Freefall

by Adam Hamdy

  “Ya reckon he was lying?”

  Bailey’s brow furrowed. “He knows Terry will chop him up.”

  “I found an old listing on Rightmove showing some of the interior,” Salamander continued. “It’s a big place. Five bedrooms, four rooms downstairs. The floorplan shows they’re set on the corners, doors in the main hall.”

  “If it’s a three-man team, I’m guessing one will be on exterior, and the other two will be inside,” Bailey observed.

  “Our chances would be better at night.”

  Bailey nodded. “But waiting is too risky. We don’t know how long they’ll keep Albright alive. Let’s do a drive by. See how high the wall is, check out the gates.”

  “OK,” Salamander replied thoughtfully.

  Cuddesdon stood at the top of a hill five miles from the motorway. Frank steered the Range Rover along narrow country roads that cut between dew-drenched fields. The route up to the village was deserted—it was too early for even the most dedicated commuters—and they met no other vehicles as they turned on to Denton Hill, the road that snaked into the village. They passed beneath the bowed branches of trees that were rich with young leaves, and Bailey’s alert eyes spied big properties dotting the hillside, hidden behind the thick hedges that flanked their way. As the road eased into a gentler slope, the hedges gave way to open land, and then came the gardens of the houses that lay on the outskirts of the village. Soon, Bailey could see a church tower rising above the surrounding properties, and his whole body tensed, knowing they were close.

  “This is it,” Salamander said as they passed the churchyard and drew alongside a high stone wall. Frank slowed as they came level with the property’s heavy wooden gates, which stood so tall that they obscured the house beyond.

  “It’s a bloody fortress,” Cullen observed.

  “We’re gonna have to wait till it’s dark,” Salamander said reluctantly. “There’s a pub in the village. Let’s park up and do a walk around.”

  Frank nodded and stepped on the accelerator. The Range Rover gathered speed as they passed another grand old house which stood adjacent to the village green. As the road opened out and the green came into view, Bailey’s heart raced. Three police cars and a police van blocked both routes around the green, and armed officers stood behind them, poised for action, weapons drawn.

  “It’s a fucking trap,” Frank spat, throwing the car into reverse.

  The engine roared as the gears shifted, and Bailey heard one of the policemen garble something through the van’s PA system, but the words were indecipherable. Bailey’s head whipped back, sending a jolt of pain down his spine as the tires bit into the road and sent the Range Rover lurching back the way it had come. He cradled his injured hand as the big 4x4 was thrown around.

  “Fuck!” Salamander yelled. “I’m gonna kill that motherfucker!”

  Bailey turned and saw the reason for his outburst. An unmarked car emerged from beyond the high gates and blocked the road, and two armed police officers leaped out and crouched behind its hood.

  “Hold on,” Frank advised, flipping the car into drive.

  The engine screeched and the heavy vehicle shuddered before jerking forward, accelerating as it headed toward the green. A low concrete wall marked the edge of the triangular patch of grass that lay at the heart of the village, and Frank aimed straight for it. The police opened fire on the Range Rover’s tires but some of their shots flew wild and struck the bodywork, thudding into the metal like hailstones.

  Cullen’s window shattered and he cried out and grabbed his side. The car hit the wall, and there was a terrible crunching sound as metal collided with concrete, but the vehicle’s weight and momentum propelled it forward and up, and it crested the lip of the small wall, before its tires found purchase on the soft grass. The car bucked and swayed as its suspension struggled with the extreme maneuver, but it didn’t break, and an instant later, the back wheels hit grass and the Range Rover shot across the green.

  Cullen was moaning in the front seat, his head lolling. He looked dangerously close to passing out. As Frank headed north across the green, Bailey glanced over his shoulder to see police cars moving, trying to cut them off.

  “Fuck!” Frank yelled, and Bailey turned to see another police car up ahead, moving toward them from beyond the pub.

  “We’re gonna have to fight our way out,” Salamander told Bailey.

  He leaned over the back seat, into the boot, and produced a machine-pistol.

  “No. We’re not shooting police,” Bailey told him firmly. “We let ourselves get taken.”

