Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

The man with the Zippo walked away from the camera. As Button watched though her fingers, he seemed to be moving in slow motion: each step took an eternity.

‘Don’t let this happen,’ she whispered.

Part of her wanted to believe that everything on the screens had been faked, that Yokely was using special effects to make it look as if the Saudi’s loved ones were being killed. But the shooting of the cousin had been real, she was certain: the look on the boy’s face, the shower of brain matter and blood, the way the body had slumped forward. None of that had been faked. So what was about to happen to the Saudi’s brother was real, too. And Yokely had made her a part of it.

The man in the ski mask reached Abdal-Rahmaan and turned for what Button knew was the Saudi’s last chance.

‘Please tell them,’ she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. She could barely speak. She pressed her hands hard against her face, but was still watching through her fingers: she had to see for herself what happened next, even though she knew the image would stay with her for the rest of her life.

The man in the ski mask grinned and ran the flame round the Arab’s waist. There was a whoosh of blue and the man’s legs were engulfed in flames. He screamed and writhed as the fire spread upwards. He bucked and jerked, and his shrieks got louder and more frantic. Now Button put her hands over her ears. The smoke turned black as the clothing burned, and the screams continued. Even through her hands the sound chilled her blood.

When the body was engulfed in flames from chest to feet, the fire spread further down, inch by inch. The Arab’s screams echoed from the speakers. Button wanted to shout at Yokely to turn off the sound but she knew that even if she did he wouldn’t. This wasn’t about the effect the killing was having on her: what mattered was how the Saudi reacted.

Button knew there was nothing the Saudi could do or say to save his brother now – he had third-degree burns over most of his body. Within seconds his face would be on fire, then his mouth and lungs, and it would all be over. Button was sure she could smell burned flesh and singed hair. She turned to the Saudi. His face was a blank mask, but his cheeks were wet with tears.

The screams stopped and Button looked at the screen. The Arab’s face had bubbled and turned black, the eyeballs had popped, the flesh along his legs had split into red fissures, and thin smoke plumed from the open mouth. Abdal-Rahmaan was dead.

The three men stood behind the body, their arms folded across their chests, feet shoulder width apart, masked heads jutting arrogantly. There was no shame in their stance. Button felt a wave of revulsion wash over her. What Yokely’s men had done was every bit as evil as what the Muslim terrorists did to their hostages in Iraq. There was no difference. No difference at all.

Sharpe followed Shepherd down the swaying train. ‘What exactly are we looking for?’ asked Sharpe.

‘A secure room,’ said Shepherd. ‘If we’re lucky, there’ll be cops on board. We’re going to need all the help we can get.’ The first they tried was in carriage ten. There was no one inside. The Eurostar staff were using it for storage and it was full of bottled water, boxes of fruit and old newspapers.

‘What’s the plan?’ asked Sharpe. ‘Pelt them with oranges?’

Shepherd pulled the door shut and headed on down the corridor. The second secure room was in carriage eight. Shepherd turned the handle and pushed open the door. Two French policemen were sitting in the room, wearing blue shirts with police insignia badges and black trousers, handcuffs and empty holsters on their belts. A teenager with a shaved head and a swastika tattoo on his neck was on the bench seat, handcuffed to metal securing hoops on the wall.

One of the men stood up as Shepherd opened the door. There was just enough room for him to step into the room. Sharpe had to stay in the doorway.

‘Hiya, guys. Do you speak English?’ asked Shepherd. The two policemen looked at him blankly. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘How about this? Nous sommes des police Britanniques. Il y a des terroristes dans le train. On a besoin de vos armes.’

The other cop stood up and scowled at Shepherd. ‘Vous n’avez pas la degaine de poulets,’ he said.

‘Show him your warrant card, Razor,’ said Shepherd.

Sharpe did so. The cop barely glanced at it. He thrust up his chin and waited for Shepherd to speak.

‘On est bien des flics,’ said Shepherd.

The cop shrugged. ‘Vous pouvez etre ce que vous voulez, mais sans nos flingues.’

‘On a juste quelques minutes pour arreter ces mecs, on a pas le temps pour faire des discours,’ said Shepherd, trying to keep his cool.

‘Y’a pas a discuter,’ said the cop. ‘Nous sommes seuls autorises a se servir de ces armes, c’est nous. Et on n’a pas l’intention d’y toucher.’

‘Vous ne pouvez pas vous en servir,’ said Shepherd. ‘On est du cote anglais du tunnel, de plus moi je connais ces types mais vous et vous non.’

The cop shook his head. ‘Vous n’utiliserez pas nos flingues.’

‘Je requisitionne ces armes immediatement,’ said Shepherd.

‘Allez vous faire foutre!’

‘What’s he saying?’ asked Sharpe.

‘He’s just told us to fuck off.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t understand what we want.’

‘I’m pretty sure he understands perfectly,’ said Shepherd. He shook his head. ‘We don’t have time for this,’ he said. He stepped forward and punched the cop in the solar plexus. The air exploded from the man’s lungs and he doubled over. Shepherd punched him in the side of the head and he slumped back in his seat.

Shepherd pointed at the other policeman. ‘Sit down unless you want the same,’ he said, speaking English this time. The man clearly understood because he obeyed. ‘Where’s the key?’ he asked.

The cop pointed at his unconscious colleague.

‘Your English is getting better by the minute, isn’t it?’ said Shepherd. He leaned over and went through the pockets of the unconscious policeman, found a key and slotted it into the locker. Inside were two 9mm Beretta automatics and four loaded magazines. Shepherd took one of the Berettas and handed it to Sharpe. ‘Don’t shoot yourself in the foot,’ he said. ‘Where are the rifles?’ he asked the Frenchman.

‘We don’t have rifles,’ he said. ‘Just the Berettas.’

Shepherd slotted a magazine into the pistol. ‘Are you ready, Razor?’

‘What’s the plan?’

‘We start at the rear of the train and we go through every carriage. I’m pretty sure they’re in the toilets.’

‘Which means they’ll be locked from the inside.’

Shepherd cursed. Sharpe was right. They could hardly start blasting away at the locks. ‘There must be some way of opening them from the outside?’ he said.

‘Let’s check,’ said Sharpe.

‘We can’t leave him like this,’ said Shepherd, nodding at the seated cop. ‘He’ll scream blue murder as soon as we go.’ He pulled the handcuffs off the belt of the unconscious cop. He handed them to the seated cop and told him to handcuff himself.

‘We could gag him,’ said Sharpe.

‘We could,’ said Shepherd. He punched the cop on the side of the chin and the man slumped in his seat. He grinned at Sharpe. ‘But that’s so much quicker.’ He looked at the prisoner, who had stared open-mouthed from the moment they had opened the door. ‘Am I going to have to hit you too?’ he asked.

The man shook his head. ‘I’m cool, mate,’ he said, in a nasal Liverpudlian accent.

‘You’re British?’

‘Yeah, mate. The fucking Frogs are taking me in on some trumped-up assault charge. Can you let me go, yeah?’

Shepherd stared at him in disbelief. ‘You know we’re cops, right?’