Blue Blooded

by Emma Jameson

  “Good God, you sound like a bleeding Millennial. Never mind. Think you can get the hostages off the roof and down to the street?”

  “I’m an MP,” Jeremy shouted. “There’s three of us. From DEFRA!”

  “Ministers.” The man with the bluff voice sighed. “Crikey hell.”

  “I can’t get them down,” Paul said. “They’re cuffed to chairs and to each other. Then again, the hardware’s standard issue. Maybe if you got a handyman to fling up a hacksaw…?”

  “Never mind that, Deepal. It is Deepal, right?”

  “Just Paul.” Now that the real prospect of rescue had been raised, he felt himself beginning to tremble. But that was no good. He needed his adrenaline-armor, his survival tunnel vision, if he was going to live through this, or at least die like a man.

  “What else do you need to know?” he asked, turning back toward the hostages. “Um, yeah, the clock. It’s old-school. Big hand, little hand. Plastic, like an ASDA special. Not sure about the detonator, but the wires—”

  “Right-o, just Paul,” the bluff voice cut across him. “We could swap maybes and whatsits all night, but let’s leave it to the experts. I have three BMW X5s en route. My mate’s on another line with the Dolphin’s night manager. SO19 is scrambling. Keep your ears peeled for NPAS. You’ll hear the rotors of India 97 and India 98 before you know it. You’ve done what you can for the hostages. It’s time to leave them in our care. Propel your arse down the stairs and out to the street.”

  Paul looked at the trio of DEFRA officials sitting atop a homemade, military-grade demolition block. Edwin was weeping silently. Jeremy was twisting against his handcuffs. Neera, who’d brightened when Paul started talking, was watching him warily. The hope was sliding off her face like stage makeup under hot lights.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, loud enough for all three to hear.

  “Paul.” The man sighed. “Mate. Think it over.”

  “I don’t have to. I’m all in.”

  “Fair play. Don’t suppose you have a weapon?”

  “I do. A knife. Took it off the perp.”

  “And where’s that perp now?”

  Kyla. How in the world had he forgotten her? Adrenal tunnel-vision had its downside. Paul turned, expecting to see her coming at him all over again, another spring-assisted black blade in hand. To his relief, he found she was still down. Sitting on her knees with an unnerving look on her face, but down all the same.

  “A few yards away. If she says boo, I’ll put her down harder.”

  “Good man. Oh—someone passed me a note. Evacuation of the Dolphin’s North tower is underway. Surrounding hotels are being notified, too. Alarm bells must be going off everywhere. Hear them, Paul?”

  He could, faintly. Odd how this reassuring Met voice kept calling him by his given name. No doubt it was a calming psychological technique, and a successful one at that.

  “Paul. Still with me? Here’s another note. Apparently I need to dot my Is and cross my Ts. Is Mrs. Sharada Bhar still your preferred contact? Shall I ring her for you?”

  Usually his mum was in bed by this hour. He didn’t want anyone waking her to say, “Beastly luck, Mrs. B. Your one and only son is what coppers call pink mist. Turn on the Beeb and catch the replay as little Paulie goes out in a blaze of glory.”

  Worse, the Met switchboard might patch her through to me for some mutual abasement before it all goes boom.

  That was a non-starter. If he had any final words, he’d give them to Kate. Or better still, his old guv.

  “I don’t suppose you could ring Chief Superintendent—that is, Lord Anthony Hetheridge?”

  “He can’t,” Kyla said from behind him. She sounded oddly triumphant. “But I can.”

  A chill went through him, scalp to toes. “Hang on.”

  As he placed his mobile on the rooftop, the bluff voice commanded,

  “Paul! Stay on the line! Paul!” But he was already walking toward her.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.” Kyla’s dark eyes stood out in her pale face. She’d bitten her lip during the fall. Blood dribbled down her chin; grit from the rooftop was ground into her coat’s satiny fabric. Without trying to rise, she continued,

  “We’ve put so much planning into this. Aaron and his team intercepted emails about the Russian party weeks ago. You want to know why there was no Parliamentary security present? DEFRA didn’t want them.

  “This was all supposed to be hush-hush, lobbyists and oligarchs. A secret summit about killing the EU’s green policies rather than continuing them,” Kyla continued. “When Duncan found out, he was livid. Aaron wanted to lure ten ministers away from the Russian charm offensive, but only three were greedy enough to take the bait. Those three,” she said, pointing at the trio of hostages, “are greedy little buggers. A £5000 payoff, upfront and in cash, was all they needed to sell out the human race.”

