Freefall Read online

  “It does,” Bailey cut him off. “It’s the only way he’ll be safe.”

  “Is he really worth your freedom?” Cross asked.

  “It’s not about Wallace,” Bailey replied. “This is about doing the right thing.”

  Superintendent Cross looked at Bailey sadly, before turning to the nearest uniformed officer and signaling the man with a nod of his head.

  “Patrick Bailey,” the uniform said as he entered the cell. “My name is Police Constable David Edgar and I’m arresting you under Section Five of the Terrorism Act on suspicion of assisting in the preparation of an act of terrorism.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Bailey objected. “Wallace isn’t a terrorist. Whoever’s behind this trumped up the charge to get him brought in.”

  “Interpol says he’s a wanted terror suspect,” Mayfield replied coolly. “That gives us grounds to charge you with assisting terrorism.”

  Bailey felt hollow despair. They could have arrested him on a charge of actual body harm, resisting arrest, assisting an offender, any one of about a dozen crimes, but they’d chosen one that carried the prospect of a life sentence.

  “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court,” Edgar continued. “Anything you do say may be given in evidence. If you’ll come with me, we’ll book you in.”

  Bailey got to his feet and directed all his anger at Mayfield. “We both know this isn’t going to stick.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Mayfield replied coolly. “You know what section five means—you’ll be in Belmarsh before the day is through.”

  Bailey lunged for Mayfield, but Edgar and the other uniform intervened, pulling him toward the door. Bailey fought for composure, but the moment he was in the corridor and out of sight of the MI5 man, the facade crumbled. Mayfield was right. He’d never get bail on a section five charge and he faced the prospect of being remanded in custody in London’s most notorious maximum security prison. His feet leaden, Bailey allowed himself to be hauled into the custody suite and tried not to think about what lay ahead.

  30

  Harrell didn’t return Ash’s call until early evening. She had spent most of the day in her home office, feeling a little light-headed, poring over the Pendulum files and trying to figure out what she’d missed. Why would Mike Rosen try to kill John Wallace? Had he been attempting to honor his former comrade’s mission, or was there another reason for him to target Wallace? Mike Rosen had served with Pendulum, which suggested a connection to their Ranger unit, but Ash had been unable to follow that line of inquiry. The unit’s records had been classified, and, despite a volley of clearance requests, it had remained firmly sealed. Ash had toyed with the idea of asking Pavel Kosinsky to help her obtain unofficial access, but had balked at asking for a favor that could send them both to jail for a very long time.

  The falling sun had tinted the sky pastel red by the time Harrell phoned.

  “Ash,” she said, answering almost immediately.

  “What are you leaving me messages for? What don’t you understand about sick leave?” Harrell asked, his voice laden with disbelief.

  “I’m OK, sir,” Ash replied.

  “This isn’t about being OK, Ash.” Harrell’s irritation was palpable. “I was doing you a favor. You almost blew the Haig bust. Price is still in the hospital. You nearly got yourself killed. You’re a good agent,” he said, his tone softening. “But you’ve got to learn that obsession is dangerous.”

  “Did they find anything in the bunker?”

  “Cut it out,” Harrell vented his exasperation. “I’ll call you when we’ve got something to talk about.”

  “I—” Ash began, but the line went dead. She kicked back her chair and gazed out of the window, wondering how the heck she could get Harrell to believe her . . .

  THUD.

  Startled by a noise so loud that it reverberated through her apartment, Ash almost fell backward.

  THUD.

  She felt the floor vibrate. She got to her feet and raced into the hallway.

  THUD.

  Ash saw the crossbar buckle, and the locks give. When her front door burst open, she was transfixed by the horrifying sight of a man in a Pendulum mask.

  Ash didn’t move for what seemed like an age. She watched with horror as the masked man threw a heavy battering ram into the apartment. Behind him stood another two heavyset men in matching masks. There was no sign of Pendulum’s terrifying body armor; the three intruders all wore dark clothes and sneakers, but it didn’t make them any less intimidating. They stared at Ash for a moment before they surged forward, storming into the apartment.

