by John Marrs
“It looked bloody real to me!”
“We’re not going to die, I promise you.”
“You can’t promise me anything.”
“This is someone’s idea of a sick joke, and once your police colleagues become involved and see that one of their own is caught up in it, they’ll get us out.”
“Jesus, Sam, don’t be so bloody naive! It doesn’t matter whether I’m in the police or not. Look at what’s happening. Our cars have been hacked and are being controlled by somebody else. If he’s gone to all this effort, it’s hardly likely a few harsh words from my sarge are going to make him have a change of heart, is it?”
Sam slumped in his seat and rubbed his hands against his scalp as if it might stimulate his brain into coming up with a way to free them. Locked doors meant he ruled out jumping from the moving car. He had seen one Passenger in her hijab try and fail to kick her way through the reinforced glass. The car’s battery kept topping itself up as it drove over recharging points, so it was unlikely to drain before his arrival at their final destination. And with no operating system to obey his commands or allow him to communicate with anyone aside from other Passengers, he was stuck.
He kept repeating one word to himself over and over again—why? It was the question that had plagued him since the people blackmailing him first appeared in his life six weeks earlier. In some ways it made sense they were now behind the hijacking—after all, they had taken grim pleasure in tormenting and taunting him before revealing what they wanted. But in other ways, it was illogical. Twenty minutes before the Hacker’s voice was heard, he had sent them an email informing them that he had what they wanted. He had also attached a videogram of it as proof. They had responded with the drop-off instructions—a shopping centre in Milton Keynes. If they kept their end of the bargain, Sam could have his old life back.
So why, before the handover, were they now involving Heidi? If she found out what he’d done, he wouldn’t need to keep quiet. And if they were going to up the ante, they were in for a disappointment because there was nothing left.
The more thought he gave it, the more he realised too many other things about the scenario weren’t making sense either, like the involvement of his fellow Passengers and the apparent murder of one of them. Was he part of a much wider scam, and were they in on it too? Or were they, like him, victims?
More and more he was considering whether he and Heidi had found themselves caught up in something much bigger that had nothing to do with the extortion. And that scared him more than being blackmailed, because at least he knew what they wanted.
There was one thing he could be certain about, however. He was not going to end up in a ball of flames like Victor Patterson. If it came down to the choice of husband or wife, they would kill her first.
Otherwise they would never get their hands on the £100,000 in cash that was sitting in a hold-all behind him.
CHAPTER 21
Libby couldn’t be sure how many cameras the Hacker had installed to monitor the inquest room, only that one of them was trained on her face and was now filling the largest of the screens.
It was uncomfortable and disconcerting, and while she wasn’t particularly self-conscious, the ultra-high-definition screen highlighted her every flaw, pore, and skin blemish. It made her want to suck in her cheeks, raise her head to hide her double chin, and adjust her posture so she didn’t appear quite so round-shouldered. She looked to the other screens, and two news channels were using the same image, with her full name printed in large letters across the bottom and the word “live” emblazoned on the top.
Inevitably, her attention returned to Jude. She was desperate to speak to him again but of all the conversations she had rehearsed should she have found him, none fitted these circumstances. She also didn’t know whether to believe the Hacker when he informed them they would have time to talk later. And only now was it registering that he had referred to them as “sweethearts.” How had the Hacker known there had been something, albeit brief, between them? Had he been following her attempts to trace Jude? For how long had she been on his radar?
Libby realised that while she was lost in thought, the room had become muted. Even the blusterous Jack was reticent to speak now that he was aware he was on-camera. In fact all the jurors had become less vocal since they were publicly identified.
She assumed they were all waiting to hear the Hacker’s instructions. But he wasn’t hurrying to impart his plan. Libby had an inkling he was waiting to be asked. To him, this was a game and he enjoyed the interaction with his players. So when no one else appeared willing, she stepped up to the plate.
“What do you want me to do next?” she said.
“I thought you’d never ask,” the Hacker replied. “But first, a polite reminder. One of the many benefits of the electric motors and circuit boards that operate an autonomous car is that it’s freed up room inside them, far more than diesel or petrol vehicles ever had. There’s more legroom, the seats are larger, there is more space for storage for suitcases, shopping, and several kilos of explosives. So, if any of the remaining seven vehicles under my control are interfered with in any way whatsoever, I will not hesitate to detonate more. If any person, persons, emergency services, or armed forces personnel attempt to bring one to a standstill, I will detonate it. If anyone encourages it to stray from its programmed path or messes with signs or traffic signals, I will detonate it. If anyone tries to break a Passenger free, I will detonate it. If anyone slows it down, I will detonate it. I would not go to all this effort only to make empty threats. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes,” Libby replied.
