Another drink perhaps?”

A sudden and overwhelming sense of dread set in and dizziness ran through Brock’s head like a ride on a roller-coaster. With all his strength, he pulled himself onto his feet. Carefully, he calculated the distance of the hallway, staggering towards it, slamming one foot in front of the other like a child learning to walk. He was overwhelmed by a sense of urgency to leave. ing slowly through the hallway, he grabbed at the walls for , finally emerging at the front door. The music blared into the hallway and he was sure he heard Meriden’s voice. He slammed his hand on the handle, turning it full force, pulling the thick wooden door towards him and ripping off the handle. He stepped through it and ran into the street.

Chapter 3

Grey clouds appeared in the night sky as glowing lamps lit up the streets. Cars drove past and the autumn leaves blew into his face. He’d walked several streets, which appeared to take him an eternity, as though time as he knew it had slowed. He leaned his aching body against a lamppost, pausing and taking a breath of the cold air. He stepped into the road and noticed a blue Nissan turning over its engine, accelerating forward, heading straight towards him. It got closer and closer; the driver had seen him now. Brock picked up the pace and his heart started to race. The car was going t o hit him. The engine roared, picking up more speed, travelling faster towards him as Brock’s brisk pace turned into a sprint. The car slammed into his thigh, throwing him to the ground. Pain shot through his leg and an uncontrollable scream forced its way out of his mouth. The car doors flung open and Brock instinctively jumped up, hobbling the across the street in the opposite direction. The agonising pain rippled through his leg as he disappeared into a driveway. He limped across the bramble in the back garden and onto a neatly cut lawn, heading towards a tall wooden fence at the bottom of the garden. Clambering over, he dropped onto a concrete road below, pain surging through the length of his leg. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he limped across the road and climbed over some cold metal railings into a tree-lined park. He staggered over to some scented foliage and collapsed behind it.

Hours ed as he lay slumped among the damp grass, his head still reeling. Eventually, he forced his eyes wide open and peered into the peaceful greenery of the quiet park. Moments ed, and he heaved his aching leg and body up, peeking over the tall foliage for the blue Nissan or anything out of the ordinary. Everything appeared normal. There was no sign of the vehicle anywhere. He fell back to the ground, digging his hand into his jeans pocket for his mobile phone. According to the mobile, it was four in the morning. Brock checked what Meriden had entered into the phone. Sure enough, Audrey’s

number appeared, and so too did Meriden’s. Brock lay back in the grass and gazed into the night sky, watching the whole universe by. Another hour ed and he decided to make a move. He yanked at his leg and pulled himself up from the cold wet grass. The night air blew past him in a cold surge. His clothes were soaked, and as he stood, dizziness ran around in his head. The nagging of his leg bothered him, but he was desperate to get home. Gloomy grey clouds appeared in the night sky, and the wind blew harsh across his body, chilling the damp clothes even further. He couldn’t explain it, but his senses thundered on high alert. Spots of rain slashed his face and the wind whistled through the park, blowing the distant trees from side to side. A wave of fear came over him as he stared into the distance at the unusual shapes of the trees, like soldiers standing tall holding onto heavy machine guns. Droplets of rain hit his face, dripping into his eyes as he slowly shuffled around the foliage, heading towards the gate. He swung his body over the gate into the road. The dull streetlamps lit the way as he limped through the street, eventually reaching a brightly lit bus stop covered by a metal shelter. Brock perched on a plastic seat as the rain splattered on the bus shelter like a machine gun letting off its rounds. Eagerly waiting for the night bus, he reached out to the shelter wall for . The rain continued to pound, and wind swirled like a mini-tornado. Out of nowhere, a lad appeared in front of him, his dark-blue anorak dripping. He faced Brock, pulling his hood down. It was the young man he’d met in Leicester Square yesterday—Ty. “You again.” “I really want to talk to you. Please take my number this time.” Brock barely understood what he meant; his head was so feverish. A red bus pulled along the shelter and its doors squeaked open. On autopilot, Brock climbed on board. The doors banged shut and he shot Ty a glance through the window. He bore no familiarity to anyone he knew, and Brock slumped into a seat, racking his brains.

The slow bus journey eventually came to a halt at King’s Cross Station. He stepped into the giant glass building, limping through its brightly lit concourse with its closed shops. Several people darted in different directions and two

security guards paced through on their rounds. He’d crossed through St Pancras Station and turned right into the road when he noticed a tall man in a black jacket, who appeared to be following him. Brock sped up, but the man gained on him. Reaching a fully locked-up churchyard, Brock clambered over the black wrought-iron gate, limping through the pitch-black eerie churchyard. Gravestones stood tall across the quiet grassy landscape, and Brock turned into the darkness of the graves, glancing back at the man climbing across the gate. He ducked behind a gravestone, stretching his aching leg. The man paced across the path, taking cold, sharp glances across the churchyard’s landscape. Brock, in no fit state to put up a fight or make a run for it, wasn’t taking any chances after the hit with the blue Nissan. He carefully observed as the man persistently and methodically checked the entire cemetery. A good half an hour ed and the man seemingly gave up, pacing down the path near to Brock. As he slipped by, Brock inspected his face. Darkness covered it, but it appeared similar to the man he’d seen on the train the other evening. But he couldn’t be sure. The man leapt over the gate, disappearing into the opposite road. Brock waited, then jumped up and tiptoed across the path to the opposite side of the cemetery, jumping a wooden gate to get back onto the street. He finally limped into Camden Avenue, ing several parked white vans, likely from the market sellers loading their stuff before traffic wardens came on duty. Brock hovered in front of his door, digging his hand deep into his pocket, feeling around for the key. It wasn’t there. He sighed and jumped over the wall, scurrying along the path, picking up a loose brick and slamming it into the kitchen window. Inside, he threw his body onto the bed. Jolts of pain pulsated through his leg as he eyeballed the ceiling, watching it rotate strangely as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Chapter 4

Sighrus climbed into the white van, perching on a small black leather chair in front of a tiny metal desk filled with equipment and a microphone. Two operators sat at other small desks inside the van, glancing into blinking black - a nd -w hite screens. The detective, in his grey suit, stood upright towards the back of the van, gawking at the sight in front of him. Sighrus stood up, straightening his black suit. He was tall at six foot three inches, and he arched his head as he manoeuvred himself towards his assistant, Martha. She was an attractive woman in her thirties with thick dark -b lue spectacles. A blue ribbon was tied across her long blonde hair to hold it into place. She pulled off her black jacket, adjusting her white blouse for comfort, and shot Sighrus a gl ance. “He’s entered 13a, sir.” The detective coughed, squinting at Sighrus. “This is highly irregular. You should have allowed my officers to pull him, take him down the police station.” “He’s a very dangerous man,” said Sighrus. “Then he should be in custody. Not gallivanting around his apartment.” Sighrus ducked his head stomping back to his seat. He picked up some notes and examined them closely. The detective anxiously hovered over him. Martha fiddled with her earpiece and aligned her CCTV screen so it faced her dead on. The other assistant shot Martha a glance, and she clicked several buttons. “It’s all set, sir,” said Martha. “This man should be questioned in an interrogation room,” the detective blustered. “Who gave you this authority? I’m pulling police .” Sighrus ignored him, twiddling with some earphones and leaning forward to tap a microphone sitting in front of him. “OK you’re live, sir.”

Sighrus leaned into the microphone, and his finger pushed one of the earphones in further. “Mr Steele?” There was silence. Martha fiddled with some wiring underneath her desk and studied the monitor. “Everything is live, sir.” “Mr Steele, are you there?” Crackling sounded through their earpieces and a faint voice spluttered out. Sighrus briefly closed his eyes and pulled the corner of his mouth into a slight smile. He shot a glance towards the detective and continued into the microphone. “What’s your terrorist name, Mr Steele?” Sergeant Reece’s mouth fell slightly open as he glared at Sighrus. Martha glanced over her shoulder and raised her eyebrows at him. A prominent beep sounded through the earpiece and all three of them shuffled around on their seats. Sighrus flicked the microphone off. “What’s that?” he asked. The assistant pulled at the wires, inspecting them. “Not sure,” Martha said. “Probably just a glitch in the system, sir. It should be OK now.” “Well, try and find out what it is. We don’t want him to snap out of this or he might .” Martha nodded at the assistant frantically running his hands along the wires, closely inspecting them. Sighrus cleared his throat and leaned forward, flicking the microphone on again. “Mr Steele? Who is the MI5 mole?” The faint, panicking voice spluttered through the earpiece, “Oh no, the wall is talking again. Please stop.”

“Mr Steele, tell me who the mole is.” The detective’s posture stiffened as he watched Sighrus’s every move. The earpiece crackled again and a series of bangs came through it. “He’s off the bed throwing items around. Sir, we need to cool down a bit or we will lose him.” “Are you feeling alright, Mr Steele?” “I don’t know … it’s my head. I think I’m crazy”. “Tell me where the USB is and everything will be OK.” “Who the hell are you? And where are you? What are you people talking about? Leave me alone.” “You’re lying, Mr Steele.” The detective stepped forward. On the black-and-white monitor in front of him, several men were on a street holding guns. “Why are you asking him these kind of questions? This kind of thing should be done in a controlled environment. And would someone like to explain to me why armed men are patrolling this street? I didn’t authorise this.” Sighrus gave him a withering stare. “Shh. Mr Steele, tell us where you hid the USB or we will kill you.” The detective’s eyes widened and he stamped across the floor towards Sighrus. “This is outrageous. The poor lad isn’t in a stable state as it is. I suggest you pull this operation immediately, and if you are so concerned about him, have him arrested or sectioned instead.” “If we pull him,” Sighrus growled, “we could lose track of his accomplices.”

Chapter 5

He pressed the buzzer eagerly, anticipating a voice blasting out the intercom at any moment. But holding his ear against it to shield out the wind and traffic, he barely heard the woman’s voice cracklin g thr ough. “Can I help you?” “I have an appointment with Audrey.” The door gave out an almighty click followed by a buzz, and Brock pushed himself through the bright white hallway, stepping onto a staircase in front. As he started to climb, the door behind banged shut, silencing the deafening traffic outside. Climbing further upwards, his pulse beating faster, he reached the first floor. He pushed the door marked Missing Persons Bureau, but it was locked. He knocked and another buzz let him through. “Hello, Brock. Please take a seat. Audrey will be with you momentarily. I do hope you found us easily.” “It was alright.” Perched on the beige settee in the dazzling lit reception area, he gazed at the huge paintings on the wall. A woman in a grey suit and bold black glasses appeared in the doorway, smiling. “You must be Brock. Nice to finally meet you. Please, follow me.” She led him into a white corridor, paintings hung either side, and he followed her through a hallway with doors leading off both sides. At the end of the corridor, Audrey pulled open a door. “This way.” They stepped into a tiny office. Audrey reached up to the files on one of the shelves; they were packed full. A computer screen and keyboard faced them, and they both sank into the two cushioned chairs.

“Hope you found us OK. I noticed you were limping and you have a cut on your face. None of my business, but is everything alright?” she asked. Brock nodded ; he didn’t know what to expect, but Audrey seemed nice enough. “Please let me know how I can help you,” she said. “Well, err, I’m looking to track my parents down,” says Brock. “And, err, Meriden said you might be able to help.” “Oh him, I know Meriden.” She rolled her eyes and laughed, then grabbed some files on her desk and straightened them up. “Quite an unusual request. Normally it’s the other way around. When was the last time you saw your parents in the flesh, so to speak?” Brock rolled his shoulders and leaned towards her. “Ah, you see, it’s a bit difficult, because I don’t know.” “So, you have never seen your parents?” “Not exactly. Maybe … I’ll start from the beginning. About nine months ago, I was badly attacked on Hampstead Heath. I ended up in a coma for about three months.” Audrey looked up, her eyes wide. Brock continued to talk. “Thing is, I cannot a thing—who I am, who anyone is. And nobody has been in with me. And I don’t know where my parents live. The whole fiasco feels strange.” “I can imagine. This must be an awful experience. What can you tell me about them?” Audrey wrinkled her forehead and glanced at Brock, who was perched on the chair with a blank look on his face. She leaned over to the desk, clicking the computer on. “Let me input some details into our computer. What’s your address?” Brock took a pen and scribbled it down, then ed it over to her. She whizzed her fingers across the keyboard.

“We’ll have to give it a moment, I’m afraid. This stupid computer is really slow. What about photos and documentation?” Brock shook his head. “You know what? No, nothing. I never realised this before —there is absolutely nothing on them at all. Either I’m a minimalist or it’s all chucked. Strange …” Audrey swept some files away from her, glancing at the computer screen. “Mm, your address didn’t generate anything. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly normal in a place like this. The boss has probably been messing with it again. I’ll try it again in a minute. Tell me about your work. Did you go straight back to your job?” Brock gave Audrey a look of disbelief. “My job? I … it never crossed my mind to go back. I wouldn’t have known what it was. Nobody ed me. Several weeks after leaving the hospital I met a couple of Russian guys in a bar in Camden. We got into conversation, turns out he was manager of a gym in central London. He was looking to train up a personal trainer, and me being desperate jumped at the chance.” Audrey started typing and staring at the computer screen. “I’ve input your data again and it’s still not generating anything. The computer has formed us a case. In the meantime, perhaps have a chat with your neighbours and anyone else who comes to mind. Maybe even pop to the police station—they might be able to throw some light on something. Our system usually throws up old employment, schools and the like, but it appears to be throwing up nothing in this case. Our computer system does have a mind of its own, though. “Hopefully soon we should acquire some in-depth information. If it doesn’t, we can do it manually. I suggest you leave it with me, I’ll be in touch very soon,” she said. “I’ll try to chat with the neighbours. The truth is, I never see them.” “Don’t worry, London is like banging your head against the wall sometimes.” Brock forced in a deep breath, screwing up his forehead and glaring at the wall. He’d completely forgotten something, something he urgently needed to check. “You OK, Brock?”

“Everything is fine. Thanks.”

Brock’s feet sank into the soggy grass of the park. An occasional leaf fluttered into his face as he stood examining the police station opposite. Holding his voice recorder tightly to his ear, he pressed the button. It beeped, setting it in motion, and there it all was. Everything that had happened yesterday had happened. It wasn’t the wall; it wasn’t him. Somebody had been talking to him through the wall. He stepped slowly from the park onto a quiet pavement, staring at the police station, standing in anticipation. He meandered across the road up to its big glass door, stepping in. A strong whiff of detergent met his nose. Signs and information stickers were plastered across the walls, and to his left was a thick glass screen. Behind it, a woman in police uniform attire sat. “What do you want?” She glared at him as he wandered towards the warm air stream from the blow heater directly above. “I wondered if you would be able to assist me. I was attacked about nine months ago …” “Shame they never killed you.” “Pardon?” “Even if I wanted to help you, which I most certainly don’t, our system is down and we’re locked out until the engineer arrives.” “Who said we need the system? I only want to talk to someone.” “No one is available.” Brock clocked a man hiding behind one of the doors, stepping back to where he came from quickly when he caught Brock’s eye. Brock glanced at the CCTV above the desk window and then looked the policewoman right in the eyes. “I want to see someone.”

She shrugged. “You got a problem, Brock, go see a doctor. We’re busy. Get out.” “How did you know my name?” She didn’t answer. He raised his eyebrows at her, snatching at some leaflets hung from a box attached to the wall and throwing them violently into the air. “Tell me what happened. I just want to get on with my life!” She stood up, gaping at the leaflets falling to the ground. “So do we. Now get out! You’re not welcome here.” Brock slammed the leaflet box with his fist, causing it to rip. She scowled at him, pressing a red button on top of the desk. “You people make me sick!” he shouted. He yanked open the glass door, storming out and taking a huge gasp of autumn air. He’d barely made it from the door to the pavement when a man of average height in a smart grey suit walked directly in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. “We need to talk. But not here.” He dug into his grey suit pocket, pulling out a card and wafting it in front of Brock’s face. “Take this and give me a call tomorrow. It’s important. You’d better go.”

Chapter 6

Brock was limping around the gym like crazy all day. Gunner phoned in sick, the cleaner didn’t show up, and Sergei was acting his usual self: a total ass. Brock was sick of this rigmarole. Decision made: he would write something up this week and officially hand in his notice. As he ploughed around the gym, his sore body was in near collapse. The gym floor doors flung open and Lacy stomped through for her 6 p.m. yoga session, raising a few eyebrows with the guys. He didn’t know how she’d got the bare cheek to show her face, but he waited. She sneered at him, pulling her mouth into the semblance of a smile, sashaying across the floor as though she was doing a mocking tap dance at him. He made his way over to her, but the main doors flung open and a red -f aced Sarah stormed into the gym f loor. “I followed you to work this morning. You were limping all the way!” shouted Lacy. “Just leave it, Lacy,” interrupted Sarah, barging towards them. “I’ve had a great day out at my favourite place and I don’t want to hear this.” “I hurt my leg because you put something illegal into my drink,” Brock said. “Why did you do it?” “Talking about illegalities … you’ve been doing something illegal. The police were following you this morning.” “Utter claptrap,” said Brock. “They were probably looking for the random drink spiker.” “I think you should both shut up.” Sarah said. “Let’s get to class or we’ll be late. Stop encouraging her, Brock, she’s been on about this rubbish all day. I don’t believe her anyway.” “I’m telling you, the police were all over him this morning. Four undercover plain-clothed officers talking into their radios. He’s a person of interest. Seriously!”

“You’re a liar and the only criminal around here, spiking innocent people’s drinks. I could have died that night, and what you’ve done is disgraceful. You bring shame on Sarah.” “I doubt she spiked your drink, “ Sarah said. “She wouldn’t do a silly thing like this, and I don’t believe police followed you this morning either. Now we should go to class. Come on, Lacy.” Sarah headed in the direction of the changing rooms, and turned to shoot Lacy a look. “Come on, we haven’t got all day.”

Brock grabbed the kettle, pouring its hot, steamy water over a spoonful of coffee in a fat white mug. What Lacy had said bothered him—and bothered him a lot. When he slipped into the practically empty gym after he had finished his coffee, it was getting late. With only a few minutes of his shift left, he’d no intentions of staying on. The locker room door swung open and Sarah appeared in a white dress as though she was going out to a club. “I could have sworn I saw you both leave earlier,” Brock called from the other side of the room. “It’s unusually late for you to be here. Lacy in the changing rooms, is she?” As Sarah moved closer to him, he looked deep into her eyes, his heart uncontrollably pumping faster as he scrambled for something else to say. “We both left. I came back, fancied a hot sauna. I let Lacy believe I jumped onto the Tube. She was rushing home to feed the dog.” “You OK, Sarah? You sound a bit …” “Not really. Me and Lacy had a blazing row.” “I’ve about finished my shift. Do you want to go out for a little drink and a bite to eat? I’d like to buy you a drink.” “No, Brock, I told you earlier. I have to concentrate on my career. I don’t want to be a crappy dogsbody all my life.”

“I’m only offering you a drink, and you look like you need one. And I thought you were a qualified medical receptionist.” “I wish! I’m far from qualified, just a mere assistant in that hospital. With all my knowledge I could do the community a great favour, but instead I feel so wasted. Fine, I’ll take you up on that offer.” “Great, I’ll get my stuff. Wait here.” Brock dived across the floor into the staff room. Sergei was slumped over the grey chair, sipping a can of cola, his empty pizza box thrown across the worktop. “Where do you think you’re going? We need to close this gym, and there’s only me and you left.” “Good luck with that one.” Brock pushed himself through the door, catching his leg, and limped across the gym floor and back to Sarah. “Ready?” She picked up her bag and they headed towards the reception, Sergei hovering over the office door and screaming at Brock as they went. They stepped out into the colourfully lit square and its bustling nightlife. As they battled through the crowds at a snail’s pace, they finally exited the square into a busy main road. “We could take a stroll over that beautiful bridge down there. There’s a nice restaurant, and I could easily get a table,” Sarah said. “I’d rather we didn’t take the bridge. Somewhere this side of the river perhaps?” He scratched his head. Lit-up shops gleamed either side towards Covent Garden. Sarah drew her eyebrows together, then spoke over the traffic. “If we take this road, it leads us to Covent Garden. I live that way and know a decent restaurant.” Brock nodded and they made for the pedestrian crossing.

“I want to talk to you about something really important,” she said. But a crowd had formed at the crossing and the green man lit up and started flashing. Brock and Sarah pushed forward with the moving crowd to the other side of the road. After walking through several busy roads filled to the brim with people, they arrived at a quiet residential street. Sarah pointed to a dimly lit building, a cream canopy hanging over it. Brock squinted, noticing parked cars either side, in particular a black jeep. “This is it, the Shack Lounge. I’ve eaten here several times. The food is so divine.” Sarah pulled at Brock’s rigid body. She paused; his face was deathly white. “Are you OK? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” “Er, I think so. Should we go inside?” Wind slapped their faces and rain splashed across the road as they hurriedly crossed, stepping inside the Shack Bar. A fancy mahogany wood bar filled with whiskies and brandies greeted them. Soft music played in the background, and an aroma of garlic and spicy foods filled the air. Brock stepped across the polished wooden floors towards a fancy table; the place felt familiar somehow, but he didn’t recall this part of town. He relaxed into a settee behind a mahogany table and directly under the window, throwing his rucksack under the table, peering at the switched-off disco lights above what he imagined had once been an old dance floor. Sarah blocked his view by settling into a mahogany wood chair opposite, placing her handbag on the table. The restaurant was surprisingly quiet for this time of night, and she dug her hand into his side, pointing to the right-hand side of the restaurant where the floor was raised somewhat. He tightened his body, staring at the other half of the settee. “Did you have to pick a table next to the emergency fire doors?” she asked. “There are more glamorous places up for grabs in here.” “To be truthful, I never noticed them. Do you want to move to another table?” She smiled as he sunk further into the settee, reaching out for the menu. Slowly,

he edged himself up, with a sneaky peek out of the window, and waved a waitress over to the table. A young woman immediately headed in his direction. “Drinks?” Brock pointed to Sarah, who was eagerly scanning the drinks menu. As the waitress waited, Brock cleared his throat. “The house red?” Sarah asked. He nodded and the waitress pulled out a pad from her pocket, scribbled on it, and disappeared. He glanced into Sarah’s deep-blue eyes, opening his mouth to speak. “If you don’t mind me saying, that’s an exquisite white dress you’re wearing. Where did you buy such a beautiful garment?” “Boeuf Bourguignon,” she said. Brock stretched his neck, taking another peek through the window at the black jeep. It was still parked unevenly and a dark figure of a man was lounging it. Everything appeared normal—except it wasn’t. But he cannot put his finger on why. “Well, Boeuf Bourguignon makes beautiful garments,” he said. “They don’t make garments …. you eat boeuf bourguignon. It’s a French dish served here and it’s what I’m ordering. Who’s outside?” He pulled himself up. “Nobody. I’m iring this area. I don’t come to this part of town much, if at all.” Sarah leaned back. “It’s a residential street, not exactly something to ire. Where is the wine?” “An unusual name for a bar, do you think? A posh place like this, you would have thought it had been named more appropriately, I mean, come on, the Shack? I was expecting to walk into some right dingy haunt.” He didn’t want to bother her with the black jeep. It was probably a random guy

waiting for someone else … except it probably wasn’t. “Dingy haunts are not my thing. My understanding is it’s been around a long time. Maybe they kept the name on, businesses often do. Brock, I need to talk to you—” The waitress appeared, placing two wine glasses neatly on the table and uncorking the bottle. They ordered food and she disappeared again towards the bar. “I’m worried about you. I think you need to get help.” “What? Where did that come from?” “I’m talking about your injury. I’ve been watching you around the gym. You’re in a bad way.” “That’s because your bitch of a friend spiked my drink. She’s a controlling piece of shit. You should see her for what she is. I bet she doesn’t know you’re with me, she’d do her nut.” “Please don’t swear, Brock. I very much don’t approve of swearing and—” “Well, does she?” “Lacy doesn’t swear, and of course she doesn’t know I’m here. And it’s nothing to do with her, she can mind her own business. You know I work in a hospital? I’d like you to pay a visit, get checked out.” Brock necked a mouthful of wine. “Why do you hang around with her anyway?” Sarah took a small sip of her wine then put her head in her hands. The restaurant door opened and a couple walked through the door, taking a seat near the bar. “She has helped me out a great deal. I was in a right state some time ago. I don’t know what I would have done without her.” “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, but she caused me a serious problem the other night. Worse, you don’t believe me.”

“My dad was murdered when I was twelve. He was a sergeant in the Royal Navy and his ship had been drafted over to Argentina after they’d invaded the Falkland Islands. One night his ship was attacked by mortar fire and that was it, gone. His body was hardly recognisable when they flew it back. My mother took it very bad. I think she took it out on me. I ended up hating her so much that on my sixteenth birthday I moved out. That’s when I ended up on the streets.” She coughed, picking up her wine and fidgeting with the glass. “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Brock. Sarah screwed up her face and tears rolled down her cheeks. Brock pulled a tissue from the table, handing it to her. “We were always travelling around from base to base. After this episode, we fell on hard times. I met Lacy a couple of years ago in a club in Leicester Square and we’ve been friends ever since. She knew I was unemployed and had little money and I lived in a horrendous place, better than the street, I suppose. She told me they were looking for an assistant receptionist in the hospital where she worked. One thing led to another and I got a placement, bit of college to learn the job, and the rest is history.” Brock leaned on the table, took her hand, and took a generous gulp of wine. Tears continued to roll down Sarah’s cheeks. “She took me under her wing. I owe so much to her.” Sarah wiped her eyes on another tissue, and they both sat in a moment of silence, the soft music playing in the background. “Eventually I managed to rent a flat above a pottery shop around the corner here in Covent Garden, overlooking the opera house. It’s getting too expensive now, but I’ve enjoyed every beautiful day there.” Brock tried to imagine such an exquisite flat overlooking London’s opera house. He grabbed the bottle, filling both glasses up again. “Anyway, I’m not going to bore you with my life. What about you? I want to know.”

“There’s not much to tell, and you probably know most of what I do already.” “What about your parents? Have you located them yet?” Brock shook his head, his mind wandering off into another world, and Sarah interrupted. “Enough of all our miserable troubles. I need to talk to you about something really important.” But as she opened her mouth to speak, a smartly suited man in his fifties hovered over them holding a tray of food. “Brock!” he said. “I haven’t seen you for years. Kind of you to drop by. What are you up to these days?” Brock gazed at the man with a blank expression on his face as he lifted the plates of food from the tray. “Incidentally, you are still banned from this place. However, that was a while ago, so I’ll reinstate your custom—for now, providing you behave yourself.” “Banned?” “Yes, banned! I’m the manager of this club, ? I’ve lost count of the number of times I used to kick you out of this place. As I recall, we agreed to a lifetime ban. Mind you, it was a lot rougher back then. As you’ve probably noticed, we’re a little upmarket these days. We take in different clientele, and it’s a lot easier I can tell you.” “Can you tell me what I would have been doing in here?” “What you were doing in here? I’ll never forget. Anyway, mate, we’re a bit short-staffed here. I’ll speak later.” The man wandered to the other side of the room, handing a menu to a couple, and disappeared through a door behind the bar. “You really can’t a thing, can you?”

Brock shook his head. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. Might have me mixed up with someone else. I’ll chat to him another time. So, what do you want to talk to me about?” She laughed, relaxing back into her chair. Picking up a fork, she stabbed it into a piece of the tender braising steak. Brock peeked out of the window; the black jeep was still parked with the dark figure inside. “My friend at the hospital wants a chat. I mentioned you … hope you don’t mind. She offered to help.” “I’ve had enough help to last me a lifetime. I don’t need any more help.” “Do it for me, please?” She took a long draught of wine and then came to sit right beside him. He moved closer and she ran her hand through his hair. Brock tentatively placed his lips on hers, and she responded enthusiastically. “That’s blackmail,” he said when he caught his breath. Laughter poured out of their mouths and Sarah pulled herself from the settee. “Fine,” Brock said. “For you. On one condition. We go on another date and you tell me where that favourite place of yours is.” “That’s two, and this isn’t a date. Oh, it’s just this stupid big house on Hampstead Heath.” “Stupid house?” Sarah glanced away, smiling enigmatically. Brock peered through the window; the black jeep was still parked and the dark figure appeared to be staring at him.

Chapter 7

Brock wandered along the pavement, ing expensive designer shops. Men wore exquisite suits and the women fancy dresses. Mayfair was indeed the land of the rich, and it was unusual for him to deal with an estate agency here. But his bank statement informed him otherwise, and rent by direct debit was being taken every month by Condour Housing. Crossing the road, he pulled out his mobile phone. Unsurprisingly, there was a missed call from Sergei. He ignored it, slipping the mobile back into h is po cket. A smart woman in expensive business attire gave him a second glance; he had a new gash cut into his face after another agonising nightmare last night. A weird lucid dream of a strange old woman screaming a warning for him to get out of the box. Finally, he reached Berkley Square in the heart of Mayfair, where houses stood tall around a square and well-maintained greenery. He stepped up to the tall building of Condour Housing. It was not the glorious, prestigious building he’d imagined. Instead, it was a simple, tall brick building with a shiny black door, strangely bare with no numbers or signs. He checked the numbers each side of the building to make sure this was the correct one. A tiny silver intercom sat to the left of the door and he reached out his little finger, pressing it once. The intercom crackled, ringing several times, and a woman’s voice answered. “Hello, can I help you?” “Err, yes I need a copy of my tenancy.” “Oh, pop to the first floor.” A loud buzz cracked out of the intercom and Brock pushed the shiny black door, stepping inside. Warm air blew into his face and his feet sank into a red carpet. He climbed the stairs, glancing at the boring white walls and bare stairs. As he reached the top, he was greeted by a red-haired woman dressed in an unusual white suit.

“Sorry, how can I help you?” “I’m after a copy of my tenancy. Your agency never provided me with one.” The woman brushed down her white suit, glancing at him as if lost for words. “We are not an agency.” “You are Condour Housing, right?” “Yes, we are a small housing association. Please come through to my office and I’ll see if we can print one for you. Who are you anyway?” Brock didn’t answer and followed her through a white hallway and into a small office with barely any furniture. He looked through the window, which overlooked the quiet park in the middle. Several people were sitting on the wooden seats, including a woman fumbling with her glasses and nattering on her mobile phone and a man standing adjusting his black suit. “Sorry, what area are you living in?” “Camden.” The woman stared at him. “Camden? We don’t have any properties in Camden, do we? Well if we do, they have kept that one from me. Hang on a sec, I’ll be back in a minute.” She scrambled through the door, returning with a thick file in her hand. “I’ve spoken to Tina and we do have some properties in Camden. It’s certainly news to me, I can tell you. And, might I add, that gash on your face looks pretty serious. She’s told me to take your name and she’s going to pull your file up and print you a new copy of your tenancy. We do, of course, require some identification—you know, like a port or driving licence.” “I haven’t brought anything. I don’t have those documents anyway. My name is Brock Steele—” She let out a huge gasp, darting out of the room. Brock rubbed his hand across his head and glanced at the blood on his palm. A few moments ed and she

came back in holding some white sheets of paper. “Tina said that we do need identification. Are you able to come back?” Brock snatched the white paper out of her hand. “You can’t do that. Get off!” She moved towards him, attempting to snatch the papers back, but he blocked her with his body. “Tina? Tina, help me?” “Who is Dalton Fisher? Why did he sign my tenancy?” A smartly dressed woman appeared in the doorway . Brock hid the papers behind his back. “I didn’t sign this tenancy. Why did somebody else sign my tenancy? And why is it only nine months old?” “You moved in nine months ago, and as far as I can someone signed it on your behalf. Now please give that tenancy back and leave or I will call the police,” said Tina. Brock threw the papers across the table and charged out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the shiny black door into Berkley Square. He peered towards the square and over at the man in the black suit, who was looking back at him. He stepped into the road, took a deep breath, and spotted a white van heading towards him. Brock hurried onto the pavement, but the van swerved, scraping the curb and knocking into his side, sending him crashing into the hard ground. A sharp pain ran through his leg. Distant screams filled the air, and the van reversed and headed towards him again. Jumping up, he hobbled out the way of the van hurtling towards him. It skidded up the kerb again, narrowly missing him, and he fled in the opposite direction, emerging onto a busy street. At the end of a side road, he spotted a red double-decker bus. He limped over to a bus stop, and a woman in jeans and white T-shirt stared at him.

“Are you OK?” she asked. He nodded and she threw him a white handkerchief, which he folded and placed over his cut. The bus jerked into the stop and his phone started ringing. Jumping on the bus, he fell into a seat on the bottom deck and answered it. It was from Audrey. “Can we meet urgently today?” “Yes, I could get to your office in about a couple of hours. I—” “Forget the office. There’s a coffee bar a couple of streets away from where you live. Meet me there in a couple of hours.” The phone went dead. Brock sat back, firmly holding the handkerchief onto his forehead. His leg was in agony. He contemplated calling her back, but he couldn’t make his mind up. He’d wait. The double-decker pulled into another bus stop and a crowd stepped in. An old woman perched on the seat beside him and he adjusted his body, sinking further into the seat. He racked his brains on what had unfolded minutes ago. Questions poured into his head, but one thing was for sure: it had been no accident.

Brock crossed the street, lurching into Camden Avenue. Spots of rain splashed onto his face and he sped up his pace. As he approached the door, something in his stomach tugged. It was ajar—or rather kicked in. Racing down the stairs, he flung the lounge door open and stared at the mess. The settee was turned over and glass ornaments were smashed across the floor. In his bedroom, clothes were scattered everywhere and his bed was smashed up. He let out a shaky gasp, putting his head into his hands, fury welling up. His head was throbbing. He picked up the landline phone and slammed it back down. Sure, he could hear the dialling tone, but what was the point in calling the police? Whatever he was caught up in, he doubted they would help. The internet router lay sideways across the floor and the tiny lights flashed. In a moment of uncertainty, he stepped across the room to his secret hiding place, pulling up the floorboards and searching for his laptop. He slipped his hand underneath and it brushed along the hard plastic. It was there.

Sweat poured over his forehead, running down his face mixed with blood. He wiped it off with his hand. He grabbed the laptop and leapt across to the other side of the room, pulling his desk up and connecting the wires. Running his hand along his skull, he longed for everything to come to an end. He waited until the computer went through the motions. It took its time to load, something Brock always loathed. It was an old computer, bought second hand. The screen eventually lit up and his glance caught an email from Sarah, perking him up somewhat. He clicked on the email and it appeared on the screen. Hey Brock, how you doing? Thanks for lunch. I need a big favour … can you meet me at the hospital reception tomorrow, PLEASE! Around 10 a.m. It was odd because Brock had never given Sarah his email. Never.

Chapter 8

Crossing the busy street in a daze, Brock headed for the cafe on the corner. His whole body ached; his face was numb. Peering through the gleaming cafe window, he couldn’t see Audrey. The cafe was empty. He pulled the glass door open, stepping inside. Green plastic chairs were aimlessly shoved under white plastic tables and a chalked blackboard menu hung over the metal and counter. Behind was a woman in white chef’s attire, stari ng at him. “What do you want?” she shouted. He glared back at her. “I’ll take a latte, please. And do you have any cakes?” She grunted, rolling her eyes and pointing to the glass counter before turning her back to fidget with the coffee machine. He took a pew under the window, perching himself on the edge and looking out the window for Audrey. She’d said in two hours and that was up. She was late. The chef woman wandered over to him, placing his warm latte and cake on the table. He took a sip of the latte, fiddling with the cake and occasionally glancing out the window. He drank the coffee and he had just thrown the last bit of cake into his mouth when someone patted him on the shoulder. He swung around. It was Audrey smiling at him. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The manager delayed me at the office. I didn’t think I would ever get away. Would you like another coffee?” Brock nodded and Audrey placed her handbag on the table, trotting off the counter and then returning to the table. “That cut on your forehead looks serious. It might need stitches. You should pop to the hospital. Let’s face it, we all pay for the damn thing—we should use it.” The chef hovered over the table, placing two cups of coffee. “Oh, can I have cream?”

Audrey pulled out some documents from her handbag, dropping them on the table and swirling the cream in her coffee. “I’ve found a few things out, but I’ll be honest—this information has been unusually difficult to come by.” Brock moved closer. “Firstly, I’m not supposed to do visits. It’s against our protocol, and the manager has been giving me some bad vibes about this case. I reckon somebody could be on his back.” Brock looked into her stressed, puffy eyes, sensing her tension and at the same time eagerly waiting for her to speak. “Oh, don’t worry about him. I don’t. Your origins appear to have started somewhere in Buckinghamshire. West, to be precise, in a place called High Wycombe. And did that take some syphoning … your case has been complex. It was on an old school record I found in Mile End—” “Mile End?” interrupted Brock “This is where it gets kind of technical. In fact, it’s the reason I wanted to assist. The school’s long gone, but from a record stored with the local education authority in some remote storage, we managed to dig out an address. But you are not going to like it.” His face was pained as he rubbed his mouth. “The trail took us to a children’s home.” “What? I grew up in a kids’ home? This feels wrong … are you sure?” “Yes. If someone is wiping your history, they missed this.” Their eyes met head-on, and the reality of the last few days being a dream or unreal somehow broke and hit him with a big thump. “I’m not suggesting someone is wiping your history …” she said hastily.

“They are, and you know it. My flat has just been turned over.” “Oh, Brock, I’m so sorry. What did the police say?” “Forget the police. Carry on.” “I tried to call the children’s home but the line is dead. Maybe you can pop by. Saves us the aggravation of the red tape. Your stay may have only been temporary, but without a doubt you resided there aged twelve. The rest of the records have been destroyed, probably due to age. We couldn’t check your medical history as I forgot to get your consent and protocol requires it.” “So all the time my parents never existed?” “We couldn’t be sure. Like I say, most of it’s a blur. I’ve written down the children’s home address on this piece of paper. Sadly, I spilt my coffee on it.” He grabbed the tatty piece of paper from her hand. The address didn’t ring any bells, and his mind was a blank. Audrey tilted her head. “You should go to the police. Don’t let those criminals get away with it. And pay a visit to the hospital. Like I say, you pay for it.” Brock placed the note into his tro pocket, taking the last sip of his coffee. The cafe door swung open and a man in a black mac stepped in, shooting a weird glance at Brock. Brock leaned over to Audrey and in a quiet voice said, “I found something out too. After digging through my bank statement, I came up with Condour Housing. They own the property I live in, and I paid them a visit in Mayfair.” “Mayfair? That’s posh.” “Exactly. Someone else signed the lease nine months ago. I got the impression there was something they weren’t telling me. I could feel it.” “Probably a mistake. I see it a lot in my industry.” Brock pursed his lips. The man in the mac had his back to him, opening up a newspaper. Audrey grabbed the mug and downed the last of her coffee before shooting a glance at her watch.

“Time’s pressing. I’m going to have to make a move, especially if that Tube’s playing up. Now I come to think of it, there was something else but I’ve forgotten. I’ll give you a ring later. Chin up.” She pulled herself out of the chair, stood up, and left, giving him a wave through the window. He knew he could trust her; she would help.

Moments later, Brock jumped up from the green chair, stepping out and into the busy main road to the other side of the pavement, heading to his now smashedup apartment. He had barely reached the door when he sensed someone over his shoulder, and he swung around to a man in a very creased white top, ripped blue jean, and faint ginger hair. “This your place? It looks jazzy. Fancy coming out for a drink and talking over old times?” Brock remained silent, agitated by his closeness. “Ice-cold beer? You used to love that.”

Chapter 9

Tiny spots of rain filled the windy air and autumn leaves blew casually through Camden Avenue. Somehow, Brock couldn’t place him, and even the man’s faint ginger hair wasn’t throwing up any clues to his identity. His stomach hardened, but he visualised a perfect ice -c old beer running down his dry throat. The stranger eyeballed Brock’s forehead as though he was deeply examining his open cut. “Who are you?” said Brock. “Hey, hard nut, have I aged that much? Surely you can fathom who I am …” Brock stared into him like a psychoanalyst reading his patient, but there was nothing. He didn’t have a clue. “I’ve suffered a memory wipe … baseball bat laid into me and cleared the lot. I don’t know who you are.” The man shook his head and glanced around as if looking for answers. A whirlwind of leaves blew up from the ground. The man stepped back slightly. “It’s Preston, as if you didn’t know.” He pulled his hand in front of him, anticipating a handshake. “The ice-cold beers await around the corner. We could do with an chat.” Brock’s hands remained firmly by his side. Preston shrugged. “I’m intrigued. Maybe we should have a chat after all. Lead the way,” said Brock. Preston nodded and made across the road in the direction of Camden Town.