  She ran into her office, slammed the door shut, and turned the key in the lock. It wouldn’t hold against the men, but it would buy her precious time. Her guns were in her bedroom, beyond her reach, and as she desperately cast about the room searching for a weapon she could use against the three big men, she realized that escape was her only option. She bounded across the room to the window and flung it open.

  “Open that motherfucker!” a deep voice yelled from outside, and as Ash pulled herself on to the ledge, four stories up, the door splintered from its frame.

  The smallest of the three men crossed the room, a pistol in his gloved hand.

  “Don’t you fucking move!” he yelled at Ash, revealing a thick New York accent. He cast his eyes over her desk and took in the Pendulum evidence. “Get her.”

  As the other two men stepped forward, Ash jumped, clearing the three-foot gap between the window and her living room balcony. She landed hard, her bare feet screaming pain as they collided with rough concrete.

  “Get after her!” the gunman shouted, and Ash sensed hurried movement inside her apartment.

  Ignoring the pain coming from her feet and neck, she clambered on to the balcony railing. She thought about trying to jump down to the balcony below, but noticed an unfamiliar black van parked in the street beneath her, and when the driver looked up she saw that his face was covered by a dark Pendulum mask. Her only choice was to go up, and she jumped for the gray stone lintel that ran the length of the building. The tips of her fingers clasped the solid surface and she heaved herself up, pushing her feet against the wall to give her leverage. She heard the sound of her balcony door opening, and her heart pounded even more violently. Propelled by coursing adrenaline and sheer bloody will, she kicked her leg free of the gloved fingertips that reached for it and pulled herself on to the lintel.

  “She’s going for the roof!” a voice below her exclaimed. “Just shoot her.”

  Ash glanced down to see the gunman step on to the balcony. She didn’t wait to see what he would do. Instead, she jumped, grabbed the lip of the balustrade, and hauled herself over it, on to the roof.

  “Get up there!” the gunman yelled.

  Breathless, exhausted and in pain, Ash simply wanted to collapse, but she forced her sweat-sheened body upright and started running.

  The neighboring building was a twenty-one-story high-rise, and part of the upper floors were built over the roof of Ash’s building, like a giant resting its elbow on a tiny friend. The south-facing apartments on the fifth floor had balcony doors that opened on to the roof, and Ash sprinted directly for the nearest one. She was halfway across the red, grit-covered roof when she heard a noise, and, as she looked to her east, Ash saw the three masked men burst out of the stairwell. She raced toward the glass balcony door, catching the eye of the man beyond it. Overweight and wearing nothing but boxer shorts, he lay on his long couch watching television. He sat up as Ash approached, his face a mask of horror. She heard a familiar loud crack behind her and a bullet whipped past her. It struck the balcony door, shattering the glass, breaking the fearful man’s face into a thousand little pieces. Another shot and the second bullet blew out the pane entirely, the glass exploding inward, showering the apartment in sharp fragments. Ash rushed through the broken door, and her hand felt clammy flesh as s
he pushed the rising occupant back on to his sofa.

  “Stay down,” she instructed as she ran on, ignoring the agonizing shards of glass buried deep in the fleshy soles of her feet.

  She had made it to the living room door when she heard another shot, and she turned to see the gunman lift his smoking pistol away from the fat man’s head. Shocked that her assailants had killed an innocent bystander, Ash raced on.

  She yanked the front door open, and her pursuers scrambled out of the living room as she ran into the corridor beyond. Glancing nervously behind her, she saw that her lacerated feet were leaving a trail of blood along the gray carpet. Ash sprinted on, ignoring the doors that lined her way, reluctant to draw any other victims into the gunman’s path. The snap of another gunshot echoed along the corridor, and the bullet buried itself in the plasterwork beside Ash’s head. She burst into the emergency stairwell, leaping, stumbling, barreling down the stairs, her lungs burning, her legs screaming with fatigue, her feet alive with pain. But the sound of her three masked pursuers and the intermittent crack of the gun spurred her on.

