12:13 P.M.
CIA off-site facility
City of London
“Gentlemen,” David Lay began, lowering himself heavily into his seat at the head of the conference table, “before we begin, I’d like to introduce the man Thames House sent over to help coordinate this effort—Simon Norris, an analyst from G Branch.”
Indeed. Thomas glanced across, meeting the man’s eyes and seeing a faint smile of recognition there. “We’ve met.”
“All right, then let’s not waste any more time,” the DCIA said, spreading his hands. He turned toward the British analyst. “Why don’t you bring us up to speed on what you’ve found?”
“Right you are,” Norris replied, typing a brief command into his laptop before reaching halfway across the table for the small remote lying there.
A moment later, the television screen on the wall behind Lay’s head flickered to life, a grainy image flashing up on the screen as Norris tapped the remote. It was from a traffic cam, Thomas realized a moment later.
“As early as yesterday afternoon, we’d attempted to pull CCTV from the streets surrounding Seacroft after the bombing—looking at vehicles departing the area within the target window. Scanning plates. Specifically looking for any automobiles that might have been reported stolen in the last few weeks. And we got nothing. No sign of your man.”
He saw Lay wince at the choice of words, “your man” sounding like a pejorative coming from the lips of the Brit. Hard to fathom—the difference a year made. A year? Scarce six months since Jerusalem. The beginning of the fall.
“So?”
“So this morning, after the Agency finally deigned to read us in on your suspicions regarding the attack on our surveillance van,” Norris continued caustically, “we went digging again. This time cross-referencing the CCTV footage from the Seacroft area with that from the streets in the vicinity of Rahman’s flat the night of the attack. And we came up with…this.”
The image zoomed in on a single car, its plate number dimly visible in the glow of a streetlight, Thomas’ eyes narrowing as he tried to read it. Bravo-Delta-six-seven. Sierra-Hotel-Whiskey.
“This Vauxhall Cavalier was picked up on CCTV three kilometers north of Rahman’s flat only fifteen minutes after our van was hit. And here,” Norris went on as he clicked to the next image, “you have the same automobile seen leaving the Seacroft area less than hour after the explosion. What are the odds?”
“That’s not conclusive,” Jimenez interjected, shaking his head. “You came all the way over here from Millbank to give us this?”
“Not quite,” Norris replied, holding up a finger—the image on-screen changing once more. “Two kilometers west of that camera, there was also this.”
Same vehicle. This time from the side, Thomas realized—the profile of the driver’s face visible, shadowed by the interior of the car, but still recognizable. It was him.
“We’ve run the image through facial-recognition software—it came back a 63% match. It’s not a coincidence. Our analysts are currently sifting through CCTV footage from around Leeds over the last four days. Trying to see if we can establish patterns—anything that can give us a fix on where Nichols might be now.”
“He won’t still be using the same car,” Parker observed, staring at the screen. “If it’s hot, he’ll have dumped it by now.”
“Oh, but it’s not,” Norris responded with a smile. “We’ve run the plates. It’s not been reported stolen, and the owner doesn’t seem to exist. Somehow, your man got himself a vehicle ‘legitimately.’ Means he’s going to hang onto it, long as he can, rather than risk nicking another one. And that’s how we’ll get him.”
12:18 P.M.
The farmhouse
Harrogate, North Yorkshire
“The bird will be here in ten minutes—time enough for you lads to get your kit together. We should set down shortly after 1400 hours, giving us plenty of time to get into position.”
Conor Hale’s words ringing in his ears, Gordon made his way through the great room and out down the rear hall, his heart racing as he moved toward the back of the house, glimpsing the ancient stone barn set maybe fifty meters behind the house. He had to get clear unnoticed—get a message off to the American, something.
He pulled open the back door, closing it behind him as carefully as he could before setting off across the open ground toward the barn—fumbling as he pulled the burner out of his pocket, powering it on.
Come on, he thought, glancing toward the back of the farmhouse. As if expecting Hale or one of his men to appear there at any moment. Come on.