Upon reaching the infamous Camden High Street, the aroma of Chinese cuisine

wafted into their faces. Both moved through the busy crowd of tourists and locals, ing the many tattoo parlours and Gothic shops packed to the brim with goodies and artistic clothes. Both ed in front of market stalls bustling with people laughing. A poor homeless guy hovered over the entrance of the market, holding his hand out. Brock dug into his pocket, throwing over loose change. They ed several market stalls selling knick-knacks for all occasions and cannabis-branded items poking out from every space. “This is one place in the world where you get true culture. People here don’t give a damn, like our antics many moons ago, aye, Brock?” “Where is the bar?” Preston yanked hard on his arm, pulling him into a bustling walkway full of market stalls serving delicious international. The aroma overpowered Brock; a woman stepped between them and he struggled to keep up. Preston’s hand appeared, snatching at his jacket and dragging him into another small entrance into another busy walkway. Brock shook his hand off and continued to follow, although still lagged behind. Brock shouted over to Preston, “Excuse me … excuse me, where exactly do you know me from?” “Quiet, we have to keep moving,” said Preston. He hurried in front, leaving Brock behind. He’d really had enough of all this, but his inquisitiveness got the better of him and he followed. His heart raced and he bolted in a limping fashion straight towards Preston, firmly grabbing his shirt. “It wasn’t my intention to startle you by the ageway,” Preston said. “I’m in some trouble, like old times. I didn’t think he’d turn up in Camden today, of all places. The bar is through there … can we hurry?” He pointed towards a red brick alleyway. Brock loosened his grip, letting his white shirt go. The crease of his tight grip blended in with the rest of the creased shirt. He followed Preston to a large black and white Tudor building A red-tiled roof hung over horizontal wooden black beams with whitewashed s in between. Brock gasped at the Cafe Rock Bar sign that hung across the front of the magnificent building. It was the popular bar with the Russian crowd: the exact bar he and Sergei had got acquainted some seven months ago after he wandered in off the street on that fateful warm spring night. Preston had brought him via a different route, but it was the same place alright.

Preston hauled open the door waving Brock through into the unusually coloured dim-lit bar. Red, yellow, and orange lanterns hung low from the ceiling, dimming the ambience. Preston headed towards a well-stocked colourful bar, ordering drinks from a young male bartender, and Brock edged towards a pine table, watching his every move. The entire place was empty … too early in the day perhaps for its patrons to meet. He sank into one of the seats by the emergency exit. Moments later, Preston appeared in front of him holding two glowing pints of cold beer, the frothy white head seeping over the glasses. Both of them grabbed the pints like children, taking in large gulps. Brock stared at him, waiting for answers. “You really don’t know who I am do you?” Brock shook his head picking up his pint and taking in another large gulp of the cold beer. “It was years ago. We were just kids.” Preston crossed his arms and paused. Brock took another large gulp of beer and placed the glass on the table. Preston unfolded his arms and began nervously twisting his watch. “Just kids, damn it,” whispered Preston “Do you anything at all?” “You sound strange. All I’m trying to do is fill in the blanks. Tell me about our childhood.” There was silence, and Preston clutched his pint, sinking further into the pine chair. “I’d rather not discuss it. Anyway, this isn’t what I brought you here for.” Brock glanced at the emergency exit. “Oh great, tell me about your crap then. Like I haven’t gotten enough of my own.” Preston gave Brock a pained stare. He rose from his seat, pulling Brock by the arm and staring at the door. “What are you doing?” Brock asked. “Can’t explain. We need to move. We cannot be seen together.”

Brock gasped as Preston dragged him by the jacket in the direction of the door. “Sorry, Brock, I mean you no harm. Take my number and keep in touch. I’m making a dash for it—you should disappear too.” Brock swung his hand across Preston’s shoulder, pulling his arm away with such a force he ripped the man’s shirt, revealing the top of a tattoo that looked familiar. He ripped at the shirt further, revealing the same dagger and snake tattoo as his own. “How come we have the same tattoo?” Preston shoved open the door, tumbled into the alleyway, and sprinted out of sight. Brock scratched his head as he stood in the doorway. There was a couple kissing near the alleyway and the homeless guy wandering around aimlessly. Nothing he could ascertain that would freak anyone out. Everything appeared in place, and the funny thing was, nobody chased after him. Preston was either a liar or something else going on. Stepping back into the pub, Brock necked the rest of his beer, casually wandering towards the young bartender to order another. They chatted briefly and he learnt Sergei was barred due to his excessive drinking and fighting. He finished his beer in two mouthfuls, enjoying it a little too much, and left. Outside, his mobile rang, vibrating in his pocket. Quickly, he pulled it out and Sarah’s name appeared across the lit screen. He eagerly pressed to accept the call, but the screen went blank. The battery had died.

Chapter 10

Brock hovered in front of the sliding doors of the Royal Free Hospital, sheltering from the rain under a thick plastic canopy. Bright lights gleamed through the glass as patients and uniformed staff went about their routine, frantically dashing from place to place. Brock threw his hand in the air, the automatic glass screeching open as he stepped inside. A deep antiseptic aroma wafted through the air like a visit to the dentist, clearing his nostrils. He stepped around some grey chairs that took up most of the floor space, people slumped on mos t of them. At the far end of the room, several people hovered in front of a small reception desk. Sarah, in her grey jacket, was glaring at her computer screen and banging her fingers against the keyboard. A doctor in a long white coat and stethoscope dangling around his neck flung her a thick file. Brock strolled towards the desk, bumping into a nurse in the usual dark blue uniform. She stepped back, adjusting her neatly tied back hair, and stared at him, her eyes wandering across forehead. “I apologise. I should watch where I’m walking. This is the second time today,” she said, examining his face. “Do I know you? Come to think of it, I do. You were the poor guy they fetched in some months ago. I’m Nurse Hayes from Intensive Care. I cared for you during your stay. Have you come today for an outpatient appointment? I can direct you if you like.” Somehow, she appeared familiar, and he pulled his lips to make a smile. “I when that ambulance wheeled you out. Unconscious and in such a bad way. I’ll never forget that laceration to your head, covered in blood from top to bottom. We all doubted you’d pull through. The staff here worked tirelessly through the night and you fought all the way. Sadly not like the other guy.” Brock jerked his head. “You mean there were others?” She coughed, straightening her uniform “Only one. He was loaded from an ambulance about a month later. His wounds bore similarities to yours. Nurses wired him up, a bed opposite you. Sadly he never pulled through. The doctors

never gave him much hope. You know, I’m no detective, but I’m an old doll here with many fine years of medical experience. If you ask me, I would say he most certainly was attacked by the same person.” “Who was he?” “Sorry, it’s against protocol to give personal details.” She moved closer to him. “Especially in regards to him.” His mouth opened but before she could say anything else, the nurse made to leave. “I’m going to have to dash. Our ward is manic today. I certainly hope you are making a good recovery, a strong lad like you. Our duty doctor said it would take a while for everything to get back to normal. How is your father, anyway?” “Father? I’m not sure I have one.” “My apologies, I got the impression that nice tall man was your father. He was always popping in to see you, asking questions. He had an unusual name … what was it? Sighrus, that’s it!” “A scar on the left of his face?” “That’s the one.” She glanced towards a man in a black suit folding his arms. A name badge hung around his neck and he was staring right at her. “I’ve got to dash. As I say, we are very busy. Good luck for the future, Brock, and give my regards to that Sighrus,” she said, stepping away. She looked at the man in the suit again and lowered her tone. “And I hope they catch that mad man, for the sake of other innocent people.” She disappeared into a nearby corridor, and the man in the black suit was now staring hard at Brock. He ignored him and crossed the floor towards Sarah, who sat at a now-empty reception desk. “Why are you limping like that? Your forehead looks even worse. How did you know where to find me?” said Sarah.

“Your email, the one you sent last night,” said Brock. She shook her head, moving away from the desk and looking at his cut. “I’ve no idea what your email address is. I tried to call you last night but the phone went dead. Let me get Doctor Shanklin to examine that cut. It might need stitches.” “It’s a scratch, nothing serious.” “A scratch? Who are you trying to kid? Let me get someone to cover reception and I’ll take you to Casualty myself.” “Sarah, I need a big favour first.”

Grey filing cabinets were tightly packed against the walls of the tiny office. They perched on swivel chairs behind a wooden desk with a computer and telephone on it. All the lights were off and Sarah banged her fingers into the keyboard. “I could be sacked for doing this, or worse prosecuted. Oh, if this doctor walks in …” “She refused to tell me his name, but he came in a month after me.” Sarah sank further into the chair and the computer did its usual turnover of programs loading up on the screen. She tapped in a . “Oh, I don’t believe this, this stupid doesn’t work. He must have changed it. I’ll have to use my own.” Brock rubbed his hand over the cut and Sarah peered at him. “If I’m going to get you into serious trouble, it doesn’t matter. Let’s forget it. It’s a stupid idea. Let’s go.” “Too late, I’m in. But that cut on your forehead needs urgent medical attention.” A noise outside the office clinic startled them. Brock peeped through the window, scanning the darkened clinic beyond. “Sarah, we’ve got company. Get down.”

They both dropped to the ground and Brock adjusted the blind slightly, peering through the window. A doctor in white smocks was hanging over one of the grey filing cabinets, running his fingers through the files. Sarah reached her finger to a button on the monitor, blacking it out. A loud thump of the filing cabinet door being slammed into place pierced the silence and the doctor disappeared. “That was a close one,” said Sarah. She put her head in her hands and Brock rubbed his hand on her back, calming her. They resumed positions, her hands shaking and struggling to press the right keys. “Are you certain this is the hospital you were itted to?” “I just spoke to the nurse who looked after me. Of course I’m sure.” “That’s odd. There is no record of you. Let me access the external mainframe. Your file might have been moved from the local drive.” She gazed at the computer, eagerly banging her fingers into the keyboard. Several screens later, she typed in Brock’s name again. The screen hung for several seconds and a window popped up. INFORMATION BLOCKED “Oh dear, they’re going to know it’s me. But why are they blocking access?” “So that’s it then.” “No, it’s not. They shouldn’t be withholding your file. What happens if you came in with a life-threatening emergency? We need to see your medical records. Casualty won’t be able to pull your file up either. Hacking this system is virtually impossible after the security update a few months ago, so that’s out of the question. Come with me downstairs to the basement and we’ll dig up the paper records.” “I appreciate what you’re doing for me, but I don’t want to get you into trouble. Let’s call it a day. It’s not important anyway.” “If they’re not following protocol, neither am I. I want that file and I want it

now. Follow me.” Metal cages partitioned area after area throughout the large dimly lit basement. Filing cabinets of brown, grey, and red were strung across the wall and freestanding throughout the entire area. There must have been hundreds. The temperature was cooler down there, and the concrete floor cold on their feet. A reception sign hung over an untidy desk. Behind it sat a neatly dressed man with a thick pair of prominent black glasses perched on his nose. “Afternoon, Michael. I need to grab a hard copy of a file. Don’t worry about him, he’s a trainee.” Brock nodded at the man in the thick black glasses. “Not acquired your uniform yet, lad?” Brock forced a smile and followed Sarah as she pushed at a thick cage door. She glanced back at the man, throwing a reassuring nod. Faked of course. They both entered the cage, which was full to the brim with grey filing cabinets. There was little room to manoeuvre. Sarah grabbed Brock’s hand, pulling him over to a section marked S and then to a drawer on a filing cabinet that read Steele. She yanked it open, running her fingers through the files. “Looks like you’ve done this before.” “If only you knew.” “I must say, those stairs back there looked manky, not at all hygienic—” “It’s missing.” A door slammed at the far end of the room and Sarah’s entire body jerked back, pushing the drawer shut. Her hand shook, and Brock reached his arm out to comfort her. A man in a black suit, the one Brock had seen earlier in reception, glared through the cage wire as he paced towards them, his name badge bouncing across his chest. “Would you mind telling me what this man is doing in an unauthorised area? And why aren’t you working behind reception? I’ve warned you about this before.”

Sarah rubbed her chin, stepping towards him, her eyes fixed on the concrete floor. “Morning, Doctor Samuel. I’ve brought my friend in with a serious laceration to the head. A doctor needs to urgently examine him.” “That doesn’t explain your activities down here, going through confidential records.” “Where is my file?” Brock asked suddenly. “What? You don’t have any legal right to it, and you won’t find anyone practising medicine down here either. Follow me and I’ll escort you up.” “You didn’t answer his question,” said Sarah. “I’m not legally required to answer that question. Carry on ridiculing me in front of a patient and you’ll be sitting in front of the board. I’d like a serious chat with you in my office pronto. I’ll escort you both upstairs, follow me. And who is covering reception while you are on this little escapade?” “I’m going nowhere until you tell me why my file is missing.” Dr Samuel stepped back, waving his hand in the air. “Michael, call for security,” he shouted. “There are a number of reasons why files go missing, but for confidentiality reasons I’m not discussing it any further. If you require a doctor, I suggest you follow me immediately or leave the hospital.” He pulled the stairwell door open, gesturing for them to step through. Sarah leaned over, whispering in Brock’s ear. “It’s not over. He knows the file should be there. I’m reporting it to management.” “Forget about the file. That nurse, Hayes, knew more than she was letting on. I’ll find her and speak to her again.” Sarah stopped short suddenly and pulled Brock to a halt beside her. “Doctor, why are we carrying on up the stairs? Casualty is on the ground floor.” The doctor slowed his pace. “I wish you wouldn’t contradict everything I do. I’m fully aware where Casualty is. It’s extremely busy today, and due to the nature of his injury someone else is going to examine it.”

Sarah screwed her face and they reluctantly followed. On reaching the fifth floor, the doctor held open one of the white double doors. Sarah stared at him. “Since when do we bring patients up here? Surely they need referring-” Dr Samuel pointed Brock in the direction of a door to the left of the brightly lit empty corridor. “The doctor’s in that room over there. Sarah, my office now, please.” He led her through to the stairs and the double doors slammed behind them. Beech doors ran along the corridor on one side, and on the other side was empty ward after empty ward. Everywhere was silent and the entire floor appeared empty. Brock stepped up to the door, tapping on it with his forefinger, and waited. A tall, slim attractive lady with thick dark-blue spectacles appeared, tying back her dark-blonde hair with a light-blue ribbon. She wasn’t wearing the smock or usual kind of doctors’ uniform but a simple grey suit. She gave an exaggerated smile. “You must be Brock. I’m Doctor Shanklin. Please come in.” He stood still for a moment. Everything appeared to be normal as it should, but there was a strange look about her that Brock couldn’t put his finger on. “Wait a minute, how did you know my name?” “Doctor Shanklin mentioned you. He just brought you up.” “I thought you were Doctor Shanklin.” “Sorry, of course I am. I always get Doctor Samuel’s name mixed up with my own. It’s very similar.” Brock tilted his head and pursed his lips as he stepped into the small but cosy room, sinking into the grey carpet. He perched himself on one of the two matching chairs beside the small table. Files were spread across it, overshadowed by a beige lamp. Dr Shanklin picked up one of the files and lowered herself into the seat. “This isn’t standard procedure, I know, but the … the doctor wanted me to have a chat with you. I owe him a favour, so if you don’t mind can we have a chat first?”

Brock leant back into the chair and shrugged. She adjusted her blue spectacles. “That’s a bad cut on your forehead. What happened?” Brock wondered where the hell she’d trained as a doctor; she wasn’t exactly a teenager and must have spoken to, let alone treated, hundreds of people. That was it—she appeared nervous and at the same time hadn’t a clue what she was doing. “I believe it’s called a laceration. What are you after?” said Brock. He glanced, his eyes alighting on the door. It was shut tight and its gap sealed. She forced a cough. “OK, I’ll cut the bullshit. You’re causing us a big problem. Where is it?” Brock stared at her as she slid a file across the table and crossed her legs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She blinked, looking at the lamp as though she were going to use it as a weapon. “Who are you?” Brock demanded. He glared deeper into her eyes and then sensed movement outside the room. She opened her mouth to speak, but Brock jumped out of the chair, bolting to the door and yanking the handle. As he pulled the door open, the lamp cord scraped along the table. She held it in her hand. “I wouldn’t walk through the door if I were you. We only require what you stole.” He yanked the door open, jumping out into the corridor, and she hurtled out behind him. Directly in front of him was a smartly dressed tall man with a scar on the left of his face. Sighrus. And he was pointing a standard-issue Glock at Brock’s head. Two other men in black suits stood on either side, each holding the same standard-issue Glock. The woman mumbled something but Brock couldn’t make it out. His heartbeat thumped in his chest like drums. He stood perfectly still, scanning around the hallway. He was completely blocked in. Sighrus stepped towards him. “He’s going to make a run for it. Get him!” he shouted.

The men in black aimed their guns towards Brock’s head. “Where is it?” Sighrus demanded. “We want it back.” Brock raised a hand, and as he did, he spied a red fire extinguisher near the window. Sighrus was glaring at him, waiting for him to answer. The woman held the lamp tight. Brock stuck his hands in the air. “Alright, don’t shoot. I’ll tell you where it is.” Sighrus relaxed, dropping his arm and aiming the gun to the floor. Brock launched himself into the woman and pushed her head-on into Sighrus. She wasn’t expecting it. He sprinted towards the fire extinguisher. A deafening shot was fired into the air. His body felt fine; maybe it had missed. Another shot fired into the air, the force knocking Brock to the ground as he grabbed the fire extinguisher in front of him. Did the bullet hit? He could feel nothing, but his body was freezing up. He grappled with the fire extinguisher, sprinting with it towards the window, and smashed it against the windowpane with all his force. The hit sent a jolt through his very existence, and glass shattered everywhere. He threw the extinguisher towards his pursuers and somersaulted through the window. Butterflies pulled at his stomach, tickling harsher than he had ever experienced. He lost his confidence partway down; he would never make it, this was the end. Glancing down to see his fate, all he could see was grey—heaven perhaps. No, he hadn’t landed yet. He ed the hospital’s canopy over the main entrance. Surely this couldn’t be it? He smashed into it and tumbled to the ground. He was conscious; he was alive. He pulled himself up and, in agony, made towards Hampstead Heath.

Chapter 11

The overcast sky spat rain into his face as he hustled through dark, damp undergrowth. Trees surrounded him, their leaves crunching under his aching feet. He galloped on and flung himself into a low -l ying sycamore branch. Water cascaded across his face and ran down his damp, bloodied shirt. Working his legs harder and harder, he pressed on through the woodland, but eventually it was no good; his body refused to go on, and he collapsed to the ground and into t he sl udge. Seconds ed. He picked himself up, leaning against a big oak tree for . Through the thick trees, the tall man and the blonde woman were running in his direction. Two other black-suited men were eagerly searching through the undergrowth, gaining on him fast. Brock looked up into the oak tree hovering over him. Pulling himself up, he pushed his body to the limits. It hurt him so much that the pain seemed to suddenly shut off as he grabbed branch after branch, hauling himself up high into the tree. Hugging a large branch, he lounged over it like a leopard. The blonde was practically underneath him now and stopped as though she was surveying the landscape. He wiped the mud on his shirt into his face as he peered down at her, well camouflaged. “Sir, he’s gone,” she shouted. “I don’t know which direction he toddled off into. He could be anywhere.” The other three stepped into Brock’s focus, peering through the trees, and Sighrus stepped up to her. “Damn. Don’t worry, he’s not going to get far. Where is that helicopter anyway?” “Regent’s Park, sir. That’s what came over the radio a minute ago.” “It should be here! What the hell is it doing in Regent’s Park?” “It’s not too far away, sir. We have an ETA of seven minutes.”

Sighrus yanked out his gun and Brock jerked back slightly. Sweat ran across his muddy forehead and he wiped his hand across it. He could feel the heat under his arms; the helicopter’s infrared would pick him up for sure. He was done for. Sighrus aimed the gun at a grey squirrel eagerly clutching to a tree. He pulled the trigger and the bullet fired into it. It fell from the tree, blood oozing from its head. Sighrus popped the gun back into his pocket, snarling. “Oh, what a mess. He’s leaving us no option but to shoot him dead.” “No problem!” shouted one of the men in black suits. Brock noticed the men two wearing the black suits were very young, like lads. Probably little experience and too gun-happy for his liking. The blonde girl appeared very young too, more of a babyface. Likely a trainee of some sort. Whoever those people were, and whatever Brock was supposed to have done, he had a serious problem on his hands. His heart raced at the notion of the helicopter approaching the heath at any moment. The infrared would certainly pick him up dangling over the tree above them. He needed to move fast, although he knew he was trapped. He monitored their blurry figures below, anticipating their moves, longing to slide down the tree and find a bridge to hide his warm body from the infrared. Unrealistic … he hated bridges and they set something off inside him. The figures remained still, chatting amongst themselves. Their voices became muffled, and he struggled to make them out. Then the figures blurred until they blended into the background and everything went black.

The rustling in the undergrowth became louder, and Brock’s eyes flew open, focusing down into the darkness at two foxes attacking one another. Moments later, one of the foxes darted into the dark undergrowth and out of sight; the other grabbed the grey squirrel with his mouth. Brock was still sprawled over the dark oak tree branch, his head resting comfortably on its bark. He must have blacked out, and for a moment he couldn’t why he was here. The fighting foxes had pulled him out of an unusual dream and he slumped further over the branch, bringing back to mind the picture of an old woman he didn’t recognise screaming at him to get out of the box. It was a reoccurring dream, and one that deeply disturbed him.

The mud on his face cracked and he slid down the tree. Darkness covered the landscape as he limped on through the thick, wet grass. A sharp sting penetrated his leg and he rubbed it with his hand. He was thirsty and he grabbed at a branch, pushing his mouth towards the leaves, suckling water from it. Coming to a clearing, something crossed his mind. He was so wrapped up in the events that had folded yesterday, he had forgotten entirely about Sarah. Was she OK? Was she safe? He leaned across the tree and spots of rain splashed his face. As a fugitive, he would immediately head to his apartment, grab what he required, and do one. He was truly on the run and saw no other option. Hurrying over a steep grassland, he ran his trembling hand over the side of his spinning head. He paused at a signboard at the top of the hill. The moon glimmered over it. He’d reached Parliament Hill, one of the highest points in the city. Two church spires and a tall transmitter sat in the distance. A lit-up, iconic view of London sat in front of him, Camden staring at him in the distance. A plane rumbled in the dark grey sky and he started to trot down the other side of the hill. Something crashed into him. It was a German Shepherd, throwing his wet muddy paws onto Brock’s chest. In the near distance, a man dressed in a blue tracksuit was sprinting after him. He had a prominent ponytail brushed to the side. Rain poured down and the man shouted at the dog, beckoning him over. “I’m sorry about my dog. He’s a little excited.” “Forget it, it’s fine, mate.” “That stupid dog’s gotten mud all over you.” The man whipped his ponytail behind his head with his hand, pulling out a lead and slipping onto the dog’s neck. Fierce droplets hit into them like stray bullets, and the German Shepherd charged down the hill, ripping the lead from his hands. “Oh, let him go … nobody else is around. That’s a nasty gash to your head. There’s a hospital over the hill. If you like, I can take you.” Brock carried on down the path, shaking the excess water from his hair. His clothes were soaked right through and his body was becoming numb in the cold. “Trust me, I’ll be fine.”

The man held his hand out, anticipating a handshake. The sleeve on his jumper stretched, revealing a dagger and snake tattoo. “I’m Sedgwick, by the way. Not seen you up here before.” Brock held his hand out to shake, glancing at the tattoo. “I don’t come here often. Tell me, where did you get the tattoo?” “This damn thing … You know, this cut is really deep, you should get medical attention. At least let me dig into my bag and give you a waterproof plaster. Weather like this cannot be doing it any good.” Sedgwick reached into his bag, pulling out a first aid kit and ripping it open. Brock’s eyes fixated on the tattoo: the same dagger and snake. Without warning, the man rubbed a stinging antiseptic wipe over the cut. “Hope that didn’t hurt. You remind me of a man attacked down this very path some months ago. Covered in blood from top to bottom. It was a horrible sight. Reckon it’s a sign of the times.” “You witnessed it?” “No, this government woman, what’s her name … Lady Ranskill, she found him and phoned for an ambulance. She reckons it kicked off and shit Rawlins right up. Happened over there,” said Sedgwick, pointing. “Who’s Rawlins?” “The most arrogant and ignorant pig I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. Lady Ranskill always refers to the old bigwig as The Right Honourable Rawlins. He’s the minister of state for security and economic crime. Main security advisor to the prime minister, a go-between. And a completely eccentric idiot, always walking his dog over the heath. Well, until that tall guy appeared on the scene. He’s disappeared since.” Brock felt as though he was choking. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words refused to leave his mouth. “Funny thing is, absolutely nothing appeared in the papers whatsoever. Typical. Anyway, my bloody dog’s ran off. Nice meeting you.”

He darted off down the hill. Brock ran after him, trying to force words out of his mouth, but Sedgwick had disappeared into the darkness. A shimmer of moonlight caught the wet stone footpath below Brock’s feet. It was exactly where Sedgwick had pointed, and he stood perfectly still, peering over it. A cold chill went full length down through his entire body. His pulse started to beat faster, but he ed nothing. He racked his brains, trying to drag anything up, but his memory was annoyingly blank. Smashing his fist against the bark of a nearby tree, he let out a huge groan, and Sarah flashed into the back of his mind. He wiped over the plaster with his hand, ensuring it was still stuck firmly in place, and stepped out of Hampstead Heath into the soaked main road. Out of the wilderness into the bricked-up lamp-lit city. All was quiet.

Standing at the end of Camden Avenue, he surveyed the street. As he searched for unusual activity, the rain eased and the sun forced itself through the clouds. A man in the enger seat of a brown Volvo estate was slowly lifting his left arm as though he was communicating over a radio. It was a radio, and he talked into it, keeping perfectly still as though he were keeping a low profile. There’d be more, and Brock stepped into the street at the next row of low-rise apartments. He clambered over a wall and trudged through its neatly laid out garden before jumping into his own. A cool breeze brushed his face as he lay low, peering through his apartment windows, monitoring for any activity. There was none. He yanked at the kitchen window; it refused to budge. His hands shook as he pulled up a small garden trowel from nearby plant pots, easing it between the frame and pulling at it until the window came free. When he jumped in, he was greeted by wires protruding from sockets. Someone had ripped out the lot. He pulled out a glass from the overhead cupboard and filled it with tap water, taking a swig. Grabbing his rucksack from the kitchen floor, he stuffed cakes and biscuits still intact from the overhead cupboard. He moved slowly over to his secret hiding place, stepping over it. The floor was smashed in and the laptop missing. His old life was disappearing bit by bit. But they had missed something: something important. His semiautomatic pistol. He grabbed it and paced over to his bedroom. He quickly changed his clothes, stuffing a spare jacket and blue baseball cap into his

rucksack, flinging it over his shoulder. All the white sockets had been ripped out and thrown across the floor, and all his belongings seemed to have been moved around. He didn’t care. A car door slammed outside and he made his way to the kitchen, treading on what appeared to be a wallet. He squatted down, picking it up. It was a black leather wallet, but one he didn’t recognise. Throwing it into his backpack, he pulled himself up to the window and jumped out.

Chapter 12

Brock held tightly to the thick metal rails above. The red double -d ecker tossed him side to side for nearly an hour on its jam -p acked journey to Whitechapel. Rush hour was upon him, and impatient commuters squashed together as the bus jerked into yet another bus stop. engers shuffled through the doors, hurtling towards the tiny space where he stood. A woman reached into her handbag, pulling out a purse, opening it, and glancing at its contents. As he watched, it dawned on Brock that he hadn’t looked at the wallet he’d slipped into his rucksack. It had completely slipped his mind after artfully dodging all the police cars to get to where he was now. He shoved his body further into the bus corner, digging his hand into his rucksack for the black leath er wa llet. Twenty quid sat neatly in the notes section along with couple of credit cards. Brock ran his fingers across a strange white card. It was like a plastic key card for a building with the words ‘Sphere’ running across the front in bold red letters. He’d never heard of such a place. Pulling out a credit card, he saw the name Sighrus. He chucked everything back into his rucksack, struggling to get his breath. He tipped his head down, touching the base of his blue cap. It covered most of his face, and he wasn’t taking any chances. A man in a suit stepped near him, and Brock tilted his head forwards, keeping his eyes on the dusty bus floor. The driver hit the brakes and the double-decker came to a sudden halt. The doors opposite flung open. The bus had finally reached Whitechapel, a little before Brock’s destination of Mile End. He jumped off, surveying the busy main road and then losing himself in the crowd. He stepped into a nearby alleyway. He stood still and the icy wind whistled through it, and he zipped up his black tracksuit to the top. His stomach rumbled and his leg cramped thanks to the long bus journey. Leaning against the wall, he dived into his tracksuit pocket, reaching for the note Audrey had given him. It wasn’t there. He was sure he had slipped it in there that morning, so he checked his other pocket. Empty. Rubbing his brow, he popped his head out of the ageway and checked the

busy street for anything out of the ordinary. Cars and vans filled both sides of the road, their engines rattling at the slow pace of the traffic, but it appeared safe. People darted across the pavement heading for work, and there were several market traders in the distance busy setting up their stalls. Without the note, Brock didn’t have an address; he was screwed and he knew it. But he wasn’t a man to give up easily, and his curiosity got the better of him. If he was to find out about himself, this was the place—sadly the only place. After that, he could disappear for good. He needed to know. Another glance up and down the street yielded absolutely nothing, further frustrating his brain. Strange how he was supposed to have played out his early childhood in this area. Surely something should have clicked by now? Audrey had mentioned it was off the main road, Mile End Road most likely. He headed out of the alleyway weaving, in and out of the bustling crowd along the busy main causeway. Stepping in front of tall buildings, he hid his face from the CCTV cameras hovering over virtually every junction. His gaze caught the Indian stall, the stallholder setting up his piping hot chicken tikka and curries. Naan bread was packed neatly along the stall, and Brock’s stomach murmured at the idea of buying at least a piece to keep him going. Diving into his rucksack, he pulled out the black wallet. Then he noticed two uniformed police officers heading directly towards him. He threw the wallet back in his back and hurried over to the pedestrian crossing, hitting the button. He stood calm as several students came to him, along with a woman in her forties and a man in white joggers, dripping in sweat. The police moved closer behind the students, and Brock edged forward into the road. Slow-moving cars filled both lanes and his hand started to tremble uncontrollably. He clutched his rucksack, ready to grab his pistol. Moments ed and the green man flashed . He dived into the road, all the time staring towards the floor, keeping the students between the police and him. Reaching the other side, he ed a shop full of men’s clothes, and saw the reflection of the two police and the man in the suit turning right. He sped up in the opposite direction, and minutes later the street was quieter and he was out of sight. Deliberately, he leaned over as though picking something up. The police were gone. He was safe. He headed up the street checking road names. Nothing jogged a single hint of

any childhood memory. Had Audrey got this right, or was it a wild goose chase? Even the simplest of street names meant nothing to him. For a lad who had supposedly spent most of his childhood here, it felt so wrong. At the top of the road, he slipped into a small park and fell onto the grass next to a wilted conifer. He emptied his rucksack and scoured his pockets; hunger pains banged through his stomach like a constant military drumming parade. He ripped open a packet of biscuits and tossed one in his mouth. The note was nowhere to be seen, even after double-checking his pockets and the entirety of the insides of the rucksack. He was on his own, and the sharp pain in his leg and gash in his forehead pounded to every heartbeat. But his obsession and determination to get to the bottom of this inflamed the energy inside him, forcing him to clamber on regardless. Grey clouds blew above him, and the whole landscape darkened. Droplets of rain splashed into Brock’s worn face, his cut stinging. He was about to scream when it came to him—Grove Road. That’s what Audrey had mentioned in the cafe and written on the note. He just required the number. What’s more, he had ed a Grove Road a few minutes back. With a sigh of relief, he rammed his belongings into the rucksack, pondering over the leather wallet. A great result on Sighrus perhaps … or perhaps not. Throwing his rucksack onto his shoulders, he headed back in the direction of Grove Road. As he did his usual scan for anything out of place, a distant rumble of thunder roared through the sky. A flash of lightning crackled, brightening up the horizon for a mere second. Stepping through the rain, he ed many residential brick houses on either side; nothing resembled a children’s home. It had likely closed down or had never even existed. The rain was coming at him harder now, belting his face. Another roar of violent thunder and Brock was soaked through and in urgent need of cover. No cafes appeared on the street, and a metal bus stop over the road appeared the only option. Water dripped down all its sides into mini waterfalls, and he dived underneath it. It offered little cover for a thunderstorm on such a scale, but he spotted a rather large derelict building opposite. Three floors high, its windows were boarded up and it sat in overgrown grassy land. The worn dull red bricks held it together, but only just. He paused, looking over it for a second as the wind blew the rain into the shelter. Then he darted

over to it, jogging down the path and pulling at a loose timber board. When it came away, he eased himself into the dark building. The stench of rotting wood hit him head-on. He peered out of a gap in the wall. Out of the grey sky, another roar of thunder shook the building, followed by a blinding flash of lightning, illuminating the dark hallway of the derelict building and revealing a wooden staircase. For the first time, Brock got that cold, eerie feeling he’d been there before, and every muscle in his body froze. Moments ed and another crack of thunder ripped through the sky. He placed his foot on the wooden creaky staircase, pushing himself up on the next step, and the next, finally reaching a landing leading to a dark corridor. Another roar of thunder and Brock caught his breath before stepping blindly into the corridor. A flash of lightning lit up the long corridor; many doors were missing from the rooms either side. As he stepped through the winding hallway, a door that seemed familiar to him was slightly ajar. Carefully, he pushed the creaking door until fully open and he stepped inside. He edged forward and pressed his feet into the floorboards to check they were sound. He could barely make out the old painting strung on the wall in front of him. He dropped his rucksack on the floor, pulling out a bottle and taking a swig of the water. He changed his clothes to the spare ones in his rucksack. Dryer and warmer, he collapsed to the floor. The events of yesterday and the damp exhausting weather had him dog tired. He rested his head on his rucksack and closed his eyes.

His body felt tight and constricted and freezing cold, as though someone had deliberately turned down the temperature. His head was helplessly stuck, and as he tried to move it forward, fierce pains stabbed both sides of his temple. A brightening flash of light penetrated his eyes, and he tottered forward across a long, dilapidated bridge. An old woman whispered in his ear, “You have got to get out of the box. Get out, Brock!” A smash across the sky and his eyes flew open as his whole body crashed into a wall. It was the wall of the dark derelict room. He must have been asleep for several hours. He was standing on a rotten floorboard, rubbing his side and head. Nightmare. Brock had never come to with this phobia of bridges. It was

silly, really. One question he’d always wondered: did I have this phobia before I was attacked or was it a by-product of it? Was it my fault? Light streamed through the loosely placed timber around the rotten window and missing slates on the roof. The ceiling in another room had all but dropped off and remnants were scattered across the floor. This place was derelict, alright, practically falling down and most likely empty for a very long time. He checked his watch. It was 6 p.m. He’d been out for the count for a good while and had got some well-earned sleep—until that old woman had woken him up. Taking the last swig of water, he placed the bottle on the floor and looked around the room. It was eerily unfamiliar and old, but something bothered him about this room. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. He pressed paused on the thought as Sarah rushed back into his mind. Memories came flooding back: how they had first met; her first gym class; how she had looked at him; their first kiss; first date. He couldn’t bear it any longer. He had to go back, find her, check she was doing OK. She’d be due at the yoga evening class. She never missed it. If she was safe, he could disappear. An urgency came over him to race back and check on her. He had to speak to her. Grabbing his rucksack, he stood up but froze at the sound of glass smashing downstairs. He grabbed his nose to avoid a much-needed sneeze. More glass smashing. Dust blew into his face, and his effort at holding back the sneeze caused a sudden involuntary expulsion of air from his nose and mouth. He let out an almighty sneeze, losing his balance, hitting the rotten floorboards and smashing through the ceiling below. Landing onto an old wooden table, he jumped up quickly, fists at the ready. A window had fallen through in the room directly above, probably due to the storm; he was safe. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he gave another almighty sneeze. He dusted himself down and headed out of the building.

Chapter 13

He looked across the square he had ed through practically every day for the last few months. He reminisced about the time he had once grabbed a pizza at the deli opposite and about the regular barneys in the gym with Sergei. He recalled having to keep a low profile from the drug dealers selling behind the black railings of the small enclosure in the park. He meandered in front of the cinema where he had seen several high -p rofile celebrities getting the red -c arpet treatment and where sometimes he killed time before his shift. It was all over now, finished for good. Pushing the glass door, he wandered inside. His pulse thickened at the notion of coming face to face with Sergei for the final time. Sarah was his only interest now: he had to check she was alright and say his last goodbyes. It would hurt. Whiffs of bacon tricked through the brightly lit unmanned reception—against Sergei’s authoritative protocol, of course, and an indication he probably wasn’t in. Brock pushed himself into the main gym floor, quiet of punters and, at first glance, indeed no staff. It was though the once-bustling gym was falling apart at its seams. Heading across the quiet gym floor, he gazed at the bare equipment and stepped across the polished floor towards the staff room. He came face to face with Gunner, who was stuffing a greasy bacon butty into his mouth. “Where have you been?” Gunner sneezed remnants of the sandwich across the floor, wiping his face on his arm, his eyes wide. “Sergei sacked you. He’s got a replacement. I’ve been worried about you.” “I, err …” “Police have been looking for you. They came this morning. Brock, you look like shit.” Brock rubbed his forehead and straightened his jacket. “Is Sarah about?” “The class got cancelled. I don’t recall seeing her, but Lacy was on the rowing machine earlier. No doubt Sarah will be ed to her hip somewhere. This creepy tall man came in earlier sniffing around. I didn’t like him one bit.”

Brock jerked his head. “What did he say?” “He was weird, the way he looked at me. Asking after your friends, where you would most likely be now. “Did you tell him anything?” “Nothing. Whatever you’ve done is your business. He wrote his number down.” “Grab it for me, I want it. I take it Sergei isn’t in?” Gunner shook his head and wandered in the direction of reception. The gym floor would have been deserted had it not been for two guys clanging their weights on the chest and ab equipment. Brock headed towards the back, ing the empty free weights section, and memories of both good and bad flooded his head. Overall, he was relieved to be able to let the fiasco of the gym and his old life go. Standing outside the women’s changing room door, he waited. The door started to creak open. Lacy’s face peered around the door. “Brock, you startled me!” she said. “I heard you were on the run … I always knew there was something about you.” She stepped lightly through the door as it eased shut cleanly behind her. Brock stared right into her face. “Where is Sarah? I want to speak to her.” “I haven’t a clue where she is. She didn’t turn up to work today and I’ve been trying to call her all day.” “Liar, she’s in the changing rooms. Gunner saw her earlier.” “Go in there if you don’t believe me. She’s disappeared.” Brock elbowed her out of the way and pushed the door open. “Get off me! She’s not in there. I told you. I don’t know where she is.” Brock headed past the changing benches through to rusty grey lockers and to two fully dressed woman in beige dresses standing over a mirror stuck to the wall, smearing their mouths with red lipstick. Both stared right at him. One of them dropped her lipstick onto the floor, her face flushed.

“The men’s changing rooms are opposite. Can you leave now please?” A woman in a navy blue dress stepped from behind the grey lockers. “It’s OK, ladies. Don’t worry about him. He works here.” He didn’t recognise her, and Lacy appeared in the doorway. “Men shouldn’t be in here full stop. Either he leaves or I’m complaining to management,” said one of the women with the lipstick. “I’m looking for Sarah. Has anyone seen her?” Lacy stepped towards him. “As I said, she didn’t come here today.” She glanced at the woman in the blue dress. “Tell him, Helen.” “She’s right. She never popped in today.” He hurried past them towards a wooden sauna that had seen better days, yanking at the door. A gust of heat hit him directly in the face; there was nobody in and he slammed it shut. The showers were empty too. He stormed out of the changing rooms. Lacy followed him into the gym floor and something vibrated in his pocket. “Are you not going to answer it?” said Lacy. “I don’t have a phone,” said Brock. “Well, there is no one else around, and it’s coming from your jacket pocket.” He dug into his jacket pocket and felt some hard plastic within. He pulled out a small mobile phone. “Is this another one of your jokes? What’s wrong with you?” “Yeah, right, I’d give you a free phone,” snorted Lacy. He pressed to accept the call, placing the mobile to his ear. “Hello.” A woman’s clipped voice came over it. “You are in serious danger. Get out. A tall man with a gun is approaching the gym. Leave by the fire exit immediately. Get out!”

The line went dead and a continuous beep erupted. “Hello, hello? Who is this? I recognised that voice, but where from?” He glanced at Lacy. The voice was nagging at him. She wiped her nose. “Listen to me,” she said. “There is something really important I need to tell you.” “Something to do with the spiking?” “I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t my fault.” Brock’s whole body tensed; he scrunched his face, aware of every movement in the gym. Two guys hard at it pumping and clanking the iron weights. Gunner holding a phone to his ear, peeking through the reception doors. Then the entire gym went black. All the lights went out, and Brock strained to see in the gloom. “What’s happening?” shouted Lacy. She looked frantically around the room, and Gunner disappeared from the doorway. The reception doors flung open. The tall man, Sighrus, sucking on his cigar, and two men in black suits appeared in the doorway. They were all pointing Glock 17s into the gym. Sighrus caught sight of Brock and aimed towards him. “Grab him.” He cracked the trigger with his finger and a deafening roar ripped through the atmosphere, shattering a window above Brock. Tiny fragments of glass fell across the floor like snow, and Lacy yelled, throwing herself across Brock to try to get to safety. The three men darted towards him, aiming their guns high in the air, and another deafening bang thundered through the air. Lacy smashed into Brock’s chest, her body limp as she slumped to the floor, blood oozing from her stomach, her eyes still. Sighrus shouted across at Brock but he couldn’t hear a thing. It was as though his ears were malfunctioning. Everything turned into slow motion as he dived towards the emergency exits. Pushing his body to the limit, he sped up, his heart beating faster, sweat pouring over his brow. Another loud vibration shattered the lightbulb above him, the tiny

pieces showering him. Picking up a loose weight, he threw it towards them. They ducked and Brock smashed through the emergency exit like a tornado. His body was numb; he felt nothing falling into the street. He sprinted across the road and disappeared into a nearby alley.

