Three Lives Down (A Dan Taylor thriller)

by Rachel Amphlett

  He reached down for the weapon, made sure it was safe, and then returned to Porchester, who was crawling on all fours across the floor, wheezing. Dan stood over him, the gun at his side, and then kicked Porchester’s arms out from under him.

  The politician rolled onto his side and then pushed himself up into a crouch and raised his hands above his head.

  Dan realised he’d have seconds before the range would be secured by armed force. His mind raced. Perhaps there was a way he could use the incursion to his advantage – convince them that Porchester was somehow connected to the isotope theft.

  He knew his own evidence was tenuous – he had to get hold of Porchester’s phone, to prove the connection to his own failed mission and a potential threat to the PM.

  ‘Stop,’ Porchester pleaded. ‘Please. Don’t shoot me.’

  ‘Get up,’ he said, leaning down and dragging Porchester to his feet. ‘You’re not going to convince anyone with that act.’

  ‘Oh, but I will,’ said Porchester, a gleam in his eye. ‘You see, I haven’t got a choice.’

  ‘I’m not going to shoot you,’ said Dan. ‘But I want some answers. Now.’

  He didn’t get a chance to ask a question.

  With a crash, the door to the rifle range caved inwards under the force of a well-aimed battering ram, closely followed by three figures in black fatigues who stepped through the breach, their faces covered by black protective helmets and goggles, and all brandishing assault rifles.

  ‘Don’t let him shoot me!’ screamed Porchester. ‘He’s a madman! Arrest him!’

  ‘No – wait!’ yelled Dan.

  It was too late.

  The men launched themselves across the rifle range, all shouting at once, their voices muffled by scarves they’d wrapped around their faces.

  ‘Down, down!’

  ‘Drop your weapon!’

  Dan slowly loosened his grip on the gun and dropped it to the ground, where it landed with a metallic clatter.

  As he straightened, the apparent leader of the three men shot forwards, brandishing his rifle at Dan’s chest, the respirator over his mouth giving his voice a mechanised cadence.

  ‘On your knees, soldier!’

  Dan laced his fingers behind his head and did as he was told.

  Stay calm, he told himself.

  ‘Cover me,’ instructed the guard over his shoulder.

  His two comrades swung their rifles in Dan’s direction, and he gritted his teeth as the man grabbed his wrists, lowered them behind his back, and then slipped plastic zip ties around them and pulled tightly.

  ‘My name is Dan Taylor,’ he said, keeping his voice calm. ‘I’m an operative with the Energy Protection Group.’

  No response.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he urged. ‘This man is a danger to security. He’s a terrori—’

  A hand slapped the back of his head, and he cursed as he bit his tongue.

  A hood was shoved over his head, pulled down under his chin, and secured.

  Tasting blood in his mouth, his mind raced.

  Christ, what’s going on?

  A hand snaked under his arm and pulled. ‘Get up.’

  Dan concentrated on standing up without losing his balance. His heart chilled at the next words spoken.

  ‘Dan Taylor, you’re under arrest.’

  CHAPTER 43

  ‘Move, move!’

  Dan concentrated on not tripping as he was hauled forward and out of the rifle range, Porchester’s voice receding into the background as the armed guards took control.

  He heard their leader mumble something to Porchester about him returning to his office and that someone would be in touch to interview him, and then he was shoved sideways to his right before a hand clamped on his shoulder.

  ‘Stairs.’

  He nodded to show he understood, before allowing the man to guide him down the flight of steps.

  Behind, he heard a door slam shut and then an electronic beep filled the space.

  He guessed a locking mechanism had been activated.

  ‘Hurry,’ he heard one of the men say.

  How deep does this place go?

  At the foot of the stairs, the guard steered him to the left.

  Even behind the confines of the hood, Dan sensed a change in the air. It felt stagnant, humid, as if it had been a long time since anyone had been there.

  He heard a heavy steel door swing shut behind him, the noise echoing off the walls.

  Where the hell are they taking me?

  He forced down the panic, instead planning what he would do once the hood was removed. Instinctively, he twisted his wrists within the plastic ties, but they were held firmly in place.

  He tried to work out from the sounds of the guards around him how many there were. Three had entered the rifle range, and after they had ushered him down the stairs, he guessed there were no more.

  Three against one.

  A rush of air filled the space beyond the material of the hood, and he realised the passageway had ended, and he’d been led to a large space. The air was musty, so he was still underground.

  He recalled the Palace of Westminster was built on marshland, with tunnels underneath that led to Whitehall and other places of government, to save politicians and their minions having to walk above ground in inclement weather or at times of heightened national security. There were other tunnels, too. Secret places that even politicians might not be aware of.

  Were the guards simply going to shoot him and dispose of his body in the Thames?

  ‘Stop.’

  Dan’s shoulder was shoved as someone pushed past him, and then he heard sounds of boots on metal, a muffled curse, and then a hand gripped his arm.

  ‘Step forward. Mind the gap.’

  Dan frowned, but did as he was told, his mind racing.

  His head twitched to the left at a noise behind him, before the hood was ripped from his head.

