The Ultimate Truth (17 page)

‘Get the door open,’ I heard Zanetti tell him.

There was still no reply from Gough, but a few seconds later the door handle turned and the door rattled in its frame. I imagined Gough on the other side, yanking on the handle, trying the door,
assessing its strength. I knew it wouldn’t be long before he started trying to smash it open.

Every cell in my body was telling me to run, just turn round right now and get out of here as quickly as possible, but I forced myself to resist the urge.
Just think about things for a
second
, I told myself.
Think about what you’re doing. Do you really need to run away? What’s going to happen if you don’t? Are Zanetti and Gough going to hurt you?

Something heavy thumped against the door then, and I saw it bend outwards, straining against the frame. Gough had obviously found something to use as a battering ram.

Time was running out.

Maybe you shouldn’t run?
I said to myself.
Maybe you should stay here and talk to them after all? You never know, you might get some answers . . .

Gough hammered the door again, and this time it bent even further.

Can you trust them?
I asked myself.

I remembered what Grandad had told me.
Never trust a spook, Trav.

As the door took another pounding, and I heard the sound of cracking wood, I turned and ran for the front door.

I suppose I should have realised that Zanetti and Gough would have a contingency plan, and I probably should have realised what Zanetti was doing when I’d heard her
talking in the garage, her voice calm and controlled. I should have known that she wasn’t just talking to Gough. I should have at least considered that she’d told him to switch off the
jammer and then used her mobile to call for back-up.

If I’d thought about that, I wouldn’t have been quite so surprised when I opened the front door and found myself facing a giant-sized man wearing a black suit and wrap-around
sunglasses.

One of the first things Dad taught me about boxing was that speed is more important than size. ‘It doesn’t matter how big your opponent is,’ he told me.
‘If you’re fast enough to hit them without getting hit yourself, you’re going to beat them every time.’ And he was right. It was how I’d beaten Evie Johnson and
countless other kids over the years. But none of those kids was anywhere near the size of the CIA agent standing in front of me. I mean, he was just
massive
. At least six and a half feet
tall, huge shoulders, a great solid barrel of a chest, arms as thick as my waist, hands the size of shovels. He was so big that he completely filled the doorway. And the instant I saw him, I knew
straight away that it
did
matter how big he was. It was obvious. He was simply too big to punch. Even if I could reach his head, which I doubted, my little fists wouldn’t make any
impression on that giant-sized skull. And a punch to his belly would be about as effective as punching a whale.

Not that I actually
thought
about any of this.

I just opened the door, saw this man-mountain on the step, and in a split second my instincts told me what to do.
Do what Grandad would do
, they told me.
Fight dirty. He might be big,
but he’s still just a man. Every man’s got a weak spot.

I backed away, making sure I looked really scared of him – which wasn’t difficult – then I turned round and started running down the hallway. As soon I heard him stumbling
after me, I quickly changed direction – stopping on the spot, spinning round, and running back towards him. His sunglasses had mirrored lenses, so I couldn’t actually see the look of
surprise in his eyes, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t expecting me to turn on him. Which was why, just for a second, he hesitated.

A second was all I needed.

As he lumbered to a halt and just stood there staring at me, not quite sure what I was doing, I ran up to him, feinted to one side, then dipped my shoulder the other way and kicked him as hard
as I could between his legs. I put all my weight and momentum into it, imagining that I was volleying a football into the top corner of the net, and from the sound the big man made as he doubled
over and fell to his knees – a deep, breathless, pitiful groan of agony – I knew I’d put him out of action.

He didn’t do anything to stop me as I squeezed past him and ran for the door. He was too busy trying to breathe.

My bike was just where I’d left it, leaning against the wall. As I sprinted over to it, my head was spinning with a crazy mixture of relief, disbelief, and sheer
exhilaration. I couldn’t quite believe that I’d done it. I’d actually
done
it. I’d outmanoeuvred Zanetti and Gough, I’d neutralised their giant-sized back-up .
. .

