Taking a wide arc around the house, Eva entered undetected through the eastern entrance. She made her way quickly to the secondary kitchen. She didn’t slink, in fact, she marched down the halls like she owned the place. Over her shoulder was her backpack. If she was discovered, her explanation would be she was heading back to Harry’s bedroom to start their happy life together as soon as possible. If she could say it without gagging.
As soon as she pressed the button to open secret door to the underground railway her excuse became moot. The whir was the same. Eva stiffened. Nobody was on the other side, the corridor was as empty as it had been the first time.
Eva exhaled slowly. She stepped into the underground passageway. Not being shot was a good first step.
As stealthily as possible, she made her way to the train station. She pressed the button labelled Main House Entrance A and hoped it didn’t trigger some sort of alarm. A message appeared on the computer display, 30 seconds. It may as well have said thirty years. Eva was alone and exposed. She ground her teeth.
Eventually the noiseless train carriage arrived. Empty. She stepped in placing her backpack on the floor. All she had in her arsenal was a lock picking kit, a lighter and of course Greta. The name she’d decided to bestow upon her MI6-issued frilly pink umbrella.
As the carriage moved off, Eva was dramatically under-gunned. She’d seen how many weapons the members of Van Buren’s security force had carried when they’d captured Bishop on the beach. By her estimate roughly a couple of hundred. Each possessed a short-barrelled machine gun, a pistol on each hip and a shotgun strapped to their back, plus who knew what else.
Eva had a lighter and an umbrella. Hardly Delta Force.
What the hell am I doing here?
The trip was brief and the train slowed to a halt. The doors opened automatically to a vacant platform. So far, so not-dead.
She slunk through the only exit. Like the other side of the house, the passageway was cut from the foundation of the island. It climbed upwards and eventually met a more finished drywall hallway.
Tentatively Eva approached the abrupt end of the passage. Just like its counterpart at the other side of the house, there was a metallic button to open the secret door. Unlike the other side of the house, she didn’t know what was on the other side.
There was a strong stench of chemicals. Whatever was on the other side, it didn’t smell pleasant. For at least five minutes Eva held her ear to the door listening for the slightest of noises. She heard nothing, not even a mouse fart.
Reluctantly her finger hovered over the door release. She exhaled silently, chastising her weakness. Her free hand gripped the handle of Greta. Blood surged through her veins. She envisaged as many permutations of attack that she could possibly face on the other side of the door. Pumped up, she was ready.
Eva’s palm smacked the open button and there was a tiny whir.
Taking a Krav Maga fighting stance, she wielded Grata like a baseball bat.
She needn’t have bothered.
There was no army waiting for her. There were no guards. In fact, there was nobody at all. Eva had entered a cleaning storeroom.
That explained the stench. It smelt like a public swimming pool. Luckily she didn’t smoke any more, the whole place could go up. Dozens of containers of industrial cleaners were stacked on the shelves. Not having seen any cleaning staff, she hoped Harry hadn’t tasked Chen with that too.
She crept across the storeroom and carefully opened the door a crack. A quick two-second glance showed nobody in the hall. Feeling emboldened, Eva stuck her head out the door. There was less good news.
Two sets of guards. One group of five men were about ten metres way. They lounged in a common area on sofas and casually chatted. They were facing away from her. They appeared to be the first line of defence, which Eva had bypassed by taking a secret route.
The second set of guards were more problematic. Two guards bookmarked either side of a door about five metres down the other end of the hall. Motionless, their hands were draped over machine guns strapped to their chests. Their bodies were so bulked up they looked like black condoms filled with walnuts.
Thankfully there was no Van Buren. He was probably in his room carving Eva’s name onto bullets.
There was no way she could take down these highly-trained militia. She was a barista not some ninja assassin.
Eva’s skin flashed with heat at the realisation of how utterly insane her position was. She couldn’t rescue Bishop. She’d be found soon and executed alongside him. Harry would continue his crazy world domination plans undaunted. There was nothing she could do. The odds were too insurmountable.