  He hissed through his teeth as his hair caught in the material and then blinked to adjust his eyesight as quickly as possible to his gloomy surroundings.

  Confusion filled his senses as his mind tried to process the scene in front of him.

  He was standing between two of the armed guards, one slightly shorter than the other. He appeared to be in what could only be described as a steel cage, its dull yellow paint rusted away in places.

  Dan glanced over his shoulder, back the way he had been forced to walk, and then his jaw dropped.

  A dark opening in the wall was obviously the entrance to the passageway along which he’d been pushed and shoved, but it was the faded markings on the wall that held his attention.

  I’m in an old underground station.

  He turned back to his captors, but their faces were still hidden behind their goggles and makeshift masks.

  He twisted his head back and forth, a new realisation hitting him.

  He wracked his memory; he’d heard about the old underground lines that still lurked under the city, derelict and unused, but he hadn’t known the trains were still in working order. Or that they intersected with the working railway that transported commuters and tourists alike under the bustling metropolis.

  ‘Move. Sit.’

  The tallest of the three masked guards pulled him into the narrow space and forced him down onto a low bench.

  Dan tucked his long legs out of the way and grimaced as his shoulders locked under the duress of the cuffs. He twisted in his seat until he could take some of the pressure off his arms.

  In the dim light from the vehicle’s headlight, he squinted at the markings on the steelwork next to his hands and realised he was riding on one of the old Mail Rail trains operated by the Royal Mail. It made sense now; the low bench he and the other men sat on had been designed for mail bags and parcels, not human passengers.

  The leader of the guards pushed past his comrades and moved towards the front of the small locomotive. He turned his head and nodded at the guard next to Dan, before his attention w
as drawn back to the control panel he sat in front of.

  Within seconds, the driver flicked the headlights off and the machine started moving forward, its wheels turning silently on the rails.

  The tall guard edged closer to Dan.

  ‘Lean forward,’ he said.

  Dan did as he was told.

  To his surprise, the man extracted a knife from the webbing that covered his chest, then reached behind Dan and sawed through the cuffs.

  Dan exhaled, loosened the plastic from his wrists, and rubbed them to get the circulation working again.

  ‘Hold on,’ said the man, his voice gruff.

  Dan gripped a steel railing fixed to the side of the machine as it began to slide faster along the tracks.

  Soon, they were travelling at such a speed that Dan’s hair ruffled in the breeze, the damp, slick walls of the tunnel slipping past before he had a chance to try and read any of the markings on the surface.

  He had no sense of direction, whether they were moving north or east, or how deep the tunnel ran under the city.

  The vehicle shook as it travelled over a series of criss-crossed tracks, and Dan twisted his neck sideways as a bright light shone in his eyes from another tunnel, before the vehicle he was travelling on plunged once more into the darkness.

  Holy shit. That was a train!

  He’d lost all sense of time and, with it, distance. He had no idea where he was being taken.

  He cursed his own stupidity, his haste in confronting Porchester without back-up. The man was unhinged, blinded by ambition, and there appeared to be no way of stopping him now.

  Not unless he could evade his captors.

  Their silhouetted forms surrounded him; the shorter figure opposite him, weapon slung across an arm, black goggles staring sightlessly at him through the gloom.

  The taller one sat further forward, peering over the driver’s shoulder, checking on Dan from time to time as the vehicle powered along.

  Dan watched as the driver appeared to speak to the second guard, who nodded before clambering back towards Dan.

  The man gestured to the guard opposite Dan to move forward, and he watched as the driver swapped places and began climbing towards him.

  The mail cart was approaching some sort of widened area – Dan couldn’t make out whether it was an old platform or an underground maintenance yard for the old trains, but light filtered through air vents in the ceiling.

  The vehicle slowed, and Dan realised they must be approaching a space where the line ran directly under a street. The new driver eased off the throttle and the mail cart slowed, gliding beneath the air vents under its own momentum. The shafts of light created a strobing effect, and Dan averted his eyes to counteract it.

  When he raised his head once more, the taller guard had reached him.

  He crouched next to him and held out his weapon. ‘Hold that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hold it.’

  Dan did as he was told, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as he realised his fingerprints were now on a weapon that had, in all likelihood, at some point been fired. Porchester was making sure there would be no escape for him, no matter what he told his prosecutors.

  If he even got a chance.

  His gaze shot upwards as the man leaned back, reached up, and then wrapped his fingers around the elastic that held his goggles to his face. Dan watched, confused, as the goggles were removed, closely followed by the respirator around the man’s face.

  Next, the black head covering was removed, and a familiar face grinned at him.

  ‘Mitch?’ Dan turned his head to look at the second figure next to him, who also ripped off his mask. ‘David?’

  He felt his jaw drop, and then his brain caught up.

  ‘Where the hell have you two been?’

  CHAPTER 44

  Hugh Porchester pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow, and then stalked across the firing range towards the secure gun cabinet, emptying the unused rounds from his gun.

  He swiped his card in the lock and then used a corner of the handkerchief to rub the gun’s surface and placed the gun back in the rack.

