“Less whining, more running!” Maria said.
Round and round they went, gradually growing dizzier as the endless circular stairwell started to mesmerize them.
“Did you know that running down these steps is the equivalent of running down a fifteen storey building?” Lea said. “And I wasn’t whining!”
Hawke listened to the Vespa’s engine and tried to work out how far below them it was. Its exhaust fumes hung heavily in the air. “Ryan told you that, didn’t he?”
“Of course.”
“Thought so. Smart arse.”
“Me or him?”
“Him!”
“Thanks, Joe,” Ryan said from the back.
“At least he’d be smart enough to run into the bloody lifts instead of these sodding stairs.”
“Thanks, Lea!” Ryan said.
Hawke sighed. “Oh yeah… real smart — trapping yourself inside a lift with an insane gunman in the vicinity.”
They finally reached the bottom and saw the biker racing toward the platforms but he was bang out of luck. The Tube authorities had already informed the train drivers of the shooting and ordered them not to stop at the station.
The Biker skidded onto the platform and watched helplessly as a train zoomed south on the Piccadilly line on its way to Leicester Square.
“Well, he’s not getting away on an arsing train, that’s for sure,” Lea said.
“Quite,” Hawke said, thinking fast. Ahead of them they heard the sound of the Vespa as the masked man drove it to the other end of the platform and skidded out of sight into the exit at the far end.
“What now?”
“He’s on the other platform,” Hawke said. “He’s going to try and come around behind us but he’s trapped and panicking. We have to take him out before he tries to escape into the tunnels.”
“Now you’re talking!”
Hawke scanned the platform for a weapon but there was almost nothing to use. Then his eyes settled on a fire extinguisher in a locked red container at the end of the platform. He ran to it and booted the lock’s cylinder housing until he kicked it clean off the mounting plate and the door swung open to reveal a carbon dioxide fire extinguisher.
“That’ll do it,” he said as he took hold of the handle and wrenched it free from its support brackets. They heard the bike getting louder as it raced along the opposite platform on its way back to them, and then a gunshot as the rider fired the shotgun at an armed policeman who had just stepped out of the elevator.
“He’s almost here, Joe!” Lea shouted from the center of the platform.
“No problem. He’s about to have his spark put out.”
He turned to the Irishwoman and looked at her for a second as he decided the best play. “Okay — you stand there and when you see him start to run away down to the end of the platform.”
“Sure, no prob… hang on! You’re not using me as bait again, are you?”
“Well…” he looked at her sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. “Theoretically, yes, but…”
“And they say romance is dead,” Maria said.
Lea rolled her eyes and waited for the masked rider as Hawke stood up against the wall beside the entrance to the platform.
“Here’s the little pox right now!”
After letting the rider see her, Lea turned on her heel and started to run to the end of the platform.
Hawke released the safety clip on the extinguisher and holding the discharge tube in his hand he waited until the last possible second before smacking the plunger and spinning around into the entrance.
Slowing to take the bend in pursuit of Lea, the rider was startled when he saw Hawke appear out of nowhere, but before he had a chance to think the Englishman sprayed the CO2 in his face at close range.
The white fog covered the rider’s helmet and blinded him. He skidded all over the platform as he tried desperately to stop himself from going over the edge onto the rails, but Hawke gave him a helping hand by smacking the base of the heavy cylinder into the back of the man’s helmet.
The bike flew off the platform and crashed on the rails in a shower of sparks and smoke, but the rider just managed to save himself. He staggered to his feet and flicked up his visor to get his visibility back again. Hawke read his eyes — a little older, maybe late twenties.
He came at Hawke like the first guy, but without the knife. Hawke sidestepped to the right, trying to keep the biker between him and the tracks at all times. The man’s eyes were wide-open, almost deranged. Hawke guessed it was the adrenaline, but couldn’t rule out drugs — coke maybe.
He lunged at Hawke again. The former Special Forces man dodged calmly to the left but was too slow, and a second later he felt the man’s gloved fist pile into his chest. It knocked him back a couple of steps but his heavier weight limited the damage of what might otherwise have been a very dangerous punch.
Hawke took a deep breath and moved back into the fight. For a few long minutes the underground station platform became a makeshift boxing ring as the two men danced around and took pot-shots at each other.
The biker learned quicker than the Bastard and cottoned on to the fact that his helmet was slowing him down. He reached up and tore it off, and then swung it at Hawke as hard as he could.
Hawke tipped his head back and dodged to the left, feeling the air whistle past him as the helmet came less than an inch from smashing his nose all over his face. He knew his reply had to be fast.
Before the biker could bring the helmet back around and regain his center of gravity, Hawke brought his left fist around in a massive haymaker and drove it into the man’s exposed face, striking his right temple as hard as anything he’d ever hit before. He heard a cracking sound as either the temporal or sphenoid bone gave way under the force and the man’s eyes rolled up to heaven.
Hawke pulled back his right arm for a follow-up roundhouse but it was unnecessary. The biker staggered backwards and tipped over the edge of the platform, falling on the conductor rail running outside the main running rails. Hawke watched without emotion as over six hundred volts coursed through the man’s body and killed him over several agonizing seconds.
As his body jerked and smoked like a barbecued sausage, Lea strolled over to Hawke and peered casually over the platform. “I guess no one ever told him to mind the gap, right?” she said and linked her arm through Hawke’s.
“I guess not,” Hawke said, grimacing at the sight.
“What now?” Ryan asked.
“Obviously Barton was telling the truth or they wouldn’t have killed him,” Hawke said firmly. “So we can presume the museum raid he told us about is real.”
“But there are literally hundreds of museums in London, Joe,” Lea said. “And thanks to you cooking this guy we can’t grill him for information.”
“No, it’s obviously the British Museum,” Ryan said. “They have an exhibition on right now all about the Aztecs.”
“Only you would know that,” Lea said.
“Just as well,” he replied, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Or no doubt you’d be leading us to the London Sewing Machine Museum in Wimbledon.”
Lea smirked. “Wait just a minute. How do you know there’s a sewing machine museum in Wimbledon?”
“Yes, well,” Ryan said quietly. “Never mind about that — we have work to do.”
“So let’s get on it,” Hawke said.
US Secretary of Defense Jack Brooke ran a hand over his eyes and squeezed his temples while a junior staffer was hunting down some Tylenol in the bottom of her bag. He was in the back seat of his official car on his way to Washington Dulles Airport, but even in here there was no respite from the crushing pressures of his job.
Things had started badly when he’d had to provide testimony to the House Armed Services Committee on defense acquisitions for that fiscal year. From there he’d had to attend in the Marine Corps Commandant Passage of Command ceremony at the Marine Barracks on 8th and I, the “oldest post of the corp” as they liked to put it.