  When she spilled out of the emergency exit on to the courtyard behind the building, the fourth masked man, the one she’d seen in the van, was waiting, and tried to grab her. Ash had been expecting him, and, absolutely determined that her painful flight should not end in failure, she kicked him in the groin, her bloody heel connecting with such force that he crumpled instantly. Ash scarcely missed a step as she ran on, sprinting across the courtyard and up the narrow alleyway that led on to Eighth Street. She looked behind her to see the three masked men clustered around their injured associate. He nudged one of the other men and the two of them hurried toward Ash, but she didn’t linger. She ran down the sidewalk toward the intersection with Fifth Avenue and jumped in front of a cab. The vehicle shuddered to a halt, and, before the driver could react, Ash lunged on to the back seat.

  “Federal Plaza,” she instructed. “Go now.”

  The cab driver, a gray-haired, Middle-Eastern man, muttered something under his breath, but the taxi started rolling south. As it pulled away, Ash looked up Eighth Street. There was no sign of the masked men who’d pursued her.

  31

  The cab driver wasn’t happy when Ash revealed she didn’t have the money to pay the fare. When they arrived at Federal Plaza, she left him to deal with the site liaison manager, who tasked a suited security guard to take Ash to the medical suite. The adrenaline of the chase had subsided, and Ash was relieved when the large man produced a wheelchair from a closet behind the reception desk. She slid into it, eager to take the weight off her bloody feet.

  “Thanks,” she sighed, as the big man pushed her toward the security gates that stood in front of the elevators. “What’s your name?”

  “Tevez,” the man replied. “What happened to you?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out,” Ash said. “You got a phone, Tevez?”

  “Should you be making calls?” the big man asked.

  “You got one or not?” Ash responded, wondering whether Tevez would have been more comfortable wheeling a gibbering wreck through the building. One thing she could thank her father for was a toughness other people could only dream of. The things he’d put her through, the courage it had taken to confront him, the strength it required to finally leave, Ash hadn’t encountered anything in life that had come as close to breaking her.

  “Sure.”

  Tevez handed Ash his phone and she made a series of calls as he wheeled her through the building. The first was a 911 call to the NYPD, informing them of her neighbor’s murder. The second was to Harrell but he wasn’t available, so she left a message, telling him what had happened. The remaining calls were to Reeves, Miller, and Romero, summoning them to the Plaza. By the time she’d finished talking to Romero, Ash was in the medical bay, trying to ignore the impatient duty nurse.

  “You need a hospital,” the nurse advised, aghast at the state of Ash’s feet.

  “No,” Ash replied firmly. “Call the duty doc and get him to patch me up. I’m not leaving this building.”

  Tevez hovered, and the presence of the powerful man helped Ash relax. He stayed, standing silently near the door of the spotless medical suite, while the nurse helped Ash on to an emergency bed.

  The duty doctor was a chubby Middle Eastern man with pockmarked cheeks, who introduced himself as Mafez. He echoed the nurse’s advice that Ash needed a hospital, but when she refused, he anesthetized her feet and set about extracting the remaining shards of glass.

  Reeves arrived just as the nurse was cleaning Ash’s wounds. Mafez was preparing to stitch the worst of them.

  “You OK?” Reeves asked. “What happened?”

  “Three guys bust into my place,” Ash answered. “There was a fourth guy with a van. They were all wearing Pendulum masks. I think they were trying to kill me.”

  Reeves looked at Ash in disbelief.

  “They killed one of my neighbors—guy in the next building. I’ve informed NYPD,” Ash added.

  “You want us to get down there?” Romero asked. She was standing in the doorway with Miller.

  “Yeah,” Ash replied. “Check traffic and security cameras in a three-block radius. See if we can get an ID on the van.”

  “I’m driving,” Romero told Miller.

  “I think I’ll get a cab,” Miller remarked, earning himself a playful punch as they left the room.

  “You think you could give a description?” Reeves asked, recoiling slightly as Mafez pushed a needle through the fleshy sole of Ash’s right foot.

  “It’s just going to be build and clothing,” Ash replied. “You’re not squeamish, are you, Deon?”

