A Risk Worth Taking

by Brynn Kelly

  “You might want to buckle up, Samira,” he said.

  He swayed to the narrow gap between the front seats and spoke to the driver, swiping the phone. She dived for the seat belt. Between the siren, the straining engine and the thick accents, she couldn’t follow the conversation. Something about bridges and gates.

  Behind them the blond man was still on his phone, his gaze fixed on the back of the ambulance as if he could see her through the one-way glass. Calling reinforcements? How many thugs did Hyland have in London? The Peugeot driver wore a cap low and a scarf high, with sunglasses bridging the gap. The car stuck to the ambulance like a water-skier behind a boat, skidding left and right as they weaved. The man nestled the phone between his shoulder and his ear and made swift hand movements in his lap. He lifted something, its black outline obvious for a second before it disappeared behind the dash.

  “Jamie, they have a gun.”

  “They what?” yelled the driver. The ambulance lurched sideways. “Shit.”

  Jamie swiveled. “Flat on the floor, Samira.”

  Gladly. She unclipped, and crawled onto the gray vinyl, Jamie crouching beside her, gun aimed down. His London acquaintances evidently occupied different social circles from her family’s. Through the windows, the tops of stripped trees and squat buildings flashed by—red brick, black brick, blackened stone, dirty concrete, steel and glass. The ambulance turned, tossing her against a row of cupboards. With one hand, she clung to the track anchoring the gurney. She cradled her other arm over her head—like that would stop a bullet. The ambulance jolted left and right, braking and accelerating like it was tossing in the surf. She swallowed nausea. At least there was no panic attack.

  Don’t say “panic attack.”

  The London she knew was a sedate place—dim lamps in hushed private libraries, leather back seats in purring black embassy cars, silver calligraphy on heavy card. Until now, her scariest experience was getting separated from her father in Madame Tussauds when she was eight.

  Jamie checked his watch. “Eleven minutes,” he called to the driver.

  “Until what?” Her words dissolved in the noise.

  “GPS says there’s congestion on the one-way loop from Whitechapel,” the driver yelled. “If we approach from there, they should get neatly stuck.”

  “Good,” said Jamie, planting a hand on Samira’s back as the ambulance swerved again. “Time it right and we can squeeze in just before the gates close.”

  Gates? He was planning to hole up somewhere?

  “And if we arrive a minute later we’ll be trapped,” the driver shouted.

  “Well, don’t get there late.”

  “What’s to stop them slipping in behind us?”

  “Selfish bastard London drivers. Who’s going to let them through?” Jamie winked at Samira—like she had any idea what they were talking about.

  “You’re assuming those same bastards will part for an ambulance.”

  Doubt flicked across Jamie’s face, and vanished.

  “Mate, can’t you just call in an air strike or tank assault or something?” said the driver.

  “That’s plan B.”

  The floor shuddered as the ambulance picked up speed. They were on a wider road, passing the blurred tops of trucks and double-decker buses. The siren wailed and waned. If the driver switched it off, it would surely continue in Samira’s head.

  Jamie popped up to check the windows then knelt again. He thrust his phone at Samira. “Keep an eye on this. Tell me when you see the traffic stop.”

  She juggled it, struggling to focus on the screen while avoiding sliding into Jamie. A live webcam was trained on Tower Bridge, its castle-like twin towers straddling a gray river. Cars and trucks stuttered across it as the stream buffered.

  Outside, the gray light dimmed to charcoal—they’d driven into a tunnel, an underpass maybe. Fighting nausea, she pulled up to a sitting position, bracing her back against cupboards and her feet on the gurney, focusing on the traffic on the little screen. Everyday people going to everyday Sunday places—markets, churches, Christmas shopping, visiting a friend to collect evidence that would take down the future American president... Jamie crept between her and the blond’s gun. Had he deliberately given her a menial task to keep her from panicking?

  The driver leaned on his horn. “I can’t lose this bastard. He’s careering like a maniac at Le Mans.”

  “She,” Jamie corrected.

  “What?”

  “The driver’s a woman.”