“You’ll forgive me for saying this, Libby, but your word carries little gravitas. I’m referring to you, Jack. What do you have to say? Will you adhere to my rules?”
Jack hesitated before he replied with a simple “Yes.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. But as we all know, saying something and doing something are two very different things. I need to know that you’re not just paying me lip service. I explained to you earlier that each of the Passengers would be dead by the end of the morning in a collision. In an effort to show you I’m not as heartless as you think I am, I’m willing to allow one of them to exit this process without hurting so much as a hair on their head. While the remaining six cars will still all collide with one another in two hours and five minutes from now, one lucky Passenger will walk away unscathed.”
“Who?” Libby asked, her eyes drawn straight to Jude. Raised voices coming from the other side of the closed doors distracted her.
“First things first. To fully appreciate what it feels like to save a life, you must take one. Between you, you are to decide which Passenger to sacrifice to save the others.”
“We can’t do that!” Libby exclaimed. “You can’t ask us to murder someone!”
The noise from the other side of the doors grew louder.
“We are not going to send anyone to their death,” said Muriel adamantly, and folded her arms.
“What if I told you that if you didn’t kill one person, then I would kill them all? In front of me I have a keyboard and four-figure command at my disposal. If I type in those numbers, each car will be detonated at exactly the same time.”
They heard a gentle tapping sound as the Hacker made his first keystroke.
“He’s bluffing,” said Jack.
A second key was pressed.
“He could be hitting anything. We don’t know.”
The sound of a third keystroke followed.
“Do you really want to take the risk?” the Hacker asked. Nobody answered.
“Choosing someone, it’s . . . it’s impossible,” said Libby.
“Not always,” the Hacker replied. “Allow me to make a comparison. Say, for example, two of the cars contained almost identical Passengers, two men—they’re the same age, are of the same appearance,
work in the same careers, have similar dependents—which one would you choose to die?”
“I couldn’t.”
“What if I told you one of the men had a history of sexual violence against women? Would that make a difference?”
“That’s hypothetical; what you’re asking us to do is real,” said Libby.
“You haven’t answered me.”
“The sex offender,” interrupted Jack. “That’s the answer he wants, just give it to him.”
“I’d choose neither,” said Libby. “I wouldn’t make that decision.”
“Then you’d be sending them both to their deaths,” said the Hacker. “How would you feel being responsible for the murder of an innocent man?”
“I wouldn’t be responsible because you’re the one controlling their cars. You’re the one killing them.”
“Yet I’d be the one sleeping soundly of a night while you’d remain trying to convince yourself that taking the moral high ground was the right thing to do. But quietly, you’d know that you did the wrong thing.”
Before Libby could answer, the increasing volume of voices in the other room became impossible to ignore. The two security operatives looked to each other and then moved towards it, removing electric stun gun–like devices from their jacket pockets.
“Would it help if I told you that the five of you won’t have to make the decision alone, Libby?” the Hacker continued. “Because the rest of the world will have its say too.”
Suddenly, the double doors opened and the security operatives jumped into position, ready to defend themselves against what was to come. However, ready to enter were six uniformed police offers, each holding semi-automatic rifles to their chest, flanking two men, two women, and trolleys packed with electronic devices.
“Who the hell are you?” Jack asked the officer with the most accolades pinned to his uniform.
“We’ve been ordered by the Home Office and National Counter Terrorism Office to escort these people inside this room to assist.” He thrust a tablet into Jack’s hands. “It’ll all here.”
“To assist in what?”
CHAPTER 22
@HijackerHacker
Which Passengers should die first?
Claire
Sofia
Jude
Shabana
Heidi
Sam
Bilquis
947,098 votes
At the beginning of the day, the inquest room felt vast, airless, and empty.
Within the space of thirty minutes, there was disarray. Five jurors, a stenographer, and a clerk had expanded to include security operatives, backroom staff, police officers, and now a new group of unfamiliar faces.
A man with Southeast Asian features, peroxide-blond hair, thick-framed glasses, and unnaturally cobalt-blue eyes caught everyone’s attention. He strode into the centre of the room, lifted his glasses, and gave the available space the once-over. “Put the tables here,” he said, and directed with his finger to a position under the windows. His team moved swiftly, returning from the other room and sliding the tables across the flagstones with a piercing shriek, like fingernails being dragged down a blackboard.
“Will someone please tell me what is going on?” Jack asked the police officer in charge. An embroidered badge above his pocket gave his name as Commander Riley. He wore body armour and, like his colleagues, held a semi-automatic rifle in both hands against the lower portion of his chest.
“We have been escorting a specialist team here to help you,” he replied.
“With what? And who told them to come here? I certainly didn’t request them.”