It was like his first time in combat, all over again. Worse, really. Because this time, he was alone.
The phone’s screen came to life after another agonizing few moments—the signal weak, but there.
It would have to be enough, he realized, casting another anxious glance back toward the house.
Had to break line of sight. The longer he was gone…
Gordon hurried around the crumbling stone wall and into the barnyard below and behind the barn—taking a deep breath in a futile effort to calm himself as his rough, callused thumbs began moving across the touchscreen. Starting to compose a text message to the American.
Things have been moved up. They—
“Paul,” a voice announced, his heart nearly stopping in that moment. His thumb reflexively pressing a key. He looked up to see the figure of Conor Hale standing not ten feet away, just inside the stone wall. Cold, hard eyes boring into his own.
12:21 P.M.
Balmoral Castle
Ballater, Scotland
Twenty-seven years, Colin Hilliard thought, buttoning his suit as he strode out from under the cover of Balmoral’s carriage porch—the early afternoon sun shining down on the Commander’s snow-white hair.
That was how long he’d been with the Met’s Protection Command, guarding first the palace at Buck House—as it was colloquially known—then the Royal Family itself. Nearly half his life. He’d been on Her Majesty’s personal detail for twelve years, its ranking officer for the last five.
The Glock 17 dug uncomfortably into his side as he moved, a reminder of the realities of his work as he glanced back toward the castle—its main keep looming large behind him, the walls thick and solid, constructed of Invergelder granite.
Relic of an England gone by.
His earpiece crackled with a momentary burst of static before a familiar voice came over the encrypted radio. “PEREGRINE has arrived—just passed the main gate. Should be with you presently.”
He acknowledged the transmission with a curt reply, the shrill sound of an outrider’s whistle coming from off to the east—the lead Special Escort Group Honda motorbike appearing through the trees a moment later.
And just behind it, a Black Range Rover—the familiar sight of Prince William’s face behind the wheel as the vehicle neared, pulling abreast of the Met commander as it rolled to a stop.
PEREGRINE, he thought, drawing himself to attention as the the Prince emerged, extending a hand. “Colin!”
“Your Highness,” Hilliard responded, gripping his hand warmly, as Catherine exited the vehicle on the other side, the young Princess Charlotte in her arms, Prince George toddling along gripping her hand. He’d first met the Prince when he’d been a boy of scarcely nine, and their paths had crossed many times over the years as William had grown to manhood. “Welcome to Balmoral Castle.”
“It’s good to be here again, Colin,” the Prince responded, glancing around them at the grounds—the forested slopes of Craig Lurachain off to the south. “This was always one of my favorite places as a lad.”
“I remember it well.” Hilliard gestured toward the castle. “The Queen awaits you inside, if you please, sir.”
“Of course.”
12:23 P.M.
The farm
Harrogate, North Yorkshire
“Well, bugger me,” Gordon responded, managing a brittle laugh. “Didn’t see you standi
ng there, Conor. Just give me a moment—I heard from Alice’s doctors, and—”
“Paul…enough,” Hale said, raising a hand to cut him off. His right hand came out of his jacket, holding a suppressed Walther. “Just stop. I know.”
Gordon shook his head, trying to stay calm. Go for your weapon, his mind screamed, but Hale’s gun was already raised—its muzzle aimed at his head. He was going to have to talk his way out of this one. “I have no idea what you’re on about, mate. I—”
“Of all the people on this sodding earth,” Hale said, cutting him off, “I never would’ve thought they could get to you. Turn you against me.”
He knew. Somehow, he knew. And it was in that moment, Gordon realized just how this was going to end.
“They didn’t,” he fired back, his right hand clenching and unclenching spasmodically, “it was you—”
“Shut up!” The former SAS sergeant swore loudly, gesturing with the pistol as he took a step closer. His face distorted into a grimace, seeming overcome by emotion. “We were brothers-in-arms, Paul, you and I—from that first jump over Brize Norton. Always knew you’d have my back, whatever came. And they turned you—they bloody well did it.”
