Knife Edge

11.43 A.M.

Doyle tossed the mobile towards Calloway then turned and sprinted towards his own car.

'Listen,' said Calloway into the radio. 'I want every available mobile unit in the vicinity to close in on Euston station. Also, contact BR, tell them what's going on. Get that fucking place evacuated. If the bomb goes off there…' He allowed the sentence to trail off.

The DI watched as Doyle leaped behind the wheel of the Datsun, revving the engine, reversing wildly.

He sped off, almost colliding with an ambulance.

'I want the emergency services on alert too,' Calloway continued. 'And the bomb squad. And you get to Euston as fast as you can, I'll meet you there. Doyle's already on his way.'

The DI twisted the key in the ignition and the Granada's engine roared into life.

As he guided the vehicle out of the car park he glanced at his watch. Could Neville be bluffing about the bomb?

He hoped so but he doubted it.

'Shit,' he hissed.

There wouldn't be enough time.

The bomb must be close to Neville, Doyle thought as he drove.

Chances are it was to be detonated by remote control and most electronically triggered devices only had a range of about a hundred yards. Two hundred absolute tops.

It was on that bloody station somewhere.

Doyle looked at his watch.

Forty-eight minutes.

He banged his horn, trying to force the van ahead of him to pull over.

The traffic was heavy.

Too fucking heavy.

Even if he reached Euston quickly the chances of finding Neville there were slim, the chances of finding the bomb in time even slimmer. There were a hundred different places he could have planted it.

The lights ahead of Doyle were on amber, the rest of the traffic was slowing down.

Fuck it.

He pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and the Datsun shot through on red.

The counter terrorist heard horns behind and to one side of him sounding like some organised chorus of dissent.

Forty-five minutes before detonation.

The first of many.

Neville had said one every hour until eight o'clock.

Doyle did some quick arithmetic in his head as he screamed past a cyclist.

One every hour.

Seven bombs and then the big one.

'That's a lot of lives, Doyle.'

Neville's words came floating back to him.

'You know what it's like.'

The counter terrorist's grip on the wheel tightened.

'You've seen what bombs can do.'

Seen, smelled, felt.

He had the scars to prove what it was like to be on the receiving end.

If he didn't find Neville quickly, there were going to be many people with more than scars to show.