Freefall

by Adam Hamdy

  Reeves slipped an arm under hers. “Come on. I’ll help you to the car.”

  Ash shook her head and immediately regretted the motion. It triggered a dull throbbing that grew more pronounced and painful with each passing moment. She tried to conceal the pain from Reeves, but noticed that he wasn’t watching her. His eyes were fixed on a light in the sky. It took Ash’s battered mind a few beats to piece together what was happening, and by the time she did, the helicopter had swept over them and landed in a clearing a few hundred feet away. She was relieved when the chopper’s rotors slowed and the throbbing died away.

  Relief turned to dismay when Ash saw six silhouetted suits striding through the forest. Five of them peeled off toward the police chief and his subordinates, while the sixth stepped into the glow of the field lights, revealing the stern, unforgiving features of SAIC Harrell. Ash looked up at Reeves, who shrugged.

  “I couldn’t bury this,” he said apologetically. “Not even for you.”

  Ash struggled to her feet, but Reeves had to catch her when she almost fell forward.

  “What the hell happened here, Chris?” Harrell began.

  “I was following up that lead. Charles Haig,” Ash replied, struggling to articulate her thoughts. “Pendulum base.”

  “Alone? Again?” Even through the haze that clouded her mind, Ash could sense Harrell’s exasperation. “Law enforcement isn’t some one-woman crusade. Where was your backup?”

  “I wasn’t going to find—” Ash started, before pausing for a moment to compose herself. “I didn’t expect to find this, sir,” she said, forcing a coherent sentence.

  “Look at you,” Harrell noted. “Why isn’t she in the hospital?” he asked Reeves, who simply shook his head.

  “I—” Ash began.

  “Carney’s team is going to run with this,” Harrell told her.

  He was giving her case to another agent. She tried to shake her head but almost lost her balance, and had to lean on Reeves for support.

  “But that’s not why I’m here,” Harrell continued.

  “I saw another man. Two. Men,” Ash tried to protest. “Pendulum was not alone.”

  “I know what you think you saw up at Twin Lakes, but we’ve discussed this,” Harrell said.

  “No. In there,” Ash countered.

  “She says she shot a man and that another triggered an explosive charge before escaping,” Reeves explained.

  Harrell studied Ash, who managed to force herself to nod. “If there’s a body in there, we’ll find it,” he assured her. “But I want to talk to you about John Wallace. When was the last time he contacted you?”

  “I don’t . . . maybe a month, two,” Ash replied uncertainly.

  “He’s just made the watch list,” Harrell revealed. “CIA says he joined an insurgent group. He’s wanted in connection with a terror attack in Kabul.”

  “What?” Ash staggered back and collapsed on to the fallen tree.

  “You are to let me know if Wallace so much as looks in your direction,” Harrell said emphatically. “You hear me?”

  Ash nodded, struggling to process what she’d just been told.

  “Get her to a hospital,” Harrell instructed Reeves. “And then take her home,” he added, before turning back to Ash. “I’m signing you off sick until we figure out exactly what happened here.”

  He gave Ash a pitying look before walking over to the police chief.

  “Come on,” Reeves said, helping Ash to her feet. “Let’s get you patched up.”

  Ash lacked the energy to resist as Reeves shepherded her toward his car. Troubling, disjointed thoughts assailed her mind, and she caught herself wondering whether Wallace’s despair had thrown him so off-balance that he’d bought into a misguided cause. Suddenly she saw the face of the man she’d shot in the bunker, his flesh consumed by burning fire. She faltered as she and Reeves neared the car, and though she longed to be rid of the dark thoughts, they kept coming. Rising from the fire, she saw Nicholas, her father, his wrathful gaze directed toward her rotten soul, a smoking pistol clasped in his vile hand. She shivered as Reeves helped her into the passenger seat, and, as the soft fabric pressed against her body, she felt herself slipping away. By the time Reeves had slid into the driver’s seat, Ash had been released from her torment by the sweeping shadow of unconsciousness.

