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'He'll fold,' said Bolt. 'Men like him always do.' He didn't elaborate. He hadn't told her about the Wise connection. He didn't think it was something she could handle hearing, not on top of everything else.

  'Foot one to all units,' came a voice over the mike in the Shogun. 'Meeting's over and they're shaking hands. Sir Henry is now proceeding down the stairs alone. Over.'

  'Foot two to all units,' said agent Cliff Yakonos, who was in the foyer with his copy of the Sun, 'I've got him. He's heading towards the front entrance. Just been met by his driver. Now they're both heading out. Over.'

  Sir Henry's expected destination was HPP's office, which was in Grosvenor Square, but Bolt knew they could take no chances as he watched the two men come out of the hotel's front doors from their position twenty yards down the street on the main road.

  Unlike his driver, who was small and non-descript, Sir Henry cut quite a dashing figure in his three-piece pinstripe suit and brightly coloured tie. He was a good-looking man, with a full head of curly grey hair and a strong patrician jawline, and he carried himself in the confident manner of a man used to being shown respect.

  What a wanker, thought Bolt, not really registering the motorbike as it slowed down in front of the hotel entrance. It was only when the helmeted rider lifted his arm up straight and Sir Henry collapsed to the ground that he realized what was happening.

  'Shit, he's down!' Bolt slammed the gearstick into drive and pulled out from the kerb, cutting up the traffic to a cacophony of horns, as the motorbike accelerated away. 'Car one to all units, target one has been shot. Suspect is escaping on a motorbike eastbound on the Marylebone Road.' He started reeling out the registration number into his mike, but the plate was badly mud-splattered (doubtless a deliberate act) and the bike was moving too fast as it weaved through the traffic, quickly putting thirty yards between them. 'We've still got visual,' he continued into the mike, 'but he's getting away. Now approaching the junction with Gloucester Place. Over.'

  Mo slammed the flashing blue light on the dashboard as Bolt tailgated the car in front, beeping his horn and forcing it to pull over.

  A second later, Obanje roared past him on the inside, riding a powerful Kawasaki 850, keeping a steady path along the white lines as he ate up the distance to the suspect bike. He was a highly experienced rider, unlike the man he was chasing, who didn't look entirely comfortable as he dodged between the cars.

  'Bike one to car one,' shouted Obanje through the static and engine noise, 'I've got the eyeball. What do you want me to do? Over.'

  'Car one to bike one, keep with him but don't get too close. He's armed and dangerous. Wait for assistance to intercept. Over.'

  As he spoke, Bolt instinctively fingered the Smith and Wesson revolver he was carrying in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Because of the high-profile nature of both the target and the operation, most of the surveillance officers following Sir Henry were armed. Bolt, though, was the only member of his team who'd ever fired a shot in anger, something which didn't bode too well when you were trying to corner a highly trained professional killer. Luckily, though, their pursuit was being patched through to the operations room in Scotland Yard, so as long as Obanje kept the suspect bike in his sights, a trap could be set and CO19 could do the dirty work.

  Up ahead, the lights at the Gloucester Place junction were green and Obanje and the suspect bike went through them fifteen yards apart, while Bolt, fifty yards back and driving like a maniac, with the siren blaring, was beginning to lose visual.

  The lights turned amber, and a Ford Focus twenty yards in front of Bolt stopped.

  'Hold tight!' he yelled as he slammed his hand hard down on the horn and accelerated straight at the back of the Focus, hoping it would get the message quickly.

  It did, but just a little bit too late. It was still only halfway out of the lane when Bolt smacked its offside rear end and shunted it out of the way without losing speed.

  'I take it all back,' he said to Mo as they tore across the empty junction. 'I love this car!'

  'Bike one to all units, he's approaching Baker Street junction, traffic lights have just turned red. He's going right! He's going right!'

  'Keep with him!' snapped Bolt, mounting the kerb on the central reservation as he forced his way past some slow-moving traffic.

  'I'm through. We're heading south on Baker Street. All right, he's going left. Left. I think it's Paddington Street. Shit!' This last word was a shocked howl.

  'Car one to bike one, what's happening?'

  'He's firing at me!'

  There was the sound of a skid, followed by a loud grunt, then the engine noise abruptly stopped.

  Bolt accelerated with two wheels still on the central reservation, taking off wing mirrors and the side panelling of a Range Rover as he bore down on the Baker Street junction. 'Bike one, are you OK?' he shouted into the mike.

  'I'm OK,' came Obanje's voice. He sounded winded. 'But I'm down. Suspect continuing along Paddington Street east. Christ!'

  'What's happening?'

  'He's been hit by a car. He's down. About a hundred yards away. Getting to his feet now. But he's hurt. Repeat: he's hurt.'