Then Eva remembered who she was, but more importantly, where she was. She was standing in a cleaning storeroom.
A cleaning storeroom full of chemicals.
Explodey chemicals that go bang.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Eva removed the rubber gloves and leaned back to admire her handiwork. It had taken forty-five careful, nerve wracking minutes, but she’d done it. She’d created a bomb out of household objects. Well, two kinds of bomb, four in total.
Thankfully the chemistry instructor at MI6 insisted on homework, which she’d reluctantly read through that night. It had stuck in her near-photographic memory. The storeroom was well stocked and had all the ingredients for freeing Bishop in the most explosive manner possible.
If they didn’t go off in her face first.
The first type of bomb had been the easiest to make. The box marked ‘Party Stuff’ had been a godsend. The packet of fifty sparklers was exactly what she’d needed. She finely crushed them all, except two, and poured the powder onto aluminium foil. She then placed an aerosol can of air freshener on top and wrapped it up. An uncrushed sparkler its fuse. She had two of these bombs. They would make a very large bang.
The second type were smoke bombs and were the most painstaking to put together. Mostly because of the high likelihood of blowing up in her face. She balled up pieces of aluminium foil and positioned them in the cap of a screw top container, held in place by rubber bands. Drain cleaner was poured in the container itself. Eva had chosen the latter as it had the highest percentage of sodium hydroxide she could find. The delicate step had been screwing on the lid without letting the foil drop into liquid. If the two ingredients mixed too early it would cause a toxic chemical reaction that Eva didn’t want to be around in a confined space. In fact, any space.
It had gone past two a.m. and the boisterous banter had all but disappeared from the guards in the common area. Good. They’d be at ease, if not asleep. Eva had the cure for that.
As quietly as she could, Eva opened the door. Only one of the five guards in the common area was standing, the others lounged about in various stages of ennui. Even the two burly men posted outside Bishop’s cell had more of a slouch.
She had to act. There was no time to ready herself. That would only slow her down. Protective goggles slid into place and the disposable face mask pulled up. Eva picked up the two smoke bombs and shook. She stepped into the hall, planting her feet. It was vital to know where she was when everything went to hell.
One was lobbed towards the centre of the common area and exploded in a ball of grey smoke. The second she threw as the two guards by the door realised something bad was happening. They were too slow. The smoke bomb exploded before they’d drawn their weapons.
Coughing, choking and confused shouts rang out in the chemical-filled air. Everything was grey. Visibility was less than a metre. Half-orders were issued before the officer gagged on the toxic fumes.
With her lighter she lit the sparklers on the explosive bombs. Sparks flew, but it was anything but a children’s party. She had dubbed them Mr Explodey I and Mr Explodey II. She rolled the first aerosol bomb along the ground towards the largest group of guards.
The explosion was magnificent. In a blinding flash the sparkler powder ignited, followed directly by the aerosol can. It had come to a halt under a c
ouch which was lifted into the air by the explosion.
Flames engulfed the couch. Someone fired a machine gun indiscriminately. Panicked cries and incoherent shouts filled the room.
There was one thing she hadn’t taken into account. The smoke bombs of sodium hydroxide and aluminium created hydrogen. Hydrogen is extremely flammable. The fireball was immense and all encompassing. Eva was swayed by the blast, but held her position firm. If she lost her footing she’d become disorientated in the blinding fog and everything would be lost.
Spot fires burned in the common area.
Eva turned her attention to her prize. The longer fuse on Mr Explodey II was getting low. She hurled it like a cricket ball at the door with the guards. The second explosion was more spectacular.
Unhindered by a couch, Mr Explodey II detonated in an incandescent fireball at the base of the door. The explosion so intense the door was blown off its hinges.
If Eva waited even a second she would lose the advantage. She wasn’t prepared for that to happen. She pulled out the only remaining weapon strapped to her back.
Greta was wielded like a baseball bat.
