Target (28 page)

Hook had waited until the pretty paramedic with the spiky red hair turned her back to him to prepare a shot of painkillers, then slipped an arm free and released the chest strap holding him to the gurney. He'd attached a small plastic blade, four inches long and very sharp, to the inside of his wrist with tape earlier, and he pulled it off, the noise alerting the paramedic, who started to turn round.

Hook had been far too quick for her. Drawing her back into a tight embrace, he'd clasped his hand over her mouth and driven the blade deep into her neck. A geyser of blood from the severed jugular vein spattered hard against the back window before slowing to a sputter as she died, shaking, in his arms.

He'd placed her body gently on the floor, then discarded the makeshift blonde wig he'd sliced from Jenny Brakspear's head and leaned through the partition into the cab, putting the dripping blade to the unsuspecting driver's neck and ordering him to pull over.

The shocked driver had been sensible enough to cooperate. 'Let me go and I won't raise the alarm for another ten minutes,' he'd said calmly as he brought the ambulance to a halt. 'That should give you enough time.'

It was a fair offer, but Hook hadn't been tempted to take it. Instead, he'd yanked the driver's head backwards and dispatched him in exactly the same way as he'd dispatched his colleague, sinking the blade up to the hilt in his neck. This time there'd been more of a struggle. The driver had made some loud choking noises and had lurched forward in his seat, the blood spraying everywhere. Somehow he'd managed to break free, and he'd grabbed wildly at the door handle.

For a moment Hook had thought the driver was going to yank open the door, which would have been a problem because there were headlights coming the other way, but thankfully all energy had then seemed to leave him and he'd slumped to one side, lifting one arm in a useless show of resistance.

He'd pushed the driver into the passenger seat, then clambered through the partition and taken the wheel, pulling away as two police squad cars passed him heading in the other direction.

Hook had allowed himself a small smile as he picked up speed, checking his location on the GPS. It wouldn't be long before they realized their mistake, but by then it would be too late.

Once again, it would be like he'd never existed. A shadow disappearing into the night, leaving only terror and destruction behind him.

The helicopter rose swiftly above the smoking ruin of the barn before turning south towards London. Below him, Bolt could see the wide cordon of flashing blue lights stretching out in the darkness across the countryside, with the crashed phosgene lorry in the centre, illuminated by the search beams of a circling police helicopter.

It was now half an hour since he'd discovered that the body he'd assumed was Hook was actually female, and therefore almost certainly the kidnap victim, Jenny Brakspear. Ominously, the ambulance taking the person they'd thought was Jenny to hospital had not arrived. Nor had the crew responded to radio contact or calls to their mobile phones. The assumption was that they'd been carrying a disguised Hook, and that he'd managed to overpower them and escape. Only someone with his ruthlessness and nerve could have carried something like this off, and Bolt almost felt a grudging admiration for him.

He sat back in the cramped seat, frustrated at the way events had once again twisted out of his control, fighting the exhaustion that was now taking hold as the adrenalin-fuelled tension of the past twenty-four hours subsided. He knew he'd achieved a lot. He'd helped to avoid what would have been a disaster for London and the UK, and he'd rescued Tina from certain death. He'd just spoken to the hospital again, and the doctor had told him she was expected to make a full recovery, although it would be some months before she regained full use of her foot. So, in the end, he had a lot to be proud of.

Except it wasn't enough. Hook remained free, and Bolt knew he'd probably murdered the paramedics as well. Portman remained free too. As did Paul Wise. Justice, then, had not been served on those who deserved it. Bolt felt like sleeping for a week, but he knew he wouldn't be able to until matters had been brought to a close.

In the cramped helicopter cab with him were Mo Khan and Big Barry Freud. Mo was dozing, while Big Barry, who still had a long night ahead of him, sat in the seat next to Bolt, staring into space. He was on his way to Scotland Yard where he would help coordinate the capture of all outstanding suspects involved in the plot.

Bolt turned to him now. 'I want my team on the Henry Portman surveillance,' he said firmly. 'I think we deserve that.'

'Get some sleep, old mate. And don't worry about Sir Henry. He's not going anywhere.'

'I don't care. I still want to be a part of it.'

Big Barry looked reluctant, but he was also pragmatic enough to know when to give ground. 'All right, I'll speak to DAC Bridges and see what we can do. There's a new team taking over at two a.m., and they're on until ten tomorrow. I'll try and get your people to take over then.'