  “After what they did to ya?” Salamander challenged. “Jimmy, ya okay?” he asked, noticing the state of the big man.

  “I’ve been hit,” Cullen replied weakly.

  “We’re gonna get ya to the doc,” Salamander assured him.

  Frank surprised them all by executing a sudden turn. The village pub, the Bat and Ball, was built into a row of stone terraces, but the car park was located down a narrow alleyway which had been cut between the pub and its neighbor. Frank crashed into the pub wall but quickly reversed and straightened up, before stepping on the accelerator and sending the Range Rover speeding down the narrow drive. Bailey looked behind to see one of the police cars block the alleyway, as three armed officers rounded the corner.

  The driveway widened into a small car park, which was bounded on all sides by a wooden fence. Frank didn’t slow, and the Range Rover leaped the curb and smashed through the fence before hurtling down a steep grassy bank toward a children’s playground. There were no vehicles following, but Bailey heard the low hum of a helicopter and looked out of his window to see the unmistakable outline of a police chopper overhead.

  “Get to the woods,” Salamander instructed Frank, pointing to a copse of trees that marked the start of a large expanse of woodland on the other side of the vale.

  The car listed violently as one of the tires was shot out, and Frank struggled with the steering wheel, fighting the high vehicle’s urge to flip. The engine screamed as he applied more power and drove into the unwanted turn, bringing the driver’s side within sight of the shooters. Bullets thudded into the car as Frank fought for and finally won control, spinning the wheel and turning the Range Rover back toward the trees.

  Moments later, they were speeding beneath the thick canopy, out of sight of the helicopter, far beyond the range of the police marksmen, racing on until the forest became impassable. Frank pulled the Range Rover to a shuddering halt, and Bailey and Salamander jumped out.

  “Come on,” Salamander yelled at Frank, who hadn’t moved.

  The scarred man simply shook his head, and Salamander returned to the vehicle and tentatively opened the driver’s door to find Frank’s hands wrapped around his stomach, his face pale.

  “Just not my day,” he muttered, blood oozing between his fingers.

  Bailey could see the dismay on his friend’s face as he looked from Nash to Cullen, who was unconscious, possibly dead.

  “Go on,” Frank told him. “Get out of here. We ain’t no use to you.”

  “I gotta get ya to a doctor,” Salamander responded desperately.

  “They’ll find us soon enough,” Frank replied calmly. “Go.”

  Salamander hesitated.

  “Don’t get soppy on me, Sal,” Frank said coldly. “I’m countin’ on you to kill that fucker.”

  Salamander nodded and backed away from the Range Rover. The first sounds of vehicles and voices drifted toward them on the April breeze. Bailey felt for his anguished friend as the two of them ran into the forest.

  They’d been running north for twenty minutes before Bailey’s body finally rebelled and forced him to slow to a walk. As they picked their way through the ancient trees, crunching over fallen branches and mulched leaves, Salamander produced his phone and dialed a number.

  “Danny?” he asked.

  After a moment, he stopped in his tracks and put the call on speaker.

  “—is otherwise engag
ed.”

  Bailey recognized the voice. It was Mayfield.

  “I’m gonna kill ya, motherfucker.” Salamander could hardly contain his fury.

  “I’m out of your league,” Mayfield replied. “This morning should have taught you that. But if you’re too stupid to learn, come find me. I’ll teach you a proper lesson.”

  The line went dead.

  “How the . . .” Salamander trailed off, incredulous.

  “Was that Danny’s phone?” Bailey asked, and his friend replied with a nod. “I don’t know how he did it, but he’s right, he’s in a different league.”

  Salamander glared in reply. “I left my two boys dyin’ back there. And Danny’s probably gone. I’m gonna find this fucker and then I’m gonna kill him. Only question is whether ya gonna be there with me.”

  Bailey held his friend’s gaze for a moment before nodding.

  “OK then,” Salamander said, softening.

