Lost

The light from the entrance forms a halo around Moley's head. He cocks his face to one side and looks at me with a mixture of apprehension and expectancy. “He did a bad thing, this guy?”

“Yes, he did.”

“You want me to take you in there?”

“Yes.”

Pete gives it five seconds of contemplation and nods his head. It's like he does this every day of the week. Back at the van I call “New Boy” Dave. Glancing at my watch, I realize that Ali will be in surgery. I don't know the exact details but they're going to insert pins into her spine and fuse several vertebrae.

Weatherman Pete has collected some gear from the van—extra flares and his “secret weapon.” He shows me two Ping-Pong balls. “I make these myself. Black powder, flash powder, magnesium ribbon and a drop of candle wax.”

“What do they do?”

“Kerboom!” He grins at me. “Nothing but sound and fury. You should hear one of them go off in a sewer.”

The plan is simple enough. Moley is going to make sure there are no other exits. Once he's in place, he'll set off the flash-bangs and flares.

“We're going to scare the son of a bitch half to death,” he says excitedly.

Pete looks at me. “You got sunglasses—wear them. And don't look at the light. You only have a few seconds to grab him while he's disoriented.”

We give Moley a ten-minute head start. Weatherman Pete and I keep on opposite sides of the tunnel, feeling our way blindly along the walls and stepping in oily puddles and nests of leaves.

Slowly the tunnel begins to change in character. The roof slopes down where the roadway above has been cut into the old ceiling. The Portakabins are just ahead of me. I can see the faint yellow glow of the lantern, leaking around the edges of a window that has been covered up or taped over.

Crouching, I wait for Moley. He could be right next to me and I wouldn't know it. My mouth is dry. For two days I've been popping codeine forte and craving morphine, telling myself my leg doesn't hurt and it's just my imagination.

What happens next wouldn't find a place in many training manuals. The explosion of noise is so sudden and ferocious it feels like I've been shot from a cannon. Darkness turns to light, as a flare of brilliant white arcs overhead and lands in the doorway of the nearest Portakabin.

Squinting into the dazzling ivory, my eyes sting. I see nothing but white. Turning my face away, I begin to move, crossing the last ten feet to the door. The second flash-bang explodes and a shape comes bursting out the entrance, with legs pumping in midair as though trying to gain traction. Blinded by the light, he runs smack into the far wall and almost knocks himself unconscious.

I grab him from behind, locking my arms around his waist. He pitches to the left, arms flailing. Both of us crash into a puddle. I don't let go. Pulling his arm behind his back, I try to put on the cuffs. He snaps his head back like he did to Ali but I'm ready.

Keeping behind him, I straddle his torso and twist his arm until he roars. He's fighting blindly, arching his spine to reach me. I wrap my forearm around his neck, cutting off his windpipe. With my arm squeezing his throat, I add more weight, pushing his face into the floor. He can't breathe. His legs are twitching as if he's made of rubber.

I could kill him now, so easily. I could hold on until he suffocates or I could snap his neck. So what if he dies? It's no great loss to humanity. There won't be any grand achievements left unfulfilled or prizes unclaimed. The only mark Gerry Brandt was ever likely to leave on the world was a bloodstain.

My forearm loosens and I let his head drop. It makes a dull noise against the concrete. He's gasping for breath.

Dragging his other arm behind his back, I snap on the handcuffs and roll away. Stumbling to my feet I look down at him for a moment. Dark hair spikes from his head and pieces of crushed glass are stuck to his cheekbone. A thin line of blood trickles past his ear as the burning flares begin to die out.

There are police sirens in the distance. “Come on, let's get him out of here.”

“Are we going to get in trouble?” asks Moley, falling into step beside Weatherman Pete.

“You'll be fine. Get to the van and let me do the talking.”

We're almost at the end of the tunnel. The gate gives off a hollow clang as it opens. Two armed response vehicles have pulled onto the ramp beside the van. The officers are armed with MP5 carbines. An unmarked police car pulls up alongside them. “New Boy” Dave gets out, along with Campbell who walks like he's got bowling balls down his Y-fronts.

“Arrest him,” he yells, pointing at me instead of my prisoner.

Gerry Brandt raises his head. “I didn't mean to do it. I let her go.”

“Where is she?”

He shakes his head. “I let her go.”

“What did you do with Mickey?”

“You got to tell Mr. Kuznet, I let her go.”