Bolt looked across at Mo, who'd opened one eye and was listening to the exchange. 'Does that give you enough time to sleep?'

'If I have all the sleep I need,' he answered, yawning, 'then I won't be awake until Saturday. But I don't want to miss out on this either. Someone's going to have to pay for this, and I'd love to see the look on that pompous sod's face when we nick him for conspiracy to murder.'

Bolt cracked a half-smile. 'My feelings exactly.'

Mo closed his eye and went back to dozing while Bolt stared out of the window at the sweeping curtain of lights that signalled their approach into London. Somewhere down there was Hook. Hiding among the city's ten million citizens. The immense apparatus of the state would be hunting him down, using all the latest technology, but Bolt knew that it wasn't going to be enough. Their quarry was too good for that, and right now the slippery bastard was winning on points.

But it wasn't over yet.

And anyone, even a cunning pro like Hook, could make a mistake.

Sir Henry Portman rose at seven a.m. on Thursday and, after showering and dressing, ate breakfast with his wife, Amelia, during which they discussed the dinner party they were hosting at the weekend, as well as the news being reported on Radio 4's
Today
programme that a terrorist plot to release poison gas in central London had been foiled the previous night. According to the surveillance operatives listening in, Sir Henry sounded perfectly normal, even feigning outrage at the callousness of the terrorists. 'What on earth is the world coming to?' they heard him saying.

After breakfast, he checked his business email account, answering a query regarding the terrorist attack from a private Jersey-based client, who wondered how it was going to effect HPP's positions. Sir Henry replied that it was too early to say, but a short-term fall in the market seemed likely, and thanks to HPP's recent bearish approach to blue-chip UK stocks, the fund would make some modest short-term gains.

At 8.30, Sir Henry's driver arrived at the five-storey Chelsea townhouse and he left for a prearranged 9.30 meeting with a London-based private client at the Landmark Hotel on the Marylebone Road, just west of Baker Street. He arrived twenty minutes early and took a seat in the open-plan dining area on the hotel's mezzanine floor, where he ordered a cappuccino and read the
Financial Times
until his client, a Mr Raif Mohammed, arrived at 9.25.

Their meeting, which was filmed covertly by surveillance officers sitting at a nearby table so that lip readers back at Scotland Yard could describe what was being said in real time, was polite yet tense. It seemed Mr Mohammed was less than impressed with HPP's current investments and it took all of Sir Henry's powers of persuasion to keep him from withdrawing his money from the fund.

While all this was going on, Bolt's team of twelve took up their positions. Two joined their colleagues in the Landmark dining area; a third took a seat in the foyer with a copy of the
Sun
; the remainder gathered near the hotel's main entrance. One of them, Kris Obanje, was on a motorbike; the others split themselves between four cars.

Bolt had had to give up the Jaguar he'd used on surveillance ops ever since his days in the NCS. It was undergoing a full steam clean to get rid of any traces of phosgene before being delivered to Thames Valley CID so that they could carry out an inspection and attempt to ascertain whether or not Bolt had been driving recklessly when he'd hit Rob Fallon. He didn't like his new car. It was an immense Mitsubishi Shogun 44, totally unsuited to London streets. Worse still, it was an automatic.

'They take all the pleasure out of driving,' he said, leaning against the car door, trying to get comfortable. 'I don't know what philistine invented them.'

Mo smiled. He was in a better mood now that he'd had a sleep and the danger from the gas had passed. 'You sound like Jeremy Clarkson, boss.'

'Jesus. Really? Well, he's got a point.'

'I don't like the way that prick Portman isn't feeling scared,' said a voice from the back seat.

Tina Boyd looked pale and she was sporting a black eye and a bandage across her nose, but even so, she'd made a pretty remarkable recovery. The hospital, having operated on her foot and put it in plaster, had wanted to keep her in for observation, but Tina was the kind of person who liked to make her own decisions, and she'd discharged herself at seven that morning and immediately phoned Bolt for an update.

As soon as she found out that his team was going to be following Sir Henry, she'd insisted on being involved. It had taken Bolt a lot of effort to persuade Big Barry to let Tina come along, and he'd swung it by explaining that she was better placed than anyone to ID Hook should he turn up, but he wasn't at all sure now that it was such a good idea. Tina had been quieter than he could remember in the hour the three of them had been in the car together, as if she was weighed down by an unseen burden. He couldn't help wondering what suffering she'd undergone at Hook's hands, indeed whether she would ever fully recover. He wanted to talk to her, offer words of comfort and support, but knew that now was not a good time.

