Abuse of Power (26 page)

“Last chance, Jack,” Swain said. “Tell me what you know and who you’re working with or my associate here will see to it that your last hour of life on this planet is filled with more pain than you can possibly imagine.”

“I already told you … I don’t know anything…”

“I wish I could believe you,” Swain said. “Truly. But I suppose there’s one way to find out.” He paused. “Do you ever watch films, Jack? Go to the cinema?”

The question was so random that Jack didn’t have a response, but Swain didn’t seem to expect one.

“When I was a child,” he continued, “I saw a little English film on the telly about a man who hunted witches. Vincent Price roaming the countryside in search of demonic evil. Very traumatizing for a six-year-old.
Witchfinder General,
it was called.”

“Is that you?” Jack asked, trying to buy more time as he worked the ropes. “Shouldn’t that … be …
Spookfinder General
?”

“Cute,” Swain said. “I’ll always remember a scene where Price trussed up a woman who vehemently denied practicing witchcraft, and unceremoniously threw her into the river. Told his men, if she survives, she’s a witch. If she drowns, we’ll know she’s telling the truth.” He paused. “Typical British irony, don’t you think?”

“That’s not the word I’d use,” Jack replied.

Swain stood, smiling down at him. “No matter. I’m going to take a page from Price’s book. I’m going to stand here, and let my associate do what he does best. And if you die without telling me exactly what I need to know, I’ll have to assume you aren’t a liar after all. So apologies in advance if I’m mistaken. But if I’m not, do be sure to let me know.”

He stepped back now, leaning against the wall as he nodded to the ape. But then a cell phone rang and Swain put up a finger, stopping him. After all, he couldn’t let Jack’s screams interrupt his call.

Swain took the phone from his pocket and answered it. “Yes?”

He listened a moment, then murmured a response and clicked off.

“Seems I’m being called away,” he told Jack. “Which is a shame, because I felt we were about to come to an understanding. If nothing else, I would have enjoyed the show.”

He turned to his man and gestured, and the two of them moved to the door and spoke quietly. Jack kept working on the ropes, ignoring the burn in his wrists, and finally, thankfully, felt them give again, offering him even more room. Whether or not it was enough to get a hand free was another question.

As he continued to work, the two men broke from their huddle and the ape stepped over to him again. With a self-satisfied look, Swain was out the door and gone.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, mate,” said the ape. “And I’m not nearly as agreeable as Mr. Swain.”

He flicked the switch on the baton.

“They say these things never leave marks, but if you know how to use them you can cause quite a lot of painful scarring.” His smile widened. “I think most people are put off by the smell of burning flesh, but I’ve always found it invigorating.”

Events happened quickly. As the baton was lowered toward his crotch this time, Jack screamed and pulled and managed to rip his right wrist free of the rope. His arm swung up, slamming the thug in the side of the head. His muscle coordination was a mess and the blow didn’t land with nearly the power he hoped. But it was enough to throw the guy momentarily off balance.

Jack was still tied to one of the armrests. That worked in his favor. He got up and swung the chair around hard, and the ape went down like a sack of grain. He lost the baton when he hit the concrete floor. Jack raised the chair high and smashed it down on the bastard’s shoulder, shattering it and freeing his other arm. While the man lay there moaning, Jack recovered the baton.

He stopped himself from using it. The baton was the ape’s way, it was Swain’s way. He didn’t want to be like them. He threw it down, kicked the ape in the head to make sure he would stay put—
that
was Jack’s way. Then he crouched and went through the thug’s pockets. He found car keys, a handkerchief, a cell phone, his Hamilton Gilbert, and a wad of folded pound notes—
his
money, no doubt, taken from him along with the watch while he was passed out. There was no wallet or ID, a sign that someone didn’t want to be identified. If these people really
were
MI6, Jack had the feeling they were working off the grid.

There was also no gun, which puzzled Jack. He’d expect a guy like this to carry one, but maybe he preferred his trusty magic wand.

