here could well have bolted that way. Had maybe even bolted that way and then got shot.
Danny half crawled, using the table for cover, keeping well below the windows’ line of sight. He pushed through the far door and hurried on down the corridor.
Just as he reached the stairwell, a deafening explosion ripped through the air.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
12.05, GREEN PARK, LONDON W1
Danny hit the ground. He curled into a ball. Smoke billowed past a high barred window as he waited for the rumbling to pass.
What the fuck was that? he wondered.
A surge of doubt. The first since he’d left the suite upstairs. Eyes flickering, he checked his options. The stairwell led up and down. He could run either way, if that was what it took.
Maybe he’d been wrong, he was thinking. Maybe this was turning into a siege. Maybe the people he needed to find really were still here. They’d waited for the cops and ambulances to close in on the dead civilians outside and now they were letting rip with RPGs.
Or maybe the Brits had flipped and decided to storm this place early. FIDO – ‘Fuck it and drive on’. That was the Paras’ unofficial motto. ‘Who Dares Wins’ was the SAS’s. It wasn’t like the Brits exactly had a reputation for shyness when it came to hitting hard and fast.
But here in the centre of London? He guessed they’d be a whole lot more circumspect than that. More likely they’d be shutting this whole section of town down, hoping to snare whatever terrorist faction it was they thought had instigated this attack.
The rumbling dwindled to nothing.
No gunfire followed. No shouts or breaking glass.
‘What the hell was that?’ Danny grabbed his Bluetooth from where it had fallen to the floor.
‘The limo out front,’ the Kid’s voice came back. ‘Or what was left of it. Fuel tank went off. Flipped it on to its back.’
‘I’m at the stairwell. Where next?’
‘Head down to the first landing. Cut through the laundry. Then into the wine cellars and out the other side.’
Danny took the stairs three at a time.
‘Good news,’ said the Kid, as he reached the first landing.
The Kid’s voice was cracking up again. Most likely the phone’s reception dwindling as Danny moved deeper underground.
‘I’ve cross-reffed the sewer maintenance point here on the building plans against the water board’s records, and it’s marked there too,’ he went on.
‘Yeah, well let’s just hope it’s not part of some Victorian system that got bricked up before we were even fucking born …’
The Kid didn’t answer. Which Danny took as a fairly sure indication of his total ignorance on the matter.
Shit. Fucking great …
Danny reached the laundry. All bright ceiling lights and artificial floral scents. He looked round for clothes to change into, but all that caught his eye were wisps of black smoke rising in the corner.
A flat steam iron had been left switched on, pressed down on a bed sheet. Another few minutes and it was sure to catch fire. Danny ran across, raised the iron up from the scorched sheet and pulled its plug from the wall.
Then he was off again. No time to linger. He reached the wine cellar door. Tried it. Found it was locked. Saw it was reinforced too. No sense in trying to knock it down.
Opening his bag, he quickly took out and assembled the lockbuster. It didn’t have a hipper name, on account of the fact that it wasn’t on the market yet. It was a prototype, a thoughtful Christmas gift from an old Company friend now working for a Swiss weapons company that specialized in police, military and intelligence hardware.
Danny slipped the gizmo’s barrel into the door lock and squeezed its trigger. It kicked like a mule, then buzzed. A high-pitched whine of spinning gears and blades was followed by a tortured metallic crack.
Then he was in.
Darkness. The hum of dehumidifiers. Danny took his torch from his bag and scanned the long, low room. An arched brickwork ceiling. Thousands of bottles of wine in
Danny half crawled, using the table for cover, keeping well below the windows’ line of sight. He pushed through the far door and hurried on down the corridor.
Just as he reached the stairwell, a deafening explosion ripped through the air.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
12.05, GREEN PARK, LONDON W1
Danny hit the ground. He curled into a ball. Smoke billowed past a high barred window as he waited for the rumbling to pass.
What the fuck was that? he wondered.
A surge of doubt. The first since he’d left the suite upstairs. Eyes flickering, he checked his options. The stairwell led up and down. He could run either way, if that was what it took.
Maybe he’d been wrong, he was thinking. Maybe this was turning into a siege. Maybe the people he needed to find really were still here. They’d waited for the cops and ambulances to close in on the dead civilians outside and now they were letting rip with RPGs.
Or maybe the Brits had flipped and decided to storm this place early. FIDO – ‘Fuck it and drive on’. That was the Paras’ unofficial motto. ‘Who Dares Wins’ was the SAS’s. It wasn’t like the Brits exactly had a reputation for shyness when it came to hitting hard and fast.
But here in the centre of London? He guessed they’d be a whole lot more circumspect than that. More likely they’d be shutting this whole section of town down, hoping to snare whatever terrorist faction it was they thought had instigated this attack.
The rumbling dwindled to nothing.
No gunfire followed. No shouts or breaking glass.
‘What the hell was that?’ Danny grabbed his Bluetooth from where it had fallen to the floor.
‘The limo out front,’ the Kid’s voice came back. ‘Or what was left of it. Fuel tank went off. Flipped it on to its back.’
‘I’m at the stairwell. Where next?’
‘Head down to the first landing. Cut through the laundry. Then into the wine cellars and out the other side.’
Danny took the stairs three at a time.
‘Good news,’ said the Kid, as he reached the first landing.
The Kid’s voice was cracking up again. Most likely the phone’s reception dwindling as Danny moved deeper underground.
‘I’ve cross-reffed the sewer maintenance point here on the building plans against the water board’s records, and it’s marked there too,’ he went on.
‘Yeah, well let’s just hope it’s not part of some Victorian system that got bricked up before we were even fucking born …’
The Kid didn’t answer. Which Danny took as a fairly sure indication of his total ignorance on the matter.
Shit. Fucking great …
Danny reached the laundry. All bright ceiling lights and artificial floral scents. He looked round for clothes to change into, but all that caught his eye were wisps of black smoke rising in the corner.
A flat steam iron had been left switched on, pressed down on a bed sheet. Another few minutes and it was sure to catch fire. Danny ran across, raised the iron up from the scorched sheet and pulled its plug from the wall.
Then he was off again. No time to linger. He reached the wine cellar door. Tried it. Found it was locked. Saw it was reinforced too. No sense in trying to knock it down.
Opening his bag, he quickly took out and assembled the lockbuster. It didn’t have a hipper name, on account of the fact that it wasn’t on the market yet. It was a prototype, a thoughtful Christmas gift from an old Company friend now working for a Swiss weapons company that specialized in police, military and intelligence hardware.
Danny slipped the gizmo’s barrel into the door lock and squeezed its trigger. It kicked like a mule, then buzzed. A high-pitched whine of spinning gears and blades was followed by a tortured metallic crack.
Then he was in.
Darkness. The hum of dehumidifiers. Danny took his torch from his bag and scanned the long, low room. An arched brickwork ceiling. Thousands of bottles of wine in
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