Gervaux had just called in a forensics team to comb the large, windowless room for DNA samples, when they heard the faint, but distinct, sound of an automatic weapon being discharged. The two officers instinctively drew their standard issue 9mm SIG-Sauer P226 semi-automatic pistols from their shoulder holsters and made their way out of the room and across the corridor.
The inspector cautiously opened the door, his pistol raised in front of him. Lavelle was at his shoulder adopting a similar stance. The muffled sound of the gunfire instantly became clearer, but was still remote. Crouching low to present as small a target as possible, they ran down the tunnel towards the firefight, hugging the wall for cover.
As the chatter from the machine gun reached an almost deafening pitch, amplified by the acoustics of the tunnel, Gervaux could make out the shape of a man and woman running towards them. However, before he had time to shout out for them to stop, they veered off into a side tunnel. Behind them he could see two other people heading in his direction and, further beyond, a golf buggy closing the gap. One of the runners seemed to fall, but didn’t get up. His partner stopped and went back to attend to him.
Intuition and training had given Gervaux the ability to read the dynamics of a situation within a split second. He instinctively assessed that the immediate threat was coming from the golf buggy and opened fire, aiming at its tyres. Lavelle, who was now standing by his side, followed his boss’s lead, hitting the front right wheel with his first volley and making the cart skid to a screeching halt. The two men quickly decamped from their vehicle and took cover behind it, returning fire.
Finding themselves exposed, the two officers ran for the safety of the service tunnel they had seen the man and woman disappear into. Once there, they checked their weapons for ammunition. Each had a spare clip, but they knew they were no match for their adversary’s arsenal. It was time for negotiation.
‘Police! Put your weapons down and come out with your hands up,’ Gervaux yelled.
He received a quick burst of automatic fire in response.
It was time to up the ante. ‘Reinforcements are already on their way. If you give yourself up now, it will go in your favour.’
Another burst, but this time it was followed by the sound of retreating footsteps.
‘Last chance!’ Gervaux shouted. ‘Hand over your weapons.’
Silence.
Gervaux gingerly poked his head out of their refuge. He could see the two gunmen had abandoned their position and were running flat-out in the opposite direction.
‘Shouldn’t we go after them?’ Lavelle enquired.
‘Not with these pea-shooters,’ replied Gervaux, indicating to his weapon. ‘Call in reinforcements. Give them their descriptions and tell them they are armed and extremely dangerous.’
Whilst his sergeant was on the radio, the inspector made his way over to Frederick and the crumpled form on the floor, expecting the worst. He was surprised to see that the boy was still breathing — shallow breaths, but alive all the same. He bent down next to Frederick to inspect the wound. The small hole in his chest was still seeping blood. He slid his hand underneath the boy’s back but couldn’t feel any wetness.
‘You need to put pressure over the bullet hole to stem the bleeding,’ he told Frederick. ‘Here, use my handkerchief and press down firmly.’
Frederick did as he was instructed. ‘Will he live?’ Frederick’s eyes searched the inspector’s, imploring him to give him the right answer.
‘I’m no doctor,’ replied Gervaux, ‘but I have seen enough bullet wounds to say that he must have caught a ricochet. If it had been a direct hit from an automatic rifle, there would be an exit wound the size of a grapefruit and he wouldn’t be breathing at all.’ He paused to take another look at the boy. ‘He’s still got the bullet in him; but if it’s missed his vital organs and we can get him to the hospital soon, then there’s a good chance he’ll survive.’
Frederick’s relief was palpable. His shoulders shook as fat, wet tears ran down his face. However, he still maintained the constant pressure on his son’s wound, determined to keep him alive.
‘Get an air ambulance here, immediately,’ Gervaux called over to his sergeant.
Deiter was watching his plans unravel on the CCTV cameras in the Chief Security Guard’s office, who was seated next to him, his eyes glazed, staring lifelessly at the monitor. A single trickle of blood ran down his face from the third eye drilled into his forehead by Deiter’s bullet. The back of his head was a different story. His hair was matted with blood and brain tissue as the projectile had exited and embedded itself in the wall opposite, making a splatter pattern a psychiatrist would be proud of. Deiter had already interpreted it as an eagle in full flight bearing down on a small animal, possibly a rabbit or a cat.
Everything had seemed to be going so well. He had seen the Chief Security Officer leaving his hut, on the way back to the control room with his two henchmen, so he had not terminated him there and then, as was the original plan. He sent one of his men into the security office to monitor the progress of his passenger train, while he went to the main building to initialise the Collider start-up procedure. He was halfway through the sequence when the guard ran in to tell him that the prisoners were escaping. He immediately dispatched both men to put a stop to it, while he went to the security office to orchestrate proceedings via a two-way radio.
Expecting to find it empty, he was surprised to see the Chief Security Officer in his seat, eyes glued to the monitor, watching the drama unfold. He was about to alert his team when he noticed Deiter in the doorway attaching a suppressor to his handgun. Without a word, Deiter closed the door behind him, sat down next to the petrified man, put the muzzle to his forehead and pulled the trigger. Then, after deciphering the ink blot image on the wall behind him, he calmly returned his gaze to the screen.
His frustration at seeing Ajay rescuing Tom and then the others had turned to a seething rage by the time his men had reached the scene. Why hadn’t he killed the little bastard when he’d had the chance? What was even more annoying was the fact that these highly-trained killers, who he’d paid a small fortune for, wouldn’t win a prize in a duck shoot at a fairground let alone hit a moving target. He watched helplessly as Tom and Serena escaped down a service tunnel. Then Ajay hit the floor and he almost jumped out of his seat with excitement. Unfortunately, his elation was short-lived as he noticed the two policemen returning fire.
‘Kill them! Kill them!’ he shouted into the radio-mic. But, to his disgust, instead of putting up a fight, his two operatives high-tailed it back down the tunnel.
He slumped back in his chair, deflated. But then he realised that, although Tom and Serena were still on the loose, he could track them using the face recognition software installed in the CCTV cameras. He leant forward and flicked through the screens, picking the two of them up as they headed back to the accommodation block. Surely they weren’t going to hide in there?
The cameras tracked them entering their rooms, only to exit seconds later. Obviously they’d gone to retrieve something. Morantz’s file, maybe? But Deiter couldn’t see any evidence that either of them were carrying it. He watched as they surreptitiously made their way through the complex, checking each corridor before making their moves. The CCTV screens in the security office changed as they left one surveillance zone and into the range of another camera.
‘Where are you going?’ Deiter said out loud to himself. He checked the plan of the facility on the wall against their movements. They seemed to be heading for the visitor centre. But why? It didn’t make any sense. He checked the map again. No, not the visitor centre — the private airstrip behind it.