Outside, an ambulance turned up. The siren had been deactivated a couple of roads back but blue light danced brightly on the emergency light-bar attached to its roof. It threw flashes of blue into the room through a gap in the curtains.
Oblivious, Meredith continued: “Behind it... a big black warehouse... no windows. They locked us in a room... there were no windows at all... just…” she fought hard against a wave of pain that tore through her. For a moment Brayden thought that was going to be it, but then Meredith continued, “…three beds... they let us out a couple of times a day... we called them twalks... toilet walks... I escaped... but... they must’ve caught me... I woke up... found myself here...”
“Do you have any idea where they might’ve taken you?” Brayden pressed, seeing the light in Meredith’s eyes begin to fade.
“…an island… …dunno… …feel so tired…” she replied.
“Meredith… STAY with me!”
“… need… to… slee…” She closed her eyes.
“No Meredith!” Brayden tried rousing her by slapping lightly against her face.
Behind them, Sophie continued to cry uselessly on the plastic sofa. For most of the few minutes Brayden had been in attendance, she had rocked back and forth muttering: “My fault…” over and over.
A paramedic in dark green uniform and wearing a high-vis yellow coat bustled into the room carrying an emergency bag. “Step out of the way, sir,” the paramedic said. “I’ll take it from here.” Following him in, a colleague stepped in and walked to the other side of Meredith. He was carrying a yellow stretcher like it was a surfboard. He propped it up against the wall.
The two emergency first aiders busied themselves around the dying girl, one attaching a portable vital sign patient monitor via leads to her chest and arm, the other slipping an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. A couple of bleeps and warbles were emitted just after being turned on and coloured lines and numbers flashed up on the monochrome screen.
“There’s blood escaping her mouth with each exhalation; could be a punctured lung.” He thought it likely from the placement of the knife protruding the girl’s back.
“Pulse is weak,” announced the second paramedic calmly. He had felt for a heartbeat finding none, but the monitor contradicted his first reaction. “Blood pressure is dropping.”
“Oh God!” wailed Sophie, just a bit of background noise.
“We don’t have much time,” warned the first paramedic. “Quick… let’s make her comfortable and get her to the hospital.”
Brayden, feeling like a balloon seller at a funeral, walked to the furthest part of the living room, a finger space away from the old television in the corner.
Paramedic two stood up, crossed the short distance to the stretcher and laid it down flat. Together they carefully hoisted Meredith onto it, keeping her lying on her side.
“Is she going to be all right?” asked Brayden. He looked concerned. Sophie was now standing and closing in on her sister.
“Wait,” said Liam, grabbing hold of the blonde woman, drawing her away, but not so much that she could not see what was happening. He was standing and the room seemed incredibly crowded all of a sudden.
“We’ll do all we can for her,” replied the first paramedic answering Brayden but directing his words to the worried woman being comforted close by. The portable vital-sign monitor started to jangle an alarm. “She’s flat lining!” he exclaimed.
“This ain’t good,” muttered the other paramedic unprofessionally.
“There’s no pulse… we’re losing her. Quick! Find something to pack her back up. I need her lying supine without compromising the blade!”
“What about these seat cushions?” asked Sophie, between sobs.
“They might do.”
Brayden and Liam pulled all the seat cushions up from the sofa and two arm chairs, and a paramedic manipulated them so that there was a gap for the knife’s handle to be sandwiched between them whilst propping the girl suitably off the floor. The other paramedic used tape to bind them together.
The paramedics carefully turned Meredith and manoeuvred her into position. “Make sure the knife is secure,” warned the first paramedic. “We don’t want a shock to cause it to go deeper or move.” They spent a little time to position and wedge the cushions, bandages and other packing into place.
“It’s as good as it gets.” The second paramedic retrieved a mobile defibrillator and attached self-adhesive pads to the girl’s chest. “We’re running out of time. Start CPR…”
The other paramedic pressed a hypodermic needle of adrenaline into Meredith’s arm and tossed the spent syringe into a yellow sharps disposal bin.
The two paramedics hastily worked to prepare the girl for intervention, one applying compressions, the other charging the defibrillator machine, which hummed from low up to high in pitch. When it was ready, it made a double-ding.
“Not yet… we don’t have a rhythm.” The portable vital sign monitor displayed little except for four horizontal lines of inactivity. Half a dozen more compressions and the paramedic spoke again: “Now…”
“Clear!” said the paramedic with the defibrillator, pressing a button on the machine as the other paramedic ceased pumping down on Meredith’s chest and jumped back.
Non-dramatically, the defibrillator forced 150 joules of electricity into the unconscious girl. She jerked violently, but didn’t move off the pile of cushions beneath her.
The topmost line on the vital sign monitor began to oscillate and dance as a heart rate began to register. Other lines of activity sprung to life as measurements of blood pressure and respiratory rate were registered.
“Good job,” self-congratulated the paramedic with the defibrillator. “Let’s move her before her condition worsens…”
Chapter Fifty
Dominic
“I’m sorry,” said Dominic. “I just don’t trust you.” He backed away from Sophie and her sister, the younger girl falling into the woman’s outstretched arms like she were a long-lost lover, and edged out of the room. Turning into the hallway, he ran out of the house, slamming the door forcefully behind him.
