Freefall Page 17

  “You fucking nutter!” a man cried out, and Wallace realized that the driver of the car he’d hit, a large, red-faced man with a bloody nose, was staggering toward him, full of menace.

  “Stop that man!” the sprinting police officer yelled.

  Wallace ran toward the gas station located on the northeast corner of the intersection, and sprinted on to the forecourt. Sensing danger, people gave him a wide berth and a clear run toward the motorcycle that was parked beside pump number four. The helmeted motorcyclist, who’d been about to ride off at the time of the collision, realized Wallace’s intention too late.

  “Hey!” he yelled, his muffled voice scarcely reaching Wallace, who jumped on to the bike and pressed the starter button, then stamped on the gear pedal and twisted the throttle as the chasing police officer got within arm’s reach of him.

  The bike lurched forward and almost slid out from under him, but Wallace fought the powerful machine and got control of it, before racing on to the A4 and roaring east.

  28

  Alice sat huddled in the corner of the disciplinary cell, clasping her knees tightly, her head bowed so as not to meet the eyes of the man standing over her.

  “You will falter and you will stray,” he said, “but eventually you’ll learn to keep to the path.”

  As the man crouched down and lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his, Alice tried to count the number of times she’d wished him dead, but he only ever seemed to grow stronger, as though feeding on the life force of the new members who came to the clan. When she was younger she longed to discover that she’d been snatched as a baby, and dreamed that one day her real parents would come to take her away from this cruel place.

  “Your mother knows that, too,” Nicholas said, holding her faltering gaze. “That’s why she has to be punished. But punishment by a righteous hand is nothing more than a blessing. A gift from the divine to keep us on the path.”

  Alice tried to look down, but Nicholas held fast, applying more pressure to her chin.

  “It is through our eyes that we see the truth,” he told her. “I need to know that you understand. I am your salvation, Alice. I am your mother’s salvation. I am the salvation of the world.”

  Alice looked at the man she wished wasn’t her father and nodded. “I understand, Father.”

  “So if you ever see me ministering to your mother in that way, you will never again lay hands upon me, nor try to stop me,” Nicholas said, his soft voice concealing bitter menace. “You will know that her punishment has been ordained by the divine.”

  “Yes, Father,” Alice nodded.

  “You will have three days to consider your transgression,” Nicholas announced as he stood up.

  Alice watched her father leave the cell and shut the cast-iron grille behind him. She’d been expecting seven days, so when she heard the bolt snap into place, she was buoyed by the thought that she only had to face seventy-two hours in the cramped six-by-four cell.

  Watching through the bars of the grille, she saw Nicholas say something to Manny, the duty warden who was tasked with monitoring the occupants of the six disciplinary cells that had been erected in the old garage. Manny nodded and Nicholas stalked away without even giving his daughter a backward glance. Alice liked Manny’s shifts, because the crafty man had somehow managed to smuggle a portable television into the compound, and he now produced it from a drawer in his rickety desk. She sidled up to the grille as Manny switched it on, and her movement caught his attention.

  “You say a word about this to your father and we’ll both suffer,” Manny warned her, before shifting position slightly so that Alice had a clear view of the screen.

  She watched snatched images flash in rapid succession as Manny clicked through the channels, searching for a suitable show to settle on. Alice didn’t care what they watched and would have happily spent three days looking at the senseless staccato snapshots of unknown programs, if they’d been able to suppress the traumatic memories of her mother’s cries. She tried to concentrate on the television but she kept reliving the moment she’d stumbled in on her parents in their bedroom, and the sight of her mother’s shame-filled, tear-stained, bloody face as Nicholas savagely beat her.

  The sound of her ringing cell phone yanked Ash from her childhood nightmare and she took a moment to come round. She realized she was in her bedroom and reached a shaky, heavy hand out toward her bedside table.

  “Here, let me get that,” Reeves said, startling Ash by appearing in her bedroom doorway. He hurried over, picked up the phone, and handed it to her.

  “Ash,” she croaked.

