Sudden Death (16 page)

Truman had given the order to ‘relieve’ Jake’s dad of his position. It did not mean that he was getting the sack – it meant that he was marked for death. But Jake knew that the AEB were in danger too. He had a choice.

My dad or the scientists?

T
ruman groaned on the carpet. Jake rushed to the side of the desk and picked up the gun, but Truman wasn’t moving. Jake thought about taking the weapon with him, but it was too big a risk. He inspected the mechanism and flicked the release switch. The clip dropped out. Jake pocketed it and took the gun through the side door into a small bathroom area. He dropped it into the toilet. Even if Truman had another clip, the wet gun would be useless.

Jake headed back to the main office door and slipped through as Truman shifted a fraction on the floor, still moaning softly. The security guard was standing at the end of the corridor, oblivious. Jake walked as calmly as possible past him and back along the corridor towards the lift. He didn’t look round until he stepped into the elevator. The security guard hadn’t moved.

As the lift descended, Jake’s mind was doing calculations.
It would take a good five minutes to reach his dad on the other side of the stadium. Perhaps two and a half to get to the spectator box where the AEB would be watching.

What would my dad do?

His dad was at the pitch side, surrounded by journalists and the public. The AEB were on their own, or perhaps chaperoned by Truman’s men. His dad knew how to look after himself, but the scientists had no idea what they were involved in. Jake made his decision.

But how could he get to the VIP box? If Truman was planning to kill the AEB in there it would be heavily guarded by his men. By now, they’d know that his dad, and probably Jake too, were trouble. He probably wouldn’t get in through the front door.

Jake exited the lift and headed for the stands, dropping the magazine of bullets into a bin on the way. He walked out through a small tunnel and found himself in one of the corners where the visiting supporters were seated. The game was already in progress and Jake saw the goalkeeper, Emery, launch a long throw to Benalto in midfield.

The VIP box was about fifty yards away and positioned above the main stands. Maybe if he could get below it he could somehow raise the alarm, or climb up. He began to thread his way past grumbling spectators, who had to shift backward to
let him pass by. Halfway along, the crowd all stood in unison and let out a collective gasp. Janné was standing with his head in his hands on the pitch, and the ball was in the stands behind. Jake guessed he’d just missed a sitter.

As the crowd took their seats again, Jake spotted one of Truman’s security team emerging from an entrance tunnel ahead. He was easy to pick out – huge and dressed in black. He was speaking into a walkie-talkie and scanning the stands with a small pair of binoculars. Jake joined the end of a row of seats, pretending to watch the game. From the corner of his eye, he saw more security emerging across the stands.

It looked like Christian Truman had woken up.

The man next to Jake had left his Tigers scarf and hat draped over the back of his seat. While he sat forward and watched Calas chasing a ball towards the corner flag, Jake casually leant behind him, took the scarf and hat, then stood and headed up for the next tier. He wrapped the scarf around his neck and pulled the hat down as low as he could. Now he blended in with the thousands of spectators.

The VIP box was only about twenty yards away and Jake could make out a couple of shapes through the tinted glass. It made perfect sense. Whatever Truman was planning, no one would see the assassin.

The crowd volume was rising. One of the All-Stars raced down the near wing. Another player was waiting in the centre for a pass that would split the Tigers’ defence in two. But Devon Taylor was tracking back with the winger, just a couple of yards behind and gaining. Then he lunged.

The tackle was dreadful. Two-footed, high and from behind. The All-Stars player crashed to the turf, rolling over several times and gripping the back of his knee. Devon stayed down too. The referee sprinted over, reaching for his top pocket. He flourished a red card.

Jake saw his dad shaking his head and talking to the assistant coach. He would be furious. The game was only a friendly – there was no need to tackle like that. What had got into Devon? Had he been watching videos of Roy Keane, or something? Still, though, he didn’t get up. The All-Stars player was now limping away, trying to run off the injury.

Security guards were still scouring the stands, and one brushed right past Jake without spotting him. To move now would be a mistake. Everyone else was in their seats watching the drama unfold below.

Stretcher-bearers had rushed across the field for Devon. It looked like he’d paid a high price for his dangerous tackle.