  “Whatever. Still a maniac.”

  “That’s because she’s following you and you’re the worst driver in London.” Jamie dropped to a whisper and leaned toward Samira. “He’s the best, really. Totally mental.”

  If Jamie’s humor was meant to keep her from freaking out, it wasn’t working—though at least her lungs were no longer panicking. Just her brain.

  “I heard you, you know,” the driver called.

  “They’re not firing at us,” she said to Jamie, sounding like a child needing reassurance.

  “They’ll be waiting to corner us, waiting for reinforcements. If they create too much chaos we could slip away into it. Their job is to keep eyes on us while their team regroups and closes in—but don’t worry,” he added, quickly. “We’ll slip away, very soon.”

  She tapped a fingernail on the screen. “Traffic’s stopped in one direction.”

  “A couple of minutes,” Jamie called, rising a little to look out the windscreen.

  “It’ll be tight,” the driver shouted. “Hold on!”

  A stout cruise ship appeared on the screen, downstream of the bridge. Samira frowned. Tower Bridge...it was a drawbridge, yes? “Jamie, I think the bridge is about to lift.”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  She blinked twice. “You’re planning to jump it?”

  “Now, there’s a plan.”

  “Oh God,” she said. “All traffic’s stopped now.”

  The driver slowed, honking and bleeping the siren. Her limited vision told her they were nudging through traffic across to the right-hand side of the road—the wrong side, here. The driver floored it. The engine whined like it was gunning for takeoff. What the hell? Through the windscreen, the crown of the nearest bridge tower came into view. Her quads burned with the effort of bracing against the gurney. To their right was a beige stone wall, studded with...arrow slits. Above it rose spires, circular towers, a Union Jack. The Tower of London. She’d been there once, with her mother. A very different trip.

  “The gate’s closing,” the driver yelled. Underneath the wailing siren, another alarm sounded, high-pitched and wavering.

  “Keep going,” Jamie said. “We have to get past. The Peugeot’s through the traffic but fifty meters behind.”

  “It’s still closing!”

  “They’ll open it,” Jamie called. Samira caught a slight movement at his side. He’d crossed his fingers.

  “James? A few seconds and I won’t be able to stop in time.”

  “Keep going,” Jamie said. “Trust me.”

  The driver tooted again. “The Peugeot’s gaining.” Sure enough, the engine behind them was straining to a new pitch. More horns sounded.

  Samira pulled herself onto the flip-down seat. She couldn’t not watch. Ahead, on the bridge, under a stone archway, a pair of pale blue gates spanned the road. The left-hand one was closed, traffic queued before it. The other was at a forty-five-degree angle and drifting shut. The ambulance wail morphed into a panicked shrill squeal. She hugged the back of the seat.

  “Hold tight,” said the driver. “This’ll be close.”

  Her eyes burned but she couldn’t blink. Behind, the Peugeot was keeping pace. Jamie crouched, clinging to a handhold, muscles tight from his hands to his neck. Shouts filtered in from outside, over the alarms and horns and engines. The
tourists were getting a show. The ambulance lurched sideways. The driver yelled. Jamie’s gaze flicked to hers, as steady and calm as his jaw was tense. This was one time she wouldn’t break eye contact. He winked. Winked.

  A thump. Her stomach lurched. A metal-on-metal screech—the side of the ambulance scraping against...the gate? But they were through. Behind them, the gate had stalled, almost closed. The Peugeot gunned it, its driver hunched. The gate lurched then swung shut. She winced, bracing for a crunch. The car fishtailed and pulled up sideways in a screech of brakes, smoke puffing from its wheels, maybe an inch short of crashing. The blond man whacked the back of his driver’s head, who spun toward him, evidently shouting, her arms flailing.

  Samira leaned back in her seat. Blue and white cables streaked past the windows, then another stone archway like the yawning ribs of a whale, then the Thames, its concrete waters rippling around the prow of the cruise ship, which looked three times bigger than it had on the screen. On they sped, still with the alarm wailing, passing the second tower, more cables, another archway, a line of traffic... The exit gate was open. Tourists crowded against a barrier, a dozen phone cameras trained on the ambulance. A woman in a high-vis raincoat holding a walkie-talkie shook her head pointedly at the driver.