  Next, he hurried back to Range One, used his handkerchief to retrieve Dan’s gun from the floor where it had fallen, and emptied the blanks from the magazine.

  Finally, he wiped each of the live rounds and slotted them into the magazine before pushing it back into place with the heel of his hand.

  He stood, a little unsteadily, and shook his head, his breathing finally returning to some semblance of normality.

  That was too damn close.

  He knew Taylor was good, but the fact that the man had only escaped prison mere weeks ago, a prison to which he’d been purposefully sent in order to disappear for good, and then survived a second assassination attempt was nothing short of miraculous.

  The fact that the man had then stumbled upon the theft of the radioactive isotope was incredible bad luck.

  As soon as Taylor had appeared in his office, he knew he’d been exposed. Somehow, Dan Taylor had linked him to the isotope theft.

  And the debacle that had been Eastern Europe.

  Porchester gritted his teeth. With any luck, by the time Taylor’s case came to court, he’d be so far up to his neck in criminal charges, he’d never see the light of day again, which gave Porchester enough time to appease those he reported to and reassure them that everything was still under control and that he was going to be able to meet their deadline.

  He turned, frowned at the sound of running feet, and strode towards the entranceway to the range, the door now obliterated.

  As he drew closer, stepping carefully over the splintered wood, two men in navy fatigues and masks over their faces appeared, their weapons raised, aimed at his chest.

  Behind their masks, their eyes mirrored the confusion that wormed its way through his mind.

  The man to his right lowered his weapon and shoved his mask up onto his head.

  ‘Sir? We received your panic button signal two minutes ago.’ His jaw went slack as he cast his eyes over the remains of the door and then fell back to Porchester. ‘What’s going on, sir?’

  Porchester pushed past him, shoving the second man out of the way, and glared at the four other masked armed guards lining the corridor. All of them kept their weapons steady, their bodies poised, ready to shoot.

  He spun round, taking in the empty passageway that led back to the elevator and fire exit stairs, and then turned back and squinted through the dim light to the other end of the corridor.

  It was empty.

  His attention settled on the men’s leader.

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Others, sir?’

  ‘The three men that were here, the ones that rammed that door down,’ he said, pointing at the damage and then quickly lowering his arm as his hand started to shake. He forced himself to remain calm.

  Surely there had to be a simple explanation.

  The men’s leader looked over his shoulder at his men, who all shook their heads, and then turned back to Porchester.

  ‘Sir, it’s just us. There’s no-one else on duty tonight.’

  ‘No, that’s not right,’ said Porchester. ‘When I pressed the panic button, three guards dressed exactly like you appeared in less than a minute.’

  The leader frowned and then pulled a comms microphone from the collar of his blue uniform shirt. ‘Base, this is leader one. Confirm any others on duty tonight?’

  Porchester watched the man’s face as he listened to the response, his finger pressed to his earpiece. A frown began at his brow, confusion etched across his face, and Porchester clenched his fists, fighting down the urge to rip the comms equipment from the man and speak to the head of the security detail himself.

  ‘Okay, copy that.’

  Porchester folded his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow, waiting for the man to tuck the comms microphone back into his collar.

  ‘Wel
l? What did they say?’ he urged. ‘Did they find out who they were?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir.’ The leader scratched his head. ‘They said you personally requested the additional security by email an hour ago. Something about wanting a team close to the rifle range as you wanted to practise tonight.’

  ***

  Porchester dismissed the security guards, managing to coerce the leader of the group to arrange to have the damaged door replaced with as little fuss as possible, promised to launch a full investigation upon his return to the office the next day, and then hurried towards the elevator and punched in the number for the upper level.

  His gut twisted as he recalled the promises he’d made, the deals he’d struck, and the fact that if he wasn’t careful, the whole lot was going to slip through his fingers before he’d had a chance to finalise his plans and set the whole lot in motion.

  He silently cursed Dan Taylor, keeping his features smooth, aware of the security cameras that hung in the uppermost corners of the elevator.

  As the doors opened, he dashed forward, his suit jacket flapping behind him as he hurried towards a doorway off to the right of the secured reception area.

  ‘I’ll call your driver, sir,’ called out one of the security guards.

  ‘No need,’ said Porchester, holding up his hand as he dashed past. ‘I’ll take my own this evening, thank you.’

  He pushed through the door and ran down two flights of stairs and then across the wide expanse of the underground car park, sliding to a stop next to a classic grey sports car, its paintwork gleaming under the fluorescent lighting.

  Fumbling with the key fob, he tried to steady his shaking hands and then wrenched open the door and collapsed into the driver’s seat. He stabbed the key into the ignition, shoved his mobile phone into the hands-free holder on the dashboard, and rested his hands on the steering wheel, his breathing laboured.

  His heart hammered so hard, he felt sick. Sweat ran down the back of his neck, yet he resisted the urge to rest his forehead on his hands, knowing the garage was peppered with CCTV cameras.

  He pressed the buttons on the dashboard-mounted mobile phone and pulled the seat belt across his chest while he waited for the call to be connected.