The officials flattened themselves against the wall and Myles was clear to run between the two men. It was Myles who the gunman was after. The court officials knew it too.
Screams behind Myles confirmed his fears: the gunman was close. Myles imagined the man jumping from the seats in the public gallery, across the courtroom and into the defendant’s dock. The man would have gone through the wooden door and into the corridor just seconds behind him. How could Myles escape?
He realised his chances were slim. As he rounded more corners, he knew the corridors in the building could not go on forever. Soon they would end, and he would be trapped by the man with the gun. A man determined to kill him.
Should he look for the public exit? Myles could hear the crowds moving not far from him and guessed they were being escorted to safety. But crowds meant delay. And trying to hide among them meant putting them in danger. Myles would get caught in the jam. Bullets would kill members of the public, then Myles.
Myles scoured the corridor for something else.
Quickly he pulled one of the doors in the corridor. It was locked. He grabbed the next handle along. This time the door swung open. Myles rushed inside.
He knew he had only seconds. He surveyed the room.
A man with glasses sat behind a desk full of papers. Behind him was a large window with a third-floor view over the city.
The administrator stood up, reacting to Myles’ presence — half furious, half shocked.
Myles moved towards him, then edged him aside so he could reach the man’s executive chair. He picked it up. ‘Sorry…’ he said, as he heaved it onto his shoulder. Then he hurled it forward: into the window.
Instantly the glass shattered. Broken fragments followed the chair outside in a long arc to the ground. Myles used his elbow to widen the hole, bashing out the shards.
The administrator started saying something, but became speechless as Myles climbed onto his desk, brushing his papers onto the floor. He was even more shocked when the tall intruder started clambering towards the broken window.
Myles nodded and smiled a ‘thank you’ to the stunned official as he lifted one foot onto the window shelf. Then he swung his other foot through the hole in the glass and placed it on the outside ledge, kicking glass away until he had a steady footing. He bent down and squeezed his body to move himself outside, holding on tightly with his hands. Finally he brought his second foot through behind him.
Myles was now on the outside ledge of the third floor of Paddington Green Police Station. As he felt the fresh wind brush against him, and looked down to see where the executive chair had landed below, he knew it was too far to jump. He knew the fall would hurt and hurt badly. But as he heard the commotion catching up behind him, he also knew he had no choice.
Myles managed to hurl himself sideways as he jumped off. It meant he didn’t go straight down, but instead landed on a small adjoining roof. It was angled — he couldn’t land there. But it was enough to break his fall. When he bounced off he wasn’t travelling so fast towards the ground.
With his two legs firmly together and his knees bent, Myles hit the concrete hard. He rolled onto the ground, half-winded and with a pain in his feet. It took him a second to gather his bearings, but he wasn’t hurt. Not even a sprained ankle. Myles realised how lucky he was, and tried to move off, away from the building.
Policemen and women were busily hurrying around the public entrance to the court. News of the gunman had spread and Myles could hear a wail of emergency sirens approaching. A confused gaggle from the public gallery was being escorted onto the streets close by, while people from the underground station opposite were stopping to watch, although no one seemed to have spotted him yet.
Briefly Myles considered handing himself in to the police. But could they keep him safe? Not with the gunman still close behind him.
Myles knew he had to get as far away as he could. He looked around him and saw a road ahead. He decided he had to get across, and rushed towards it, hoping to dodge the cars driving fast along it.
There was a burst of gunfire behind him. Myles turned to see. He couldn’t make out the gunman, but from the faces of the panicked public he could tell that the assassin was already at ground level.
Myles darted between the traffic and sprinted onto the pavement. He began to run as fast as he could.
Then he realised where he was: this was Edgware Road, one of London’s major transport arteries. It had been laid down by the Romans — a cultural legacy which had lasted two millennia. Myles knew he was about to become a victim of the Romans again, since they had made all their routes as straight as possible. Running along a straight road with a gunman behind him was madness: there would be no cover, the gunman would get a clean shot.
So Myles darted off down the first side street he saw, desperately trying to keep up his speed while he turned the corner. He knew the gunman could not be far behind.
Too much running: he was beginning to tire and become breathless. Myles contemplated hiding in the buildings he passed: a launderette, a Lebanese restaurant, a small supermarket… The thought of a rest was tempting. But then he heard a scream behind him and realised the gunman was too close for him to stop.
On Myles ran, sprinting for his life. He turned a second corner until he was running parallel to the Edgware Road.
He passed a Roman-looking church — St John’s — and panted while he considered hiding in it. Then he dismissed the idea: this assassin had no respect for a courtroom, and would have no qualms about killing him in a church. Religious places could provide no sanctuary for him. There was probably no sanctuary at all.
Myles kept on moving, now desperately short of energy and stamina. He had run too fast for too long. His legs ached, but far worse his heart and lungs were screaming with exhaustion. He knew he had to stop soon. He was running out of everything he had.
He stumbled on to find himself in a place he vaguely recognised: this pleasant square had been on television. The smart Georgian houses seemed familiar. It evoked a sense of power in retreat. Myles remembered cameras here, come to mock a man who once had near-imperial authority.
This was Connaught Square, hidden behind the junction where Edgware road met Marble Arch. This square housed a former Prime Minister. It was also one of the very few places in the capital where the police routinely carry firearms. Only here was the terrorist threat considered high enough to deserve it.
Myles looked over. The guards outside the former premier’s London residence were on alert — probably warned about the drama less than a mile away at the magistrate’s court. They had their guns ready.
Myles sprinted on. He didn’t acknowledge the police. Nor did he want to. He looked towards the far end of the square, hoping he might find some safety ahead.
Then there was a burst of gunfire behind him.
Myles heard the armed police he had just passed shout a single word very clearly: ‘STOP’.
But Myles was running too fast to stop. He couldn’t stop. He knew that if he stopped he would die. So he just ran on. He was close to cover. Very close. Close enough…
Then there was a very different burst of gunfire behind him. Several bursts from several guns. This time the bullets had hit their mark.
Thirty-Four
The Diplomatic Protection Corp assigned to the former Prime Minister had a drill for exactly this sort of event. Three of them remained as they were, their weapons poised. They were watching for the next surprise, ready in case any further threats emerged. Another was on his radio, reporting what had happened to an information hub. Since the former Prime Minister’s family wasn’t home, they didn’t need to escort or protect anyone. That released two men to advance, with their Heckler & Koch G36C semi-automatic carbines held tightly to their shoulders. Carefully, they approached the body.