Under Pressure (No Pressure, No Diamonds Book 1)
Page 21
He loops one end around a sturdy metal pipe on the inside of the lift shaft, leaning into the darkness. His eyes are naturally drawn downwards, the sheer drop accentuated but the thin strips of light falling in on every level.
There's no bottom in sight.
His heart pounding, London grins.
He checks he's secure one last time before getting out his heavy gloves and slipping them on. Thin string in hand he manoeuvres his body with his back to the drop, looking back out into the lobby. He lets the rig take his weight before leaning over and pulling the lift doors closed again.
The almost complete darkness engulfs him, warm air rushing up from the lower levels.
Setting the speed on the spool on his belt, he starts walking, one foot underneath the other as he gets farther and farther away from level twenty-seven. Soon the string is unravelling so fast, walking isn't enough and he starts pushing off the wall in hops that increase in distance as he speeds up.
After the seventh lift door he's reached his maximum speed, right hand held tightly in front of his body, string slipping through.
He jumps back again, landing softly against another door. He brings his knees to his chest, softening the impact before tensing his muscles and pushing off again. His speed alone makes the air rush past, a steady swoosh in his ears, offset by the sound of the spool on his belt and the soles of his feet hitting the walls rhythmically.
He feels it bubbling up inside him, unable to stop. He laughs, looking down into the darkness beyond. If it wouldn't give him away, he'd scream his pleasure right now. He feels safe here, free.
Further down, the soft light falling in from one of the lift doors widens and Hale's head appears, illuminated from the light on his level.
London laughs and jumps, his stomach doing a little flop every time he pushes off and his body is weightless for just a moment. He reaches Hale, flushed and still grinning as he pulls him into the lift lobby on their floor.
London laughs again, high on adrenaline as he gets out a tiny remote. He presses the sequence that will make the end of the string, still all the way up on the twenty-seventh floor, explode. It's a miniature explosion at best, one that took him and Amelia three weeks to get right. But he feels it slacken on his belt and presses another button on the spool, watching the carbon fibre coil back up with almost no loss of length.
Of course, it's possible to emergency abseil in such a way as to recover the rope. The trick is to have two hanging down, one to move down with and the other to pull once you're at the bottom, loosening the knot at the top with a hard yank. But that would mean he'd need to carry twice the length of rope, and really, he might as well give up on mobility then.
He watches the last end of the carbon fibre string wind itself up and pats it gently when it's done. He'll take string over rope any day.
He flicks his hair out of his eyes and looks up at Hale. "Well?"
Hale shakes his head. "You're fucking insane."
London rises onto his tiptoes, making sure to brush Hale's ear. "You have no idea," he whispers.
He's still so pumped that he only grins when Sebastian mumbles something about them needing to stop because he’s getting jealous.
"Are you tracking the guards on this level?" Amelia doesn't look up from checking the explosive putty for the third time. She's a perfectionist at heart and London can appreciate that.
"Twenty seconds," Hale says, eyes glued to his tiny laptop.
She nods and gets up, smoothing down her knee length black dress. It hadn't been particularly hard for her to get her hands on a plus one invitation. Hale had simply checked the attendees social websites and they'd picked a guy who, while posting pictures of his cat on Instagram, had also recently signed on to several dating websites. She'd had no trouble walking into a bar he frequented and exiting two hours later with the invitation to come along to a diamond show.
Hale hadn't been able to shut up about it, weirdly proud, before disappearing with her into their shared hotel room and leaving the rest of them to do the remaining recon for that night.
Amelia pushes a little remote into London's hands. "Wait until one is down, and don't forget to tell Frankie."
London nods, excitedly rolling onto the tips of his toes and back down again. "I love explosions."
She winks at him before walking down the corridor, out of sight from where the security guards are about to appear. She slips off her heels, discards them off to one side before rolling her right shoulder.
"Ready, Frankie?" London asks.
"Ready."
London nods, calmed by Hale's keyboard clicks.
When it happens, it only takes a few seconds. But it unfolds step by step in London's mind, like he'd slowed down time itself just to appreciate it properly.
The two guards round the corner, more than a little surprised to find a slumped over Amelia drunkenly try to hold herself up. One guys eyes travel down her form, clearly having judged her to be non-threatening and therefore a prime object to be ogled. The second one must have a more suspicious nature because his hand goes up to the walkie-talkie on his shoulder.
Amelia smiles at him before leaning back. Her entire body snaps forward, the weight of it behind the punch that connects with his face. Apparently, it's not at all easy to punch someone out with a single hit, and they've watched no end of movies where Amelia complained about the inaccuracies. But it's not impossible, proven by how the huge guy drops like a brick, surprise still etched on his face.
The second guy's expression isn't much better. It must be quite a surprise when the pretty girl you were eyeing-up moments before suddenly knocks out your three-hundred-pound mate.
"Now," London mutters. Frankie increases the DJ's volume. Moments later, London can hear the beat over the com and swears he can feel it in the walls. This is an expensive evening, showcasing some of the world's most flawless diamonds. They wouldn't skimp on the speaker system.
"Go!"
