Sudden Death

by Nick Hale

  Jake reached the dugout and plunged inside, up the tunnel and past the dressing rooms. He saw his dad being pushed into a lift. As the three men turned, Jake pulled back, catching his breath, willing his heart to slow down just a bit before it exploded in his chest. He heard the lift doors close and thought it safe to come out. The display beside the CALL button read 1 then 2, counting off the floors.

  They’re taking him up to Popov’s office. To Truman.

  Jake thought fast. He couldn’t go straight up after them. They’d only kill his dad, then him. No, he had to do something unexpected. There was only one other way to Popov’s office, and Jake knew it well.

  I had to climb down last time. Now it’s time to climb up.

  At the back of the stands, he found the spot directly beneath Popov’s over-hanging office. It looked more daunting this way: a straight climb twenty metres up. Jake rubbed his hands together and started to climb up on the massive bolts and rivets. It was just like the climbing wall at school – except here Jake would die if he fell. But then he reached the point where the A-frame joined the outer wall of the stadium.

  You can do it, he told himself.

  Jake wrapped one hand round the bottom of the stanchion, then the other. He heaved himself up, and managed to wrap his legs round the metal. Then he inched up, using his legs to push him along and his arms to keep his upper body against the steel support.

  By the time he reached the top of the stanchion his arms were trembling with the effort. He didn’t know if he’d have it in him to do the last, tricky part. The office floor was now directly above his head and the lip of the outer sill was two feet away, hidden from view. Jake was grateful at least that this part of the ground was in shadow – no one would see him from the great expanse of the pitch below. Jake let go with one hand, tightened his grip with his legs, and felt for the handhold on the outer wall of the office. He found it – the windowsill.

  Now or never! he thought.

  He locked the fingers of his right hand over the lip and let go of the stanchion with his left. Scrambling, he managed to get that one in place too, so he had both hands gripping the window ledge, and his legs still wrapped around the stanchion.

  He released his legs to swing free below.

  One last pull!

  Breathing heavily, Jake dragged himself up on to the ledge, straining every last muscle in his arms. He gripped the edges of the outer wall until his knuckles were white, trying to catch his breath. Already he could hear voices from inside. The glass was still cracked from the wayward bullet.

  Jake edged along the sill to the glass and peered inside.

  His dad was standing in the corner of the room with his hands cuffed behind his back. One of the security guards was pointing a gun at him. The other was seated on the corner of the desk, with his back to Jake.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ his dad said. ‘Why’s this idiot pointing a gun at me?’ Jake couldn’t tell who he was speaking to at first, but then Christian Truman stepped into view. He must have been in the small bathroom, because he was holding a bloodied white towel to the side of his head. He’d taken off his jacket and was wearing a white shirt. He walked up to Jake’s dad, drew back his fist and punched him in the stomach. Jake flinched at the brutal blow, but kept a firm grip on the ledge. He watched as his dad fell to his knees.

  ‘Don’t play innocent with me, Bastin,’ Truman said. ‘We both know exactly what’s going on here.’

  Jake’s dad caught his breath and looked up. There was anger in his face, but confusion too.

  ‘What are you talking about, Christian? One moment I’m coaching the team, the next I’m being assaulted.’

  Truman threw the towel angrily at the glass, and Jake drew back instinctively.

  ‘Cut the crap. You and your son just couldn’t keep your noses clean, and I can’t have people sniffing around my business.’ He went forward again and Jake thought he was going to kick his dad. Instead, he knelt in front of him and seized his jaw between his fingers and thumb. He pulled his face round so they were looking each other in the eye. ‘Do you really think I’m that damn stupid?’

  Something changed in Jake’s dad’s face. The mask dropped and he smiled. A hopeless smile.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Truman backed away and snatched the gun from his bodyguard, then walked forward and pushed the barrel against Jake’s dad’s cheek. Truman’s face was red with rage and his hand was shaking. He stayed in the same position for several seconds, his finger tight against the trigger. Jake held his breath, waiting for the right moment. Then Truman pulled away.

  ‘I hope you die better than your son did,’ he sneered.

