Adrenaline

by Jeff Abbott

  “What’s going on?”

  “My employers insist I go to Zaid’s country house and make sure there is no evidence of his connection to us.”

  “What do you mean? Wipe out his computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was just murdered in full sight in a train station. The police will be swarming over his residences.”

  “That is why we must hurry. Remember Zaid telling us that his estate was equipped with bunkers for the government in case Britain was invaded during the war? I think if he has kept secrets from us on what he has given Edward, those secrets will be there. It is his best hiding place.”

  “But why would they go there?”

  “It is hiding in plain sight. Zaid covered for Yasmin while she was a so-called kidnapping victim. He told us, remember, that no one knew she was missing, not even her mother. So now she cannot be missing. Whatever they are up to, she must be in sight now or she would be suspected.”

  I ran a hand through my hair.

  “You’re right. That underground complex would be the perfect hiding place. Do we know who’s living there?”

  “A small staff, I would suspect. He keeps a sizeable stable of horses.”

  “I love horses,” I said.

  83

  ZAID’S DEATH AND THE GUNFIRE at St. Pancras dominated the news the rest of the day. No one else had been seriously injured and the shooters had escaped. The police were already at Zaid’s London home, interviewing his family. I saw news footage of Zaid’s blond wife, walking into her London home in Belgravia, filmed at a distance. Yasmin, with no scarf on to mask her face, walked with her mother, a supportive arm around her shoulders. Mrs. Zaid had said that her husband had gone to meet their daughter, who was returning from a trip, and that Yasmin had phoned her to say she’d been running late and, when she arrived, her father was dead from an apparent heart attack.

  She’d killed him, vanished in the panic, and then boldly returned, her face uncovered, for her “meeting.”

  “She poisons her father and now pretends to be the doting daughter.” I felt sick. Yasmin would have to vanish before poison was identified in her father’s body. We did not have much time.

  On the television, I watched Yasmin Zaid and her mother step away from the press of the reporters and go back into their perfect house. My daughter belongs to me, Zaid had said a million years ago, back in Amsterdam. He had been so, so wrong.

  Early the next morning I drove past the Zaid country estate in Kent, not far from Canterbury. High stone walls rose and fell with the gentle sway of the rolling landscape. I followed the road, looking for signs of cameras or monitors hidden in the trees or the fence itself. I drove a few miles past the property and then drove back again. I wanted to get a feel for the terrain, based on the satellite map Mila had shown me, together with the plans of the house she had somehow obtained the night before. The complex lay under the Georgian mansion, stretching toward the western edge of the estate. Near the end of what would be the far side of the complex were stables. A private airstrip lay on the far western side, and stretching halfway across the ample property was a small river, which seemed to start in the grounds itself, and a number of small creeks. It looked like one tunnel ended close to the stables, which lay about two hundred yards from the wall. A private road fed from the wall past the stables. No guard, at least right now, but a heavy gate with a key-card reader.

  I drove past again one more time, then wheeled back to the closest village.

  I keyed in the phone number.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice, crisp, undaunted, apparently, by the tragedy that had befallen her master.

  “Stables, please.” I hoped this would work. Even with Zaid dead, his horses would have to be cared for. Someone should be on duty.

  “One moment.” Then the phone rang again.

  “Hello?” This time a crabby man’s voice.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’d like to speak with whoever handles purchasing for Mr. Zaid’s stables, please.”

  “This is a most inappropriate time, young man. We have had a death in the family,” the man scolded me.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I am so sorry.” I could not have sounded sorrier.

  “Good-bye, then—”

  “Sir? Could you please tell me who I should ask for when I call back?”

  “That would be Gerry and he’s not here today. Who’s calling, please?”

  “I’m Mike Smith, with Service-First Equestrian. We’re a brand-new firm, and I think we could give Gerry great service at a very attractive price.”

  The voice surprised him with a laugh. “You better give Gerry service, or he’ll yell your ears off. Just fair warning.”

  I laughed a false salesman’s laugh. “Yes, sir, I appreciate the candor. Might I ask if you know who supplies Mr. Zaid’s horses now?”

