The Edge by Nick Hale Page B

Robbie.’
    ‘Well, if you want to check my dirty laundry, you’re welcome,’ said Roberto, laughing. Jake expected light to flood in at any moment.
    ‘He’s right,’ said another voice. ‘This is BS. Let him through.’
    ‘Thanks, guys,’ said Roberto. ‘See you in a couple of days. Hopefully Alcatraz will have chilled out by then.’
    The guards’ laughs were drowned as the engine revved and they were on their way again. Jake breathed out. Too close.
    They drove for about five minutes. The smell of stale sweat and body odour was overwhelming. Jake tried to hold his breath. When Roberto killed the engine, they heard his door open, and footsteps round the side of the van.
    ‘Now!’ His dad pointed to the hatch leading through from the rear into the driver’s area. Jake went first, squeezing through into the passenger seat and gasping for fresh air. The back doors of the truck opened as his dad slid through after him. Roberto had left the driver’s door open, and Jake peered out into a yard. They were at the rear of a building, and steam was spiralling out of several vents. Empty laundry carts were stacked near a wide set of double doors.
    Jake couldn’t see anyone around. Beyond was a sidestreet lined with cars. He signalled for his dad to follow, and they climbed out of the truck and darted across the yard. In less than thirty seconds they were on the street, just a father and son out for a stroll.
    ‘Where are we going exactly?’ Jake asked.
    ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ his dad said as he hailed a cab. They climbed in. ‘Hannigan’s, corner of Southwest Seventh Avenue and Fourth,’ he said.
    ‘You sure?’ said the driver, eying them in the mirror. ‘Wouldn’t think it’s your kind of place. You look, well, too sober.’
    ‘I’m sure,’ his dad insisted.
    They drove across the city and into an area of rundown condos and cracked pavements with weeds sprouting up between. Even the sun looked a little less bright on this side of town. Many of the shops were closed with faded graffiti sprayed on metal shutters. The streets were mostly empty except for clusters of dodgy men hanging around the street corners.
    The cab driver pulled up outside a shuttered bar with a giant green shamrock hanging over the door. ‘I’d like to say “enjoy yourself",’ said the driver, ‘but I think that’d be a long shot.’
    Once Jake’s dad had paid and they’d both climbed out, the cab beat a speedy retreat. ‘What is this place?’ Jake asked.
    ‘It’s a state-of-the-art covert surveillance facility, jointlyoperated by the CIA and MI6,’ his dad deadpanned as he walked inside.
    It took Jake’s eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom of the interior. There were a couple of customers hunched over their drinks at separate tables. They’d probably been there long enough to gather dust.
    The girl behind the bar was Japanese, but she must have been wearing contacts because her eyes were an unsettling blue shimmer in the bar lowlights.
    ‘Hey, Steve,’ she said. The accent was pure London.
    ‘Francesca,’ his dad said, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Beautiful, as always.’
    ‘Why, thank you,’ she said, beaming. ‘Doesn’t hurt to make an effort, even if the surroundings leave something to be desired.’ She waved a perfectly manicured hand round the bar. ‘Rick’s waiting for you.’
    Jake stared at the rest of the clientele. That would have to be some serious undercover if any of these guys were spooks.
    Jake’s dad led the way past the end of the bar and through a curtain. There was an old-fashioned service lift at the end of a corridor littered with crates of empty beer bottles. A mop and bucket were propped up in one corner, and the whole place smelled of stale booze and cigarette smoke.
    Jake’s dad pulled aside the bars on the lift, and climbedinside. It creaked ominously. ‘You coming?’ he asked.
    Jake took a tentative step to stand beside his father. ‘You sure this is