Agent of the State by Roger Pearce Page A

heavy front doors three metres into the hallway as if they were pieces of cardboard. Because the three were pressed to the side of the entrance they escaped the full energy of the explosion. Ramming them into the corner of the stairwell, Justin enveloped mother and child with his body. A tornado scorched his face, then something struck his temple. He had the presence of mind to find his warrant card, then charged with them into the open, holding up his ID and yelling, ‘Police!’ at every gun barrel he could see, shielding them from the devastation around the bombed vehicle and searching for a tree, a wall or a building to protect them from the next explosion.
     
    With Melanie and Fargo in the bus, Kerr stared at the last images of the bomb factory. On the screen they saw Gallagher burst through the door and heard the staccato shots from his weapon before the pictures turned to snow. The building disintegrated a second before the shatterproof windows of the bus blew in. The shockwave tipped the vehicle so far they feared it would overturn. They crashed against the seats and partitions, then hurled themselves to the floor as the bus lurched the other way before righting itself. When they looked again, masonry and lethal shards of glass were still falling to the ground. Just as they thought the horror was over, they saw a man wearing a rucksack fall from the cavity. They felt the bus tip again, thrown sideways by the blast of his bomb.
    ‘Dear God.’ Melanie was staring at the destruction. Smoke was pouring from the space where the wall had been, followed by flames spreading across the ceiling, fanned by the cold air. Dark clouds drifted on the wind, clogging their nostrils with the stench of burning. Then sirens rose with the dust and heat and screams as armoured carriers and ambulances tore past them, ignoring the cordons, racing to capture the perpetrators and search for signs of life.
    ‘Anyone injured?’ shouted Kerr, climbing to his feet, but Fargo was already scrambling for the radio, shouting for Justin on his bodyset. He tried twice, in vain.
    ‘Call his mobile,’ yelled Kerr, as if he might yet save his officer by sheer force of will.
    Fargo wanted to recover his kit, but Kerr ordered them off the bus into his car. The whole area was about to become a media circus, so he needed to get them clear. They were plastered with dust and debris, and Kerr’s jacket was torn, but none would admit to any injuries.
    Justin called as Kerr was driving them to the surveillance rendezvous point and gave his location.
    In the health-centre car park Kerr told Fargo and Melanie to stay in the car while he briefed Langton’s surveillance officers on the attack, then told them to scramble. He asked Langton to collect as much of Fargo’s tech gear from the bus as he could, then wait for him at the Yard. Back in the car with Melanie and Fargo, he parked at the perimeter of the cordon and found Justin among a crowd of walking wounded being shepherded to a fleet of ambulances stacked up in Hoe Street. Rucksack on his back, Justin held a little boy in one arm and comforted the child’s hysterical mother with the other.
    Kerr called to him as he helped them into an ambulance. ‘What happened to you?’ he said, as they walked back to the car.
    ‘I’m fine.’
    ‘Don’t talk bollocks. None of us is fine.’
     
    Back at the Yard, Kerr asked Langton to have Justin checked out and arrange transport home for Melanie and Fargo. He caught Langton looking at him shrewdly. He knew his deputy was thinking about everything else that had tested him that morning. ‘How about you, John?’ said Langton. ‘Are you OK?’
    ‘Yeah. But there’s something else I have to do.’
    The next call Kerr made was to the commander of the Trojans. Once the worst was confirmed, Kerr went with him to break the news to Jim Gallagher’s widow at the neat three-bedroomed semi they had just bought in Croydon. Gallagher had a child of primary-school age