The faint sound of helicopter rotors approaching in the distance struck Gordon’s ears, distracting him. He’d seen Hale like this once before—in Iraq, the man’s temper bursting through like water through a dam. But he’d been able to talk him down then. And now…
“But in the end, mate,” Hale continued, his voice rising, “you failed them, just like you failed me. And you failed worse than even you realize—because this operation has never been about setting the hajjis up. It’s about ensuring that they succeed.”
12:25 P.M.
The port of Aberdeen
Scotland
“This is the day,” Tarik Abdul Muhammad announced softly, looking down the line of vehicles—five blacked-out SUVs bracketed by a utility van in the fore and a white delivery van at the rear. Carrying the faithful into battle. “The day we illustrate once and for all the impotence of the crusader war machine—bring the war home to their soil. Show them that nowhere are they safe from the justice of God, whose precepts they have defied for so long.”
He turned to Farid, extending his arms and drawing the man into a fierce embrace. Kissing him on both cheeks. “I envy you, my brother. The part you have been ordained to play in Allah’s struggle.”
“Is one part any greater than another?” the Syria veteran asked, his eyes meeting Tarik’s in a steadfast gaze. “We must all do His will.”
“You are right,” the Shaikh relented, glancing back toward the warehouse. “From here we will monitor the emergency response—endeavor to keep them off you as long as it is possible.”
He turned to Nadeem, extending his hand as the young man handed him a folded black flag.
“I give you the flag of Rasūlullāh, which flew above our armies in Iraq and al-Sham,” Tarik intoned, passing it to Farid. “Tear down the Queen’s lion from above the castle keep and raise this in its place.”
12:26 P.M.
The farm
Harrogate, North Yorkshire
No. A wave of bile and anger rising in his throat as it hit him. His old comrade had been playing him all along. Just like at Madina. The sound of the helicopter again, closer now. A steady, insistent rhythm. Growing ever louder.
“You didn’t know that, did you?” Conor Hale smiled, a death’s head grimace, gesturing back up toward the house. “Neither do they. But this is necessary. The Queen’s going to do more in death to help this nation than she ever did in life. Ensure people get the shock needed to wake them from their slumber—finally recognize the threat we’ve welcomed with open arms for far too long. That one woman die for the people—”
The helicopter swept by overhead in that moment, perhaps a hundred feet off the deck—drowning out the former SAS man’s voice. Its downwash shaking the branches of the nearby trees. Stirring up a cloud of dust in the barnyard.
Now. Ignoring the pain from his wounded leg, Gordon launched himself forward, catching Hale off-guard—distracted by the passing helicopter. Control the weapon.
His left hand seized hold of the man’s wrist, pushing the Walther’s barrel out to the side. His right lashing out toward Hale’s jaw in a vicious hook.
Hale ducked at the last moment, the blow failing to connect as he stumbled backward, caught off-balance as Gordon charged, grappling for his gun hand.
Delivering another pair of sharp body blows as he drove his old friend back into the wall of the barnyard, hammering him against the rough stone. Hale already recovering from his surprise—fighting back.
Get the gun. He knew now—kill Hale and this mad plan would die with him. That was all that he had to do, to make things right.
To atone for his sins.
He punched in hard, above the sergeant’s guard—his blow catching the man high on the cheekbone, rocking him back.
Loosening his grip on the Walther.
He seized the gun from Hale’s grasp with a surge of desperate strength, taking a step backward as he brought it up, the long suppressor describing a painfully slow arc. Too slow.
There was no time to aim, no time to even get a sight picture. He fired once, then a second time—the pistol coughing loudly—before Hale slammed into him, knocking the weapon aside.
Gordon twisted away, sidestepping a blow, his face distorted in sudden pain as he felt his bad leg give beneath him. And then they were falling together, the earth coming rushing up to meet the both of them—Hale’s body absorbing the impact, Gordon on top of him.
