Sudden Death

by Nick Hale

  Jake turned to look over his shoulder, but it was just a ruse to give him extra power. As he whipped back round, he brought up his right fist and planted it straight into the guard’s jaw. He hit the sweet spot and the Russian’s head snapped sideways. He staggered towards the wall, but he was already unconscious as he slid down it. Jake flexed his knuckles, feeling like he might not be able to make a fist again for a few weeks.

  It wouldn’t be long before the guy was discovered missing. One unanswered call on the walkie-talkie would see to that. Jake managed to get his hands under the guard’s armpits and heaved him towards the toilets. He dragged him, back straining, into one of the cubicles. He leant the man’s head against the toilet bowl.

  There was a crackle of radio static from the guard’s jacket. Jake took out the receiver, which was only the size of a cigarette box, and put it in his back pocket. That way Jake would have an idea when his pursuers were on to him.

  Finally, he tucked the guard’s knees up towards his chin, and closed the cubicle door. With any luck, no one would find him until half-time.

  Jake padded back out into the holding area. It was all clear.

  There was a door marked ‘Private’ halfway along, with an electronic keypad to gain access. By Jake’s calculation, the door would lead to an area directly beneath the VIP box. He tried pushing it, but it didn’t budge. Taking a step back, he lunged with a kick. He only succeeded in jarring his knee.

  There has to be another way.

  Suddenly, he heard footsteps coming from the left and backed away, moving towards one of the spectator tunnels. He pressed himself up against the wall and peered out. It wasn’t a security guard. A man wearing a hooded top and carrying what looked like a boot-bag was jogging along the holding area. Training staff perhaps. When he reached the private door, he stopped and tapped in a code. There was a tiny electronic beep and he went through. The door began to swing shut behind him.

  Jake left his position and sprinted to the door. He slid on to his backside as though stretching to get a toe to a football, and managed to slip the end of his shoe into the gap in the closing door. He stood up, careful to keep it open with his foot, then placed his eye to the crack.

  The room looked to be some kind of maintenance area. There were exposed pipes and fuse boxes against the far wall. The hooded figure was clambering on a pile of cardboard boxes.

  What’s he up to?

  The man stood up and removed one of the panels from the ceiling, and laid it carefully beside his feet. He then unzipped the boot-bag and pulled out what looked like a smaller shoebox, with a single LED display. Jake swallowed. There was no doubt in his mind.

  It was a bomb.

  The man flicked a switch, and placed the device into the ceiling space. Jake stepped into the room.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  The figure jerked round.

  Jake saw his face and gasped.

  It didn’t make any sense at all.

  Devon Taylor.

  19

  ‘You?’ said Jake. His legs felt weak. Devon was a footballer, not a terrorist.

  ‘Jake?’ said Devon. ‘What are you doing here?’ He jumped down from the cardboard boxes, landing nimbly. ‘I got lost. This place is a maze, isn’t . . .?’

  ‘What happened to your injury?’ Jake interrupted.

  ‘It was nothing.’ Devon smiled. ‘I messed up with the tackle though. The ref had no choice . . .’

  ‘You did it on purpose,’ said Jake, his mouth just about keeping pace with his brain. What he was saying barely made sense to him, but at the same time he knew it to be true. ‘You got yourself sent off so that you could come here and finish the job.’

  A cloud passed over Devon’s face, wiping away his smile. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You’re trying to kill the scientists upstairs,’ Jake snarled.

  ‘Well, I’m not letting you. You’re not going to get away with this, Devon.’

  Devon calmly zipped up the boot-bag. ‘You have no choice,’ he said. ‘As soon as I set the remote detonator,’ he tapped his pocket, ‘it’s a straight countdown to the big bang. The detonation can’t be stopped. Oh, don’t worry, the blast will be isolated to the VIP box and everyone in it. The bomb is sensitive to touch too, so I wouldn’t try anything. If you did . . . well, let’s just say your playing days would be over.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Jake. He was buying time, but his gut seemed to tingle with the need to know just why a superstar footballer was going to murder three scientists. ‘I mean . . . what’s in it for you?’