  “Agent Ash,” came a formal voice. “You have a call from a Mr. Rosen.”

  “Thank you,” Ash replied, clocking that she was speaking to a Bureau operator and suddenly becoming alert to the real identity of the caller. “Can you give me a minute?” she asked Reeves, who nodded and left the room.

  “Christine?” a familiar voice asked.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “It was a great night, but I asked you not to call me at work. Let me give you my home number: 212-555-6731.”

  The line went dead and Ash rolled upright, the world wavering as her spaced-out mind struggled to cope with the sudden change in position. She recalled Reeves taking her to hospital the previous evening, the doctor telling her she had mild concussion and advising a few days’ rest, and Reeves brooking no argument when he said he’d spend the night on the couch to make sure she was OK. Her landline rang and Ash answered it instantly.

  “It’s me,” Wallace said.

  “Are you OK?” Ash asked.

  “No. The police arrested me, Bailey helped get me out,” Wallace replied. Ash could hear the sound of traffic racing along a busy street. “Mike Rosen tried to kill me. He sent the army into the mountains for me.”

  “Mike Rosen?” Ash asked, her voice betraying her irritation. “We had him, and we bought his story.”

  “You were right,” Wallace responded. “Pendulum wasn’t working alone. There’s more of them.”

  “I know,” Ash assured him. “I found something, but we can’t talk about it over the phone.”

  “I’m coming to New York,” Wallace said.

  “You can’t. It’s too risky. Find somewhere to lie low until we figure out what’s going on. I’ll call Bailey—”

  “The police got him,” Wallace interrupted. “He sacrificed himself so I could escape.”

  “Shit,” Ash muttered.

  “Hiding doesn’t work,” Wallace told her. “You’re the only person I can trust. I’m not safe anywhere else. I’m coming over.”

  “It’s too risky,” Ash repeated.

  “I have to,” Wallace countered. “I need to find the people who did this.”

  “How will you get here?” Ash asked.

  “I know a man who can help,” Wallace replied. “I’ll be there in a day or two.”

  He hung up before Ash could say anything else. She tried to make sense of what was going on, but rational thought was beyond her addled mind, so she forced herself to her feet and staggered out of the room.

  “Toast?” Reeves asked from the kitchen, where he was buttering a slice.

  “No, thanks. I’m not sure I could keep anything down,” she replied honestly.

  Reeves took a big bite. “Everything OK?” he asked between crunching mouthfuls.

  “Yeah,” Ash lied. “I think so.”

  “OK,” Reeves said. “Well, listen, I want to go home and shower before I hit the office. So . . .” He trailed off, backing toward the front door.

  “Of course,” Ash responded. “Thanks for taking care of me, Deon.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll call you later. I need to know what they found in the bunker,” Ash told him.

  “You’re signed off,” Reeves pointed out.

  “You think that’s going to stop me?” she asked with a smile.

  “No,” Reeves said as he opened the front door. “No, I do not,” he rei
terated before he stepped into the corridor and shut Ash in her apartment.

  She slumped in one of the kitchen chairs and thought about her brief conversation with Wallace. Even in her damaged state, she couldn’t deny the jolt of excitement she’d felt when she’d heard his voice, nor the sense of anticipation at the prospect of seeing him again. After a lifetime spent isolating herself, fate was sending her the only person she’d ever trusted, the only person she’d truly cared about since she’d lost her mother.

  Wallace had ditched the motorcycle after about three miles and had used the money Bailey had given him to jump on the tube at Hounslow West, riding the Piccadilly Line into Central London. He had got off at Leicester Square, losing himself in the lunchtime crowds, until he’d found a pair of payphones at the mouth of Bear Street where it joined Charing Cross Road. He’d made a call to the number Bailey had given him, before speaking to Ash.

  The man who’d answered the first phone call sounded familiar, but Wallace knew better than to ask questions or use any names, so he’d simply listened as the man told him to stay put.