  The lights at the junction were red, but Bolt knocked the last car out of the way, slowed a little as he moved out into the oncoming traffic, which thankfully stopped for him, then roared off down Baker Street. 'Car one to all units, I'm right behind.'

  'Bike one to all units. Suspect has crossed the road, heading south, disappeared from view into what looks like a park. I'm following but unarmed and hurt. Over.'

  Bolt saw Obanje hobbling along the pavement in his leathers, helmet off, as he rounded the turn into Paddington Street. Obanje pointed along the road, and with the traffic now clear Bolt put his foot down, almost immediately spotting a small stretch of greenery on the right between high-rise buildings.

  Screeching to a halt, he pulled out the Smith and Wesson, Mo following suit, although with considerable reluctance, Bolt noticed.

  'Stay here,' he told Tina, then jumped out of the car and ran through the park entrance, holding his gun in both hands, Mo just behind him.

  He saw Hook immediately, fifty yards ahead, limping along the path with his back to them, the helmet now removed, his gun nowhere to be seen. The day was cloudy and the park fairly quiet, but there were still enough people about to make it an incredibly dangerous situation should the bullets start flying.

  Bolt ran fast and as quietly as possible, whispering the suspect's location into the mike, hoping Hook didn't hear his approach, knowing that if he got close enough and the other man turned round he might be able to shoot him justifiably. With the way public opinion was reacting to this latest terrorist outrage he knew he could get away with it. What was worse, he desperately wanted to do it. A small voice in his head urged calm and restraint, told him to remember what he'd joined the police for. But it really was a small voice, and at that moment the desire for payback was smothering it almost completely.

  A woman walking her dog across the grass saw the gun in Bolt's hands and screamed, the sound carrying right across the park.

  The limping figure immediately turned round, and even though he was still some thirty yards distant, Bolt recognized him. He raised his gun, still too far away to risk pulling the trigger. 'Armed police!' he yelled. 'Raise your hands!'

  Hook ignored him, making for the far end of the park, trying hard to run but not quite managing it. At the same time he pulled what looked like a handgun from his jacket, although he made no effort to fire it, clearly knowing that Bolt couldn't shoot him in the back.

  A woman with a pushchair and a young child walking beside her was coming the other way, and before she could react, let alone comprehend what was happening, Hook had grabbed the child and swung back round to face his pursuers.

  The child, no more than three years old, cried out, and Bolt instinctively lowered the gun, not wanting to risk it going off accidentally.

  Immediately, Hook lifted his and fired straight at Bo
lt, who dived to the ground, rolling over but keeping his grip on the gun, scrambling for cover behind a sapling while Mo did the same behind a bench opposite. A second shot rang out, but handguns are notoriously inaccurate over distance, and it too went wide. People were running in all directions now as Bolt shouted the latest developments into the mike.

  The child's mother made a grab for Hook, crying hysterically, and Bolt jumped to his feet, seeing an opportunity to intervene. But before he'd even taken a step forward, Hook had pushed her away and shot her in the chest.

  For a split second, Bolt was too shocked to move.

  Then, with a roar of frustrated rage, he charged his quarry.

  But Hook stood his ground and pulled the trigger again.

  Bolt stumbled and fell forward on to the path, and this time the gun flew out of his hand. For a second he thought he'd been hit, but then he realized that his fall had been an instinctive reaction to the gunshot and that once again Hook had missed.

  Hook threw the child away like a piece of rubbish, and as Bolt got to his feet again he saw him hobbling out of the park's exit.

  The bastard was going to get away. Where the hell were the reinforcements? A helicopter? Anything?

  As he grabbed his gun and ran towards the mother, who lay writhing on the grass – still alive, thank God, her child unharmed – he yelled his frustrations into his mike, demanding paramedics and back-up in a flurry of expletives. If Hook got away now it would be a travesty of everything he, Bolt, had ever fought to defend. It would make every good deed he'd done seem utterly pointless.

  He sprinted for the exit, shouting at Mo to stay with the injured woman, knowing he'd pull the trigger the second he had Hook in his sights.

  And then he heard the sound of a vehicle coming from beyond the fence bordering the park, followed by a tremendous metallic crash.

  Seventy-five

  Tina heard Bolt's breathless commentary on the mike in the back of the Shogun. Then she heard the shots, and she knew she couldn't just do nothing. She had to be involved. Had to do something to bring the man who'd shot her and murdered an innocent woman in front of her to justice, especially now it sounded like he might be getting away.

  The keys to the Shogun were still in the ignition, and she clambered out of the back door and got in the driver's side, easing herself slowly into the seat. Thank God it's an automatic, she thought as she placed the car in drive and put her good foot on the accelerator, driving out into the traffic and turning first right to circumnavigate the park.

  She had no real plan as such, and the painkillers she was full of were making her drowsy, but if she could just get a visual on the animal Bolt had told her was called Hook, that would be enough. She wanted to see him arrested. Or, better still, look down on his dead body.

