fifty-two

Running away from the helicopter as fast as she could pump her legs, Ruth felt as if she had jumped into a giant vacuum cleaner full of grit. She ploughed on through the swirling haze of dust and debris being blasted up by the downdraft of the rotors, and felt the stinging sensation on her skin as millions of fragments of dirt lashed into her from all directions.

She caught a glimpse of movement straight ahead of her and recognised the bulky figure of Bilal dropping to one knee, an assault rifle held to his shoulder. She threw herself to one side, thinking she’d heard a shot, but in the roaring pandemonium of the helicopter engine, she couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that she was still alive.

She fired twice at Bilal, but the dust was working as much in his favour as hers and he didn’t seem affected. Behind him the trees were beginning to bend away and foliage was being ripped off the branches like confetti, and even the heavy patrol vehicle Malak was using was being rocked on its suspension.

She turned to look back and was stunned to see what was causing it. Dave Proust had turned the helicopter almost side-on and was focussing his rotors like a giant fan, creating a downdraft to stir up a shield and to put Bilal off his aim. The gunman, unable to focus on Ruth or Vaslik, turned his rifle and began firing at the helicopter as it moved past in a slow curve.

Ruth was dimly aware of Vaslik running forward and shooting, and she opened fire herself as Bilal stood braced against the howling dust storm. He was holding the rifle in one hand like a pistol and shouting unintelligibly as he pulled the trigger. Then she saw the helicopter move away and guessed that some of the rounds had struck the cabin.

With the abrupt cessation of wind and dust came an awesome silence. But Bilal recovered quickly and aimed his weapon into the sky and began firing wildly. But he was no longer aiming at the helicopter; the reason quickly became evident as a shadow passed through Ruth’s field of vision.

“Down! Down!” a voice shouted, and she threw herself flat just as one of the SWAT team members passed over her head and hit the ground running. Without stopping to release his chute, he lifted his Heckler & Koch machine pistol and sent a hail of bullets at the screaming Bilal, knocking him off his feet.

Ruth didn’t wait. She jumped to her feet and ran towards the patrol vehicle, and saw Vaslik doing the same. Before they could reach it she heard a shot and saw Malak sliding behind the wheel. As the vehicle surged forward, a figure in combat uniform tumbled from the rear door and hit the ground.

James Chadwick.

Ruth dodged to avoid the charging nose of the vehicle and saw Malak’s frenzied face snarling at her from behind the wheel. She wondered how he thought he could possibly get away. A glance through the dust storm showed a frantic buzz of activity around the president as his Secret Service detail closed in around him and hustled him away from the podium towards the armoured vehicle he’d arrived in. She also knew what would be happening elsewhere: the outer ring of security would be turning to look for possible sources of attack, while the communications team travelling with the president would be calling up the stand-by medical team and alerting Air Force One to be ready for departure.

Just as she reached Chadwick, she felt the shockwave of an explosion.

She spun round in horror, half expecting to see Dave Proust’s helicopter in flames. But instead saw a vast cloud of red dust hanging in the air some three hundred yards away, and tiny fragments of hard material spinning away and showering down on the SWAT team landing nearby and the fleeing patrol vehicle, which rocked and dipped savagely under the blast but continued going.

Seconds later another explosion came from farther away, with another red dust cloud drifting on the breeze. Then a third.

Ruth turned to find Chadwick sitting up, his face in shock and clutching his ribs, where a splash of blood showed on his combat jacket. He tried speaking but couldn’t get the words out, and she wondered how seriously he was hurt. She turned to the SWAT team member, who had discarded his parachute and was standing over them with his weapon raised. Ruth said, “This is Chadwick. We need to get him to hospital right away.”

Just then Vaslik arrived and kept the kidnapped man from trying to stand up while the FBI man radioed for an emergency evacuation.

“What the hell happened?” she asked James as he slumped against Vaslik’s arm. “Where’s the fourth drone?”

He shook his head and tried taking a gulp of air, his head hanging low. “Dis … disabled,” he murmured. “Find … find it with GPS.” He looked up and stretched out a hand. “Need a … a phone. Please. Need it now before I … before I forget. Quick!”

“Forget what?” Ruth looked at Vaslik, who shrugged and handed James his cell phone.

Crouched over the device and waving away their offers of help, James slowly tapped out a number, blood dripping from the sleeve of his jacket. When he finished dialling he struggled to sit upright, wincing at the pain and supported by Vaslik. Ruth noticed that he was watching the patrol vehicle in the distance and holding the phone out as if it were a television remote.

