Her heart was going like the clappers, and sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, so she took a moment to catch her breath and check her hands weren’t trembling too much before grabbing the reel of wire. Working as fast as she dared, she spliced in an alternate circuit that would mislead the timer mechanism about the motion sensor’s status. Then she wiped her hands on her jeans, took a deep breath, and snipped the original circuit.
“Everything okay?” came Jemma’s voice.
It was a moment before Ash could answer. But she hadn’t been splattered all over the Cumbre Vieja, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “Peachy. I’ve disabled the booby trap. That should buy us some time for the bomb squad to get here.”
“Fantastic!”
Ash pursed her lips. “Can you get me a spade or shovel or something?”
While she waited, she eased along the crevice again, snipping the fuse wires between the piles of Semtex as she went. Then movement caught her eye, and she glanced up. A blonde head was peering in at her.
“This do?” A latrine spade appeared.
Ash took it from Jemma’s outstretched hand. “Perfect. Thanks.”
As Jemma retreated from view, Ash shovelled loose earth and debris from the floor into the gap between the first pile and its neighbour. It was a makeshift job, but better than nothing. She was lifting the shovel to fill the next gap when the timer’s display came to life. Uh oh!
Bright red digits flickered. 3:00 changed to 2:59, then to 2:58 …
“Blade,” came Jemma’s shout, her tone urgent. “The Libyans have walked out of the talks!”
“I know,” called Ash. “They’ve triggered the timer.” Where had the signal come from? A private plane breaching the exclusion zone? A boat lurking among the flotilla of fleeing craft? Whatever its source, it was irrelevant now.
“What?” shouted Jemma. “Hell! How long have we got?”
“Was three minutes. Less now. The Bomb Squad?”
“Still ten minutes away.”
Shit! “I’ll have to do it myself then.”
“Not if you wish your friend to live,” came a male voice.
What the—? Ash straightened up so she could see what was going on and felt her blood run cold. Jemma’s civil guard friend now stood behind her kneeling figure, twisting one of her arms behind her back and holding a knife to her throat.
Chapter 16
THE KNIFE BITING into her skin made Jemma wince. Talk about Jekyll and Hyde. One minute the civil guard had been complimenting her on her beauty, her hair, her figure, as well as being helpfulness itself—It was hot wasn’t it? Would she like some of his water?—the next, he was holding her hostage.
She could have kicked herself. Of course a terrorist would be in disguise. And what better camouflage than a uniform? Somewhere close by, its owner must be lying dead or dying. And she was next.
“Throw down your gun,” he shouted to the face peering from the crevice at them.
Blade’s eyes were like blue chips of ice. She didn’t reply.
“Do it! Or your friend gets her throat slit from ear to ear.”
With a dull thud something landed a few feet from Jemma. Blade’s gun. What are you doing? she tried to speak, but the pressure against her throat made it hard to swallow.
“Good,” said her captor. “Very good.”
The policemen hiding behind their protective banks would be unaware anything was wrong. It was up to Jemma to help herself. She took a breath then tried to break his grip. He was too strong. And in response, he pressed the knife deeper until she felt the trickle of blood and wrenched her left arm even higher behind her back, until she thought it would break.
Blade’s gaze locked with hers. Forget about me, urged Jemma silently. Just disarm the bomb. If you don’t, I’m dead anyway. We all are. For a moment, she had the impression Blade knew what she was thinking. Then Blade ducked back out of sight.
The man holding Jemma let out a growl, and she braced herself for the slash of his knife. So this is it? This is how it ends?
Then Blade’s face reappeared, and something whizzed over Jemma’s head. With a gasp, her captor collapsed on top of her, pressing her forward into the dirt. The knife twisted painfully against her throat and for a moment she feared she was going to suffocate, then the oppressive weight vanished, and strong hands under her armpits dragged her up.
Jemma blinked at the man lying dead by the landline, a screwdriver sprouting from his neck, then Blade’s breath was warm on her cheek, her voice loud in Jemma’s ear. “Run! It’s gonna blow.” And a mighty shove in the small of her back hurled her down the slope.