Chapter 14

The night was dark and spots of rain hit the pavement in front of him as he headed aimlessly towards the old derelict building in the distance. He switched off the small mobile phone he had mysteriously acquired at the gym, worried it could be monitoring his location somehow. Forward -t hinking on his part, but it was his o nly c lock. The visit to Sarah’s apartment in central London proved futile: cold, empty, and no sign of her. With no sense of time, only knowing it was late, Brock stepped across the road, street lamps spaced further apart and the road a little darker, droplets of rain a little heavier and trees in the road swaying in the late evening wind. The voice on the mobile nagged at him. He was unable to put a face to it, and wherever Sarah was, something wasn’t right. He could sense it. Approaching the derelict building, he caught a moving shadow between the street lamps. His head shot up, but he could see nothing. Slowly, he stepped forward, deliberately ing the overgrown garden and continuing on the pavement, discreetly scanning around. The moving shadow appeared to the side of him. he was ready to make a run for it until a faint Irish voice broke the silence. “Is that you?” Brock took stock of the man now standing directly in front of him, wearing a dazzling bright red top. It was Ty, the lad he had met in Leicester Square the other day, and again at the bus stop. “You again. Are you following me?” said Brock. He looked around, anticipating others, but saw nothing except some bright headlamps in the distance. Ty nudged him, breaking his concentration. “Thought this would be the last place you would want to come. What are you doing around here?” “Could ask you the same question about you. Where are you from anyway?”

“Where do you t’ink? Ireland originally,” said Ty. “That’s not what I meant.” “You’ve really lost it, haven’t you?” The headlamps brightened in the distance, moving closer, and Ty’s hands shook. He glared right at Brock. “I think that’s the rozzers. You know, a police car. Quick, dive into this garden and get down. If they see me, I’m done for.” Ty grabbed Brock’s shoulder, pushing him into the garden. Both crouched in the long grass as the headlamps grew nearer. The car ed directly in front of them and continued up the street. Ty wiped his hand across his brow and let out a big breath. Rain came out of the sky heavier like a monsoon, bouncing from the trees onto the overgrown grass. “That was close. Sorry, I have a problem with ’em at the minute.” “How did you know it was the police? And more to the point, how did you know I’d be running from them too?” “Saw ’em earlier. It said on the news it was going to rain this evening, storms in fact. All the pubs are shut now. Where are you staying?” The rain poured down Brock’s face and he nodded towards the building and at the loose light wooden board across the window downstairs. “You’ve been kipping here? You’re kidding me. Brave of you, I must say.” “Why? Is it haunted?” asked Brock. “Haunted? Probably.” Brock stretched his arms in the air, giving out a huge yawn, and stepped towards the building and the loose board on the window. Darkness filled the interior, and the smell of rotting wood hit them in the face. Water was gushing down the various nooks and crannies, and a coldness blew

around them. Ty pulled out some paper from his pockets, throwing some rotted wood in an old fireplace grate. He scoured his bag, pulling out a lighter and wandering over to the smashed ceramic fireplace with the painting above. “Why this particular room?” said Brock. Ty shot him a smile and flicked the lighter to set fire to the paper. The painting creaked and suddenly gave way from the wall, flipping over and crashing to the floor, the frame smashing open. A photograph blew onto the floor and Brock bent to pick it up. He angled it into the glare of a street lamp through a crack in the wall. It was a black-and-white photo of a young boy standing in the middle of a couple at the seaside. He chucked the photo back on the floor and reached into his rucksack, digging around for some biscuits. “That painting’s a right old monstrosity,” said Ty, pulling himself up and stamping on it. “I understand why they left it.” Brock munched on his biscuit, sliding the packet across to Ty. “As I said, thought this would be the last place you’d want to visit. Taken me years before I would even walk on this street, let alone crash in this hellhole.” “I needed somewhere to kip earlier, had a rough night. The rain ended up bringing me in here.” “When we last met, I was under the impression you had a good job and a home.” “Lost both. Can’t go back now.” “We’re jinxed … same as me. I was staying with this beautiful Argentinian girl. She’s a great girl. After a big bust-up, here I am needing somewhere to kip.” Ty reached out his hand towards the photograph on the floor and looked at it. Brock watched as he laughed. “This picture … it’s you!” Brock stared and furrowed his brow; Ty held the picture up. “It’s well old. I the day you stashed it here, out of the prying eyes of

the scummy staff. Look, there’s writing on the back. I’m surprised it’s still here.” He lobbed it towards Brock, who examined the writing. “I gather this is the care home I’m searching for. Doesn’t seem real somehow. Did I really spend my childhood days here?” Ty nodded. The writing was only Brock’s name; surely if someone wrote on a photograph, all the people would be mentioned. Ty pulled himself up, yanking some loose wood and throwing it on the fire. As he stepped away, his foot slipped into a loose floorboard, and he nearly went through the ceiling. “Be careful,” Brock said. “This place isn’t exactly safe. The photo doesn’t resemble me …” “It’s you. I . Any more biscuits?” Brock threw Ty another packet and scrunched his forehead as he took in more of the photo of little Brock and a young couple, racking his tired brains for anything that sprang to mind. Nothing did. “You the fun in the attic?” said Ty, stuffing a whole biscuit into his mouth. Brock shook his head and a tingle ran down his spine. He glanced up in the direction of the dark dreary loft. “Used to hide up there, out the way of the staff at the hellhole.” “Someone put a baseball bat to my head and put me in a coma for three months. I cannot a damn thing. And now the police are after me and I’ve no idea why.” “Wow, I didn’t know it was that serious. I honestly thought you were joking. Surely this lot aren’t out for revenge.” Brock jerked his head up. “What lot? What do you mean revenge?” “The people here were complete scum, probably running criminal rackets and the likes. It was bad, but we looked out for each other and ended up becoming

best buddies. Until you disappeared.” Brock grabbed a couple of bags of salted crisps from his rucksack, throwing one at Ty. “Disappeared?” “Kids here called it the hellhole. Ironic, we spent our childhoods here and now we’re back. Thank heavens this place got shut down.” “Why would they be out for revenge?” “I’ll save you the gory details. Can I have another bag of crisps?” “Have you eaten at all today?” Brock dug his hand into the rucksack and chucked the last bag of salted crisps at Ty. The rain eased on the building and the leaks turned to mere drips. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you before. This attack has taken everything away from me, and I’m pretty desperate to know a few things. A girl I’ve been acquainted could very well be in some serious trouble. She might need my help.” “Sure, what do you want to know?” “Tell me why the police are after you.” “Do the police need a reason? Cool, though, two fugitives together. We had some fun in this place, drinking all night in pubs, dares, nicking cars, pissing the police off, alcohol hangovers,” said Ty. “So, you’re not going to tell me?” “You were like a big brother to me, even though we’re about the same age. I’ve been a bit down and depressed since you buggered off. Haven’t been able to get on with my life until I met that Argentinian girl. Us, we finally got out of this hole when we turned sixteen, and trust me, we were counting down the days. We both moved into this dirty hostel run by this madam—” “A whorehouse, you mean.” “Nah, a cheap hostel. Freedom, Brock, it was our freedom. We hung on there for months, and it was a palace compared to here. You started talking about ing

the army, and I popped off to Ireland one day, tracking family. You could say we decided to go our separate ways. “I returned a few weeks later and that madam said you packed up one day and disappeared. No note, not a message, just gone. I blamed myself. I should have called the hostel. I was too busy wheeling and dealing in cars over there, made a bit of money. Jetted back and shortly after shacked up with this bird. It never lasted long, and I ended up in another hostel.” “All I was waking up in hospital nine months ago severely battered and bruised and shoved into this place in Camden,” said Brock. “Sounds nasty, like the crap old days.” He laughed. “Not a joke, sorry. Least you got your own pad. I’ve got nowhere.” “Not quite. I was put there … it isn’t my place.” “What do you mean? You have a flat. Where is it then?” “Good question, but it’s not the one in Camden. I checked out the tenancy—it started nine months ago.” Ty shot him a glance. “I reckon a good part of the last nine months has been fixed up for me. Thing is, it doesn’t make any sense.” “Like deliberately?” “You could say that. Everything was fine until I was invited to this party and some bitch spiked my drink. After that, all hell broke loose.” Brock rubbed his eyes and Ty reached into his empty bag of crisps, stretching his shirt up to reveal the bottom part of a dagger tattoo. “What’s that on your arm?” Brock asked. “Everyone had ’em burned on, way back, they’re our identifier for the brotherhood club. The B.H. stood for brotherhood. Me, Gary, Baz-alcoholic, Sedgy, Preston, and the rest of the lads. Do you the brotherhood?

Rites of age and all? “The staff at the hellhole went ape shit when we kept getting ’em done and tried to stop us. It brought loads of trouble for them because we all stuck together. A group of kids trying to save themselves from this hellhole. But the truth is, it went much further. “It was funny, though. To , everyone underwent some forfeit or other for the rites of age into the gang. And did we have some adventures …” Brock’s body was aching with exhaustion and he knew he needed to get his head down for the night; his determination to continue was taking its toll. “I met someone calling himself Preston the other day. The same tattoo was etched on his arm, but it appeared prestige, like new. Hard work to talk to I must say. In the end, he made for the pub door, running off like some teenager. I’d say he’s in some kind of trouble.” “The boring old Preston, aye. Last I heard he emigrated to some far-off land. He was always in trouble; he must have resurfaced.” Ty slipped his sleeve up, revealing the full tattoo of a dagger, pointing his arm towards Brock. “Preston brings trouble on himself, mind. He was screwed up a bit. Not sturdy like us, always moving around and poking his nose into other people’s dirt. Can you the time we climbed out of the window and made it up to the Shack Bar? Of course, we got caught, police called and we paid the price. That was one thing about the brotherhood, us kids stuck together in our pack. We’d meet up in the Shack and have the night of our lives like a pack of wolves.” “Were the staff here dangerous people?” “If it makes you feel any better, I kind of looked up to you. You were decent, Brock. We stuck together.” Brock lay back into his jacket. Learning about his past was fast becoming fascinating, but at the same time leading into a bad nightmare. Absolutely nothing came to mind, and as Ty waffled on, one thing became certain: they were mates alright, Brock just couldn’t .

“So, tell me why you ended up here, as a kid,” he said, “Big family break-up. Mother fled Ireland when I was a small kid. County Tyrone, would you believe, where my mum was born and bred and all my family. Dad named me after the county. He was thick. He was originally from Belfast, a Northern Irelander. I’m not entirely sure what happened, but he was on the run from the police. Always had some sort of trouble on the go one way or another. In and out of the nick doing this and that. “One night he hit the whisky bottle and beat my mum to a pulp. He went too far and she got on the first plane to London. We moved into my aunt’s flat in East London, somewhere around the corner, but she’s moved on now. But my mum was in a state after that. She hit the bottle too and soon after the social services snatched me and placed me into care. “That’s when I ended up here in this hellhole. I didn’t too much about it, but I bumped into the manky old biddy and she was trying to chat me up. It wasn’t until I blurted out my name that she got digging. Apparently my dad was a wanted man. He was with the IRA and security services were on his trail for ages, snatching him from this remote farmhouse he was squatting in outside Dublin. She showed me a newspaper clipping.” “Sorry, didn’t realise it was so bad. Do you know where he is now? He’s probably out now.” “Dead. The coward committed suicide five years ago on the inside. Still, it could be worse. Our friend Sedgy has an even more sinister story.” “I’ve given up on my parents now,” Brock said. “Did I ever mention anything about them as a lad?” “Wish I knew.” “What? You said we were all mates. Surely I would have said something.” “You wouldn’t utter a damn word about them, to anyone. You’d get agitated and refuse to talk about ’em. Sedgy once pulled up some shit on your dad from a library somewhere in central London. I refused to get involved in case it ruined our friendship. You were all I had. One night they even got you drunk out of your head hoping you would spill the beans. You never.”

“Odd. Did you ever find out what the shit was?” Ty shook his head. “In the early hours of this morning, I met a guy with a ponytail walking his Alsatian dog, said his name was Sedgwick and he had a similar tattoo. Could that be him?” “Doubt it’s our Sedgy out this far. Anyway, he lives in a five-bedroomed house in East London. A place called Leytonstone up the road from here. Unlikely he’d go all the way to Hampstead when Epping Forest is on his doorstep.” “Is he trustworthy? I mean, can Sedgy be trusted?” Ty shot a glance at Brock. “Trusted for what?” “I’m inquisitive. If he knows something about my parents, I’d like to pay him a visit.” “I’d be careful. Doubt he grasses people up, he’s probably got issues himself. But his house cost him a few quid and I doubt he acquired that on the straight and narrow. Knowing him, he could be in it up to his neck. If I were you, I’d keep away.” Brock lay back, staring at the old plasterboard and rotten joists above, reminiscing about the old times—but he didn’t get far. His mind was completely blank, and only the fragments Ty had poured into it. Questions filled his mind. What the hell were these friends harbouring? Had they done something? Was this all part of an elaborate scam? Had he upset the wrong people? He sat up, breaking the silence. “Come to think of it, the rain was pelting down all morning. I doubt someone from East London would have attempted a dog walk in Hampstead Heath. Probably someone else.” Ty laid his jacket across the floor, rolling his jumper up like a pillow. “Oh, just one thing, I’d like to pop to Sarah’s house again tomorrow, check she is OK. Would you mind coming with me?”

“I forgot about your bird. I’m game,” said Ty. “I’m worried about her, and attempting to travel into central London with the police chasing after me could be risky. I could do with an extra set of eyes. I don’t think she slept in her bed last night, and I’m desperate to know she’s OK.” “You broke in?” “You’re damn right I did, and ate some of her food too,” laughed Brock. Both sprawled across the floor on their jackets, giggling, and Brock closed his eyes. A shooting pain shot through his leg, but he was so tired he couldn’t even make the effort to rub it. He was tempted to nudge Ty to go to the shop for painkillers but instead ignored the pain. Loud screeching noises echoed outside and through the building, followed by an orchestra of slamming doors. Adrenaline coursed through Brock’s body, and he jumped up, dashing to the boarded window. Rain splashed outside, and three litup vehicles were parked across the pavement in front of the building. Ty stepped towards Brock, glancing over his shoulder at the cars outside. “Grab all your stuff and keep your voice down, we need to find somewhere to hide,” said Brock. Ty grabbed at his jacket, stuffing it into his makeshift bag, and Brock tossed the empty crisp packets in his rucksack. A loud smash downstairs shook the building, and a second smash. He glanced towards the attic and a cold sensation ran through his body. He and Ty scrambled across the old room through to the long bare corridor, sprinting to the other end. Ty pointed to a smashed wooden ladder, which appeared to lead off somewhere in the attic. “Fast as you can, they’re nearly in,” said Brock. Climbing the stairs like spiders, they reached the top, Brock yanking at the wooden ladders pulling them up. The door downstairs crashed to the floor and footsteps scattered throughout the building. Perching over the wooden joists, they remained silent, out of sight. Brock closed his eyes, sitting perfectly still in the darkness, their faces splashed with rain through the smashed roof above. Ty nudged Brock and he opened his eyes.

“My phone, it’s on the mantelpiece above the fire. If they notice it …” Ty whispered. “Forget that, nothing we can do. Hopefully they are too thick.” Through the collapsed attic floor, Brock saw four guys in grey suits anxiously darting around. He made a mental note of the men. All young and one with white trainers. Unusual. An ugly one, one with thick black glasses, and a short one. He adjusted his foot on the wooden joist and dust fell below. Nobody appeared to notice, and Sighrus came into Brock’s view, smashing at the doors and wandering through the rooms. Agony shot through Brock’s leg, and the men below started shouting to each other. “We’ve searched the building, sir. There is no sign of them anywhere,” said the man with thick black glasses. “Where the hell have they disappeared to?” shouted Sighrus, slamming his fist into the wall. Shouts echoed from the grey-suited man across the hall. “Sir, come here. He’s been crashing here and left his shirt. And there is blood on it!” said the short man. “Fantastic. The man’s injured. A waster like him will probably turn himself in now. I always knew he wouldn’t be a problem,” said Sighrus. Brock moved along the joist, peering through the damaged ceiling at the short man in a grey suit who was slipping disposable gloves on and poking at his bloodied shirt. “I’d say this is fresh blood, sir. Recently,” he said A fresh pain shot through Brock’s trembling, leg and he grabbed at it with his hand, steadying it. His whole body was weary and he was doing a balancing act on the joist, which felt like it was about to give way at any moment. He grabbed on to a pipe as he struggled for balance, envisaging himself falling at any moment, longing for them to leave. Ty appeared to have the same problem, wobbling and grabbing onto a joist for his life. Brock noticed the man with white trainers hovering below him. The man stepped

forward, the boards creaked, gave way, and he smashed straight through, screaming. Brock shot a smile at Ty and they high-fived. The ugly one jumped down the stairs after him, but the remaining man lifted his head towards the attic, gazing into it. Both crouched down. Brock’s pulse raced. A car alarm echoed outside. “Go see what that is,” shouted Sighrus.

Chapter 15

The sun shone into Brock’s face through the gaps in the roof. They had hidden themselves in a secure corner of the attic all night in case Sighrus and his men returned. Brock sat up, rubbing his eyes, and nudged Ty. “What ti me i s it?” Ty opened his eyes, pulling out his arm and glancing at his watch. “It’s early, 8.30 a.m. What was that all about last night? It was a close one.” “I didn’t want to scare you last night.” Brock paused and took a deep breath. “You the tall man?” Ty nodded. “That animal let off a round of bullets towards me in the hospital recently and did the same yesterday in the gym. He killed a girl called Lacy.” Ty’s eyes bulged. “He’s a psycho, dangerous.” Ty shook his head. “Surely not. These people are official, you know, the law. We heard them over the radio last night. What could you have you done?” Brock pushed his back towards the wall, moving his face out of the sunlight. “Look, Brock, whatever shit you’re in, I’m already in it up to the neck. Don’t know whether I want to risk getting involved in this one.” “What, old times, brotherhood and all that, you’re just going to do one on me?” Ty pulled himself up, grabbing one of the wooden ceiling joists for . Brock buttoned up his jacket, slipped his baseball cap over his head, and took his backpack. He climbed across the dusty joists, lowering himself into the room below. Ty shouted down at him.

“Wait!” Sunlight beamed in through the cracks, warming Brock’s face. The ashes of last night’s fire still smoked. All was quiet apart from car engines sounding up and down the street outside. Ty jumped out from the ceiling. “Where you off to?” “Like I said last night, need to get across town, got to check up on Sarah.” “I’m coming with you.” Brock patted Ty on the shoulder, pulling his face into a smile. “Thanks, I thought you were going to do one on me.” “Nah, thought about it in the attic just now. You were talking in your sleep last night about this old woman—probably that bitch here—and figured we should stick together. Still trying to work out what the box is though. Here wasn’t referred to as a box, always the hellhole. New name, I suppose: The Box. Or maybe not.” “What did I say?” “It was about 3 a.m. and you started banging on about this old woman screaming at you to get out of this stupid box. Only for an hour or so and you nodded off.” Brock shrugged.

Apple pie wafted through the open window of the small apartment. Both stood at the top of the stairs above the pottery shop, directly in front of a damaged blue glossy door—the one Brock had kicked in yesterday. He rolled his hand into a fist, giving a firm knock at the door and then glancing in the window. “This window wasn’t open last night,” he said. He tapped on the door again, waiting momentarily before smashing his shoulder into the door. It didn’t take much—he had done the hard work last night. They stepped inside into the kitchen, observing a freshly made apple pie on the clean

worktop next to the cooker. Cast-iron pans were neatly hung across the wall and a dirty mug sat in the stainless-steel sink. Brock peered his head around the door into the magnolia-decorated hallway. “Sarah, are you home?” There was complete silence throughout the apartment as Brock stepped towards a cupboard in the kitchen. Grappling at the tiny handle, he flung the door wide open. Sarah, wearing a beautiful blue dress, was crouching in amongst cans of food and other crockery. Her face was white. “What do you want?” “I came to see if you’re alright…I’m worried.” She screamed, and he stepped inside the small cupboard, putting his hand around her mouth. “Should I check outside or something just in case?” asked Ty. “It’ll be fine. Bring her into the living room. She could be in some real danger now.” “You think?” Ty peered out of the window at the roads and the opera house opposite. Brock dragged Sarah through the hallway into the living room, throwing her on the sofa. “What’s wrong, Sarah? What have I done?” “What’s wrong? You’re on the run from the police and you’ve gone into hiding, that’s what’s wrong.” “I didn’t kill Lacy if that’s what you’re suggesting.” “Why go into hiding? And how did you get my address?” “Above a pottery shop opposite the opera house, you told me, ?” “I wish I hadn’t. Leave me alone and stay away from me!”

Brock’s eyes widened as he struggled to take in what she was saying. Police sirens sounded in the distance, getting nearer. “I only popped by to see if you were OK. Truth is, you might be in some danger.” She pulled herself up from the sofa, letting out a scream, and he quickly cupped her mouth with his hand, pushing both of them onto the sofa. Tears started to run down her face. “We can leave if you like, but please don’t make this any harder than it is. I didn’t kill Lacy. I’m telling the truth.” She arched her body, biting at his hand and managing to struggle free. “Gunner said he watched you kill her,” Sarah shrieked. “What? The lying little rat. How can he say that? I didn’t kill her! A man called Sighrus did. I searched for you in the gym yesterday and he turned up with two other men. He fired right at me. Lacy jumped in front for some reason. I saw it with my own eyes. Gunner would have seen it too. He caught us all off guard and—” “Save it, Brock.” “Sarah, you have to believe me. Back at the hospital, the same man tried to put a round of bullets into me. Why do you think I jumped through the window of the fifth floor?” Ty’s mouth fell wide open as he listened. Sarah pushed herself further into the sofa, staring down at the rug. “Get out of my house or I am going to call the police.” Ty stepped over to the phone, neatly placed on a pine shelf, and ripped it completely out of the socket, throwing it to the floor where it smashed in two. “You’ll have a job.” “I presume this creature belongs to you? Who is he, your fugitive criminal friend? Wish I’d listened to Lacy now.”

“Ty, what did you do that for? Sarah, I didn’t kill her. I promise.” Sarah launched herself from the sofa and sprinted towards the door. Ty snatched a paper-knife from a small table and jumped into her path, pointing it towards her. “Get back or I’ll slit your throat!” Brock’s eyes opened wide and he grabbed at Sarah’s dress, pulling her back. “Put that down,” shouted Brock, pushing Sarah back into the sofa. “If it makes you feel any better, I blame myself for her death. Someone slipped a mobile in my pocket and called me, desperately urging me to get out of the gym. This… someone…knew what was going on.” “Tell me one thing,” Sarah said. “If this man shot at you at the hospital and killed Lacy, why didn’t you go to the police? Surely it would get you off the hook?” “They are the police,” Ty said. “Truth is,” said Brock, “I cannot go to the police, not with this…thing…walking around. I’ll be killed.” “In other words, you’re all criminals,” said Sarah. “Let’s work it out before he clocks on about you and me, if he hasn’t already. I’d never forgive myself if that monster harmed you. And I swear I didn’t kill Lacy.” “How come she’s dead then? She was my friend,” sniffled Sarah. “We got into an argument before you killed her. The guilt is killing me. What’s going on, Brock?” “So, did you kill Lacy?” asked Ty. “No, I didn’t,” shouted Brock, jumping up. “Shut up and let me think.” Pausing, he let out a huge yawn in an attempt to relieve the stress constantly building up inside his head. Sarah rubbed her eyes, still weeping, and Brock picked up some tissues from a shelf, yanking one from the box and handing it to

her. They were interrupted by a loud tapping coming from the front door, and Ty stepped into the hallway, returning momentarily. “It’s the police.” “That’s all we need.” “The door was ajar this morning. Neighbour next door called them last night after witnessing a guy smashing into this apartment. They’re here for a statement.” “Ignore them then.” “How long do you propose to keep me prisoner?” asked Sarah. She wriggled on the sofa like she was ready to pounce at any second. Someone tapped on the front door again and Ty murmured to himself, “Something tells me she is one of them.” “Don’t be ridiculous. Brock knows I work at the hospital.” “She works at the hospital,” said Brock. “And I said leave it.” “And that’s what she wants you to believe. Trust me, Brock, she is one of them. I can tell by looking at her. That would explain why she wasn’t there yesterday when the girl was killed. She probably knew about it, forewarned.” “Oh bingo, that would make sense, prick,” said Sarah “The actual reason for not attending class was because me and Lacy fell out. I lost my job at the hospital all through you, Brock.” She sniffled into the tissue, running her hand through her hair. Ty wandered into the hallway again. “Police have gone.” “And why don’t you both do the same and leave me alone?” Sarah glanced up at Brock, tears in her eyes. “I care about you, Sarah. No matter what.”

Sarah’s cheeks reddened and she exhaled a long breath. “I’m glad that animal never shot you,” she whispered. “Just give me some time to think.” Brock pulled Sarah’s body towards him, grasping her shoulders and kissing her. He felt the warmth of a tear rolling down his cold face. “Come on, Brock, let’s go,” called Ty, stepping over to the window. “I had a pact with Lacy,” Sarah said. “I told her I would look after the dog if anything happened to her. The dog wasn’t at her apartment.” “I’ll get the dog back for you if that’s what you want, but you need to know you’re in mortal danger. I’ll pop by later.” Tears filled Sarah’s eyes again. “The dog might not know that Lacy is dead.” “I hate to interrupt you lovebirds, but there is a suspicious white van cruising around the corner.” “We need to make a move. I promise I’ll be in touch. Stay safe, and I’ll try the dog pound for you.” Brock gave her a peck on the cheek and picked up a pen from a side table, scribbling his new phone number down: the mobile he’d mysteriously acquired from the mysterious blonde at the gym. He shoved the paper towards Sarah and she grabbed it. “It’s my new number. Lost the old one. I’ll be back, I promise, only call in an emergency as this isn’t my phone. I mysterious acquired it at the gym yesterday afternoon just before Lacy got shot. I could have sworn at first Lacy popped it into my pocket as a prank . . . clearly not. “Before it all kicked off, it rang in my pocket. That’s when this woman answered warning me something was going to happen and I should immediately leave the gym. I think it was a girl called Helen, brushing past me in the changing rooms. Know her?” She shook her head. “But Lacy did.”

Chapter 16

The early afternoon sun bounced off the slate roof of the double -f ronted detached stone house. Brock meandered across the neatly mown lawn with his rucksack firmly tucked to his back. He stepped up to a big black front door, scratching his head. A house like that in Upper Leytonstone must be worth a million plus at least, probably from proceeds of organised crime. The house appeared worn, though; paint flaked from the black front door. It needed a damn good renovation, new windows to say the l east. Brock had departed company from Ty—something about meeting a man about a dog; from what Brock could fathom, some sort of unscrupulous illegal activity. Uncomfortable about the situation, the only option he had was to bite his tongue. He had to trust Ty. He would meet him later this afternoon at a rendezvous point in Hampstead Heath. The question was: would he show? Cars flew by on the street outside and he tapped on the black door. A dog scratched at the door, howling and barking inside, and Brock stepped back. Moments later he tapped again, then it opened. Standing in the doorway was a man with a blue shirt thrown over him and a ponytail swinging to the left. “Sedgwick?” The German Shepherd sprang towards Brock, licking his hand, but Sedgwick’s eyes bulged and a blank look appeared on his ghost-white face. He was terrified. “C-can I help you?” Sedgwick stuttered. The dog bashed Brock’s thigh with his head and he reached his hand out, stroking his head. “It’s me.” Sedgwick’s lips parted and he furrowed his brow. “Look, I’m in a spot of trouble. Ty sent me and mentioned you might be able to help or point me in the right direction.”

“Oh, it’s you, Brock. Come in.” He led him through a bare white hallway, stepping onto a thin cream carpet that had seen better days. The dog scarped into the living room and they followed into the most bare and boring room Brock had ever seen. The dog jumped upon Brock’s chest, knocking him back slightly, and Sedgwick grabbed his collar, pulling him away. “I was trying to place you at the heath that morning. Drink?” Brock nodded, noticing the light from the bare bulb in the ceiling, as though it wasn’t light enough outside. He perched himself on the grey settee, pushing the rucksack into the chair. “Were you expecting me?” he asked. “Not really. Ty kind of filled me in on your difficult situation. Sorry about just now but you looked so official, I don’t know why you threw me.” Sedgwick disappeared into the kitchen and the dog jumped up to follow him. There was a click of the kettle and some banging noises. “Coffee or something stronger?” “Coffee’s fine—and no sugar.” Presently, Sedgwick appeared between the door holding two mugs of steaming coffee. Brock hoped it would be strong. “I’m sorry to hear about your situation, especially after the things we’ve all gone through. I’m unsure how I can help, though.” “Filling in the blanks would help. I’m desperate to get information. Ty mentioned you pulled something up at a library.” “He’s lying. Does it to wind everyone up.” Brock stared at him and took a sip of his coffee, staring at him. Sedgwick gazed at the floor and the dog jumped up and meandered into a corner, where it collapsed.

“I know a woman,” Sedgwick said suddenly. “She might know something about the attack, but you should be careful with her. Normally I keep my distance as her husband works for the government. But on this occasion her bloody dog attacked mine and we ended up getting into some silly conversation and your attack came up. Something frightened her, something big I reckon, judging by her shaking hands. She knows more than she’s letting on, I’m sure of that.” “Where can I find this, err, woman?” Sedgwick pulled himself up and strode back into the kitchen, the dog bouncing up and racing behind. Pans rattled and cupboard doors slammed. There was a rustling of plastic and another cupboard door slammed shut, then Sedgwick appeared in the doorway again, holding a plate of biscuits. “Thought you might be hungry.” “So, this woman …” “Yes, very posh.” Sedgwick fell into the grey armchair again and the dog trotted over to Brock, wagging his tail, most likely begging for biscuits. Sedgwick shot him a glance. “Because we’re buddies from the hellhole and you’re obviously in some serious kind of trouble, and you’ve helped me out …” “Helped you out? What did I do?” said Brock. “This very well-to-do woman lives in a fancy Edwardian house, opposite the ponds on the heath. But it’s pretty well guarded. Like I said, her husband is in with the government crowd and you’d be crazy to go there. My advice—you should keep away. But if you’ve got the balls to knock on her door, I have the balls to drive you there.” Brock’s eyes widened and he nodded. Sedgwick led him into a cluttered kitchen and through a white door into a spacious, kitted-out garage. Sitting right in the middle was a polished black jeep. Exactly like the one Sighrus owned. Brock shot Sedgwick a glance as he dug into his pocket, pulling out a bunch of keys and unlocking the car.

“Drive me past the house and drop me off at the top of the street,” Brock said as he climbed in. “You know about the attack, don’t you?” “Like I said, that morning on the heath I saw and know nothing. This woman, Lady Ranskill, walked her dog that morning and may have seen all the commotion. Sometimes I bump into her. She’s a nice lady but take my advice— be careful and don’t mention me.” “Hampstead is quite far, why do you—” “It’s the dog, loves it there. He doesn’t get on much with Epping Forest.” Sedgwick turned the keys in the ignition. “Really, and the dog …” “Course he knows! All his dog friends are at Hampstead Heath.” Brock was unconvinced at Sedgwick’s half-hearted story. Something wasn’t right. “You’re not going to open the garage door?” Sedgwick reached his hand around the wheel to the keys, pressing a button on the fob. “It’s automatic.”

Brock tilted his head forward, hiding his face under the blue cap he had stuck on, as Sedgwick drove them in front of a row of elite mansion houses overlooking the heath. Sedgwick inclined his head at an Edwardian mansion house. As they veered around a corner, Brock yanked at the door, grabbing his rucksack and nodding at Sedgwick as though he were on some secret mission. He jumped out, the car door swung shut in mid-drive, the turbulence sending him slightly off balance, and Sedgwick’s car scrambled up the road into the distance out of sight. Digging his hand into rucksack, Brock checked for his pistol before walking across the heath towards the Edwardian mansion. Brown leaves cascaded onto the heath’s grassland and the sun glistened out from the ponds. Ducks quacked and people walked along minding their own business. His trainers crunched through the grassy surface as he ired the elegant Edwardian architecture of the house. Now he had to hatch a plan to get in without been seen.

Standing in the heath and overshadowed by trees, he kept a watchful eye on two grey Nissans parked either side of the house. He hustled towards one of the other mansions and he stepped onto their driveway, making his way around the big building and clambering over a tall fence into Lady Ranskill’s residence. He hid behind some tall shrubs in the immaculate garden, monitoring for any unusual activity. A tall woman wandered around the large kitchen. To the side, Brock clocked an open window. Wandering across her perfectly cut lawn, he took a deep breath and reached into his rucksack, pulling out the pistol. He fiddled with the window, quietly pulling himself and into a hallway and onto the polished wooden floor inside. Lady Ranskill stood directly in front of him wearing a glamorous red evening gown and slippers to match, a slinky green scarf wrapped around her neck. He imagined she was going out to dinner sometime soon, some posh dinner party or ball. Aiming the pistol at her head, he stared at her. “You must be Mr Steele. I’ve been expecting you. Nice to finally be acquainted. Please come in,” said Lady Ranskill. He gave her an incredulous stare and she gave him a slight smile—a nervous one. She gestured for him to follow and led him through a Hessian wallpaperdecorated hallway into an extremely large drawing-room. Polished wooden antique furniture glistened from the brass chandeliers above and there were several expensive-looking paintings fixed neatly and hanging perfectly level on the wall. Medals, awards and other monstrosities were placed on the polished antique oak sideboard. “May I ask how you know my name?” he asked. “Please let me get some of my strong coffee and delightful cakes from the fridge first.” “Save your delightful cakes and coffee. I’ve already eaten. What I want to know is what happened. Quite clearly, you have knowledge who I am.” “Patience, Brock. Please let me do my ritual. I always insist on the best coffee and nibbles for all my special visitors. Anyway, look on the bright side—that ghastly friend of yours won’t be back for at least an hour or so,” said Lady Ranskill.

Brock struggled to hold back a cough. “Ty visited you?” he asked. “Ty . . . that’s what they call the little toe-rag. He most certainly has not visited me. I’ve come across him before, a member of some remorseless brotherhood. I’ve a long memory. Please, I insist on coffee first. I’m parched and this Costa Rican blend of coffee is gorgeous. How those Costa Ricans get this unique delicious taste I’ll never know. It’s like music to the palate. And I’m a very fussy woman.” Brock pulled up the pistol, aiming towards her chest and edging towards her. “Doubt it would do you any good, Brock. Anyway, relax. I’m not your enemy.” “What do you know about the brotherhood?” “Some ghastly secret organisation. Quite a few years ago those thugs caused a lot of trouble, not to mention damage. Some of the vermin got locked up, some did not. Come to the kitchen with me.” She led him back through the hallway into a polished marble black-and-white kitchen. Lady Ranskill clicked the coffee maker on and dived into a large black fridge freezer, pulling out some cakes. She placed the brightly coloured treats neatly on a crystal plate and put them in front of Brock. The aroma of the coffee forced itself from the machine and filled the air. She poured coffee into white shiny cups. Brock perches himself on one of the kitchen stools, pointing the pistol directly at her temple. Something didn’t seem right. She smiled at him and he sensed an aura glowing from her. “Please, help yourself,. I would have baked some of my delightful scones, but my husband is on a reconnaissance mission in Eastern Europe of all places and I had to pop out.” “What does he do for a living?” “Government business.” “Tell me what happened to me.”

“I was taking my dog for a walk and as I arrived at the scene you were being whisked away by ambulance.” “Who is Sighrus?” She maintained her composure, smiling brightly, standing upright, perfectly still. “Not sure. I thought he saw me but I couldn’t be sure, so I picked up my dog and went in the opposite direction.” Brock pulled up his pistol, aiming directly at her temple, staring into her eyes. “Answer my question or I will shoot.” “No, you won’t, Mr Steele, and trust me, you don’t scare me in the slightest. You’re taking an awful risk coming here. Kill me and you’re finished, well and truly.” Brock was taken back at how relaxed she appeared with a gun pointed in her face. He lowered the gun and grabbed a piece of chocolate cake. She pulled up a stool next to him and perched on it, sipping her coffee. “Tell me what’s going on,” Brock said. “I’m here for answers. Either tell me what’s going on or I’ll pull the trigger. I’m not bothered.” “You’re a charming man, Brock, I must say, but I don’t know the answer to what you’re asking. But I could desperately do with your help.” She glanced towards the floor and he lowered the pistol. “I don’t understand, Lady Ranskill. I—” “Oh, call me Jeanette, Lady Ranskill gets boring after a while, and I know you don’t understand, but I do and I need your help. I’m desperate.” She let out a deep breath, twiddling her mug in her hands. “You’ve confused me. Something to do with the attack perhaps? Not sure how I can help you, I’m on the run and not exactly in a good position myself. How can I trust you?”

“Oh, Brock, you are such a darling. We could help each other.” A car door slammed outside and Brock jumped up, running into the front room to look through the window. Lady Ranskill shouted to him from the kitchen. “Relax, Brock, you are perfectly safe. It’s unlikely they know you’re here, otherwise they’d have come in by now.” Brock stepped back into the kitchen. “You know something, don’t you?” “We cannot talk here. I’m about to be collected and they’ll see you. Lie low for a couple of days and I’ll be in touch.” “Be in touch? To tell me about the attack?” “Please take my number. On second thoughts, don’t call me. Oh, take the damn number—it’s written on the phone in the hallway. Call me in a couple of days, but make out you’re the window cleaner or something.” The doorbell rang and Lady Ranskill jumped up. “It’s them, Brock. You need to leave the same way you broke in. , I’m counting on you.”

Chapter 17

Tiny birds sang in the peaceful woodland of the heath as Brock waded through fallen branches and overgrown brambles to the other side. He was contemplating whether he had done the right thing leaving Sarah. Wandering aimlessly, he stepped over a newly fallen tree and fought his way through brambles. A red Renault was parked opposite in a grassy lay -b y , Ty slumped in the driver’s seat. Stumbling towards it, Brock pulled open the enger door, startling Ty, and jumpe d in. “Sedgy’s got in touch,” Ty said. “He’s done some digging. A guy in Edinburgh is asking after you, urgently apparently. Reckons he has some important information and your life could depend on it. I’ve arranged to meet near the castle. I told him we’d drive there tonight.” Brock slumped down into the enger seat. Ty reached his hand under the steering column, yanking two wires down and forging them, turning the engine over. He pulled at the handbrake, stamping at the accelerator so hard the Renault skidded out of the lay-by into the road. “You nicked it, didn’t you?” said Brock, glancing around at the new interior. “This guy’s panicking big time, something about fleeing London. I know it’s a bit of a trek. But he can’t make it until 1 a.m.” Ty snatched at the wheel, whizzing it firmly right, steering it into another road. “Why did he Sedgwick? And slow down.” Ty shrugged. His eyes popped out at an oncoming white van. He slammed on the brakes, jerking Brock into the dashboard. As he was thrown back into the seat, he grappled at the seatbelt, clicking it into place. Ty screamed obscenities at the van driver, complete with inappropriate hand signals, before hitting the accelerator and speeding forward into the road ahead.

Ty raced the newly nicked red Renault hard into the motorway’s slip road, ready to the fast oncoming traffic. His driving so far had been brash, to say the least: nearly two near misses coming out of London, and Brock had lost count at the number of red lights Ty had driven through. His habitual slamming of the brakes at every junction made Brock’s stomach churn. He repeatedly considered taking control of the car, but he couldn’t be bothered; he was exhausted and his leg was playing up again. Ty swung left and instead of ing the M1 fast traffic, he drove into the motorway slip road, narrowly missing a hitchhiker who, for some reason, jumped out into the car. Ty swerved again, slamming his foot hard onto the brakes, causing the car to come to a skidding halt on the slip road. Brock’s seatbelt came out of its socket and his head was thrust into the dashboard. “What are you doing? Thanks for the whiplash,” Brock snapped, sliding his hand down his face and neck feeling the moist blood. “Look, I’m bleeding.” “Don’t blame me—it was that idiot running into the car.” Ty pointed to a man on the hard shoulder stumbling towards them in baggy jeans and a prominent blue hoody, carrying a placard under his left arm and a black bag under the other. “Just get us out of here.” As the man got closer, he pulled his hoody down. “Wait, it’s Preston. What’s he doing out here on the motorway?” Brock shot him a glance; his placard read in big letters: EDINBURGH. Preston thumped on the windscreen, his ginger hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. Brock reached for the door catch, pushing it open. “You ought to be careful, you nearly killed us all!” “Hey, guys, it’s you. Sorry, waiting here ages and nobody stopped. Where you both heading?” Ty leaned over and peered at him. “All the way, jump in.” Brock pulled a yellow duster from the glovebox, wiping his face of the blood.

Preston slammed the door shut and threw his bag across the seat. “I’ve decided we should forget Edinburgh, Ty, and head to London,” Brock said. “I’m worried about Sarah. Something is wrong and I know it. How do we know this guy in Edinburgh isn’t an elaborate trap?” Ty rolled his eyes towards Preston and shot a glance at the yellow duster. “Who carries yellow dusters in the car anyway? We got to go, Brock. This guy might have something, and we need somewhere to kip.” Preston clicked a can of lager open, startling Brock, and the car moved off, ing the motorway and into the flow of busy traffic. “You guys sound like you’ve got trouble,” Preston said. Brock shrugged. “Slow down, man,” he said to Ty. “Get out of the fast lane. We need to blend in.” “He’s on the run from the law,” Ty explained to Preston. Preston coughed up some beer, wiping his mouth. “Anyone want a can?” “Your foolishness nearly got us killed back there. Why are you travelling to Edinburgh?” said Brock. “Who, me?” said Preston. “ing through.” Brock kept one eye on the world whizzing by outside. After all, he didn’t know who he was dodging: police cars, Sighrus, his agents, geriatric drivers and anyone who remotely appeared out of place. “Do that often?” “What you mean? This is my first time here,” exclaimed Preston. “Like I say, just ing through. Anyway, what kind of trouble are you in?” “What did you want to speak to me about the other day in Camden Town?” “It’s not important now.”