  His dad looked up, eyes flashing with fury and grief, then launched himself at Truman, teeth gnashing. ‘You bastard! I’ll kill you . . .’

  Truman backed off nervously as the guards caught Jake’s dad and restrained him. Truman swung the butt of the gun into Jake’s dad’s temple, opening a cut that bled freely over his eyebrow and cheek. He fell against the edge of the desk on to his knees, and lay on the floor.

  Truman handed the gun back to the bodyguard, and walked to the door. ‘Don’t use the gun,’ he said. ‘We’ll make it look like he died in the stampede.’

  He opened the door and left.

  Jake watched as his dad struggled to his feet and backed into the wall behind him. One of the bodyguards slipped a knuckleduster over his hand, the second pulled out a foot-long cosh.

  Jake’s anger swelled. He wasn’t going to watch his dad beaten to death by thugs. There was a steel pipe along the top of the window, part of the structure keeping it suspended in the air. Jake grabbed it, then pushed with his feet off the window, swinging backward. The bodyguards turned.

  As he swung forward, he kicked as hard as he could in the centre of the pane where the bullet was embedded. Jake prayed the panel was weakened enough.

  The glass gave way, splintering from the centre, and crashed across the desk, shattering into hundreds of shards. Jake landed beside the desk. His dad’s face rearranged itself in astonishment.

  ‘Jake!’

  The guard with the cosh came at Jake first, swinging downward at his head. Jake skipped back, and before the thug could deliver another blow, sent a right cross into his nose. He heard the bone crunch and blood sprayed across the man’s cheek. Jake followed in and drove an upper cut with his left hand under the chin. The guard collapsed across the desk chair. He didn’t get up.

  The second guard came more slowly, in a southpaw stance, the knuckleduster on his front hand. Jake ducked under a jab and came in close for a body blow. His fist bounced harmlessly off, his wrist jarring painfully. The thug smiled.

  He’s wearing some kind of body armour, Jake realised.

  ‘Hey!’ said a voice. The thug turned and saw Jake’s dad right behind him. His dad’s hands were still cuffed, but he slammed his forehead into the guard’s face. The guard fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  ‘Get these cuffs off me,’ said Jake’s dad, eyes roving his surroundings as if another attack was imminent.

  Jake found the keys in the fallen guard’s back pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. His dad rubbed his wrists and nodded to the two fallen assailants.

  ‘That was a stupid thing you did,’ he said to Jake. ‘You could have been killed.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Jake.

  His dad grabbed Jake’s arm and pulled him close. ‘I’d never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you. When that bomb went off, I . . .’

  Jake pulled way. ‘The AEB are safe. I got them out. But listen, it’s Devon. He planted the bomb.’

  ‘Hold up,’ his dad said. ‘Slow down, Jake. Are you telling me that Devon Taylor is an assassin? That’s crazy!’

  ‘Dad, he’s Truman’s son!’

  Jake explained what had happened after the game started. When he had finished, his dad looked resolute.

  ‘We need to stop them before they escape,’
his dad said.

  ‘But they’ll be gone already,’ said Jake.

  ‘No they won’t. Christian Truman wouldn’t go by car – he’ll keep up appearances, and leave in style.’

  Jake pricked his ears and heard a sound – the thud-thud-thud of rotor blades. Out of the broken window, a blue and red helicopter hovered over the stadium, angling slowly downward.

  ‘We need to get to the roof,’ said Jake. ‘Now!’

  21

  Jake’s dad pressed the R button in the lift. ‘Stay close to me,’ he said.

  ‘Do you really think he’ll run away when he realises the AEB scientists are still alive?’ Jake asked.

  ‘I’ve dealt with men like Truman for years,’ his dad said. ‘They always get out when it gets hot. Leave the little people to do the dirty work.’

  The doors opened on to a deserted lounge, with a marble-topped bar at the far end and tasteful, expensive furnishings spread throughout. Classical music, strangely out of place given the chaos below, tinkled from speakers that Jake couldn’t see.

  Double doors on the right wall led to a restaurant, and Jake saw several large, circular tables laid out for service. There were four other doors. Two for staff, one for the toilets, and a final one, the nearest, which read ‘HELIPAD’.

