Sudden Death (17 page)

He thought about moving it, but what if Devon was telling the truth and it was touch sensitive? Not only would he kill himself, but the AEB would die anyway. No, there was only one other way. He’d have to find a way to warn them.

9.13.

Jake jumped down, fighting the nausea that made his head swim. Pain would have to wait.

He left the maintenance room and ran out of the holding area and into the lobby. There was a lift at the far end of the tiled reception and the only people there were a businessman wearing a suit and two receptionists. One woman looked at Jake in surprise as he came through. The front of his sweatshirt was covered in blood. She asked if he was OK, but he ignored her, heading straight for the stairs, which were labelled 2a. He ran through the door and up two flights.

He reached the second floor where the VIP box was situated and opened the door. His heart sank. Two security guards were standing either side of the door. Jake knew he didn’t stand a chance in a two-on-one situation with guys their size.

If only I’d kept the gun!

Then he remembered the one weapon he did have. He patted his back pocket and found the radio. It seemed a simple enough device: an off/on switch and a button to transmit.
He held down the button and spoke in his best Texan accent.

‘All guards in the vicinity. This is Truman. Jake Bastin is coming up stairwell 2b. Take him out. That’s Jake Bastin heading to the VIP box on 2b. Over.’

He watched as the two doormen heard the message, shared a few words, then ran in the opposite direction. Jake darted out from his stairwell and made for the VIP area, pulling off his blood-stained sweatshirt as he ran.

Inside, it wasn’t like he expected at all. There were close to two dozen people milling around and watching the game below. A waitress was carrying a tray of champagne glasses. At the back of the room, a buffet was laid out on a candlelit table. He spotted Farrah Evans and Sebastian Groeber laughing together.

How long was left on the timer? He had no idea, but it had to be less than five minutes. He imagined the deadly device ticking away just a few feet below. The murmur of raised voices came from the other side of the door. The guards were back. Jake crept across the back of the room and slipped underneath the tablecloth. The door opened and he saw the feet of one of Truman’s henchmen, encased in massive steel toecap boots.

The man padded across the carpet, presumably carrying out a quick search, then spoke into his radio.

‘No. He’s not here. I don’t get it. Are you saying that wasn’t you?’

He left the room again.

What now?
Jake thought about yelling
bomb!
but he knew the security would insist it was a false alarm. He’d have to force the people to leave. But how?

He peeked out from his hiding place and his eyes fell on the candles. There was nothing like a fire to get people running. He snatched one of the sticks and brought the flame under the dangling edges of the tablecloth. It caught quickly. He did the same further along. Then again. Soon the flames were climbing higher and the walls were beginning to scorch black along the back of the table. Jake crawled out.

‘Champagne, sir?’ asked the waitress, wearing a confused expression. ‘Are you all right, sir? You’re bleeding.’ Her nose twitched, then her eyes widened. ‘Oh my God! Fire!’

Her cries drew glances from everyone. Gasps of surprise went around, and a glass smashed as someone dropped it.

‘Where’s the extinguisher?’ someone shouted in panic. The flames suddenly flared higher. A woman screamed.

Jake spotted an extinguisher against the wall and rushed over. He released the mechanism and pretended to squeeze
the trigger. ‘It’s not working!’ he said. ‘Please, everybody out.’

The door opened and both security guards looked in. ‘What’s going on? What the hell?’

The first of the VIPs pushed past. ‘Are you blind? You have to evacuate people!’ he said. ‘Everyone follow me!’

As the room filled with smoke, the others started pushing towards the door, moving in a hurried procession along a route furthest from the fire. Jake put down the extinguisher. There couldn’t be long left on the timer. ‘Hurry up!’ he shouted over the crackle of flames.

He coughed into his sleeve as the waitress joined the guards at the back of the line and then went after her, helping to usher the others more quickly.

Outside, he spotted Groeber and Rei together, and rushed up to them.

‘Where’s Professor Evans?’ he asked.

Groeber shook his head. ‘She must be here somewhere. She was inside.’