  After he’d spoken to Ash, Wallace waited for twenty-five minutes, circling the block every now and again so as not to catch the attention of any lingering eyes. Finally, shortly after midday, he saw a familiar black Mercedes crawling north along Charing Cross Road. The car stopped in a loading bay directly opposite the payphones, and the nearside rear door opened.

  “Still alive, eh?” Danny, the rat-faced youth who’d once saved his life, showed his yellow teeth in what Wallace thought might have been a smile. “Climb in.”

  Wallace slid on to the back seat and saw two other faces he recognized. The Scarred Man was driving, and the huge, muscular figure of Red Skull sat beside him in the passenger seat. These dangerous men had helped him once before, and he hoped they could do so again.

  “Say hello to your old friends,” Danny teased. “Come on,” he told the Scarred Man. “Sal wants to see him.”

  29

  The Scarred Man turned off the Westway on to Old Oak Common Lane, heading north into the upper reaches of Acton. Danny kept up a steady stream of chatter, touching on everything from the awesome action of the latest Marvel movie and the stinking selfishness of the political classes to the tacky transfer choices made by Arsenal. Wallace tried to focus on the scrawny gangster’s words, but his mind was drawn to thoughts of Bailey, and he spent most of the journey wondering what had happened to the brave policeman.

  The Mercedes passed rows of post-war terraced homes until they came within sight of a blue railway bridge, and when the Scarred Man turned left on to Brunel Road, the surrounding architecture suddenly changed and they were in an industrial estate of modern, two-story warehouses. A couple of hundred yards later, the Scarred Man pulled into the car park of a new-build, yellow-brick warehouse, the sign beside the building indicating that this was the home of “Oakwood Medical Systems.”

  “Come on,” Danny said, opening his door.

  Wallace hesitantly followed suit, while the Scarred Man and Red Skull remained seated.

  “We haven’t got all fucking day,” Danny admonished.

  Wallace trailed after him into the building and they entered a small reception, where a young man with a long ponytail sat behind a desk. He wore a black polo shirt that bore the Oakwood Medical Systems logo.

  “Alright, Boomer?” Danny asked.

  “Not bad, D,” Boomer replied, barely looking up as Danny produced his wallet and swiped it over a card reader.

  “After you,” Danny said sarcastically, opening the inner security door and ushering Wallace into a short corridor. “Straight up,” Danny added, indicating the stairs that lay directly ahead.

  A powerful smell of fresh paint filled Wallace’s nostrils as he walked beneath the harsh strip lights illuminating the carpeted corridor. They passed a doorway to their left, and Wallace glanced through to see a dozen men and women, all in Oakwood uniforms, working in a brand-new loading area, stacking boxes on palettes.

  “Worker bees, bringing in the honey,” Danny observed as they started up the steps.

  When Danny opened the door at the top of the stairs, Wallace found himself in an open-plan office. Half a dozen people sat at desks, making phone calls or working at computers. Whatever this was, it looked like a legitimate business. No one gave them a second glance as they weaved around the desks toward a corner office, its interior obscured by blinds drawn across the inner windows.

  “I don’t care what Haybale says, ya still owe me twenty grand,” Salamander said as Danny and Wallace entered.

  The South London villain hadn’t changed and was still as smooth and calm as when Wallace had first met him in the Monkey Puzzle pub.

  Danny shut the door behind them.

  “How’d ya like my new place?” Salamander asked. “Take a seat.”

  Wallace sat in one of two chairs directly in front of Salamander’s desk. Danny stood by the door, leaning against the wall and watching Wallace disdainfully, as though sitting was a sign of weakness. Salamander reclined behind the desk, his chair at a ninety-degree angle, his feet up on a small filing cabinet.

  “Danny tells me yer in trouble,” Salamander observed. “It seems to follow ya around like a horny dog.”

  Wallace nodded. “Someone was working with Pendulum. He tried to kill me. I got arrested and Bailey helped me escape.”

  “Where is he?” Salamander asked, his good humor suddenly vanishing.

  “I don’t know. He stayed back so I could get away,” Wallace replied.

  “Look into it,” Salamander instructed Danny, who nodded and quickly left the room. “Ya want somewhere to hole up?”