  The door to the toilet suddenly opened and Devon Taylor emerged. He froze when he saw Jake and his dad.

  ‘Thought you could fly away?’ asked Jake.

  Devon’s hands scrambled at his pockets, but whatever he was looking for obviously wasn’t there. His eyes went to the helipad exit door, but Jake’s dad was closer and blocked off the route. Devon ran instead towards the restaurant, plunging through the double doors. Jake went after him.

  ‘You find Truman!’ he shouted to his dad.

  The doors to the restaurant were still swinging closed as Jake reached them. He went through and ducked as a wine bottle came spinning through the air, smashing against the doorframe and showering Jake with red wine and glass.

  Devon was standing behind a table, wielding a second bottle.

  ‘You’re quick,’ he sneered. ‘For a kid.’

  Jake dodged the second bottle more easily and it shattered on the floor around the pristine dinner tables.

  ‘I trusted you,’ said Jake, moving into the room. ‘But you’re just a murderer.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Devon. He was backing off, a steak knife in his hand. ‘But I’ll be a rich one.’

  ‘The richest man in prison,’ said Jake, threading between the tables. There wasn’t much room to manoeuvre. He picked up a knife of his own.

  Somewhere a gunshot went off, and both Jake and Devon jumped. Two seconds later, he heard a second bullet.

  ‘Sounds like the coach’s contract has been terminated,’ Devon said.

  Jake tried to still his pounding heart and force down the bile that wanted to heave out of him. He shook his head clear of flickering images of his father on the ground, wounded . . . bleeding . . .

  ‘The AEB escaped, you know,’ he said to Devon. ‘The plan failed.’

  Devon clenched his jaw. ‘Nice try . . .’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ said Jake. ‘They got out just in time. I made sure of it.’

  ‘Then you’ve signed your own death warrant,’ Devon said, jumping up on to one of the tables, lithe as a cat. Jake climbed on to one too, knocking aside several wine glasses.

  Devon hopped on to a nearer table. Now there was just one between them.

  ‘Let’s see what you’ve got, Bastin,’ Devon said.

  At the same moment, they leapt on to the table separating them. Jake thrust with his knife, but missed, and Devon swung his in a wide arc. Jake tried to dodge, but felt a stinging pain across his stomach. He cried out and looked down. Blood seeped through his T-shirt.

  ‘There’s no one to sub in now,’ Devon said.

  Jake’s rage took over and he charged. He hit Devon in a high rugby tackle and they both fell from the table and slammed into the floor among the chairs. Jake heard Devon’s knife clatter against something as it flew out of the player’s grasp. Jake got his hands on Devon’s throat and began to squeeze. Devon struggled, trying to reach Jake’s own throat but Jake tucked his chin into his neck, pressing his legs tight to Devon’s waist.

  Jake clenched with all his strength as Devon started choking. Devon’s face was going purple. In his rage, Jake realised what he was capable of. He would not stop until he’d choked the life out of Devon Taylor.

  Suddenly the chair seat beside Jake’s head exploded and stuffing flew out. A split second later he heard another gunshot. Truman twenty feet away was aiming his gun at Jake’s head. He rolled off Devon and under the table as another shot splintered a glass.

  Beneath the table, concealed by the overhanging tablecloth, it was like being in a cave. But Jake knew he couldn’t stay there long.

  ‘Pop, he’s under here!’ spluttered Devon.

  Jake squeezed between two chairs on his hands and knees and crawled under the next table.

  ‘Where is he?’ shouted Christian Truman.

  ‘I don’t know,’ whined Devon. ‘He’s here somewhere. What happened to the coach?’

  ‘I dealt with him,’ said Truman. ‘You hear that, kid?’ he shouted. ‘There are some shots even the legendary Steve Bastin can’t defend against.’

  My dad’s dead.

  An angry sob escaped Jake’s lips.

  I’ll kill you, you bastard. I promise.

  He moved under the next table. Another gunshot went off, thudding into a surface nearby. He had to find a way to get the advantage back.