“Was your visit successful?” Hector had turned the Mercedes around, the engine idling, and was waiting in the driver’s seat. As soon as Dominic was in the passenger seat, Hector floored the accelerator. He closed the car door on the move.
“In more ways than one,” replied Dominic, buckling his seatbelt. Concealed within his right fist, the Whisper of Persia… his prize for returning Meredith to Sophie, as promised. Of course, he doubted she’d feel very much gratitude, not for how he’d left things.
For a second, he regretted his actions, almost feeling pity. It hardly seemed right to plant a knife in the back of a child.
I’ve done worse, he thought, disturbingly.
Hector glanced Dominic’s way as he drove above the thirty miles per hour speed limit through the streets of Edinburgh. “You all right?”
“D’you remember how it felt as a kid on the run up to Christmas; the excitement and expectation? The desires and hopes? Then you unwrap the one present you had wanted above all others… only to find... to realise, that having it isn’t half as great as wanting it. Do you remember that?”
Hector shrugged. “S’ppose,” he said.
“I feel the complete opposite to that. But… I do feel bad about leaving Elspeth here.”
“We could go get her… if it’ll make it better? She’d be glad to be with you, I’m sure.”
Dominic sighed remorsefully. “Don’t worry about me, Hector. Elspeth is best left here… for the time being. Just get us back to the rendezvous point. I’d like to be there to greet the initiates on their return from London.”
“Yes boss,” muttered Hector.
Dominic stowed the diamond in h
is coat pocket as he retrieved his mobile phone, sweeping it up to his ear at the same time as he tapped the redial button on the screen. It wasn’t safe to be with him, but there was nothing to say that he couldn’t still speak with her.
The ringing tone burred for two seconds before being replaced by Elspeth’s familiar voice. “Is it done?” she asked excitedly.
“Yes,” Dominic replied, “exactly as planned.” He didn’t elaborate on the bit about using Meredith’s back for knife-throwing practice.
“Good. Then yous hurry back belyve.” Quickly. “I’m lyin’ here beneath t’ sheets… nakit.” Naked.
Dominic found himself smiling. Thoughts of the short redhead’s body almost made him change his mind and tell Hector to turn back.
Almost.
“I wish I could Ellie,” he started, feeling angry with himself. “You enjoy the hotel for a few more days, it’s all paid for. You’ve got my credit card,” it was in an alias, he mused, but it would function. “Use it to treat yourself to something nice and expensive; I’ve got some urgent business to attend. After that, I’ll come back. We can pick up from where we left it.”
“Dom’nic… you s’id-.”
“I know… I’m sorry.” It hurt him to leave her behind like that and he meant the apology. “Listen, I’ll make it up to you.” Except, the feeling in his gut told him that he wouldn’t.
“You promise?” There was doubt laced with pleading in her voice.
“I promise.” Dominic ended the conversation with the slightest jab of an index finger and a pang of fear.
Nudging the speedometer above the limit for most of the journey, Hector steered Dominic’s Mercedes into the fenced-in grounds of the warehouse.
Dominic checked his watch. 9:03 p.m.
Hector slowed the car down as he approached the up-and-over garage door, stopping a metre from it. From inside the warehouse, someone (it was Garret) pressed the button that operated the electronic door. Begrudgingly it seemed, the door groaned and clanked as a gap appeared wide enough to drive through.
Not waiting for the door to finish opening, Hector rolled the Mercedes forward and brought the metallic grey vehicle to a halt alongside the Mitsubishi Fuso truck.
Dominic lumbered out of the car, his legs stiff after three hours of non-stop sitting. Just inside the entranceway, Garret had depressed the button to retract the door. Dominic sauntered up behind the bald man as the door clattered to a stop, the bottom edge colliding with the concrete floor, ending its descent.
“How’s London been?” Dominic asked.
Garret looked over his shoulder, a nervous tic taking up residence beneath his right eye, the movement made the spider web tattoo contract. “Um,” he started.
The conversation went downhill from there as Garret floundered to find the best words to explain that four of the cadets had died; three during the heist at The Bank of England, and one at Hatton Garden. “Aside from that… everything went great,” the mercenary concluded solemnly.
“Which ones?” Dominic was referring to the cadets who had died.
Hector turned off the Mercedes’ engine and climbed out, closing the door behind him. He walked to within a few feet of where Dominic was standing near to Garret.
“Twenty-Six, Thirty-Seven, Forty and Fifty-Eight…” answered Garret. He nodded towards Hector in acknowledgement.
“Thirty-Seven, you say?” All the cadets (or initiates as Dominic referred to them) were identical, like clones. Except, Thirty-Seven seemed to be a little more intelligent, a bit more advanced than all the others. He had exhibited leadership qualities unequalled by the rest and Dominic had singled him out for great things.
Now he was dead.
A rubbish bin placed a short walk from where the truck was parked bore the brunt of Dominic’s anger and frustration. He kicked the half-empty bin an inch off the ground where it fell over to its side, a black bag spilling forth and splitting. He followed up with a tirade of swear words and curses that would benefit an ‘18’ or ‘R’ rating in a movie theatre, mostly as a result of the pain that exploded in his right foot from the force of his toe punt.