With a banshee cry she hurtled towards the two burly guards. Her only advantage was her goggles and face mask. She intended to utilise them.
The two guards staggered around blindly, charred and smoking from the fireball Eva had inflicted on them. She leapt into the air and struck the nearest with every ounce of strength she had left.
Greta struck him on the side of the head and he flew backwards. Greta was no ordinary umbrella. Reinforced with high-tech components she was virtually unbreakable. Eva was wielding the equivalent of a lead pipe. Greta’s bite was something you would never expect from a pretty little thing.
Just like Eva.
She hooked the handle around the neck of the stunned guard. Using her body weight as leverage she wrenched his head and propelled it into the door frame. The crack was sickening. He fell to the ground, a dead weight.
The second guard, alerted to her presence, issued threats and brandished his gun. His puffy glazed eyes told Eva he could barely see her, if at all. But pistol beat umbrella. She may have overplayed her hand.
It was no time for timidity. A slow exhale of breath steadied her. So what if he was the size of steroid-munching gorilla? He could hardly see, was dazed, probably deaf from the blast and didn’t even have a fancy pink umbrella.
From within the confines of the room came a guttural growl. Eva aimed the tip of the umbrella at the guard and pressed the release button. The shaft extended like a welterweight’s punch and propelled the off-kilter guard into the threshold of the door. The growling ceased. A dark shadow leapt out of the smog, connecting viciously with the guard and they crashed into the hall.
Despite the formal tuxedo, Bishop looked like a caged animal unleashed, which is exactly what he was. Gone was his British restraint. Bishop was a brutal weapon. His fists a blur. His enraged roars primal and savage.
If Eva hadn’t hauled him off the unconscious guard she was sure he would have killed him. He was still swinging wildly when she used hushed soothing tones in his ear, telling him he was safe, that she was by his side and they were getting out of there.
She shoved Bishop through the door of the storeroom before he succumbed to the hydrogen gas. From a bucket near the door, she threw a pre-soaked towel over his head. He was singed, but unhurt. Thankfully the noxious fumes had hardly penetrated the storeroom and visibility was good.
With her ear pressed to the door, Eva heard angry shouts and urgent orders contradicting themselves. Footfalls echoed, none came towards them.
Bishop convulsed, hands on knees. He sucked in non-poisonous breaths. Eva tilted his head up and poured distilled water in his eyes. With a dry towel she patted his face. For the first time Eva saw a vulnerable soul. At that moment, he was like a defenceless child, and she his guardian, his protector.
She was sure it wouldn’t last.
His gasps rushed, he asked, “SAS?”
“No, me.”
“And?”
“Me.”
“And?”
She threw the towel at him. He could dry his own stupid face. In her best southern drawl, she said, “Just little old me and my book learnin’.”
Blinking in return, Bishop said nothing.
Evenly, Eva added, “And you’re welcome.”
“Where are we?”
Apparently they didn’t teach gratitude at Cambridge.
“Safe.” When that didn’t garner a change in his furrowed features, she added, “In a storeroom. And we’re about to leave.”
“I don’t much care for the party we just left. Too many cocks on the dance floor.”
“Not to worry, I have a private party organised.”
“Now you’re talking.”
She ignored the innuendo and pushed Bishop roughly towards the back of the room. In keeping with the man he was, Bishop proceeded to unbutton his shirt. Eva gave him a disbelieving expression.
Staring at the wall she’d entered, she realised a major fault in her plan. She didn’t know what triggered the door to open from their side.
“Balls.”
“Steady on, I’ve still got my jacket on. We haven’t even snogged yet.”
“What? No, you letch. I don’t know how to get out of here.”
“The way you came in?”
“Funny.”
“Traditionally speaking, one exits via a door.”
“Traditionally speaking, one offers thanks for saving another’s life. And secondly, there’s a secret passage behind this wall,” Eva searched for a lever, “we only have to find it.”