  ‘I saw the cloth move,’ said Truman. ‘Where are you, you little rat?’

  The restaurant was silent apart from the sounds of Truman and Devon moving about.

  Jake tried to keep his breathing steady.

  He peered under the hem of the cloth, and saw a door. He’d lost his bearings a bit, but he guessed it was the restaurant kitchen. If he could get inside, maybe he could find a weapon. Redress the balance there.

  The door was ten feet away.

  Please be open!

  ‘You know this ends badly for you,’ said Devon. ‘Let’s get it over with quickly. It won’t hurt.’

  You’re going to be the one hurting, Jake promised silently. He lifted the cloth gently and readied himself to run.

  ‘Devon’s right,’ said Truman. ‘But listen, maybe we can talk about this. Man to man.’

  Right! thought Jake. You shot my dad, and now you’re just going to let me go?

  He heard a whisper, but couldn’t make out what was said. He guessed father and son were signalling to each other, pointing as they fanned across the room.

  Jake stood up and ran towards the door.

  ‘Get him!’ Devon shouted. A shot went off as Jake threw himself against the door. It was more flimsy than it looked and opened easily on smooth hinges. Jake fell through and landed on his front on the floor. He quickly scrambled up and took in the room. A commercial kitchen, around four times the size of the one at Obed in London. All stainless steel and chrome. Three aisles. Cooking implements hung from hooks and pans of all sizes lined the shelves. At the far end were several ovens, and what looked like walk-in fridges and freezers. There was a fire exit at the back.

  I have to create a distraction.

  Jake ran first to the dishwasher and pulled down the side panel, hitting a green switch. It began to operate with a swishing noise. Then he switched on open grills and burners. He twisted an egg timer, which ticked quietly as it counted down.

  Jake heard the door open and ducked behind a deep fat fryer. He turned the dial and it started up with a hum.

  ‘We know you’re in here,’ said Truman. ‘Stop running, Jake.’

  The kitchen was awash with noise.

  Jake stayed close to the cold floor. On a low shelf was a pile of strainers and colanders. He picked one out and hurled it down the aisle. It clattered to the far end.

  ‘Got him!�
�� Devon said. Jake heard Truman and Devon’s steps as they went to investigate. He ran, crouching, the length of the second aisle, and saw a carving knife lying across a chopping board. He snatched it up and hid behind a tall cabinet containing baking trays and roasting tins.

  He was back near the door to the restaurant.

  I might be able to make it.

  Then Truman walked into view a few feet away. Jake saw the gun first, held in Truman’s outstretched arm. He wouldn’t get a better chance.

  Jake jumped out and slashed the knife across Truman’s hand. The American roared and dropped the gun. Jake heard it clatter somewhere in the room, but didn’t see where. He turned to face Truman with the knife, as the Texan gripped his injured hand. Jake pressed the knife up against his throat, and found tears were welling in his eyes. ‘You killed my dad, you –’

  ‘Nice try, Jake,’ said a voice behind.

  Devon had picked up the gun.

  ‘Shoot the little wretch,’ snarled Truman. ‘He’s starting to get on my nerves.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Devon, raising the barrel. ‘Final whistle, Bastin.’

  Jake closed his eyes, but the screech of leather on the linoleum floor made him open them again. A flash of silver came from nowhere and crashed into Devon’s head. He dropped the gun and cried out as a baking tray rattled to the floor beside him. Jake launched himself forward and drove a foot into Truman’s chest, sending him crashing backward over a work surface.

  Another figure staggered out. Pale, and holding a hand to his bloodied shoulder, it was Jake’s dad.

  ‘You!’ said Truman.

  ‘Just about,’ his dad said. There was another hole in his shirt, black at the edges, over his heart. He knocked on his chest. ‘Not exactly part of the kit, but Kevlar comes in handy sometimes.’

  Devon was reaching for the gun on the floor but Jake got there first and kicked it across to his dad, who picked it up and pointed it straight at Devon.

  ‘Game over, Taylor. Why don’t you join your “pop”?’

  Christian Truman was still nursing his hand, while Jake opened the huge fridge door His dad motioned the two men inside.