by Simon Jenner
“Stay there, Smith. If you move one inch, I’ll take your head off. And no talking.” Wilson grabbed Fisher by the arm and dragged him out of earshot. Smith was powerless to do anything, but if he knew his plan, he would be more likely to risk his own life to save others. He wasn’t too bright, but he was brave and that could mean trouble. He watched Smith and Savannah out of the corner of his eye while he spoke with Fisher.
“What do you know about the gun?”
Fisher looked at Wilson blankly, and his eyes began to mist.
“I said, what do you know about this gun, Soldier?”
“Not much, sir,” barked Fisher. “Once Bradshaw suspected I may be requiring its long distance explosive capabilities he clammed up, sir.”
“Did you know that the gun you were coveting was unlikely to fire a nuclear explosion?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, thanks to me, you now have one that will. So what was your plan?”
“Like Smith said, I was going to take down Whitehall. I know the wife of a soldier who died in Afghanistan, and she’s keener than me to get payback. She works at Millbank Tower about a mile away and was going to get me up on the roof. I thought I’d get a good shot from there. I know there’s a meeting tomorrow morning about the future of the SAS and that the bean counters who stole my job will be at the MoD offices.”
No wonder this guy never made it past private, thought Wilson. He might be good on the ground, but a planner or leader, he wasn’t.
“Are you crazy, man?” he said, although it was perhaps not the best question under the circumstances. “I’m guessing you’d be aiming for the cabinet office or the Old Admiralty Building where the Ministry of Defence are based, but I doubt you’d have line of sight as far as the MoD building. How were you planning to hit your target?”
“From what Bradshaw told me, I wouldn’t need to be that close to do the damage I’m looking for. All I need to do is set the beam on full width and the level to full and there’ll be no one left standing in a half mile radius.”
“Well he was lying. You might have made a few holes in the walls, but you’d have been picked off by a sniper in minutes. Did he say anything about the range?”
“Apparently it will reduce in power after two miles but fly straight for almost four.”
“On full beam and power?”
“He didn’t say.”
Wilson looked around the station. He was certain that he had time on his side, but he knew that Johnson would fight to his last breath to secure the guns without harm befalling a single person. It was time to brief Fisher on the new plan. His heart raced with excitement as he spoke. God was on his side.
“Listen to me, Soldier. There’s been a change of plan,” he started, sending puffs of white condensation into the air as his breathing quickened to match his heart’s oxygen requirements. “You’ll get to make your statement in support of the SAS and take your own life. If you do this, I promise to kill the social workers responsible for what happened to you and your sister.”
Fisher gazed up at Wilson, his mouth opening and closing, but no words were formed. He was fully compliant now. Wilson was sure of it.
“Are you with me, Soldier?”
“Yes, sir. You can rely on me.”
Wilson held out the nuclear gun. “Take this and position yourself just inside the main entrance. Keep it hidden at all times, and wait for ten minutes from ...” Wilson looked at his watch, “... now.”
Fisher checked his watch. “Yes, sir. And then what, sir?”
“Then set both dials to full, point the gun at the ground and pull the trigger. You’ll be a hero to your cause and show those bureaucrats what you’re made of.”
*
I walk to the main entrance. My head hurts. Wilson is incredibly strong and hits like a truck. He thinks I’m compliant, a good little soldier. The gun hums beneath my jacket. I hold all the power, but Wilson is keeping his pug-ugly mug in my direction. The gun is unstable and not usable for escape purposes. Could Wilson have Sasha killed? I can’t take any chances. Wilson must die before I make my escape. I must bide my time and wait until he is distracted.
I take my place at the entrance. The world is oblivious to the danger beneath my jacket. I slide my hand inside and turn both dials to low. The odds should be against an explosion at this level. I consider testing the gun on a few passers-by. Wilson is still looking. My face is twitching. Why can’t I stop blinking? I am not myself. I need a cigarette.