Jack picked up the passport where Swain had dropped it. He pocketed the watch, phone, bills, and keys. He tore the handkerchief in half and wrapped it loosely around his bloody wrists. He looked for something to tie the ape’s hands, but there was only the man’s shirt. He decided that the time it took to bind and gag the guy was better spent getting the hell out. He gave the ape a parting kick in the ribs and moved to the doorway.

His escape hadn’t brought anyone coming, and Jack guessed that no one was nearby. He carefully peered into the hall.

It was too dark to see much of anything.

Taking the cell phone out, Jack turned it on and shone the beam down the hallway. There were several doors with windows dotting each side and he knew he’d been right, that this was once the psychiatric ward of a hospital. From the run-down look of it, the place had been abandoned at least a couple of decades ago. At the far end was an elevator, a stairwell next to it. A straight line and he’d be down those stairs and out the door, assuming none of Swain’s men tried to block his path.

But he couldn’t leave without checking on the woman. If she was alive, he needed to get her out of here.

He moved from door to door, shining the light through the windows, and finally found her in the cell nearest the stairwell. She was tied to a chair, her head hanging forward and canted to one side, her dark hair wet and stringy. Her sweater, shirt, and bra had been stripped away, exposing her naked torso.

Jack thought he saw movement there, the subtle rise and fall of her bare chest.

Throwing the door open, he stepped inside, quickly untied her and slapped at her face. “Wake up,” he whispered. “Come on…”

She didn’t respond.

He slapped her again, giving it more force than he would have liked, but she finally stirred and blinked up at him with dull, nearly lifeless eyes, not really registering who he was or what he wanted from her.

Searching the floor, he found her sweater, snatched it up, and quickly pushed it down over her head. Then he shoved her arms into it and pulled her to her feet. “Can you walk?”

She seemed to understand but her legs were trembling and she stumbled, losing her footing. She fell against him and he held her steady, but his own legs weren’t quite back to normal yet and they swayed together, like a pair of saplings in a storm, her face falling against his neck.

He felt the heat of her breath. “… Who…?” she croaked. “Who … are you…?”

“The guy who was following you. Remember?”

She stiffened slightly, but he pulled her close in the hope of reassuring her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not one of them. I’m a friend.”

He had no way of knowing if that was true. She could well be a terrorist sympathizer or an extremist herself. But right now she was simply a human being who needed his help, and Jack decided they’d sort out the rest later.

She started to straighten now, as if she were regaining strength, and he shifted her around, supporting her by the armpits. “We need to get out of here. Can you walk?”

“I … I think so.…”

They took a step together toward the door and she stumbled again, but Jack steadied her and kept moving them forward. Then they were out the door and headed toward the stairwell, Jack once again using the cell phone as a weak flashlight. Now that her legs were moving the woman seemed to be regaining even more strength.

“This probably isn’t the time for introductions,” he said quietly, “but I need to call you something. What’s your name?”

“Sara,” she told him.

“Nice to meet you, Sara. My name is—”

A roar of anger reverberated off the walls as the ape crashed into the hallway behind them. Jack spun around and saw the quick flash of a muzzle—

The world exploded in gunfire.

25

“Down!” Jack shouted, pushing her forward.

Sara didn’t need any encouragement. She dove toward the stairwell before Jack had managed to douse the cell phone light.

The good news: the ape was firing crazily into near darkness, making no attempt to aim—which wasn’t surprising, if he felt anything close to the way Jack did. The guy was running on rage and adrenaline.

The bad news: he had a gun and Jack didn’t. And a stray bullet didn’t discriminate. Jack had no idea where the gun had come from, but that didn’t really matter much at this point. He also guessed he should have tied the bastard up.

Hindsight.

Sara was on her belly and clambering down the stairs, Jack close behind her. As they tumbled onto the landing, he jumped to his feet and pulled her up. They took off running as fast as their wobbly legs could carry them. They hurried down several more flights, occasionally gripping the rusty metal rail, struggling not to fall as the ape thundered down the stairwell after them, shouting in fury.