  “We were wrong.” Jeremy’s gaze pleaded with Kyla. “We should be sacked. Maybe even brought up on charges. But we don’t deserve the death penalty.”

  “Yes, you do.” Kyla flashed him a red smile. “And when you go, the top of this tower will go, too. Look around. Not a single solar panel. Boom,” she cried, loud enough to make the hostages flinch. “Duncan’s been issuing warnings to England—to the world—for years. This is the one that will finally penetrate.”

  “But what about Hetheridge?” Paul snapped. “What did you mean, only you could call him?”

  “Can’t explain without my mobile,” she said, still grinning. “It’s just there. Stuck in the bracket, like I told you. Fetch it to me and I’ll spill.”

  Following the direction of her gaze, he spied her mobile, still in its pink Swarovski crystal-studded case. As she’d described, it was fitted into a recording stabilizer clamped to a pipe.

  Could be a backup detonator. Or the actual one, if the bargain-bin clock is a misdirect.

  “Lord, you’re so transparent. It’s not a detonator,” Kyla said. “Simple time bombs succeed for a reason. They can’t be nullified by radio signals or microwaves or whatever else the government uses. You place them, get to the minimum safe distance, rinse and repeat.”

  Despite her assurances, or perhaps because of them, Paul approached her blinged-out mobile with caution. The iPhone’s screensaver had been disabled, so the first thing he saw was himself, looking wide-eyed and frightened. When he stepped aside, he saw the hostages sitting on the IED.

  “You’re running a live feed?”

  “Of course. People pay in Bitcoin to see this stuff happen in real time. Besides, if Aaron can’t show proof, his mates on Xuanzhang will never believe he did it.”

  Revolted, Paul hit the home button. That minimized the video live feed and brought up another app. It was a digital stopwatch. The counter read 00:07.

  “Seven minutes?” Paul burst out.

  “Oh, God,” Edwin cried. Jeremy looked petrified.

  “Calm down,” Neera ordered the men. “At least we know. Seven minutes is better than one. SO19 will arrive before we know it.”

  “Bring me my mobile,” Kyla repeated.

  He wasn’t willing to touch it, which seemed to amuse her. “Aww. Poor Paulie. Too much of a big girl’s blouse to risk it. Fine. Bring me yours and we’ll do it that way.”

  He retrieved it. The man from the Met was still calling him by name, urging him to pick up, but Paul hit the red button. The digital clock now read 00:06. Having once laid eyes on it, he found it difficult to focus on anything else.

  “Find your torch app,” Kyla instructed. “Turn it on. Now face the Leadenhall building. See the spires? There’s a strip of roof just beneath. It’s not too visible at night, but it’s there. Flash your torch in that direction.”

  He obeyed. The Leadenhall building’s quadruple spire glowed emerald green that night, an ironic color in light of the DEFRA murders Sir Duncan planned. Otherwise, it was dark.

  “How many times do I—”

  He
broke off. There it was: a tiny flash of light in response. As Paul watched, it flashed again.

  “Is that Aaron?”

  “Please.” Kyla’s voice vibrated with the smugness of one no longer obligated to feign affection for a man she loathed. “This is Duncan’s final statement to England and the world. You don’t think he’d accept anything less than a ringside seat?”

  Her pink crystal-studded mobile started chiming “Silk.”

  “That’s him, wanting to know what’s wrong,” Kyla said. “Why I’m up here signaling again. Aaron and the boys are already home. I should be stepping off the Tube in Clapham South about now.”

  Paul wrenched her mobile out of the bracket and hit the button.

  “Kyla, my love. Why are you still on the roof?”

  “SO19 is en route.” Paul enunciated his syllables clearly, hoping each one penetrated Sir Duncan’s cheery carapace like bits of white-hot shrapnel. “The North tower has been evacuated. The DEFRA ministers are being freed. Next thing you know, you’ll be squatting over a mirror in HM Prison Wakefield, spreading them wide for guards who enjoy their job a little too much.”

  Silence.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  “The No-Hopers gave me a countdown clock,” Sir Duncan said. “Let me check it.”