  27

  Bailey’s pounding headache was not helped by the blur of numbers that taunted him, the digits bleeding into each other, creating a senseless blob. After spending the rest of the day with Murrall, catching up on the case and rebuilding his relationship with the surprisingly perceptive man, he had gone home, his thoughts circling fruitlessly about Sylvia Greene’s secret. He had her and Murrall to thank for the headache. Murrall had pierced Bailey’s self-delusion, and the memory of the man telling him exactly what a mess he’d made of his life had stopped Bailey from reaching for the bottle or a handful of pills the moment he walked through the door. Sylvia’s numbers gave him an obsession that drowned out the whispers of booze and drugs and their promises of familiar relief. He had woken with the headache but hadn’t even risked taking a paracetamol, and had instead tried to alleviate his suffering by drinking copious quantities of water. Now, in addition to the headache, he had the urge to urinate every twenty minutes.

  He couldn’t ignore the building pressure that told him he needed to go to the men’s room for the fourth time since he’d arrived at Paddington Green. He stood and was about to leave his desk, when his phone rang.

  “DI Bailey?” a voice asked when he’d picked up.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Toby McEwan. Sergeant McEwan. We met a couple of years back.”

  “Yeah, Toby,” Bailey lied. He had no idea who the man was. “What can I do for you?”

  “I shouldn’t even be talking to you,” Toby said in hushed tones. “But he’s going nuts. And after the Pendulum thing. Well, when I saw his name, I couldn’t just leave it.”

  “Who?” Bailey probed.

  “John Wallace,” Toby replied. “Service Operation Command Unit arrested him coming in from Istanbul. There’s an Interpol alert out on him. Some shoot-up in Kabul. He’s been asking for a call, but they arrested him under the Terrorism Act, so he’s in lockdown.”

  “Where?” Bailey asked urgently.

  “I’ve got him in the custody suite at Heathrow,” Toby responded.

  “I’m on my way,” Bailey told him. “Don’t let anything happen to him.”

  Wallace paced the cell in frustration, angry at himself for being so stupid, but deep down he knew that leaving Afghanistan had been his only choice. He’d managed to glean that he was the subject of an Interpol alert, and knew that if he’d been caught in Kabul, there was little doubt that he’d already be dead. Traveling under his own name had been a risk, but at least he might stand a chance in London. If anyone was working with Mike Rosen, they wouldn’t be able to shoot him in a Heathrow police station. They’d have to take him elsewhere, and transportation meant the opportunity for escape.

  The flight from Istanbul had passed without incident, and Wallace had slept most of the journey to London. It was only after the plane had landed that he’d noticed something was awry. The pilot had informed them in the calming monotone common to all aviators that there would be a slight delay at the gate, and that everyone must remain seated. The aisles had been clear when a dozen uniformed officers had boarded the aircraft. Wallace had known he was the target the moment he’d seen their black boots march in his direction. He hadn’t resisted as two of the men grabbed him, hauled him up, and cuffed his hands. He’d been frog-marched along the gangway and forced down a flight of stairs that led to an exterior door, then manhandled across the tarmac to a waiting police van. The men pushed him into the back, where two officers had positioned themselves on the bench either side of him.

  They’d been joined by a short, wiry man with curly, jet-black hair, dark eyes and olive skin, who’d sat on the bench opposite. The man hadn’
t said a word, but had kept his intense eyes on Wallace for the duration of the journey. The man’s legs had been splayed open, his confident position reminding Wallace of the little gangster Danny who’d once saved his life. The most unsettling thing about the man had been the fact that he’d kept his hands in the pockets of his black bomber jacket, and Wallace had fully expected him to produce a knife or gun at any moment. After a short drive, the van had stopped, and Wallace had been hustled inside the police station, where Bomber Jacket had exchanged harshly whispered words with the custody sergeant. The man, who’d flashed some kind of ID, clearly wanted to take Wallace somewhere else, but the custody sergeant countered in firm but hushed tones, and Wallace was able to pick out the words “proper channels.” Frustrated, Bomber Jacket had stalked away, eyeing Wallace menacingly.