I’d beaten the CIA.

I mean, how mad was that?

I’d beaten the CIA!

All I had to do now was get on my bike and get going.

But that was the last positive thought I had.

Because as I reached my bike and grabbed hold of the handlebars, I saw that both of the tyres had been slashed to ribbons, and all of a sudden I was back in the real world again. Of
course
I hadn’t beaten the CIA. Who the hell did I think I was? They were the CIA. I was just a kid. They knew every trick in the book. I was making things up as I went along. They
didn’t just have contingency plans, they had contingency plans for their contingency plans . . .

Pull yourself together
, I told myself.
So they slashed your tyres. So what? You can still run, can’t you? You can still beat them.

I started to run.

Just as I got going I heard a crash of wood from inside the house, and I guessed that Gough had succeeded in smashing down the garage door. I ran faster, pelting along the driveway towards the
gate, hoping to get out of sight before Zanetti and Gough came out of the house. If they didn’t know which way I’d gone, I might still have a chance of getting away. I knew the streets
round here like the back of my hand. I knew all the little tracks and lanes, the shortcuts and pathways, the places where cars couldn’t go. I was already picturing them in my mind as I got to
the gate. I was already planning out my escape route – turn right at the gate, along Dane Street, left at the end, then over the road and cut down the cycle path into the kids’
playground . . .

I saw the men getting out of the Range Rover just as I was turning right out of the gate. Two more black-suited men, undoubtedly CIA agents, their eyes fixed on me as they got out of their car
and started walking along the street towards me. I turned round and started running in the opposite direction . . . then stopped again. Another two CIA agents were blocking the pavement up ahead,
about twenty metres away. As I stood there staring at them, they began walking towards me as well.

I glanced back at the other two. They were fifteen metres away.

I heard a shout, looked over my shoulder, and saw Zanetti and Gough coming out of the house.

I was trapped again.

Two men to my left, two to my right, Zanetti and Gough behind me.

Nowhere to go.

And they were all closing fast.

Fifteen metres away . . . twelve . . .

My only option was to just go for it. Just run. Right or left, it didn’t matter. Just run at them, get past them, and keep going.

Ten metres . . .

Could I get past them?

Nine . . .

Probably not. Almost definitely not.

Eight . . .

And even if I did . . .

Seven . . .

Don’t think. Just do it.

I took a breath, got ready to run . . . and then stopped at the sound of a speeding car. I looked down the road to my right and saw a black BMW with tinted windows racing up the street. It
didn’t slow down as it approached the two CIA agents, and if they hadn’t leaped out of the way at the last moment, hurling themselves into the gutter, the BMW would have run them
over.

I watched, bewildered, as the BMW screeched to a halt right in front of me. The rear door was already opening as the car pulled up, and by the time it had stopped – with the engine still
revving – the door was wide open. As I stood there, rooted to the spot, a calm voice called out to me from the back of the car.

‘Can I offer you a lift, Travis?’

I’d never heard the voice before, but I was fairly sure who it belonged to. And as I leaned over and looked inside, my suspicions were confirmed. The man in the back of the car had short
grey hair and steely grey eyes, and he was wearing the same dark suit he’d worn to the funeral.

There were two other men in the car. I didn’t recognise the one in the passenger seat, but the driver was the man with the shaved head who’d called himself Owen Smith. The man
who’d come to the office and told Courtney that he was from an insurance company.

I heard raised voices then, people shouting, people running . . . the CIA agents.

The man in the car smiled at me and said, ‘I’d say you’ve got about four seconds left to make up your mind, Travis. Get in the car and get some answers, or stay here and take
your chances with the CIA. It’s up to you.’ He glanced over my shoulder. ‘Two seconds . . .’

I stared at him, my mind racing.

There was no way I was getting into the car. I wasn’t that stupid. The last thing I’d ever do was get into a car full of rogue security agents, one of whom had violated my
parents’ funeral, while another had already lied to me about who he was and what he was doing. I mean, how dumb would I have to be to even
think
about getting into a car with people
like that?