As she careered past the protective banks, one of the sheltering policemen shouted to her, but a deafening rumble obscured his words and made his colleagues fling themselves flat or get to their feet, expressions terrified.Then the earth itself seemed to rise up and shake Jemma by the scruff of her neck, and the slope beneath her feet rippled, toppling her like a ninepin. She had time to think only, Oh my God! then she was falling, amidst a hail of pebbles, earth, and rolling boulders.
In all probability only a few seconds passed but it seemed like years before something unyielding brought Jemma’s freefall tumble to an abrupt and painful halt. An outcrop of rock, she registered dimly. Then something—or rather someone, for it had the unmistakeable feel of flesh and bone—landed on top of her, driving the air from her lungs.
Unable to do anything but gasp, Jemma lay still. Her fears that the person lying on top of her was dead eased as they stirred and wrapped their arms around her, shielding her from the worst of the debris raining down. She lost all track of time, but at last the deafening rumble died away. The torrent of rocks became a trickle of pebbles, became a light pattering of dust, then, finally, stopped altogether.
No birds sang. In fact the silence was so intense she could hear the waves crashing on the black volcanic beach far below. Then the arms enclosing her unwound, and she turned over and found herself staring into familiar blue eyes.
Of course. She engulfed Blade in a fierce hug. “We’re still alive!”
“Yep,” came the muffled reply.
A thought struck Jemma, and she released her grip and turned urgently west. Even now a tidal wave must be racing across the Atlantic. But the sea below was its usual placid self. She turned an amazed gaze on Blade. “But how—?”
“The western flank didn’t slide far enough.” Blade’s teeth looked dazzling against her dirt-smeared skin. “You look like you’ve been in a landslide.”
“Funny. So do you.”
Jemma let Blade help her to her feet. She still felt shaky, and now that her senses were returning was aware of the stinging across her throat. Blade intercepted her hand before she could touch the cut.
“It’s quite deep, but not serious,” she said. “It shouldn’t leave a scar.”
“Thanks.” Relieved, Jemma let her hand drop.
They limped back up towards the crevice, which had shifted ten metres further from the Cumbre Vieja’s summit and collapsed in on itself in several places. Policemen stood in huddles, talking, or in the Civil Guard police sergeant’s case pointing. Jemma followed the direction of his finger, and saw a leg in pea green uniform jutting from beneath a pile of rocks. An image of a screwdriver protruding from the terrorist’s neck came back to her, and she shuddered.
“You okay?” asked Blade.
“Just realising how close I came to … you know.”
Blade nodded.
Jemma pieced together the moments after she was taken captive and blinked in realisation. “Did you choose to save me rather than stop the timer from ticking down?”
Blade shrugged. “Calculated risk. I’d done what I could to minimise the explosion. And I was out of time anyway.” Jemma was going to pursue the topic further, but the sergeant had spotted them.
“We were lucky,” he said, looking relieved. “Most of the explosives didn’t detonate.”
Blade nodded. “Lucky,�
�� she repeated, giving Jemma a wink. Jemma made a mental note to get the details from her later.
A persistent droning sound had been growing steadily louder, and Jemma shaded her eyes and spotted its source: a helicopter with Spanish markings. “Is that the bomb squad from the Mainland?” she asked the sergeant.
“In the nick of time,” said Blade.
He didn’t notice the dryness of her tone. “Indeed so.” He gave them both a grave nod. “It appears we will no longer need your assistance, señoritas.”
Chapter 17
FOUR SPANIARDS IN protective suits clustered around what was left of the crevice, studying the remains of the unexploded Semtex. Specialist tools hung from utility belts and made pouches bulge, and boxes of equipment littered the slope nearby.
Ash exchanged a wry glance with Jemma. “C’mon.” She grabbed Jemma by the elbow and led her downslope. “Let’s leave it to the experts.”
“Where are we going? The helicopter’s back there.”
Jemma stumbled on a pebble, and Ash shot out an arm to steady her. “Careful.” Jemma looked as exhausted as she felt. “I need you in one piece to use your clout. Need you to straighten things out for some friends of mine.”