  They resumed their journey through the forest. Soon the trees thinned and they came to a single-lane road. They waited for ten minutes before seeing a car; an old navy blue Jaguar X300. Salamander flagged it down. The driver was a friendly, elegant woman in her fifties with a short blonde bob and a perfect smile, which fell the moment Salamander brandished his pistol.

  “Get in the back,” he told her.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she pleaded.

  “Do what he says, and you’ll be fine,” Bailey assured the terrified woman as he ushered her on to the rear seat and slid in beside her.

  Salamander climbed into the car, slipped it into gear and drove on, brooding with grim determination.

  67

  Danny kept his eyes shut and tried not to think about the dead weight pressing on his chest. He lay completely still even though he wanted to howl with the anguish that tore through him and made his guts burn. He knew that if he moved, he was dead, so he lay, blind, listening to the sounds of the men he was planning to kill. He’d relived the moment a thousand times already. If he’d been faster, stronger, more alert, maybe they’d all be alive. He knew it was bullshit. Nothing could have stopped them.

  They’d come at dawn, moving so quietly that he hadn’t known what was happening until the first bullet hit him in the leg. Terry had reacted quickly, pushing him out of the line of fire, taking the volley himself, his face contorting in agony as the shots shredded his back. The old man had fallen forward, sending them both tumbling to the floor. He was sure the reporter had screamed. Danny had tried to draw his pistol, but Terry, his face white as a bleached sheet, had signaled his son to be still.

  “Play dead,” he’d wheezed, as dark figures had crept into the barn.

  Military types, special forces with black uniforms and Pendulum masks covering their faces, guns raised. One of them had run straight over to Melissa Rathlin and smacked her across the face with the butt of his rifle, knocking her out cold.

  Danny had taken his father’s advice and shut his eyes, wishing he could also seal his ears to the sound of his father’s wet, forced breathing. He’d heard Mayfield roll off the workbench, his feet landing close to Danny’s head.

  “What took you so long?” Mayfield had asked, his voice croaking like an old engine.

  “System trouble,” one of the military men had replied. “Took us a while to home in on your chip. You OK?”

  Danny had almost cursed. They chipped everything nowadays: cats, dogs, cars. They’d been stupid not checking Mayfield for a tracker. He’d lain perfectly still when he heard Mayfield’s feet scuffing against the floor. A moment later, there had been a sudden pressure, and Terry had groaned. Danny had risked exposure and cracked his right eye open to see Mayfield pulling a chisel from his father’s back. Terry’s face was frozen in anger and his empty eyes seemed to be staring accusingly.

  Danny shut his eye and remained still, his heart thundering in his chest as Mayfield said, “Check this one, and search his pockets.”

  A cold hand had pressed against Danny’s neck, feeling for a pulse, but was only held there for a moment.

  “He’s dead,” the voice had pronounced, before searching Danny’s pockets. He felt his phone and both pistols go. “Handy,” the voice had said, referring to the guns.

  “We’ll take the phone, crack it for numbers. There was a woman in the house,” Mayfield had said.

  “Dead,” the voice had replied. “What do you want to do with the reporter?”

  “Bring her with us. We may need her to reel the cop in. I want you to call in a terror alert. I’ve given Bailey the address of the assistant chief constable of the Oxfordshire Police. He and his villain friends will be there soon.”

  Fuck! Salamander, Frank, and Jimmy would be walking into a trap. Danny’s thoughts had raced as he tried desperately to come up with a way to warn them.

  “Bravo Six, this is Ops Group Alpha, I have a level five alert,” the voice had said.

  Danny hadn’t been able to hear anything else, as the voice had drifted outside. He had continued to lie still, convinced there was someone off to his left, another gun-toting goon. He lost track of how long he’d been there, his legs tingling with terrible pins and needles, the awful smell of his dad’s blood filling his nose.

  A while later, Mayfield had returned and Danny had heard his voice from somewhere near the door.

  “Danny is otherwise engaged,” he’d said, and Danny, who’d guessed he was on the phone, had resisted the urge to cry out, to scream for help from whoever he was talking to.

  “I’m out of your league,” Mayfield had continued. “This morning should have taught you that. But if you’re too stupid to learn, come find me. I’ll teach you a proper lesson.”

