I was certain we’d hit the end of the road. Water was now no more than a foot from the ceiling. At the rate it was gushing in, I reckoned we had fifteen minutes before it completely flooded the cellar. Every brick and piece of wall seemed to shake and roil with the force of the torrent.
‘What was that?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘You didn’t feel anything?’
‘Tricky when you’re numb.’
It was difficult to describe, but it felt like a sonic boom travelling through water. I had one last idea and I should have thought of it before.
‘Is there a window?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve been here weeks, I’d have noticed.’
‘The top part of some cellars is often above ground.’
Her eyes widened with excitement. ‘Could the wall be boarded, like a stud wall, and painted over?’
‘That figures, but even if it is, any opening between the ceiling and the wall will be hellishly narrow.’
‘We’ve got to give it a try.’
‘Stay put,’ I said.
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘If I don’t come back, here.’ I reached down into my jacket, withdrew the Glock, and pressed it into her hand. ‘As long as it’s fully submerged, it will fire. The velocity will be slower, but it will still do the job.’ She took it, her eyes meeting mine. There was no need for words.
With the bolt cutters in one hand, I swam out to what I hoped was the facing wall. Hitting brick, I felt along the edge, my fingers connecting with the jagged remains of plywood and glass, shattered with the force of water bursting through. Swimming through the narrow gap, I felt air on my face, light from a full moon shining down onto a padlocked metal grille that blocked the escape route. Treading water, I drew on every reserve and hoisted the cutters for the last time and cracked open the lock. Next, I jammed the cutters in between the bars and, with a monumental effort born of desperation, pushed up and out, sliding the grille aside.
‘Don’t shoot,’ I yelled, as I grabbed a lungful of air and went back for McCallen.
Half-dragging McCallen through the water, I pushed her up through the open space and clambered out after her. Legs giving way, shock took its toll and every part of her trembled. Scooping her up, I held her tight to my chest, carried her in my arms, triumphant. We were free.
For now.
I wasn’t complacent. I no longer had my gun but, juiced up, it would take little for me kill anyone who got in my way.
I retraced my steps and stumbled through the dark, moving as quickly as I could while holding on to McCallen. My soaking, stinking jeans clung to my legs. McCallen was quiet, body spent and mind numb. We got back to the car and I laid her on the passenger seat. She looked up at me, grateful, unable to speak, teeth chattering.
I rushed around to the driver’s side and climbed in beside her. The clock told me that it was 4.50 a.m.
‘I’m taking you straight to A&E.’ I turned the ignition.
‘A fire station might be a better option.’ She attempted a laugh, not easy when your body is racked with the shakes. ‘They can cut these off.’ She looked down at the metal attached to her wrists and ankles.
‘You need medical attention first. I’m not sure how I’m going to account for the state we’re in without someone notifying the cops.’
‘Just drop me off.’
‘No, I’m coming with you.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘I want to.’
‘Then I’ll explain to them, don’t worry.’
‘Maybe you can also explain to Flynn.’
‘You know Flynn?’
‘Our paths crossed. You may need to put in a good word for me. I almost killed one of your colleagues.’
She let out a dry, throaty laugh.
I glanced across. Normally, she’d be rattling my cage, wanting to be first with the information. The fact she hadn’t pressed me told me that, now she was free, the impact of what had taken place had hit her. I suspected that the road ahead was going to be tough. I put the heater on full blast and floored the accelerator. Three minutes later, we arrived at Cheltenham General’s accident and emergency department. The department had been cut back but, in my book, a hospital was a hospital and the best place for McCallen.
* * *
I kept a spare phone in the car. McCallen used it to call HQ. She told them about Benz and ordered an alert on ports, airports and Eurostar. As soon as her release reached the right ears, I imagined the security service equivalent of a SWAT team putting in an appearance and carting me away. Made me wonder why Benz had led me straight to McCallen. There could only be one explanation: Benz intended to kill us, probably with a bullet to our heads, but the sudden, if anticipated, flood had played right into his hands and he’d decided to let us drown instead. It’s why the door was jammed tight.
The early hour of the morning, combined with McCallen’s status and condition, did the equivalent of ‘Open Sesame’ when we got to A&E. Avoiding triage, we were whisked straight in to see a duty registrar and, once McCallen explained the circumstances and insisted that she was taken care of in Cheltenham and not in Gloucester, I decided a low profile the best option.
‘You’ll be okay?’ I took her hand and stroked it. She looked so small and fragile against the white hospital pillows. I really didn’t want to leave her.