  The ambient noise—wind, traffic, distant alarms—suddenly seemed to be coming in stereo. Paul realized he was hearing half from the North tower, half through the mobile. Sir Duncan had put his device on speakerphone.

  “Kate. Be a dear and read that number out to your friend Paul Bhar.”

  He’s a liar, Paul told himself desperately. It’s another trick. Like stalking me with that big black dog.

  No one spoke.

  “I said be a dear!”

  Somebody grunted as if struck. Then Paul heard Kate say,

  “Five minutes.”

  “Five minutes,” Sir Duncan repeated. “Did you hear that, Lord Hetheridge? Clever nom de guerre, isn’t it, Paul? As if I don’t see through it. Go on, milord. Tell your friend you’re up here, too, or I’ll kick Kate’s teeth in.”

  Tony, faintly: “I’m here.”

  “Right.” Sir Duncan sounded obscenely pleased with himself. “You know what I think, Paulie my lad?” He didn’t wait for Paul to ask. “I think five minutes is plenty of time to kill Lord and Lady Hetheridge before a Met helicopter trains a single spotlight on Deadenfall. And who knows, maybe there’ll still be fireworks.”

  Chapter Twenty

  A familiar smell awakened Kate. It reminded her of D&T in her secondary school: specifically, the Year 7 ritual of introducing eleven and twelve-year-olds to carpentry or metalwork. She’d chosen the latter. Even now, two odors had the power to transport her back to the days of tin can roses and cigar box ukuleles. One was hot metal. The other was burnt flesh.

  She opened her eyes. It was dark. Her head weighed three stone and her upper chest throbbed like she’d been flayed. Then the sound came back to her: bzzzzt.

  Cattle prod. God in heaven. No wonder the bloody beasts stampede.

  She lifted her head. Perspiration rolled into her eyes, yet she was cold, so cold she was shivering. When she tried to rise, the world lurched. Up became down; she tasted bile. All she could do was close her eyes and wait for her equilibrium to return.

  Toughen up, Kate. It’s not like you’re shot. But where’s Tony?

  Taking a deep breath, Kate sat up slowly. Her vision cleared after a few blinks and she saw where she was: a narrow catwalk under the stars.

  She’d collapsed, or more likely been dumped, in the middle of a maintenance bridge between ventilation ports and electrical units. Her stockings were shredded; the diamond-patterned steel bit into her bare knees. Her heels and handbag were gone, or her eyes hadn’t yet adjusted enough for her to pick them out. One Hundred and One Leadenhall’s roof was mostly unlit, apart from a couple of florescent boxes. Still, the City of London’s gaggle of skyscrapers provided plenty of light. So did One-oh-One’s four-pointed spire, illuminated in emerald green in honor of World Environment Day.

  Gripping the catwalk’s cold metal railing, Kate hauled herself up. Her reward was more pain in her shoulders and a second wave of nausea. Flashes of memory came back to her. Coming around in a lift. Being urged through a narrow vertical passage, possibly an air vent, with a reminder that Henry’s safety hinged on her cooperation. Maybe she’d tried something that made Sir Duncan electrocute her again. Maybe she’d just passed out. But judging by the ache in her arm sockets, she’d been dragged much of the way.

  Where’s Tony?

  Kate looked around. The maintenance bridge was apparently the highest point a person without a line and harness could achieve atop the Leadenhall building. Above her loomed the spire; before her, steep metal stairs, eight steps down, and a narrow spit of rooftop.

  Sir Duncan wasn’t there. Neither was Tony.

  She saw two massive electrical units and a stunted wall, no more than eighteen inches, separating the roof from thin air. She was alone.

  Kate’s heart leapt. Alone was almost as good as free, if she kept her wits. She looked a second time for her bag, but like her shoes, it was gone. Inside were two items she never left home without: her Met-issued tear gas spray and her mobile.

  So much for calling for backup. There has to be something up here I can use as a weapon.

  Descending those eight steps wasn’t easy, even while clinging to the handrail. Every step sent a peculiar vibration up her legs, ankles to glutes. Not quite like pins and needles. More like lightbulbs flickering just before a power cut.

  On the final step, her ankle turned. Her usual agility was gone; she fell gracelessly, like an old lady slipping in the bath. The roof’s gritty surface cut her palms like ground glass. It abraded her chin, too. But that was nothing compared to the pain of biting her tongue.