I sensed rather than heard the movement behind me, and as Gough made a grab for me, looping his arm round my neck, I spun away from him, breaking his grip, and before I knew what I was doing,
I’d thrown myself into the back of the car.

It took off like a rocket, flinging me against the back of the seat, and for the next thirty seconds or so, everything went crazy.

The BMW accelerated up through the gears, the powerful engine screaming, and then almost immediately the driver hit the brakes and the car skidded to a stop again. The force of the sudden
braking sent me flying forward, and as I half-rolled and half-slid into the back of the passenger seat, I heard two muffled bangs in quick succession –
bang! bang!
– like the
explosive crack of fireworks. The sound seemed to come from the passenger seat, but as I wriggled around and tried to sit up to see what was happening, Shaved Head slammed the BMW into reverse,
looked over his shoulder, and started reversing up the street at top speed. The sudden movement threw me off balance again and I fell back down to the floor. With the car still reversing, I twisted
round, got hold of an arm rest, and pulled myself up onto the back seat. This time, when Shaved Head hit the brakes, I managed to stay upright.

And this time I could see what was happening.

We’d stopped right next to the CIA’s Range Rover, and the man in the passenger seat of the BMW was leaning out of the window with a pistol in his hand. He aimed the gun at the Range
Rover and quickly shot out both offside tyres –
bang! bang!

‘OK,’ the gunman said, leaning back in and winding up the window. ‘Let’s go.’

Shaved Head swung the BMW round, mounting the pavement and knocking over a wheelie bin, then he put his foot down and we sped off down the street.

‘Are you all right?’ the grey-eyed man asked me.

Up close, I could see that he was older than I’d first thought. His stony face was lined with wrinkles, his grey hair was peppered with white. Although at first sight he seemed kind of
tired and worn out, there was something about him, something indefinable, that simply exuded power and confidence. He was the type of man, I guessed, who was always in control and never needed to
raise his voice to get anything done.

‘Travis?’ he said calmly. ‘Are you OK?’

I nodded, glancing out of the car window at the passing fields and hedges. We were heading out of Kell Cross into the surrounding countryside.

‘Where are we going?’ I said.

‘That’s up to you,’ Grey Eyes said. ‘All you have to do is say the word and we’ll drop you off wherever you want.’ He smiled. ‘Within reason, of course.
I mean, if you asked to go back to the house in Kell Cross, I’d probably have to say no. But anywhere else – your grandparents’ house, the office in North Walk . . . like I said,
it’s entirely up to you.’

‘What if I don’t want to go anywhere?’

He shrugged. ‘We could just drive around for a while, enjoy the scenery, have a little chat about things.’

‘What things?’

‘I think you know the answer to that.’

I glanced at my watch. It was 7.55 a.m. Nan and Grandad usually get up around eight, eight thirty. So if I went home right now, I might just get in without them knowing I’d been anywhere.
I looked around at the three men in the car. Shaved Head, the gunman, Grey Eyes. Was I safe with them? If it had just been Shaved Head and the gunman, I would have said no. I wouldn’t trust
those two to tell me the right time. But Grey Eyes was different. I was pretty sure that he was just as ruthless and dangerous as the other two, if not more so, but my instincts told me that
underneath it all he was essentially a good and decent man.

The question was – could I trust my own instincts?

Should I take a risk in the hope that I might get some answers?

Or should I just go home?

Of course, there was always the possibility that Grey Eyes was lying through his teeth, and that he had no intention of taking me wherever I wanted to go. I looked at him, remembering
Mum’s advice about judging people by their appearance. Was I misjudging him? Was the decency that I thought I could see in him just a carefully crafted disguise?

‘I’ll talk to you on one condition,’ I said to him.

‘And what’s that?’

‘You tell me what you were doing at my parents’ funeral. Agreed?’

He nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

His name, he told me, was Winston – which I didn’t believe for one second – and the reason he gave for being at the funeral was pretty much what I’d
expected.