One floor, two floors, three floors, four floors—

—and then they were at the bottom and Sara lost her footing and yelped as her legs flew out from under her. She went sprawling, grunting in pain as she skidded across the dilapidated tile.

Jack ran after her and pulled her to her feet. “You okay?”

“I’ll live,” she told him. “Which is more than I could say an hour ago.”

He thought he detected the faintest hint of gratitude in that remark; it gave his stamina a much-needed shot.

They heard the ape no more than two floors above. Jack glanced around, trying to get his bearings. It was marginally lighter down here, moonlight coming in through broken windows, and he saw they were in the hospital lobby, about twenty yards behind the reception counter. The place looked as if it had been hit by a hurricane, trash and debris strewn across the floors, the walls and ceiling battered by years of neglect and bad weather.

The main entrance was twenty yards to the left of the reception counter, at right angles. The doors that once filled the double-wide frame were missing, leaving behind a gaping rectangle, the floor in front of it littered with broken glass. Outside, punctuated by distant street lamps, the pale moonlight shone down on a gravel drive, three cars parked haphazardly near the entrance—two of which he recognized from the attack in the alley.

Three
cars.

The ape wasn’t alone.

As if on cue they heard a crash in the long hallway behind them, light spilling through an open doorway as more of Swain’s men emerged from the room beyond. Glancing at the cars again, Jack remembered the keys he’d taken off the ape, then grabbed Sara’s hand.

“Come on!”

They stumbled toward the main entrance, Jack pulling her along, using momentum more than anything else to carry him. They passed the reception counter, ducking low to use it as a shield, just as a shot cracked, splintering wood. Sara yelped and Jack jerked her sideways, then started zigzagging, trying to make them as difficult a target as possible. He stayed close to the benches in the waiting area as they afforded some protection from the gunmen.

Shots gouged the seatbacks, causing the chairs to rattle on their metal bases. Their shoes crunched glass and then they were outside and headed for the cars—two SUVs and a BMW behind them. Jack yanked the keys from his pocket as they ran. He jabbed at the buttons on one of the keys and the BMW
chirp-chirped
as its doors unlocked.

Swain’s men were shouting behind them. More shots pinged off the asphalt and the SUVs as Jack instinctively darted toward the left side of the vehicle, then suddenly remembered he was in England. Swearing, he pulled open the rear door and shoved Sara in, then got into the front seat and scrambled across it. He got behind the wheel and jammed the key into the ignition.

A shot shattered the rear window and Sara yelped again, glass showering around her, as Jack started the engine and stomped on the accelerator.

He had no idea where they were. A wooded area, surrounded by thick trees that looked malevolent in the moonlight. From the outside the hospital looked old, very old. It was a majestic, neglected relic from another century, from the shameful era of the Bethlem Royal Hospital, also known as Bedlam.

But where he was didn’t matter. There was a driveway ahead of them, and a road beyond and Jack drove as fast as he could to get to them.

Checking his rearview mirror, he saw Swain’s men spilling from the hospital entrance and running toward the remaining cars. But he already had a fairly good lead on them and it wasn’t likely they’d catch him.

Shooting out to the road, he picked up speed then blasted past a row of old country houses and disappeared down a tree-lined street into the early morning darkness.

*   *   *

The sun was coming up by the time they reached Central London.

Jack had used the GPS on the cell phone to chart the course, then memorized the route and tossed the phone into the street as they rolled through a suburban neighborhood. If these guys really were MI6, he had no doubt they’d be able to track the thing.

So be it. Even if the spook patrol found them they would probably give Jack some space, the way Swain did in San Francisco. Intelligence ops were like vampires: they preferred the night, the shadows. Especially now, when anyone with a cell phone could be a journalist.

Sara hadn’t said a word during the drive, and when he turned to check on her he found her flopped across the seat, passed out. He didn’t blame her. He was halfway there himself. He wondered for a moment if she had been hit by a bullet or a piece of shrapnel kicked up by the gunfire, but he saw no sign of blood. When they stopped at a light he reached back and touched her neck, found a steady pulse.