*
Johnson pulled the BMW up outside Justice Investigations and scanned the surroundings for obvious signs of unusual activity. He had left the police cars far enough behind to give him space to breathe. Thankfully, the electronics inside Smith’s watch were more sensitive than human ears. Ten minutes, his partner had said, until the mother of all explosions took place. This wouldn’t be confined to local or even national headlines. This would be a disaster worthy of global attention. This was the UK’s 9/11. In a population as dense as Twickenham’s, the death toll could reach thousands.
He checked his watch. There was still a distance of two to three hundred yards between the briefcase and Smith, which contradicted the conversation he’d been listening to in the car. He inserted an earpiece and switched his watch’s sound output to the mobile device.
“Keep your distance from Smith, Savannah, he’s poison,” Wilson said, before Johnson’s earpiece went disturbingly quiet.
“C’mon,” muttered Johnson. “Speak to me, dammit.”
It was clear to the Earthguard agent that Wilson was as mentally unstable, if not more so, than Fisher. He realised that he should have called it in when he first had his doubts, but there was no time now. This mess was his to clean up.
Resisting the strong pull of both common sense and protocol, Johnson headed in the direction of the gun’s signal, knowing that it might be the biggest mistake he could make. The agent had never been one for hunches, but he had a nagging feeling that the second watch signal, that should have been with the gun, supplied a vital clue to how he needed to handle the situation. Information was everything and distinctly lacking as he ran towards the block of flats behind the station, the direction from which his watch told him the source of the second signal emanated.
With one hand he pressed all of the buttons to request entry while his other hand felt around the door to ascertain its strength. Three kicks at most, he reckoned. A long buzz sounded, and he watched the signal metre on his watch as he climbed the stairs three at a time, a perk of the long legs he had been blessed with. The stairwell was shabby and in need of some decoration, but the condition was generally good with working lights and zero graffiti.
At the fourth floor of the six possible, he found his source. He lightly tapped the tarnished lion’s head brass knocker. He wanted someone to be in, someone who could shed some light on his partner’s actions. Wilson had gone off the rails fast, and it had all started after the visit to the SAS headquarters. Major Harris had tipped him over the edge, probably without even realising it, but what had he said to the best agent Johnson had ever worked with?
Johnson took a step back and raised his right leg just as he heard the sound of a rattling security chain. He lowered his leg and smoothed back his hair. Violence may well not be the answer here, and it didn’t hurt to appear friendly and well presented.
The door opened the length of the security chain and a young woman’s face peered back at Johnson. A mop of bright red hair sat atop a pale and bony face, and two sunken, world-weary, bloodshot eyes regarded Johnson with contempt. A golden stud sat between her chin and bottom lip, and he noticed the matching tongue piercing the moment she opened her mouth. Her right cheek looked sore, or perhaps she’d just been resting on it a while.
“I’m not buying what you’re selling mate, so jog along.”
“I can’t do that, Miss. There’s something in your home I need to find.”
“You what? I don’t think so, chum. You should shift before I
call the police.”
He hadn’t time to drag the conversation out, and soon he would have to revert to action. He would try one more time.
“Please, Miss. This is a matter of life and death.”
“Yeah, it’ll be yours if you don’t leg it, pronto. I’ve got a souped-up Taser in the back which will fry your balls and burst your ticker.”
A bell rang in Johnson’s head.
“I don’t think so. Where would you get hold of a gizmo like that?”
“You American’s aren’t the only ones with the lethal toys, mate. My dad gets all sorts. It’s about all the old wanker’s good for, other than the rent on this place.”
“What’s your dad look like? Short, stocky, short straight hair, like mine?”
The woman pulled back a little from the door revealing the full features of her face. Johnson could instantly see the family resemblance beneath the ravages of neglect. “You know my dad?” she said.
“He’s about to wipe out half of Twickenham, you included, if I don’t stop him.”