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  “I can’t feel a thing,” she responded.

  “Maybe not now,” Mafez interjected. “But once the anesthetic wears off you will experience severe discomfort. I’m going to prescribe you a course of painkillers.”

  “Agent Ash, what happened?” Harrell asked, entering the room. He looked as though he’d been harried to the point of exhaustion. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine, sir,” Ash replied, noticing Reeves stiffen slightly at the sight of their boss. “Three men invaded my apartment, and there was a fourth man with them, a driver. All four were wearing Pendulum masks. Maybe they think I can identify the guy I saw at Pendulum’s base, or that I know something dangerous. Either way, the timing is no coincidence, sir.”

  Ash could see Harrell struggle for a moment, unsure how to deal with the final revelation. True to form, he ignored it. “I’ve spoken to the NYPD unit commander. He says the fire department are on the scene dealing with a blaze in the neighboring building. You know anything about that?”

  “One of my neighbors was killed during my escape. I’d guess the assailants torched the place to conceal evidence.”

  Harrell nodded. “OK—here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to give Agent Reeves everything you’ve got on the men who attacked you, and then we’re going to put you into Witness Protection. I’ll speak to Jordy Wiltshire and get a Marshal team assigned to you as soon as possible. Until we’ve figured out what happened, you’re going off grid, agreed?”

  Ash was itching to lead the investigation to find the men who brazenly broke into her home and ruthlessly killed her neighbor, but she knew there was no way Harrell would allow it, so she nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Bailey spent the ninety-minute journey from Heathrow to Thamesmead staving off a full-blown panic attack. Sharing the back of the unmarked van with two uniformed private security contractors, he forced himself to remain composed in the face of the bleak fate that awaited him. Belmarsh Prison was home to Britain’s most notorious criminals and was used as a remand center for those charged with acts of terrorism. Sam Mayfield knew how to apply pressure; Bailey’s life would almost certainly be forfeit if the other inmates discovered he was police.

  It was dark when the van pulled to a halt. Bailey was ushere
d through a courtyard, into a long, low, yellow-brick building. The security guards presented him to the custody officer, who booked him in and provided him with a uniform—a blue T-shirt, gray jogging bottoms, and Crocs. He was then assigned to a prison officer, who led him through a number of security gates, deep into the block, before locking him in a cell. Bailey was relieved to discover he’d been placed in solitary and that he would not have to share the confined space with another inmate, but his solace was short-lived. As he sat on the narrow, metal-framed barracks bed and listened to the sounds of movement and distant shouts echoing around the two-story block, Bailey felt a familiar thumping in his chest, as though his heart was trying to smash its way through his ribcage. He held his left wrist with his right index finger and found his pulse, which felt fast and irregular. Bailey was certain he’d registered a number of skipped beats, and panic surged through him, burning his body with its familiar, unnatural heat. He stood, and immediately regretted the sudden movement. The world grew blurred and distant, and his head throbbed with painful pressure. Bailey’s legs felt too weak and unsteady to move, and his knees gave way, causing him to collapse back on to the cot, which wobbled violently, the frame clattering loudly against the wall.

  When the panic finally subsided, he checked his pulse and found it to be steady and regular. Finally emerging from his anxious introspection, Bailey realized that the cell block was utterly silent. He rolled off the bunk and looked out of the high window to see that the moon had set, and the sky was dark with heavy clouds. He guessed it was long after midnight, but had no way of being sure. He used the toilet in the corner of the cell, washed his hands, and lay down on the bunk, hoping that he would soon find sleep. As he looked at the painted white ceiling, searching for calm, Bailey heard a noise outside his cell. It sounded like a footstep against the hard floor. He held his breath, and his ears strained against the silence.

  The sound of the lock rang around the cell, almost assaulting Bailey with its volume. As the noise echoed off the walls, it triggered Bailey’s excitable heart, which resumed its manic rhythm. He felt his throat shrink with panic, and much as he longed to cry out, when the door opened and he saw the two figures who stood before him, all he could do was scramble back ineffectually until his spine was pressed against the metal headboard of his rickety bed.