by Steve Berry
Norse did not answer him. The question aroused Ian’s attention, who studied Malone with a curious look.
“Did you hear me, Norse? I’d like to see your identification.”
“Just enjoy the ride, Malone.”
He didn’t like the curt tone so he reached for the front seat and pulled himself forward, intending to make his point clearer.
The barrel of a gun came around the head rest and greeted him.
“This enough identification?” Norse asked.
“Actually, I was hoping for a picture ID.” He motioned to the weapon. “When did the Metropolitan Police start issuing Glocks?”
No reply.
“Who are you?”
The gun waved at Ian. “His keeper.”
Ian reached across Gary and wrenched the chrome handle up and down, but the door would not open.
“Great things, child locks,” said Norse. “Keeps the wee ones from slipping away.”
Malone said, “Son, you want to tell me what’s going on?”
Ian said nothing.
“These men have apparently gone to a lot of trouble to make your acquaintance.”
“Sit back, Malone,” Norse said. “This is none of your concern.”
He reclined in the seat. “On that we agree.”
Except his own son was in the car too.
Norse kept his head turned back toward them, his gaze and the gun glued on Malone.
The car continued through morning congestion.
He absorbed what was whirling past outside, recalling what he could about the geography of north London. He realized the bridge they’d just crossed was for Regent’s Canal, a corridor-like waterway that wound a snaking path through the city, eventually spilling into the Thames. Stately trees lined the four-laned promenade. Traffic was heavy, but not congested. He spotted the famous Lord’s cricket ground. He knew that the fictional Baker Street of Sherlock Holmes lay a few blocks over. Little Venice wasn’t far away.
They crossed the canal again and he glanced down at brightly painted house boats dotting the waterway. Longboats dotted the canal, no more than three meters high, designed to fit under the tight bridges that spanned the canal. Rows and rows of Georgian houses and flats lined the street, fronted with tall trees less their leaves.
Devene turned the Mercedes off the boulevard onto a side lane. More houses rolled past on either side. The scene was not unlike Atlanta, where his own house had once sat. Three more turns and they entered a courtyard enclosed on three sides by high hedges. The Mercedes stopped outside a mews constructed of pastel-colored stones.
Norse exited. Devene also climbed out.
Both rear doors were released from the outside.
“Get out,” Norse said.
Malone stood on cobblestones outlined by emerald lichens. Gary and Ian emerged on the other side.
Ian tried to bolt.
Norse slammed the boy hard into the car.
“Don’t,” Malone called out. “Do as he says. You too, Gary.”
Norse shoved the gun into Ian’s neck. “Stay still.” The man’s body pinned Ian to the car. “Where’s the flash drive?”
“What drive?” Malone asked.
“Shut him up,” Norse called out.
Devene jammed a fist into Malone’s gut.
“Dad,” Gary called out.
He doubled over and tried to regain his breath, motioning to Gary that he was okay.
“The flash drive,” Norse said again. “Where is it?”
Malone rose, arms hugging his stomach. Devene drew back to swing again, but Malone jammed his knee into the man’s groin, then smacked Devene’s jaw with his right fist.
He was retired and jetlagged, but he wasn’t helpless.
He whirled in time to see Norse aim the gun his way. The retort from a single shot came the instant after Malone lunged for the pavement, the bullet finding the hedges behind him. He stared up into the Mercedes’ passenger compartment and saw Norse through the partially open doors. He sprang to his feet, pivoted off the hood, and rammed his legs through the car’s interior into the far side door.
The panel flew out and smashed into Norse, sending the phony Inspector reeling backwards into the mews.
He propelled himself through the open door.
Ian was running from the courtyard, toward the street.
His gaze met Gary’s.
“Go with him,” he called out. “Get out of here.”
He was tackled from behind.
His forehead slapped wet stone and pain shuddred him. He’d thought Devene out of commission. A mistake. An arm wrapped around his throat and he tried to release the stranglehold grip. His prone position gave him little room to maneuver and Devene was hinging his spine at an unnatural angle.
The buildings around him winked in and out.
Blood trickled down his forehead and into his eye.
The last thing he saw before blackness enveloped him was Ian and Gary, disappearing around a corner.
Sign up for Steve Berry’s newsletter at
SteveBerry.org
and join him on Facebook