London presses the button.
Around the corner, the explosion shakes the building. It's not only loud, but the compressed air hits them like a tidal wave. Pieces of concrete are flung everywhere, a hinge flying off the metal door on the opposite wall.
Well, shit.
Amelia is still busy with the second security guy, the explosion having distracted him enough that she pirouettes into a roundhouse kick. The heel of her bare foot connects with the side of his face and he joins his buddy on the floor. Amelia crouches down to check both their pulses.
London turns to the vault, knowing Amelia will be a few moments, tying up the guys and making sure their walkie-talkies are nowhere near them when they wake up. With Hale's help he forces the huge door back just enough to squeeze through. He immediately gets his lock picking kit and starts on the first deposit box. If it doesn't involve some complicated code and a computer screen, Hale is incapable of cracking so much as a piggy bank. But Amelia is pretty decent in a pinch, and she helps out once she's finished with the security guys. They work in silence for a few minutes, London unlocking one box after another, heart beating rapidly, before he moves on to the next, leaving it to Hale to clear out the diamonds.
Amelia lets out a muffled curse, shaking out her wrist. Hale is next to her in the blink of an eye.
"What's wrong?" he asks, a note of worry creeping into his voice.
"Cracked wrist," she says, hand shaking when she picks up the lock pick again. "It's not quite as easy to punch out a guy. You have to make his brain knock against his skull, that's why I don't usually do it."
Hale grabs her elbow softly, pulling her away. She places her hand on his, looking up at him.
"I'm fine." She gently removes his hand. "Now do your job, okay babe?"
Hale nods numbly, his face ashen. It takes another minute or so before he makes himself step away. He goes back to monitoring the laptop, but his eyes swivel up every few seconds. This is exactly why you don't do a job with someone you're sleeping with – too much emotion clou
ding your judgement. It's why this entire dating thing with Sebastian is ridiculous to begin with. London is a thief, Sebastian a professional liar.
Long story short, they'll never work out.
The sex is good, okay, fantastic, but that's not enough. London might not trust a lot of people in his life, and a psychologist would have a field day analysing the reasons behind that, but if he ever has a serious relationship, he damn well wants to be able to trust his partner.
And he doesn’t trust Sebastian, not after what he did in Venice.
It’ll never work.
Resigned to tell Sebastian just that, London swings open the last box and grabs the handful of diamonds inside. At least their loot is easily concealed, no bags of money to smuggle outside. No, he can tuck these away safely in his zip-up pocket.
"Done," Hale tells Frankie over the com.
"Get to the northwest side then," Frankie says. "The last office there. Sebastian?"
"I'm ready." His voice sounds utterly normal, no trace of anything wrong. And still a chill runs up London's spine. He shrugs it off, convinced he's just being paranoid. "I'll have to take the com out for this though. You should have at least fifteen minutes."
"Don't take out your fucking com, you idiot!" London tells him while falling in behind the others, already heading down the dark corridor that will lead them to the office Frankie mentioned.
Hale is taking point, laptop still out, tracking movements of security personnel and readjusting cameras to give them blind spots to be invisible in.
There's no response.
"Sebastian!" London shouts. "Did you hear me?"
He waits, rounding another corner. There's an open space ahead, a cafeteria by the looks of it. The chairs are on top of the tables, probably so the weekend cleaning crew has an easier time of getting everything gleaming come Monday morning. A glass front fridge stacked with a wide variety of soft drinks spills its multicoloured light onto the floor they run across.
"Sebastian," London says desperately. "Answer me!"
But Sebastian doesn't. An entirely different sort of dread clenches London's heart.
He roughly pushes the feeling down, concentrating instead on keeping up with the others. He's the fastest runner of the group, but while he'd slowed down to listen for a response that never came, the gap between them has got bigger. They reach their destination seconds later. It’s a private office filled with books, the desk overflowing with loose pages. There's a half-eaten sandwich lying forgotten on the wooden coffee table.
"What now?" Hale pants, eyes still fixed on his computer. He lets out a small curse and starts typing.
"Window," Frankie says.
It's narrow, just wide enough to squeeze through sideways. London yanks it open and looks outside. A few stories down, he can make out Frankie's blonde head. It's coming closer and closer until London recognises the contraption. Frankie is standing in one of the outside lifts they've seen the window washers use.
It's torturously slow. London throws a quick look over his shoulder. He still wonders what Sebastian is doing.
"Now I get why you needed a distraction," he says when Frankie is close enough.
London climbs aboard the still-moving lift and turns to help Amelia.
"Couldn't have anyone from the street see us. And who knows where the patrols inside currently are."
"Most of them are heading towards the front," Hale says, climbing on while still watching his laptop and almost plummeting to his death. Amelia pulls him close with her good hand and he smiles at her dopily.
"Ugh, gross." London wrinkles his nose in disgust. He snatches the control from Frankie and presses the down button. "Get a room, you two."
Honestly.
Amelia grins at him while wrapping Hale's arm around her shoulders. "What're you going to wear on your date tomorrow, then?"
"I hate you," he mutters, leaning over the edge and letting the wind brush his face. "Why is this thing so slow? Did you break it?"