  Jamie eased to standing. “They might have to dock that wee scrape from your pay.”

  “Fuck you, James.” The driver flicked a switch and the siren stopped.

  The silence washed through Samira’s head. She swallowed, trying to equalize.

  “Can’t believe you’re still getting me in the shit,” the driver continued. “Thought I was well rid of you.”

  Jamie grinned, meeting Samira’s eye and shrugging, as if he’d been given an embarrassing compliment. “Have you seen the bridge lift before, Samira? It’s an awesome sight.” He nodded at the view behind.

  The road they’d just driven along was angling up, obscuring their view of the Peugeot on the far side of the bridge. The towers stood like rooks on a chessboard, closing in to protect their king. Was that her—the king on the chessboard, the defenseless target, able only to shuffle while the enemy swooped from all angles? What did that make Jamie? Certainly not a bishop. Too lithe for a rook, and he was no pawn. Which left a knight. Yes, the most agile of the pieces. He moved always with a liquid athleticism, at once at ease and on guard, both blasé about the possibility of a threat and capable of sidestepping it with a microsecond’s notice.

  “We got away,” Samira said, breathlessly.

  “Not quite yet. We bought ourselves a seven-minute lead but we’ll have to use it wisely.”

  Her stomach dropped. “Only seven?”

  “Should be enough. The streets are quieter this side of the Thames, on a Sunday. Once we get some miles between us and grab a black cab—out of view of the CCTV cameras—we’ll be gold. And my friend here will be on his way, indistinguishable from all the other ambulances working central London. As far as our enemy is concerned, we’ll have donned invisibility cloaks.”

  She swallowed. “I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

  He fished in his backpack and pulled out a pale green sweater. “Why not? Could be fun. And the Legion is nipping my hide about my unused leave, so...”

  “This is not my thing, this James Bond stuff.”

  “To be fair, it’s not mine either. I’m a medic.”

  “You’re a soldier, too.”

  “Sure, but I try to do as little fighting as possible. I prefer fixing people to shooting them. Sometimes these days I end up doing both. Just making work for myself because that’s the secret to job satisfaction, right—digging holes and filling them in?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. He really was her polar opposite. Still, a man composed enough to make jokes while fleeing bad guys was a man she wanted on her team.

  “James,” she said, trying the name on for size.

  As he shrugged the sweater on, a frown crossed his face. It was gone by the time his head emerged from the neckline. The joker in him, the charmer, the flirt—that part was a Jamie. But the hidden part that made his eyes look twice the age of the rest of him—that shouldered too many secrets for a Jamie. That was the James. Serious and aloof, with shifting depths.

  “I haven’t heard you being called anything but Doc.” He hadn’t told her his real name until they’d kissed, that day by the river—and even then it didn’t come with a surname.

  “It’s been a long time since I got called anything else.”

  “What does your family call you?”

  That flash of darkness. “All sorts of interesting names, I imagine.”

  “But what do they call you to your face?”

  “Probably the same things they’d call me behind my back, which is why I’m not game to find out.”

  She couldn’t imagine anyone disliking him. She mentally replayed their first meeting in Ethiopia—when he’d arrived with his commando team to rescue Flynn from terrorists, and ended up rescuing Samira—their escape to Europe, their week in France. Had he told her nothing about his family? She would have remembered. “You’re not in contact with them?”

  The side of his mouth twitched—and not in jest. “Haven’t seen them for three years.”

  A dull thudding beat the sky above. His forehead creased.

  “Ah, James?” The driver leaned forward, squinting up through the windscreen. “You know any good reason for a military helicopter to be circling us?”

  Jamie swore under his breath.

  “I’m thinking we might need your plan B after all, mate,” the driver said.

  By the look on Jamie’s face, Samira guessed he didn’t have one.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JAMIE SCRAMBLED ONTO the front passenger seat and peered up. The helo was an MH-6 Little Bird—not here for sightseeing. Shite. Must have been on standby. Hired from a local military contractor? Hyland had to be desperate to throw that kind of resource at Samira.

