“Focus,” he said. “We’re only here for show. The real work’s being done by the surveillance units.”
Endless rows of seating bowed away in two directions, some rows blue and some purple. The walkways in between tiers were what Drake was looking for and he pointed them out to the team.
“Our way of getting around,” he said. “But it’s gonna be hard reaching Webb without being seen.”
They walked the narrow path between levels, scanning faces in the crowd as far back as they could. One thing soon became clear.
“We have to split up,” Dahl said. “We’re no good all stuck together like this.”
The team went in separate directions, climbing the stands and switching back, staying in contact through their comms. Drake watched the swell of the crowd, ignored the chanting and the antics from the stands and tried to focus on faces. Kick-off time was approaching and a sense of rising excitement amplified the already churning atmosphere. The field down and to his right lay bright green and seemingly flawless, soon to be picked out by floodlights. Faces bobbed and grinned in all directions, many of them Spanish, which helped immensely as he sought the American in their midst.
Several times, he spotted potential suspects, but each was discounted after closer study. Both Mai and Alicia transmitted over the comms that they’d marked a candidate but facial rec was quickly carried out and the man omitted. Hayden told them all to recheck their own phones where she’d sent a picture of Webb to help their inundated senses maintain a center of attention.
Many thousands passed inspection. Alicia and Mai were both among the crowd, Smyth approaching those whose backs were turned and spinning them around whilst Yorgi looked on. Dahl shouldered his way through groups and lifted the caps of those who unwittingly hid their faces. Mostly surprise greeted him with the odd angry word.
Eventually Hayden, Smyth and Kenzie ended up back at the CCTV HQ, hating the onslaught of overwhelming noise and thinking they might be able to do better behind a TV screen. Drake remained in the thick of it, not once staying still.
“Bet I clock ’im before you do, Ikea boy.”
“If by that you mean catch sight of the critter then I very much doubt it. I’m taller, younger and overall the better bet.”
“You’re on.”
“Guys,” Hayden drawled. “I think the cameras are better than your eyes.”
“Then you’re on too.”
“Maybe we could form teams,” Alicia put in a little slyly. “Me and Drake, and Dahl and Kenzie.”
The Swede bit hard. “You wear your insinuations well, lady.”
“Maybe.” Mai spoke carefully. “But Drake and I work so much better together.”
Drake winced, sensing a coming battle. Mai was not a woman to give up anything easily, let alone something that spanned decades. He guessed the only reason she held herself back was because she’d left so suddenly and with no guarantee of return. It must have hit her very hard.
His feet quickened, his senses hyper-alert. It came as a surprise to see the crowd on their feet and he realized the game had kicked off; he’d been fully in the zone. Floodlights blazed and the players stalked their positions as they tested out the opposition. Drake couldn’t see an empty space, but now all the faces were turned toward him.
Alicia called in a possible spot that proved fruitless. So did Beau. The whole quadrangle that entangled them became a slowly contracting noose. Where would it all end? He stopped, watching an American standing silent and unmoved amidst a gaggle of noisy human geese, hopeful but knowing full well it wasn’t Webb.
Then Dahl broke the radio silence. “I believe I have him.”
Hayden shot a comment back, and then Drake was waiting, no sarcasm now but hopeful that somebody had spotted their prey. A timer was ticking somewhere, for something, they just didn’t know what. Was it to cover Webb’s escape? Or something worse? And where had the cult positioned themselves?
Hayden’s voice slashed across the airwaves. “That’s him! Go get ’im, Torsten!”
Drake moved fast. He knew exactly where Dahl was and wanted to back the big Swede up.
Dahl blinked, almost shocked that the affirmative had come back. That really was Tyler Webb then, standing near the back row of a tier, in the middle of the aisle, next to a woman wearing the Barcelona colors. Fans gave voice to their feelings all around the two as they bent their heads together and talked.
“Two marks,” Dahl said, moving carefully and seemingly without aim. “The woman beside him appears to be his contact.”
“Running her now,” Hayden came back. “If she knows Webb well enough to meet like this she can’t be good. Watch out.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Dahl inched ever closer, affected by the knowledge that Webb knew him by sight and just one, tiny uplifting of those eyes would…
There.
Webb spotted him, locking on and spitting out a curse word. The woman bolted without even a glance; clearly expecting the worse from the get-go. Dahl saw her scarper to the left, pushing fans aside, and Webb started to move to the right. Bodies moved aside or were pushed hard and windmilled their arms as they staggered. Dahl had no option but to chase after Webb, dashing down the closest aisle and dealing out the same treatment to the row of fans gathered there.
He trampled feet, kicked shins and elbowed stomachs, knocking one larger man who saw him coming, over the back of his chair. The man had decided to challenge the Mad Swede. Not the best idea at any time, but even less so when Dahl was chasing one of the world’s most wanted men.
Dahl shouted into his neck mic. “He’s running. Converge!”
Webb reached the aisle first and dashed up the steps that separated tiers. Dahl danced around a pregnant woman, lost ground, then hit the steps himself on one knee, leapt up and ran hard. Webb jumped into another row, causing havoc.
“Someone chase down that woman!” Hayden cried.
“On it,” Alicia answered, and Mai also called an affirmative.
Dahl leapt up another row, now only one away from the fleeing Webb and half a dozen seats behind. He called out for the man to halt, to no avail. It was all a distraction procedure anyway. Webb stumbled, but caught himself on a chair arm and practically jumped into a seated man’s lap. Dahl shouldered past a thick group, and lost sight of the American for one moment.
“Best hurry,” Kinimaka came over the airwaves. “We don’t know this man’s exit strategy.”
“One thing’s for sure, it won’t be discreet,” Smyth said.
Dahl tried to leap over the back of an empty chair, missed and went sprawling, but immediately picked himself up. The scrapes didn’t matter; the bruises routine. “Where are the Spanish cops?” he asked.
“Right with you now. They’re cutting Webb off at the pass.”
Dahl glanced ahead and saw cops racing for the next set of stairs in time to intercept Webb. The Pythian made a desperate leap, landing just three or four steps ahead; Dahl joined the cops in the chase, now turning more heads than the household names that occupied the pitch.
People roared in encouragement.
Dahl bowed slightly as he ran. Best to acknowledge praise when one received it. Webb led the pack, running for the upper stands. Already people were leaning over the barriers up there to get a better view of what was happening. Dahl passed two slow-moving cops and then one more as the man slipped to a tumult of applause.
Pitiless, these soccer fans. Pitiless. And where the hell is Beau? The Frenchman’s usually lightning quick.