Chapter Thirty-Two

Haughton pressed the console on his desk. “Juliana, what the hell’s going on?”

Her voice came back slightly panicked. “I don’t know. I’m looking into it.”

Luke stood up and came around the desk. “You have CCTV?”

Haughton switched on the monitor on his desk. He pressed a few buttons, and the reception area came up on the screen. People were streaming out of the stairwells and heading for the doors.

“Could you have been followed?” Haughton asked.

“Maybe. It’s more likely you’re being watched. Come on, we have to get out of here.” He gripped Haughton by the arm. “Just a warning. If I don’t call in every thirty minutes, my people have orders to kill your wife. Another thirty and your daughter will die. It’s in your best interest that I get out of here alive. Are we understood?”

Haughton nodded. He stood up and walked, not to the double doors Luke had entered by, but a smaller one at the back of the room. It led into a bathroom, a farther door opposite led out of this. Haughton took a key card from his pocket and swiped it through the lock.

Luke drew the pistol from his shoulder holster and switched off the safety. “Where does this lead?”

Haughton glanced from the gun back to Luke’s face. “My private quarters. We can get up to the roof that way. I have a helicopter up there.”

“You can fly it?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

Haughton pushed the door open, and Luke followed him through into a luxurious hallway. Haughton might have said money wasn’t his motivating force, but he was certainly fond of the trappings of wealth. He led the way along the hall to a steel door, swiped the card again, and then they were in a narrow stairwell. They climbed up and finally came out onto the rooftop of the building.

Luke placed a hand on the other man’s arm, preventing him from stepping out. His gut was telling him this was too easy so far. Straight ahead, through the open doorway, stood the helicopter—a small four-seater. Between them lay an open stretch of concrete.

“We’re going to run for it.” If they stayed up here any longer, they would never get off this roof alive. He’d been stupid not to realize they’d be watching Haughton and couldn’t afford to make such mistakes. His mind wasn’t focusing.

“Go.”

Pushing Haughton in the small of the back, he shoved him out in the open, with Luke just behind.

Gunshots sounded, and Luke’s muscles tensed, waited for the tear of bullets into his flesh. Instead, Haughton staggered and went down.

“Shit.”

Haughton was a liability now, expendable to the Conclave, whereas they would want to take Luke alive to find out who he was working with and how much he knew.

Whirling around, he squeezed off some shots and saw two figures dive for cover behind a small concrete wall. He didn’t look at Haughton, but a groan told him the man was still alive.

Without pausing the shots, Luke reached into his pocket and pulled out a stun grenade, glad he’d come prepared. He pulled the pin and tossed it over the wall, then reached down, grabbed Haughton by the upper arm, and dragged him to his feet.

A brief examination revealed he’d taken two shots, one in the leg, one in the stomach, but he was capable of moving, and Luke ran with him in the direction of the helicopter.

There was no sound from behind them and when they reached the cover, he turned to Haughton.

“How badly are you hit?”

“I’ll live. Let’s get out of here.”

He opened the door and managed to scramble into the pilot’s seat. Luke strode around to the other side and climbed in as the blades started to whir. Haughton was pale, his face set, but he appeared in control. For a short while, he’d be okay, not that they had any choice. There was no movement from across the rooftop, but they would doubtless have reinforcements on the way.

He took out his cell and punched in Callum’s number. “They’re after us. We’re leaving Flexley by helicopter, and we’ll need picking up. I’ll leave my phone on—you can track us on the frequency. Haughton’s been shot, so we’ll need medical supplies.”

He put the phone away as they rose into the air. They hovered for a moment, and he looked down onto the roof, finding two men down. “Head out of the city. North.”

He kept his eyes peeled for any likely place to land. They were on the outskirts of London, so soon the buildings gave way to farmland. After ten minutes, he called Callum again. “Do you have us?”

“Yeah, Talbot is the nearest. He’s heading in your direction. Should be close in another fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. I’m going to find somewhere to go down. Haughton doesn’t look good.”

Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead, and his right hand trembled where it gripped the stick. Luke turned to stare out of the glass and spotted a large flat field that might be a possibility. He touched Haughton’s arm and pointed down.

Haughton adjusted the steering so they banked, before leveling up over the center of the field. The helicopter lurched to a landing, but they were down. Haughton switched off the engine and slumped over the controls. Leaning across, Luke placed his fingers to the other man’s neck; the pulse was steady, if a little weak.

He unstrapped himself and climbed down, noticing a busy road alongside the field about fifty meters away. On the other side was woodland. He carried the injured man to the shelter of the trees where he could watch the road. After laying Haughton on the ground, he tended the man’s wounds with a medical kit he’d pulled from the helicopter.

“Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Luke pulled Haughton to his feet, but when he tried to take a step, the leg gave way beneath him. Luke swore, but caught him before he hit the ground, and pulled him upright. “Keep your hand on my arm. We’ve only got to get to the road.”

There was a ditch between the field and the road, and he knew Haughton wouldn’t make it, so he hefted him over his shoulder and climbed down into the ditch and up the other side.

A helicopter droned in the distance off to the south, giving them only minutes before they were discovered. He put Haughton down; the man swayed but managed to keep to his feet. At that moment, a black truck pulled up beside them, and the door opened. Luke pushed Haughton onto the back seat and climbed in behind him. “Drive.”