“What are you doing?” she queried. “Let me help you.”

James shook his head. “No. I’ll do it. It’s … my right.” He waited with his thumb poised over the send button. “Promise me something?”

“Of course. What?”

“Don’t let them have this … this phone. You’ll see … why.”

In that moment Ruth knew what he was going to do as surely as if he’d told her in detail. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words stuck in her throat.

“Malak’s going for the president!” Vaslik shouted.

He was right. The patrol vehicle had begun to turn towards the remembrance site and the watching crowd, and it was putting on speed, the engine howling in protest as the wheels left the ground.

“No,” James said calmly, “he’s not.” He pressed the button.

It seemed to take forever for anything to happen, but in reality was only a heartbeat. Malak’s vehicle, bouncing over the rough terrain in a mad dash, seemed to hesitate and lift for a fraction of a second to hang in the air as if suspended on a wire. Then came a vivid flash of light and a clap of thunder as an explosion ripped the bodywork apart and the shattered remains began tumbling over in a lazy cartwheel of fire and flame, scattering burning debris over a wide area.

When Ruth looked at James, he had passed out.

She picked up the phone and passed it to Vaslik, who stripped out the sim card and dropped the phone to the ground. He stomped on it, grinding it into the dirt.

It took Tom Brasher twenty minutes to fight his way through the cordon of Secret Service, military police, and local police that had been thrown up around the area, and to confirm that James Chadwick was still alive and had been rushed away for treatment.

“Did Chadwick cause that explosion?” Brasher asked. He stared hard at Ruth and Vaslik, who exchanged a look but said nothing. Without needing to talk about it, they had agreed not to dump James into the frame. Brasher huffed impatiently. “I’m just asking, that’s all. Between us. I’m not looking to bust his balls.”

Ruth trusted Brasher completely, but she knew that nothing stayed completely secret within government organisations for long, especially with a scoop-hungry press already on the scene and demanding answers. Was it a suicide bomb that had gone wrong, or had somebody else intervened in some way to prevent an assassination attempt on the president? She could see the headlines already, leading the world’s media straight to the Chadwicks’ door in search of a hero.

No. If Chadwick wanted word to get out about what he’d done, it had to be his choice, not theirs. He and his family had gone through enough already without adding media intrusion to their problems.

“According to James,” she said cautiously, “Malak had rigged a spare cell phone with a pack of C-4, for reasons we can’t even guess. He didn’t seem the sort to consider suicide, but who knows, if he saw no other way out?” She looked at Vaslik to see if he had anything to offer, but he gave a brief nod for her to continue.

“So Malak blew himself up?” Brasher asked.

“In trying to get away and take the bomb to the president, he must have triggered it himself. You agree, Slik?”

Vaslik nodded. “Couldn’t have put it better myself. But what about the fourth drone?”

The change of subject made Brasher blink. “What? Oh, yes. A military biohazard team is tracking it down right now. If Donny was telling the truth about that, it’s likely to be carrying the chemical tube. Was that Chadwick’s doing, too, keeping it grounded?”

“It must have been.” Vaslik spoke firmly. “Nobody else knows how to programme those things. It would be a pity if that action got neutralised by anybody thinking he’d done something wrong, don’t you think? You know what the press will do when they get hold of the story: they’ll look for victims and heroes.”

And even manage to turn the heroes into victims, Ruth thought cynically, if they saw a story in it.

Vaslik returned Brasher’s look with one of complete innocence then shook dust from his jacket and added casually, “I need a drink. Anybody care to join me?”

“Count me in,” said Ruth and waited for Brasher to signal his agreement. She knew they would soon be overwhelmed by investigators from every conceivable agency under the sun, and their every action would be taken apart and analysed minutely for flaws, gaps, and inconsistencies. But for now she was trusting in the FBI agent to get them some breathing space.

He sighed. “Yeah, I get the message. But don’t go far, you hear? I’d hate to have to send the SWAT team looking for you.”

Ruth turned as Dave Proust joined them, a broad grin on his face at seeing they were all in good shape. “Dave, do you know any local bars?”

He nodded. “Sure do. I can even get you there in style.” He winked at Brasher and smiled. “Who’s buying?”

the end

about the author

Adrian Magson (UK) is the author of the Harry Tate novels, the Lucas Rocco novels, and the Marc Portman novels. He is a member of the International Thriller Writers and the Crime Writers Association, and has been short-listed for the CWA Debut Dagger and the East Midlands Book Awards. Adrian writes two regular columns for Writing Magazine. Visit him online at www.adrianmagson.com.