  “Um, yeah. Blue Lion Horse Supply. They’re close by.”

  “Very fine company. But we have better deals with our suppliers we can pass on to you.”

  “Save your pitch for Gerry. D’you want to leave a number?”

  “No, sir, I’ll call back next week and make an appointment with Gerry. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “All right, then. Good luck. Bye.” The man hung up.

  A search on my phone gave me a listing for Blue Lion Horse Supply, and I drove the two miles to the business; it was in a stand-alone building of old stone with a paved parking lot.

  I walked inside. Horse feed and equestrian equipment lined the walls and the shelves. A young man stood at the counter, tapping on a keyboard and frowning at a computer.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m from the Zaid place. Gerry sent me.”

  He gave me a nod.

  “We were supposed to get a delivery of feed yesterday, and it didn’t come. Gerry sent me to pick it up.”

  The guy frowned and said, “We delivered your supply two days ago.”

  “Well, we don’t have it and Gerry’s out today and so I’m supposed to come get the stuff.”

  “Hold on, my brother does the delivery to the Zaids. Alec?” he called and got an answering “What?” from the back office. “There’s a guy from Zaid’s out here and he—” The clerk turned around and I had the gun square in his face, an apologetic smile behind the Glock.

  I tied the brothers up in the back office, tight, gagged them, hung the closed sign in the window and found the delivery pickup. A delivery for another client was already loaded; good, it would save me time. I pulled a knit cap marked with the words BLUE LION off Alec’s balding head.

  “Guys.” I knelt close to them. Now I had to scare them a bit. “I went through your wallets. I know where you live. So you’re going to stay nice and calm, and if anyone finds you before I come back here you’re going to tell them someone who doesn’t look like me took your truck. You aren’t going to mention Bahjat Zaid. You aren’t going to describe me. Because I’ll vanish, and if it takes five days or five months or five years, if you piss me off, I’ll be back and you won’t see me coming. You boys understand me?”

  The brothers nodded.

  “Okay. I’ll be back with your truck real soon. Be good.”

  I called Mila from the parking lot. I said, “I’m ready.”

  She said, “I’m going inside now.”

  84

  MILA HAD GAINED ACCESS to the mansion by flashing a false identification that stated she was with Scotland Yard. The news crews, which had been there the night before, were gone.

  Mila stood in the foyer after she’d been admitted by the sallow-faced housekeeper, Mrs. Crosby, who stood with a stricken look on her face, a handkerchief in one hand.

  She said, “Two police inspectors have just left…”

  Mila gave a polite, slight bow. “I apologize for intruding upon your grief, but I work in computer forensics and I need to access Mr. Zaid’s computers. We need to see who he had been in contact with, if anyone might have threatened him.”

  “Mr. Zaid
was a fine man,” Mrs. Crosby said. “He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

  “You were with him a long time?”

  “Yes, me and my husband both. We’ve been in his employ here for almost thirty years.”

  “Excuse me,” a voice came from beyond the foyer. Mrs. Crosby went instantly silent.

  Mila turned to see Yasmin and Edward stepping out from the study. Mila gave no expression that she’d seen either of them before, but her stomach lurched.

  “Hello,” Edward said. “I’m Edward Maxwell, a security consultant for Mr. Zaid. May I be of help?”

  The housekeeper was strangling her silken handkerchief, twisting it into a tight rope.

  She’s afraid, Mila thought. This woman is scared to death.

  “Well, I hope so,” she said to Edward. “I’m Inspector Mila Smith, from Scotland Yard.”

  “Forgive me, but I’ve never heard of a Scotland Yard inspector with a Russian accent.”

  “I am a naturalized citizen and married to the world’s greatest Manchester United fan.” She offered a small, polite laugh as Edward shook her hand. He smiled.

  “Mrs. Crosby,” Edward said to the housekeeper, “it’s all right. I’ll assist the inspector. I’m not sure why the police are taking such an interest in Mr. Zaid’s heart attack.”