“The Home Office has given them special dispensation.”
“But they need clearance, they need to be vetted—”
“Have no fear, we are no strangers to a crisis,” interrupted the man with the peroxide hair. “And boy, do you have a crisis on your hands. We’ve worked with most of your government departments over the years.”
“Then why haven’t I seen you before?”
He eyed Jack up and down. “I could ask the same.”
Jack turned to Commander Riley. “Get them out of here,” he growled.
“You are not in charge of this room, sir. I am, and I have clear instructions they are to remain here.”
“Get me the Home Office on the phone,” Jack ordered to no one in particular.
Libby and the jurors watched with interest as the latest additions to the room busied themselves unpacking the trolley of electrical equipment and setting up phones, monitors, cables, Wi-Fi routers, keyboards, and tablets.
“Sorry, sir, the line is engaged,” one of Jack’s assistants said nervously.
“What, the red line?”
“Yes, all of the lines.”
“Jesus!” he yelled in frustration, then forced himself to sound calmer. “Right, anyone who doesn’t need to be in this room, please get out.” He glared at the two security operatives and his staff who had entered with Commander Riley. To Jack’s irritation, they turned to the commander and awaited his signal before shuffling out the door. Riley then nodded to his armed colleagues, who also left.
“I’ll be outside if you require me,” Commander Riley directed towards the blond-haired man before closing the door behind him. Jack waited until he heard the electronic beep of the door locking before he turned to confront the new arrivals.
“Now give me a straight answer—who are you people?”
“Straight is not a concept I’m overly familiar with,” the peroxide-haired man replied, and gave Jack a wink that briefly amused Libby despite the circumstances. He removed his glasses and wiped them with the sleeve of his jumper. “Cadman,” he continued without looking Jack in the eye.
“What the hell is a Cadman?” asked Jack blankly.
“A Cadman is what you’re going to need for the duration of whatever this is and to translate to you what the world is saying about it.”
“Why should I give a damn what the world has to say?”
“Because, collectively, they are the sixth juror.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Cadman moved towards the other jurors. “I hate to showboat but if I don’t, then no one else will. I’m the country’s foremost expert in all things social media. If it’s been on the web and I haven’t seen it, then it’s not worth talking about. My team and I are here to interpret whom the people beyond these four walls are talking about online. Nobody knows more about mass communication than I do. I know my machine learning from my micro-moments, my conversions from my clickbait, my organic reach from my omni-channels, and my big data from my business intelligence. I know the words that matter and the words that don’t; I know what will trend because, frequently, I have made them trend; I have created algorithms that will collate the data we require quicker than Tim Berners-Lee can blink. I know this because this is what I do. You asked me what a Cadman was? You are looking at it. I am Cadman, and you are going to allow me to do the job I have been summoned here to do. Those using social media will be voting alongside you, and I am here to search and translate the results of who they want to live and who they want to die.”
“Why would the rest of the world care?” Jack asked.
Cadman laughed. “Oh, you are such a kidder, aren’t you?” He turned to the jurors. “He is kidding, isn’t he?” Muriel shook her head. “Jack, five minutes after this all blew up, excuse the pun and RIP Victor, it’s been the only thing anyone is talking about. Every country in the world with access to social media is watching you, they’re watching the Passengers, and they’re taking in everything as it happens live. Look.” He turned his tablet to face Jack. “On average there are six thousand tweets sent every second of every day. That number has doubled today. Facebook has never seen so much traffic since its peak back in 2020, and this one event i
s bringing them millions of pounds of revenue every minute. It is pulling the world together.”
Cadman flicked the page of his tablet to project against another wall. It featured news channels from around the world. The USA, Japan, Russia, Saudi Arabia, and New Zealand were all running live footage of the events on British roads.
“Who sent you?” asked Jack.
“Now that, I can’t answer you. We were booked months ago through the usual government channels and paid in advance,” he continued. “We were told we’d be informed of what would be required of us on the day. Taxis were sent to our hotel this morning, and on our way here I was sent profiles of six of the people trapped in these cars. Then we received an urgent call from Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, or COBRA to you and I, urging us to attend—they were taken aback to learn we’d already been booked. Commander Riley and his team escorted us up here and explained what we’d find behind closed doors.”
If Cadman felt intimidated by Jack’s piercing gaze, he didn’t show it. He looked to the Passengers’ screens. “So get me up to speed. Which one of this lot are you killing off first then?”
CHAPTER 23
Create your own soundtrack to hijacking!
4,566 plays
PLAY
ARTIST
TITLE
1. AC/DC
“Highway to Hell”
...
2. Talking Heads
“Road to Nowhere”
...
3. Chris Rea
“The Road to Hell”