Jake dashed among the assembled VIPs. Evans wasn’t there.

She must still be inside!

Jake pushed open the door. The heat inside was intense. Flames licked angrily across the ceiling and smoke swirled like thick fog. He saw patches of the green pitch beyond,
which then vanished behind the grey shroud. There was no oxygen at all.

‘Professor!’ Jake shouted.

A weak moan drew him deeper into the smoke and he saw movement on the far side of the room. It was Farrah Evans. The elderly scientist was lying on the floor, spluttering into her hand.

Jake rushed over and scooped her up. She was a lot lighter than the security guard he’d dragged into the toilet, but the smoke was now so thick he couldn’t draw a breath. He couldn’t even see the door.

He tripped over a step but managed to stay upright, and with his back against the wall, found the door. In the corridor, panicked faces were gathered at the far end, the security guards amongst them. Jake’s head felt heavy and his eyes stung as he stumbled towards them.

Something shoved him hard in the back, lifting his whole body like a powerful wave.
The bomb.
A deafening roar seemed to press his head like a vice, and his eardrums felt ready to burst. It was like being trapped in a tunnel with a freight train thundering past, rattling every bone. The sound and the sensation were one.

Powerless, Jake sprawled forward, spilling Professor Evans on the carpet.

D
ebris filled the corridor and Jake struggled to breathe.

Figures appeared ahead, shadows in the gloom, and then two people were helping Professor Evans off the floor. She looked shaken, but Jake couldn’t see any blood.

Another of the VIPs, a woman with red curly hair and spectacles, was crouched in front of him, holding out a hand. Her lips were moving, but Jake couldn’t hear anything but the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

‘I can’t hear you,’ he said, pointing to his ears. His own voice sounded like it was being spoken through a microphone.

The woman nodded and helped Jake to his feet. His clothes were covered in dust and something like soot, and he staggered in the direction of the stairs. The rest of the VIPs were gathered there. As he approached, sounds returned to him as though he was hearing them from underwater – distorted voices, the muffled sound of weeping. Then, over
all of this, the fire alarm going off, insistent and blaring. Jake gritted his teeth, feeling a mixture of anxiety and sheer frustration: he had saved the scientists’ lives, but they were still very much in danger.

‘You all need to get out of the stadium,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe here. Take the stairs to the lobby and out into the car park.’

‘Who are you?’ said one man. ‘And what just happened? Was that a bomb?’

‘There isn’t time to explain,’ said Jake. ‘Just go.’

To his relief, the crowd seemed to listen and began to file on to the stairs, leaning against each other or holding hands, glancing anxiously around. Jake followed them.
I need to find my dad.
The reception area was already bustling with worried-looking staff, and fans were streaming through from the holding areas, pale-faced and anxious. Orderlies were pointing them in the direction of the main doors. Jake went against the flow, nudging through. When he reached the door to the area behind the stands, a member of staff put his hand across Jake’s chest and said in Russian: ‘You have to leave. There’s a fire.’

‘I left my bag in there,’ said Jake, then immediately cursed himself for such a lame excuse.

‘We’re evacuating,’ the man said, without any emotion or expression.

‘OK,’ said Jake, backing away.

But as soon as the man turned his attention elsewhere, Jake ploughed into him.

‘Stop!’ the man said. Jake was already pushing on through the flow of people. He got through to the holding area, which was thronged with supporters jostling for the exits. Parents were holding on to their children’s hands, and people who’d fallen were being helped to their feet. Jake made for the nearest tunnel and elbowed his way into the stands.

A voice sounded over the tannoy, first in Russian. He guessed roughly what was being said before the English translation followed: ‘Please remain calm. Make your way to the exits in an orderly manner.’

The voice was Popov’s. He was standing in the middle of the pitch, dressed in a navy blue suit and with a cordless microphone in his hand.

‘There is nothing to be alarmed about,’ he said. ‘Please do not run.’

Some of the players were still on the pitch, standing in small groups near the home goal. Orderlies in fluorescent jackets were roaming around Popov. By the dugouts, Jake saw his dad being watched closely by two security guards. He had to get closer to him.