They pulled away and slid back into the flow of traffic. If the helicopter had satellite coverage of this area, they would pick them up sooner rather than later. At least the traffic was busy. Up ahead was a tunnel.

“Pull over in the tunnel,” he told the driver.

…

Lauren rested her head against the back of her chair and rubbed her eyes. She hadn’t slept in two days, but there was little else she could do now. Everything was in place. Tonight she would move out of the city. London was not somewhere she wanted to be once they released Descartes.

A low knock sounded on the door; she sat up straight as Mark entered. He appeared hesitant, and her eyes narrowed on him. She remained silent as he stopped in front of her desk and stood before her, shifting from one foot to the other.

“You might as well get it over with and tell me,” Lauren said. “What’s gone wrong?”

“We don’t really know.”

She gritted her teeth. “Tell me.”

“We got the woman, Jenna Young. She’s being interrogated at headquarters.”

A flicker of unease ran through her. She remembered the photograph of the woman, that hint of recognition. Who was she? And how was she tied in to Descartes? “Has she talked yet?”

“No, but there’s something else.”

He paused, and her unease flared into anger. “For Christ’s sake, Mark, tell me.”

“She killed Lynch during the interrogation.”

Shock tore through her. Lynch was a sadistic son of a bitch, but he was an excellent interrogator who never took undue risks. “How?”

“I’ve sent the security film to your monitor.”

Lauren leaned across and switched on her computer. Mark came around to stand behind her. The screen flickered to life. A woman lay curled up on the floor of a white tiled cell, her long blond hair covering her face. She wore gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, torn and stained with blood. “She fainted during the interrogation,” Mark said. “Which is itself odd—the drugs should keep her conscious.” He leaned across and fast-forwarded the film.

Lauren watched as the woman rose to her feet, crossed the room, and rinsed her face in the small sink. She was easily recognizable as the woman in the photo—Jenna Young. Lynch entered the room, spoke briefly, ripped her T-shirt, and felt her up. Mark slowed the film again as Lynch pushed her face up against the wall and pulled down her pants.

Jenna moved incredibly fast, whirling and jabbing her elbow into Lynch’s throat. Lauren frowned as Lynch was thrown across the room. She pressed the pause button and glanced up at Mark.

“Could the drugs have done something? Given her some sort of adrenaline flash that enhanced her strength?”

“Not according to the doctor. He’s never known any reaction like this.”

Lauren reached across and restarted the film. Lynch rose to his feet; he looked pissed but not badly hurt. Jenna spun and kicked out, hitting him squarely in the chest, and he went down again. This time he did appear hurt, and Jenna stood back and watched as he stumbled to his feet and collapsed back into the chair. She leaned toward him and spoke.

“What’s she saying?” Lauren asked.

“She wants him to scream.”

It was obvious he was in no state to make any noise, panic clear on his face as he struggled to breathe. Jenna ripped his shirt and Lauren saw the blood and the white bone protruding from his chest. He died moments later. Jenna banged on the door, finally sliding to the floor. Mark pressed fast-forward, and she watched as Jenna passed out.

“The guards put gas into the room. She lost consciousness.”

“Is she alive?”

“Yes. They have her in full restraints, though.”

“Did she say anything during the interrogation? Anything at all?”

Mark shook his head.

“A lucky strike?”

“The doctor examined Lynch’s body. She broke eight of his ribs. Hardly lucky for Lynch.”

Lauren stared at the screen showing the frozen image of the blond woman slumped against the wall, hair falling forward over her face. That same sense of recognition niggled at her insides.

“Do we have a background file on her yet?”

“They’ve been working on it. I’ll go see what they’ve come up with and send it through to you.”

Lauren waited until he’d left the room then got up and poured herself a whiskey. She stood at the window, peered at the bustling city, and gulped the drink in one swallow. When Mark came back into the room, she was pouring a second.

“It should be there now.”

After returning to her desk, she scrolled through the report. Jenna Young, twenty-six years old. Mother: Sandra Leavsey, deceased. Father: Dr. Jonathon Young, deceased. She noticed the date of death was recent. A coincidence? She clicked on his name and brought up a photograph.

Shock hit her in the solar plexus, and she released her breath on a gasp.

“What is it?” Mark asked from beside her. “Have you found something?”

For a minute, she couldn’t speak while she studied the photograph. He was older, but it was definitely John. She switched to the photograph of Jenna Young and immediately saw the similarities in the bone structure. The narrow nose, the wide generous mouth—but her eyes didn’t come from John, they came from her biological mother. She tried to tell herself she was wrong, but the ages matched. Jennifer would have been twenty-six now. If she had lived.

If she had lived? She shook her head. Here was the proof she had lived and that John had lied to her.

After they’d terminated the original Descartes project, John had wanted nothing more to do with them or her, and for the first and last time in her life, Lauren had done something not in her or the Conclave’s best interests.

She’d let him go, told him how to hide himself, and given him the means to change his identity and become a new man. Merrick had continued to work for them on and off, but John had wanted out. Lauren had helped him because she understood his bitterness. She’d been bitter, too, though she’d never felt the personal connection John had—she’d never allowed herself to.

John hadn’t been so important that the Conclave would waste their time hunting him down. Besides, she’d vouched for him and then put him from her mind.

Christ. All this time, and it had never occurred to her that he’d lied.

Twenty-two years ago, he told her he’d terminated the Descartes project. Now here was the proof it still existed. She stared in fascination at the woman on the screen.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “What have we made?”