Dominic was simmering down as he limped back to where Garret and Hector stood watching silently. “Where are they now?”
Garret shook his head. He didn’t know exactly, but news footage had pictured one or two of them lying sprawled across the pavement, their bloodied and bullet-riddled bodies hidden beneath white sheets. “I guess police pathology will have them…”
Dominic closed his eyes and massaged his temple. A slight headache was forming. “Casualties were inevitable,” he conceded. “What of the others?” he asked, dejectedly. There were eighty-six sons of GYGES still in the field.
“Their missions were a success. They should be arriving back…” Garret glanced at his watch, “… anytime now.”
The first of the cadets returning from London arrived in a white Ford Luton Taillift truck shortly before midnight. Driven by a Kaplan Ratcliff mercenary, the super soldier, still invisible, was sitting in the passenger seat nursing a trophy from an earlier robbery.
In a repeat of the early hours of New Year’s Day, Dominic greeted each of the initiates as they drove into the warehouse, directing them to points to park and giving instructions on where to unload.
At a quarter-to-one, the last of the returning sixteen-year-olds entered the warehouse in an ambulance. He was half an hour later than the rest who had been dribbling into the warehouse every couple of minutes.
“A bit unorthodox,” commented Dominic as the emergency vehicle turned into the building. Garret closed the roll-up door.
As the invisible cadet stepped down from the passenger side of the ambulance, Dominic walked over to hand him a jet injector loaded with a vial of ochre liquid; it had become almost a routine. The boy accepted the gun-like object, making it disappear within his grasp.
A quick burst of high-pressure sounded, followed by the very rapid appearance of the boy. On his black Kaplan Ratcliff battle outfit, a number badge had been pinned to the front of his shirt: 63.
Dominic raised an eyebrow, aiming a look towards the yellow Mercedes ambulance; the blue light-bar at the front above the windscreen built within the panel of the roof was flashing. “Dare I ask?” he said in amusement.
Number Sixty-Three looked down gravely. “What I have isn’t gold, but you’ll agree, no less valuable.”
“Huh?” It sounded a bit like a riddle to Dominic, and it was getting a bit late for brain teasers. Then it clicked, “Oh. You were with them… in the bank?”
“It wasn’t easy recovering them… the bodies,” said Sixty-Three. I know how… important it was… you know… to get them back. It wasn’t easy, but I also managed to retrieve number Twenty-Six from Hatton Garden.”
Dominic placed a hand on the young soldier’s shoulder. “You did good,” he said, gently patting him. He slowly removed his hand and indicated that the cadet join the others before walking to the back of the ambulance.
Twisting the handle of the double doors at the back of the vehicle, Dominic then pulled them open.
Placed in black body bags, the four dead cadets were laid out in the back of the emergency vehicle, squeezed in lengthways. A small moan escaped him with an exhale of air, taking him by surprise.
“Are you all right?” Garret appeared at Dominic’s side from some place, he hadn’t seen where.
Where a look of sadness had appeared on Dominic’s face, stony resilience now replaced it. “We’ll bury them at sea, on the way back to the island,” he replied without emotion.
Chapter Fifty-One
Emily
On hearing that Emily had returned to her office, the Chief of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service entered the small operations room and breezed over to her desk.
“I
was about to pop up,” Emily said seeing the older man approach. She was sitting at her desk, her handbag open in front of her and her computer in the early phase of booting up.
He waved off her protestations. “Can I have a word?”
“Sure.” Emily stood from her workstation. “The conference room?” she suggested.
“By all means,” replied the Chief. He followed Emily through the operation room towards the back.
Passing Mac, Jeremy and Isabelle on the second-from-last bank of desks (Mac watching a night-vision image of an aerial shot taken thousands of feet above ground), Emily led the Chief into the glass-partitioned office at the end of the room. He closed the door gently behind him.
“Things have escalated since we spoke on the phone,” the Chief started. “I’m just back from a COBRA meeting with the Prime Minister, his cabinet and the Metropolitan Police Commissioner amongst others. A lot of very unhappy people, I can vouch!” He walked around to the other side of the large central desk, leaning over the top of a high-backed leather chair. “An estimated three-hundred million pounds was stolen from the capital today… that’s a hundred more than New Year’s Eve!”
“Amazing,” said Emily, almost awestruck.
“Quite.” The Chief didn’t sound exactly impressed. “Amongst the items stolen were the Prime Minister’s cherished L.S Lowry paintings taken from his private retreat, and the Queen’s Crown Jewels right from under the Beefeaters’ noses at The Tower of London.” He tsked to himself. “The nation is in the grip of panic, aided by the media speculating as to where these… transgressors are likely to strike next.” He barely paused for breath as he added: “There’s rioting in the streets for heaven’s sake! People are demanding answers and blaming the police, and the police are waggling their fingers at Whitehall for the budget cuts that are reducing their capability; the Prime Minister seems to think that the buck DOESN’T stop with him, but actually should lie at OUR doorstep.”
The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3) Page 37