  Once he’d left, Wallace had pleaded with the custody sergeant, begging him for a phone call, trying to convey the seriousness of his situation without sounding like a conspiracy nut. The sergeant had listened to Wallace’s story, but quietly informed him that he’d been arrested under the Terrorism Act and that the arresting officer would decide on what contact with the outside world, if any, was appropriate in the circumstances. Despite his best efforts at resistance, Wallace had been processed and forced into a cell, where his sense of time was lost to dark paranoia.

  He expected the cell door to open at any moment and imagined that he would be confronted by Bomber Jacket, who’d obtained the necessary official sanction to lead him to his doom. Pacing back and forth, slapping the walls, he tried to calm his rising sense of panic. His heart thundered when he heard the lock snap, and he turned to see the door swing slowly open.

  Wallace almost wept with relief when he saw the face on the other side. Patrick Bailey, the man who’d saved his life at the Maybury.

  “Give us a minute,” Bailey said to the skittish custody sergeant. The man nodded and withdrew, and Bailey stepped inside the cell and pulled the door closed behind him. “How are you, John?” he asked, embracing Wallace.

  “I don’t know,” Wallace replied, stepping back.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” Bailey indicated the melamine bunk.

  Wallace nodded and lowered himself on to the hard bed, and Bailey sat next to him.

  “They’ve arrested you on an Interpol alert issued by the Americans. According to an unnamed intelligence source, you shot up a market in Kabul and killed a number of people. We both know that’s bullshit concocted to get you pinched, so why don’t you tell me what really happened?” the detective suggested.

  “They came for me,” Wallace replied hesitantly. “The army attacked a village. They killed so many people to get to me. Mike Rosen, the man who’d impersonated Pendulum, paid an Afghan colonel two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to assassinate me. Rosen tried to kill me, but the man I was staying with saved my life. His name was Vosuruk.”

  Bailey shook his head, and in the quiet, Wallace heard the distant sounds of doors opening and closing, telephones ringing, and people talking, as normal life echoed down the corridor and bounced into the hollow cell.

  “So Ash was right,” Bailey said slowly. “Pendulum wasn’t working alone.”

  Wallace nodded. “Rosen was wearing the suit when he was killed. The FBI had him in custody the day Pendulum . . .” He trailed off, recalling the day he’d saved Ash’s life. “Rosen was a soldier. He didn’t have that kind of money. Someone else financed the operation.”

  “Steven Byrne?” Bailey suggested. “He has means and motive.”

  “After what’s happened to his family, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Toby, the custody officer, says there was a guy, reckons he works for the Box,” Bailey began.

  “The Box?”

  “MI5, security service.”

  “The guy in the bomber jacket,” Wallace noted.

  “Toby says he wanted you released into his custody, but that he didn’t have the proper authorizations. My superior, Superintendent Cross, tried to get you transferred to us, but whoever Bomber Jacket is, he has more pull.”

  “He can’t be working for them,” Wallace said in disbelief.

  “I’m not taking any chances. You remember what happened the last time I left you locked in a cell?” Bailey asked, a mischievous smile crossing his face. “That isn’t going to happen again. We’re going to get you out of here right now.”

  The door opened silently, and Bailey beckoned Wallace to follow him. They stepped into the short corridor. There were six cells on either side, and his was the only one that was open. Bailey moved quickly and quietly toward the custody suite reception, which lay beyond a heavy security door. When they reached the door, Bailey signaled Wallace to step back and conceal himself against the inside wall, before rapping the picture window. Wallace held his breath while Bailey smiled and waved. He didn’t exhale until the buzzer sounded and the latch unlocked.

  “You know what to do if this doesn’t work,” Bailey said, giving him a nervous glance. He took a deep breath before pushing the door open.

  Toby, the custody sergeant, a squat man with a paunch, shouted, but seemed rooted to the spot, unable to react to the sight of one of the Met’s own helping a prisoner escape. The other man, who stood at the counter holding a sheaf of papers, moved instantly. Bomber Jacket lunged forward, dropping the forms and reaching into his pocket as he rushed toward them.

  “Sound the alarm,” he yelled at Toby, and Wallace saw the shocked sergeant’s hand disappear beneath the counter.

  A klaxon sounded, its ear-piercing wail echoing off the reception’s hard walls.