“Clout?” Jemma gave her a wry glance. “What makes you think I have any?”
“You’ve done pretty well so far.”
Jemma’s cheeks pinked, but she looked pleased. “What friends are these?”
“Locals who’ve been helping me out. It’s time to return the favour.”
They trudged the hundred metres down to the treeline and angled left towards the checkpoint visible through the Canary pines. Parked nearby, Ash saw with relief, was a minibus that lacked a wing mirror and a side window.
As they neared the cluster of tents erected in a clearing next to the barrier, a lieutenant in the brown uniform of the Policía Nacional stood up and began to clap. One of his men joined in, then another.
Ash threw Jemma an embarrassed glance. “Must have mistaken us for celebrities.”
The corner of Jemma’s mouth twitched. “We’ll be starting a fashion trend next.”
Ash regarded Jemma’s blood-spattered T-shirt and dirt-streaked, tattered jeans, then inspected her own attire, which was even worse. “Riiiiiiight.”
The lieutenant held out a hand, and since there was no way to avoid it without giving offence, Ash shook it. Then the other policemen gathered round and slapped Ash and Jemma on the back. Everyone spoke at once, until Ash held up a hand for silence.
“Gracias, gracias. Es muy amable de usted, but—” thinking in Spanish took too much effort, so Ash switched to English, “—I need a favour.”
“Si?” said the lieutenant. “Name it.”
“You are holding some friends of mine, one of them a boy. They were in a minibus.” She gestured at the battered vehicle.
Comprehension dawned. “Si, a minibus. The occupants are over there.” He signalled to a policeman guarding one of the tents. The man ducked inside and emerged a moment later, shepherding five familiar figures.
A smile replaced Vito’s scowl when he saw Ash, then his gaze lighted on Jemma, and his expression changed to one of adolescent lust. Ash kept her face straight with difficulty.
“Um …” Jemma gave her a doubtful glance. “These are your friends?”
“Yep.” Though Ash had to concede that Ignacio, Conrado, Guido, and the minibus driver looked more like pirates than respectable citizens.
“Señorita.” The lieutenant looked ill at ease. “I apologise, but these men have been detained for questioning. I cannot release them, you understand, without authorisations, paperwork—”
“Clout,” mouthed Ash, giving Jemma a nudge. “Sweet talk the lieutenant, flash your ID, or something.”
“Or something?” Jemma gave her what used to be called “an old-fashioned look” but pulled out her ID and took the lieutenant to one side.
The discussion that followed, to Ash’s amusement, involved Jemma talking and the lieutenant listening. Fortunately Jemma seemed unaware a lovesick twelve-year-old boy was monitoring her every move.
While the policemen returned to duty, which seemed to involve drinking coffee and playing cards, Ash leaned against the barrier, folded her arms, and let her mind go blank. A short while later, the lieutenant issued new orders, and Ignacio, Vito, and their three companions trotted towards her, faces wreathed with smiles. She resigned herself to more backslapping, then Jemma joined them, and she made the introductions all round. Ignacio greeted Jemma with a familiar wink and a pat on her backside, which Ash thought was going to earn him a slap, but surprisingly didn’t. As for Vito, for a moment, Ash thought they were going to need a crowbar to pry his hand from Jemma’s.
“Your minibus still working?” she asked the driver. He nodded. “Great. Let’s go.”
“Where to, señorita?”
“The airport, of course.” Ash couldn’t wait to get back to Tenerife. A hot Jacuzzi and a soft bed with her name on it were waiting in her casa—she could sleep for a week.
While the others walked towards the battered minibus, Jemma put a hand on Ash’s arm. “Airport? You have a plane?”
“Oh. Didn’t I mention that?” Ash grinned.
“No you bloody didn’t.” Jemma stalked towards the minibus, and a chuckling Ash followed her, taking the opportunity to admire her shapely rear.
With an extra adult aboard, the minibus was a bit of a squeeze, but Vito sat without complaint on his Uncle’s lap—he had a better view of Jemma from there. “Did you used to be a thief like Blade, Señorita Jacobs?”
“No,” said Jemma, who was sitting directly behind Blade.