  Devon grinned. ‘Don’t play cute with me. What do you think?’

  ‘Money?’ said Jake. ‘You’d kill innocent people to get rich?’

  ‘Hey, Jake,’ said Devon shrugging. ‘Look around you. This stadium, the star players. Football is money!’

  ‘But you already earn millions,’ said Jake. ‘You’ve got the world at your feet.’

  Devon fished in his pocket and pulled out something like a small remote control. The detonator.

  ‘Don’t you see, Jake? I can still have the glittering football career. But I could have billions if my father and I keep Truman Oil at the top.’

  Jake didn’t get it. ‘Your father?’

  ‘I’m surprised no one’s seen the resemblance,’ said Devon. ‘True, mom was a model – Annalise Taylor – so perhaps that’s where I get my looks from.’

  ‘Christian Truman . . . he’s your father?’

  ‘The name can open doors, but I prefer to get where I am on merit.’ Devon was fiddling with the timer. ‘Ten minutes should be about right, d’you agree?’

  Jake lunged for the detonator, but Devon was quicker and snatched it away. Jake felt the footballer’s muscled knee slam into his stomach, and fell into a crouch. His breath wouldn’t come. Devon sent another kick into his ribs, and Jack smashed into the stacked boxes.

  Devon was crouched beside a toolbox, and pulled out a hammer. Jake struggled on to his knees. ‘You know, Jake, I actually quite liked you and your dad. It’s just a shame you had to get in the way.’

  He brought the mallet end of the hammer down in a wide arc. Jake lifted his right arm. The handle caught his wrist and slid off. He drove his left fist into Devon’s groin. Devon howled and stumbled backward, bent double. Jake dived after him, ignoring the dull throb in his gut.

  Devon was still holding the detonator in his hand. Jake stamped low on to the back of his knee and he screamed in agony. The detonator fell and skidded along the floor, coming to rest against the wall.

  As Devon cradled his knee, Jake went after the device. But Devon caught his ankle and brought him down too. He felt his hair yanked back, and then a sharp shove to the back of his head. His face met the floor nose first and white pain took away his vision. He groaned and rolled over. He felt blood oozing over his top lip, its iron tang filling his mouth.

  Jake gagged and spat out his own blood. As his vision cleared he saw Devon standing with the detonator. Jake tried to stand, but couldn’t.

  Devon turned a final switch on the timer. Jake heard a corresponding beep from the bomb lodged in the ceiling. ‘See you, Bastin,’ said Devon. He pressed the door release button and was gone.

  Jake clambered slowly to his feet. Blood spattered from his nose on to the floor, and he squeezed below the bridge to stop the flow. It didn’t feel broken. He walked as quickly as possible to the boxes and climbed up. The bomb was emitting a low beep every ten seconds or so, and through his watering eyes Jake saw the digital display read 9.36, counting down at second intervals.

  He thought about moving it, but what if Devon was telling the truth and it was touch sensitive? Not only would he kill himself, but the AEB would die anyway. No, there was only one other way. He’d have to find a way to warn them.

  9.13.

  Jake jumped down, fighting the nausea that made his head swim. Pain would have to wait.

  He left the maintenance room
and ran out of the holding area and into the lobby. There was a lift at the far end of the tiled reception and the only people there were a businessman wearing a suit and two receptionists. One woman looked at Jake in surprise as he came through. The front of his sweatshirt was covered in blood. She asked if he was OK, but he ignored her, heading straight for the stairs, which were labelled 2a. He ran through the door and up two flights.

  He reached the second floor where the VIP box was situated and opened the door. His heart sank. Two security guards were standing either side of the door. Jake knew he didn’t stand a chance in a two-on-one situation with guys their size.

  If only I’d kept the gun!

  Then he remembered the one weapon he did have. He patted his back pocket and found the radio. It seemed a simple enough device: an off/on switch and a button to transmit. He held down the button and spoke in his best Texan accent.