Taylor was helped on to the stretcher and carried off the
pitch. Jake watched his dad give the stricken player a pat on the shoulder and share a few words, before Devon was taken down the tunnel.

The game settled down again and Jake waited to make his move. It came when the Tigers won a free kick, twenty-five yards out.

Just the kind of distance we were practising the other day
, Jake thought. But didn’t
that
feel like a long time ago?

Benalto stood over the ball as the wall assembled. The crowd hushed.

He ran up, looking to blast it, but instead kicked it with the outside of his boot, square to Lee Po Heng. The defenders and the keeper were completely wrong-footed and the Korean slid the ball neatly along the ground inside the far post. The crowd erupted as Heng lifted both arms and ran towards the dugout in celebration.

One-nil to the Tigers.

Jake took his chance and moved back towards one of the empty exit passages near the VIP box. He got as far as the end of the passage, before a hand landed on his shoulder.

‘Can I help you?’ said the security guard in his native language.

Jake shook his head and pointed to the lavatories. He said ‘toilet’ in Russian.

But the guard was peering at him more closely now and asked to see his ticket.

Reluctantly, Jake pulled out his pass. The guard took one look at the name and gave an ugly smile. He stepped forward and pushed the hat off Jake’s head. ‘Hello, Englishman,’ he said. ‘You are coming with me.’

Behind them, the holding area they were in was completely empty. No one was watching. The guard was only Jake’s height, but probably four stone heavier.

Jake turned to look over his shoulder, but it was just a ruse to give him extra power. As he whipped back round, he brought up his right fist and planted it straight into the guard’s jaw. He hit the sweet spot and the Russian’s head snapped sideways. He staggered towards the wall, but he was already unconscious as he slid down it. Jake flexed his knuckles, feeling like he might not be able to make a fist again for a few weeks.

It wouldn’t be long before the guy was discovered missing. One unanswered call on the walkie-talkie would see to that. Jake managed to get his hands under the guard’s armpits and heaved him towards the toilets. He dragged him, back straining, into one of the cubicles. He leant the man’s head against the toilet bowl.

There was a crackle of radio static from the guard’s jacket.
Jake took out the receiver, which was only the size of a cigarette box, and put it in his back pocket. That way Jake would have an idea when his pursuers were on to him.

Finally, he tucked the guard’s knees up towards his chin, and closed the cubicle door. With any luck, no one would find him until half-time.

Jake padded back out into the holding area. It was all clear.

There was a door marked ‘Private’ halfway along, with an electronic keypad to gain access. By Jake’s calculation, the door would lead to an area directly beneath the VIP box. He tried pushing it, but it didn’t budge. Taking a step back, he lunged with a kick. He only succeeded in jarring his knee.

There has to be another way.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps coming from the left and backed away, moving towards one of the spectator tunnels. He pressed himself up against the wall and peered out. It wasn’t a security guard. A man wearing a hooded top and carrying what looked like a boot-bag was jogging along the holding area. Training staff perhaps. When he reached the private door, he stopped and tapped in a code. There was a tiny electronic beep and he went through. The door began to swing shut behind him.

Jake left his position and sprinted to the door. He slid on to his backside as though stretching to get a toe to a football,
and managed to slip the end of his shoe into the gap in the closing door. He stood up, careful to keep it open with his foot, then placed his eye to the crack.

The room looked to be some kind of maintenance area. There were exposed pipes and fuse boxes against the far wall. The hooded figure was clambering on a pile of cardboard boxes.

What’s he up to?

The man stood up and removed one of the panels from the ceiling, and laid it carefully beside his feet. He then unzipped the boot-bag and pulled out what looked like a smaller shoebox, with a single LED display. Jake swallowed. There was no doubt in his mind.

It was a bomb.

The man flicked a switch, and placed the device into the ceiling space. Jake stepped into the room.

‘What are you doing?’

The figure jerked round.

Jake saw his face and gasped.

It didn’t make any sense at all.

Devon Taylor.

‘Y
ou?’ said Jake. His legs felt weak. Devon was a footballer, not a terrorist.