“You’re Johnson?” she said, unlatching the security chain and opening the door fully. The hall of the flat was in far greater need of a coat of paint than the building’s stairwell. Beer cans, bottles and various items of underwear littered the bright pink carpet. She took no more care of her living environment than she did of herself.
“He mentioned me?”
“Yes. We had words and your name came up. He said...”
“I have to be quick,” interrupted Johnson. “Did he give you anything?”
His partner’s daughter looked offended at Johnson’s lack of interest. What was it she didn’t get about her father trying to wipe out half of Twickenham?
“Stop interrupting, and I’ll tell you.” She bent over and picked up a briefcase from her left and held it out to Johnson. “He said to give you this and tell you that you were already too late but...? Wait, no, that wasn’t it.” She closed one eye and twisted her head as she thought. Johnson leaned forward to take the small case, and his nostrils were assaulted by the smell of cigarette smoke. “If you’re dead, then you’re too late... No, that’s not it either... If you’re alive, then don’t be late... No, that’s not right.” She scratched her head and leaned against the door frame for support. “It’s all a bit fuzzy, but he definitely said to give you that.”
Johnson dropped to the floor and opened the briefcase. Inside, the weapon glinted at him. It was the latest prototype, the gun that Bradshaw had removed from the laboratory. He’d been right to follow his instinct. Wilson didn’t have a gun.
“Johnson!” shouted a man’s voice.
The agent swivelled around on one foot, pulling his Glock-17 from its holster and prepared to fire, but there were only dark walls and a window in front of him.
“Kinda jumpy aren’t you, Johnson?” Kate said.
“Johnson!” came the voice again and the agent instinctively brought his hand up to the earpiece, realising that it was Smith trying to contact him.
“Shut up, I need to listen.” Johnson attached the nuclear source to the barrel and trigger mechanism, and it clicked into place. The large handgun emitted a low hum and vibrated softly in his grip. He had held several prototypes before but never actually fired a fully charged version. The power emanating from the lead-lined, cold, steel casing was unimaginable.
“Wilson has gone nuts, you hear me? I’ve been trying to keep the watch pointed in his direction. He’s talking to Fisher out of earshot. We’re stuck on a bench next to platform four. You’d better hurry. He’s given Fisher the weapon. He’s coming, got to go...”
The earpiece went dead again. Then, Wilson’s voice: “I told you two, no talking. I’ll be with you in one minute.”
How could Fisher have the gun when Johnson held it in his hand? There was no time to reason, he needed to move.
“Is that my dad you’re listening to?” said Wilson’s daughter, jumping up and down. “Fuck me, he’s gone mental. Are you gonna blow his head off? Please blow his fucking head off.”
From his crouched position, Johnson set off back down the stairs like a sprinter at the sound of a starter pistol.
“Nice meeting you, Johnson. I’m Kate by the way,” she called after him.
Johnson adjusted the dials to narrow beam and medium level as he took each flight of stairs in two strides. The shrill voice continued, “He said if you’re still alive and you’re not too late then this should even the odds if you’ve got the guts to use it. Yes, that was it!” Then even louder, “Before you blow out his fucking brains, Johnson... Do you hear me? Before you shoot that piece of shit between the eyes, tell him that I’ve always fucking hated him,” screamed the voice from above Johnson.
No wonder he’s planning to take her out, thought Johnson, flinging open the doors to the building and racing towards the station, but what’s he got against the rest of Twickenham? He made a mental note to himself to ask Doctor Meredith if she liked kids before he met up with her in person.
26: Monday 26th September, 12:40
Wilson bent down and forced John Smith’s ankle against the wrought iron leg of the bench and snapped on cold metal cuffs.
“These will keep you here so we can have a nice chat when Savannah leaves.”
John had the distinct feeling that he should have made his move before the cuffs came out, but what it might have been, he had no idea.
“So what’s your plan?” John asked the smiling agent, who wriggled himself between him and Savannah.