  He clapped a hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Change of plans. Go straight to Saint Jude’s A&E, on blue. Make it look like a real emergency.”

  “It will be unless you take your hand off me.” Andy flicked on the siren.

  “And radio into the hospital. See if anybody I’d know is on duty.”

  “You mean someone you have dirt on?”

  “Preferably.”

  “Great. So I just casually ask, ‘Oh, and is there anyone there who’s been fucked over by James Armstrong?’ and see how many dozens of hands go up?”

  Shut it, Andy. Not in front of her. “Maybe a touch more subtle.” He gave Andy’s shoulder a double pat and pushed back between the seats. Andy got on the radio, the siren wailing.

  Jamie had been gone five years. Most of his med school and hospital friends—not that they would use the word friends anymore, if they ever had—would have moved on, moved up. Even if they hadn’t forgiven him, they’d surely have forgotten.

  Samira was staring at the roof of the ambulance as if she had X-ray vision. “On blue?” She lowered her wide brown eyes to meet his gaze.

  “Lights on, top speed.”

  She clicked her seat belt on. “You’re planning to outrun a helicopter?”

  “Just the vehicles they’ll be directing. When you’re the bug about to go under the boot, best you can do is slip between the floorboards. Even they wouldn’t risk opening fire on a London Ambulance, not this close to Westminster, no matter how deep their contacts go here. They’ll want to keep it relatively low-key. We can play that to our advantage.” If the enemy knew the city, the Peugeot would already be backtracking to London Bridge to cross the Thames rather than waiting for the drawbridge.

  “Vehicles. There are more than one?”

  The ambulance swerved. He clutched an overhead handrail.

  “Jamie, don’t think you have to keep anything from me, because of the.
..because of earlier. It’s the surprises that throw me.”

  Her knuckles blanched where they gripped the seat belt. But she was right. She was tougher than her panic attacks might suggest. “I counted three cars when I was setting up to pull you out. We should assume there are more.” He made a point of keeping his tone casual and confident, like he had it all under control. And he did so far. More or less.

  “I thought we were avoiding the hospital?”

  “Just passing through. The place is a maze. We’ll lose them there and come up with another plan to get to your friend’s place.” He dropped volume and nodded toward Andy, who was straining to decipher the voice at the other end of the radio. “To the authorities, to Hyland, this all has to look authentic for Andy’s sake, like a real response to a nine-nine-nine call, like you just cleverly hoodwinked the system.”

  “So he’s an innocent pawn?”

  “A pawn, aye. Innocent, no.” Even so, Jamie wouldn’t leave his former crewmate in the shit again. Last time it’d been merely a lucky escape from unemployment—or worse. “As long as we keep ahead of the ground troops between here and the hospital, we’ll be fine.”

  She nodded, buying his attempt at reassurance. He sure was good at sounding confident when really he had no idea. Maybe all that medical training was useful for something.

  He checked his watch. The wave of Saturday night drunks and pill-poppers would have passed through the emergency department and the advance guard of sports injuries would be limping in. Not peak time but there’d be a few ambulances coming and going. If they timed it right, the chopper wouldn’t know which Merc to follow out of the ambulance bay—or know if Samira was still in it.

  “Harriet Davies is the consultant on,” Andy said, ending his call. “You remember her?”

  Jamie smiled. “Perfect.”

  “Ah, shit, not her, too. Is there anyone you didn’t fuck over?”

  Samira’s eyebrows shot up.

  “He’s joking,” Jamie whispered.

  They drove on, the engine alternating between a whine and a roar as Andy slowed and accelerated. Jamie watched for enemy vehicles as the landmarks flashed by, so familiar he could be stuck in a dream about his past—a Tesco’s supermarket, a redbrick church, squat terraced houses and dreary office blocks, graffitied rail bridges, the Shard jutting up like a great glass splinter. Still the same South London in the same grimy brick and concrete. But he no longer belonged.