“To me it is. You sped off and nobody was following you.” Preston remained silent and Ty shot him a glance. “You could help to fill in the missing pieces,” said Brock. “Maybe I can, but I can’t be arsed now,” said Preston, giving out a huge loud burp and pulling out another Stella from the bag. The sky was luminescent and wind screeched through the driver’s slightly opened window, clearing stale air. Brock pondered over what next to ask Preston. “These people from the children’s home are probably still walking the street. Where can I track them down?” “Are you crazy?” Preston asked. “I can’t believe you had the balls to go back to that hellhole, let alone track them down. What’s wrong with you?” Brock stayed silent, pondering, as Ty swerved, narrowly missing a car. Silence fell inside the car and the look on their two faces said it all—or said something at least. Brock felt like his mouth had gone numb, as if time was standing still. After several minutes he still didn’t know what to say. “How did you know I went back to the home?” he asked eventually. “It’s listed all over the god-damn show,” said Preston, tapping the keypad on his phone as if he was attempting to call someone. Brock looked at Ty. “Listed?” “Calm down. You mentioned it back in Camden.” He didn’t mentioning it. Ty hit the accelerator too hard and the car jumped forward again. “I told you to slow down. Do we have to go so fast? Move back into the first lane. We’re standing out from the crowd too much.”

“Want a beer? There’s plenty in the bag,” said Preston. Brock shook his head. He was about to continue interrogating Preston, but his gaze caught a digitised motorway sign flashing bright yellow words: “Turn off at next junction.” His mouth slammed shut. There were no diversions ahead, just a clear road. Had others been flashing up? Who were they directed at? “Who are you trying to call?” said Brock, swivelling back to Preston. “You ask a lot of questions. If you must know, it’s my girlfriend—” Brock snatched the mobile from Preston’s palm and threw it through the window into the slip road. “What the hell did you do that for?” screamed Preston, slamming his fist into the upholstery. “Stop the car, I want to get out.” “Yes, what’s got into you?” said Ty. “Phones can be traced,” Brock said. “Turn the car around. I want to get back to London.” Preston jumped out of his chair, giving Brock a violent stare. “Who are you to give all the orders”?

The sky was darkening and the motorway lights flicked on. They’d been racing down the motorway for over two hours; Ty had remained silent for much of the journey and Preston had knocked back Stella after Stella, appearing to sulk in the back. Brock was too occupied recollecting what the flashing sign meant—or had he imagined the whole thing? No, he was convinced he had seen it. His tired eyes wanted to slam shut, but his mental alertness forced them to stay open. His attention was disrupted to some stirring in the back and Preston shoved his head between the seats. “I need a piss.”

Instantly, Ty eased off the gas, swinging the Renault into the hard shoulder and to a sudden halt. Preston wandered out, Brock watching his every move. “Sizing him, up are you?” whispered Ty. “I wanted to see he pulled his prick out and nothing else.” There was a moment of silence. “I saw the sign flash up too,” Ty said. “And you never mentioned anything?” Ty shrugged. “What do you think?” “Don’t know. His ginger hair threw me. I don’t recognise him, but I could have sworn he used to have brown hair. Maybe I’m wrong … it was from way back.” “I agree he’s odd.” Preston jumped back into the back seat, sprawling himself across it. Brock deliberately changed the subject. “I’m really worried about Sarah.” “She’ll be fine,” said Preston. Brock’s flinched, slightly stiffening as Ty turned over the engine with the wires, accelerating forward and picking up speed into the moving flow of traffic. “You know Sarah?” “How would I know her? I’ve—” “I hate to interrupt your argument but there is a cop car at five o’clock and both police officers inside it are looking this way.” Brock reaching into his rucksack, digging around for his pistol. He pulled it out. “Act natural and don’t make eye . Just look forward, and Ty get back into

the first lane.” “Done this before?” squeaked Preston. “I can’t jack shit,” said Brock sternly. “What’s the car doing now?” Flashing blue lights pierced the landscape like a disco in full swing as the police unit leapt in front, darting away into the distance. Ty pulled in a big gulp of air, running his hand over his sweaty brow. “That was a close one.” “Surely this car has been reported stolen by now. Why didn’t the ANPR pick us out?” “Owner’s probably on holiday or something,” said Preston. Brock opened the glovebox and slipped the pistol into the compartment. “You never actually told me why you were heading for Edinburgh.” He was distracted by another motorway sign beaming out on the other side of the carriageway: “Go straight ahead.” “I hate to tell you this,” Ty said, “but I think a grey Audi is following us, the one at five o’clock with the big dent in the side. They got close back there, didn’t think anything of it, but they’re still on our tail.” “Take the next junction,” Brock said. “Why? That would take us away from Edinburgh!” shouted Preston. “Do it,” shouted Brock “And don’t indicate. God, I should be driving.” Ty held back until the last second, swinging the Renault into the filter road, gathering speed towards traffic lights on red. “Drive through the traffic lights.” “You’ll get us killed,” screamed Preston.

“I knew it, he’s still following us. What are we going to do?” “Stay calm. We’re going to lose him.” Ty’s hands shook on the steering wheel as he put his foot down on the accelerator, speeding through the red traffic lights into the roundabout ahead and aggressively ing the flow of traffic turning left into another main road. “Fast as you can. We’re going to lose this sucker.” “I think we’ve lost them. Nobody is following. It was a mistake,” said Preston. Ty rubbed more sweat from his brow, wiping it down his shirt, and Brock leaned forward, squinting to focus on a sign on his left. “Take the turning ahead and re- the M1. Relax, there is no car following now … I hope.” Brock stared through the windscreen into the darkly lit road, anticipating the turning in case Ty drove past. Street lamps here barely lit the road. As the engine buzzed, all was peaceful, and he reached into his rucksack, pulling out the mobile he’d mysteriously acquired. Reaching towards the glove compartment, he slipped the mobile in and closed his eyes. The phone started to buzz inside the compartment. “What? It must have come on.” “Tell me about tracking phones, you idiot,” said Preston. Yanking at the compartment, Brock grabbed the phone, shooting a glance at Preston. “It’s a withheld number,” he said, pressing the answer button. “Hello? Damn PPI calls.” He switched it off and shoved it back into the glove compartment, pushing his head back into the headrest shutting his eyes once more, but Ty nudge him. “I hate to tell you this, but that probably wasn’t a PPI call. You might have compromised our location.” “Get your foot down!”

Chapter 18

Brock checked the clock on the dashboard; it was one in the morning exactly. Ty swung the red Renault into another quiet well -l it main road, cruising past the sprawling Edinburgh train station. The temperature outside was cold; fog covered the distant landscape and the heat from the Renault hissed out, keeping them warm. Their headlamps shone into a stone -b uilt old castle and Ty swerved into a vacant parking space, yanking up the handbrake, killing the lights and the engine. They were in dark ness. “What now?” said Brock. “Somebody call the guy,” said Preston. Brock bit his lip and Ty reached into his pocket, pulling out a mobile. “Oh shit, that’s all I need,” said Ty, giving out a growl like a bear. “I’m out of flipping credit.” “Use mine, it’s in the glovebox.” Spots of rain hit the windscreen. Brock squeezed his eyes with his finger and thumb and thought about Sarah. “Can I make a suggestion?” said Preston. “Naff off,” snarled Brock, distracted by a dark figure staring right into the vehicle from across the street and heading towards the castle. “I’ll bet that’s him.” Ty squinted at him. “Hang on,” Brock muttered. ‘”What’s he doing here?” Preston turned his face away from the window and Brock stared at the man outside. He flung the door open and made his way out into the cold dark street. Dull street lamps shone down, making the castle landscape barely visible, and for the first time in his life, he felt aware of the cold as a menace. It was without

a doubt colder up north, and Brock pulled his jacket together as the dark shadow appeared in front of him. It was Icarus from the gym back in London, wrapped in a black duffer jacket. “I knew you’d come, and I’m so sorry.” Brock stared at him. “I don’t understand. Why are you here?” “You’re a decent guy. I wanted to help. At first it was just professional curiosity —I’d heard so much chat about you around the MI5 base in Vauxhall that I wanted to see what this man who was causing us so much trouble was like. I figured I could use a bit of personal training too. “But after digging around and hearing your story, well, I realised how much trouble you were in, and now we’re both in it up to our necks.” “It’s too late for anyone to help me now. My options are limited I’m afraid: run or turn myself in. Trust me, I’ve considered it.” “Don’t turn yourself in, they’ll kill you. I’ve got something important to tell you before it’s too late.” “Look at the trouble I’m causing. People are getting killed and it’s all my fault.” “Your fault? How? I know you didn’t kill her.” “I’m being made to look like some evil killing machine and some maniac is after me for no reason I can fathom. My identity is being ripped to shreds and I don’t feel safe any more. I’ve no food or means to buy anything and the police are acting weird. I popped into Camden station and the woman nearly bit my head off. It was strange.” “You did what? Oh Brock, you didn’t? You idiot,” said Icarus. “And now I have found out my parents are dead. How bad can it get? I’m broken.” “Pull yourself together. Whatever you do, don’t turn yourself in. They’ll kill you. Back at the harbour, I have a wee boat to take you to mainland Europe. It leaves

tomorrow fully crewed in the early hours. Just don’t ask me any questions.” Brock stared at Icarus. The driver’s door swung out into the road and Ty appeared, wandering towards them. He cleared his throat. “You want me to run off to Europe?” Brock repeated. “No, I won’t do it. I’m not leaving Sarah. Are you mad?” “Listen to me—we haven’t much time. I can smuggle you over to Europe under the noses of the authorities. Once there you can move further afield, avoiding detection and staying well below the UK’s radar. All you need to do is ditch your phone and don’t use any bank s. Stay offline and away from the prying eyes of any government agency, particularly hospitals.” “No! Absolutely no way. I refuse to leave London or abandon Sarah,” Brock said, banging his fist hard on the bonnet. Ty’s posture stiffened as he observed the conversation. “Maybe you should listen to this guy. We can escape this country and be free. Leave her behind. She didn’t seem to want you anyway.” “That’s not true, shut your mouth!” “You’re an intelligent young man,” Icarus said. “He’s right—forget about the wee lassie and I can assure you we’ll take care of her. Get out while you still have the chance.” “Who are you?” Spots of rain fell into the dark, misty landscape, putting a damp chill in the air. Brock puffed out a breath and scrambled back towards the enger door, yanking it open and grabbing the pistol from the glovebox. The shadow of Icarus moved towards him. “Someone is trying to kill you because—” Brock swung around, aiming the semi-automatic pistol towards Icarus. “Where did that get that?” Icarus’s eyes bulged.

“Tell me who you are or I’m going to let off some bullets.” Icarus froze, staring up at the semi-automatic pistol, and Ty stepped up to him. “Brock, put the ruddy gun down! You’re scaring everyone.” “I thought we were buddies. Sighrus won’t rest until you’re dead. Don’t act foolish—drop the gun. You’re in a lot of trouble,” said Icarus. “That’s a mighty fine semi-automatic pistol you have there. Not standard-issue—where did you acquire it?” A buzzing followed by ringing erupted from Ty’s pocket. He took out Brock’s mysterious phone and pressed it to his ear. “Yes?” he said, listening carefully into the mobile. “It’s Sighrus. They’ve got Sarah.” Brock snatched the phone from Ty, but it had gone dead. “I abandoned her. We’ve got to get back to London.” “No,” Icarus shouted. “You should have ditched that mobile from Helen, she’s an operative and it’s tapped. If you turn yourself in, he’ll kill you both. Understand this: you’re too much of a liability to him. He isn’t bothered about you, trust me.” “He’s left me no choice.” “You’re an intelligent guy. Think about it—Sarah is safe as long as you’re out here, on the run.” “You know all about this, don’t you?” Brock pointed the pistol towards Icarus’s temple. “Who is Sighrus?” “Lower the gun. I can help you both.” A screech of car tyres pierced the night air, followed by a deafening bang. The Renault’s windscreen smashed, glass shards flying across the street. They all ducked and Icarus howled, grabbing at Brock’s arm, bright red blood dripping through his hand as he fell to the ground. “If you’re hellbent on going back, get in touch with Rawlins. We know each other through MI5 and we spoke about how suspiciously Sighrus has been

acting. He’ll tell you about Sphere. Now run!” The distant tapping of shoes clattering on the road got nearer, and Icarus became distant, his body rigid, his head lolling to the side. Ty grabbed at Brock, who jumped up like lightning. He saw three men in grey suits and a tall man he assumed to be Sighrus heading towards them. Preston darted off in the opposite direction. Both sprinted on the damp concrete road around the magnificent castle, bringing them to a locked metal gate and a pitch-black park. Ty swung himself over and Brock followed, hitting the brick path below, momentarily turning back to fire a bullet from his pistol. “Rawlins? Did he mean that government guy? He lives in that beige house opposite the heath, it’s common knowledge. But I’m through and I’m not coming with you,” Ty yelled.

Chapter 19

Brock’s vision swam as he tried to focus on his surroundings amid the shou ting. “Brock? Brock! Wake up.” His eyes shot wide open, and bright sunlight practically blinded him through the windscreen. Ty had parked the dark green Mini, conveniently nicked and hotwired from a dodgy side-street in Edinburgh, in some poky field in the Lake District in the early hours to get some shut-eye before they returned to the big city. Yanking the seat lever, Brock pulled himself up to eye level, viewing the miles of grassy hills and trees blowing in the autumn landscape. Turning his face from the bright sunlight, he rubbed his eyes, forcing them open. He glanced at Ty, who was mysteriously hovering over him. “Err, what time is it, buddy? And thanks for sticking with me.” Ty glanced at his watch and Brock raised his arms, stretching his shoulders. He pulled the door open and fresh air blew throughout the Mini. “Wow, it’s late afternoon. Just gone 4 p.m. by my watch; looks like we’ve slept through most of the day. I’d still have been kipping if you weren’t smashing your fists into the dash screaming out.” “You’ve got to be kidding me. Late afternoon? And how did we end up in the Lake District?” “We got lost, ended up here. It’s not funny—we could have ended up anywhere! It was pitch black last night.” Brock stared up towards the ceiling, chuckling. “We should get out of here. Move over, I’ll drive.” Ty jumped out, stepping around the green Mini, and Brock slipped himself over

to the driver’s seat. Once Ty was in, Brock stabbed the key into the ignition and the engine fired up. He raced down the country road like a rocket on fire.

Eventually, he pulled out of the M1 into London’s traffic chaos. The change in speed woke Ty. Moving slowly through road after road, exhaust fumes pumping through the open windows, they finally pulled out of the chaotic traffic into the greenery of Hampstead Heath. “Rawlins’ place will be crawling with cops and the likes. You should keep away,” said Ty. “Probably,” laughed Brock. He swung the wheel, sharply turning into a road at the edge of the heath and parking in a space near some concrete bollards. Ty swung around, pointing through the window towards a bright hilly landscape. “The old codger’s house is sitting on that hill through those trees. He bought it from a former prime minister some years back. Read about it in the paper.” “How do you know he’s still living there?” Ty shrugged. He moved his finger towards a large beige painted building all by itself on the hill. From a distance, it resembled a mansion or mini palace fit for someone important. It must be worth a fortune in today’s money. Brock knew Ty was right—security would be plastered all over it, someone of his status. But he was going in regardless, with little choice. Icarus had urged him to go, so he would find out what Rawlins knew and how he could help. “We’ll have to by security somehow.” Ty’s jaw dropped slightly and he shot him a glance. “No way. I told you back in Edinburgh—I’m through.” “Trust me, it’ll be simple. We case the t, see who’s watching it, and slip in together. Should be a right old doddle, right up your street, aye?” said Brock,

slapping him on the back. “So you think I’m a burglar now? I’ve never smashed my way into anyone’s house in my life. I steal cars, occasionally, I’m not a professional burglar. I wouldn’t have a clue.”

Darkness fell on the heath and the temperature dropped considerably for an early autumn evening. They lounged about in the tiny car for two solid hours, monitoring the beige building from across the heath. It appeared to be lacking in security; Brock failed to pick any car out of place. He pulled the pistol from the glovebox, slipping it into the back of his tracksuit bottoms, and headed towards the house. Ty followed behind him. Soldiers always attacked in the dark, late at night. Brock knew this to be the right time to move, although the look on Ty’s face when he stood up was of an animal in fright. The street lights barely lit up the road around them, and the light from the house, particularly the front room, gleamed out into the landscape. Rawlins’ garden appeared well maintained. It was lit up around the edges, showing off a beautifully cut green front lawn and flowers that had once bloomed and were now gone. Overhanging trees shed their leaves onto the neatly laid stone pathways. Ty and Brock tip-toed over the smooth concrete drive, heading straight towards a window. Both peered through a window at a well-dressed old man bent over his desk reading some kind of papers, a teapot and china cup steaming at the side of him. Brock glanced into the road for any security; there was none. Pulling his jacket, together attempting to keep the body heat in, he moved over to the front door, tapping on it. “Are you crazy?” asked Ty. Brock shook his head. “Shush, nobody is around. He’s on his own, and I’ve got the pistol if anything gets out of hand.”

Moments later the door opened and Rawlins appeared in his immaculate SavilleRow black suit and a bulging silver Rolex on his wrist. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” “Icarus sent us.” There was a cold, blank look on Rawlins’ face. Brock slipped his hand towards the back of his tros. “Who? I’ve never heard of anyone called Icarus.” Pulling the semi-automatic pistol from the back of his tros, Brock aimed it directly at Rawlins’ temple. He didn’t even flinch. “Take what you want.” “We’re not here to rob you. Like I said, Icarus sent me.” Ty barged through the door, eagerly stepping into the chandelier-lit hallway. He grabbed a mahogany antique chair from under a colourful picture on the wall, sending it spinning across the floor. Rawlins glowered at him. “Come on, guys,” he said. “We should talk.” He led them through the hallway, paintings either side. Brock picked up the chair, standing it upright again, and followed Rawlins into a lavish kitchen. Brass taps sat over a neat brass sink next to an eight-ring cooker. Huge paintings hung on the wall. Ty peered at a painter’s name, furrowing his brow. A huge oak table sat in the middle of the room surrounded by mahogany chairs, and dim spotlights gleamed down on it from the ceiling. Rawlins took in a deep breath, his eyes open wide. “As I told you gentlemen at my front door, take what you want and be on your way.” Brock paused, taking in the elegance and aura of the kitchen. “You like my taste in design?”

“No, it feels like I’ve been here before. Icarus insisted you could help me. He was certain. A girl called Sarah has been snatched off the street by a man called Sighrus, and I believe she is in grave danger.” He pointed the gun at Rawlins again, who still didn’t flinch. Either he was used to people smashing into his home or he was hiding something. Or both. “Sighrus? I’ve never been acquainted with a man by that name.” Brock leaned across one of the mahogany chairs and stared silently at Rawlins. Ty picked up a china cup, holding it in the air as though he was about to drop it down on the floor. “I’m going to inform you, my security are all over this place. They’ve probably picked you two gentlemen up as we speak. If you exit my dwelling now you might have a chance.” “We’ve watched the house for several hours. Nobody’s out there and I’m not leaving until you tell me who Sighrus is.” “You’ll never get away with this. I’ll make sure you go down for a very long time, I promise you that,” said Rawlins, stepping over to a wooden drinks trolley and pouring himself a sherry. “What do you think, Brock? Should we shoot him now?” said Ty. “Alright, gentlemen,” he said, holding up his hands. “I know who Sighrus is and I’ve briefly met Icarus, but your girl Sarah doesn’t ring a bell.” Ty jumped across to a large fridge freezer, pulling the door open and grabbing at some chocolate cakes, throwing one over to Brock. He failed to catch it and it splattered on the polished tiled floor. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Brock said. “And where can I find this Sighrus?” “I wouldn’t advise that. You should keep well away from him. He’s a nasty snake, a gangster in government if you like. And can you please put that revolting weapon down?” Brock pointed the gun to the floor.

“He’s not a man to be trifled with, and you would be crazy to mess with him. He’s a snake, I’m warning you that much. Please leave my property while you still have a chance.” Brock pulled up the semi-automatic pistol again, this time aiming directly at Rawlins’ face. Ty shot him a glance, chomping on the chocolate cake. Brock stepped over to Rawlins and pushed him over the oak table, pressing the pistol into the back of his neck. “Who is he?” “He’s a disaster waiting to happen, Brock.” Pulling away, Brock stared at him, the atmosphere on a knife’s edge. Everyone still, Rawlins pulled himself up, straightening and brushing his suit. “That’s funny,” Brock said. “I don’t mentioning my name.” Rawlins breathed in, murmuring under his breath and moving over to the drinks trolley where he necked the last of his sherry. “Your friend mentioned it, didn’t he?” “No,” said Ty, dropping chocolate cake on the floor. “Stop behaving like an animal Whatever you’ve got belonging to this ghastly man you’d better return it, or he’ll bring the damn whole government down. One shouldn’t have messed with such a weasel. Things are a complete mess now all because of you, Mr Steele,” said Rawlins, rubbing his face. “Look at the state of you, you look as though you have slept in your clothes for weeks, you stink, you are disgusting from top to bottom. How dare you enter my beautiful home in this state? Now put that pathetic gun away.” Silence erupted. Rawlins murmured something else but Brock was rooted to the spot. He felt as though something big had whacked him hard in the stomach. Rawlins poured himself another sherry and then beckoned them both towards him. Ty staggered towards a drawer, pulling out a bread knife.

“That won’t do you both any good either,” said Rawlins. Brock tightened his grip on the pistol. “Tell me what’s really going on. I need Sarah and I cannot stand this any more.” Rawlins sighed, rubbing his brow, “Give me your Rolex or I’ll stab you,” said Ty. “Oh, stab me if you want to. Doubt a little boy like you got the guts,” said Rawlins, taking a glug of sherry and pulling the Rolex watch from his wrist, throwing it across the floor. “Here, take it, animal. This weasel Sighrus is very well connected. He’s got the right friends in government—and indeed out of government. Anyone tries to stop his vicious antics, they end up like you.” “Me? And what did I do?” said Brock. Rawlins shook his head and then necked the remainder of the sherry. “You mean you don’t know? Of course not, because he whacked your head so hard, he crippled you. You shouldn’t have rattled his cage. You’ve opened up a big black hole.” “So it was him.” “And you think knowing that will do you any good? Not with a man like Sighrus. You’re already a massive person of interest, wanted for murder. He’s attending a conference tomorrow at 11 a.m., an annual national security event for the police, government, and security services. He’ll be there taking all the damn credit while the attendees lap him up.” “Where can I find it?” said Brock, stepping nearer and tightening his grip on the pistol. “Tell me where it is or I will blast a bullet into your head right now.” “Put the wretched gun down,” croaked Rawlins. “Come into my library and I’ll give you the details, but on one condition.” Brock lowered the gun. “You place a bullet from your gun into Sighrus’s skull.”

Brock gave him an incredulous stare and Rawlins stared coldly back into Brock’s eyes. “I’m being deadly serious. If you have your sights on seeing Sarah alive, you’ll do it. Follow me.” He led them both through the kitchen and through a door into a room filled to the brim with books stacked on dark wooden shelves. Thick Oxford and Cambridge editions of great works bulged out at the top. As Rawlins reached up towards one of the wooden shelves, Brock’s gaze caught a memo sitting neatly on one of them. Rawlins ed a paper folder towards Brock and snatched up the note. “Those papers in the folder are the architectural plans of the building at the South Conference Centre at the side of the River Thames. I want you to finish that rattlesnake off for good, my lad.”

Chapter 20

Dewdrops glistened on the grassy landscape like sparkling diamonds. Ty and Brock spent the cold, merciless night sprawled in the Mini, hidden between silver birch trees and tall brambles. Brock leaned back into the headrest, trying to a past he’d no knowledge of—and it annoyed him. He had left the Mini a couple of times during the night, stretching his legs and surveying the area for trouble. The mobile he’d mysteriously acquired was safely off and placed in the glovebox; he’d checked, seve ral t imes. Ty was still snoring to his heart’s content, and Brock slipped his sleeve up to glance at his new Rolex watch he had snatched from Rawlins. It was six in the morning. Yanking at the door handle, he pushed the door open, jumping onto the peaty floor below. He wandered towards the road, keeping hidden, and peered through the trees. Cars slammed past, engines at full throttle heading to their destination. He was restless. Nothing Rawlins said to him yesterday made any sense, nor Lady Ranskill the day before. Rolling his hand into a fist he thumped into a tree, its leaves falling across his face. He pondered the thought of putting some bullets into Sighrus’s head and something suddenly occurred to him. Flicking a leaf off the top his head, he paced back towards the Mini. Ty’s eyes flew open as Brock wrenched open the door. “Still going to gate-crash this conference?” he asked. “You’re crazy. Security will snap you up in minutes. It’s too high profile. But you still wish to kill him, right?” “That’s why I’m not going. Old Rawlins seemed to have an agenda against Sighrus. He was clearly scared stiff. He’s probably alerted all and sundry now. He was most likely trying to bring me to Sighrus to save his skin. Rawlins cannot be trusted. I have another idea to get Sarah back.” Ty banged his head back on the headrest. “It was freezing during the night,” Brock continued. “I hardly slept a wink. We

might need to find some sort of squat for tonight.” “Ah, otherwise engaged. Promised I’d meet my bird tonight. She called me on last night and I ought to go.” “You’re leaving me?” Ty paused and cleared his throat. “I think you’re in the middle of something too big. I picked that much up back at Rawlins’ place. That man is supposed to be running the security of Britain and he’s as dodgy as a goose’s arse.” “A goose’s arse? But you’re—right something’s going on there and I reckon old Rawlins is in it up to the neck. A couple of high-ranking government officials have resigned recently. I saw it on a memo on the old guy’s desk yesterday. Worse, one was discovered murdered. Figured it might make it easier for me to bargain with Sighrus, grab Sarah, and do one.” “How exactly?” “I’ve got something of his he desperately needs it, trust me. Whatever is going on in government, you can bet Sighrus is involved. Messing with me would create more problems for him. He wants my USB, and I’m supposed to have it in my possession. He’s obsessed about it, enough so to be pretty stupid and go to careless lengths to retrieve it. The problem is, I don’t know where I put it. Luckily that maniac doesn’t know that.” Ty slammed his hand on the steering wheel and sighed. “And you knew about this all the time?” “Don’t panic, I have a plan,” said Brock, scratching his head. Ty rolled his eyes. Both their stomachs rumbled then, and Ty insisted popping to a local shop nearby to grab food and coffee.

On his return, his arms were full to the brim with about half a dozen croissants and two paper cups of strong lukewarm coffee. They necked them down quickly, shovelling in the tasty croissants. Brock pulled at the glovebox and grabbed the folder Rawlins had thrown to him the day before. He had avoided looking at it

until now. He rummaged through its contents and his mouth fell open. “What the hell? This is a complete interior architectural plan of the South Conference Centre in every detail. Secret ageways underneath, catering ageways, fire doors … even the damn codes for the alarm systems are listed. Who does this ruddy Rawlins think I am? He gave me the solemn impression he knew basically nothing. I thought he meant I should meet Sighrus head-on outside the building to put a juicy bullet through his ugly head.” “Well he wasted his time, didn’t he?” “Take me there.” Ty’s eyes bulged. “We’ve crashed in this spot way too long,” Brock said. “Get the car started. I want to carry out a reconnaissance mission around the South Conference Centre area first. Like you mentioned, security will be crawling all over the place. Quick or we’ll be too late. Time’s getting on.” Pausing, Ty reluctantly reached under the steering column of the old banger, pulling at the wires and forging them together, turning the engine over. Brock silently cursed that new cars were almost impossible to steal; a bit of luxury—or at least a comfy seat—wouldn’t go amiss.

In the distance, they could see a large concrete and glass building. Bright lights gleamed inside and aerials poked out from the roof. Flags swished in the front of its main entrance and a concrete canopy hung across its shiny glass doors. At first glance, everything appeared bare; it certainly was not a place where a major security conference for Britain was taking place. Could Rawlins have lied? Brock stepped nearer. Several uniformed security guards appeared to hover around inside the glass doors, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Bin men stood quietly on the pedestrianised concrete slab area, appearing to be idling until Brock clocked one of them whispering into a radio. Several vehicles with random people sitting stiffly upright were sporadically parked along the busy main road. As he weaved through the streets nearby, casing the whole t, he clocked an unmarked door at the side of the building. That is where he’d make

his move shortly. For now, he’d wait.

Slumped back in the Mini, which was parked randomly in a quiet residential area, he inspected and memorised the plans of the building. He nudged Ty in the rib cage. “I didn’t mean to snap back at the heath if you thought I did. This bust is so important now. Sarah’s life could depend on it.” “You shouldn’t have forced me to drive here,” Ty said. “This is a suicide mission, and you’ll never get out. You’re crazy.” “He’s got my girl and I want her back. These detailed architectural plans tell me where the ageways and underes are in the conference centre itself. I shot a closer look on the dry run just now. It’s a bit of a maze, but I reckon I can get in the building somehow if I get there early enough before everyone arrives.” “This is a stupid idea. Don’t you think the security services will have assessed the building too? I don’t want you to go, buddy.” “I reckon you should make yourself scarce and meet up at dusk in the same layby on the heath, say midnight, maybe later if you are still with your girl. I’ll wait. I’ve got some other business to attend to first. Don’t worry, I have something he wants. Afterwards, I’ll jump onto public transport and make my way to the heath. In case I don’t make it out, visit Rawlins. If he wants Sighrus dead, he’ll cooperate.” Ty’s tired eyes widened. “We’re both wanted by the police. You’ll be recognised at every turn. I can’t let you do this, Brock. This place will be heavily guarded and you’re not thinking straight. There’s probably a shoot-to-kill policy on you!” “Just make the rendezvous point later. I’ll take my mobile. See you there!”

Brock drifted through the busy streets discreetly blending to the surroundings like a true spy. He headed towards the side door he had spotted earlier, but stumbled on a pair of old dark-brown spectacles lying on the ground. Reaching

down, he snatched them from the road and slipped them into his jacket pocket. As expected, undercover agents dressed in ordinary attire were spread far and wide around the venue, crawling around the building like ants. He shot a glance at the unmarked silver side door, watching a young lad with earphones entering. Brock smiled; the catering entrance was still in full swing. He paced across the street, heading towards the door, checking the pistol stashed in the back of his tros. He pulled the grim brown spectacles out of his pocket and placed them on the bridge of his nose. Yanking the silver door wide open, he stepped inside. A blurry uniformed security guard sprung, out tapping him on the shoulder and standing tall directly in front of him. Brock knew the glasses were a bad idea, but he’d have to play along now, although he could see nothing but a blur in front of him. Wiping the newly formed beads of sweat from his forehead, he breathed out to calm the fluttering in his stomach. A moment later, a faint uneasiness touched him. He paused, shooting a glance at the security officer while two other men dressed in ordinary jeans and coloured t-shirts walked in, nodding at the officer. “I’m catering!” shouted Brock, touched again by some faint fear. The security guard sniffed the air and Brock was conscious he hadn’t bathed for several days. “Let me see your ,” he said, running his eyes up and down Brock’s black jacket. “A rough night, I’m afraid,” Brock said, stifling a yawn. “They didn’t give me one. It’s my first day.” “These idiots never do and expect me to do my job. Security is mega tight today and I don’t know who the hell I’m letting in. Go on, catering’s in the basement down the stairs. Tell them to give you a .” The guard nodded towards the staircase down the hall. He was in. Brock nodded back as reassuringly as he could, considering he was about to wreak havoc in the place. He was pleasantly surprised how security had let him in so lightly, especially carrying a weapon, without so much as a frisk or proof of identity. Maybe the security guard’s normal etiquette had gone out the window due to his smelly clothes. Another one to Brock. Had he thought all this through? Probably not, but he hadn’t bottled it yet either.

His priority was to snatch a radio, thus bying at least some of the heightened security system by tapping into their tight surveillance. They were probably aware of a fugitive like him roaming the streets. Yanking at the door, he pulled it towards him, stepping into a dim grey staircase. Voices echoed through the stairwell above and a radio sang out. He jumped onto the stairs, climbing down. The voices appeared to be following in his direction, and he raced down through a basement door that led into a neat, quiet hallway. Grabbing at a door handle on the opposite side, he pulled at it, but it was locked and so was the next one. The voices appeared nearer and he moved down the hallway towards another door. The notion of being caught hit him hard in the stomach as he yanked at its handle. It opened. The stairwell door at the end creaked opened wide. He dived into the pitch-black room, slowly and quietly pushing the door to. Had they seen him? The footsteps became louder, nearing him. He could hear them gassing to each other right outside the door. His heart raced as they appeared to , their clunking feet moving away. Slowly, he pulled the door, peering into the hallway. Empty. Slipping out, he made a swift right into the direction of a room at the top of the hallway. The door was wide open, a radio blurting out. Light gleamed from it, and working from his gut, resolute and confident, Brock stepped up to it, easing himself around. Rawlins’ detailed plans were exactly right: a security room. Not the main one, but it would do. Several creased uniforms thrown aimlessly across a metal chair, someone’s half-eaten sandwich, and a black production conference jacket. More voices echoed through the hallway and he grabbed the big thick jacket, putting it on. As he did, he spotted a radio on the window ledge complete with ear-piece. Now he’d tapped into their surveillance. Voices echoed through the halls outside, becoming louder. He pushed himself into a small wooden alcove a couple of metres from the door. Crouched silently, he dare not move as two uniformed security guards entered the room. One of them sniffed. “Stinks of sweat in here. Where’s my radio? Must have left it upstairs.” Brock longed to make a move, but he was stuck, unable to leave the alcove or he would be seen. The other security guard spoke into his radio, calling for housekeeping. Brock dared himself to move and he quietly slipped out of the alcove into the hallway, practically tiptoeing along the corridor into the stairwell

and running up the dim-lit staircase. He came across some gents’ toilets, slipping inside to the end cubical. He examined the radio, placing the ear-piece in and listening to the communications between the security. Everything that unfolded would be radioed right to him from wherever he stood in the building. He picturing meeting Sighrus face to face and he grinned. It was becoming fun. All kinds of crap spewed over the radio. Security was already cottoning on a radio was missing. Coded words cracked through, obviously being used for important people. Something jumped into Brock’s mind. He only had Rawlins’ word that Sighrus would be there. What happens if he wasn’t? Or worse, what if it was a dirty set-up all along. His hands trembled at the notion. The main toilet door flung open, banging against the wall. Brock peered through a small crack in the door as a tall figure entered the toilets. “I’m sick of this shit! He’s becoming a massive problem,” he shouted to another man Brock couldn’t see. “The girl’s safely detained in the installation, sir, and she’ll talk. He won’t be a problem today, I can assure you,” said the other man. Brock reached into the back of his tros, grabbing the pistol and pointing it towards the door. Through the tiny gap, he watched what appeared to be Sighrus. “I need this man caught. The trouble he’s causing is damaging us.” Brock noted another man, neatly dressed in his grey suit, tightly holding a radio. “He’s disappeared off the radar, sir, but don’t worry. That lab rat can’t hide forever. We’ll pick him up.” “Sooner the better, he can do a lot of damage. How on earth was this debacle allowed to unfold? Meet me behind the conference area. I want to go over this script to make a couple of changes,” said Sighrus. “I left the amended version back at the bloody box.” Brock raised his eyebrows as footsteps clanked and water splashed in the sink. “Hang on, there’s someone in the cubicle over there!” shouted Sighrus. Shoes clanged towards him and someone banged hard on the door.

“Who the hell is this?” Sighrus demanded. “No English, señor,” said Brock in a cute Spanish accent he didn’t know he could speak. “Who are you?” “Catering, señor.” They left. Brock pulled himself together, tuning into the radio, which was crackling all kinds of unnecessary rubbish. Someone had lost their handbag, but the main concern was the missing radio. He chuckled, walking from the gents into the backstage of the conference area. Some guy noticed his exhibition jacket, pushing him towards a big black curtain and telling him to get out of the way. There was an announcement over the loudspeaker. “This year’s conference is about to start, please take your seats.” Perfect. Brock took his position behind the curtain of the main stage, noticing two emergency exit doors. He glanced to his right, directly at Sighrus, who was stepping onto the stage, rustling his papers. He was so close to him. Facing the audience, Sighrus tapped the microphone and cleared his throat. “Never before has Britain been forced unequivocally to deal with rising threats of terrorism of a different kind. Our security services are having to adapt and rethink new strategies and, indeed, procedures in our changing modern world. We need more investment in our country’s security services to build and become stronger and train more recruits. One of the fundamental points I want to make in our security services is training. Training is, key and that’s what I’d like to talk about today.” The room was filled with a roar of cheering and clapping from the audience. An old bald man popped his head through the far side of the curtain, trying to get Sighrus’s attention. Sighrus leaned over towards him, raising his eyebrows. “It’s that Brock! We’ve traced the mobile. He’s here in this building right now.” Brock grabbed his phone. In all the commotion it must have come on. Something dawned on him like a flashback. As though it was no accident him being here like this. Or just paranoid, perhaps, he couldn’t decipher which. He

was about to turn the phone off, although he knew it was already too late. It vibrated in his hand. Quickly, he accepted the call. “Hello?” he whispered. “Brock, I can’t talk. I’ve managed to escape. Meet me at my favourite place. Hurry!” cried Sarah. “Where did you—” The phoned gave three beeps and cut off. Brock had no idea where her favourite place was. He rang the number back from behind the black curtain. It rang and rang but no one answered. It had been Sarah weeping down the line for sure. Was it a trap? Was she really out? How? Sighrus continued with his speech but his hands were shaking. Brock’s priority was now to find Sarah, wherever her favourite place was. Logic told him to get out immediately, but the situation called for a much tougher stance. After all, Sighrus, the target, was now directly in front of him. But Brock’s intentions were never to kill him—not yet anyway. Deep into his speech, Sighrus caught Brock’s twinkling eye peering at him. His body recoiled in disbelief. Pointing the pistol at Brock, Sighrus swung it towards the ceiling lights, letting off a round of bullets. Glass poured down from the roof, hitting the floor like a whale bellyflopping in the ocean. Screaming erupted in the room and panicked people ran in all directions, diving for cover and trampling across the seats. Several high-profile figures were flung to the ground with security hovering over them, pointing their Glocks in Brock’s general direction. The room was in entire chaos. Another chunk of glass fell out of the ceiling, and people screamed at others to get out of the way. Brock made his way through to the back, switching off the lights on a control and turning the entire hall into darkness. Gunfire erupted behind him. Sprinting down the corridor, he spotted an open window. He jumped through it, climbing down to land on the road below—and straight into the view of two uniformed security guards. Thinking quickly, he pointed out his exhibition jacket and shouted, “Run! There’s a man loose upstairs, firing a weapon.”

Chapter 21

Particles of glass and dust settled throughout the conference hall. Some of the crowd were glancing towards Sighrus as though looking for answers. He brushed his suit down, stepping over glass, his cheeks blazing. He headed in the direction of his assistan t, Ma rtha. “He’s humiliated me. I want you to find that animal and cage him.” She slapped a hand against her suit. Particles of dust swept into the air and onto the floor. Pulling her jacket together, she looked at him. “They’re out searching for him now, sir. I’ve ordered a shoot-to-kill, as you suggested.” “No, you fool, he’ll grab too much attention. I reckon he’s starting to . He knows. That sneer upon his swashbuckling face said it all.” Martha darted her glance away. “Surely we can plead self-defence, sir? After all, it’s clear to everyone he wanted to put a round of bullets into everyone.” Coughing to clear his throat, Sighrus pulled his face into a vicious frown. “That ugly smirk nearly made me puke.” “This fugitive failed, sir. The odds are stacked against him.” “Underestimating him is a mistake, He’s playing with us and not to be trifled with.” Martha adjusted her hairpin, shaking her head. “The man is on his own. Doesn’t stand a chance, sir. Our men are stationed on every corner.” “He knows what he’s doing. This is deliberate. He’s playing with us, laughing at us right now. He’s certainly got a sting in his tail. This imbecile has something I need. Bring him in.”

Chapter 22

Darkness fell over the heath and the wind howled. Brock had searched everywhere he could think of for Sarah, avoiding the security services and police at all costs. Hours ed and he had ended up on the heath. Some stupid big house she had mentioned sprang to mind, but she had probably given up and disappeared. Wading through grassland and without a clue, he kicked a branch in front of him, about to give up. A cyclist headed towards him, shooting a curio us gl ance. “Strange question,” Brock shouted. “Where is everyone’s favourite place here?” The cyclist pulled up, slamming his feet onto the ground. “There are lots of places people value here. More of a clue perhaps?” “She mentioned this big house I think.” “Ah, now you’re talking. A big country house sits on the estate in the distance, one of the finest houses around here. But I’m afraid you’re out of luck—it shut a couple of hours ago. Open to the public tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. I believe.” “Can you direct me? It’s for a private event.” “Oh, I see. Head for the enclosure over the hill. The gate will be locked, but if it’s a private thing, you can jump over. Once inside, walk up the path between the trees and the bridge and it’s ahead. But security patrol it, and they’re pretty keen.” Brock’s stomach churned, raking up his phobia of bridges. He imagined it violently collapsing onto him. He scrambled up the hill in the direction of the big enclosure and swung himself over the gate. Violent wind rustled through the trees, the creaking white bridge stretching out before him across a moonlit lake. Butterflies yanked and churn inside his stomach and he doubled over and vomited onto the ground.