  “I need to get to New York,” Wallace responded. “Fast.”

  Salamander rubbed his face. “Last time I helped, I came out even. Gotta do better this time. I got overheads.”

  “OK,” Wallace agreed. “How much?”

  “Hundred and fifty grand,” Salamander replied. “Got a new way of getting you there, guaranteed. And in case ya get set on haggling, that’s the mates’ rate.”

  “OK,” Wallace conceded.

  “Put it on ya tab, right?” Salamander suggested.

  “No,” Wallace replied. “I’ll pay up front this time.”

  The uniforms had dragged Bailey off the man Wallace had referred to as Bomber Jacket, and stripped him of his watch, wallet, and phone before bundling him into Wallace’s old cell, while they figured out what to do with him. Bailey guessed he’d been locked up for three or four hours and was struggling to keep a lid on the raw acid building in his chest. His breathing was shallow with panic and the tightness in his chest had him convinced a heart attack was imminent. He tried to calm himself, remembering how alive he’d felt when he’d traded punches with Bomber Jacket. Free of fear, he’d launched himself at the man and had watched with satisfaction as Wallace fled the building. There had been no panic, just a powerful rush of energy and the exhilaration of knowing that he’d done the right thing.

  He tried to recapture that moment, that feeling, but the memory could not stem the flood of anxious emotions that swept over him. He heard the lock snap and tried to compose himself before the door swung open to reveal Bomber Jacket and Bailey’s superior, Superintendent Cross. Behind them stood two uniforms, who were obviously present in case there was any more trouble. Tall, with broad shoulders, Cross was a formidable figure, his long face capped by graying, short, spiky hair which was currently concealed under his peaked cap. Bailey didn’t need to be a mind reader to know that his boss was furious. His furrowed brow and clenched jaw said it all.

  “My name is Sam Mayfield,” Bomber Jacket said, stepping into the cell. “You’re going to get one chance to make this right, Detective Inspector Bailey. Where is John Wallace?”

  Bailey stared at Mayfield in silence, inwardly celebrating the fact that Wallace had successfully escaped.

  “There’s no coming back—” Mayfield began.

  “Who are yo
u?” Bailey interrupted, before turning to Cross. “I need to speak to you alone, sir.”

  “I work for the security services, Detective. That’s all you need to know,” Mayfield snapped. “Superintendent Cross has told me that you tried to get John Wallace transferred to your custody because you think he was framed by people who may have been working with Pendulum.” Mayfield leaned forward, drawing close to Bailey. “I believe you, Detective.” He gave Bailey a moment to absorb the revelation. “My work is classified but I can tell you this: I believe you. Pendulum was a small part of something much bigger. I need to talk to John Wallace urgently.”

  Bailey studied Mayfield, trying to gauge the veracity of the man’s statements.

  “I’m probably the only person in the world who can help John Wallace right now,” Mayfield said.

  They tell you what you want to hear, Bailey thought, that’s what makes them so dangerous. There were only two people he trusted with John Wallace’s life: his old friend Salamander, and Christine Ash, whose ordeal put her beyond reproach.

  “I don’t know where he is or what you think happened,” he responded at last. “John Wallace overpowered me, stole my car keys, and held me hostage in order to escape.”

  Mayfield shook his head in disappointment.

  “He pushed me into you, and you mistook it as an attack on my part,” Bailey continued. “So I was only defending myself against you, Mr. Mayfield.”

  Mayfield smiled darkly as he stood up. “That’s your line? You can try it, but I don’t think it’ll stick. I’m pretty sure you’ll do time, and given what I know about your recent emotional issues,”—Bailey shot a concerned look at Cross, who shook his head sympathetically—“I think you’ll struggle to survive inside. So I’m going to give you one final chance to make good. Where’s John Wallace?”

  The panic Bailey had felt had been replaced by growing fury. “Do your worst,” he snarled at Mayfield, who turned to Cross and nodded.

  Superintendent Cross stepped forward. “Pat, it doesn’t have to be like this—”