Red Notice

104

Tom eased back a little from the carriage window, where he’d been planted alongside the other hostages, and slowly turned his head.

A thin man in a Eurostar uniform stood five bodies along to his left, with the strap of Laszlo’s precious grab bag firmly across his shoulder. He was too busy trying not to shit himself to be a totally convincing double, but a quick look at him through the sniper optics and you still might pull the trigger.

Tom had given up trying to second-guess Laszlo, but had started to build up a picture of how the South Ossetian was hoping the next hour or so might pan out. He was intrigued by their performance with the oxygen sets, and that none of the Yankees had been zip-tied; they were hands-free, just like the X-rays.

He risked swivelling his head further.

One of the guards spotted the movement, yelled, and forced Tom’s face back against the glass.

The background hum of the electric power suddenly changed in tone, and there was a loud hiss. It sounded to Tom as if the brakes had been released. The train lurched, and began to move back up the track towards Folkestone. The hostage immediately next to him gave a small whimper of anxiety.

Tom leaned his face against the window, trying to see outside, but the reflection from the internal lights made it impossible. He pressed his cheek against the cool of the glass to try to distract himself from the throbbing pain in his thigh. Then, swaying back with the movement of the train, he shot another glance along the aisle. He managed to get eyes on Mr Corduroy, the nearer of the two gunmen guarding him.

‘Where’s Laszlo?’

No response.

Tom moistened his swollen lips and tried again. ‘Laszlo is my very good friend. I worry about him—’

The man swung his sub-machine-gun towards Tom’s head, then made the mistake of leaning over to confer with his companion.

Tom shot out his left hand and grabbed the barrel of the weapon, pushing it upwards as he launched himself into both men. Still gripping the weapon with his left hand, he extended the right, propelling them backwards. As they lost their footing and toppled over the armrest of the seat on the other side of the aisle, the weapon fired a burst. There was no sound, just the judder of its recoil and a cascade of glass fragments as the ceramic rounds pulverized the window behind him.

Tom had already jinked to his right. Now he swivelled back towards the empty frame and launched himself through it. A rush of air hit him as he met the slipstream from the accelerating train. Tucking his head into his chest, he tried to roll for the landing. The next thing he knew, he hit the wall, ripping his clothes and grating the skin from his knees and elbows. He bounced off and plummeted onto the equally unforgiving concrete track bed.

He lay there for several seconds, dazed and winded.

Another burst of suppressed fire followed him out of the window, but the Eurostar had already moved too far up the track for Mr Corduroy to get a clear shot. A couple of rounds rattled harmlessly above Tom’s head as the sound of the train faded into the distance. Apart from a line of low-level red LEDs at twenty-metre intervals, the tunnel was now almost completely dark.

Tom stumbled to his feet and swayed for a moment before hobbling on as quickly as he could. If Laszlo, Sambor and Delphine needed breathing apparatus, then so did he.