He pulled his gaze away, continuing onto the muddy path opposite. A magnificent white-painted building loomed in the distance. All he could do was head towards it, and he picked up his pace, pebbles crunching under his feet. An owl tooted and flutters of rain start to hit him in the face. As he neared the house, he could see no sign of security—or Sarah. Dim lamps lit up the front of the magnificent house as he made a daring approach around the back. Maybe it was a trap. All was silent as he continued, conscious of the gravel crunching underneath his feet. He spotted a shadow and ran his hands down his back across the pistol as a man dressed in dark security attire came towards him. His instincts were to pull the gun and run into the darkness until he heard a shout. “Brock, is that you?” It was Sarah, and without contemplating any dangers, he ran towards her. “Oh, Brock it is you, I knew you’d come!” shouted a tearful Sarah. Kissing her on the brow, he wiped tears from her eyes. “Thank the lord. I’ve been so worried about you. What took you so long?” she cried. Brock opened his mouth to speak but the words didn’t flow. “It was awful. I popped back to check on Lacy’s dog. The door was ajar and three men were waiting. I ran for the door and one of them grabbed me, pulling a gun on me. They bungled me into a black van like I was rubbish. It was a private ambulance. I was so scared. I had visions they were transporting me to hospital. I thought he was going to kill me right there. He sniggered at me. The tall man in the jeep parked outside the Shack that night.” “How did you escape?” Sarah sniffled, tears pouring down her face. “An old woman helped me escape from the cell. Slipped me your number.” Brock furrowed his brow and, conscious of the security guard approaching,

whispered into her ear, “We need to leave, get away from security before he suspects something.” The security man approached. “Hi, mate, cool jacket, didn’t realise you work at the exhibition centre. My brother is a security officer for them. Anyway, she’s pretty upset and told me very little. By rights, we should inform the police, but I’ve known her a long time and said her boyfriend was picking her up, said you’d deal with it. Presume that’s you?” Brock nodded, hugging her. “Good luck, Sarah. I don’t mean to kick you out, but we’re closed, and if I don’t, I might lose my job. Need a taxi?” “No thanks, got a mate waiting around the corner.” Trampling through the grass and woodland, they headed in the direction of the main road. Rain spat into their faces as they trudged on through the muddy landscape. Sarah sobbed, rubbing her sore eyes. “There was no sign of Lacy’s dog anywhere. And what happened at the hospital?” “I fled.” “He sacked me on the spot, and as I was leaving, the entire hospital went into lockdown. Police pulled up within minutes. Everyone was hysterical. “It got nasty. Someone fired a round of bullets at me and I ran, and that woman …” “I don’t know who she was. What are we going to do, Brock? And that plaster on your face needs changing or it’ll get infected for sure.” They took a shortcut through some trees, wading through bramble. “I never mentioned it at the time, but someone else broke into my flat.” Brock glanced away. “Don’t worry. I would have got here sooner if I’d known where your favourite place is. Cyclist gave me directions.”

“He could be police.” “Doubt it.” “That night at the Shack, I became suspicious after the black jeep followed me home. He parked on a road across the apartment. I saw it all through the window while making coffee and knew something wasn’t right.” She adjusted her hair, trampling over tall brambles and kicking a twig out of the way. “I didn’t want to believe it. Guess I was stupid. Didn’t sleep a wink that night. It scared the living daylights out of me.” Stepping out of the woodland into a road, Brock scouted around for the lay-by. “The car’s around here somewhere” “I have to it, you seemed delusional, but I had a gut feeling you were telling the truth from the start. I guess I was afraid.” “Where is this stupid car? It was me who broke into your place. I meant no harm. I was only looking around for you.” A rustle from the bushes in the distance startled them, and a man in a mac appeared, seemingly heading towards them. Brock grabbed Sarah’s shoulder, pulling her behind a tree. “Quiet, who else knows about your favourite place?” he asked. “Only Lacy and she’s dead.” “Maybe it was the cyclist earlier.” The man crossed the road, disappearing into the woodland opposite. “He didn’t see us. We should cross over the road and dip into the trees. I’m pretty sure the car will be here. Although it’s late. I hope he didn’t give up on me and drive off.” “You’re lost, aren’t you?” Brock didn’t answer.

“I know the lay-by you’re talking about. It’s by the roundabout, isn’t it? Follow me. Oh and your cut’s bleeding. You must have gashed it on one of the branches back there.” Brock rolled his eyes, pulling her between the trees. A helicopter hovered in the distance, shining a bright light into distant woodland. “We’ll sort it out at the car. The security guard must have alerted them.” “He wouldn’t.” “His brother worked at the exhibition centre. If he called him, he would.” They picked up pace, brambles crunching at their feet. “Did the tall guy do anything to you?” She glanced away, giving a quick shake of her head. “I awoke in this smelly cold cell, door bolted shut. I must have ed out on the way. The tall guy hovered, throwing a bottle of water over me, and I came to.” “Don’t think about it, keep moving.” “Strange as it seems, this old woman kept peering in. She was checking on me but I was in hysterics. She tried to calm me. He came in, demanding I tell him where you are. He wanted to know about your acquaintances.” “That sicko,” said Brock. “I didn’t tell him anything. I was too upset. It was early morning. I ate some disgusting sandwich he threw at me. The old woman came into the cell, slipping me money and bundling me into a taxi, so I headed here.” “I blame myself. I should have grabbed you and forced you to come with me.” “But I didn’t want to. I was foolish.” They stepped into a small roundabout and Brock pointed towards a lay-by. “Brock, I think he’s going to kill you.”

Brock ignored her as he looked at the empty layby.

Chapter 23

The street was bare as they both stood at the tiny roundabout, the autumn wind blowing violently into their faces. Sarah’s cheeks flushed as she held Broc k tig hter. “Some trees rattled over there. I’m sure someone peered out. He stared right at us!” “It must have been the wind.” “No, someone wearing a balaclava. I’m scared.” Brock pulled her towards the darkness of some trees and shouting erupted over the road. “You took your time. Thought that lanky psycho had snatched you for sure. I was going to split until I turned on the car radio, realised you managed to escape. Attempting to kill the prime minister. Really?” said Ty, pulling off a black balaclava glancing and stepping their way. Brock shook his head and Sarah glanced at him as he wandered across the street ing them. “According to the radio station you shot two security personnel, one critical. Car’s around the corner. We should make a move, every police officer in London is looking for you. See you managed to snatch her back,” he said, ogling at Sarah. Brock stepped between them, narrowing his eyes at Ty, and headed for the car. “I popped over to Rawlins’ house earlier,” said Ty. “Mentioned you were doing your stuff at the conference and ran the number by him. Sadly nothing came up.” Brock lifted his head, staring at him in confusion.

“You blurted out some number in the Lake District,” Ty explained. Sarah jumped into the back seat. “You’ve been to the Lake District? Why ever for?” “Figured it could be an army number. Reckoned Rawlins could decipher it.” “If it is, Rawlins is dead. He knew more than he was letting on. What exactly were you trying to achieve?” Ty sunk into his seat, glancing forward. “Thought I was trying to help. But I gave Lady Ranskill a wide berth.” Sarah glanced up. “Lady Ranskill?” “You know her?” Sarah nodded. “Some weeks ago, a man tried to check in the hospital reception, badly beaten up. I directed him to Casualty, but I overheard him say something about this woman to his friend. He didn’t appear at all keen. The reason I her is that her husband is a politician. He hit the papers some while back. Both nearly filed for bankruptcy.” “Rawlins brought something else up,” said Ty. “You should have given him a wide berth too,” Brock said. “He wants the USB.” Brock swallowed, and Sarah shot him a glance. “What happened at the conference?” Ty asked. “Oh, I saw Sighrus. He was terrified.” Ty sunk into his seat, then sat up, pointing towards Sarah. “Wait, how did she get out?” “I am here, you know. They detained me in some kind of cell, and an old woman helped me escape.”

Ty stared at her. “You were in police custody and an old woman helped you escape?” Sarah leaned forward. “Oh, it wasn’t a police cell. There were no police around, only men in suits. And him.” “MI5 perhaps? But how would someone escape from their custody?” said Ty. “Unlikely, MI5 have no such authority to detain. And who is this old woman?” said Brock. “She was so kind. She told me how much danger I was in and to get as far away from here as possible. She ordered a taxi for me.” “A flaming taxi! Did you the registration by any chance?” Ty enquired. “I very little,” Sarah said. “I scurried out of that place as fast I could. I was petrified. The driver was a young Asian man from Horizon Cabs. Very tall … his head practically reached the roof of the taxi. He was silent most of the time. Thank goodness, I thought to myself. If he spoke, I would have died.” “I know Horizon Cabs. Well known in Richmond, we’ve brushed shoulders a few times,” said Ty. “Richmond?” Brock said, curious. “Why book a cab this far out? Plenty in London itself.” Sarah looked up. “I never mentioned London. The whole experience knocked all senses of where I was. But I distinctly seeing Richmond signs through the taxi window. I directed him to the heath after our call. I chose my favourite place as a code, in case your phone was listened into. I knew you’d come.” Brock stepped back, running his hands through his hair. “I going over the bridge with the scaffolding rigged up and …” “Bridge? What bridge? Could it have been Vauxhall Bridge?” “I’m pretty sure it was Richmond Bridge.”

Ty leaned over. “So what exactly are we going to do? I promised I’d meet my significant other about now. I can drive you somewhere if you like?” Sarah coughed, butting in. “I now, something has come to my mind. I knew I’d seen that tall man before in the gym. Talking to Sergei one night. He was deep in conversation.” “What’s he doing sniffing around our gym?” said Brock. “Whoever this monster is, he’s certainly not acting within the law,” said Ty. Brock glanced through the windscreen, pulling his lips into a smile. Sarah continued, “The government should.” “Don’t hold your hopes up on that one. I’ve seen first-hand how the system and corrupt people like him win every time,” said Ty. “I’m still confused about him being in our gym,” Brock said. “What reason would he have? Before Lacy was killed, a girl called Helen approached me while in the ladies’ changing room and must have slipped this mobile into my pocket. Never felt a thing.” “You crashed the ladies’ changing rooms?” Brock growled, shaking his head. “I still can’t place her. There wasn’t a single girl in the gym called Helen. She wasn’t a regular or a member. It seems her sole intention was to alert me. How did she know I was coming? Shortly after, I received a call urging me to get out and this lunatic stormed in, spraying a round of bullets into the gym floor. She knew Lacy.” There was silence, all glancing into space as if looking for answers. Ty jumped up. “How we going to track her down?” Brock waved the phone in the air. “Doubt we need to. I’ve got the phone, and whoever this girl is, I’m sure she’ll call. Might be a good idea to take a trip to this Richmond installation. Find out what it is.”

Sarah recoiled. “Are you crazy? I won’t let you. We’re fugitives on the run now and a man after us. We’ll be gunned down on the spot.” “If we do it properly, bide our time, and give it a few days to clear the air, we should be dandy. I’m sorry for dragging you into this monstrosity of a problem. Have you any family out of London you could hide out with? For your safety, I was thinking.” “Wake up,” Sarah said, “I get snatched, held to ransom and hatch an escape from God knows where. A man is after me and wants to kill me. And for all we know, probably runs the police. Nobody’s going to take me in. Anyway, I have no family. Whether you like it or not, I’m by your side on this one. I want to stop this man too.” “These are powerful people and it’s likely to get pretty scary. I suggest first thing in the morning we all leave London. For your safety, at least, get as far away from London as possible. Never to return.” Sarah pulled a face, shaking her head. “Leave London? I don’t believe a word of this, Brock. You’re not going to let him off the hook, not on your Nelly. I swore an oath of allegiance as a medical receptionist to protect the wellbeing of people and I shall. I’m in this too,” she said, plonking her backside hard on the backseat, shaking the car. “Do you know what you’re saying, Sarah?” said Brock. She slowly ran her hand through her hair, sinking further into the seat as tears dripped down her face. “I can’t go home. Police and security services agents will be all over it.” “I should hand myself in and you’ll be safe,” Brock said. “You’re talking rubbish and you know it,” Sarah snapped. “Stop blaming yourself—it’s his fault, the tall man. Something is wrong here and we owe it to the population to investigate it. And I need a damn good wash.” Brock pulled Sarah towards him. “Me too. I’m disgusting. My body has byed showering for days. We should make a move. A hotel perhaps?”

“Bit of a risk for you both,” Ty said. “Better than camping out here.” Sarah sniffled, wiping her face across her shoulder. “He’s right, we should leave this place. We’re sitting ducks in Hampstead Heath. It’s usually crawling with police at night, you know, especially at dusk. The security guard may have clicked now. He only needs to chat with his brother or switch the radio on. Probably dobbed us in already, I mean, it is his job. You see, some trouble— vandals smashing up statues and uprooting trees—has put them on high alert. They’ll be thorough, likely extra numbers drafted in.” “You could have mentioned this earlier,” grumbled Ty. “She’s right. They’ll be out searching for sure. Let’s go. If this stolen mini gets radioed in it will attract attention.” “Stolen?” interrupted Sarah. Brock pulled himself up, nudging her. “It’s a long story, don’t blame him.” “Park security is not the local rag, doubt they’d be able to radio a sausage through. They’d assume the Mini is legal,” said Ty. “No, the park security and police collaborate, switching channels on the radios! We’re a target,” Brock said. “We’ve been lucky, although it’s quiet here and the trouble was south of the heath. But it’s still risky,” said Sarah. “Any more parks that aren’t patrolled by security?” said Ty. “I doubt it. Vandals, homeless, terrorists, arsonists. They’re everywhere,” said Sarah, sniffing. “Talking about hotels, there’s a beautiful one further up the road. It’s been a long time since I hiked up to it. Hot warm showers. I could book a room, disguising myself somewhat, and you slip in from the back. Oh, I forgot, unless one of us has money.” Ty pulled out a stolen credit card from his pocket, waving it in the air.

“Borrow my card.” Sarah leaned over and snatched it, glancing at it. “It’s not in your name. But maybe if I tried to arrange something with them. It’s just through those woods,” said Sarah. Brock imagined a luxurious warm shower; he needed one. He pulled the card out of Sarah’s hand. “We should walk. It’s easier hiking through the woods. The Mini would be a dead giveaway,” said Sarah. “Still think the hotel might be risky. Police could do a door to door,” muttered Ty. “More than a stolen car? Yeah right.” “Alright you two,” Brock said. “If only one of us booked in as a single it would seem less suspicious. Meet us in the lay-by tomorrow, Ty. Let’s say 10 a.m. Have a safe drive to your girlfriend’s.” “She’s got a garage,” Ty said, gesturing to the car. “All been arranged. And unlikely she’ll grass. Police are after her too.” Sarah let out a weary sigh and got out of the car. Ty leaned over to Brock. “Hope all goes well, mate. See you at the lay-by tomorrow. The search will probably be stale by morning. I’ll do some digging on Horizon Cabs.” Brock looked back at him. “Don’t.” A helicopter hovered in the distance, breaking up the silent forest. “We need to make a move sharp.” Ty slammed the door, the engine came to life and he drove off. Sarah and Brock trotted into the forest rustling their way through the trees. “You don’t trust him, do you?” said Sarah. “I do, but we need to be careful. With all his criminal activities, he must be

wanted by the police. He sure keeps a low profile. My main concern is getting my head around who is says he is. I’ve no recollection of him, and something doesn’t seem right.” “You never mentioned that before. He knows where we’re heading!” “We’re safe enough.” “How do you know? We might be seen at the hotel, or worse still recognised,” said Sarah, stepping over some fierce brambles. “Maybe we should have taken the road. And his dodgy credit card. They could come for us in our sleep.” “At least we’ll get a hot shower. I’ll make sure the card doesn’t give us away.” “What makes you so sure?” Brock just smiled in return. Street lamps were visible shining through at the other end of the wood. Sarah pointed up towards the road. “This hotel is posh and I’m starving. We should call for room service, order some food.” “Only the best for you.” “A hot shower and warm cosy room, satin sheets. If we stay out in the heath, we’ll catch our death.” They stepped into the road. The wind blew rain into their faces. “Are you sure nobody followed?” said Sarah. Brock shook his head “We’d hear them, and I’d know.” “I’m still worried about Ty. He seems all mixed up.” “He’s nothing to worry about. A jack the lad, wheeler and dealer in the East End. Where’s the hotel exactly?” “Across the road. I should brush my hair.” “Where?”

“The big building over there.” Sarah laughed, grabbing him and turning his head towards it. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling out the knots as both stepped across the road. “You look beautiful anyway.” She shrugged. “I’m going to miss my apartment in Covent Garden. Truth is, the rent’s too high. I was considering leaving anyway. Surely you miss yours?” “It wasn’t mine. Nor my life. Someone made me believe it was. The day the hospital discharged me, they handed over a wallet containing a driving licence with the address of where I live. Going through everything in the apartment, I noticed everything was new. I should have realised everything was planted,” said Brock. They stepped slowly onto the hotel grounds. “Planted? I don’t understand,” said Sarah. “It’s him, the tall man. Sighrus. I know it now.” “Sighrus, why would he—” Both saw the hotel and their mouths fell wide open.

Chapter 24

Grey metal shutters sealed the windows of the unlit hotel, the car park eerie quiet and empty, the building lonely and unloved. They both stared, wordlessly, then Sarah burst out crying. Brock pulled her towards him, holding her t ight. “I thought there was something funny about this place from across the road,” Sarah sniffled, wiping her nose. “We should find another hotel. But the nearest one is a long walk.” Brock shook his head, stepping towards the dark building and beckoning her to follow. “You’re kidding me, right? In pitch black, no electric? It’s empty.” He slid his arm around her, pulling her towards the building. She wept, collapsing into his arms, and he caught her. “How can we go on like this forever?” she cried. “We’ll be safe here for tonight. That dodgy card might have caused us trouble. This way we’ll both have a good night’s sleep.” He spotted a small window to the side and moved towards it. “I have a bad feeling about this place. Perhaps we should move on,” said Sarah, following him gingerly. He pulled at the window and it came free. “That was a bit too easy. I reckon we’re not the first people to break in.” Sarah shot him a worried glance. “Err, no. We’ll be safe, I promise.”

She ran her hands through her hair, sniffling. “There could be squatters inside. They could be high on something.” “It’s empty, trust me. I’d have heard them.” Brock beckoned her towards the window and she followed him inside into a dark, damp reception area. “It’s probably drier upstairs,” Brock said. “Let’s head right to the top.” He directed her towards a staircase and they started to climb. Moonlight shone through the grimy windows into the stairwell, and Sarah scrunched up her face at the disappointment of the building. “I know you’re upset,” Brock said. “Think of it as a temporary safe-house. It won’t be for long.” “Animal squat more like,” she whispered to herself. “One question: how will we get out if the police raid it?” “It’d buy us time. Places to hide, corridors to escape.” Brock kicked his foot into a door, smashing its handle to open it. He stepped inside and Sarah peered into the room. “It’s basic, but it’s furnished. Let me try the other rooms,” she said. He watched her open a room opposite. The door was unlocked; they all were. She inspected room after room, coming to a spacious bridal suite. It appeared to have had more tender loving care. “This one will do nicely.” She grinned. “Whatever you say—your choice.” His feet sank into the carpet as he took in the mahogany four-post bed and fancy red-patterned duvet flung across. Sarah stepped towards a small door. Inside the bathroom, a jade-green bath jacuzzi dazzled next to an electric shower. It was almost like they had checked into a decent hotel. It was perfect for Sarah—she’d realise it soon enough.

“Not five stars, or any star. But suppose it will do, thank you, Brock,” she said, pecking him on the cheek. He smiled as he peered at the rusty curtains, but everything was far from alright. He stuck his head out the window, glancing through the metal shutter at some emergency stairs nearby and a road through the gap in the trees in the distance. He pushed at the shutter: loose. A quick getaway. Sarah hit the light switch and the room illuminated like a football stadium. “Hey, the electric is on!” she cried. “Hot water at last.” “Turn it off! Shove something up at the window first.” “What are you doing?” “I’m going to pop downstairs and seal that window up to deter unsuspecting visitors. And have a scout around.” “Do you think it’s strange the electric’s still on? Surely it’s a fire hazard.” “A contractor probably left it on by mistake.” “A contractor? This hotel hasn’t seen the light of day from anyone, let alone a contractor.” “I won’t be long,” Brock said, stepping out of the door. “If you find any nibbles on your travels, bring them. Even if they are out of date! I’m so hungry.”

Brock stepped back into the room, holding a big retail box of crisps and case of red wine. Sarah stood up, glancing towards him. She was wrapped in several towels and her eyes lit up. “You’re kidding me!”

He sniffed the aroma of lemon and saw another, different, duvet neatly laid across the window. The bedposts were polished and the lamp was on next to the bed, lightening up the room. “I nearly sent a search party out for you. What took you so long?” “Some business I attended to. Looks exquisite in here now.” “Grabbed some goodies from the maid’s cupboard out in the hall. It was full. Business you say?” “I’m going to take a shower. Water hot?” “I’m worried, Brock.” He moved towards the bathroom, pushing the door closed, and luxuriated in the hot water. Sarah knocked on the door. “Fresh towel.” She ed it through the door to him as he stepped out. Sarah surveyed his bruised and cut body. “You’re hurt.” “It’s nothing.” She pulled herself from the bed, neatly laying a fresh plaster on his cut, and he stroked her hair. Running her hand across his tattoo, she inspected it. “Your tattoo! It’s scratched—burned—off in fact.” He laughed, running his hand across her shoulder, and she massaged his back. “Those white marks look like the residue from hydrogen peroxide or some other bleach. Why did you do that? It’s rather amateurish.” He pushed her flat onto the four-poster bed, their bodies sliding together, their kisses increasingly frantic until he penetrated her.

It was pitch black, perhaps a little too dark. He was cramped, stuck, sweat running down his brow onto his face and body. Held down somehow, a tsunami of water splashed into his cold face. Darkness became lighter and he could see

the figure of an old woman hovering over him, whispering words which became louder and louder. “You have to get out of the box … you have to get out of the box…” The vision of a baseball bat heading towards him filled his mind. A bridge, drowning, punching. The voice became louder. Struggling against whatever force was pinning him down, he punched and kicked, shouting. His eyes flew open and he squinted at a blurry figure nearby as he gulped in hair. Sarah was staring right at him, looking terrified. He fell out of bed and slumped against the wall. “Are you alright?” Her voice wavered. “I was so worried.” Tears were running down her cheeks. “What have they done to you?” He pulled himself up, grabbing Sarah for balance, and wiped her tears. “I’m so sorry, what happened? What time is it?” “3 a.m. You were dreaming, more like a bloody nightmare. You’re bleeding.” She pulled a towel, rubbing it over the cut on his head. “Some demons bothering me … oh, my head!” “You somersaulted into the wall, practically screaming.” Grabbing the towel, he rubbed it across his head, glancing at the red blood seeping across his palms. “Let me tend to it. I know what I’m doing. I came across a first-aid kit in the maid’s room last night. Thought it would come in useful. Give me a minute” Sarah disappeared through the door, returning with a red plastic box. Slamming on the bed, she pulled out a sanitiser wipe, ripping it open with her teeth. She wiped it across his wound. “Your dream gave me a fright.” She placed a large plaster across the cut and dragged him towards the bed. “You have a serious problem, Brock. If this cut becomes infected, you’ve had it.”

“It’s a simple cut. The body will fix it. Did I scream anything about you?” “Yes.” She scratched her nose. “And you have one hell of a problem. I believe psychologists term it post-traumatic stress disorder, and in my opinion, you’re suffering from it badly.” “Rubbish.” “I’m dying for coffee,” she said. “There is none.” “Could have stemmed from the army but…” “Doubt I ever enlisted. Ty talked crap. The recurring dreams started since leaving the hospital, probably from the attack.” “Yet you can only what happened since?” Brock nodded. “I’ve noticed your hyper-vigilance outside. Your alertness, continuous and unable to switch off nightmares, flashbacks … all symptoms of post-traumatic —” “I’ll pop into the room down the corridor, bound to be some coffee sachets stored,” he said. “I’d say something happened to you recently, By the sound of it, someone held you incommunicado, before your attack. Judging by your screams, it was likely unpleasant. Do you know what ‘the box’ is?” Brock shook his head stepping off the bed and she pulled him back she shot him a glance. “Because I do.” A shooting pain ran through his temple. “You need medical assistance. Smashing your head on the wall practically knocked you out. I’d say you have a concussion, maybe even a fractured skull.”

He smiled at her. “You can be my medical assistance. Anyway, it’s a simple knock, one of many to my hard skull. It can take it.” Sarah rubbed her eyes. “Probably best if you stay awake. It’s good to stay after a concussion. I’m getting a real urge for coffee now. My horrid addiction, unfortunately. The wine last night made a good substitute, but I need a mug of coffee desperately.” He stepped towards the door. “My eyes flew open to the bed violently shaking,” Sarah blurted out. “And you were mumbling about this box. I thought it was just one hell of a bad dream. Your mumbles got louder and you complained about the light. Ironic because it’s very dark in here. I rubbed your head and you leapt across the room shouting something about a bridge. You were about to shout a name until you came crashing into the wall hitting your head. Who would it be?” He grabbed the handle, opening the door and staring into the corridor as if looking for answers. “You suffered a trauma recently. It might be a good idea to open up, help to find out who you really are,” she said. Brock headed down the corridor, opening doors. Sarah peered her head around the door, shouting, “It might jog a few memories.” “Bad news, the rooms are free of coffee, but I’ve found a kettle.” She yawned at him, turning it into a frown. “After all this debacle, I desperately require coffee in my system. Surely someone dropped a sachet somewhere.” “Checked downstairs earlier, nothing, sorry,” he said. “Damn, we need to rip this hotel brick from brick until we find some.” “You’re worrying me.” “I’m desperate for coffee,” she said, her hands trembling. “The wine numbed my

addiction last night. Caffeine needs to be injected into my body; it’s seriously affecting my brain. I can’t think straight, it’s killing me, the urges, it’s like a drug. I’ll pop downstairs. I’ve got to find some.” He grabbed her arm. “I’m coming with you, we’ll find some.”

Slamming the jar down, she jumped on the bed. He clicked the kettle on. “Stick two spoonfuls in, please.” Brock massaged his head, throwing the coffee in and pouring hot steamy water into the cups. She grabbed the cup out of his hand. “Truth is, I knew something was up from the start.” His eyes widened as he guzzled his coffee. She sat up. “I always trusted you. Call it a gut feeling.” She ran her hand through her hair, peeking at the empty wine bottles thrown on the floor. “Did we drink all this wine last night?” He shrugged. “Suppose so.” She blew some air out of her mouth. “I was wondering how you ended up at the gym?” “Simple really, a form of rehabilitation I suppose. After the attack my body was somewhat weak. I took up hiking, which quickly turned into jogging, then running. Bumped into a guy in a bar, or rather he bumped into me.” “So, you were a personal trainer all along? Did you know?” “I wish! I was never a personal trainer. He offered me a job to train like one, but the reality is he needed some cheap labour. Sure, I’d applied for other jobs, but with no avail. Sergei took an interest in me at the bar, chatted, and the rest is history.”

“Did you ever consider it was odd? I mean, a Russian guy approaching you, talking to you out the blue, offering you a job on the spot …” “It was a Russian bar, I knew that. He seemed genuine and wanted cheap labour. Why?” “Because—” Sarah jumped at some rustling coming from the window. Brock necked the rest of his coffee in one and grabbed his pistol, making his way over. Slowly, he pulled the duvet and curtain, peering out. She jumped up to hide behind the bathroom door. “Be careful,” she whispered. “It’s only a pigeon. Told you, we’re fine.” She bounced back onto the bed. “Rumours were flying around the gym about Sergei.” “They always do. People make things up. He’s an alcoholic and an unlikely candidate for a Russian agent. That is what you heard, I take it?” “Maybe he was monitoring you somehow if he made the effort to take an interest from the start.” She peeked at him. “For what reason?” She opened her eyes wide at him but said nothing. “This morning I came across some canned food in the kitchen. I know it’s early, but fancy making some breakfast?” Nodding, she stepped onto the carpet, slipped her jacket on, and they both headed downstairs.

Sarah trotted out of the kitchen with big two steaming plates of beans and hotdog sausages, placing them on the hotel bar.

“The shelves are practically bare. We should consider doing a shop soon or we’ll starve.” “You mentioned upstairs you know what the box could be … well?” Pulling a bar stool up, she forked around the beans. “It may be something else, but …” She paused. “Someone I was once acquainted with reckoned it’s what agents call the building of the secret services.” “Another rumour, of course.” “Rumour? Get your breakfast. We can go over it all tonight.” Brock shovelled beans into his mouth. “Did this someone ever mention what Sphere was?” She shook her head, looking puzzled. I’ll look it up in the directories by the reception, see if it throws something. The phone lines are probably down or I’d tap into the phone and get us some internet.” “Tap into the phone? Can you do that?” “I’ll try. Before I met Lacy, I hit on hard times. I was a hacker for a pressure group.” Brock widened his eyes. “If you can tap into the phone, please do. I’d like to pay this Sphere a visit, whatever it is.” “Could be dangerous. You could get snatched, or worse, killed.” “I’m getting to the bottom of this. Nobody screws with me. Whisking me from the hospital to a phoney apartment, no wonder I didn’t recognise it. It was a temporary arrangement until they acquired …” “Acquired what?” “What Ty mentioned in the car yesterday: a USB, probably holding some controversial information. Must be, the lengths he’s taking to get it back.” “And you have no such thing?”

He glanced to the floor. “It’s lurking somewhere.” “You should keep it, expose him.” “He’s afraid I will. And he’s desperate.” She smiled. “I can help, rack your brain tonight. I know just the thing.”

Chapter 25

Sun gleamed through the lush trees in the damp woodland. Sarah and Brock waited, standing behind overhanging branches overlooking t he la y -b y . “You sure you agreed to meet him over there? Why doesn’t he call you?” “We agreed to no mobiles. Whoever slipped this one into my pocket probably has a trace on it, so it’s switched off.” A long hour ed. Car after car rode by, oblivious to them hiding in the woodland. Sarah eventually crouched down against an oak tree. She’d mumbled to him to give up, go back to the hotel, consider other options. What if Ty had been snatched? Or killed? But Brock knew that although Ty was a risk-taker, it was more likely the idle git had overslept. He watched through the trees as car after car rode by. Eventually, a sleek black Mini slammed on its brakes, coming to a sudden stop directly in front of them. He shot a glance at Sarah, who jumped up, trudging further into the wood. Brock slid his hand across the pistol in his jacket as he watched the Mini in front of him. The car door opened and he instantly pulled out the pistol. Ty appeared from inside the newly nicked Mini. Another one. “What took you so long?” shouted Brock. Sarah stepped out from the woods, stretching, complaining about the stiffness in her legs and jumping onto the back seat. Brock slumped into the front enger seat and kicked at some used fish and chip wrappers at his feet. Ty stared grimly forward as he pulled out of the lay-by. An intense smell of fish and chips permeated the car. Brock reached down and grabbed at the paper wrappers, winding the window down and throwing them into the road. Ty stared resolutely forward as though in a world of his own. “I need you to drive by my old place first. I’ve got something to collect. Park a few streets away—it’ll be safer. After this, we’re heading over to Mayfair. That’s when the real fun starts. How did your night go?” asked Brock.

“Awful,” croaked Ty. Silence erupted throughout the car.

Ty slammed on the brakes and the car came to a sudden halt. The three of them sat perfectly still, staring. It was unlikely anybody would be watching the flat. Not now. All that remained was a burnt-out black skeleton where Brock’s deliberately set-up residence had once stood. The entire block appeared to have succumbed to a massive fire, windows, doors, and even the plastic guttering burned to the ground. “This is it then,” Brock said eventually. “We better move quickly. To Mayfair.” “I’m sorry for you,” said Ty, appearing to wipe his eyes. “For what? Hardly lost my worldly possessions. This place was a fake, they can do what they want with it for all I care. My home is somewhere else. Let’s move on.” Sarah looked at him, concerned. Ty slammed on the accelerator hard, the car skidding as it pulled away. Ty coughed. “What’s in Mayfair?” “Sarah might have found something. We’ve established it could be some sort of building connected to Sighrus. Seems reasonable to assume, I guess.” “Wow, sounds dangerous. They’ll be ready for you the minute you go near. You’ll get snatched,” said Ty. “That’s what I said. That’s why we’re staying away,” snapped Sarah. Brock paused, rubbing his hand across his pistol. “Observation is the key.”

Ty pulled up on the busy street next to a parking meter. Shops lined both sides of the road as people dressed in expensive suits and luxury dresses bustled past. All three checked their pockets for loose change: empty. Ty agreed to stay in the car and drive off at any sign of trouble. Brock looked through a small window of the

stone-built building across the street. His gaze caught a hotel opposite. “Guys, if the hotel stairwell overlooks this building, we could monitor what sort of activity is going on. See if Sighrus pops in and out.” “Sighrus would be elsewhere, surely?” said Sarah. “Do you have one of your notorious credit cards?” Brock asked Ty. “We left the other in our hotel.” Ty grinned and yanked at the glovebox. It fell open and papers fell out. He reached in, felt around, and produced a colourful credit card, waving it in Brock’s direction while muttering the PIN. Brock opened the door and both he and Sarah scuttled into the crowd. Hovering over a cash machine, he noticed the card belonged to a certain Preston. He withdrew several hundred pounds, handing Sarah a small wad and stuffing the rest into his jacket. “Here’s the plan,” he said. “You pop to the reception. Smile, book us a room. Making sure it overlooks the road. Tell the receptionist you like the architecture of the street or something exciting. I’ll meet you by the stairs,” he said. “I’m worried. I’m getting one of my eerie feelings again,” she said.

He leaned across the stairs, waiting, ducking his head as he heard someone running down the stairs. The stair door flung open and Sarah appeared, her face flushed as she waved the key. She climbed the stairs, he followed. “The woman was a right old cow, asking loads of questions, messing me around. She asked me to wait after 12 p.m., check-in time. It’s nearly that now, for goodness’ sake. Felt like a weird interrogation. Another thing—this dingy hotel is ludicrously expensive. I used all the cash and still owe her twenty quid. I told her I’d pop down later. You see if I do. She’s given me room 244—it overlooks the road. Can I ask, was your friend alright? I mean, he’s such a Jack the Lad, but he looked flustered in the car. For the first time, I felt sorry for him.” “Something must have happened last night. Trouble, I reckon. Explains why he was late. By the looks of him, he’d probably driven off to some lay-by on the other side of town and kipped down for the night. Don’t understand why he’s got

Preston’s credit card though. I’ll talk to him later.” Sarah forced the key into the room door and a second later they were in. A dull magnolia wallpaper hit them head-on. Sarah pulled at the horrible orange duvet, throwing it back across the bed. Brock peered into the small en-suite and headed over to the window. Pulling back the ghastly bright orange curtains, he peeked through the white privacy blinds, looking directly at the office block in front. “This grotty hotel charges all this money?” Sarah said in disgust as she ed him at the window. “Looks normal. A typical office building. What exactly are you looking for?” Brock’s gaze moved towards a large parked van. “I have to agree—it looks normal. A little too normal, don’t you think? Look at that white van. Something is odd with the way it’s parked. I can understand why someone would want to set up base on a busy high street. What’s throwing me is the white van.” “I don’t understand.” “I’m going to take a closer look.” “But we agreed it would be too dangerous. If your face is snapped up by their CCTV, security will grab you. It’s too risky. Please don’t go.” “All I need is a couple of minutes. I’ll stay close to the street. I promise I’ll be back.” He pecked her on the cheek, then headed through the door of the tiny room. Stepping onto the street, he blended in with the crowd as he made his way over to the cleaning van. He peered inside the front window. How oddly parked it was. It was empty, some cleaning gear placed on the dashboard and a mop sticking across the enger seat. Had he made a mistake? He was so sure. The pace of the crowd pushed him forward, and he scanned around in case anyone stood out or was watching him. There was nobody. Edging towards the building, his slow pace blended perfectly with the ing traffic. He halted, peering into the meticulously clean reception area. A smartly dressed attractive woman sat chatting into the phone, while several men in perfectly fitting suits to the right were chatting loudly. He swung around, looking up at the hotel window and giving Sarah a cheeky wink, then stepped into the plush building. He was

conscious of the men, who got up and walked out as he entered. The receptionist spoke loud and clear and Brock could hear every word. “No, my dear, this is a software development company. We only develop and design databases for prestigious companies. As we only work for select clients, it’s unlikely to be us.” She patiently continued, and Brock let out a guffaw. He could hear the caller at the other end. Eventually, she wished the caller farewell, placing the receiver over the phone. She glanced in Brock’s direction. “Do you have an appointment?” “Me, err, no. I’m looking for the nearest cash machine.” She rose from the seat, kicking back the black swivel chair and pointed towards the door. “Out the building to your right, over the road.” Crossing the road, he wandered back into the hotel. The receptionist there was much grumpier than the one he had just encountered. She was hard at it, banging words into her computer. Nearby, a man in a crumpled grey suit stood facing the window, talking quietly into his mobile. Brock went to the stairwell door, lowering his head. If anyone recognised him, he was screwed. As he stepped through, he froze: the guy on the mobile mentioned his name. The door shut behind him, and he pulled it ajar, sticking his finger between it to hold it slightly open. He felt for the pistol in his jacket pocket, ready to pull it at a moment’s notice. He peered at the man through the crack in the stairwell door. Who was this guy? Why was he here? Brock scoured his mind, trying hard to place him. Nothing. He stood patiently, trying desperately to listen to the conversation, keeping his finger in place and the door ajar. Moments ed; the muttered conversation continued. The receptionist shouted suddenly, beckoning the man over. She startled Brock and he pulled his finger from the door. He opened it again, just as the man ended his call and stepped over to the reception desk. The receptionist ran through her spiel, apparently bored and distracted. “I’ve given you room 301. It’s on the third floor, Breakfast is served between

seven and nine in the morning. If you need anything, press 0 on your room phone …” Brock closed the door. Taking a deep breath, he sprinted upstairs and towards his room, tapping frantically on the door. When it opened, he leaped in, forcefully pushing against the door’s overhead mechanical device spring until it was tightly shut. “What’s wrong?” “We should leave. Now!” “Oh, it’s all safe. I phoned them. A dead-end I’m afraid, they’re a software—” “I know, I heard you on the phone.” “You knew?” “Of course, why did you bother them? I’d already worked it out from the signage above the door. They’re in the hotel.” “What, the people across the road?” “No, a guy at the reception downstairs mentioned me by name on his mobile. I only saw him, but chances are they’ll be more. He’s in room 301.” “We’ve got to get out now,” said Sarah, snatching her jacket. “I told you I had a bad feeling! You should have listened. It was a bad idea to come here. We should wait. He’s checked in, he’ll be coming up the stairs in a minute.” Brock collapsed onto the bed. “It might already be too late. The receptionist could have seen me. I’ve got a better idea. Call Ty on the mobile, use the hotel phone. Tell him to meet us in the room.”

When Ty ed them in the hotel, they sat chatting in the tiny room over the noise of the traffic in the street below. “What’s going on, Brock? Who is he?” asked Ty.

Brock shrugged. “This is a bad idea. We should leave right now,” said Sarah, rubbing her forehead. “He’s on his own, Brock, we can easily take him, smack him one,” said Ty. “Reckon we should at least find out who he is. He might have some answers,” said Brock. “I’m in,” growled Ty. “Anything for a fight. I’m in the mood.” He kicked his legs out in a fighting motion and Sarah sat up on the bed, sighing. “We should strike now. He’s checked in, he’ll probably drop his stuff, get settled and go out. Let’s give him a knock and bust our way in,” said Brock. “You should stay here and wait, Sarah. It could be dangerous.” She grabbed his shoulder. “I’m coming with you.” “It’s too dangerous. If he kicks off, he might hurt you.” She tutted, grabbing her jacket and following through the door. Brock groaned and insisted she remain in the room. She ignored him and kept on following to the third floor.

Brock and Ty stood each side of the door, Sarah back in the distant corridor. Ty gave a sharp tap and stepped back. Brock reached into his jacket pocket, yanking out the pistol and holding it behind his back. Sarah’s eyes widened and she looked to the floor. There was rustling inside the room, a loud thump, and the door slowly opened. Somehow, Ty snatched the pistol right out of Brock’s hand and threw a high kick into the man’s stomach, knocking him across the floor. Brock reached for the pistol, but Ty jumped into the room, hovering over the prone man and pointing it directly against his head. Brock, flabbergasted, quickly followed inside the room. Sarah peered around the door, slowly stepping in and pushing it shut.

