The Doomsday Prophecy

Chapter Forty

Jones dashed along the corridor, stabbing the pistol out in front of him at every turn and doorway. Many of the lights were flickering or dead, casting long black pools of shadow everywhere. He stumbled cursing over a pile of old cardboard boxes and paint cans. Snatched up his radio. ‘Kimble. Talk to me.’

Silence.

‘Shit,’ Jones said. ‘Jorgensen. You still there?’

‘Copy. We’re still up here. No sign of him yet. You?’

‘Nothing. The fucker’s like a ghost. OK. Out.’

Jones rounded a corner. The coppery tang of fresh blood hovered in the air, mingling with the smell of damp and rot. He saw three dark shapes lying in the shadows up ahead. He signalled to Bender and Simmons behind him to halt. They stared at the three dead agents on the floor.

‘That makes five of us he’s taken out, just like that,’ said Bender. ‘He’s just playing with us.’

‘I don’t think splitting up was such a great idea,’ Simmons muttered at his shoulder.

Jones gritted his teeth and nearly screamed at the pain. He wiped sweat out of his eyes. ‘We need more people. A lot more people.’

‘We don’t have any more people,’ Bender said.

‘I can get a hundred men in here and nail that motherfucker,’ Jones spat. ‘I just need to make one call.’ He thought for a moment. It would take a few hours to get reinforcements in place. He’d have a lot of favours to call in first, and the kind of manpower he was thinking of took time to organise.

A fresh idea occurred to him. ‘All right, listen, fuck this. We’re going up to the top floor and join up with the others there. That makes seven. I don’t care how good this guy is, no way can he get past seven of us.’ He grinned. ‘Then we’re going to stick that little bitch Bradbury with the syringe. Right now. I’m tired of waiting games. Let’s find out what she knows.’

‘Slater isn’t going to like it.’

‘To hell with that cowardly bastard. He wants to play leader, he should stick around more.’

They stepped over the dead men and ran on up the corridor. Jones reached the lift first and hammered the button for first floor. They said nothing, faces downcast, as the lift whooshed upwards. Then the doors glided open and Jones was dashing towards his office door.

It was open, lying an inch or so ajar.

He fought to remember. No. He hadn’t left it open. He’d locked it.

He drew his gun. Cold fear began to knot his intestines, and the gun shook in his hand. Control yourself. He held the weapon out in front of him and prodded the door tentatively open with his left hand. It creaked. He pushed it open a little further. He stepped inside the room, heart thumping.

The office was empty.

So was the desk. And the canvas bag had gone.

‘Hope,’ he breathed. ‘Hope was here.’

Simmons was behind him, staring with big eyes.

‘He took it,’ Jones gasped. ‘He fucking took the bottle.’