Knife Edge

7.24 P.M.

Arrogant, stupid, shitheaded, fucking piece of crap.

Robert Neville gripped the handlebars of the Harley Davidson so tightly it seemed his fingers would cut through the thick leather of the gloves he wore.

Doyle.

Smartarse fucking bastard.

Who the hell did he think he was? Threatening Lisa.

Neville eased the Tour Glide around a van which had stopped close to the pavement outside a restaurant in Monmouth Street.

The traffic was heavy, as streets in the centre of the capital had been closed after the bombs. Diversions were in force. The traffic was jam-packed, bumper to bumper.

Neville guided the motorbike expertly through the traffic where he could, cursing the other vehicles, cursing the police.

Cursing Doyle.

How dare he?

Arrogant fucker.

Trying to play Neville at his own game. Trying to bargain.

The ex-para felt the bulk of the. 357 beneath one armpit, the. 459 beneath the other.

When he finally got his hands on the counter terrorist he'd empty both fucking guns into him.

Then he'd take Lisa.

Doyle wouldn't shoot her, he was sure of that.

Relatively sure.

Fairly sure?

Fuck it. He had no way of fathoming how the counter terrorist's mind worked. How far he was willing to push this game.

You said you were alike. How far would he go? Would you kill a child if you had to?

Some had died already in the bomb blasts earlier. They must have.

How many young lives do you want on your conscience?

How many had Doyle already got on his?

Would one more matter to him?

Neville thought it wouldn't.

As he headed into St Martin's Lane he felt, he knew, that the man he would shortly be meeting was every bit as ruthless as himself.

For some reason, the thought made Neville smile.

'Say that again, you're breaking up, over,' said PC Nigel Butler, the two-way held close to his ear.

He listened more carefully as Mallory repeated his message.

Through the static and beneath the steady hum of the helicopter's rotor blades, the policeman nodded, picking out the words as if he were sifting through some kind of verbal jigsaw, searching for the right pieces.

'Doyle and the kid are at Charing Cross, heading down the Strand towards Trafalgar Square,' Butler repeated.

The pilot glanced across at him then moved the joystick of the Lynx a few degrees to the left, the vehicle banking.

PC Duncan Clark looked down at the maze of streets and tangle of buildings that was central London, a thousand feet below.

He gripped his rifle more tightly and swallowed hard, aware that his heart was beating that little bit faster now.

McBride spoke into his mouthpiece, replying to a question or query he'd received through his headphones. Clark saw him flick a switch to his right, saw a red light flicker on and wondered momentarily if something was wrong, but he noted with relief that the light quickly flickered off again.

'Yeah, I got it, Trafalgar Square,' Butler repeated. 'Out.'

Clark noticed that there were several beads of sweat on the other policeman's brow but he fancied they were there because of his companion's fear of flying.

Unlike the leaden feeling he felt in his own gut.

Fear?

The plain-clothes guy following Doyle says they're heading towards Trafalgar Square,' Butler repeated.

Clark nodded.

'And Neville?' McBride enquired.

Butler could only shrug. 'Wherever Doyle is, Neville will be close.'

'I hope you're right,' Clark murmured, his face pale.

'Are you OK?' Butler asked him.

Clark nodded.

'I hope I can do it when the time comes,' he said, swallowing.

'Do what?' Butler wanted to know.

'Shoot Neville,' Clark told him. 'I've never fired at a man before. Never killed anyone.'

'I felt cold afterwards,' Butler said, looking at his own rifle, memories dancing behind his eyes. 'Like I was sitting out in a snow storm.' He shrugged. 'I couldn't stop shaking for about an hour afterwards.'

'You've killed a man?'

'About eleven months ago, over in Bermondsey,' Butler elaborated, his voice soft. 'Some nutter went apeshit with a kitchen knife, stabbed his wife and a friend of hers and took them hostage. The friend bled to death before we could reach her. He'd cut her throat. He had a gun in the house too, just some fucking old Luger, Christ knows where he got it. He managed to get off a couple of rounds then he ran for it. He ran straight at me. I shot him.'

Clark looked intently at his colleague.

'Caught him in the chest,' Butler continued. 'There wasn't even much blood. He didn't make a sound. Didn't go flying backwards like they do in films; that's all bullshit. He just looked surprised. Then he fell on to his face. He was dead before they got him into the ambulance.' Butler exhaled deeply. 'Like I said, I just felt so bloody cold. I got a commendation for that.' He chuckled but there was no humour in the sound.

The helicopter banked sharp right then began to descend very slowly.

Clark glanced at his companion then at his watch.

Both men checked their rifles.