'He probably doesn't even know we're on to him,' Bolt told her. 'There's no real reason why he should. It just means the look on his face is going to be even better when we finally nick him.'

'But even when we do it's going to be difficult to prove anything against him, isn't it?' she said quietly, staring out of the window.

'He'll fold,' said Bolt. 'Men like him always do.' He didn't elaborate. He hadn't told her about the Wise connection. He didn't think it was something she could handle hearing, not on top of everything else.

'Foot one to all units,' came a voice over the mike in the Shogun. 'Meeting's over and they're shaking hands. Sir Henry is now proceeding down the stairs alone. Over.'

'Foot two to all units,' said agent Cliff Yakonos, who was in the foyer with his copy of the
Sun
, 'I've got him. He's heading towards the front entrance. Just been met by his driver. Now they're both heading out. Over.'

Sir Henry's expected destination was HPP's office, which was in Grosvenor Square, but Bolt knew they could take no chances as he watched the two men come out of the hotel's front doors from their position twenty yards down the street on the main road.

Unlike his driver, who was small and non-descript, Sir Henry cut quite a dashing figure in his three-piece pinstripe suit and brightly coloured tie. He was a good-looking man, with a full head of curly grey hair and a strong patrician jawline, and he carried himself in the confident manner of a man used to being shown respect.

What a wanker
, thought Bolt, not really registering the motorbike as it slowed down in front of the hotel entrance. It was only when the helmeted rider lifted his arm up straight and Sir Henry collapsed to the ground that he realized what was happening.

'Shit, he's down!' Bolt slammed the gearstick into drive and pulled out from the kerb, cutting up the traffic to a cacophony of horns, as the motorbike accelerated away. 'Car one to all units, target one has been shot. Suspect is escaping on a motorbike eastbound on the Marylebone Road.' He started reeling out the registration number into his mike, but the plate was badly mud-splattered (doubtless a deliberate act) and the bike was moving too fast as it weaved through the traffic, quickly putting thirty yards between them. 'We've still got visual,' he continued into the mike, 'but he's getting away. Now approaching the junction with Gloucester Place. Over.'

Mo slammed the flashing blue light on the dashboard as Bolt tailgated the car in front, beeping his horn and forcing it to pull over.

A second later, Obanje roared past him on the inside, riding a powerful Kawasaki 850, keeping a steady path along the white lines as he ate up the distance to the suspect bike. He was a highly experienced rider, unlike the man he was chasing, who didn't look entirely comfortable as he dodged between the cars.

'Bike one to car one,' shouted Obanje through the static and engine noise, 'I've got the eyeball. What do you want me to do? Over.'

'Car one to bike one, keep with him but don't get too close. He's armed and dangerous. Wait for assistance to intercept. Over.'

As he spoke, Bolt instinctively fingered the Smith and Wesson revolver he was carrying in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Because of the high-profile nature of both the target and the operation, most of the surveillance officers following Sir Henry were armed. Bolt, though, was the only member of his team who'd ever fired a shot in anger, something which didn't bode too well when you were trying to corner a highly trained professional killer. Luckily, though, their pursuit was being patched through to the operations room in Scotland Yard, so as long as Obanje kept the suspect bike in his sights, a trap could be set and CO19 could do the dirty work.

Up ahead, the lights at the Gloucester Place junction were green and Obanje and the suspect bike went through them fifteen yards apart, while Bolt, fifty yards back and driving like a maniac, with the siren blaring, was beginning to lose visual.

The lights turned amber, and a Ford Focus twenty yards in front of Bolt stopped.

'Hold tight!' he yelled as he slammed his hand hard down on the horn and accelerated straight at the back of the Focus, hoping it would get the message quickly.

It did, but just a little bit too late. It was still only halfway out of the lane when Bolt smacked its offside rear end and shunted it out of the way without losing speed.

'I take it all back,' he said to Mo as they tore across the empty junction. 'I love this car!'

'Bike one to all units, he's approaching Baker Street junction, traffic lights have just turned red. He's going right! He's going right!'

'Keep with him!' snapped Bolt, mounting the kerb on the central reservation as he forced his way past some slow-moving traffic.

'I'm through. We're heading south on Baker Street. All right, he's going left. Left. I think it's Paddington Street. Shit!' This last word was a shocked howl.

'Car one to bike one, what's happening?'

'He's firing at me!'

