His head ringing, Kenyon eased himself up onto his knees and peered cautiously over the lip of the vat, just in time to witness Hazzim swing the heavy door shut.
A barrage of gunfire erupted from Fox unit, ricocheting off the thick steel.
Almost simultaneously, a side door burst into splinters as Viper unit forced their way into the warehouse.
“Hold your fire!” shouted Arundel.
Fox unit instantly silenced their weapons.
“Viper! Take holding cover!” commanded Arundel.
The men from Viper unit joined Fox behind the vat, several men keeping their weapons trained on the door.
“What’s the status, sir?” asked Farnham.
“We’ve got four suspects barricaded behind that door,” said Arundel. “They’ve got hand grenades and God knows what else.”
Farnham peered at the door. “Heavy gauge steel, by the looks of it. Probably cement core. Take a twenty-pound directional charge to budge it.”
“Do it,” said Arundel.
Farnham signaled to one of his men, who ran out the door under cover. He then turned to Arundel. “We’ll have to evacuate this room.”
Arundel nodded. “Right. Everyone out.” The men quickly filed out the splintered entrance, until only Arundel, Farnham, Kenyon, and Happy Harry remained.
“Let’s go, mate,” said Harry. “Last one out buys the round.”
“Wait,” Kenyon said, turning to Farnham. “How long will it take to blow the door?”
“A few minutes,” said Farnham. “Maybe three, at most.”
“Shit,” said Kenyon. “That’s too long. They’re almost ready to transmit. Once Cyberworm is out, it will destroy everything.”
Arundel pointed at the imposing door. “There’s no other way to reach the computers.”
“What about the dish on the roof?” asked Kenyon. “We take that out, we stop the transmission.
“Good point,” said Arundel. He turned toward the door. “We’ll detail someone to take it out.”
“No time.” Kenyon grabbed Harry by the arm. “We’ll go.”
Two soldiers wearing thick gloves returned carrying a black metal box.
Arundel glanced at his watch. “We blow the door in three minutes. Stay off this end of the building in case the roof collapses.”
“Piece a cake,” said Harry. He synchronized the timer on his watch.
Harry and Kenyon sprinted back up the stairs, stopping at the top. They scanned the upper floor.
“You see any way out to the roof?” asked Kenyon.
“Gotta be a trapdoor somewheres,” said Harry.
Using Harry’s flashlight, the two men raced from room to room until they found a steel ladder bolted to the side of a wall.
They advanced cautiously until they were adjacent to the roof access. The small trapdoor was open, and they could see the landing lights of a jumbo jet blink as it passed above.
Kenyon studied the trapdoor for a moment. “Tight squeeze,” he whispered.
Harry nodded in agreement. “What’s the plan?”
“We just need to find the cable to the dish and cut it.”
Harry pulled the bayonet off the end of his rifle “Give me thirty seconds.” Gripping the bayonet in his teeth, he climbed the ladder. He cautiously peered over the lip of the trapdoor, then eased himself onto the roof. In a second, he was gone.
Kenyon reached thirty seconds, but there was no sign of Harry. He climbed the ladder.
Kenyon peered over the lip of the door. The roof of the warehouse was flat, with a two-foot wooden lip at the edge of the building. To his left, he could make out the silhouette of the large dish. A function light glowed bright red at the base: it was still in operation and Harry was nowhere to be seen.
“Harry!” hissed Kenyon. “Where are you?”
Kenyon could hear a mewling sound coming from the direction of the dish. Clambering out onto the roof, he advanced, wondering what a kitten was doing out there.
It wasn’t a cat making the noise, it was Harry. Kenyon found the soldier sitting against the wooden lip of the roof. He was weakly clawing at something on his shoulder.
“Are you all right?” asked Kenyon. He crouched over to peer at whatever Harry was tugging at.
It was his bayonet. Someone had forced it through his arm, pinning him to the wood behind. Kenyon felt like retching.
Harry’s eyes went wide as he focused on someone behind Kenyon.
Instinctively, Kenyon rolled to the left. A machete thudded into the lip, burying itself in the wood.
Kenyon spun to face his adversary. Ali stood behind him, tugging on the shaft of the machete in an effort to dislodge it. He launched himself against the man, tackling him in the midriff, but Ali flung Kenyon to one side, and resumed tugging at the machete.
Kenyon staggered to his feet. He was unarmed, but he couldn’t leave Harry at the villain’s mercy.
Suddenly, it struck him; Ali wasn’t up there to attack the two men, he was there to protect the transmitter. Kenyon turned and rushed toward the dish, searching for the feeder cable. He found the line, wrapped several loops around his hand, and pulled it from the base of the dish.
With a bellow, Ali freed his machete and pursued Kenyon. The agent ducked behind the dish, trying to keep the end of the cable out of the giant’s hand.
For a few frantic seconds, the duo lurched around the dish until Ali stomped down on the end of the cable, knocking Kenyon off balance. He stumbled against the lip of the roof and fell backwards over the edge. He would have plunged to his death, but the cable wrapped around his hand stopped him. He pounded against the side of the building, knocking the wind out of his lungs.
Swinging on the end of the cable, Kenyon glanced up. Through a haze of stars, he could see Ali standing above. The giant grinned wickedly, his machete held high.