Continuing her hunt, she turned and stopped dead. Bishop’s face was a mere centimetre from hers. The grin was equal parts playful and lustful. Before she could voice an objection his lips were on hers. His warm mouth enveloping hers, his kiss commanding but yielding. Knowing it was wrong but unable to stop herself, her lips parted and she invited his exploring tongue. He was nowhere near as tentative Harry had been the first time. Bishop was man with experience.
His strong arms held her firm, his caress tender. Eva saw stars. Bishop wasn’t all braggadocio. My god, the man knows how to kiss a woman.
Bishop leaned backwards and in a whisper, said, “Thank you.”
The slap surprised them both. Well, mostly Bishop.
He reeled backwards, rubbing his face.
Eva lowered her gaze. “You haven’t earned that kiss.”
His red cheek morphed into a smirk. “But you have.”
Bishop’s arrogance knew no bounds. Ignoring the cretin, she pushed herself away and continued her search. Every bottle, jar, container and packet near the wall was pulled and poked.
With her back to him, Eva tasted her lips. The memory and ecstasy of the kiss still fresh, burned into her memory. If she had been elsewhere and if Bishop had been anyone else, at least one of them would be naked by now. But they weren’t. And he wasn’t.
She searched harder for the elusive trigger.
“What happened out there? It was like Guy Fawkes Night. You really did all that?”
“I did.” There was no concealing Eva’s satisfaction with the rescue she’d pulled off. “I made a few smoke bombs and homemade grenades out of this.” She motioned to the shelves of chemicals. “I’m like the mother-fucking A-Team.” She paused. “The A-Team was a TV show in the eighties…”
“I’ve seen the A-Team.”
“Oh, that you’ve seen.”
Running her hand over cleaning products at the back of the shelf there was a spray bottle that didn’t budge. She yanked, but it remained locked in place. When the trigger was pulled there was a slight click followed by a whir.
Eva spun around expecting to see Bishop’s jaw agape in wonder, instead he viewed the opening secret door impassively as if it was an everyday event. Perhaps it was for him. He may very well have a secret room at home. In all likelihood a sex dungeon.
Cle
arly not getting a deserved round of applause, Eva picked up her backpack and pushed Bishop into the secret passageway. The door closed behind them.
The bare walls of the tunnel seemed colder than before. She hoped the guards didn’t figure out she had used the underground railway because there wasn’t anywhere for them to hide. The best they could do was get away from the main house as fast as possible, find a place to hide and start planning their escape off the island.
They were only five metres down the passageway when Bishop tugged on her arm.
“Eva.”
“Hmmm?”
“I know I can be flippant at times.”
“No!”
“But, sincerely, thank you. I owe you my life. It’s a responsibility I take tremendously seriously. I owe you a debt. A debt I intend to repay.”
“Let’s not count our chickens before the well runs dry.”
“That’s an awful analogy.”
“It’s a metaphor and I learned from the best.”
The two walked on cautiously. Bishop glanced in Eva’s direction, either taking in her outfit, or checking out her arse. Probably both.
“If I may ask, why did you save me? You seemed cosy enough with Lancing. I thought you may have turned and lost your nerve.”
“Nope. Harry’s lost it.”
She gave a brief rundown of Harry’s plans, or rather, her limited knowledge of them. All the while she attempted to hold back the emotional damage of Harry’s duplicity. No matter how much logic she applied, or how much she reminded herself that reuniting with Harry had only been for MI6, it stung. The love of her life had met her while planning a terrorist attack and had pursued her to appear good on camera. It was sickening and painful. She needed Nancy and a case of gin to thrash it out. But first they had to get off the island.
The more Eva explained Harry’s plan, the paler he grew. She went on to explain the data centre on the other island and the underground railway. “What I want to know is, how could he have built it? I mean, the thing’s massive. How could he have created it without word getting out?”
“That, I can answer. Chinese labourers. Mr Lancing hired hundreds of labourers from an isolated province and paid them extremely generously. He also funded the town’s schools, library and sporting field. They love him. That’s what did him in.”
The Barista’s Guide to Espionage Page 27