  There’d been another pause, before Mayfield had walked away, saying, “Run a trace on that number. It was the wannabe kingpin. The cop’s probably with him.”

  At least Sal and Bailey were still alive. Now all I have to do is get to a phone to warn them, Danny had thought, willing Mayfield and the others to leave.

  When he finally heard motors leaving the yard, Danny heaved his dad off his chest and staggered to his feet. As he looked down at Terry, he realized he was crying and mentally told himself off for being such a soppy git. Terry had been inside for most of his childhood, and they’d only met a handful of times in his entire life. He was an old school hard nut who would have been ashamed to see his boy bawling, but Danny couldn’t help it. Even though they were pretty much strangers, Terry had saved him, instinctively sacrificing his own life for his son’s, and it was hard not to get emotional. Especially when he’d been forced to live through his father’s death and hadn’t been able to do a damned thing about it.

  He grabbed a large rag from a box next to the bench and carefully placed it over Terry’s head.

  “Goodbye, Dad,” he whispered.

  He picked up another rag strip and tied it around his left leg in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood from the bullet wound. He staggered out of the barn and looked toward the road, where he saw three Mercedes SUVs disappearing into the distance. He knew he didn’t have long. If they made it to the main road, there’d be no way of knowing where they were headed.

  When Danny turned toward the house, he noticed a device attached to the wall of the barn: a parcel of C-4 with a timer. There was another one stuck to the metal gas tank that stood on the other side of the farmyard, and a third next to the front door of the house. The countdown read 01:29. He had less than ninety seconds.

  He ran into the house through the open front door and found Katie’s blood-soaked, bullet-ridden body in the lounge. He said a silent prayer, grabbed the cordless phone, and dialed a number while he searched for his dad’s car keys. The phone rang as he ran into the kitchen and scanned the surfaces.

  “Yeah,” Sal said.

  “Sal, it’s me,” Danny replied.

  “Danny?”

  “I’m OK, but Terry’s gone. So’s Katie. They killed them both. Took Melissa,” he said rapidly, running through the ho
use, into the farmyard.

  The counters now read 00:58, and Danny started to feel panicky.

  “They’re trying to trace your number,” he warned Sal as he ran into the barn. “You gotta ditch the phone. Go to the old lock-up. Wait for my call.”

  “You be careful, Danny,” Sal began, but Danny cut him off and dropped the phone, which clattered against the hard floor.

  He shivered as he thought about searching his dad’s body, but was saved when he spied a key locker beside all the tools. He grabbed a large hammer and hit the locker repeatedly until it smashed open. Danny’s hand whipped toward the Prancing Horse, and he ran to the middle tent, pulling at the zipper, tearing it open, before climbing into the black Ferrari and thrusting the key into the ignition. The engine roared. He slipped the car into gear and the wheels spun loudly before gaining traction and sending the car rocketing toward the gates.

  The first bomb detonated as the wheels hit the road, and Danny felt the car buffeted by the blast. The next two explosions rocked the Ferrari as it raced down the narrow lane, gathering speed. When he looked in the rearview mirror, Danny was horrified by what he saw. The quiet little corner of England where his dad had chosen to live out his final years was burning in a firestorm that was sending a huge column of smoke into the sky.

  He tried not to think about his dad’s body being incinerated, and instead focused on taming the Ferrari, which wanted to maul the narrow, winding road. As he trod on the powerful throttle and worked to close the gap, Danny considered what he was going to do to the men in the vehicles ahead of him.

  68

  For a few blissful moments he was a mind drifting without place. Then memory flooded in and dragged him down, pinning him to harsh reality with its smothering weight. Wallace felt the familiar dirty burden of depression as he propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the silent bedroom. A skylight was covered by a thick blind, but enough sunshine seeped at the edges to illuminate the large space. Built into the eaves, the bedroom was part of a residential unit that Steven had constructed in the secure warehouse. The king-size bed was located in the center of the vaulted room, which was about thirty feet long and twenty feet wide. A large closet stood against the back wall, next to the bathroom.