  “We’re not convinced it was a heart attack, sir,” Mila said mildly.

  Edward gave no reaction; Mrs. Crosby let out a small gasp.

  Edward said, “I think it would be best if you went home, Mrs. Crosby. Unless the inspector needs to speak to you.”

  “No,” Mila said softly. “That won’t be necessary.” It was as if they were in agreement: no noncombatants on the field.

  Edward took a step closer to Mila. She made herself not look at the question-mark scar.

  Mrs. Crosby nodded and left.

  Yasmin didn’t smile. She didn’t speak. She didn’t watch the woman leave.

  Mila waited until she heard the soft jingling of the housekeeper getting her keys and a back door shutting. “So. Mr. Zaid’s computer.”

  Edward’s tone chilled. “I’m afraid that I can’t let you have access to Mr. Zaid’s systems. There is confidential information on them regarding Militronics business.”

  “I understand, sir, but I do have a warrant.” Mila reached inside her purse.

  I pulled the cap over my head and turned into the gate. I waved the key card over the pass.

  The gate didn’t open. Maybe because people up at the house were busy dealing with Mila, confirming her story. Or fighting with her.

  A voice squawked from the speaker by the card reader. “Yeah, who are you?”

  I put on my best English accent. “Alec at Blue Lion Horse sent me. He didn’t have some of the horse feed in this week’s delivery for Mr. Zaid and I’m bringing it now.” I didn’t look directly at the camera; I looked at a notepad, checking the details of the delivery. What I was delivering wasn’t horse feed but a story to a guard who was probably already nervous, given that his boss had just died. But it is the nature of underlings to trust their eyes and I wore the cap, I drove the truck bearing the Blue Lion logo and name on the door, I lobbed the right name.

  Silence for ten seconds. “Someone will meet you at the stable. Wait there.”

  “It won’t take long, will it? Because I’ve got other deliveries, mate.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  “Thanks.” I rolled up the window.

  The gates opened and I drove through.

  85

  MILA’S HAND CLOSED OVER HER PISTOL. But she sensed Edward take a step forward. She looked up and Edward held a gun on her.

  “You,” he ordered Mila. “Drop the purse. You’re not Scotland Yard. Honestly, couldn’t they find a British bird to play a British bird?”

  “No.”

  “Edward…” Yasmin started.

  “Just a moment, love,” he said to her. His gaze bore into Mila. “Who are you with? Sam Capra’s bunch?”

  “Yes.” Very carefully, her fingers pressed a button on a small device next to the gun in her purse. In her head she started a slow, measured countdown.

  “And who exactly are they?”

  “We work for Mr. Zaid.”

  “Ah. Clear your hands from the purse. Then drop it on the floor.”

  Slowly, Mila made a show of sliding the purse off her shoulder. Her gaze locked on Edward’s and the only time her glance wandered was to evaluate where she would strike him: the throat, the eyes, the base of his nose where the bone would spear into the brain if you hit it just right.

  “Yasmin, get the guards on the radio.”

  Yasmin stumbled toward the hallway.

  “I told you to drop the purse, bitch,” he said to Mila.

  Her purse hit the floor. Edward leaned down, keeping the gun fixed on Mila, dragging the purse toward him, and five seconds later its zippered opening exploded in a blast of dazzling light.

  * * *

  No welcoming committee was waiting at the stable when I parked the truck. I didn’t see a soul.

  I grabbed my bag and got out, then dropped the gate of the pickup, took a bag of feed and half dragged another bag off the edge of the pickup’s rear gate; I needed to look like either an eager-to-please deliveryman or a deliveryman hurrying to finish one job and get to the next. I stepped inside the stable, slung the bag over my shoulder and waited. Zaid’s beautiful horses nickered, perhaps anticipating a run or an exercise. I was sorry to disappoint them.

  Three minutes later, a truck topped the rise of the hill. Three men inside. An awful lot to receive a delivery. Either Mila had already failed, or they were cautious.