  ‘All guards in the vicinity. This is Truman. Jake Bastin is coming up stairwell 2b. Take him out. That’s Jake Bastin heading to the VIP box on 2b. Over.’

  He watched as the two doormen heard the message, shared a few words, then ran in the opposite direction. Jake darted out from his stairwell and made for the VIP area, pulling off his blood-stained sweatshirt as he ran.

  Inside, it wasn’t like he expected at all. There were close to two dozen people milling around and watching the game below. A waitress was carrying a tray of champagne glasses. At the back of the room, a buffet was laid out on a candlelit table. He spotted Farrah Evans and Sebastian Groeber laughing together.

  How long was left on the timer? He had no idea, but it had to be less than five minutes. He imagined the deadly device ticking away just a few feet below. The murmur of raised voices came from the other side of the door. The guards were back. Jake crept across the back of the room and slipped underneath the tablecloth. The door opened and he saw the feet of one of Truman’s henchmen, encased in massive steel toecap boots.

  The man padded across the carpet, presumably carrying out a quick search, then spoke into his radio.

  ‘No. He’s not here. I don’t get it. Are you saying that wasn’t you?’

  He left the room again.

  What now? Jake thought about yelling bomb! but he knew the security would insist it was a false alarm. He’d have to force the people to leave. But how?

  He peeked out from his hiding place and his eyes fell on the candles. There was nothing like a fire to get people running. He snatched one of the sticks and brought the flame under the dangling edges of the tablecloth. It caught quickly. He did the same further along. Then again. Soon the flames were climbing higher and the walls were beginning to scorch black along the back of the table. Jake crawled out.

  ‘Champagne, sir?’ asked the waitress, wearing a confused expression. ‘Are you all right, sir? You’re bleeding.’ Her nose twitched, then her eyes widened. ‘Oh my God! Fire!’

  Her cries drew glances from everyone. Gasps of surprise went around, and a glass smashed as someone dropped it.

  ‘Where’s the extinguisher?’ someone shouted in panic. The flames suddenly flared higher. A woman screamed.

  Jake spotted an extinguisher against the wall and rushed over. He released the mechanism and pretended to squeeze the trigger. ‘It’s not working!’ he said. ‘Please, everybody out.’

  The door opened and both security guards looked in. ‘What’s going on? What the hell?’

  The first of the VIPs pushed past. ‘Are you blind? You have to evacuate people!’ he said. ‘Everyone follow me!’

  As the room filled with smoke, the others started pushing towards the door, moving in a hurried procession along a route furthest from the fire. Jake put down the extinguisher. There couldn’t be long left on the timer. ‘Hurry up!’ he shouted over the crackle of flames.

  He coughed into his sleeve as the waitress joined the guards at the back of the line and then went after her, helping to usher the others more quickly.

  Outside, he spotted Groeber and Rei together, and rushed up to them.

  ‘Where’s Professor Evans?’ he asked.

  Groeber shook his head. ‘She must be here somewhere. She was inside.’

  Jake dashed among the assembled VIPs. Evans wasn’t there.

  She must still be inside!

  Jake pushed open the door. The heat inside was intense. Flames licked angrily across the ceiling and smoke swirled like thick fog. He saw patches of the green pitch beyond, which then vanished behind the grey shroud. There was no oxygen at all.

  ‘Professor!’ Jake shouted.

  A weak moan drew him deeper into the smoke and he saw movement on the far side of the room. It was Farrah Evans. The elderly scientist was lying on the floor, spluttering into her hand.

  Jake rushed over and scooped her up. She was a lot lighter than the security guard he’d dragged into the toilet, but the smoke was now so thick he couldn’t draw a breath. He couldn’t even see the door.

  He tripped over a step but managed to stay upright, and with his back against the wall, found the door. In the corridor, panicked faces were gathered at the far end, the security guards amongst them. Jake’s head felt heavy and his eyes stung as he stumbled towards them.

  Something shoved him hard in the back, lifting his whole body like a powerful wave. The bomb. A deafening roar seemed to press his head like a vice, and his eardrums felt ready to burst. It was like being trapped in a tunnel with a freight train thundering past, rattling every bone. The sound and the sensation were one.

