Simon Kernick - Ultimatum

The police car veered across the road and stopped next to him, the driver sticking his head out of the window, a sour, accusatory look on his face. Obviously he wanted to get back to chasing terrorists.

‘The hotel! I saw a man!’ stammered Voorhess, approaching the car.

When he was only a foot away, he drew the.22 that he’d used to kill Mr Butt’s girlfriend from beneath his overalls, pressed the barrel against the surprised officer’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. The man gasped and fell back in his seat, and Voorhess leaned down so he had a view of the officer in the passenger seat — a young man in his early twenties with a pallid complexion — and shot him in the face as he went for the door handle, putting a second bullet in his chest for good measure.

Already he could hear another siren coming closer, and he knew he was going to have to move fast. Putting the gun back in his overalls he ran round to the back of the car and opened the trunk, throwing in the holdall containing his possessions. Then, taking a quick look round to check there were no witnesses, he pulled the driver from the seat, hauled him over to the boot and bundled him inside, grabbing his cap in the process.

A second cop car was approaching fast now, coming the other way, barely a hundred yards distant and closing, and it took all of Voorhess’s self-control to put on the cap, jump in the driver’s side and pull away from the kerb and back on to the left-hand side of the road.

The approaching cop car slowed as it came closer, which was when Voorhess heard groaning coming from the seat beside him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the young, pallid-faced cop lean forward in his seat, blood pouring down his face, making a keening sound, and trying to lift an arm, clearly some distance away from being dead.

Slamming his arm into the injured officer’s chest and knocking him back in the seat, Voorhess nodded towards the other cops as the two cars passed each other, blocking the view of their injured colleague as he accelerated down the road.

Only when he’d put a bit of distance between them did he let go of the young cop, who was wriggling and gasping in his seat like a zombie from a cheap horror film. Slowing the car, Voorhess pulled the.22 free, shoved it against the cop’s temple and pulled the trigger.

Which was the moment the radio crackled into life, the caller asking for the current location of the car Voorhess was driving.

‘Bravo Four, do you copy?’ asked an anxious male voice. ‘We have just heard gunshots. Bravo Four. Please respond. Over.’

With a sigh, Voorhess pulled the unit free from its stand and threw it out of the window, wondering if he was ever going to get out of this Godforsaken city in one piece.

20.06

The squad cars were arriving in force now, blocking the road at both ends. The problem was, thought Tina ruefully, they were far too late. It had been at least ten minutes since the black Shogun had disappeared into the night, and so far it hadn’t been located, even though dozens of police vehicles and a helicopter had now joined the search, and every minute that passed meant their terrorist was getting further and further away.

Initial reports from Control suggested that there were as many as fifty casualties from the strike on the Shard, including at least two MPs and a well-known TV reporter, but so far there was no word on how many of them were fatalities.

Tina and Bolt were now coordinating the evacuation of all the properties within a fifty-yard radius of the house from where the missile had been fired, in case there were further suspects inside.

‘The house belongs to a Mr Azim Butt,’ Tina told Bolt as she finished leading a couple and their two young children beyond the thin strip of scene-of-crime tape that acted as the edge of their cordon. ‘Thirty-one years old, and keeps himself to himself. According to the neighbours, he’s lived here for about eighteen months. They reckon he’s got a girlfriend who’s often here too.’

Bolt nodded. ‘That tallies with what Control have found out about him. He owns a couple of businesses supplying imported goods to the restaurant and retail trades. Makes OK money, but he’s got a three-hundred-grand mortgage on the house. He’s got no criminal record, and his name doesn’t come up on any watchlists, but he is a Muslim.’

‘He definitely wasn’t the man I saw drive out in the Shogun. The man I saw was white, early or possibly mid-forties, weather-beaten features. Big build too, whereas Mr Butt is supposedly only a little guy.’

‘So, who the hell is he?’ Bolt frowned, the lines on his face looking more pronounced than Tina could remember. He still looked shaken up by everything that had happened, and she could tell that he was trying hard not to show it.

‘Whoever he is, he’s got to be someone with a military background. You need to be trained to fire a Stinger. Not any idiot can do it. And he didn’t panic when we tried to intercept him either.’

‘We’ll get him,’ said Bolt emphatically. ‘He won’t get far with half the Met on his back.’

Tina resisted saying that he’d managed pretty well so far. Instead, she turned and walked back through the cordon to carry on helping with the evacuation. Fox had claimed the people behind Islamic Command were homegrown extremists, which would explain why the man leaving the property was white. And they’d already established a link between Fox and Islamic Command via Jetmir Brozi. But she still felt they were missing something. And she wanted to know where the hell the owner, Mr Butt, was.

A uniformed cop was approaching the suspect property, completely against all the rules. As Tina watched, he leaned down and peered in through the letterbox.

‘Hey, get back from there,’ she called to him, knowing it was hypocritical of her to criticize a fellow cop for breaking the rules, when she’d made a career out of it, but knowing too that the terrorists had left a booby-trapped bomb for the police earlier, and might easily have done so again. ‘No one’s going in there until bomb disposal arrive.’

The cop turned back to her, his expression anxious. ‘But there’s someone in there, and he’s crying out for help.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Tina, walking down the drive and grabbing him by the arm. ‘We’ve got to be really careful here. It could be a trap.’

‘He sounds like he’s in trouble, ma’am.’

‘OK, but get back.’

She looked over to where Mike Bolt was now talking to a group of CO19 officers who’d just arrived on the scene, then bent down and opened the letterbox.

She heard it immediately: the faint sound of a man calling out from somewhere within the house, the fear in his voice obvious.

‘This is the police,’ she called out. ‘Is that Mr Butt?’

He didn’t answer so she repeated herself, louder this time.

There was a pause, and then he shouted back, ‘Yes. You’ve got to help me. I’m trapped.’

‘I hear you. We’ll be with you very soon.’

She stood up and waved at Bolt to get his attention.

Voorhess pulled up to the entrance of the park, and parked the police car against the fence in the shelter of some trees where it would be difficult to see it from the road. Sirens were still blaring in all directions but he no longer took any notice of them. Instead, he grabbed his holdall from the trunk, and climbed over the fence and into the park. He moved swiftly in the darkness towards the other side, forcing himself to stay calm, even though he felt more than ever like a hunted animal.

He needed to cause a diversion by detonating the bomb at Mr Butt’s house. The police would be gathered round it now, making their final preparations for entry, and he was sure to catch a few of them with the explosion. With any luck, he’d also hit the woman who’d seen him.