“Ty, what are you doing? What’s going on?” said Brock. Sarah’s eyes bulged as she stood quietly at the door, watching. Ty ignored him, ramming the gun into the man’s temple as he lay across the floor, his body shaking. Ty screamed at him, demanding to know who he was. “Stop screaming, someone will hear us. Give me the gun,” said Brock. The man wriggled, coughed, and his hands trembled. “Please don’t kill me, what do you want?” mumbled the man. Brock paused. “I heard you on the mobile, you mentioned my name. Who are you?” “What are you talking about?” Sarah looked up at Ty as he pressed the pistol deeper into the man’s temple, scratching the skin. “He’s hurting me, get him off,” screamed the man, “Stop it, Ty,” said Brock, trying to snatch the gun. Ty swiped it pointing, it at him. Brock’s mouth fell open, but he glanced back at the man. “Look, I heard the conversation on your mobile downstairs. Who are you?” The man pulled himself up, leaning his back against the bed, rubbing his cut, blood appearing from it. “Look what you animals have done, and to think I tried to help you, Brock.” Brock stepped back; Ty hovered pointing the pistol over him. “Of course you know who I am,” he grunted. “It’s Dalton, you idiot.” Brock turned the name over in his head. “Dalton?” Then he ed. “Wait … Dalton Fisher? Hang on, you signed the tenancy on my apartment. Why?” Dalton stared at the ground, avoiding his glance. Ty aimed the pistol towards his head.

“Answer him!” “Sighrus is blackmailing me.” The room stood in silence; Dalton opened his mouth to speak. “Over an affair. I tried to help you. You’ve caused so much trouble.” “Let me get this straight: you’ve put my life and the bloody country at risk over one of your silly damn affairs and you’re blaming me?” “No. Please, Brock, there is more. I loved my wife—” “Save it,” interrupted Ty. “He was out to ruin me, my kids, my job. She walked out, filed for divorce, it was a stupid mistake. He threatened to kill me. I put my life on the line for you.” “Intelligent woman, obviously,” muttered Sarah. “How did you put your life on the line for me? What am I supposed to have done?” “He’s talking crap, all lies. Let me finish him off,” shouted Ty. “No, give me the gun. There is something sinister going on here and I need to know the truth. Tell me what it is,” said Brock. “I’m disgusted with myself. I should have realised what he’s capable of. I’ve every intention of putting it right now. The intelligence service is complex—he’s too respected and covers his tracks well. He’s planning something, something big. We have to do something,” said Dalton. “Putting what right? What’s he planning?” “Understand, Brock. That drug you had your drink spiked with at the party … I tried to intercept it. It caused such a reaction because it was manufactured in a lab. He gave it to you. Police and security services were sent to infiltrate dealers in Leicester Square in a t operation. You know, get intelligence on where the supplies were coming from.

“Sighrus has been following everyone you know since you came out of your coma. That’s how he found out Lacy was involved with drugs stuff—nothing too heavy, a consumer rather than a dealer, purely recreational I guess. But he has a finger in every pie . . . He got one of his pet dealers to put an idea into Lacy’s head about pranking someone, how easy it would be to knock them for six. It didn’t take much work to make her think she’d come up with it all by herself. “He arranged for a concoction from a lab to be brought to him, and one of the dealers handed it over to her. She probably unwittingly put it in your drink. A cocktail deliberately made to knock you right over the edge so you would talk. That’s right, those listening devices in your apartment were already in place, a planned mission. But it failed. You outright refused to give him what he wanted.” said Dalton. Brock tried to gather his thoughts. “Drugs? Labs? Bugs? It all seems a bit far-fetched,” said Ty. “Where do I come into all this?” Brock asked. “I nothing. Surely if what you are saying is true, some government department would have the resources to find him out. Surely they will be onto him. Who is he anyway? And if he’s so senior, why does he do all the chasing?” said Brock. “Work it out … our operatives would call him out. He uses his trainees—their understanding of what’s going on is limited. We’re slowly getting the resources we need, to bring him out. There are many complexities, and he works too fast. And he’s too well connected and respected. Take Lacy—she cottoned onto something and he shot her. Does it look like he was arrested?” said Dalton. “Lacy jumped in front of me. It was an accident,” said Brock. Ty pushed the pistol back against Dalton’s temple again. “Ty, pull back, let his head go. That night she was uncomfortable about something. As though she wanted to tell me something. But he shot her because she jumped in front, I’m sure of that.” “She became a nuisance to him. He was worried she’d turn him in, bang, dead. That’s his style—pop them off and the deaths the unexplained people list, or frame someone. There’s plenty, trust me. Reality is, he’s panicking. It’s why he

killed your mate, Preston,” said Dalton. Brock rubbed his hands across his face. “Oh really?” Ty smashed the gun across Dalton’s head. “Back off, Ty! Let him speak.” “Rawlins too. He killed him because the old fool knew too much, refused to budge for him.” “How come I spoke to Preston last night?” asked Ty. Dalton ignored him and carried on. “You were fast becoming a person of interest with just about every government agency. Even the CIA popped you on their radar. He planned to make you redundant, but killing you would make too much mess for him. Your protection in the hospital, though I doubt you realised, likely worried him a lot. His wife had already made plans to leave the country. According to intelligence, a family holiday in the Eastern Bloc, one-way ticket. Ironically, he was born there. Intelligence reckoned he would meet up with them later, after…” “Nice one, great. A foreigner working for a British spy agency on British soil and hand-picked, no doubt. You couldn’t make it up,” said Brock. “He was handpicked alright—by your father,” said Dalton. Brock let out a sudden puff of air. “He’s lying, Brock,” Ty said. “Don’t listen. He’s diverting from the subject. All this is too far-fetched. Tell us the real reason you’re following my mate. I’ve met people like you before, you’re setting an innocent person up, I just know it!” “Listen to me,” Dalton said in a rush. “Some years ago, intelligence got word that some Russian operatives had breached a nuclear plant south of here. We were desperate to get someone on the inside to monitor and report activity and not arouse suspicion. He was a nuclear scientist in there. We checked him out, monitored him, and tapped his house. He was the best and, sadly, the only option. After a short sting operation, we found there was indeed a guy

attempting to over crucial information to the Russians and compromise our national security. “We intercepted his attempt to hand over special documents and photographs of the plant in a sting operation in some London park. Eventually, he was deported out of the country. If he’d succeeded, it could have resulted in serious consequences for us. Sighrus monitored him for weeks.” “Excuse me,” Sarah said timidly, “but why would Russia require plans of a simple nuclear power plant? It only generates electric.” “They were developing nuclear weapons in there, why else? Sighrus came out smelling of roses and eventually came on board with MI5 as a—” “Where’s my father now?” “ the morning Sighrus chased you across the heath? You got away, but did you question the lack of helicopters and back-up? Did they materialise? No. It would be standard procedure in a case of firearms and someone on the run. I diverted them south. He went crazy over the radio, I listened to him. If I authorised them your way, he’d have snatched you for sure. Probably would have held you somewhere and tortured the hell out of you to acquire the USB, then killed you off. He’s desperate now. You do still have the USB? Do you?” Brock rubbed his eyes. “Brock, you disappoint me,” snarled Dalton. “Listen to me, I copied the information from his office computer when he left it unlocked one day. A rare mistake. I handed it over to you because you had the balls to do something with it.” “Sighrus is planning some kind of attack on British soil. If the cell in intelligence is correct, it’s pretty big. He’s a bitter man who likes his revenge. His wife and kids should be leaving the country shortly on a one-way ticket, unwittingly disguised as a holiday. His attempt to leave the country is some sort of distraction, if you like. The reality is, he wants revenge.” “Revenge for what?” asked Sarah. “It’s crucial we act fast. If he gets his way, it could spell disaster. The powers-

that-be him, but they’ve little idea what he’s capable of,. He’s too well connected. He has them around his little finger, so to speak.” “A nuke attack? Are you sure?” said Brock. “He can get access to such things. Whatever he’s planning, it’s coming. We know he’s capable of killing and maiming people. Question is, how much?” “There’s something else, something you’re holding back.” Dalton glanced away. “What’s on the USB?” Brock asked. “Some agents are meeting up tonight in a secret club around the corner. Let us handle things, you need to make yourself scarce for now. I’m—” “Tell me what’s on the USB, I need to know. Is it anything to do with Sphere? Some kind of operation perhaps?” Dalton stared right at him opening, his mouth. Ty moved the gun in closer. A bang pierced the air, throwing Brock against the wall, Sarah screamed. Dalton was sprawled across the floor, wriggling in agony, blood pouring everywhere. “It was an accident, the gun fired on its own!” screamed Ty, throwing the pistol on the bed. “Oh God, what have you done?” hissed Brock. Blood gushed from Dalton’s neck, and he gasped for breath. Brock knelt beside him and Dalton croaked at him, “I’m sorry I’ve let you down. I knew your father well. He’s buried in St Pancras Churchyard in an unmarked hero’s grave. A true hero.” Pausing, he coughed, spitting out blood. His breathing became harder. “He killed them …” Blood oozed from his mouth and his head fell to the side. Sarah grabbed his wrist and checked his pulse.

“He’s dead,” she cried. “That shot would have been heard throughout the hotel, probably outside too. We should leave quickly,” said Brock. ‘Likely he was the mole someone once talked about in my basement.’ Brock squeezed Dalton’s hand and then moved swiftly through the door and into the hallway to a stairwell. Reaching the bottom, a big set of metal fire doors stood in front of them. But they were chained up.

Chapter 26

Hotel guests screamed, scattering through carpeted corridors into their rooms. Chaos enveloped the building. Brock picked up a metal chair in the corridor and threw it against the window. It shattered and they clambered out, making their way through the gate to the Mini. When they approached the road, there was no vehicle: a council towing vehicle sped down the distant road, their sleek black Mini neatly attached and trailing behind. Sirens pierced the street, followed by flashing blue lights bouncing between the tall buildings, disturbing the natural flow of pe ople. “Shit! This is all we need. Keep moving forward, lower your heads,” said Brock. Sarah wiped her nose, sniffling. Fighting their way through onlookers, more flashing blue lights lightened up the street like something out of a movie. Units appeared out of thin air and all directions. People stopped in their tracks, glancing at the commotion. “We should head for the park across the way. Let’s disappear in it,” Sarah cried. Ty followed, falling behind until he came to a sudden halt. Brock swung around, pulling him along. “Come on, we’ve got to move.” Sarah was leading, glancing across the road on the left. “If my memory is correct, the park’s down there. It’s a big tourist attraction, bound to be busy at this time.” “You sure?” said Brock “Course I am, we can lose ourselves between the people, walk through the other side, buy us some time.” “It’s our only option. Keep walking,” said Brock. They stepped into the grassy park. Ty’s face was pale as though his life was

somehow draining out. It was extremely busy, bustling with people moving around, sunbathers soaking up the afternoon sun sprawled on the cut grass.

Ty collapsed, taking refuge amongst some hardwood oak trees, the thick bark shielding him from the sun. His head was neatly tucked into his shaking hands. After a moment, he slid both hands from his face, settling his breath. “It was an accident. the gun went off by itself.” The wind howled through the trees, throwing leaves into the air and into the landscape. Sarah and Brock remained silent, taking in what had happened. Sarah ran her trembling hand through her hair. “I need some coffee, urgently I guess,” she said. “We should move, the park will be crawling with police in a minute. Ty, are you up for it?” asked Brock. He remained silent. “My whole body is packing up,” Sarah said. “I’m desperate for a caffeine rush. Lacy brought me to this park a couple of months ago—we ate in a cafe in that direction. It’s expensive and usually quiet. If we have some cash, we could hold out there a while till it calms down. It’s well away.” “I’d struggle to walk. You go. Leave me here,” said Ty. Brock ignored him. “OK,’ he said to Sarah. “Help me pull Ty up.”

When they entered the quiet café, Brock slipped Sarah some notes and she strolled over to the counter. He pulled Ty along, eventually stepping out into a garden area flourishing with exotic plants, where he pushed him into a chair. “That wasn’t clever,” Brock said. “Why did you grab my gun?” Ty forced his gaze to the floor. “Did something happen last night?”

Ty pulled up a tissue from the table, wiping his nose, sniffling. “She asked me to leave last night. I was devastated. I jumped into the Mini and drove off. But someone was following me.” “Who?” said Brock “I was heading down the main road when a car overtook, swerving into me. He got out of the car and I went for him, mainly because of what happened at the house. And it was one hell of a bust-up. He thumped me in the stomach, practically rupturing my spleen. It was Preston.” “Preston? I thought you were joking back there! So he survived Edinburgh?” “After that and the argument with my girl and then that Dalton guy saying all that crap, somehow anger got into my head. I couldn’t speak, he made me angry, I held the pistol too tight until I heard a bang. When I looked …” “Shush, someone might hear us. It’s over now. Tell me more about Preston. I could have sworn Sighrus shot him in Edinburgh. And how did you come by his credit card?” said Brock. “The bullet missed, according to Preston. He scarpered through an alleyway and managed to lose ’em. Made his way to the station sometime afterwards, bought a ticket to St Pancras and made his way to his squat. He asked where you were hiding out, but I stayed silent. Asked some unusual questions. Truth is, I reckon he’s an impostor,” said Ty. Brock rested his back on chair. “Something’s wrong. I was so sure Sighrus shot him.” “Preston was practically an alcoholic at the hellhole, always in it for himself. But he had dark brown hair, I it vividly now. Ginger, we’d have taken the mickey.” Sarah appeared in the garden doorway. “What were you talking about?” “Nothing.” Brock pondered, racking through his brains over Ty’s conversation. Could it have been another alleyway? It all happened so quick, but how could he have got it so wrong? Sarah slammed into a seat, throwing some loose change onto the table.

“I’ve ordered us all specials, thought it would be easier. That catty little madam is bringing it over.” “Catty little madam?” Ty enquired. “The waitress,” said Brock. They all sat in silence until she appeared with a big tray, placing three shepherds’ pies in front of them along with three carefully crafted lattes. Sarah gulped at the latte, and they all tucked in. “It’s a tight portion,” said Ty. “It’s a posh place. Stuff will be quality,” said Brock. Sarah rolled her eyes. Ty poked his fork into the potato, loading it up and shoving it into his mouth. “Dalton mentioned a club,” Sarah said. “I have a gut feeling it’s the one Lacy pointed out a few months ago. It’s very close, around the corner in fact: the 401 Club. This place will be crawling with agents soon. We should eat this and make a move.” “That rings a bell for some reason, the 401 club. Where do I know it from?” Brock mused. “I regret leaving Preston by himself now, we should have gone back.” “Who?” asked Sarah. “Forget it, Brock. I’m convinced he’s an impostor, probably working for Sighrus.” “I vaguely someone talking about that club as though it was some political haunt,” said Brock. “You’d be right, caters for the very elite, government clientele, Lacy was sure about that. It could only be this club. Police will be crawling around it like ants, especially because of the shooting nearby. We should move on, go to the hotel in the heath. You do think we’ll be safe there?”

Ty glanced away and Brock swished the last of his latte down his throat, slamming the mug on the table. “I say we hang around and watch it,” said Brock. “We’ll be arrested for sure. You take too many risks,” said Sarah. “Dalton said people were looking for me. If I can get myself inside somehow, I can speak to them.” “He said no such thing. He was pleading for his life, he would have told you anything. Why did I mention that stupid club? You’re crazy, they’ll catch you for sure,” snapped Sarah.

They moved on to another bar, near the 401 club, and Brock devised a plan of action. Ty and Sarah both sat tight, remaining in the bar, and he walked outside onto the road. A discreet black door to the 401 club was all that shielded the club from the quiet Mayfair street. Several cars were parked along the road with random welldressed gentlemen at the wheel. Brock considered them undercover agents, edging around the backwards some fire doors. He yanked at them; they were solid. A girl was puffing on a cigarette nearby and she sneaked over to him. “What are you doing?” “Oh hello, I’m security, just testing the door. Have I met you before?” She shook her head, throwing the cigarette on the floor and stamping on it. “I’d better get back to work,” she said. She opened the staff door and he waited to make his move. The door slowly closed behind her, and at the last minute he dashed over, sticking his fingers between it, keeping it ajar. He waited for a few moments until he was sure she was gone, then pulled it open and stepped into a narrow corridor, which led into a colourful ballroom. Tables were scattered across the floor surrounded by guys in tuxedos and woman in fancy ballgowns. Someone in the distance was

speaking in a loud American accent and light classical music played in the background. His immediate glance picked out a woman in a bright red dress bearing a striking resemblance to Lady Ranskill. She gawped at him and immediately sashayed towards him. Pulling him into a corner behind a massive black curtain, out of the prying eyes of the crowd, she whispered in his ear, “Are you crazy? How the hell did you get in? If you know what’s good for you, you should go right to where you came in and do one. This place is full to the brim of undercover police and agents. If they spot you, they’ll shoot you dead. A poor friend of mine has been murdered near here today, and they’re running very nervous.” “But people here are with me, we’re all in this together, I thought. You need my help,” said Brock. “Are you deluded? You’re a damn fool and risking everything. Do yourself a favour and leave while you still have a chance,” said Lady Ranskill. “Tell me what’s going on. I know it’s some sort of intelligence gathering. You should watch yourself—security here is shoddy.” “Intelligence gathering? Who told you that? You are a damn nuisance, Brock. These people are your enemies, you fool.” “Why should they be my enemies? Let me finish Sighrus off. Where can I find him?” said Brock. “Finish him off? Brock, you’re insane. Sighrus isn’t here, and involving you would compromise national security. I’ve already overstepped confidentiality. Leave now or I will have the police escort you to the station,” snapped Lady Ranskill. There was a sudden silence in the ballroom. Lady Ranskill tugged at the curtain, craning her head around. She quickly released it, pulling her head back in. Her mouth fell open and the blood drained from her face. Brock yanked the curtain and peered around as Lady Ranskill groaned. Dressed in a tuxedo was Sighrus, and behind him was someone who looked familiar. Brock racked his brains, and with a gasp, it hit him. The outstretched hand asking for money that day in Camden … He had cleaned up and put on a

suit, but he was still recognisable as the homeless man Brock had taken notice of. “My goodness. How did he know?” Lady Ranskill said. “What’s he doing here?” said Brock. “You need to crawl out from wherever you came in from as fast as your little legs will carry you, pronto,” said Lady Ranskill. “After you tell me what’s going on. I’m sick of this, on the run with this man after me, blamed for Lacy’s murder, Icarus’s murder. I look like a mass murderer. I’m staying put,” said Brock. “You brood far too much. I have to it, I love a man with balls like you. Some top officials are meeting here tonight, although we’re moving elsewhere now. It should have been kept very low key and made to look unimportant. This monster must somehow have got wind of it. If he sees you, we’re all up the creek. “Rawlins mentioned something about him, and now he’s apparently been shot,” said Brock. “He’s dead,” said Lady Ranskill. Brock took her hand and moved it across his jacket, brushing past the pistol. Her eyes bulged. “This is out of control. The dear Rawlins, he was such a fool,” said Lady Ranskill. “How’s your girl? Sarah, I believe?” “As well as can be expected, I suppose. Planning on getting across the channel. Somewhere far,” said Brock. “Watch her,” she said abruptly, staring into his eyes “They need me in the ballroom to deal with him. I have an idea. Someone owes me a bloody great favour. Come by my house tomorrow early. Let’s say 6 a.m. – that’s when the security change hands. I’ll be up waiting. Now leave and, for heaven’s sake, be safe.” “Tell me what’s on the USB,” he said.

“What?” she asked. A loud bang penetrated the ballroom. A lightbulb shattered and glass fell across the floor like falling snow. Instantly, Brock pointed the pistol into the air, pushing Lady Ranskill to the floor. Two smartly dressed men in tuxedos were heading their way, pointing standard-issue Glocks at him. Brock let off a round of bullets, yanking hard at the curtain to pull it down. One of the men fell to the floor holding onto his leg, squealing. The other man fired his weapon at Brock, and he ducked to the ground, quickly scanning the room. He jumped up and sprinted towards the hallway, firing at a fizzy drink gas canister, knocking it over as it span out of control, spurting out its gas. He pointed his pistol towards it again, pressing the trigger. Fire leapt through the hallway, practically blowing him out the staff door, and he just managed to keep his balance as he headed out onto the street.

Chapter 27

Sighrus stood amongst the glass once aga in, a ngry. “It’s him, trust me. He was seen there in the hotel,” he snapped. “One of our camera operatives located him at a place he’s staying, sir,” said Martha. “Good.” “Should we go in, sir?” “No, I have a splendid idea. He’s playing with us, and now I’m going to play with him,” said Sighrus.

Chapter 28

Ty conveniently put his fist through the window of an old dark -b lue Audi parked across a quiet street. They all jumped in. Pulling its wires under the dash, he fired up the engine. His bottom lip stuck out, and he was distant and quiet. He skidded forward, driving recklessly across London as though in a fierce high -s peed chase. After a brief visit to the small corner grocery store, the car skidded off, pulling up in the car park of the boarded -u p hotel. All breathed a sigh of relief. Ty leaned over, grabbing his stomach as though he was about to puke, but he didn’t. They stepped through the broken window into the derelict hotel. Ty threw his stuff into a room opposite Brock and Sarah’s and wandered into t he sh ower.

Sarah leaned across the chipped worktop, wiping a sponge across it and then pulling contents out of a carrier bag. Brock hovered around the doorway. A shadow appeared across the window and both froze. He edged over to the window, peeking out. “It’s only Ty. How are you going to cook this?” he asked, appraising the smashed bare-brick crevices; ovens and white goods had been carelessly ripped out. “The stove I used this morning, although I’m chock-a-block after the meal in the café. Are you sure it was Ty? Could have sworn I seen something else. Anyway, tell you what, Ty might be hungry. I’ll cook it anyway. Make something special for us all,” she said, rubbing her nose. “Last meal before the executioner.” Brock chewed on the side of his cheek as he moved towards her. “We’re safe in this place, trust me.” He placed his hand across her shoulder and she pulled away. “What makes you so sure? And you walking into these places, being seen, it’s crazy. He’ll get you eventually. It’s only a matter of time.”

She threw her hand into the carrier, pulling out some mince, ripping it open and slapping it into a bowl. “I’ll keep a low profile from now on, I promise.” She shook her head, digging the knife into an onion. “I doubt it, you’re obsessed with him.” She grabbed a bottle of expensive Spanish Rioja but it slipped right out of her hand. It smashed, red wine flooding across the old kitchen floor. She ran her hand through her hair. “I’m sorry, this whole debacle has shaken me. The way the gun went off, hitting his head. I should have done something.” “Don’t blame yourself. Look, I’ve devised a plan and—” He was interrupted by thundering footsteps coming from the stairs and something loud crashing against the floor. Sarah snatched up the knife and Brock reached into his tros, pulling out the pistol. A shadow appeared in the kitchen doorway. Sarah ducked behind the worktop and Brock eased himself closer to the door. Ty appeared in the doorway, his face drained. “I feel sick, count me out of the food. I’ve hidden the car in an outhouse next to the building. The overhead door took some smashing into.” Grabbing a bottle of wine, Ty swished his way through the door into the bar. Sarah unscrewed the lid from the sauce. “We can’t stay in this place forever. What are we going to do?” She poured the bolognese sauce into a pan. Brock remained silent and headed out into the bar. Ty lounged on the stool, his hands in his head. “I’m a simple car thief. Killing a man like that … it makes me sick.” “Forget it. What is done is done.” Ty shook his head and downed a full glass of red wine. “Forget it? Cops will be after me like a shot. I can kiss goodbye to Argentina and my mates. And her. Doing time for this will kill me.”

“Calm down, we’re all going to split shortly. Is that her name? Argentina?” “Don’t be ridiculous. It was all planned. Me and this Argentinian chick arranged a couple of fake ports. We were going to board a ferry and jump across.” A rustling came from the kitchen, then tapping footsteps came nearer. “Keep hush about Argentina to her,” Brock said hurriedly. Ty gave him a blank stare and reached for the wine bottle. Sarah stepped forward holding a large tray. She put down three plates of piping hot spaghetti bolognese and a plateful of chocolate eclairs. Ty pushed the plate away, pouring more wine. There was plenty of wine in the hotel, but it was table wine. Sarah had insisted in the corner shop she wanted quality. She chewed on some mince while Ty rattled his silver cutlery on the plate, staring at it. An engine revving directly outside the window startled all of them. “Someone’s outside!” shouted Sarah. Brock jumped up, dashing to the window, peeking through a tiny gap in the metal shutters. “They’re driving away. Probably just took a wrong turn.” Sarah’s hand shook as she uncorked another bottle, topping up the three glasses. Her face was flushed. Ty moved his gaze towards the pile of food on his plate, grimacing. Brock pulled at his sleeve and examined the tattoo on his arm. “Is this cult still going?” Ty didn’t reply. Brock slowly, robotically, turned his head to the door. “What’s wrong?” said Sarah. “Shush.” There was a rattling coming from reception and Brock crept across and peered out towards the open window. “Ty, you could have closed the window. It’s only a fox. He tried to jump in,” said Brock.

“Do foxes usually gate-crash buildings?” said Sarah. “All the time,” said Ty. “I’m getting sick of all this. It’s scaring me half to death. Doubt I’ll sleep a wink. I’m heading up,” said Sarah. “I’m calling it a night too. Going sleep this crap off,” muttered Ty.

The room lamp dimly lit the room. Sarah slumped over a chair she’d dragged in, and Brock sat in another. She held on to a clipboard she had found downstairs in a rusty filing cabinet. Placing it on her knee, she wiped her flushed face. Brock shot her a glance; she was wobbly, slurring her speech. He laughed. “So, err, what was the first memory? Waking up out of the coma?” He glanced at her, trying to keep a straight face. “Let me get my small brain into gear. The hospital, yes, that was the first thing I —chatting with two physiotherapists and a nurse. It was weird. I’d been in the coma so long, apparently my leg muscles had turned to jelly. Then they told me what had happened.” Brock gazed towards the floor as Sarah gulped down more wine. “When they said I’d been attacked, I was fuming. The nurse istered her poisons and they carried on chatting, but something more pressing hit me. Who the hell was I? I felt so alone.” Sarah could hardly keep her eyes open. “Later, doctors said they didn’t know whether my memory would ever return. Soon as I got on my feet walking again, everything happened so quick. The discharge, thrown into a bare basement apartment, expected to carry on. But it was a lie within a lie.” Sarah fumbled with the wine bottle. “How can you be so sure?”

“Something seemed amiss. It puzzled me all the time. Normal people hang family photos, have special items they cherish, paper records. This apartment appeared bare of everything, as though I’d walked into this world starting my life for the first time. I analysed everything, trying to make some sense out of it. Everything I touched was brand new, and there was no sign of my old life anywhere. And the more I thought, the more questions arose. Eventually, I realised the truth.” He pushed his back into the chair, ing. Sarah wriggled her body in a more comfortable position, dropping the clipboard and pen to the floor. Not a single word was written on it. “It left me in fear of my life. Every morning I’d scan the street, listening for every sound. Footsteps, people talking, even guns being clicked or loaded. I was convinced an attack on me would be imminent. “That’s where things started to make sense. Ty said I ed the army and I reckon he’s right. I was a soldier, a fighting machine, and that’s why I was on a knife-edge the whole time. I’m not a normal member of the public. I know I can handle a gun, strip it in seconds. The minute I picked one up, it was like my hands were operating by themselves.” Sarah gulped some more wine. “Tell me about the nightmares, particularly about the bridge and box. There may be a relevance.” Brock rubbed his face. “I feel a bit embarrassed, fearing bridges, it’s silly. However, I hate them with a ion. It’s like a ritual, sensing the drop below, usually followed by a wind chill as though it’s going to push me over. I usually freeze and throw up. I just avoid them.” “Hold on, something has come to mind,” Sarah slurred. “I popped down to hospital records in the basement shortly after I got sacked. It was chaos outside anyway. It was during shift change and there only a young girl manned it. I waved my and she let me in. The complete file was gone—somebody had snatched it. I slipped into a consultant’s room on the way back upstairs and managed to get into the system. Someone deleted your file too.” “You told me it was impossible to hack after an update.” She dropped the wine glass to the floor, giggling. “Stupid Dr Samuel placed a

sticky note to his computer with his on it. I noticed it when he was sacking me. I was worried it might be old, but I tried it and got in.” “Why would someone want to delete my file? That’d only arouse more suspicion, surely?” “To remove a good part of your life, I’m sure of it. Your real home address, specifically.” “You should have mentioned that yesterday.” “I was in such a terrible state and had so much to tell you. It’s unlikely Sighrus can access the hospital system, but I’m betting someone in the hospital did it for him, a doctor maybe. And something else I wanted to tell you. You the night we ate at the restaurant?” He nodded. “You the black jeep, the one you took such interest in all night? He followed me home, parked it across the road watching me.” “You should have called me.” Her head fell across the chair, her eyes closed, and she muttered, “Didn’t consider it too important.” “This psychopath will stop at nothing,” Brock growled.

Brock woke at 5 a.m. and slipped into his clothes, pushing the pistol into the back of his tros as usual. He quietly climbed down the stairs, grabbing the last of the chocolate eclairs and stuffing it into his mouth. He pushed at the window and jumping through, heading across the heath to Lady Ranskill’s house. The air was cool and the dark sky still upon him. Wind blew into him as he trampled through the undergrowth. When he reached the street, all was silent, just a bird or two chirping. Two silver Audis were parked directly opposite her dwelling; he had arrived too early. Light shone out of her living room. Making his way over the neighbour’s fence, Brock

quickly ducked as the man in one of the Audis appeared to glance his way. He waited several moments; the man did nothing. He sprinted across the neighbour’s drive and made his way around to the back garden, jumping over the fence. Peering into the kitchen window, Lady Ranskill was sprawled over a chair, her elbows on the table, sipping coffee. He drifted closer and tapped on the glass. Her head shot up and she pointed to the direction of the back door. A moment later, it opened. “I’m a bit surprised to see you,” she said. “Are you going to let me in?” She moved aside, beckoning him to come in. Following her to the kitchen, he took a pew as though he owned the place, grabbing the cafetière and pouring himself a coffee. “I have some bad news,” she said. Brock sipped the dark strong coffee, waiting for her to drop some kind of bombshell. “We think Sighrus might have got wind we are going to unseat his little plot. We have to act quickly. As we speak, information on his little charade is being ed to the powers that be. However, certain contents of this USB you have in your possession are … unknown. We need it.” “Got any biscuits?” She glared at him. “You need to take me seriously. Surely you understand what this man is capable of?” “Course I do. You’ll get the USB in good time.” She pulled at a cupboard door, throwing him a full packet of biscuits. “We need to act quickly, you fool. Sighrus is planning for you, your girlfriend and that damn boy with you to be sectioned, and you’ll remain there for a very long time. Trifle with him now and we’re screwed.” A car door slammed outside and Lady Ranskill jumped. “Did they see you?”

Brock shrugged. “You need to trust me. I’ve already made plans for Sarah to board a flight under an assumed identity this Friday. She’ll be flying to New York under a fake port. Some of our friends will be taking good care of the little dear.” “Bit extreme.” “You should take me seriously. They’re CIA, and believe you me, she requires their help. This is my fight. You treading on Sighrus’s toes will only bring more trouble.” “He needs to be killed.” Lady Ranskill’s mouth hung open slightly. “Yes, he does. Let us do the leg work and we’ll take care of him. Meanwhile, Sarah will be safe and sound, protected by the CIA’s skilled operators in New York, awaiting you.” “What if we both flew to New York? I mean, you’ve suggested I keep my nose out of the whole affair.” She grabbed her empty coffee cup and threw it in the sink. Brock wiped his hands across the back of his jacket, feeling the gun. “You’re very stubborn, Brock. Bring us the USB and we’ll get Sarah on a plane. Nobody will get near her, I promise you. It’ll be safer this way. I’m going to let you into a little secret …” She glanced towards the door and across to the window, then stepped closer. “Sarah isn’t all she seems. Be careful, Brock.”

Chapter 29

Brock slipped back into the hotel room and went into the en -s uite to turn the shower on. A rustle came from outside; Sarah let out a cough and he opened the door slightly ajar, pe ering out. “Where did you go? I opened my eyes and the bed was empty. I was worried.” “I took a stroll outside, needed to clear my head. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Brock. Kicking the rest of his clothes onto the floor, he stepped into the shower. The cold water hit him like an electric shock. He jumped back, holding his hand under the flow, shivering and anticipating the hot water. After a couple of minutes, shouting erupted outside. He slammed the button and snatched a towel, pushing the door wide open. A red-faced Sarah stood in front of him. “Ty’s room is empty. I pushed his door, the room is cold and …” Brock growled, wrapping the towel against his wet body. He dashed across to Ty’s room and called him. Nobody answered. “He’s probably downstairs eating breakfast. I’ll put some clothes on and check.” Both stepped out and undertook a quick search of the hotel, exploring its new rooms and conveniently locating several more cases of wine. They searched through the hotel, ending up at the reception, Brock leaned on the desk, facing Sarah. “I’m worried. Ty’s somewhat immature. If he’s caught, he’ll probably give us away. Let’s give him, say, half an hour to materialise. After which, we run,” said Brock. Sarah brewed coffee, buttering several slices of brown toast, and plonked herself on a table overlooking reception. If someone turned up, they’d see and be on it in a flash. He sat next to her, scoffing the toast.

“I thought he would have informed us if he popped out, especially under the circumstances,” said Sarah. “After our talk last night, it got me thinking. I’m so looped up in all this … being followed, chased, nearly killed. It’s all clouded my judgement. Well, this morning I took a brisk hike and my mind cleared somehow. Things are starting to make sense. We’re looking in the wrong places,” said Brock. “What are we trying to find? All we seem to be doing is running and hiding.” “That’s his wish, undoubtedly. Take, for example, the apartment in Camden. That was clearly a distraction. What I should be looking for is my real pad. Surely my genuine home exists somewhere,” said Brock. Sarah took a sip of tea. “A thought just came to mind. If your real home exists, he’s probably trashed it or set it on fire.” “I’m wondering about its whereabouts. Someone knows, let’s face it. And if you wanted to hide something so badly, like the USB, where would you conceal it?” Sarah’s pondered. “Surely the last place on earth you would think of. Someone intelligent like you would consider being raided by Sighrus.” Brock shook his head and sunlight shined in through a gap in the grey shutters. “Of course, you’re right, I’d always expect a worst-case scenario like this. I’d guess I hid it somewhere near my real pad.” “Half an hour is up,” said Sarah. “A place called Vauxhall rings a bell. I wonder why. Too central London, I it, and likely crawling with police and security services. Gut instinct tells me to keep away for now. What about this installation in Richmond? It’s by the countryside—we could drive past, check it out. I’m in the mood, could jog a few memories. And it’s heading out of the big bad city,” said Brock. Sarah shook her head, frowning. “Did you hear what I said? Half an hour is up. Ty’s probably driven our transport away.” “The Mini’s probably been reported stolen. Time to grab a new one anyway.”

Sarah looked up at him. “Do you think Ty is the sort to report us?” “Unlikely, but if the psycho grabs him and tortures him, he’ll probably crack and blab our location. We should pack up and leave now.” Sarah shrugged, nodding towards the door. He remained seated, so she stood up, heading towards the window. “I can see the Mini in the outhouse. Come here and look, the big doors are pulled wide open,” said Sarah. He jumped up and climbed out of the window. Dashing across to the outbuilding, he peered around its big doors. A voice echoed within. “I’m by the car!” shouted Ty, standing up in front of him, wiping tears from his cheeks. Brock give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and Sarah stepped in behind him. “There you are! We wondered where the hell you had disappeared too. We considered making a run for it,” said Sarah. “I was desperate. I’m cut up inside. I popped out to the corner shop to buy some of these.” He held up a packet of cigarettes.

Brock gazed across at the Richmond installation from afar, sitting comfortably in his seat. Outside was cold, and the windows of the Mini steamed up. The building was small, red brick throughout, and in front a tiny concrete piece of land resembled a car park. Several vehicles were parked, but no black jeep or any sign of anyone. Hardly an installation. Brock had imagined much better. It was some dingy building stuck in urban countryside, difficult for an outsider to decipher as a secret complex. Brock racked his brain. He recalled nothing. “Are you sure this is the place he held you prisoner?” said Brock to Sarah. “Of course, the yellow taxi pulled up right outside the tall sign over there. I’m positive this is the place, although have to it that at the time it felt much

bigger. It’s so small.” Ty sank further into the enger seat of the Mini, pulling out a cigarette. Brock slammed the Mini into gear, hitting the gas pedal, pulling out and bringing it to a complete stop a couple of streets around the corner. Cigarette smoke filled the car and Sarah groaned, yanking at the door handle. “I’m refusing to get into the car again. It’s like a chimney on fire in there.” Brock stepped out of the car, the engine still running. Ty wound the window down, shoving his head through. “Why we stopped?” “I’m afraid I need a closer look. If I was anywhere near this building, it should jog a few memories. I’m pretty sure it will. I expected cameras the full length of the street. Anyone spotted any? And security, where are they? What kind of installation is this?” “This is another one of your crazy ideas. You’re right under their noses this time. Stupid!” snapped Sarah. “Hang on a minute,” said Brock, gazing into the distance. “If you needed to escape the building, let’s say on foot, which side of the road would you take?” Sarah shrugged. “Desperately running for your life,” he added. “Suppose I’d head for the bridge across there, but you have a phobia?” said Sarah. Ty stuck his head out the window, shouting, “Cop car six o’clock, Brock.” Brock spotted it at the bottom of the street. He and Sarah hurried back to the car and he hit the gas pedal, pulling the Mini out. “That was clever. Now you’ve attracted their attention. Look, they’re following us, what now?” said Sarah. Flashing blue lights filled the street followed by a deafening siren getting closer to the Mini. Brock hit the gas pedal to the floor, slamming them full force into

their seats. The police unit gained in hot pursuit; he swung the steering wheel, catching the tyres on the curb and knocking them sideways. “Brock, you’re going too fast!” screamed Sarah. “Hate to say this,” said Ty, “but the white van over there, some guy sitting in it just spoke into some radio. I think it’s an unmarked vehicle.” Brock glanced in his mirror; behind the police car was a black Audi, with two figures in grey suits staring right back at him. “OK, this was a mistake, I it it. I should have thought it through more clearly. But don’t worry, I’ll get us out. You’ll see,” said Brock. “Told you it was a ridiculous idea,” muttered Sarah. Brock accelerated into a road; the bridge appeared in front. His stomach churned. He shot a glance at a road leading off to the left, but two red no-entry signs smacked into view. His stomach spasmed like he was going to puke, and his hands trembled as he gripped the steering wheel. Sarah screamed at him, telling him to go across the bridge. Too late; he yanked the steering wheel left, driving the Mini forward between the no-entry signs. A yellow taxi appearing in front, heading right for him. He swerved to the right but the Mini was travelling too fast. He grappled with the steering wheel, trying to turn the car into position, but then he spotted the bridge again. For a moment, his concentration dropped. He veered into the yellow taxi and an almighty bang pierced the air as the Mini smashed head-on into a concrete plinth near the underside of the bridge. After a few seconds of silence, Sarah lifted her head, blood running down her cheeks. “Get out of the car, the police unit is turning in. Head for the underside of the bridge on the scaffold,” shouted Ty. Sarah pulled at Brock, but he dare not look up at her bloodied face. He shut his eyes tight; her hand grabbed his and she pulled him towards her. She was sniffling and coughing, screaming at him to get out the car. Ty shouted again,

beckoning them to run towards the underside of the bridge, the shouting quieter until he heard nothing. A hand pushed him forward, and he fell out of the car. “The police are jumping out their cars, move faster, man,” shouted Ty again. Someone pulled at Brock and he followed, the cold hitting his face. His eyes flew open. They were directly under the stone-built bridge, hovering over on the scaffold, high, fierce water smashing against the rocks below. Automatically, his stomach let go, and he threw up into the river below. An impulse of some kind hit him. A fierce force of nature pulled at him like a magnetic undertow yanking his whole body. “Our options right now don’t look good,” shouted Sarah. “Any suggestions would be good right now.” “Climb further into the bridge, it will buy us some time. A boat’s coming this way,” Ty shouted back. “Wait!” Brock grabbed onto the rusty scaffolding pole with his life, throwing himself to another, reaching for another bridge arch. He kept on reaching, feeling around, eventually grabbing at something . Pulling out a dirty package, he held it up. “It’s the USB!” he screamed across. Sarah and Ty had blank expressions on their faces as they gripped onto the scaffolding. Onshore, the uniformed police stood hovering over the edge of the water, shouting and waving them over. Brock waved across to Sarah, beckoning both to follow him. Sarah shook her head. Brock’s balance became tangled; grabbing onto another pole, his foot slipped and he was tossed violently into the air, splashing into the fierce cold tidal waters below, the fast current pulling him downstream.