There was the sound of a skid, followed by a loud grunt, then the engine noise abruptly stopped.

Bolt accelerated with two wheels still on the central reservation, taking off wing mirrors and the side panelling of a Range Rover as he bore down on the Baker Street junction. 'Bike one, are you OK?' he shouted into the mike.

'I'm OK,' came Obanje's voice. He sounded winded. 'But I'm down. Suspect continuing along Paddington Street east. Christ!'

'What's happening?'

'He's been hit by a car. He's down. About a hundred yards away. Getting to his feet now. But he's hurt. Repeat: he's hurt.'

The lights at the junction were red, but Bolt knocked the last car out of the way, slowed a little as he moved out into the oncoming traffic, which thankfully stopped for him, then roared off down Baker Street. 'Car one to all units, I'm right behind.'

'Bike one to all units. Suspect has crossed the road, heading south, disappeared from view into what looks like a park. I'm following but unarmed and hurt. Over.'

Bolt saw Obanje hobbling along the pavement in his leathers, helmet off, as he rounded the turn into Paddington Street. Obanje pointed along the road, and with the traffic now clear Bolt put his foot down, almost immediately spotting a small stretch of greenery on the right between high-rise buildings.

Screeching to a halt, he pulled out the Smith and Wesson, Mo following suit, although with considerable reluctance, Bolt noticed.

'Stay here,' he told Tina, then jumped out of the car and ran through the park entrance, holding his gun in both hands, Mo just behind him.

He saw Hook immediately, fifty yards ahead, limping along the path with his back to them, the helmet now removed, his gun nowhere to be seen. The day was cloudy and the park fairly quiet, but there were still enough people about to make it an incredibly dangerous situation should the bullets start flying.

Bolt ran fast and as quietly as possible, whispering the suspect's location into the mike, hoping Hook didn't hear his approach, knowing that if he got close enough and the other man turned round he might be able to shoot him justifiably. With the way public opinion was reacting to this latest terrorist outrage he knew he could get away with it. What was worse, he desperately wanted to do it. A small voice in his head urged calm and restraint, told him to remember what he'd joined the police for. But it really was a small voice, and at that moment the desire for payback was smothering it almost completely.

A woman walking her dog across the grass saw the gun in Bolt's hands and screamed, the sound carrying right across the park.

The limping figure immediately turned round, and even though he was still some thirty yards distant, Bolt recognized him. He raised his gun, still too far away to risk pulling the trigger. 'Armed police!' he yelled. 'Raise your hands!'

Hook ignored him, making for the far end of the park, trying hard to run but not quite managing it. At the same time he pulled what looked like a handgun from his jacket, although he made no effort to fire it, clearly knowing that Bolt couldn't shoot him in the back.

A woman with a pushchair and a young child walking beside her was coming the other way, and before she could react, let alone comprehend what was happening, Hook had grabbed the child and swung back round to face his pursuers.

The child, no more than three years old, cried out, and Bolt instinctively lowered the gun, not wanting to risk it going off accidentally.

Immediately, Hook lifted his and fired straight at Bolt, who dived to the ground, rolling over but keeping his grip on the gun, scrambling for cover behind a sapling while Mo did the same behind a bench opposite. A second shot rang out, but handguns are notoriously inaccurate over distance, and it too went wide. People were running in all directions now as Bolt shouted the latest developments into the mike.

The child's mother made a grab for Hook, crying hysterically, and Bolt jumped to his feet, seeing an opportunity to intervene. But before he'd even taken a step forward, Hook had pushed her away and shot her in the chest.

For a split second, Bolt was too shocked to move.

Then, with a roar of frustrated rage, he charged his quarry.

But Hook stood his ground and pulled the trigger again.

Bolt stumbled and fell forward on to the path, and this time the gun flew out of his hand. For a second he thought he'd been hit, but then he realized that his fall had been an instinctive reaction to the gunshot and that once again Hook had missed.

Hook threw the child away like a piece of rubbish, and as Bolt got to his feet again he saw him hobbling out of the park's exit.

The bastard was going to get away. Where the hell were the reinforcements? A helicopter? Anything?

As he grabbed his gun and ran towards the mother, who lay writhing on the grass – still alive, thank God, her child unharmed – he yelled his frustrations into his mike, demanding paramedics and back-up in a flurry of expletives. If Hook got away now it would be a travesty of everything he, Bolt, had ever fought to defend. It would make every good deed he'd done seem utterly pointless.