‘Jake?’ said Devon. ‘What are you doing here?’ He jumped down from the cardboard boxes, landing nimbly. ‘I got lost. This place is a maze, isn’t . . .?’

‘What happened to your injury?’ Jake interrupted.

‘It was nothing.’ Devon smiled. ‘I messed up with the tackle though. The ref had no choice . . .’

‘You did it on purpose,’ said Jake, his mouth just about keeping pace with his brain. What he was saying barely made sense to him, but at the same time he knew it to be true. ‘You got yourself sent off so that you could come here and finish the job.’

A cloud passed over Devon’s face, wiping away his smile. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You’re trying to kill the scientists upstairs,’ Jake snarled.

‘Well, I’m not letting you. You’re not going to get away with this, Devon.’

Devon calmly zipped up the boot-bag. ‘You have no choice,’ he said. ‘As soon as I set the remote detonator,’ he tapped his pocket, ‘it’s a straight countdown to the big bang. The detonation can’t be stopped. Oh, don’t worry, the blast will be isolated to the VIP box and everyone in it. The bomb is sensitive to touch too, so I wouldn’t try anything. If you did . . . well, let’s just say your playing days would be over.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Jake. He was buying time, but his gut seemed to tingle with the need to know just why a superstar footballer was going to murder three scientists. ‘I mean . . . what’s in it for you?’

Devon grinned. ‘Don’t play cute with me. What do you think?’

‘Money?’ said Jake. ‘You’d kill innocent people to get rich?’

‘Hey, Jake,’ said Devon shrugging. ‘Look around you. This stadium, the star players. Football
is
money!’

‘But you already earn millions,’ said Jake. ‘You’ve got the world at your feet.’

Devon fished in his pocket and pulled out something like a small remote control. The detonator.

‘Don’t you see, Jake? I can still have the glittering football
career. But I could have
billions
if my father and I keep Truman Oil at the top.’

Jake didn’t get it. ‘Your
father?’

‘I’m surprised no one’s seen the resemblance,’ said Devon. ‘True, mom was a model – Annalise Taylor – so perhaps that’s where I get my looks from.’

‘Christian Truman . . . he’s your father?’

‘The name can open doors, but I prefer to get where I am on merit.’ Devon was fiddling with the timer. ‘Ten minutes should be about right, d’you agree?’

Jake lunged for the detonator, but Devon was quicker and snatched it away. Jake felt the footballer’s muscled knee slam into his stomach, and fell into a crouch. His breath wouldn’t come. Devon sent another kick into his ribs, and Jack smashed into the stacked boxes.

Devon was crouched beside a toolbox, and pulled out a hammer. Jake struggled on to his knees. ‘You know, Jake, I actually quite liked you and your dad. It’s just a shame you had to get in the way.’

He brought the mallet end of the hammer down in a wide arc. Jake lifted his right arm. The handle caught his wrist and slid off. He drove his left fist into Devon’s groin. Devon howled and stumbled backward, bent double. Jake dived after him, ignoring the dull throb in his gut.

Devon was still holding the detonator in his hand. Jake stamped low on to the back of his knee and he screamed in agony. The detonator fell and skidded along the floor, coming to rest against the wall.

As Devon cradled his knee, Jake went after the device. But Devon caught his ankle and brought him down too. He felt his hair yanked back, and then a sharp shove to the back of his head. His face met the floor nose first and white pain took away his vision. He groaned and rolled over. He felt blood oozing over his top lip, its iron tang filling his mouth.

Jake gagged and spat out his own blood. As his vision cleared he saw Devon standing with the detonator. Jake tried to stand, but couldn’t.

Devon turned a final switch on the timer. Jake heard a corresponding beep from the bomb lodged in the ceiling. ‘See you, Bastin,’ said Devon. He pressed the door release button and was gone.

Jake clambered slowly to his feet. Blood spattered from his nose on to the floor, and he squeezed below the bridge to stop the flow. It didn’t feel broken. He walked as quickly as possible to the boxes and climbed up. The bomb was emitting a low beep every ten seconds or so, and through his watering eyes Jake saw the digital display read
9.36,
counting down at second intervals.