Rush hour was approaching, the roads were getting busy. Sam was making slow progress to Westminster Bridge. His main concern was that Raynor would be long gone by the time he got there. He pressed the button on his earpiece once more. ‘Call Dave work.’ He instructed. Moments later, his call was answered.
‘Lucy Green.’
‘Lucy, it’s Sam. Is he still there?
‘Yes, Sam. He hasn’t moved.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ Sam ended the call.
Sam made slow progress around the Parliament Square one-way system and onto Bridge Street. Passing the Houses of Parliament, the roadster made its way onto Westminster Bridge, the London Eye becoming visible across the river to the left. Everything looked normal, he was just a bit too far away to be able to make out the masses of uniformed men and women attempting to calmly clear the public from a potentially life threatening situation.
Raynor was sat on his motorcycle. He stopped listening to the calls and put his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket. He put on his helmet and gloves and started the machine. He waited.
A Lotus. Should be easy to spot.
Sam’s phone rang. He pressed the button on his earpiece to accept the incoming call.
‘He fucking shot me!’
Sam slammed on the brakes, much to the chagrin of the driver behind. Horns started blaring behind him. He pulled into the bus lane and stopped.
‘Dave? What happened? Is it bad?’
‘Of course it’s fucking bad, Sam. I’ve been shot!’
‘Where’s Thomas? Are the police there yet?’
‘Thomas took off in his Maserati. Brand new, thirteen plate. Dark Blue. Four-door. What do they call them?’
‘Quattroporte?’ offered Sam.
‘Yeah, that’s it. I wonder what that means in English.’
‘It’s Italian for “four doors”, Dave. Jesus, if he shot you in the head he’d have missed your brain by five and a half feet.
‘So what about you, Dave. Where were you shot?’
‘In the shoulder, Sam. Hurts like hell, blood everywhere. I’m not sure I’m going to make it.’
‘Shit. Did the bullet stay in? Is there an exit wound?’
‘No, the bullet didn’t stay in.’
Sam was relieved. A clean exit meant that patch up surgery would be enough to get Dave back on his feet. He’d be sore for a while, and depending on muscle and nerve damage may have restricted use of his arm, but he’d be fine.
‘That’s a relief.’ Said Sam. The line went quiet for a moment. Sam could hear muffled voices in the background before Dave shouted.
‘I’m through here. In the hallway.’
Sam jumped when he heard a blare of a horn behind him. He looked in his rear-view mirror to see the London Transport logo through the rippled, plastic rear window. He watched a man approaching and pressed the button to lower his window. A tall man in a London Transport uniform stooped down to see through the window of the very low car.
‘You can’t just bloody well park your car in a bus lane on a bridge.’ The man exclaimed.
Sam held up his MI5 Identification and said two words in an unusually arrogant manner.
‘National security.’
The bus driver’s eyes widened as he read the information on Sam’s ID card. He stood and sauntered back to the bus, muttering something Sam probably didn’t want to hear.
‘Dave, what’s happening?’ he asked.
‘Plod’s here. The bloke in charge wants a word.’
‘Okay, put him on.’ A pause as the phone was passed over.
‘This is Chief Inspector Wadsworth, Authorised Firearms Officer in charge. To whom am I speaking?’
‘Sam Edwards, MI5. The man you’re with is known to me.’ Sam explained. ‘His name is Dave Sykes. He’s reported to me that he’s been shot and is badly wounded, would you please confirm?’
Sam spotted the flashing blue lights of a police car in his wing mirror. Traffic on the bridge behind pulled over to let it past. Tourists stopped on the bridge and watched it. It was becoming apparent that something was happening at the London Eye. People were now stopping on the bridge and looking towards the tourist attraction as empty viewing pods continued their slow rotations.
Sam’s concentration was returned to the phone call when he heard a hearty laugh.
‘It’s a graze.’ Wadsworth continued, chuckling, ‘The bullet barely touched him. There’s some blood, I think he may have smashed his nose on the floor when he fainted.’
More laughter.
‘A sticking plaster will be all the medical attention he needs. I’ll put him back on.’
The next voice Sam heard was Dave. An apologetic tone to his voice.
‘It felt bad Sam, and there’s more blood than he’s letting on. But I’ll be okay.’
‘Fuck sake, Dave, I thought you were seriously injured, mate. I was on my way to get Raynor, we’re tracking his position. He might be gone now.’
Now Dave did sound regretful.
‘Shit, sorry Sam. I didn’t mean to slow you down. I’ll tell the Chief Inspector about Thomas, mate. You get after Raynor.’
With that, he was gone.
Bloody hell, Sam. Are you walking? I just want a bit of fun before I go back to work. Thought Raynor. He was still sat on his idling motorcycle. A train rumbled over the railway bridge behind him. He could see the flashing lights of the emergency services attending the London Eye. The road ahead was starting to fill with people as the public were ushered back. Officers started placing barriers and tying crime scene tape between trees. Sam was going to have a difficult time getting through that lot.
Raynor took his helmet off again. He reached for his phone to check for activity. One missed call. Dave Sykes. Something had happened to slow Sam down. Did they get Thomas? Raynor wondered. Five more minutes, Sam.
The 1.6 litre, turbocharged Isuzu engine was capable of accelerating the one-ton vehicle to sixty miles per hour in under seven seconds, and it made a valiant effort to do so as Sam floored the accelerator and sped into the traffic.
Unfortunately, he barely made it to thirty miles per hour before the traffic in front slowed him down. Sam was certain he wouldn’t make it in time. Raynor would be gone.
The dog barked and sat down. Jinx, a Belgian Malinois, was a highly trained, invaluable member of the Bomb Disposal crew. She was trained at the Defence Animal Centre at Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire, a one hundred and ten year old, three hundred and sixty acre facility used by the Royal Army Veterinary Corp.
Her handler called her back and she dutifully returned to him, tail wagging, and only too pleased to have helped. He gave her a treat and she sat by his side behind a transparent reinforced plastic shield.
Virani was watching from a safe distance, behind her own protective panel. She phoned Sam.
‘Sam, it’s Jay, where are you?’
‘Jay, I’ve been held up. Thomas has gotten away, but he is definitely our man.’
‘Okay, well I’m going to be here for a while. This bomb disposal malarkey can take quite a while, I’ve been told.’
She was watching as a Remotely Operated Vehicle, an ROV, nicknamed a Wheelbarrow, approached the device. It stood about a metre high at its highest point and rode on caterpillar tracks. A number of arms protruded from a central post, each allowing a number of attachments to be connected. Cameras or monitoring devices could be mounted on the appendages. It was currently fitted with a portable x-ray system that would allow the operator to analyse the inner workings of the ordnance and ascertain the appropriate action to disarm it.