‘Dad . . .’ he murmured. Jake slipped into one of the rows
of seats and climbed over the top to the row below. It was quicker than using the main aisles, which were packed with people rushing the other way. He found he could balance on the backrest of each seat and step down that way. There was still smoke rising from the wreckage of the VIP box, which had been blown apart. Jake could see the insides of the room exposed – black and charred.

He looked to the dugout again, but there was something wrong. The guards were
too
close to his dad. One of them shoved him in the back, and he could see his dad’s body language change.

Jake caught a glint of metal in the security guard’s hand.

A gun!

Jake watched in horror as his dad nodded, and made his way into the passage behind the dugout. The security guards followed closely behind and he remembered Truman’s order to ‘relieve’ Jake’s dad of his position . . .

Jake bounded over the remaining rows, and vaulted over the advertising hoardings on to the pitch. One of the brightly-dressed groundsmen shouted something, but he didn’t hear and sprinted across the turf. Popov was being led off the pitch as well, his back to Jake.

Jake reached the dugout and plunged inside, up the tunnel and past the dressing rooms. He saw his dad being
pushed into a lift. As the three men turned, Jake pulled back, catching his breath, willing his heart to slow down just a bit before it exploded in his chest. He heard the lift doors close and thought it safe to come out. The display beside the CALL button read
1
then
2,
counting off the floors.

They’re taking him up to Popov’s office. To Truman.

Jake thought fast. He couldn’t go straight up after them. They’d only kill his dad, then him. No, he had to do something unexpected. There was only one other way to Popov’s office, and Jake knew it well.

I had to climb down last time. Now it’s time to climb up.

At the back of the stands, he found the spot directly beneath Popov’s over-hanging office. It looked more daunting this way: a straight climb twenty metres up. Jake rubbed his hands together and started to climb up on the massive bolts and rivets. It was just like the climbing wall at school – except here Jake would die if he fell. But then he reached the point where the A-frame joined the outer wall of the stadium.

You can do it,
he told himself.

Jake wrapped one hand round the bottom of the stanchion, then the other. He heaved himself up, and managed to wrap his legs round the metal. Then he inched
up, using his legs to push him along and his arms to keep his upper body against the steel support.

By the time he reached the top of the stanchion his arms were trembling with the effort. He didn’t know if he’d have it in him to do the last, tricky part. The office floor was now directly above his head and the lip of the outer sill was two feet away, hidden from view. Jake was grateful at least that this part of the ground was in shadow – no one would see him from the great expanse of the pitch below. Jake let go with one hand, tightened his grip with his legs, and felt for the handhold on the outer wall of the office. He found it – the windowsill.

Now or never!
he thought.

He locked the fingers of his right hand over the lip and let go of the stanchion with his left. Scrambling, he managed to get that one in place too, so he had both hands gripping the window ledge, and his legs still wrapped around the stanchion.

He released his legs to swing free below.

One last pull!

Breathing heavily, Jake dragged himself up on to the ledge, straining every last muscle in his arms. He gripped the edges of the outer wall until his knuckles were white, trying to catch his breath. Already he could hear voices from inside. The glass was still cracked from the wayward bullet.

Jake edged along the sill to the glass and peered inside.

His dad was standing in the corner of the room with his hands cuffed behind his back. One of the security guards was pointing a gun at him. The other was seated on the corner of the desk, with his back to Jake.

‘What the hell is going on?’ his dad said. ‘Why’s this idiot pointing a gun at me?’ Jake couldn’t tell who he was speaking to at first, but then Christian Truman stepped into view. He must have been in the small bathroom, because he was holding a bloodied white towel to the side of his head. He’d taken off his jacket and was wearing a white shirt. He walked up to Jake’s dad, drew back his fist and punched him in the stomach. Jake flinched at the brutal blow, but kept a firm grip on the ledge. He watched as his dad fell to his knees.

‘Don’t play innocent with me, Bastin,’ Truman said. ‘We both know exactly what’s going on here.’