And the Walther was…somewhere, lost in the confusion. But no matter. He saw his old friend’s face as if through a red haze of wrath and fear—his hands clawing for the man’s throat.
He could feel Hale trying to throw him off, push him away, but to no avail. Just a few more moments. His grip slowly constricting, cutting off oxygen.
And then he felt the hard metal of a gun barrel jab into his ribcage—time itself seeming to slow down. His mouth opening in a futile curse.
The next moment, a pair of 9mm slugs smashed into his body.
12:31 P.M.
The CIA off-site facility
City of London
“Look at this,” Simon Norris demanded urgently, gesturing to get Thomas’ attention. “Thames House sent over the feeds from CCTV surrounding the Leeds area, picked up a hit from traffic cameras on the A61 shortly after the bombing at Seacroft.”
Thomas leaned over Norris’ shoulder, looking at the screen. “It’s our Vauxhall.”
“Right,” the analyst responded, grabbing a crisp and stuffing it into his mouth before he continued. “Thought I’d back-trace, see if it was a route he had used before—sure enough, here we have him again, caught on the same camera the night of Rahman’s abduction.”
That was the essence of good intelligence work, Thomas thought—monitoring your target, establishing patterns. And a good intelligence officer knew enough to avoid them in his own life. Nichols was slipping.
“But that’s not all.” Norris held up a finger, moving through another series of screens. “Look at these captures from the junction less than three kilometers ahead.”
Thomas shook his head. “There’s nothing there.”
“Precisely. Both times, he has to have turned off before reaching that junction.”
Interesting. “What are we looking at in that area?”
“Not much that I know of,” Norris responded, pivoting in his swivel chair and using the Agency network to pull up satellite overlays of Yorkshire. “Looks like it’s mostly residential. There’s a school—and an industrial estate, about four kilometers to the northwest.”
“What can you find out about the estate?” Thomas asked, an intensity creeping into his voice. It was just the kind of place Nichols would have chosen.
“The estate is pretty much abandoned. Apparently has been ever since the economic downturn of ‘09.” He
looked up. “Do you think…?”
“It’s him,” Thomas nodded. “I worked with the man for years, I know how he thinks.”
“I’ll have Thames House get in touch with Yorkshire. Have them dispatch a Firearms Unit.”
12:29 P.M.
The farmhouse
Harrogate, North Yorkshire
Cursing loudly, Conor Hale rolled Gordon’s body from off him, returning his compact Kahr PM9 to its holster inside his waistband as he stumbled to his feet—bent over, hands on his knees. Gasping for breath.
God, he thought, trying to recover himself—his shirt stained with Gordon’s blood. It had been a near thing.
He wiped bloody hands against his dark pants as he reached down to pick up his Walther, wincing suddenly. Pain flaring from his side as if it had been seared with a hot brand. His fingers coming away bloody—a ragged hole in his shirt telling the truth.
Not all the blood was Gordon’s—one of the man’s bullets had found its mark. Bugger.
Hadn’t even realized it in the heat of the fight.
He could still hear the rotors of the Agusta, loud and insistent. No doubt by now coming in for a landing in front of the farmhouse. Another few minutes and they’d come looking for him.
And if they found…it was at that moment that he spotted Gordon’s cellphone lying in the dirt a few feet away, a sudden chill running through his body. What if…
It was a cheap burner, no lock on the phone as Hale ran his thumb over the screen—leaving a smear of blood. Navigating first to Messages, then Outbox.
And there it was, the only sent message to be found. Barely four minutes old. Things have been moved up. They—
Just a fragment, but it couldn’t have been more damning. Whoever had been running Gordon, they now knew things weren’t proceeding according to plan.
He swore beneath his breath, looking over at the man’s broken body. The threat to their operation this posed, it wasn’t something he could afford to ignore. It was going to have to be handled.
“Thought we were going to have to send someone after you,” the man yelled, a grim smile on the former soldier’s face as he raised his voice to be heard over the throbbing roar of the rotors.
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 59