Ultimatum

Sixty-eight

21.22

The back of the police van was cramped, hot and airless, but when you’d spent over a year in a closed prison you were used to that kind of atmosphere, and Fox was visibly more relaxed than the four other men in there with him.

He was sitting between two of them — big guys in helmets with plenty of body armour — while two more sat opposite him, resting the MP5s on their laps, the barrels pointed at his gut. As well as the four cops in the back, there were two in the front, and a car at each end of the convoy, each one containing three officers. In all, twelve armed men surrounded him. It was an impressive number and emphasized his importance to the authorities, as well as the danger he still represented.

He caught the eye of the cop sitting directly opposite him, a young mixed-race guy with a ridiculously square jaw and the build and looks of a rugby player. His dark eyes were simmering as he stared at Fox.

Fox held his gaze, noticing with interest that the cop’s finger was instinctively tightening on the trigger.

‘Try anything,’ said the cop in a cockney growl. ‘Anything at all. Because all I need’s the slightest fucking excuse and I’ll put a bullet right through your skull. I’d love that.’

Fox shrugged. ‘You and a couple of million other people, I’m sure. The point is, most of them wouldn’t have the spine to pull the trigger. They might think they have, but when it comes down to it … I don’t think so.’

The cop’s lips formed an exaggerated sneer. ‘I could.’

‘Really?’ Fox couldn’t resist a small smile. ‘Ever killed anyone? Or do you get your kicks from firing that thing down on the range? Shooting paper targets that can’t shoot back.’

‘I get my accuracy from firing it down the range, so when it comes to it, I won’t miss.’

‘All right, shut it, you two,’ grunted one of the older cops, who was clearly in charge, which suited Fox just fine. He had no desire, or need, to get involved in slanging matches with slow-witted coppers over whether or not he deserved to take a bullet for what he’d done. Of course he did. He was a bad man. He’d committed terrible crimes. He deserved to die. At least he had the self-awareness to confront it, unlike a lot of people.

But of course he had no intention of dying any time soon, or even spending much more time in custody.

Tonight was the night he was going to demonstrate how easy it was to outwit the people holding him. They’d searched him thoroughly as he’d left the prison, put him through a metal detector, made sure there was no way he could be carrying anything that would help him escape.

And he wasn’t carrying anything. But only because he’d already swallowed it. A postage-stamp-sized GPS unit, made entirely of plastic. If it worked — and Fox was very confident that it would — it would give the people following its signal his location down to the nearest yard.

He settled back in the seat and stretched his shoulders.

Checkmate.