Red Notice

92

Tom limped fast along the side of the train, loaded with the PKM and as much link as he’d been able to hang around his neck. His leg was agony. ‘Bin it!’ he screamed. ‘Jockey, fucking bin it!’

A couple of hundred metres away, Jockey couldn’t hear a thing. He was up his ladder, with numbers two and three so close behind that their respirators impacted on the body armour of the man in front.

Number four, the axe man, punched a flash-bang through the freshly crazed glass. Jockey threw his weight against it and tried to push through. A blinding flash lit each end of the carriage, followed immediately by two deafening bangs.

The detonation of the metal-oxidant mix of magnesium and aluminium created the equivalent of 300,000 candlepower, momentarily activating all light-sensitive cells in the eye, making vision impossible for five seconds. The 160-decibel blast seriously fucked up the fluid in the eardrum. It shocked and stunned, and disrupted the balance function of anyone within range who wasn’t wearing protective gear.

To Jockey’s amazement, the Yankees didn’t budge. Almost immediately he saw why. They couldn’t. He tried punching and elbowing his way through from the top of his ladder, but there were too many of them, and they were being forced up against the windows by their guards.

A flash-bang bounced off the impenetrable human wall and back down into the tunnel. The detonation kicked off and the Yankees screamed, unable to move and take cover. Two teenagers screamed to each other in French. Their arms reached out to Jockey, thrust from behind like lemmings at a cliff edge.

He checked left. The other team was having the same problem. Some had taken hits below him. Yankees tumbled out of the windows and onto the track. It was like a siege on a medieval castle, men swarming up ladders to scale the parapets. But instead of battlements and boiling oil, there were so many bodies it was never going to happen.

Jockey jumped down onto the concrete and hit his pressel. ‘All call-signs — bin it! Bin it! I say again, move back, move back, move back!’

Keenan heard him loud and clear, but he was going to stay until the team was on the move. Unable to see the gunner, he aimed just above the muzzle-flash and took a shot. The PKM stopped for about five seconds, then kicked off again. He sucked in big lungfuls of air to stop his body moving and affecting his aim. The noise and chaos around him was just moving wallpaper in his head as he took aim once more.

Jockey brought him back into the real world with a boot in the thigh. ‘Get moving, you mad Cornish hippie!’

Tom saw the team start to withdraw to the rear of the train. He swung the gun down and behind one of the wheels and stood with his hands up, not wanting to become a casualty. He waited for the first of the team to approach.

The man in black grabbed him before he recognized Tom’s face.

‘Mate,’ Bryce yelled, ‘where the fuck have you been hiding?’

Tom spun him against the train, shouting over the din of the flash-bangs covering their withdrawal. It echoed and resonated tenfold when the pressure had nowhere to go but up and down the tunnel. ‘Jockey? Where’s Jockey?’

More members of the team streamed past as Bryce got on the net. Jockey was the last man back, making sure every casualty was picked up, and every flash-bang was used to keep the chaos going. When he appeared, Bryce threw out an arm and Tom gripped his sleeve, pulling him close. ‘There’s a device on the gas pipeline!’ He pointed upwards. ‘Up there, above the service tunnel. Laszlo has a grab bag — it has to be the initiation device, it’s the only thing he never lets go. I don’t know what the fuck he’s planning, but his brother keeps saying, “Kill the country.” So go, mate — go! Give Gav the message.’

Jockey ripped off his respirator. ‘You’ve got to come with us.’

Tom’s eyes locked on his. ‘No, I’m staying. Delphine’s still in there. End of.’

The rattle of machine-gun fire filled the air. Rounds drilled into the concrete further along the train.

Tom ducked and grabbed the PKM as Jockey and Bryce legged it towards the UK. Tom positioned the bipod to the right of the wheel. He needed every bit of protection on offer.

He lay down and cocked the weapon. The working parts were already to the rear, but old habits died hard. He had to ensure the gun was made ready. He started to fire: short, sharp, five-round bursts, making sure that every round hugged the side of the train en route to its twin.