Chapter 30

The bitterly cold current sucked him inward. Sirens blared in the distance and water slapped against his face, dragging him under. The current appeared to be pulling him east, towards London. He grappled with the water, pushing himself to the surface, catching a desperate breath, all the while clutching the package tight to his body. Struggling to keep afloat, he coughed out the dirty Thames saltwater, his body freezing. His eyes stung and he could barely see. His grip on the package started to loosen as the current swept him to the centre of the river. Suddenly the fierce slapping of the water was broken by the chugging of an engine roaring towards him. A pearly white boat was heading directly for him, crashing through the waves. As he resurfaced once more, a man shouted at him, throwing ov er a rope. “Get in, you idiot! Grab the rope. If you think I’m spending the rest of my days behind bars, think again.” Ty’s face was bright red. Brock snatched at the rope; for a split second, he wondered if he was hallucinating. He focused his stinging eyes towards the small white boat. Ty stood aboard, hovering over him and grappling the rope. Brock wrapped it firmly around his forearm tightly and Ty pulled him in. Brock strained his eyes to see Sarah, but a wave smashed over him, the current dragging him under into cold darkness. A tug on the rope pulled him back into the light and he gasped for breath as his body smashed against the side of the boat. A hand grabbed his shoulder, hauling him over the side and throwing him onto the deck. His numb cold hands let go of the package and it skittered across the deck. Choking and coughing, saltwater spewed out of his mouth. He shot a glance towards Ty, who was standing over the wheel of the boat pulling some sort of lever. “Where’s Sarah? Have the police snatched her?” “I’m behind you!” Brock hauled himself up. “I shouted at you on the scaffold,” she said. “I was beckoning you over. This

boat floated next to us—someone had roped it ashore. Ty jumped on it saying he could hot-wire it, but to our shock someone had left the keys in! The water’s freezing—why on earth did you jump in?” said Sarah. “I slipped . . . the current pulled me further in.” “We’ve got company, guys!” screamed Ty. Brock peered over the side of the boat; a police speedboat darted towards them, a uniformed police officer watching them through his binoculars. Blue lights flashed across the waves and the police boat was gaining speed towards them. “Will this damn boat go any faster? Speed up the knots, man! We’ve got the USB now. If the police catch us, they’ll hand it to MI5 . . . or worse still into Sighrus’s grubby hands,” shouted Brock. “The throttle is rammed down. I don’t think it goes any faster,” shouted Ty. “Look, the police boat is gaining on us,” shrieked Sarah. “Do something!” Brock jumped up, water dripping on the deck below his feet. Sliding his hand into the back of his tros, he went for his pistol. It was gone. It must have slipped out while he was fighting for his life in the water. He groaned, kicking the side of the boat. “If this gets into Sighrus’s dirty hands, everything is over.” His gaze was caught by something in the distance to the left of the shore. “They’re gaining on us,” cried Sarah. Brock spotted a PVC plastic door leading to downstairs and stampeded down the tight wooden stairs. The cabin was compact and warm. His bare hands ripped through cupboard after cupboard. A voice suddenly came out of nowhere. “Excuse me, what the hell are you doing in my boat?” Brock grabbed a large stick next to him and swung around. A young man, head shaved, lay under a duvet on a bed. He looked terrified.

“Oh, sorry, mate. The boat’s in trouble—where’s the flare?” said Brock calmly. “Please, get off my boat. I can hear the police outside. I’m telling you nothing!” Brock lunged towards him, grabbing his throat. “The flare, I said!” The man pointed to a cupboard above some complex navigation equipment and Brock let go of his neck. He fell back onto the bed. Dashing over to the cupboard, Brock yanked at it so hard the door came off. A black box sat within and he snatched it, pulling it open and hurrying up the stairs to the back of the boat. Grabbing the gun, he inserted the flare. The police boat was pretty close now. Two men in full police attire stared directly at him. Brock pointed the flare gun directly towards the boat and fired it into the main front window. It bounced down off the window, exploding in a bright white flame that knocked the speedboat off course. But the flame quickly disappeared and the speedboat regained position almost immediately. Quickly loading it again, Brock pointed the flare gun towards a side open window as he spotted an oncoming yacht. He fired its contents straight through the window and an almighty flash appeared, lighting up the cabin and sending the police vessel veering off course, smashing into the yacht. Brock sprinted to the front of the boat, pointing to a shape about a quarter of a mile in the distance. Ty and Sarah stared at him. “Are you crazy?” said Sarah. “Another police boat is trying to catch up behind, and it soon will. Our choice is limited. Head over to it. We have to at least try and expose whatever is on this USB. Otherwise, it will be covered up. We owe it to our Queen and country ...” Ty stared at him but swung the boat’s wheel to the direction of the shore. “Hate to tell you this but …” “I know, but as the saying goes—there is a first time for everything,” said Brock. The boat came to a crashing halt against the concrete wall of the shore. They all jumped out. The skinhead appeared on deck, still in his pyjamas, and furiously steered the boat away, back out over the water. “We only borrowed it,” muttered Sarah.

“This’ll be the first time I’ve attempted to hot-wire a helicopter,” Ty said brightly.

Brock sunk into the leather upholstery seat, water dripping from his clothes, and eagerly glanced at the instruments and levers. Ty peered at the controls, aimlessly searching for wires. The blank look on his face said it all. “You can finish your inspection, Ty—seems the owners conveniently stored the keys in the slot ready for a quick getaway,” said Brock, laughing. He fired it up, pulling at a lever and the helicopter’s rotary blades outside swung, thrusting them into the air and into the sky. “It’s an integrated avionics system. It’s pretty familiar, I think. I should be able to pilot it,” said Brock. Sarah stared at him. Ty pulled at the overhead radio, sticking it into his ears. “You changed your tune—in the boat you seemed to be all in yourself,” she said. “Think it’s the cold. The Thames froze me through. As I hung onto the bridge’s scaffolding, the anxiety went through me like a razor and something snapped. I ed what happened . . . I darted from the very same building to the bridge. The building is much bigger inside, I think. I vaguely Dalton handing me the USB and somehow Sighrus found out. I legged it and they chased me, but I eventually jumped onto the scaffolding and popped the whole package into a stone encasement for safe hiding. I I waited for a short while before eventually jumping into the main road, but then I was spotted, approached with a baseball bat and everything was a blank after.” “And the old woman helped you escape after all?” said Sarah. “No! I was no prisoner,” Brock said. “I was there of my own free will. But this mysterious old woman likely picked up what was happening and warned me to get out” The droning hum of the helicopter surrounded them as they cross the tightly spread buildings. Brock pulled on the lever and a light came on.

“You’ve knowledge of flying, I can tell,” said Sarah. “From where, may I ask?” “You could say that. Where should we fly this whirlybird to? The north, Yorkshire Moors, Edinburgh, Paris, America, Australia perhaps.” “Let’s give Edinburgh a wide berth, you know what happened last time,” said Ty. “And we may encounter problems with regards to airspace in some of these places. How about popping back to the hotel? A delicious chocolate eclair is sitting patiently in the kitchen waiting for me,” said Sarah. “Sorry to disappoint but I scoffed it this morning. Or is it the wine you need?” Sarah’s face reddened and she quickly changed the subject. “I imagined us being caught for sure. In the boat I’d pretty much given up,” she said. “Doubt we’re out of the woods just yet. I’m listening in to the radio communications through these earmuffs—they’re sending in the police choppers,” said Ty. “We should land this thing and run,” said Brock. “In London? The whole place is built up—an aircraft like this requires space. Could head north and find some farmland country fields, land it and dump it,” said Ty. “Surely somewhere nearby has room to land this monster, but my mind’s a blank,” said Brock. “The police will catch us,” Sarah burst out, tears running down her face. “I know it. That horrible man will walk free and be allowed to inflict a terrible tragedy on everyone.” A tall building appeared in front and Brock pulled on a lever, turning the chopper slightly left, directing the craft sideways. A red light sprung on in the control dashboard beeping. He slapped his hand across his forehead. “What’s wrong?” said Sarah. “Nothing to worry about. Just the fuel gauge indicating we’re out of fuel,” said

Brock. “What?” cried Sarah. The chopper poised in the air, Ty tapped on the earphones of the radio. “He’s saying that if we don’t find somewhere to land soon, this craft will be up in flames on the side of some building. And if we jump mid-air. our bodies will be shattered on impact.” Sarah sniffled. “Hang on, we’re clear of Richmond,” Brock said. “Hyde Park is to our right now. Regent’s Park will be coming up soon.” “We can’t land here—it’s brimming with people,” said Sarah. “I know, but Hampstead Heath’s coming up. The craft will make it, I think.” “You think?” screeched Sarah. “The hotel car park is too small. How much do you know Hampstead Heath? It’s a big place, surely you can recommend somewhere.” Sarah shook her head furiously. “What do you want me to do? Recommend a local takeaway? Get real!” she shouted. “If we land it across this park, the authorities will be all over us. A craft of this size will be spotted and attract the wrong type of attention. We’ll struggle to get out of the park, and where will we go? If this little machine can make it further, we’ll better our chances,” said Brock. “Wait, there is the Hampstead Heath extension. If there’s enough fuel we can land it there. It’s a quiet park but nobody ever goes there,” said Sarah. Brock breathed out, glancing at the fuel gauge. Sarah peered through the ovalshaped window of the helicopter to the ground below. Moments ed and then she screamed. “We made it! The park is over there.” They all peered down.

Chapter 31

Brock snatched at the plastic package, ripping it open in the dimly lit bar back at the derelict hotel. The USB drive looked damp and little spots of rust had appeared in its metal. He turned it over in his hands while the other tw o wat ched. “What we going to do?” asked Ty. Brock slid the drive onto the bar, glaring at him. “This drive needs to be inserted into some sort of computer. We need a laptop,” said Brock. “Here? And what about the money? These items are costly,” muttered Sarah. “Think he’s implying I steal one,” said Ty. “Absolutely out of the question. The authorities have probably found the chopper by now. They’ll be swarming over the whole area. He’ll be caught, Brock.” Ty sprawled himself over the barstool while Brock stared at the drive. “She’s right. This whole experience is setting alarm bells ringing in my head. I wish I could think straight. I know it sounds crazy, but all this debacle is starting to make sense. We should pack our stuff and move out in case the hotel’s raided,” said Brock.

He snatched a hairdryer from a room upstairs and plugged it in near the bar, waving it over the drive. Then he poured himself a glass of red. “How can this be?” he muttered. “I’m so close. I someone babbling on about computers once. Pissed the hell out of me at the time, but I could sure

use his help now.” Sarah stepped towards him. “Sounds silly but this hotel … it’s grown on me. Are you talking about Meriden, by any chance?” “That’s the guy!,” said Brock. “I watched you chatting at the party. He can be a right annoying nerd at times, but he’s alright, I guess. One thing you’re right about: he knows a tremendous amount about computers. He’s studying at Oxford, getting an MA in IT. I reckon he would be able to fix it,” said Sarah. Brock poked at the drive, picking up his glass and necking the rest of the wine. “Doubt it. Where would we start looking for him? How do you know him? Your animal rights hacking days?”. Ty raised a surprised eyebrow. “Hacking? Him?” Sarah scoffed. “You’re joking. He’s annoyingly very by the book. Lacy and I visited him a couple of times. He fixed up her computer.” Brock studied his empty glass. “However, there is a problem,” she said. He picked up the wine bottle, pouring some into the glass as he waited for Sarah to speak. “He resides in Richmond,” she said. “Maybe I should pop out and acquire a laptop,” Ty said. “Save us the hassle. I know where to find one.” Brock rolled the wine around his glass. “We should pay him a visit.”

A cool breeze swept across the quiet street. Meriden’s house was inconveniently located: only several streets around the corner from the installation. Brock, Sarah and Ty were sprawled across the seats of a stolen dark blue Ford Mustang. Sarah

pointed into an overgrown garden; dark green trees hid part of the house and shrubbery grew over the brick fence. “It’s the one with the blue door. He lives with his mother,” Sarah said. “I have a feeling this is going to go horribly wrong,” said Ty. “Me too. You mentioned he’s very by the book … that worries me, and my pistol is located somewhere at the bottom of the Thames,” Brock said. “Use your charms … I think he likes you. At least that was the impression I got that night at the party,” she said. “I can see why—you’re very attractive. However, a thought has just entered my head. He might be at work. If his mother answers the door, she might recognise us and try to call the police.” “Then we have to stop her,” said Ty. Brock started to open the Mustang door, but was startled by three men appearing out of thin air fast, approaching the car. Ty frantically rubbed the wires under the dash, firing up the engine, but one of the men pulled at the door while the other stepped in the road in front of the Mustang, his back towards them. “Hello, Brock,” said a familiar voice. Meriden hovered over them, looking puzzled. Brock sighed with relief. “Hi. I need a big favour. Please.” “A favour? Did you see yourself on television? The news presenter said you’re a dangerous fugitive infiltrating our security services. CCTV shows you gatecrashing the security services conference south of the river and attempting to kill agents of her Majesty the Queen. And you need a favour?” said Meriden. “Meriden, it’s all lies. Please, help him, he’s desperate,” said Sarah. “Who are these two people in front of the car?” asked Brock. “I’ll need to think about it. This could get me into serious trouble. I’d go down for a long time, harbouring fugitives. Let me ask my mates to leave. We can go into the house.”

Meriden stepped towards the two men, chatting to them for several minutes before both eventually walked up the street in the opposite direction. “Do you think his mates will grass us up?” whispered Ty. Brock shrugged, and Meriden edged around the car towards them, signalling them in the direction of the house. They all followed. “I’d like to apologise for running out of the house the other night at the party—” said Brock. “Lacy spiked his drink,” interrupted Sarah. “The television presenter warned the public to be vigilant. Said you’re all extremely dangerous. Lacy spiked his drink?” asked Meriden. They followed him into the green-patterned carpeted hallway to a room on the left. It was packed to the brim with books, and several pushbikes cluttered the walls. Model airplanes hovered over them, dangling from the ceiling. Ty shot a glance at Brock, trying to contain his laughter. “If my mum spots you, she’ll call the police. Someone stand against the door,” said Meriden. He wandered towards the end of the room and sprawled over a chair, sticking his feet on the crammed desk amongst computer parts and random papers. The thunder of someone coming down the stairs shook the room walls, but everyone remained silent. “Put your foot on the door, Brock. If she opens it and sees us, you’ll be in serious trouble. What exactly are you asking?” “We wondered if someone with your incredible knowledge and intelligence would be able to help us get some files out of this USB drive,” said Sarah. Brock nodded, holding the door handle tight and keeping his foot firmly in place. He threw the drive to Meriden and he inspected it, fiddling with it, pulling faces at it and staring into his computer screen. “Technically speaking, and in all probability, the data will still be stored on here.

I could decipher it, pull the files over to my desktop and copy them to a new USB drive. Even if it is somewhat waterlogged. If the chip is corroded inside, though, it’s unlikely any technician would be able to access the data, depending on the damage.” They all stared at him as though he was some kind of scientist in a lab. “Luckily, I’m an expert. I’ll do what I can. You see, if I take the memory chip from the board inside the USB, I can try and jig it about so the files can be pulled. It’s possible, but depending on the corrosion, some files could be missing. Leave it with me and pop in, say, tomorrow morning.” Brock felt his body tense. “We need it now.” Meriden shrugged. “This is specialised work. I need time and I’m popping out with some acquaintances shortly. This is the best I can do.” Brock stepped over, snatching the drive back. “What choice do we have?” Sarah asked. “Leave it with him, collect it tomorrow as he says. He offered to fix it.” “You hardly know him, Sarah. Leaving something of this value while he is somewhere gallivanting could be dangerous,” said Brock. “Keep your voice down! If my mum hears you arguing like this, she’ll call the police station. Oh, what the hell …seeing as it’s you, Brock … Give it to me. I’ll do it now, but it’ll take a while.”

Brock was sprawled across the floor next to one of Meriden’s pushbikes. Sarah was engaged in her usual agitated routine, insisting on fresh coffee to perk up her severe lack of caffeine. Meriden shouted to his mother to dish up four steamy cups of the stuff and she placed them next to the door shortly after. A couple of hours ed. Meriden ripped the drive apart piece by piece using the most fascinating, intricate tools, giving out a long-running commentary on everything he touched. Brock envisaged doing the whole damn job in five minutes, despite the component requiring extreme care. After all, he only

required the little chip inside. Eventually, the grand finale arrive., Meriden slipped the tiny chip inside a small device he called a reader, anti-climatically plugging it into his computer. “Oh dear, I just need to by the . Did you know it required such a thing? Funnily enough, this very thought came to mind as soon as you ed me the drive. This could be a serious problem.” “I may be able to hack my way in—” said Sarah. “Try Sphere,” interrupted Brock. Meriden tapped it in, shaking his head. Brock’s thoughts jumbled in desperation. He needed to crack the code; their lives depended on it. Words tumbled through his brain, seemingly with no connection to anything. “Try Ranstone Park, all one word!” he blurted out. Sarah stared at him, and Meriden tapped it into the computer. A blank box lit up on the computer screen, and moments later files appeared. Brock gasped as Meriden pulled open his desk drawer, revealing a large array of coloured USB drives. His eyes firmly on the screen, he reached in, grabbing one. “I’ll copy the files over to this fresh drive. They should transfer in a couple of minutes. What’s on these files anyway? Forgot to ask.” “Err, thank you. This means a lot to all of us. We appreciate your efforts. Maybe we can buy you a drink sometime,” said Sarah. Brock stepped from the door. “Any chance you could make three copies?” After a few minutes, Meriden ed three USB drives over to Brock. “Maybe we should view the files, you know, first, and get them sent to relevant parties, if you know what I mean,” said Sarah. The door burst open and Meriden’s mother appeared, clutching her dark blue dress, her grey hair wild. “I know who you animals are!” she shouted. “I’ve called the police. They’ll be

here in a couple of minutes. Get away from my boy!”

Brock clutched the wheel of the Mustang as he steered in the opposite direction of the installation. He was hyper-aware of the road ahead, and at the same time shaky. All three sat with their eyes forward, watching the road in complete silence, Brock was worried about Meriden and the fact he had ed the entire contents onto his computer. His promise to erase the files bothered him; it was likely he was viewing them right now. But showing them to the police might get him killed. He hit the accelerator. Spots of rain splashed onto the windscreen and he distracted himself by clicking the wipers, veering slightly into the curb. “Slow down,” Sarah cried out. “Police will be on every corner. You’ll grab their attention. Can I ask a question? Where exactly are we heading?” “Something sprang into my mind in Meriden’s house … something important, and I’d like to investigate further so we’re heading to—” He slammed his foot hard on the brakes and the Mustang skidded, coming to a sudden halt. He peered through the enger window; Gunner stared directly back into the Ford Mustang. Brock urged Sarah to wind down the window and Gunner stepped across. He seemed speechless, eventually opening his mouth to speak. “What are you doing around here?” “Just chilling. I thought you lived in a flat across town,” said Brock. “Might be a good idea to chill somewhere else. We should drive,” said Sarah. “Me, I work here now … fancy place around the corner. What’s going on, Brock? I’ve seen you guys on television,” said Gunner. “I’m in a tack of trouble. Do you have a computer by any chance?” “He sacked me, you know … Sergei. Truth is, I hated the place anyway. I was glad to leave. This new job is far more exciting. A lot more challenging.”

A siren sounded and flashing blue lights filled the street heading right towards them. Brock ducked his head and the police unit sped past and into the distance. “It’s alright, you’re safe. The police have pulled into the junction ahead. I’m worried about you, Brock. All types of people keep asking a lot of questions. In fact, in the end, I’m glad that tosser Sergei sacked me. I’m sick of it. Even at the bloody gun range … the guy who shot Lacy is a long-standing member here. Miserable git pops in on a Tuesday night. Oh, what’s his name, Sighrus?” “Sighrus? Gun range? Where the hell are you working? Get in!” shouted Brock. Gunner jumped into the back and Brock hit the gas, swinging the Mustang around so fast it skidded across the road. “What these people are saying on television is rubbish. You know me very well. I’d appreciate a massive favour,” said Brock. “Yes, we need quick access to a computer. You have a laptop at home?” asked Sarah. “Sod the laptop,” Brock said. “How about getting us some guns? Can you by any chance dig up Sighrus’s home address? I’d love to pay him a visit.” “Suppose so. Might get into some trouble, though.” “Please, Gunner, I know I can rely on you. I’m desperate, and this monster Sighrus is a walking time bomb.” “You’re telling me. The minute I set my eyes on him I thought something was very off about him,” said Gunner. “Brock, we need to get these files over to the relevant people. It’s our only chance,” said Sarah. “Files?” Gunner asked. “We’ve some compromising evidence to bang this Sighrus up for a very long time. Have him banged to rights.” “Err, what you’re asking is a little out of my remit,” said Gunner.

“Please? Pretty please?” said Brock. “Surely you want this monster locking up, don’t you?” said Ty. Gunner needed much persuasion but eventually agreed, and they discussed how they could snatch some guns out the gun store. Sighrus’s home address would be fairly easy; they just required access to the gun range computer. Getting the guns, however, would be more of an effort: a massive effort. Brock devised a plan to make themselves , attend the first session, and snatch the guns. However, Ty pointed out all new could only be issued low-level guns. Brock needed to acquire more top-level guns and somehow get them out. “We heard Sergei was sacked,” said Brock. “That’s correct—sacked for robbing the till, but it was me. Not for the money, I’m no thief, I just hated the old codger. Sergei worked the reception that day. He popped outside chatting to someone, the reception was empty so I nipped behind it, snatched the cash, and made it look as though he did it. At least that’s what I thought. “He started a sacking spree—first kicking the instructors, a cleaner, it’s obvious I would be next. Truth is, the owners knew it was me all along … they watched me on the CCTV. I should have realised but they were desperate and happy to boot Sergei out. He brought in some Russian friend of his and they caused some right trouble.” “What happened to you when the men burst into the gym and shot Lacy?” said Brock. “Absolutely poleaxed. One of the guys knocked me flat on the floor. I was out cold. I came around quickly, though, and slipped into a cupboard. Shortly after all the commotion, the men disappeared. Sergei called an ambulance, but they ignored me, and just put Lacy into a body bag and whisked her off. Strange thing … they hushed everything up. I gathered by this point that some serious shit going on. And by the way, Lacy’s funeral is on Friday,” said Gunner. Sarah sniffled. “Unlikely we can make it. I find it odd why Sergei employed me in the first place. Did he know something?” pondered Brock.

“I’d love to go to the funeral,” said Sarah. “You reckon Sergei is involved with Sighrus somehow?” asked Ty. Brock shook his head. “Russian agent perhaps?” “Doubt it very much. Sergei’s not agent material, more like a screwed-up alcoholic.”

Gunner stepped out the Mustang and made his way into the thick brick building. They waited five minutes before jumping out of the car and following. Gunner was perched on a chair behind the reception desk, staring into the computer. He jotted Sighrus’s address on some paper and ed it to Brock. Then he ed them into the computer using fake names and addresses before pointing to a grey metal door. All three ambled through it into a big cold hall. A cage hung over them, separating them from the range, and an old man sat behind a dark reception desk. The place was empty, and the old man insisted on a whole ten-minute briefing. Brock managed to style his way through the chat and the old man handed over three Glock 19s of fairly decent calibre. Pacing over to the range opposite, Brock aimed towards a target, letting off a round. His shooting was almost perfect: only a couple of bullets strayed. A woman shot him an intrigued stare. Quickly, he signalled to the others, and they quickly headed to the door. The old man spotted them, and the woman across the range started screaming. “It’s him!” Brock sprinted over to the door, but it was on a control lock. Ty darted over to the old man, pointing the gun directly at his temple and reaching his hand around, fumbling for the lock. Brock slammed himself against the door and they sprinted through, out of the complex towards the Mustang. A siren blared in the distance; Sarah let out a big gasp. Jumping in, Ty twiddled the wires, starting the engine, and Brock hit the accelerator. The tyres skidded as they headed directly

towards the home of Sighrus.

Chapter 32

“B rock, hear me out, please. This place is far too dangerous. Think of the tight security around his house … chances are the street is crawling with police,” s aid S arah. “She’s right. First we should dump these USB drives in a safe place. Sighrus might be working late somewhere. He’s probably not even home,” Ty said, scratching his head. The busy traffic slowed and Brock cruised the Mustang along. “We wait for him.” “Another one of your crazy ideas. If we’re pulled now, they’ll snatch the drive and our lives into the bargain. Let’s go through the contents first to know what we’re dealing with.” Sarah held her hand out. Brock ignored her, manoeuvring the Mustang onto a dual carriageway. “This is why you are both staying put in the car. I’ll park it somewhere near his house, suss out the security, and only make my move if it’s safe. In the meantime, you and Ty take the car over the bridge. Give me half an hour and I’ll meet you by the bridge somehow. Anything happens, you both drive up north and hand the USB to—” “The black jeep!” shouted Sarah. “Over there.” Brock stared out of the window. The dark figure next to Sighrus slipped out of view. He slipped back into the first lane, and the jeep slipped into the second lane behind a silver Audi heading directly towards them. Sarah wrung her hands. “What if they’ve spotted us already? I told you this was a bad idea.” She slipped her hand into the door compartment and pulled out a newspaper, holding it across her face. Ty ducked down to lie across the back seat. “They’re close now, almost at the side of the car,” said Sarah.

Brock checked his wing mirror; his view of the enger in the jeep was obscured. Noticing a left turn coming up, he indicated left, slowly easing the car into the turning. The jeep rode by on the main road, and he swung the car back into the dual carriageway. Brock followed the car, squinting into the front enger seat. “Do you think he spotted us?” said Sarah. “Judging by his reaction, no.” “I hate to tell you this, Brock, but the guy in the car next to him … he mighty resembles our prime minister.” “You’re having a laugh,” said Brock. “Perhaps it’s time to split. Pull into the next left turning quickly. Security services must be following him all over the street,” said Ty. “His car’s switching lanes. I think he’s about to turn right. Maybe we should continue on the road,” said Sarah. “And if he continues?” asked Ty, “Well, I’m screwed if I know,” said Sarah. “We should head to the hotel. It’s safer there.” “It’ll be crawling with police. We need to find a new t. Anyway, I’m following him to the house,” said Brock. “The prime minister is sitting in his car and you’re going to pay him a visit?” Sarah put her head in her hands.

Sighrus’s jeep pulled up into the driveway of a big mansion house, dark-green ivy hanging across its entire structure. Automatic gates slowly closed behind him; it was the exact address Gunner had written on the piece of paper. Brock slowed the Mustang, noticing two occupied cars moving into place on each side

of the road. The jeep door swung open and Sighrus stepped out, slamming it behind him, some files under his arm. He made his way to the front door of the house and the other man followed him. He swung his keys towards the door but it swung wide open. A little girl with long ponytails stood in the doorway. “Hi, Daddy!” she shouted. He lunged forward, lifting the little girl into his arms and slamming the door behind him. Brock hit the accelerator, pulling into a nearby street. “Take the car, Ty. Drive up that way and I’ll meet you in about twenty minutes. Trust me, I’ll be there.” Before anyone could say a word, Brock jumped out, throwing the keys into Ty’s lap and hurrying up the street. He slipped behind a wall, scrutinising the two silver cars full of security services agents. There were probably more lurking. Jumping over the gate of another big mansion two houses up, he made his way around the back. He ran his hands reassuringly over the Glock 19 in his jacket pocket. As he stepped into the garden, a dog barked from inside the house. He pushed himself behind the fence, watching Sighrus making for a shed. Among the shrubbery, his two children played together. Brock waited, as Sighrus stepped inside the shed. A woman appeared and both kids meandered towards her, holding some toys. Brock slid quietly and slowly towards the shrubbery; his heart started to race. Making his way to the shed, he peered. Sighrus was rummaging through equipment, shouting out to the children, adjusting a crucifix around his neck. Brock hovered over him, pointing his 9mm Glock. Sighrus glanced up. “Stop being ridiculous, Brock.” “Why?” “You’re holding everyone to ransom. I only want you to stop all of this stupidity.” Sighrus reached into a box, grabbing a black leather wallet and throwing it towards him. It landed on the floor. Outside, there was the click of a gun being loaded. “It’s yours. Pick it up.”

“I’m only holding you to ransom, I know you’re working for Russia.” He knelt, slipping it into his tro pocket. Rustling in the garden and someone screaming in the distance startled him. He aimed the Glock towards Sighrus’s leg. Two men in black suits were sprinting towards him; Sighrus’s wife was pulling the kids into the house. Sighrus snatched at a white decorator’s sheet just as Brock fired, and the bullet missed. “Give yourself up, Brock. It’s over.” Brock’s finger massaged the trigger as Sighrus stared at him. “If they shoot, you’re finished,” said Brock. “Hold your fire,” shouted Sighrus to the men outside. “Tell me what Sphere is.” Sighrus’s breathing was heavy. He whispered something to him, but the sound of a gunshot outside pierced the air. Brock dived onto the floor. A familiar voice was shouting outside. “Come on, Brock, these men are everywhere.” You have a nice daughter, Sighrus, you play silly and she—” “Don’t shoot in front of my kids!” Brock peered around the shed. More shooting. But the men in black suits were taking cover. Then he saw Ty beckoning to him from the fence. “What are you on, a suicide mission? Get out, moron!” Brock broke out of the shed and sprinted towards the fence. A spray of automatic gunfire filled the garden like a hail storm. Ty fired back into them as Brock somersaulted over the fence, landing into some shrubs. Both sprinted across the garden, over the concrete patio, and jumped over another fence around the front of a house. The suited men sprinted towards them, spraying bullets in their direction. Ty and Brock ran down the tree-lined main street, turning into another street where Sarah was patiently waiting in the Mustang. Brock snatched at the

door and Ty twiddled the wires underneath to fire up the engine. Brock hit the accelerator and the car rolled forward. He checked his rear-view mirror; suited men in the distance pointed their Glocks, firing towards them. Sarah’s hands were trembling and she was crying. “You nearly got us killed again,” she wept. “I’m sorry, I should have known better. I just needed to know,” said Brock. “To the country,” said Ty. “No, I have one last visit to make.” “Oh God,” said Sarah.

Chapter 33

Brock hit the brakes pulling the Mustang between some trees on a quiet street close to the residence of Lady Ranskill. He sprawled over the seat, overlooking the silent pitch -b l ack h eath. “It’s unlikely she’ll be expecting me,” he said to Ty and Sarah. “For my security, I’d like to disable the two secret servicemen in the car over there. I have a surprise for her. …” After several minutes spent discussing Brock’s plan, all three pushed their car doors open and slipped out, heading towards the two men in the car. Sarah smiled at the men, tapping on their window; the other two stood close by in the pitch-black park, ready to pounce. “Excuse me, sir, could you tell me where I could find the Tube station?” The man slowly wound down the window, pointing to the top of the street. He had just opened his mouth to speak when Brock jumped out, grabbing at him and yanking him through the window and onto the ground. The other man jumped out of the car and Ty stepped up to him, pointing his Glock towards his head. Brock swiftly fastened the handcuffs around their wrists, and Sarah ripped one of the men’s shirts into several pieces, tying the makeshift gags around their mouths. Ty pulled open the boot of the car and the two security men were rolled inside. Brock paused by Lady Ranskill’s front door, then slipped into the neighbour’s garden and made his way around the back. Locating and cutting the telephone wire, he moved across to the kitchen window. She was lounging over the big dining table, nibbling some cake and sipping coffee. He tapped on the window; it startled her and she looked up, making her way to the back door. “Hello, Brock, nice of you to pop by.” “Are you going to invite me in for some coffee?” said Brock.

“Of course,” said Lady Ranskill. She stepped away from the door, staring right at him as he walked into the kitchen. He rubbed his hand over his jacket, feeling for the Glock, as he sat down. “Let me switch the percolator on,” said Lady Ranskill. Flicking the switch, she hovered over him by the table. “Sarah missed her flight, I gather. No worries, we have another one arranged.” “As soon as I jumped on the bridge in Richmond, I ed everything,” Brock said. She stepped away towards the coffee machine. “It’s dangerous here, Brock. Outside is swarming with MI5—they’ll have no hesitation in killing you.” “Stupid me volunteered to MI5. I went into the training. Quite harsh methods … I’m sure you know what I mean. I knew Sighrus very well –you are very aware of that too. After all, he is the top-brass trainer of the security services.” Lady Ranskill stepped further next to a set of knives and reached over, grabbing one. “Then I met Dalton. I knew I hated the little pipsqueak from somewhere. His attempt to expose Sighrus was good. Do you agree? And Sighrus found out, holding me against my will at the training ground, the installation in Richmond. Dalton arranged my escape. I’m surprised Sighrus allowed him to live. Sighrus had gathered I had compromising information on a drive and simply ordered his trainees to chase after me.” “Do you have the drive?” said Lady Ranskill. “It’s in a very safe place. He arranged for me to take the drive and it on to the powers that be. You, I believe. Stupid Dalton failed to make other copies— the one in my possession is the only one. Doubt Sighrus knew. That’s probably why he allowed Dalton to live so long. Sure, he could have ed the drive onto you, but Sighrus would have him monitored and his equipment tapped. He knew he’d be killed in an instant, so it’s unlikely he would risk his life. Mine, maybe,” said Brock. “So, give me the drive, have Sighrus over and done with. It’s what you want,”

said Lady Ranskill. “Because, unknown to Dalton, you were working for Sighrus all along.” “These are extraordinary allegations you are making against me. You’ve completely lost it.” “It’s the money. Stop you going bankrupt and having to give your precious house up? How much did he offer for the involvement?” Brock yanked the Glock out of his jacket pocket. “The CIA knew about Sighrus. I worked that out for myself. Somehow, he connected himself to the Kremlin. They probably paid him a considerable amount of money and offered a safe haven in Russia.” “This is utter rubbish. You must stay out of this, Brock. The CIA are my friends. I can help you … I can get you and this Sarah out of the country. You’ve gone rogue now. You’re on the run and a known fugitive, and only I can help. Everyone out there thinks you’re a carjacker and a murderer. We can help each other.” “But it’s you who is rogue. You left me little choice but to run. The security services meeting in the 401 club to have Sighrus called out and arrested … it was rubbish and you know it. It’s why I managed to get away so easily—I bet you or someone else ordered the agents to deliberately miss, let me go, and eventually bring you the USB. That’s why I just left you on the floor. I’d already clicked you’d be safe and that it was another setup. Sadly, one I walked into again.” “But you still came … Baffling.” Lady Ranskill smirked. She gripped the kitchen knife tightly. Brock aimed the Glock higher towards her head. “He was going to pay you substantial amounts of money to befriend me and acquire the USB, wasn’t he?” She didn’t say anything. “I visited his house, or should we say mansion. No way he could afford such luxuries on his salary. Come to think of it, neither can you on your husband’s income.”

He dug deep in his jacket pocket, pulling out the drive. Lady Ranskill moved her eyes to it and then back to the Glock. “Sebastian works as foreign secretary. He attended the MI5 conference too and watched you parading yourself around like a fool, but he’s done nothing wrong. Things were withheld from my husband, important things. The prime minister takes control of intelligence when he’s elected, Sebastian deals with them and signs authorisations for intelligence-gathering operations. You’re delusional, Brock. This place is bugged. They are listening in, and there are agents are outside.” “Not any more. Oh and I cut the line to your friends at the box,” said Brock. Her eyes widened as her fingers trembled round the knife handle. “You found my weak point,” Brock continued. “Sarah. This flight you arranged … a ruse so you could snatch her. I cottoned on early enough. You thought that if you snatched her, I would crack and hand over the USB. Then you’d probably have arranged to kill us both.” “And you’ve played it by the book? You have made a pig’s ear of it all. Murdering here and stealing a car there. The press is all over it now. She shook her head in disbelief and grabbed another knife with her spare hand. “Cut the crap. I need information, and unless you want your head blown off, you’ll tell me exactly where my real my apartment is and what Sphere is,” said Brock. She stared at him. “Your apartment is Ranstone Park, the number 26. Not that it will do you any good.”

By the time he jumped back into the car, Sarah was weeping. “We heard the gunshot … you should pull the car out quickly before someone sees us. It’s late. Where are we going to sleep tonight?” Tears coursed down her face. “Let’s drive around,” said Ty.

“We’ll be spotted,” said Sarah. “Out of London, I mean, somewhere in the country, perhaps book into a proper hotel. Come on, Brock, do your magic, get us to some remote CCTV-free place.” “No, I need to check out these files and get them out immediately. There was something about Lady Ranskill in the house … a look on her face. As though she was holding something back.” “I’m desperate for a warm hotel. We can view the files in our room. Get us to a hotel,” Sarah begged. “We need to get a laptop first,” said Brock.

Chapter 34

A street lamp reflected off the side of the Mustang as it sat in the silent Hampstead street. The harsh wind whistled through trees as though nature was signalling incoming danger. The engine whistled smoothly as Brock gazed towards the grocery store. A man stepped out into the curb and ambled across the road. Brock watched him disappear into a nearby side street. Moments later, he jumped as someone banged on the Mustang. The doors flung open and Ty jumped into the back, his brow covered in sweat. Sarah threw herself into the enger seat, dropping two carrier bags of goodies at her feet. “Get the car moving!” she shouted. “The man in the grocery store is coming for us.” “Did you get a laptop?” said Brock, slamming hard on the accelerator. Ty pulled it from under his arm, and Brock’s tired frown quickly turned into a smile. “Serves him right, the miserable git,” said Ty.

Sarah slammed the two carrier bags onto the dusty restaurant worktop. Ty placed the laptop neatly on the reception desk. Brock hovered over Ty as he pressed buttons, and then pushed the USB drive into the slot. Sarah wandered through holding a mug of coffee, then pointed to the bottom corner of the screen. “Did you nick the computer lead?” asked Brock. Ty shook his head and Sarah grimaced. She pushed herself into a swivel chair and wheeled towards the computer, whizzing her fingers across the keys. A list of file appeared on the screen. “There’s not much battery—where should we start?” she said.

“My mind is a blank as to what the hell this is all about. Try opening the first file,” said Brock. She pushed the mouse towards a file, but stopped. “Quick, we don’t have much time. What’s wrong?” said Brock. “This file … it’s official secrets from security services. How someone managed to bring this out of the hub is a mystery to me.” She clicked it open and a vast array of names of banks and other big institutions came into view. “Our security services appear to be monitoring all these organisations. Pretty normal I guess, but there are thousands, even the NHS is on there. Seems a bit excessive.” Brock shrugged. “It looks like someone snatched the whole database of what appears to be system access codes, like back doors into company systems.” “A hacker’s dream,” said Brock. “Yes. It’s something you expect the security services to hold, but safely in their offices. Not in someone’s pocket.” “But is this it?” said Brock. “This is quite serious. In the wrong hands, this could cause chaos across our country. Someone could disrupt thousands of banks, hospital systems, force a complete shutdown. And you arranged to this drive to who?” said Sarah. “To Lady Ranskill, I’m pretty sure,” said Brock. “The same woman you’ve just put a bullet in. It’s only one file, but something’s amiss here.” He pulled up a chair. “Open another file, the battery’s about to die.” Sarah wheeled herself backwards, shaking her head.

“Do it before the battery conks.” “It’s only one file, but this is some serious shit. I’m worried what else I might find,” said Sarah. “Did you just swear, Sarah?” said Brock. “Who the hell are you, Brock? I thought I was on the right side,” said Sarah. “Of course you’re on the right side. I know I was supposed to it on to this Ranskill woman. Maybe she was genuine after all. Look at the effort I’ve made to expose this nonsense. Why would I want to harm anyone? I love my country.” Ty leaned on the kitchen door. “Maybe I can suggest something. What if Sighrus stole all this to email over to the Kremlin? it on to some Russian agent hiding in Britain at the very least, and Brock’s allies intercepted it,” said Ty. “Or somehow Brock is part of the plan to it over to the Kremlin,” said Sarah. “Sarah, please open the other files. It’s likely our whole infrastructure and banking systems may already be compromised. We have to work fast,” said Brock. She snatched at the mouse and clicked another file. Brock stayed silent glaring hard into the computer screen. “Something’s puzzling me,” said Ty. “Why put everything on one drive? Surely even Sighrus anticipated it getting into the wrong hands, especially with our amazing Brock around,” said Ty. “Amazing,” scoffed Sarah. “It’s only a copy,” Brock said. “Dalton pulled it from Sighrus’s computer, probably his personal laptop. But where an MI5 trainer like Sighrus acquired this kind of information is a mystery. I doubt Dalton realised how corrupt the Ranskill woman was. He assumed she’d it to her husband, exposing its contents to his friends in government. Of course, both would intend to destroy the drive and me with it. Being paid lots of money in the process,” said Brock.

“Your theory, I guess. Hang on, what’s this? I clicked on this small file … oh my lord, it lists detailed operations to disrupt Manchester and Birmingham. At the bottom, it mentions detonating devices.” She let out a shaky breath. “Planned attacks to happen in the future. How could you, Brock?” “Probably a decoy for something bigger,” said Brock. She clicked on another file. “How would you know that?” “If he was attacking big, there would be a mention of London. I’d like to know how he acquired these details, let alone copied them to a drive. Close that file and click on the nuclear file next to it.” A bright flash and it opened like a bubble on the screen. It detailed to the bone nuclear weapon plants and military installations. As Sarah scrolled, diagrams and maps showed every little detail.. “I doubt this has come from MI5,” said Brock. Something on the file caught Brock’s attention, and blood drained from his face. “A deliberate man-made computer virus created by the Russians by the looks of it,” Sarah said, reading. “And to be unleashed into our banking system, sending our country into chaos. You’re right … the two small planned attacks are just decoys.” Ty threw a cigarette end onto the floor and immediately lit another one up. Sarah clicked into another file, but the screen turned black and the laptop’s lights flashed off. “It’s worse,” Brock said, feeling sick. “The file mentioned nuclear weapons. I think the virus will be unleashed into our weapons arsenal.” “You mean to set them off?” Sarah shrieked. “More likely destabilise, rendering our fighting power temporarily useless.” Brock rubbed both his hands across his face. Ty puffed on his cigarette, blowing

the smoke into the air. “Leaving us open to blackmail,” he said. “Surely it would be better to target America. They hold far more firepower.” “They probably have. We should act fast and expose this, but it may already be too late. It all makes sense now, why he went to the trouble of arranging that fancy apartment. It was probably bugged the whole time, and they were monitoring my every move. Being a soldier I should have realised the severity.” Sarah glanced to the floor. “If he knows about this drive in your possession, surely he would act as soon as. Unless, of course, you made other plans with him.” “The man’s an ass, Sarah. I know myself and you should trust me. Suggesting I’d willingly participate is ridiculous.” She flushed red. “I gave the Ranskill woman one of the drives,” said Brock. Sarah jumped up. “You shot her! I heard the bang outside, she’s dead.” “I just frightened her, she’s very much alive. What do you take me for? A coldblooded killer.” Sarah grabbed onto his neck. “You lied to me” she cried. “At what point in the car did I say I shot her?” he asked, pulling her hand from his neck. She kicked him in the leg. “Sarah, stop! You said yourself this virus will cause worldwide chaos. Moscow will pay this monster a hefty price and relocate him. Right now, he’s probably attempting to unleash it across our infrastructure.” “Because of you!” shouted Sarah. Her hand came towards his face and he grabbed it, holding onto it. Ty started. “What’s up?” Brock asked. “I think I saw something outside.”