“And can you wrestle as well as she does?”
“Wrestle?” Jemma sounded incredulous, and Ash hid a smile. “I don’t think so. No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend? Or do you prefer girls as Blade does?”
“Vito!” Ignacio’s voice was sharp. “Leave the señorita alone. Cannot you see she’s exhausted?”
The boy subsided, grumbling. Shame, thought Ash. I would have liked to hear the answer to that one.
In the rear seats, Guido and Conrado were talking about the Carnaval. Tomorrow was the final day, and there would be a big procession ending with the ritual known as “the Burying of the Sardine.”
It’s nearly over? Some vacation that was. Relaxing, Ash let the buzz of conversation wash over her.
Beside her, the driver reached for the radio switch then paused and raised an eyebrow in query. She nodded. Moments later, music filled the minibus, and as the bare slopes gave way to lush vineyards, Ash’s thoughts drifted back to the Cumbre Vieja.
Seeing Jemma taken hostage had given Ash flashbacks to Copenhagen—she’d relived that day in the Vesterbrogade often in her nightmares. In Denmark, her instincts had screamed at her to protect her partner, but she’d overridden them, done what Sam asked her to … and he’d died. On the Cumbre Vieja, they’d screamed at her again. This time she’d trusted them, and Jemma was alive and well and chattering behind her. Thank God.
In retrospect, Ash was shocked by what might have happened had her calculated risk not paid off. It had been a close call. A very close call. Right now the citizens of the United States could have been paying dearly for her decision. Her hands were still shaking with reaction. She clasped them together and hoped no one else had noticed.
A newsreader interrupted the music.
“What is he saying?” Jemma leaned forward, putting her head close to Ash’s.
“It seems,” said Ash, trying to listen to the fast, colloquial Spanish and translate, “that the predicted eruption of the Cumbre Vieja was much smaller than the scientists had feared. There was no structural damage, and the only casualties were a couple of policemen killed in a landslide.”
“The terrorist and the guard whose uniform he stole,” murmured Jemma.
Ash glanced at her. “Yeah.”
The newsreader’s voice continued.
&nb
sp; “The evacuation has been aborted. People may return to their homes,” she translated. “In unrelated news, the severe tornadoes forecast for the eastern seaboard of the USA have veered safely out to sea and those people who were evacuated twenty-five miles inland are to be allowed back home.”
“Unrelated?” said Jemma, her tone dry, as the music resumed and the minibus continued on its journey to the airport.
Ash smiled. “Hey, it’s on the news. It must be true.”
Chapter 18
GARY LET OUT a contented sigh and wiped the beer foam from his moustache. “So, what’s she like in the field then, JJ?”
“She?” asked Jemma, but she already knew who her former classmate meant. Ever since she had got back to London, other agents had been talking about the near disaster in La Palma, Jemma’s part in it, and, of course, Blade’s. Perhaps they’d lose interest once the enquiry was over and things had died down.
“Ashley Blade, of course.”
Jemma shrugged. “Remember all the things Mac told us about her? They’re true.”
“Really?” Gary raised his eyebrows. “I thought he was exaggerating.”
“Nope,” said Jemma. “Blade can be as irritating as hell, improvises outrageously, takes insane risks … and I’d trust her with my life.” In fact I did. She fingered the plaster on her neck. Beneath it, the cut was healing nicely, and, as Blade had predicted, without a scar.
“Worked out whether you fancy her or not yet?” Gary doodled on the table, using the spilt beer as ink.
“I—” Jemma’s cheeks grew hot. How could she answer him when she didn’t know?
He looked up at her and grinned. “She’s still in the Canaries, you know. Told Thompson that, since her holiday had turned into a mission, she was entitled to more leave in lieu. Got to keep the casa too. Jammy sod!”
So she’s still out there. Jemma gave an envious sigh.
When they had flown back to Tenerife, they were almost dead on their feet. Even so, Blade had enough energy left to coax a promise from Jemma that she would spend the last day of the Carnival with her. Jemma’s flight to London was booked for the next evening, but she had the day to herself, so, rather apprehensively, she agreed.
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