  Three against one, and me already coping with injuries. I hurried to each of the stalls and opened the doors, led the Arab horses out via the back gate. I swatted them gently on the sides to urge them to run. Two broke and bolted past the corral, the others cantered. They were such beauties. I remembered my dad teaching me and my brother to ride, one humid summer when we were in Virginia, not melting in a third world housing project, and the joy you could feel from the wind in your face, from the bridled power of the horse.

  I went back into the stable and waited. The truck stopped before reaching the building as the guards caught sight of the horses rounding the stables. One man, a redhead, jumped out to try and catch the horses. The other two, wearing holsters, kept the truck headed for the stables. They pulled up next to the Blue Lion pickup. Got out, but left their guns in their holsters. They moved like professionals and I wondered if they were just hired security or if they were part of Edward’s organization. I didn’t really want to kill rent-a-cops who’d just taken the wrong job patrolling a quiet English estate.

  The way they fought would show me who they were.

  As they stepped inside, I swung a heavy bag of feed into the first one’s face. The man toppled and as the weight of the bag spun I nailed the second guard with a kick below the throat that sent him sprawling out onto the porch. My shoulder ached from the weight of it, and I staggered after the kick.

  The first man—thick-necked, with a blond burr of hair—rolled into a martial artist’s stance and yanked a small knife from a sheath on his belt. Not a cop-for-hire, then. That simplified things. He swiped at me with the knife and I hammered my palm into his face, then grabbed both his wrists and slammed them against the top of a stable door. They broke. He screeched and staggered backward, staring at his bent wrists.

  The second man, a wiry African, coughing blood, lunged at me, drawing his gun, and yelled an order to surrender. I ignored it and rammed a fist into the man’s hand, knocking the gun to the floor. The bolt of pain shot up my arm to my wounded shoulder, and I was too slow pulling back. The African slammed three hard, brutal blows into my ribs. Bruises still fresh from Holland thundered into agony. I couldn’t fight for long.

  I stepped inside the African’s swing and head-slammed him, and the man went to his knees; I gave him a kick, square in the groi
n, and I meant it. The African collapsed in huffing agony. He looked up at me as a man expecting to die, fear shining bright in his eyes.

  I relieved him of his gun and yanked an earpiece from his ear. They were wired to check in, so reinforcements might be here soon. The man with two broken wrists looked at me in shock. I leveled a kick into him that drove his head back against a stall gate and he crumpled.

  I pulled out my gun.

  “Where’s the entrance?” I said. “To the underground rooms?”

  The African shot me the finger. Honestly, I thought. I knelt down and twisted the finger back to within a millimeter of breaking it. The African howled.

  “Are they paying you enough? Really?” I asked.

  “The back… the kitchen.”

  I yanked him to his feet, hustled him into the kitchen.

  “Pantry,” he said. A bit more steel in his voice now. He was going to get cute. But I still needed him.

  The small kitchen held a pantry at its back and I opened the door, keeping the gun aimed at the African. Another door stood behind the narrow shelving; made of new, reinforced steel. I tried pushing it. Locked.

  “Open it,” I said.

  “Door only opens from the inside.” He was right. There was no knob or bar.

  “Okay.” I slammed the African into the pantry shelving once, twice, and the guy cracked his head and dropped, unconscious. I checked the window; no sign of the redhead. He’d be back in minutes, or radioing his friends who’d gone into the stable and wondering why they weren’t responding.

  I opened my bag, found the strips of plastic explosive and the wires, and began to shape the charge around the door.

  86

  THE BLAST WAS MORE LIGHT and dazzle than heat and, as Edward screamed and staggered back, Mila drew her baton from the small of her back. The first blow grazed Edward’s jaw, the edge of the baton bloodying the skin. Mila slashed again, aiming for Edward’s chest, but he caught her arm and twisted her forearm savagely. She slammed the heel of her other hand into his face. A fist hammered into the soft of Mila’s throat and she fell to her knees, Yasmin attacking with blows and kicks. Edward grabbed Mila’s hair, spat in her face, pounded her head against the table twice, then a hand wrenched the baton from her grip.