Simon Kernick - Ultimatum

He pulled the mobile from his pocket and speed-dialled the number of the phone attached to the battery pack inside the bomb, wondering if he’d be able to hear the dull thud of the explosion from where he was now.

‘What the hell are you doing? Get back from there!’

Bolt marched towards Tina, waving her away from Butt’s front door, thinking that she was like a naughty schoolkid sometimes, always delving into places where she shouldn’t be going. He could feel his legs shaking beneath him as he walked. He felt dizzy, and was still having difficulty coming to terms with the fact that he’d almost been crushed to death only a few minutes earlier. Above the buildings in the distance, he could see the thick black plume of smoke pumping out of the upper floors of the Shard into the night sky — a brutal reminder of the attack he hadn’t prevented. If only he’d reacted quicker, if only he’d kept a better eye on Jones, and had him followed to the meeting where they’d got the missile. If only he’d worked harder these past few months to catch the people behind the Stanhope siege, then he might not be here. But he’d failed. It was as simple as that, and he only had himself to blame.

‘Mr Butt’s inside,’ said Tina, coming forward to meet him. ‘He’s calling out saying he’s trapped, and he sounds scared.’

‘Just get back from there, and keep going with the evacuation. Bomb disposal are on the way. It’s best just to leave it to them now.’

She nodded and turned away, while Bolt looked up at the house. If Butt was involved in the attack, the only reason he’d still be inside would be to ambush them, presumably in some kind of suicide attack when they broke into his house. Yet, how was he connected to Cain and Cecil Boorman? The whole thing didn’t make sense.

The explosion that ripped through the first floor of the house in a single blinding roar sent Bolt flying backwards and tumbling over the low wall separating the front of the property from the pavement. He remembered feeling a wave of hot air rush over him, followed by the sound of pieces of masonry falling around him with strangely dull thuds — all in the space of half a second. And then he felt a sharp, sudden pain, and the world seemed to fade out.

20.12

Voorhess heard the faint sound of the bomb blast, but took no notice as he ran through the darkness of the park, keeping to the single line of trees that ran alongside the main path, using them for camouflage. In his youth, he’d been a good middle- to long-distance runner, having always been too big to be a sprinter, and he still jogged four times a week round the rugged coastal paths of the Cape close to where he lived. As a result, he was able to keep his tiredness in check. He’d always found that running calmed him, and allowed him to think. But now, for the first time in a long time, he felt the pressure of what was going on around him.

A police helicopter had already passed close to the edge of the park. If it came directly over, which it would do soon enough, its heat-sensing equipment would locate him, and once he was in its sights it would be locked on to him until he was caught. He had to get back among other people where he’d be just one of many heat sources. It was his only option, because he was terrified of small spaces. Of being trapped. Prison represented a worse fate for him than death itself. At least death was quick. Years held in a cell seemed to him to be the most barbaric form of torture.

He decided then that he wouldn’t be taken alive.

He heard the helicopter turning somewhere behind him, and then the sound of its rotors drawing closer. The southern boundary of the park was barely thirty yards away, and he could see the lights of a car driving past on the other side. He redoubled his pace, sprinting with every last scrap of energy he had.

The gate was locked but he vaulted straight over it. The helicopter was getting closer now. Soon it would pick up his heat source and that would be it. The end.

Twenty yards to his right, a small hatchback car was stopped at a red light, the heavy beat of mindless music booming out from inside. Two other cars were stopped at the lights on the other side, all waiting for a young couple to cross the road. The hatchback was revving its engine impatiently as Voorhess slowed down and jogged over to the passenger door, trying to look as casual as possible, banking that on an old car like this the door would be unlocked. The lights started flashing orange, just as the helicopter came hurtling over the park, and Voorhess yanked open the door and jumped unceremoniously inside, before the driver had a chance to pull away.

The driver — young, white and pimply — stared at Voorhess with his mouth hanging open.

‘Drive,’ growled Voorhess, producing the.22 and shoving it in the kid’s ribs.

The kid stared at the gun, made a pathetic mewing noise, then did exactly what he was told as the helicopter passed overhead, loud and close.

20.13

The whole world sounded muffled to Tina, as if someone had stuffed her ears full of cotton wool. She got to her feet unsteadily and looked around. Everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion, their voices sounding distant and alien as they hurried towards her.

It took her a few seconds to de-scramble her senses and work out what had happened. The bomb blast had come as she’d been crossing the road, its force, and her own instincts, sending her sprawling across the concrete. She looked back to see the first floor of Azim Butt’s house completely ablaze, with gouts of flame and thick plumes of smoke pouring out of the blackened window frames. Chunks of masonry of varying sizes, from half bricks to foot-square lumps, some on fire, dotted the road in front of the building, and Tina was immediately relieved she hadn’t been hit by one of them.

And then, as her eyes focused on the scene, she saw a body in front of the garden wall.

Shit. Mike .

Feeling a rush of panic, Tina ran over to where he lay and knelt down beside him. His eyes were closed and there was a cut on the back of his head that was leaking blood, but it was difficult to tell how deep it was. She called his name, hardly able to hear the sound of her own voice, still partially deafened by the blast, terrified that something had happened to him, and appreciating at the same time the depth of her feelings for him.

Then his eyes opened and he stared up at her and she had this sudden urge to lean down and kiss him.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, trying hard to keep the air of desperation out of her voice.

‘I think so.’

He started to get up, but his legs went from under him and he stumbled into Tina, almost knocking her over.

‘It’s all right, I’ve got you,’ she said, just about managing to hold him up.

Turning round, she shouted for help, and a group of CO19 officers ran over, followed closely by two paramedics with a stretcher.

‘Christ, my head hurts,’ said Bolt as he was lifted on to the stretcher by the assembled group.

‘Don’t worry,’ said one of the paramedics, ‘we’ll have you in the hospital in no time.’

Bolt shook his head, squinting against the pain as they carried him away from the blazing building. ‘No way. Treat me here. I haven’t got time to go to hospital.’

‘I’d do as she says, Mike,’ said Tina, who was walking alongside the stretcher, wanting to hold his hand, but knowing it wouldn’t be right. He didn’t look good, though.

‘I’m OK,’ he said, trying to sit up, but not quite making it.

The paramedic started to say something else but Bolt cut her off by leaning over the side of the stretcher and throwing up, only just missing Tina’s feet.