  Bomber Jacket produced a collapsible baton and extended it as he swung for Wallace’s head, but Bailey surged forward, running into the wiry man, knocking him backward. Bomber Jacket went tumbling but grabbed hold of Bailey and took him down, too. Toby, who’d finally spurred himself to action, scrambled his way out from behind the counter and ran toward Wallace.

  “Go!” Bailey screamed at Wallace, as he grappled with Bomber Jacket. “Get out of here!”

  Wallace saw four uniformed officers spill into the room through an interior door. He sidestepped Toby, who attempted to grab him, and ran for the exit, accelerating with each step, his heart racing as he tried to ignore the sound of boots behind him. He risked a quick look over his shoulder and saw two of the uniforms struggling with Bailey, trying to pull him off Bomber Jacket, while Toby and the other two officers gave chase. They were only nine or ten steps behind.

  Wallace burst through the exit and collided with a police officer, who fell backward. As he sprinted across the car park, he reached into his pocket for the car keys that Bailey had given him in the cell and pressed the fob. Indicator lights blinked on a blue car that was parked in a bay near the gate, and Wallace rushed toward it, racing a heavyset man in a suit who’d emerged from an unmarked van. Wallace’s legs rose and fell in a blur as he closed on Bailey’s car. The suited man was a dozen yards away, about the same distance as Wallace, but wasn’t moving as quickly.

  “Stop, or I will shoot!”

  Wallace heard the command echo around the car park and looked over his shoulder to see one of the uniforms crouched by the station door, Taser in hand, while his colleagues veered to the side to give him a clear shot.

  Wallace ignored the man and swerved suddenly. He heard a loud snap and saw the barbed contacts shoot into the air beside him. He rolled across the hood of Bailey’s car and pulled the driver’s door open. He was about to jump into the vehicle, when heavy hands grabbed his arms and yanked him backward. Recalling his Aikido instruction, Wallace used the momentum and brought his right elbow up and around, sending it smashing into his assailant’s face. He turned to see the heavyset man fall against the neighboring vehicle, and he scrambled into Bailey’s car. He thrust the key into the ignition and stepped on the accelerator, ignoring the officers who hammered on the windows as the car roared toward the high blue gates. The impact tore the metal barriers from their hinges, and th
ey clattered under Bailey’s car, throwing up a shower of sparks as they were dragged across the pavement. They fell away with a loud clang as Wallace swung left, tires screeching, to join a service road that ran toward a roundabout.

  The sirens started almost instantly, and Wallace saw flashing blue lights fill his rear view as two police cars burst out of the car park and gave chase. Drivers hit their horns and screeched to a halt in an attempt to avoid Wallace. He hurtled across the roundabout before turning left and driving into oncoming traffic to avoid a queue of cars that would have trapped him. As he swerved his way round shocked and terrified motorists, he noticed that the lights ahead were red. The intersecting road was a divided highway, and Wallace guessed it was the A4, one of the arterial roads that ran from Heathrow into Central London. He passed a woman in a red Audi, her face a contorted mask of dismay, and stepped on the accelerator.

  Wallace held his breath and drove across the A4, hoping fate would smile on him. After narrowly missing a speeding truck, the car made it over the two-lane westbound highway, and Wallace was halfway across the eastbound when he looked in the rearview mirror and saw the lead police car collide with a black Mercedes, both vehicles becoming mangled masses of metal as they bounced off each other, spinning wildly. The second police car stopped, and Wallace thought he was home free until a violent impact sent him reeling, and the world became a chaotic blur of white plastic, dust, and grinding metal.

  Wallace didn’t even bother to check himself. As soon as the car stopped moving, he popped his seatbelt, fought off the deflating airbag, and opened the door. He staggered on to the road, aware of the growing pandemonium as a multi-vehicle pile-up brought one of London’s busiest routes to a halt. Dazed, Wallace cast about, desperately searching for an escape. The road was blocked in both directions, and as angry drivers started to emerge from their vehicles he could hear the sound of yet more sirens.

  “Stop!” a gruff voice commanded, and Wallace turned to see one of the officers from the trailing police car running toward him.