Frankie looks mildly affronted while gripping onto the ledge tightly. “It’s quite fast enough, thanks.”
London couldn’t agree less.
"What did Sebastian go with?" Hale asks. It's a wonder he can wrench his attention away long enough from his laptop. Or Amelia. "There's-something-in-my-glass? Or the jealous-boyfriend one?"
London leans back enough to watch Frankie. Not that he really cares what Sebastian did, because he doesn't.
Frankie shrugs. London should have known she'd be useless. "I heard him the last time you did."
"He probably fucked it up." It doesn't come out the way he meant it to, fragile and desperate instead of berating.
London shuts up after that, needing to not hear his own voice while waiting for them to reach the ground. He's not worried about Sebastian and he’s not hoping to hear him over the com.
Sebastian is old enough to look out for himself.
It's none of London's business.
Right.
He's almost got himself convinced by the time they climb into their car. Frankie decides to circle around the front to see if Sebastian is waiting. Usually, it’s Amelia who’s the driver, but she’s sitting beside London still cradling her wrist and Hale’s in the driver’s seat.
The moment they round the corner, London could swear his heart stops beating. The softly lit front entrance is awash in ambulance lights. People are shouting, on the phone or simply craning their necks for a better view.
"Shit," Frankie says. "Drive by slowly. Don't draw attention."
Hale nods, clutching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white.
London shifts in his seat. He watches a paramedic hold open the door, a clear bag with a tube attached to it held high in one hand.
Something cold slides into the pit of London's stomach.
Two more emergency medical personnel appear. They’re carrying a stretcher, heading for the nearest ambulance, still shouting instructions to each other and jostling the unconscious patient laid out between them.
London turns back in his seat. He stares out the front window numbly, unseeing.
Frankie is saying something. Amelia leans over to shake his shoulder.
London looks at her with wide eyes, he opens his mouth but no sound comes out. There's a ringing in his ears, drowning out all other sound. Except his heartbeat, that’s achingly high in his throat.
He blinks, eyes burning.
Whatever adrenaline had buoyed his mood earlier is gone. It’s left him with nothing but an icy cold numbness that will inevitably crumble into life-altering pain.
Because the guy on the stretcher had a familiar mop of white blond hair.
London is sitting in the dark hospital room, his stomach in knots. This doesn’t feel unlike that morning he woke up in Venice, Sebastian gone and no explanation as to why. The realisation had hit him slow but hard, the knowledge that again, he hadn’t been wanted, that he’d been left. He remembers stumbling out of bed, expecting to find Sebastian taking a bath, or maybe out on the little terrace, enjoying the morning sun. He’d ignored the sinking feeling in his chest, told himself he was imagining things, that he wasn’t doomed to repeat these moments throughout his life, that he wasn’t doomed to be left alone.
Back then, before the anger had set it, he’d eventually gathered up his things. In only a few days he’d managed to insert himself rather seamlessly into Sebastian’s life. He found his dirty socks in the laundry basket, his jacket hung up in the closet. He hadn’t even realised it at the time, he hadn’t bothered to think about it.
That just made leaving all the harder, the stare he received from the guy behind the desk as he’d slunk out with the David tucked away in a bag. He’d wondered what he’d done wrong. He wondered why Sebastian had left him.
The curtains behind him move gently in the nighttime breeze and he can’t stop his mind from thinking, from asking the question again and again. What if Sebastian leaves him again? What if he doesn’t wake up?
Sebastian is lying on the hospital bed, his blond hair fanned out haphazardly on the white pillow. His chest is rising and falling rhythmically and they’ve removed the tube providing oxygen. He’d almost look like he was just resting if it weren’t for the constant beeping of the heart monitor. The doctor said his heart is strong, and that the regular beats are a good sign but every beep sets London on edge. His skin prickles. He can’t breathe properly.
He can’t decide what would be worse, Sebastian leaving him of his own volition again, or this.
Maybe he needs the oxygen.
He’s gone through so many cycles of being angry, worried and then back to angry again that it all blurs into one. He can’t differentiate what he’s feeling anymore and it’s exhausting in a way that makes his bones ache and his eyelids scratch with every blink. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at Sebastian’s unmoving form, hating every beep of the monitor.
Then, Sebastian moves. It’s slow, a turning of his head, several sticky-slow blinks. He stretches, lets out a soft mewl of pain.
Anger is back now. Anger because Sebastian hurt himself just for a distraction. For London.
He clears his throat, and even that sounds painful.
London doesn’t move, expects him to fall asleep again as he did before. He needs his sleep. But this time, his eyelids don’t flutter shut after mere seconds. He looks around, taking in the hospital room. His gaze sweeps over the wall-mounted TV, across to the opened window. He doesn’t see London, who doesn’t move, who doesn’t dare breathe.
Slowly, Sebastian turns his head to see the bathroom door off to his left. He smiles when he makes out the huge teddy bear resting on the table, several balloons floating behind it. They’re from the others. Somehow, London couldn’t bring himself to get Sebastian anything. It felt like admitting he was here in this hospital.