One floor, two floors, three floors, four floors — and then they were at the bottom and Sara lost her footing and yelped as her legs flew out from under her. She went sprawling, grunting in pain as she skidded across the dilapidated tile.
Jack ran after her and pulled her to her feet. “You okay?”
“I’ll live,” she told him. “Which is more than I could say an hour ago.”
He thought he detected the faintest hint of gratitude in that remark; it gave his stamina a much-needed shot.
They heard the ape no more than two floors above. Jack glanced around, trying to get his bearings. It was marginally lighter down here, moonlight coming in through broken windows, and he saw they were in the hospital lobby, about twenty yards behind the reception counter. The place looked as if it had been hit by a hurricane, trash and debris strewn across the floors, the walls and ceiling battered by years of neglect and bad weather.
The main entrance was twenty yards to the left of the reception counter, at right angles. The doors that once filled the double-wide frame were missing, leaving behind a gaping rectangle, the floor in front of it littered with broken glass. Outside, punctuated by distant street lamps, the pale moonlight shone down on a gravel drive, three cars parked haphazardly near the entrance-two of which he recognized from the attack in the alley.
Three cars.
The ape wasn’t alone.
As if on cue they heard a crash in the long hallway behind them, light spilling through an open doorway as more of Swain’s men emerged from the room beyond. Glancing at the cars again, Jack remembered the keys he’d taken off the ape, then grabbed Sara’s hand.
“Come on!”
They stumbled toward the main entrance, Jack pulling her along, using momentum more than anything else to carry him. They passed the reception counter, ducking low to use it as a shield, just as a shot cracked, splintering wood. Sara yelped and Jack jerked her sideways, then started zigzagging, trying to make them as difficult a target as possible. He stayed close to the benches in the waiting area as they afforded some protection from the gunmen.
Shots gouged the seatbacks, causing the chairs to rattle on their metal bases. Their shoes crunched glass and then they were outside and headed for the cars-two SUVs and a BMW behind them. Jack yanked the keys from his pocket as they ran. He jabbed at the buttons on one of the keys and the BMW chirp-chirped as its doors unlocked.
Swain’s men were shouting behind them. More shots pinged off the asphalt and the SUVs as Jack instinctively darted toward the left side of the vehicle, then suddenly remembered he was in England. Swearing, he pulled open the rear door and shoved Sara in, then got into the front seat and scrambled across it. He got behind the wheel and jammed the key into the ignition.
A shot shattered the rear window and Sara yelped again, glass showering around her, as Jack started the engine and stomped on the accelerator.
He had no idea where they were. A wooded area, surrounded by thick trees that looked malevolent in the moonlight. From the outside the hospital looked old, very old. It was a majestic, neglected relic from another century, from the shameful era of the Bethlem Royal Hospital, also known as Bedlam.
But where he was didn’t matter. There was a driveway ahead of them, and a road beyond and Jack drove as fast as he could to get to them.
Checking his rearview mirror, he saw Swain’s men spilling from the hospital entrance and running toward the remaining cars. But he already had a fairly good lead on them and it wasn’t likely they’d catch him.
Shooting out to the road, he picked up speed then blasted past a row of old country houses and disappeared down a tree-lined street into the early morning darkness.
The sun was coming up by the time they reached Central London.
Jack had used the GPS on the cell phone to chart the course, then memorized the route and tossed the phone into the street as they rolled through a suburban neighborhood. If these guys really were MI6, he had no doubt they’d be able to track the thing.
So be it. Even if the spook patrol found them they would probably give Jack some space, the way Swain did in San Francisco. Intelligence ops were like vampires: they preferred the night, the shadows. Especially now, when anyone with a cell phone could be a journalist.
Sara hadn’t said a word during the drive, and when he turned to check on her he found her flopped across the seat, passed out. He didn’t blame her. He was halfway there himself. He wondered for a moment if she had been hit by a bullet or a piece of shrapnel kicked up by the gunfire, but he saw no sign of blood. When they stopped at a light he reached back and touched her neck, found a steady pulse.
So he drove, too exhausted to think about much more than the mechanics of his journey-left turn, right turn, brake, gas, brake, check the mirror for any sign of hostiles… It took special concentration because he wasn’t used to driving on the opposite side of the road.
When they got to central London he didn’t go back to the Beresford Hotel. Although he had checked in under a false name, he couldn’t risk Swain showing up there, so he headed into Paddington and found a place that made the Beresford look like Buckingham Palace.
He left Sara in the car as he checked in, then woke her enough to get her into the rickety elevator.
“’Ard night?” the round, scruffy concierge chuckled.
“The girl likes her scotch,” Jack said, affecting a British accent. He didn’t want to make the same mistake he did with Sara, tipping his nationality. Just in case anyone asked.
Jack got her into the room and onto the bed, its springs groaning noisily as she sank onto it. Then he went back to the car, drove for several blocks, and abandoned it in the car park of another, much larger hotel. That would keep the bastards busy for a while.
When Jack got back to the room, Sara was out again-which didn’t surprise him-so he drew the curtains to mute the morning sun, then sank into the threadbare armchair across from her and allowed himself to doze.
A couple hours later he heard her stir and opened his eyes. She still had her head on the pillow, but she was staring at him.
“We were interrupted,” she said. “You were about to tell me your name?”
Jack smiled. “Jack Hatfield. Nice to meet you.”
She haltingly pulled herself upright, as though testing her stamina each step of the way. Without a shirt or a bra, her sweater clung to her in a way that made it difficult for Jack not to look. The room was a little cold and it showed, but he was a gentleman and averted his gaze. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of danger, what kind of physical duress, it would take for a man not to think about sex. Obviously, he hadn’t reached that threshold.
“You ready to talk?” he asked. “I’m sure you have as many questions as I do.”
“I don’t know if anything I have to say would make much sense at the moment.”
“You seem fine to me.”
“Thanks to you,” she said. “And I mean that. Thank you. You could have left me with those sadists but you didn’t.”
“Not part of my DNA,” he said. “And you’re welcome.”
She offered him a wan, fragile smile. A grateful smile. It was restorative, not like the hardened mask he’d seen in al-Fida’s flat and in that alley.
But, he reminded himself, he still didn’t know what she was about and who she worked with.
Sara’s smile faltered as she stared at him with those dark, vulnerable eyes. “Why do I feel like I’ve seen you before?”
Over the years, Jack had got that a lot, though mostly in the States. People seeing him on television and remembering his face but not quite able to place him.
“I told you, I’m a reporter. I used to have a show on GNT, although I don’t think there’s much chance you’d ever see me on this side of the Atlantic.”