‘I’ll be fine.’
I nodded, awkwardly patted her arm, and made to go.
‘Hex,’ she said.
‘Yeah?’
‘I wouldn’t have made it on my own. Thank you.’
A soft glow of pleasure enveloped me. I smiled.
‘Something else,’ she said, her voice stern.
‘What?’
‘Don’t do anything stupid, will you?’
‘’Course not. I’m going home.’
‘You’ll come back later?’
I beamed. ‘Promise.’ I had a slew of questions. ‘Hang onto the phone,’ I said. ‘If you need me, give me a call on the usual number.’
‘Talk soon,’ she said, warmth in her expression. ‘Keep safe.’
‘And you.’
‘All I want to do is sleep.’
‘Fat chance,’ I winked. ‘Flynn and his crew will be after one hell of a debrief.’
The sound of sirens greeted my exit. I must have cut a strange figure with my battered appearance and smelly clothing. Head down, I hurried on, eager to clear out before someone in law enforcement flexed their muscles.
Dawn broke reluctantly, grey and drab. I stepped into it with something close to joy. McCallen was safe. Together, we’d pulled off the impossible. I was euphoric. Despite my body screaming for rest, my mind was sharp and alert. I had scores to settle – that evil sod Benz first in my sights. Even if I had to travel to Berlin to do him, I was going to take him out of the game. Next up, China Hayes. Brommer I’d leave to McCallen.
Reaching the car, I climbed inside and worked out my next move. Secure in the assumption that we were both dead, Benz was either far away, intending to catch a flight back to Germany, or lying low nearby to check on his handiwork. Without any knowledge of the man, it was difficult to fathom which action he’d take.
And this was where I suddenly lost the plot. Filed under all’s fair in love and espionage, Benz’s hatred of McCallen made sense. She’d used Lars Pallenberg to penetrate his nasty little neo-Nazi group. But why me? Was Benz working for China, or the other way around?
Puzzling this, I started the engine, pulled out of the car park and returned to the Backway. Crossing the rugged ground for a third time, this time I was looking at it with daylight eyes, searching for clues, something that would answer the unanswerable and fill in the gaps. I didn’t know Benz, bar the bare strap lines of a security profile. A champagne terrorist, he married radical, repellent and anti-Semitic views with a wealthy playboy lifestyle. Prone to violence, especially against women, he was like so many others I’d known: vengeful, stubborn and vicious. Still, I didn’t know how this particular guy ticked.
Retracing my steps into the building, it was much bigger inside than I’d imagined. The area I’d originally stepped into fed into another warren of rooms, the metal door to the basement one of four other doors, the remainder of wooden construction. Rust-coloured and filthy water lay mute and belligerent half a metre deep. Had we been trapped inside, we would have drowned. I gave an involuntary shiver and beat it. Knackered, I needed to recharge, catch some sleep.
Back in the car, I stuck the gear into a lazy reverse with the intention of rejoining the main route when, out of nowhere, an unmistakable flash of colour, vivid against the spectral light, whipped past, almost clipping my rear. Startled, I shook myself awake, my gaze fixed on a Lamborghini Aventador, two cars up ahead. My mind zipped back to the rectory, the party night.
Keeping pace, I followed at a discreet distance, conscious that, if the Lambo floored it, I’d be left behind. The Z4 was quick, but no match for a top speed of 217 miles per hour, not that it was likely to reach such dizzying speed in the middle of town.
One car turned off and I moved up the line, only a car between us. I caught a glimpse of foreign plates, German.
We were heading towards the hospital. It would be an audacious man who attempted to finish what he’d started. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. Sure enough, the Lambo slowed as we drew near. Flashing lights and a battalion of unmarked police cars posted at each entrance and exit had the desired effect. The driver changed his mind and sped up.
We travelled south-east. On the approach to a roundabout, the flare of the Lambo’s lights indicated a left turn. I followed suit. The sculpted outline of the Aventador snaked across the first exit. A silhouette in the passenger seat, just visible through the tinted glass, caught my eye. So fleeting, so obscured by the low narrow triangle of a window, it would be easy to make a mistake, yet I couldn’t rule out that the driver had company, and that company was female. Brommer, I thought.
Straight over the next roundabout, marking time, I watched the Aventador turn right onto the London Road and A40. Next thing, it pulled out and, with minimal effort, overtook three cars. I guessed the capital was the possible final destination. It didn’t matter. With the driver’s window down, I got a good look at him. I’d recognise those blond dreads anywhere.