  Spitting out blood, Kate blinked away tears. Staggering upright, she lurched toward one of the electrical units; slowly, so as not to fall on her face again. The skyscrapers leaned in absurdly close, a knot of titans bearing down on one tiny woman.

  Wind battered her, sharp and cold. Still unsteady on her bare feet, Kate didn’t dare veer too close to the short wall separating the roof from a fifty story drop. The vantage point allowed her to survey the surrounding high-rises. Atop Hotel Nonpareil, she saw the helipad recently installed for the convenience of VIP guests. Over at the Dolphin’s East tower, she saw blinking red lights. They marked the start of a quickie zip line strung between the East and West towers. And over at the Walkie-Talkie building, the entire penthouse had been converted to a nightspot with floor-to-ceiling windows and a 360° view of London. It was infuriating to be almost within hailing distance of so many luxury hotels, yet unable to leverage one for a rescue.

  Hang on. What’s that?

  Sitting innocuously in the shadow of an electrical unit was something that looked like a gym bag. Kate moved carefully toward it.

  Were her legs becoming more reliable? Perhaps. That weird buzzing from her ankles to her glutes had intensified, but she ignored it. The twice-shocked spot where her throat met her clavicle hurt like hell, so she refused to look at it or touch it with her fingertips. She didn’t care if she had a great gaping hole in her chest. She only cared about Tony, Ritchie, and Henry.

  The gym bag, black canvas with unobtrusive gray piping, blended in nicely with the roofscape. Heart speeding up, she unzipped it and dug inside. Only after she plunged her hands inside did it occur to Kate that it might contain a bomb.

  Nice going. Two zaps and all my training’s out the window.

  Fortunately, she withdrew nothing resembling an IED. First came a digital camera on a neck strap, its long lens already attached. Next, blueprints and maintenance schematics, printed on copy paper and held with a binder clip. Then an Android mobile phone.

  “Oh, thank God,” she babbled. It was charged and functioning. But the lock screen wanted a ten-digit passcode and didn’t display the wor
d EMERGENCY. Nor did it respond when she mashed the buttons that should have triggered a wipe/reset.

  “Bollocks!” She dumped the bag’s remaining contents. Out spilled a mini Maglite, a pair of police-issue metal handcuffs, a roll of duct tape, and a fourteen-inch camp axe with a green plastic handle and matching blade guard.

  “Yes!” She snatched up the axe.

  “The No-Hopers pack an intriguing overnight bag,” said someone in a familiar arch tone.

  Kate turned. Sir Duncan stood on the maintenance bridge. Tony was in front of him, on his feet but only half-conscious from the look of him. An angry red welt stood out on his cheek. Sir Duncan had the cattle prod he’d called a Hot Shot positioned beside Tony’s right eye.

  “Bloody hell. You look a mess, Kate. Hard to believe I once found you mildly attractive. The old man’s sucking the life out of you, no?” Sir Duncan waved the cattle prod like a magic wand. “Funny how the fight went out of him when I zapped him in the face. I wonder, if I tried the eye, would it induce a stroke?” He shook Tony, hard. “What do you think, Chief? Will I trigger a fit of apoplexy, as people of your generation used to say, if I send 10,000 volts to your brain by way of the optic nerve?”

  Kate didn’t need to be told to put down the axe. She placed it in front of her feet. Then she rose, keeping her eyes on Tony. Was he playing possum? Maybe. Sir Duncan was twenty years younger and half a foot taller, but maybe, just maybe….

  “Good girl,” Sir Duncan said. “Ordinarily, I find disobedience more interesting. But if you come over as the hard-charging heroine, it will play havoc with my scenario. Take five, Tony.”

  Only when Sir Duncan released him did Kate realize he’d been holding her husband up. The metal catwalk rang dully as Tony hit it, knees first.

  Kate went for the axe. Before she could raise it, Sir Duncan closed the distance and yanked it out of her hands. Dropping it behind his back, he put the cattle prod level with her nose.

  “Think this would burn a hole in your face if I held it against you long enough?”

  Another gust of wind barreled through, rattling the big antennas on the lighted spire. An updraft caught the Leadenhall building’s specs in their binder clip and carried them over the side. Kate, seeing Sir Duncan’s eyes flick toward the unexpected movement, knew this was the moment. She threw all her strength in a 360-degree roundhouse kick.