  Powerless, Jake sprawled forward, spilling Professor Evans on the carpet.

  20

  Debris filled the corridor and Jake struggled to breathe.

  Figures appeared ahead, shadows in the gloom, and then two people were helping Professor Evans off the floor. She looked shaken, but Jake couldn’t see any blood.

  Another of the VIPs, a woman with red curly hair and spectacles, was crouched in front of him, holding out a hand. Her lips were moving, but Jake couldn’t hear anything but the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ he said, pointing to his ears. His own voice sounded like it was being spoken through a microphone.

  The woman nodded and helped Jake to his feet. His clothes were covered in dust and something like soot, and he staggered in the direction of the stairs. The rest of the VIPs were gathered there. As he approached, sounds returned to him as though he was hearing them from underwater – distorted voices, the muffled sound of weeping. Then, over all of this, the fire alarm going off, insistent and blaring. Jake gritted his teeth, feeling a mixture of anxiety and sheer frustration: he had saved the scientists’ lives, but they were still very much in danger.

  ‘You all need to get out of the stadium,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe here. Take the stairs to the lobby and out into the car park.’

  ‘Who are you?’ said one man. ‘And what just happened? Was that a bomb?’

  ‘There isn’t time to explain,’ said Jake. ‘Just go.’

  To his relief, the crowd seemed to listen and began to file on to the stairs, leaning against each other or holding hands, glancing anxiously around. Jake followed them. I need to find my dad. The reception area was already bustling with worried-looking staff, and fans were streaming through from the holding areas, pale-faced and anxious. Orderlies were pointing them in the direction of the main doors. Jake went against the flow, nudging through. When he reached the door to the area behind the stands, a member of staff put his hand across Jake’s chest and said in Russian: ‘You have to leave. There’s a fire.’

  ‘I left my bag in there,’ said Jake, then immediately cursed himself for such a lame excuse.

  ‘We’re evacuating,’ the man said, without any emotion or expression.

  ‘OK,’ said Jake, backing away.

  But as soon as the man turned his attention elsewhere, Jake ploughed into him.

  ‘Stop!’ the man said. Jake was already pushing on through the flow of people. He got through to the hol
ding area, which was thronged with supporters jostling for the exits. Parents were holding on to their children’s hands, and people who’d fallen were being helped to their feet. Jake made for the nearest tunnel and elbowed his way into the stands.

  A voice sounded over the tannoy, first in Russian. He guessed roughly what was being said before the English translation followed: ‘Please remain calm. Make your way to the exits in an orderly manner.’

  The voice was Popov’s. He was standing in the middle of the pitch, dressed in a navy blue suit and with a cordless microphone in his hand.

  ‘There is nothing to be alarmed about,’ he said. ‘Please do not run.’

  Some of the players were still on the pitch, standing in small groups near the home goal. Orderlies in fluorescent jackets were roaming around Popov. By the dugouts, Jake saw his dad being watched closely by two security guards. He had to get closer to him.

  ‘Dad . . .’ he murmured. Jake slipped into one of the rows of seats and climbed over the top to the row below. It was quicker than using the main aisles, which were packed with people rushing the other way. He found he could balance on the backrest of each seat and step down that way. There was still smoke rising from the wreckage of the VIP box, which had been blown apart. Jake could see the insides of the room exposed – black and charred.

  He looked to the dugout again, but there was something wrong. The guards were too close to his dad. One of them shoved him in the back, and he could see his dad’s body language change.

  Jake caught a glint of metal in the security guard’s hand.

  A gun!

  Jake watched in horror as his dad nodded, and made his way into the passage behind the dugout. The security guards followed closely behind and he remembered Truman’s order to ‘relieve’ Jake’s dad of his position . . .

  Jake bounded over the remaining rows, and vaulted over the advertising hoardings on to the pitch. One of the brightly-dressed groundsmen shouted something, but he didn’t hear and sprinted across the turf. Popov was being led off the pitch as well, his back to Jake.