Wilson’s smile broadened as he regarded John. There was a look of peace in the man’s eyes, like he was in a different place, seeing different things from the rest of the world. “Now you’re chained, I suppose there’s no harm in it. I plan to be with God. What more can a man hope to achieve?”
Savannah remained quiet at John’s earlier request when Wilson had been talking to Fisher. But she could not hide the shock on her face. It was all she could do to stay on the bench. Hang in there, Savannah.
So, except for Savannah, they were all sentenced to death. A wave of self-preservation washed over John. If their last ditch plan didn’t work, and it wasn’t likely to, he was staring death right in the face. He had come so far and survived, it seemed unfair to end up dying chained to a bench.
“Can I ask why I have to die? What did I ever do to you?”
The agent nibbled his top lip. “You’re no good for Savannah. She’s better off without you.”
“What if I promised not to see her again?”
Wilson laughed. He was certainly more cheerful since he’d lost his mind.
“Nice try, kid, but I don’t think so.”
“At least stop calling me kid. It’s my last request. All condemned men get a last request, right?”
“Sure,” Wilson said, grinning. The lunatic agent had become a regular Samaritan.
“What if I scream, by the way?” John asked. Every avenue seemed worth exploring.
“If you make one sound or gesture, I’ll put a bullet in Savannah’s head, and her blood will be on your hands.”
So it was down to the last ditch plan again. “You touch one hair on her head and I swear I’ll come after you.”
A wry smile spread across Wilson’s face. “We’re about to be blown sky high. The only direction we’re going is up, where I can be with my Julie and Kate just like the good old days.”
John had observed enough of the rogue agent’s behaviour around Savannah to doubt that his threats towards her carried much weight, but Wilson was deranged, and who could predict what he would do if the chips were down? John had risked Savannah’s life enough in the last few days, and he would not try to save his own by jeopardising hers. He felt pretty good about that thought. It was a shame he would die before the new John Smith had a chance to show what he was made of. Agent Johnson was their only hope now, and for all they knew, Wilson may already have killed him. If Johnson was dead or working with Wilson then all was lost.
“Is
Johnson with you in all of this?” John asked.
Wilson sniggered. “Johnson? That fool’s stuck in traffic on the M25. If he’s early, he’ll be here in time to join us in the afterlife, otherwise he’ll be scraping you off the buildings half a mile away once the dust dies down. I’m betting on the former.”
The agent, who until this morning at Justice Investigations had seemed a decent sort, gave a thumbs up signal to Fisher who waited to the right of the inside of the station entrance. There he could presumably keep a lookout as well as pull the trigger on the gun that would obliterate anything in its locality.
It seemed that Fisher was too mixed up and in awe of Wilson to even consider his own thoughts, although it was a toss-up between the two crazies as to which one might cost the most lives. If Fisher made a run for it, with the weapon under his control, there was no way of knowing how many social workers he blamed for the predicament with his sister. John’s father had always maintained that four social workers’ lives only equated to one of anybody else’s, so he might consider Fisher’s retribution the less costly.
John’s eyes misted, and an all too familiar lump rose in his throat at the thought of not seeing his family one more time. They had been right about him, he knew that now. Wishing they could have witnessed the new and improved John, he wondered if they would cry at his funeral. He hoped so, just a little. He wiped his eyes before turning to Savannah, who forced a smile back at him. Her lovely eyes were sad and tired. Wilson looked on triumphantly. John winked at Savannah. She knew what to do.
“You’ll soon forget him, Savannah,” Wilson said, leaning back on the bench like he was in a comfy armchair. “From now on, there will be no more bad influences in your life. You can take control again. We’ll all be as dead as that useless father of yours.” He pointed to an exit on the far side of the station. “Now leave here while there’s still time.”
John coughed and rubbed his nose frantically, the signal he and Savannah had agreed upon in advance.