“Probably a bird flying past. Look, Sarah, the Ranskill woman was facing bankruptcy. Must have been hard to keep up the payments on that expensive house she lives in. I assume she become involved with Sighrus for a payoff, you know, to avoid the shame. I threw her a USB to see what she does. I need you, Sarah, please.” “Stop this arguing,” Ty snapped. “Someone is outside, we should make a move now.” They both ignored him. “I’ve got an idea,” said Sarah. “What about Meriden? If he saw those files…” “He’s probably dead,” said Brock. Sarah let out a moan. Ty shouted again that they had to leave. “Surely MI5 have clocked what’s going on by now?” Sarah asked weakly. “They probably have. However, the Ranskill woman said he was too well connected. Unless he arouses their suspicions, they’d be clueless. He keeps a low profile, and with his expertise … let’s face it, he works for the security services.” Brock lifted his head to the window just as it shattered. Glass poured onto the floor like the tide coming in. Something smashed into Brock, knocking him to the ground. Dust fell from the ceiling like glitter; a moment later the lights went out and they were in darkness. Brock slid himself behind the reception desk, feeling for the gun. Two men jumped into the window, falling to the ground, and automatic gunfire sprayed the room. Ty loaded his gun and aimed it directly at them, firing. Silence erupted. Moments later, another round of gunfire and debris fell, hitting Brock in the face. “Brock, I’m hitting them but they aren’t falling. What are these people, robots?” Ty screamed. “Blank bullets. The bloody idiot Gunner didn’t mention that back at the range.”

“Doh,” said Ty. Sarah scooted along to Brock, whispering in his ear. “Are you alright?” Brock picked himself up from the floor and felt for a gun. He knew the bullets were useless, but as far as their attackers knew, they were real. All three crouched and hid behind the reception desk. The firing stopped and there was a moment of silence, then someone shouted over to them. “Give yourselves up or we will kill you!” “If we hand over these drives, they’ll kill us,” Brock muttered. “I’ve got an idea. Grab the drives. If I throw these chairs towards them it should give us enough time to move over to the corridor and out towards the car. Looks like there’s only two of them, Sighrus’s men, no doubt.”

Chapter 35

Brock sped fast through the leafy suburbs of Hampstead Heath; he was painfully aware the Mustang’s registration number was probably being broadcast to every police unit in London, if not th e cou ntry. “You said he’d be dead,” shouted Sarah. “I can’t be sure, but an intelligent man like Meriden … surely he checked the files. Sighrus could be on to him, cut his internet off and seized his computer— and him. Popping over to his house is too risky. Anyway, I have a better idea.” The Mustang rocketed down a tree-lined street, clipping the wing mirrors of stationary parked cars clustered either side of the narrow road. A sudden clanging in the engine tapped at the car like a steam locomotive. Brock shot Ty a glance in the rear-view mirror. “Now would be a good time to swap the car.” Ty sat upright like a meercat and pointed through the window towards a red Nissan—it didn’t look roadworthy but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Brock pulled the Mustang into a space across the road, directly opposite. Once Ty had done the needful, Brock sank back into the Nissan’s leather upholstery seat, sliding his hands across the smooth wheel. A whiff of leather squeezed out as he hit the accelerator. They cruised through the streets, eventually coming to a halt in a secluded lay-by far from Hampstead. “It’s late,” he said. “I’m exhausted. We should get our heads down for a few hours. I doubt anyone will report this car missing yet.”

The bright morning sun shone through the meadow into the red Nissan, and straight into Brock’s eyes. He rubbed them, then pushed the car door open and stepped out into the lay-by. As he perched on the bonnet, Sarah stepped out ing him. Both remained silent.

“Last night, in the hotel,” Brock said eventually, “I let the Ranskill woman get the better of me. I almost believed her. I was too dog-tired to care, but I neglected the fact it’s us who need to act—and now. Sighrus made damn sure we’d be hopeless at ing these drives to anyone. How are we going to get these drives to anyone safely?” “And I considered you might be trying to launch the virus first.” He frowned. “Do you believe I’d do such a thing?” She shrugged, stepping away. “If you get me access to the internet, I should like to email the files to some senior government officials, including the CIA. I’ll look up their addresses from their official websites. It’s that simple.”

“Why are we heading east?” Sarah asked, rubbing her eyes as she sat up. Brock slammed on the brakes. “ Meriden’s house is probably crawling with cops.. I’d like to pop over to my apartment.” “But it’s burnt to the ground. You said yourself we need to transfer those files across.” “Do you reckon Meriden sent the files to someone?” said Ty. “My real apartment is in Canary Wharf, I believe,” said Brock. “Only if such an apartment exists. It’s probably been re-let. Or even worse, it’s being watched. Stop the car and give me the drive. I’ll make my own arrangements to email the damn files across, thank you,” snapped Sarah. “We’ll get these files across to people, I promise. Why assume I rented it? And even if I did, the people in there probably have a computer connected to the internet. It might jog a few memories.” “How many more memories do you need to jog?” she muttered.

Brock slowly drove the red Nissan forward into the car park. The oval-shaped glass apartment complex hung over them like a glistening cruise ship. Skyscrapers lit up the skyline, making it appear more like New York than little old London. Sarah glanced up in disbelief. “You sure this is the right place?” “This is well posh,” said Ty. Brock shrugged and Sarah shot him a scowl, grabbing the drives and opening the car door. He recalled Ranstone Park at Meriden’s and Lady Ranskill had clarified it with the exact number. Now he would find out if she was telling him the truth. “Looks like the door requires a key fob. I’d struggle to by this system,” said Ty. Patiently, they waited closely near the glass entry door, Ty examining the entry system. Minutes ed and a smartly dressed woman meandered towards, them pulling out a black key fob from her small handbag and whacking it across the entry pad. She pushed the door and stepped inside. Brock shoved his fingers in the door, waited a moment, and then followed into a sparkling light-green marble corridor heading towards a shiny silver lift. The woman tapped the lift button and within seconds the shiny silver doors slid open. Quickly, they all scuttled towards the lift, ing her inside; she tapped in number five on the polished control and glanced over to Sarah. “Floor three, please,” Brock said quickly. She pressed the number into the lift’s control momentarily, and her eyes met his reflected in the shiny metal of the lift. The door slid quietly open and all three stepped out into the warm carpeted corridor, ing the many mahogany doors either side, waiting for the lift doors to close. “She noticed me in the lift.” “Do you think she recognised you?” asked Sarah, grabbing the drives tightly to her chest. Brock shrugged. “More importantly, where is the apartment? Floor three flashed

into my mind in the lift, but my mind’s a blank now, The Ranskill woman said it was 26 …” “Think Brock, anything seem familiar?” said Sarah. Brock gazed around. Across the corridor a door flung open and an old man wearing a thick woolly white jumper appeared. Brock quickly turned his head but the man shouted, “Mr Steele! You stranger, where have you been all this time?” He froze for a second and then turned towards him while he racked his brains over what to say. “I’ve been away. Look, I’m afraid I’ve managed to lose my key, and I’ve got guests. Do you by any chance have a crowbar or something to wedge the door open?” The old man gave him an incredulous stare, rubbing across his woolly jumper. “But Mr Steele, I have your spare key.” “Oh!” Brock said. “My spare key …” The old man disappeared into his apartment, returning a moment later with a set of keys.

Brock unlocked the door and they stepped into a spacious bright white hallway, letters piled up on the doormat. He caught his head on the tiny low-level chandelier hanging from the ceiling, then stepped into the expansive lounge. His eyes bulged at the pearly white leather three-piece sofa and lion skin rug laid neatly in front. Sarah wandered towards the balcony window, inspecting the white blinds hung neatly across. Opposite, Ty paced across the lavish pearl patterned floor tiles, pulling a glass and switching on the chrome tap, filling it with water. All stood silently still in sheer amazement. Sarah hovered over the large mahogany desk, picking up a framed picture next to the telephone. “I take it this is your wife,” she said. She angled it directly towards his face.

“Hang on a minute, I know her. It’s the rude policewoman I met at Camden police station! What am I doing in a photo standing next to her?” “It looks like you were having a fling with her.” Sarah chucked the photo onto the mahogany desk, her nostrils flared. Edging over to the chair, she slammed her body into it, staring grimly at the computer. “Coffee?” shouted Ty. “Lots of food, all out of date I’m afraid. This milk’s rank. Is black OK?” Sarah nodded, concentrating on the computer. Brock rummaged in the desk drawer, grabbing a chequebook and some written notes. As he ran his hand across some scissors and a stapler, he reached to the underside of the drawer and slid his palm across it. Something was taped to it. He pulled at the tape and it came loose. He pulled out a nine-millimetre calibre handgun. His mouth fell open as he clicked the barrel open. It was already fully loaded. Sarah shot him a glance but remained silent, clicking her fingers across the computer keyboard. Ty poured hot water from the chrome kettle into three matching blue mugs and brought them out on a black tray. Sarah grabbed the coffee. “If it makes you feel any better, I think me and the policewoman fell out a long time ago,” said Brock. “Why should that make me feel better? Anyway, we have a problem. The dialling tone is out. Your phone is probably disconnected.” Brock picked up the telephone receiver himself and put it to his ear; the line was indeed silent. Ty stepped into the room. “Should the phone be plugged in?” Sarah bent over, plugging it in, but they all froze, Brock grabbed the handgun. Loud conversation had erupted in the corridor outside the apartment. “Hang on a second … don’t you think it somewhat odd for someone like me to leave a set of keys with a neighbour?” whispered Brock. “I’m thinking the same thing,” replied Sarah.

Brock edged over to the front door, holding the handgun behind him. Outside, he could make out the old man chatting to some woman. She laughed; the conversation appeared friendly. Brock unlatched the front door, pulling it slowly towards him and peering around it. A woman dressed in smart business attire had her back to him. The old man spotted him. “Ah, Mr Steele, everything good? Settling in?” The old man tapped the woman on the shoulder and she made her way across the corridor out of sight. Brock rubbed the sweat from his brow and clicked the gun’s safety catch on, pushing it neatly into the back of his tros. “I wondered if I could have a quiet word,” said Brock. “Of course,” said the old man. He hobbled towards the door, glancing into the apartment hallway. “Oh, what a beautiful place you have here, Mr Steele. Do you need anything? I’m only across the hall if you do.” “I wondered if you could tell me if anyone has visited my apartment since I was away.” The old man shook his head. “Why, is there a problem?” “No problems, but please explain why I leave my key with you.” “Oh, Mr Steele! We’re very good friends! We’ve known each other for many years.” “Of course, of course. I was just saying to my dear friends in there … how long have I lived in this apartment?” said Brock. “You bought it new. Let me think, the year this place was built. Must be at least ten now. As I recall, you mentioned you would be busy, planning to move in several months after, which you did,” said the old man. “Busy?” said Brock. “None of my business, Mr Steele.” “OK, thank you. One last thing, do you have the internet by any chance?”

“Wish I was that technically minded, Mr Steele.” “Alright, well, thanks for looking after my place.” “My pleasure.” The man hobbled towards his apartment door. Brock stood in the apartment doorway for a moment and then hurried into the lounge. Sarah’s face was flushed. “I’ve tried to rig the internet up but I’ve encountered another problem. This lead is dodgy. And it’s odd that the line is still working. Who is paying the bills?” Brock spotted an overhanging cupboard above the desk and pointed at it. She opened it and pulled out a cable. Ty plugged in the television, slumping his body over the comfy white sofa. Photos of Brock and Sarah were being paraded across every news station, describing them as armed and extremely dangerous. The public were warned to remain vigilant, and if the pair were sighted, everyone was encouraged to immediately report it to the police. They had been dubbed a cop-killing duo. “What’s all this? Since when did we kill any police officers? What are we going to do?” cried Sarah. “Forget it, Sarah, it’s his lame attempt at setting us up. I’m going to pop in the bedroom, get a change of clothes. Then we can leave.” As he grabbed a shirt from the wardrobe, he knocked a suitcase from the shelf. It hit him on the head and knocked him to the floor. He howled in pain. When he turned his head, the suitcase was open on its side, full to the brim with money. “I heard you scream,” said Sarah, rushing in. “Oh my God, look at this money. What have you done, Brock? Sighrus paid you this, didn’t he? Oh, Brock, I’m frightened.” Brock grabbed the suitcase and followed her back into the living room. “We need to leave. We’ll bring this money with us and get out of London. Sarah, I swear—” There was a loud knock at the door.

“It’s too late, Brock. The old man probably saw us on television. We’re finished.” Brock slid his hand towards the back of his tros, pulling out the handgun, and edged his way to the front door. Releasing the catch, he slowly opened the door. The old man was hovering on the threshold. “Mr Steele, you mentioned the internet. I just ed, the woman across the hall uses it. Would you like me to ask for you?” he said. “Thanks, but I’ve sorted it,” said Brock. He slammed the door shut and dashed into the lounge. Sarah was staring into the computer, her fingers whizzing across the keyboard. “Sarah, hurry up. We should get out of this place soon. If that old man turns his television on, we’re doomed.” “What exactly is it about you, Brock? First, you hand over a USB to the posh woman knowing she’s dodgy. Then a suitcase of money appears with lord knows how much money in. Now you disturb me sending these important files across. The files are big and this internet is slow. And get this bitch off the desk!” Sarah swiped the photo, sending it flying into the air. It hit the floor, smashing into pieces. “Calm down. We have so little time, but of course you should send the files.” Brock spied a photo on the wall of him in army uniform stood next to Sighrus. Sarah pulled the drive out and stood up. “Damn right, I owe it to my country. The files are sent.” “We should make a move,” said Brock.

Chapter 36

Fumes filled the air of the busy road as Brock directed the red Nissan neatly into another busy junction. Sarah chucked the two USB drives into the glove compartment.. She had bragged about doing such a fabulous job locating the emails of several high -p rofile figures and the foreign office, even locating and sending the files over to Buckingham Palace’s email . She chatted on, but he ignored her. He was confused by the easiness of simply walking into his apartment and sending the f iles. “Do you think something seemed amiss at the apartment? I’m saying this because it was the Ranskill woman who gave me the apartment number,” said Brock. “And you let us walk in right into a trap,” said Ty. “Of course it’s odd—phone line connected, no police around. I reckon it was tapped,” said Ty, rubbing his hand across the suitcase. “Oh yes, something was funny alright,” said Sarah. “You bring us to the apartment, grab the money, and run. Of course something’s suspicious.” As Brock’s foot hit the accelerator again, he spotted a familiar face standing at the roadside, waving and beckoning him to pull into a car park to the left. Ty also saw the little rat of a man and dipped his head. As he swerved the Nissan out of the slow-moving traffic into the car park, Brock accidentally sounded the horn. Sarah jumped up in her seat. “Why are we pulling in here?” Brock nudged his head towards Preston. “Why is he here? Is this all part of your elaborate plan?” Preston jogged up to the Nissan and tapped on the window. Brock stuck his head out.

“Sorry about Edinburgh! I tried my hardest to find you, but you disappeared. I’ve some friends who desperately need to chat. Don’t worry, it’s all safe, I promise. They’re on our side,” said Preston. “And which side is that?” Sarah spat at Preston. In the distance, a woman and two smartly dressed men appeared heading straight towards them. Brock raised an eyebrow at Preston. “They’ll help you, honest,” he said. “Help us? I doubt it. They look official. Hit the road, Brock,” said Ty. The engine hissed and Brock shot a glance at the handbrake. “Who are these people?” “We’re MI5, all of us.” Brock glared at him and moved one hand to the handbrake, the other hand rubbing the handgun. “Preston, you’re a traitor,” spat Ty. “Why would you something like that? And lie to your mates … we’re buddies from the hellhole, for heaven’s sake. What happened to the real Preston?” “He’s dead. He was . . . disposed of not long after Brock left hospital. He’d served his purpose. His time was up the minute those files got ed to Brock. Brock let out a breath. “Preston was in the training programme with me. I . We were there together.” “I actually didn’t think I’d fool you for this long—my hair is always a bit of a giveaway. But I figured you were both thick enough—” “I’ll kill you,” Ty shouted. Brock grabbed a breath to try to signal Ty to shut up, and Sarah stared at the floor as if avoiding the confrontation. The two men and the woman had reached the car now.

“I’m waiting,” said Brock pushing his head through the window. Ty yanked his Glock, waving it in the air. The woman cleared her throat. “You applied for Sighrus’s training programme to our security services. You started, then shortly after acquired some information and it all went badly wrong.” “And he whacked a baseball bat into my head, dumped me in Hampstead Heath, and the rest is history,” said Brock. “Can you prove it was him?” Brock shook his head. “He tried to kill me, I’m only here because of the drive with all the incriminating information against him. Why else would he go to these lengths? All the files are on this USB.” He dived into the glove compartment, pulling out one of the drives. One of the men stepped closer to the window. “We need to bring you in, Brock. We’ve seen it already, the Foreign Office emailed it over. The information is rubbish. How can you expect us to take it seriously?” Brock face drained, and he stared at him. “What? Everything is there, the virus, planned attacks. You realise Sighrus is planning to jump the country?” The man shook his head. “Sighrus planned a holiday for his family and brought it to our attention months ago. All above board I’m afraid. We agreed with him nine months ago to order a safe house for your safety in Camden because of the attack. You required protection and we have a duty of care, what’s wrong with that?” “Rubbish, Sighrus attacked me several times. He killed Lacy, for goodness’ sake,” shouted Brock. Sarah jumped out of her seat, screaming. “It’s true!” The man stared at Brock. “You killed Lacy. But we can still help. Let us take you in, it’s for your own good.”

“You people are insane.” shouted Brock. He slammed the handbrake, hitting the accelerator to the floor. The car jerked forward, heading towards the exit. The woman darted towards them. “Let’s be sensible about this!” she shouted. “Preston’s a complete idiot. Why did we ever trust him?” Ty muttered. “What exactly did you email over?” said Brock. “Every file. It all transferred, I checked—all twenty email addresses,” said Sarah. “We should take a closer look at these files. Problem is, I’m too nervous to go to Meriden’s or the apartment.” He yanked at the steering wheel. “I made my mind up,” Ty said. “Preston’s an impostor. His hair couldn’t have turned ginger with age—those people set him up and we fell for it!” Brock racked his brains as to what he should do. “We should examine these files. Sighrus is obviously desperate his antics. Our entire infrastructure could be at risk, thanks to the morons in the car park earlier.” Silence overcame them, then Ty slammed the suitcase between the seats. “Look, guys, we’ve got the full case of money, handed the files over to the authorities. I think we’ve done our bit. We should jump on the ferry and sail abroad, while we have the chance.” “You mean to let these horrible people allow Sighrus to unleash a virus across out computer networks, disrupt the entire UK’s military installations, and screw up our whole infrastructure. It could finish us,” said Sarah. Ty stared through the window, ignoring her, grabbing onto the suitcase. “I’m through with this stupid country and its damn system.” The Nissan skidded forward, narrowly missing a taxi.

“Slow down, mate. Anyway, Rosa installed an internet connection recently,” said Ty. “Who is Rosa?” said Sarah. Brock shot him a smile. “She lives in Walthamstow,” said Ty. Brock laughed. “It’s dawned on me why I have the suitcase of money.” Sarah’s eyes widened and she stared at him, waiting for him to speak. In front, a police car skidded, blocking them. Brock swung at the wheel, attempting to swing around it. A loud crash and the Nissan came to a sudden halt. Ty smacked his forehead into the front seat, yelling. Brock pulled himself from the steering wheel and spotted the two uniformed police heading to both sides of the car. “Jumpstart the car!” shouted Brock. Ty slammed himself forward, yanking the wires together. The engine turned over. Brock slammed into reverse; the red Nissan jerked backwards, then he forced it into first and the car leapt forwards, speeding up the street. Sarah’s body was limp. Brock grabbed her shoulder while trying to control the steering wheel. He shoved her into her seat and Ty held her. She rubbed her forehead, disoriented. “What happened? Oh my head.” Blood dribbled from her left temple, Ty picked up a white shirt, throwing it over, and she placed it on the cut.

Brock lounged across the brown settee, his arm around Sarah as he examined her the cut. Rosa, the Argentinian girl, appeared in the doorway, a blue dress thrown on and white trainers. She chucked a plaster towards him, then placed two mugs of coffee on the wooden table in front. Ripping the contents open, Brock stuck the plaster to Sarah’s head. Rosa went into the other room with Ty, and arguing erupted. “We could be here for a while,” said Brock.

Sarah took a sip of her coffee, pulling his arm away. “In the car, you explained why you have the suitcase of money. Is it bad?” They were interrupted by Rosa and Ty stepping into the room, holding hands. “Ty’s told me so much about you. I apologise for the arguing in there. You guys are so cool,” she said in her Argentinian accent. Ty stood behind her, briskly shaking his head and making mouth movements Brock couldn’t understand. “Of course you can use my computer. It’s in my room upstairs, first on the left. Me and Ty both need to discuss our future. He’s proposed to me, and we’re getting married in Argentina.” “Congratulations. Why Argentina of all places?” said Sarah. Brock pulled at her, rolling his eyes, and guided her towards the stairs. They stepped into her tiny room, and Sarah took a seat at the desk. “Is she Argentinian?” “I’m pleased for him, Brock said. “Do the lad good. Once he picks up the ports, they can cruise across the channel. He’ll be safe.” “Hang on, it’s her arranging the two ports. I him saying. She’s either an illegal immigrant or something more is going on.” “Forget them. Bring up the files, see what we missed.” The screen lit up, and Sarah pushed the small USB drive into the slot. They went through the files, meticulously reading every one. “Everything is here, like before. Anyone with a half a brain can see what’s going on,” said Sarah. A thunder of feet came from the stairs and the bedroom door flies open. Brock grabbed, Sarah pulling her to the ground and snatching his handgun. Ty appeared at the door.

“It’s Meriden, he’s been killed. We’ve seen it on the TV. Guess what? They’re blaming you two.” “I reckon I know what’s happened,” Sarah said. “When I emailed the files, someone changed their contents. It’s only a hunch, but chances are this awful man is sitting waiting in some control centre, tracing the IP, anticipating our every move. This is exactly why we need to stop him.” “Can we be careful what we say around Rosa?” Ty said quietly. “She hasn’t got the full picture and she might panic.” Brock nodded and Ty stepped out onto the landing. “Ty, wait. Rosa should pack now ready to move out, for her safety.” He went back down the stairs. Sarah glanced up as Brock came back in the room. “I’m shooting these files over again, this time with a bigger pool of emails to important people. It should take me a while. Let’s see if this monster anticipates this.”

Her hands shook as she anxiously attached the files, the email written up mentioning Lady Ranskill’s payoff. Rosa threw some clothes in a suitcase and Ty phoned a taxi from the bedroom phone. Mere minutes ed before she left. “Half her stuff is still hanging up. What did you say to her?” Brock asked Ty. “They don’t belong to her—she planned to leave today. The taxi is taking her to her mate’s house, and she’s meeting me at the ferry with the ports in a couple of days.” “One click of this button,” Sarah said, “and the email will be over to some very important people.” “Send it. Now I should like to head over to Richmond, on my own. I’m going to finish him off,” said Brock.

Chapter 37

The drive across London appeared unusually busy for that time of night; it was after 8 p.m. according to Sarah’s watch, and rush hour should have dispersed by now. Brock become aware of a police checkpoint set up directly ahead. There were probably more the whole city, looking for him. He swerved the car into a left turn, av oidin g it. “You should let me do this on my own,” said Brock. “I’m confused why you have to do this at all. Once these emails circulate, Sighrus is history,” said Sarah. Brock shook his head. He drove as near as he dared to Sighrus’s house: no black jeep. Driving to the installation, nothing there either. “Where could he be this late?” said Ty. “Arrested perhaps? My work is done!” said Sarah. Brock reached into his pocket, pulling out the handgun. “I’m going to teach this creature a lesson, but something is bothering me.” He pushed himself further into his seat and watched several people leaving the installation. Probably cleaners, but no old woman. A few cars skimmed across their view and the installation appeared quiet. “If the authorities arrest Sighrus, all well and good. In the meantime, I’d like to check out this installation. If Sighrus is still walking the streets, his computer might hold clues as to where he is. As soon as I enter the car park their CCTV will likely pick me up. But I have an idea.” “The money, what about the money? If someone nicks this car we’re screwed.” “Stick it in the boot!” shouted Sarah.

“There’s no need, I told you, I’m going on my own,” said Brock. “Like hell you are. I’m up for a fight, my country too,” she said. “It’s settled. I stay with the money,” said Ty. Brock stepped out of the red Nissan, heading towards the installation. Sarah followed behind, refusing to leave. “You trust your friend too much. I doubt he’ll be there on our return.” “You should have stayed with him. It’s not safe out here. Anyway, killing this rogue is more satisfying than a bag full of money. If you insist on being here, we’ll just have to take our chances.” Sarah looked at his adrenaline-flushed face. Slowly, both stepped onto the pavement next to the installation. The place was still quiet, and they headed directly towards the end of the building. A neatly dressed man in security attire leapt in front of them. Brock slid his hand into the back of his tros, feeling around for the handgun. “Hey, Brock, I hardly recognised you! Long time no see. I’ve been off sick for months, only got back to work yesterday. Do you have your card to get in? You are coming in, aren’t you? Always the same here: you need your card to get into the building, you know the rules.” Brock took his hand off the gun and pulled his shoulders back like a soldier standing to attention. “Sorry to hear that, old chap. Me and my, err, colleague are popping in, I’ll show you my card.:” Brock dug his hand into his pocket as they all stepped towards the installation. His heart uncontrollably started to race as they neared the main entrance. “You must have finished all your sphere training by now,” said the security guard. “Sphere training programme.” He laughed as though a light in his head had been switched on. “Ages ago. Moved on now to the interesting stuff.” They reached the installation door.

“Sure you have. I’ve lost track. Another set of trainees are starting the course.” “Do you know if Sighrus is around? I need to talk to him.” “Apparently he popped in this morning,” said the security guard. Brock pulled out Sighrus’s Sphere , banging it on a square metal surface in front of the door. A red light came on, and the security guard snatched the . “This belongs to Sighrus. What are you doing with it?” Brock’s hand grazed over the gun. “I’m aware of that. We’ve picked up each other’s es by accident.” The security guard inspected the card closely. “This isn’t a gate , it’s his Sphere , to his room upstairs. Do you have his gate ? And who’s your friend? Tell you what, forget it … it’s my first proper day back, we’re shortstaffed and I know you. Just go in.” “Short-staffed?” said Sarah. “Something’s kicked off. I’m doing three jobs in one this evening. I’ll his card onto him.” Brock snatched the card back. “I’ll take, it if you don’t mind. I’ll probably see him first.” The guard hit his card onto the silver reader; the light flashed green and a buzzer sounded. Brock yanked the door open, nodding to the guard. Sarah followed him inside, running her trembling hand through her hair. “I’m so scared. This is a crazy idea,” she said. They entered into the amazingly big and spacious complex, grey metal girders running through the building. Brock racked his brains, glancing up at the high ceilings and doors leading off to rooms all over the place, seeing if it would jog any memories. The shooting range across the way caused a burning sensation on the left of Brock’s temple as though a magnifying glass was being pointed at it. Stepping much deeper into the installation, Brock saw a grey door across the big

corridor. It was different from the others, and his body froze up. Sarah was also staring towards the same door. “This is where they held me, inside there, I’m sure of it. Are you alright?” “Feeling a little sick and my head’s going a little funny. This place is giving me a cold eerie feeling just being here. Downstairs is an underground basement complex, and the lift across there … I someone dragged me in and pushed me to the ground. But I’m still sure I was here of my own free will. It’s starting to come back. Sighrus’s room is upstairs on the second floor. Let’s take a look.” As they climbed up the grey metal stairs, paint flaked from the matt emulsion grey walls. When they reached the top, Brock pushed his body into the grey double doors and headed left down the corridor, stopping at Sighrus’s room and slamming the card onto the reader. The light on the reader flashed red. Sarah leaned over his shoulder peering at it. He pushed her away, barrelling into the door several times, and it flung open into a boring grey office. A security officer came running from the other side of the bleak grey corridor. Brock held Sighrus’s card in the air. “I’m on official business.” The security guard nodded and retreated. Brock grabbed Sarah, pulling her into the office and slamming the door behind them. Inside, a computer sat on the beech-effect desk; behind it, a black leather swivel chair. An aroma of new paint filled the air. Recently decorated, unlike the rest of the building. There was a metal tray full of letters and random notes were scattered the desk. A picture of Sighrus and his family faced Brock head-on. Sarah swung her body into the chair, clicking the mouse. Screens flashed by one by one until all the programs had loaded and a box came up for credentials. Her fingers whizzed across the keyboard as she attempted to by his security . After entering some different credentials, she was through, and the screen came up. She had tapped into his . Brock peered over her. Every instinct, every message from the brain, was telling him to get out. “What are we looking for?” she asked. “Something we’re both missing. At the very least, it might incriminate him further or jog a few memories,” said Brock.

He stepped over to the window, peering out. “It’s bothering me … it’s too quiet here.” A rattle in the hallway startled him, and he edged to the doorway, reaching for the gun. “Sarah, we have company,” he whispered. She glanced up just as the door flung open. Sighrus appeared in the doorway, staring right towards her and pointing his standard-issue Glock against her head. Brock threw out a kick. It hit Sighrus’s hands, knocking the Glock to the other side of the room. Brock lunged into Sighrus’s side, knocking him flat on the floor. Sarah jumped towards the Glock, picking it up and pointing it directly at him. Brock kicked the door closed. “It’s payback time, And I know what you’re planning,” said Brock. Sighrus pulled himself and forced out a laugh. “It’s over, Mr Steele. Men are all over this complex. Give yourself up and we can talk—or die.” “No, Sighrus, it’s over for you this time. Screwing with someone like me is your biggest mistake. You think we’re going to allow you to unleash a virus and other damage you are planning on our country? You must be stupid.” “Shame, you’re a decent agent, probably one of the best I’ve trained. Problem is, you’re a little too damn good, but you underestimate me. This entire complex is surrounded by our armed security agents, and they’re on my side. I suggest you drop your weapons or you will be killed instantly. It’s the only way, Mr Steele.” Sarah stood up, stepping towards him. “This man standing here will stop you screwing up our country. He’s a gentleman, unlike you, and we’re both prepared to die for our country to stop you. Tell your men to stand down or I will personally blow your disgusting head off!” “Ah, Sarah, thinking you would get the better of me. Chances are if you kill me you both die too. Do you want to die?” asked Sighrus. Brock aimed the gun towards Sighrus’s, leg sliding his finger across the trigger. He pulled the catch and released a bullet, which caught the top of the skin on Sighrus’s thigh. He screamed, and Brock lifts the handgun towards his head. Shouting echoed in the corridor. Sarah nodded towards the window, and Brock

moved towards it, still pointing the gun towards Sighrus. He glanced through the window, flicking its catch, pushing it open. “Ah, looks like your men are all in the building now. Sarah, climb down here,” said Brock. Sarah climbed out the window, and Brock followed, pointing his handgun towards Sighrus . The door flew open and bulleted spray towards him; Brock slipped from the window, pressing the trigger. Sarah was halfway down the drainpipe as Brock slammed to the ground, landing on his shoulder. He heard Sighrus shouting. Pulling himself up, rubbing his shoulder, Sarah jumped into his arms and they darted towards the car. “I pulled the trigger and missed. That monster is still breathing,” he muttered. A couple of security service agents sprinted after them, spraying bullets towards them. Sarah cried as they darted across the road. As they turned into the street, eagerly expecting the car, an empty space greeted them.

Chapter 38

Brock stared into the road where the red Nissan should have been. Shouting erupted in the distance and Sarah pulled at her hair with her trembling hands. He looked frantically up and down the street. A yellow taxi was heading towards them, and for a flash he imagined Ty driving it. He picked up a brick at the roadside, stepped up to the car, and slammed it into the driver’s side window, grabbing at the man and pulling him right out of the car. He threw him so far, the man landed across the pave ment. Sarah was frozen on the spot, so he snatched her, pulling her into the car. The engine still running, he hooked his hand around the wheel, pulling it swiftly, turning the yellow taxi around. He slammed down hard on the accelerator and, in his rear-view mirror, he saw the red-faced driver sticking his fingers at him; behind, several men on foot were attempting to chase the taxi, gradually slowing down. Sarah shook as she sat quietly in the enger seat, sniffling. Brock swerved into the next junction, noticing men in all sorts of undercover attire leaping into cars and screaming at him, guns in the air. A silver Audi pulled out directly behind him at speed, and to his left, the black jeep slammed out of a junction on his right. Sighrus, being a highly trained driver, swerved around the silver Audi, positioning his black jeep directly behind Brock as he headed for central London. The speedometer hit a hundred miles per hour, and the car shook. Sarah struggled to catch her breath as she peered through the window, clutching onto her seat. The taxi zipped through a set of traffic lights causing an oncoming car to swerve and hit a lamppost. Brock checked his rear-view mirror again; several cars, including a police unit were following, the black jeep still firmly behind. A bullet smashed into the back window; Sarah yelled, ducking forward. Several cars hovered in the distance, waiting for the traffic lights to change. As Brock approached, he slammed on his brakes, swinging the yellow taxi onto the

pavement to overtake them. The black jeep followed, mounting the pavement. “Sarah, I have an idea. Grab my jacket and the paper bag on the floor. Oh, and do you have any lipstick on you?” he shouted. She looked at him blankly.

As they turned the corner, Brock slammed on the brakes—hard. Sarah opened the taxi door, jumping out into some bushes. In the enger seat sat a made-up dummy of her: his jacket, a blown-up paper bag, and a dash of lipstick making it appear like a face. Brock sped into the junction ahead, the black jeep firmly behind and the other cars following. It had worked. Sarah was now, free and he sped down the main road at one hundred miles per hour, taking full control of the car. As he approached London, he headed for Vauxhall Bridge at high speed. But when he saw it, he was distracted and lost control, slamming on the brakes. The car smashed into a brick wall. He pulled at the door catch; the door was jammed. Winding down the window, he jumped out, sprinting away. The black jeep skidded alongside him and three men jumped out, scuttling towards him—one of them Sighrus. One of the men drew close, smashing his gun over Brock’s head. Sighrus limped over, throwing a punch into the left side of Brock’s temple that slammed him into the ground. “Give it up, Mr Steele.” Sighrus yanked out his Glock. “You’re quite a killer and a wanted man, according to the press,” said Sighrus. “You set me up,” spat Brock. A sharp pain ran down the back of Brock’s temple and the aching pain in his stomach from a well-aimed kick made him retch. Sighrus turned to one of his men, giving him an order to get some restraints out of the jeep. Brock slowly moved his body, pulling himself forward. He hauled himself up, throwing a punch towards Sighrus’s face. Sighrus ducked sideways, the punch missed, and he kicked Brock in the stomach again, knocking him violently to the ground. “Mr Steele, you’re in a lot of trouble and I still require the USB. Where is it?” “USB? But—”

“You think those files transferred over, do you? Oh, Mr Steele, your IP address in that fancy little apartment of yours in Canary Wharf was tapped. Good old Jeanette Ranskill popped by. Wonderful woman, I must say. I gathered your inquisitiveness would get the better of you, and that you would visit the property and send the files there. So, I waited. As soon as you flung this disgusting email across, my trainees went to work attaching some rather compromising files about you, MI5 already believed you to be a big traitor, I made sure. I’ve laughed ever since. You made an even bigger fool of yourself.” Brock tried to disguise his smile. “OK, you win. I have the USB and you can have it. It’s carefully hidden, so perhaps we can do a deal. Payoff perhaps?” “On the contrary, Brock, I gather you have the money. You see, I had agents watching you. Standard procedure of course. You withdrew a considerable amount of cash from your bank and seemed to be shutting your life down. Immediately, it aroused my suspicions, and after a few tapped phone calls, I clicked. You planned to discredit me, and if I came up trumps, grab your life savings and run.” “So you decided to murder me.” “You were too busy sticking your snout in other people’s business. You failed to see the consequences of your actions. Where is the USB?” “Perfectly safe. If I tell you, you will kill me.” “We’ll have your friends in custody shortly. In the meantime, I am going to ask you again where it is.” A couple of men dressed in black security services attire walked towards them, calling Sighrus over. “The police want to speak to you. Something about an email and files that have just been received. I’ve been instructed to arrest you,” said one of the men. Sighrus gawped at him. “There must be some kind of mistake.” Brock took the opportunity to pull himself up, diving across to a nearby flowerbed and sprinting through a gate into a tiny lawned park. Gunshots pierced the night sky. In the distant, cloudy sky, a helicopter hovered. Car engines

sounded across the streets and another gunshot thudded through the air. Brock picked up the pace, racing in between slow-moving cars as he neared a litup Vauxhall Bridge. The Thames was at high tide, slapping against the banks, and the bridge was his only solution. The familiar feelings started; energy drained out of his body, pains jolted through his temple like an electric shock. His brain told his body to speed up, but his body ignored it, reducing him to a slow, stumbling pace. His knees buckled at a distant memory. As a small boy, walking on this very bridge. An unusual trip to central London organised by the creatures at the hellhole. A member of the staff called Terry laughing at him, forcing him across the bridge. The memory disappeared; his heart pounded and his head started to spin. Another blurry, distant memory, becoming clearer and clearer. Little Brock petrified, grabbing on to some cold dark railings on some unfamiliar bridge above a road. The bridge was damaged; he rested his chin, peering over at a smashed-up little white car. Inside, three people were lying still. Little Brock wiped across his forehead, moist blood appearing on his hand as he grabbed tighter to the cold railings. He spun into reality again, grabbing in a deep breath and letting out an uncontrollable scream. The horror of the car hit him in the stomach like a boot to the solar plexus. Lying in the white car were his dead parents and only sister. Holding the railings tight, little Brock gazed at a dark figure in the distance. This dark figure was standing over another car, a dark-blue Ford Escort someway down the street, staring down at the smashed-up white car. The dark figure came into focus. It was a young Sighrus. He’d run them off the bridge.

Brock’s heart pounded like someone smashing a baseball bat against the bridge. Sighrus appeared at the other end of the bridge, heading towards him, a Glock held tightly in his right hand. A cold tear forced itself from Brock’s eye, running down his cheek as he waited. Every muscle in his body was calm and time stood still. He stood perfectly motionless as Sighrus appeared nearer and nearer. He pulled up the gun and aimed it towards Brock’s head. “You have gone too far this time, Brock. You don’t know who you are messing

with. You think you can defeat me, but I can command what I want. By the grace of God, I will rule this world and all you miserable layabouts in it.” Brock stared right into his face, moving his right hand slightly. Sighrus jerked the gun, pointing it towards Brock’s arm. Brock swung a kick with all his strength. His leg smashing into Sighrus’s hand, causing the Glock to fly across the road onto the causeway opposite. Sighrus’s mouth flew open, and Brock swung a punch so quick and so hard it knocked him to the ground. Cars stopped dead on the bridge, glancing across at the commotion. Brock stepped towards him again, throwing a kick as hard as he could into Sighrus’ stomach. Sighrus yelled and Brock threw another kick into his stomach. Blood spurted from Sighrus’s mouth. Brock stepped into the cars, moving to the causeway on the other side of the road and snatching the black Glock. He hurried through cars in the direction of Sighrus, taking aim. But the causeway was empty. Sighrus had disappeared into thin air. Brock scanned into the cars, until he heard a loud splash coming from the Thames. Sighrus must have jumped into the Thames at high tide. Brock flung himself over to the railings, peering over, aiming the Glock into the water. But Sighrus was nowhere to be seen.

He stepped from the bridge’s railings, shoving the Glock into his tros. A battered red Nissan pulled up at his side, startling him, and he yanked the Glock out again. The enger window slowly wound down and Sarah threw her head out. “Get in,” she shouted. Ty winked at him and he jumped towards the car. “How did you find each other?” asked Brock, throwing himself onto the back seat. “As soon as you walked into the installation, cars pulled up outside. Men were crawling all over the show so I moved out of there. I tried to grab your attention at our rendezvous, but you pulled this guy out of a yellow taxi and threw him

across the pavement, then you drove off. I could see the cars were following you, so I followed them. On the bend, Sarah jumped in front of the car, she jumped in, and the rest is history,” said Ty. “Thanks, Ty.” “So, I guess we should all catch the ferry.” Ty hit the gas and they sped off into the night.

About the Author

Alex Bloodfire was born and raised in a little village called Carlton in Lindrick in a northern town infamously known as Worksop in the United Kingdom. He moved to London over twenty years ago exploring it’s beautiful delights and sights taking up writing creating Brock Steele—Sphere; born out of an idea he had whilst residing in a Camden Town basement in North London. Although Brock Steele is his second piece of works taking over five years to complete; it’s the first to be published. His second novel started over a decade ago will be out sometime in late 2021 involving a sleepwalking Detective, a sloppy Sergeant, and a serial killer on the rampage in a remote rural English town. Brock Steele two will also be out sometime in the future.

www.alexbloodfire.com

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