Ali was interrupted by a beeping sound. He turned and glanced back toward Harry.
Kenyon grinned. “Time’s up, big guy,” he said.
There was a muffled clap of thunder, and the roof of the building rose. Ali and the dish hung weightless in the air for a moment, before plunging into the gaping hole in the roof.
Kenyon didn’t have time to think. The cable, still entangled in the dish, whip-stocked him back onto the roof and across the tarry surface. Just as he was about to plunge after Ali, the dish came to rest, and Kenyon came to a halt at the lip of the hole. Directly below, amid the smoke from the explosion, Ali lay spreadeagled, unmoving.
The agent disentangled himself from the cable and ran over to Harry. A large pool of blood had formed beneath him, but he was still conscious.
“We’ll have you out of here in a jiffy,” said Kenyon.
Harry smiled weakly. “No worries.”
“I’m going to get help.” Kenyon squeezed through the trapdoor and descended the steel ladder. He found an SAS commando near the base of the ladder. “Harry’s up top,” said Kenyon. “He’s injured. Call for an ambulance.”
Kenyon headed back to the main room. Amid the swirling dust and smoke, he could see that the steel door to the alcove sat ajar, ripped from its mounts by the explosion. Inside the alcove, Garbajian and his henchmen lay face down on the floor, guarded by SAS commandos.
Kenyon scanned the computer monitor. A message flashed on the screen: “Transmission aborted.” He breathed a sigh of relief, but the relief was short-lived. Arundel emerged from a passageway at the far end of the alcove. “Ilsa’s escaped. She has the encryption code with her.”
Kenyon ran back through the main room. He found a door leading into the lane adjacent to the warehouse. Pushing it open, he spotted Ilsa’s car racing toward the end of the lane. A commando fired, bursting one of the taillights, but it didn’t stop the car, which struck the wooden gate, smashing it off its hinges.
Kenyon ran down the lane and clambered over the remains of the wooden gate, staring at the retreating car. Lady Beatrice appeared at his side and grabbed him by the arm. “Come on, young man, she’s escaping.” She pushed Kenyon toward the Bentley. “I’ll drive.”
“No,” replied Kenyon, climbing behind the wheel. “I’ll drive. You have to let backup know where we’re going.”
Lady Beatrice switched the radio to multi-broadcast. “We have a suspect in flight heading east on Tooley Street in a black Mercedes. She is armed and dangerous. Use extreme caution.”
With one of the rear taillights smashed, Kenyon soon made out its distinctive pattern. He floored the accelerator and the powerful car leapt ahead.A police van pulled from a side road, trying to block the Mercedes’ path. Ilsa swerved sharply to the left, following an exit lane.
“She’s heading north onto Tower Bridge Road,” said Lady Beatrice into the radio. “Can someone block the north end?”
Kenyon turned onto Tower Bridge Road and peered ahead. “Doesn’t look like we’ll need anyone,” he said. “They’ve closed the bridge.”
A ship was approaching upstream, and the bridgemaster had initiated the raising of the leaves that allowed passage of large vessels under the structure. A pair of tall blue gates had been swung out onto the roadway to block traffic but the Mercedes didn’t even slow down. Ilsa swung into the empty right lane and plowed through the barrier, accelerating toward the far end.
“The woman is completely insane,” said Lady Beatrice. “What is she going to do, leap the gap?”
Kenyon sped in pursuit but by the time the Bentley reached the barrier, Ilsa’s car was nearing the halfway point. The mechanical leaves had already started to inch slowly upwards, and a gap of several feet had opened. Kenyon could see the bridge master in his office frantically trying to reverse the widening gap.
It was too late. At the last moment, Ilsa tried to stop, but the Mercedes fishtailed out of control and plunged sideways into the gap.
Kenyon slammed on the brakes and brought the Bentley to a halt. He and Lady Beatrice ran to the edge and peered down.
The bridge had finally ground to a halt. There, stuck in the gap, was the Mercedes. Inside, they could see Ilsa struggling, trying to free herself.
The bridge began to lower. “Dear God, she’ll be crushed,” said Lady Beatrice. She turned and shouted at the bridgemaster. “Stop! Stop!”
The two mechanical leaves pressed upon the Mercedes like a nut cracker. The roof began to buckle, and the side windows exploded. Kenyon could see that the passenger window was a possible escape route. “Hang on,” he called, clambering onto the side of the car.
Ilsa lay across the front seat of the Mercedes. “Can you move?” asked Kenyon.
Ilsa looked up. “My leg is stuck.”
Kenyon glanced down toward the floor of the front seat. There, jammed between the dashboard and the gearshift, was the picture of Lydia. Ilsa’s leg was pinned beneath the frame. “Give me your hand,”
Ilsa reached out, and their hands met. The agent pulled, but Ilsa’s leg was stuck fast beneath the portrait’s frame.
There was a loud clap as the Mercedes’ windshield imploded, showering Kenyon with glass. The agent let go of Ilsa’s hand and fell back as the immense weight of the bridge crushed the car. A scream arose from the mangled wreck, then silence, as the bridge finally came to a rest.
Far below, the river Thames flowed to the sea.