  Bolt's voice filled the car again. 'He's exited the park south-east side! I've lost the visual and we've got a casualty!'

  Tina pushed her foot down harder on the accelerator, aiming for the area where she thought Hook might come out.

  Then, just as the road came to a blind easterly bend, she saw him, limping across the pavement, the gun down by his side.

  He obviously heard her approach because he stepped into the road, raising his gun and pointing it straight at her, putting up his free hand in a gesture for her to stop. The bastard wanted to hijack the Shogun.

  A grin spread across Tina's face. 'Fuck you,' she whispered, then ducked her head down so she was just peering over the dashboard, and floored the accelerator.

  A shot rang out and the glass on the windscreen cracked, then a second shot, but the Shogun continued to pick up speed, and just as it hit him head on she thought she saw a flash of panicked realization in those malignant saucer eyes. Then he was slammed against the bonnet like a rag doll as the Shogun mounted the pavement and crushed him against a concrete wall at close to fifty miles an hour.

  Seventy-six

  As Bolt came running out of the park and on to the road he saw the front of a 44 buried in the side of a three-storey house, with Hook pinned against the cracked, badly damaged brickwork, his head slumped forward. He wasn't moving.

  For a moment it didn't register that it was his Shogun. Then, through the half-open driver's door, he saw Tina trapped inside by the inflated airbag.

  Holstering the Smith and Wesson, he ran over and yanked the door fully open, relieved that her eyes were open and she looked fully conscious.

  'Are you OK?' he asked, pulling her out as gently as he could.

  'I think so,' she whispered as he placed her on the ground so her back was resting against the car. But she neither sounded nor looked it. 'Is he dead?'

  'I don't know. The most important thing—'

  'Tell me the bastard's dead,' she gasped, grabbing his arm with surprising strength, the pain in her eyes telling him all he needed to know.

  Bolt stood up, walked to the front of the car and lifted Hook's head up by the hair, ignoring the stares of the gathering passers-by. He was bleeding from the mouth and nose and his eyes were glazed, but he was still just about conscious.

  'Remember Leticia Jones? 2003? The job you did for Nicholas Tyndall? Remember that?'

  Hook's big eyes widened, then rolled back in his head. His body went limp.

  Bolt leaned in close. 'This is for her,' he whispered, then he let go of the hair.

  He walked back and crouched down beside Tina, touching a hand to her cheek. She smiled weakly at him, and he fought down the urge to kiss her. 'Yeah,' he said simply, 'he's dead.'

  Epilogue

  Six weeks later

  A heavy drizzle fell from an iron-grey sky as Tina Boyd opened the creaking wooden gate and entered the peaceful silence of the graveyard. She was off the crutches now and able to drive, but it still hurt to put too much pressure on the foot, and she still walked with a limp. The physio had told her that this would fade in time, though, and she was planning on being back at work by the new year.

  A lot had happened in the world in the six weeks since she'd been shot. The autumn of 2008 would always be remembered for the financial meltdown that had occurred, with high-street banks on the verge of failing and commentators openly talking about the end of capitalism. The huge irony, of course, was that if Sir Henry Portman and his co-conspirators had simply been patient and let the events of the business world take their natural course, they would have seen the HPP fund make a fortune on the plunge in the value of the many blue-chip UK stocks it had been selling short, a process that had begun only days after the failed gas attack with the collapse of Lehman Brothers.

  Instead, Sir Henry was dead, having been killed almost instantly by the bullet that struck him outside the Landmark Hotel. However, because there was no real proof of wrongdoing against either him personally or HPP (although there was plenty of conjecture), the fund's assets were no longer frozen and it was in the process of being sold to a much larger US fund. HPP's investors were therefore among the fortunate few in the financial world who were going to see a decent return on their money in 2008. And those few included Paul Wise. Although there was a huge and ongoing investigation into his role in the attacks, with Sir Henry dead there was no obvious way of connecting him to it, so he remained wealthy and free.

  Tina doubted if he was losing much sleep in his Mediterranean mansion at the prospect of the authorities catching up with him. She felt a burning sense of rage whenever she thought about how Wise had not only escaped justice but was still profiting from his crimes, although she could at least console herself with the fact that the man who'd kidnapped and tried to break her – Michael Killen, aka Hook – was dead.

  She felt no guilt that she'd killed him. He'd got what he deserved, and sometimes when she awoke alone at night and pictured in slow motion those last few moments, as he experienced (she hoped) a fleeting realization that finally he was going to have to atone for his sins, she felt a brutish satisfaction. He would have killed her eventually, there was no doubt about that, but she'd got him first.r />
  There had been an automatic IPCC investigation into her conduct but it had quickly absolved her of all blame, accepting her story that she hadn't meant to hit him without much argument. There'd been a good reason for this. The tabloids had turned Hook into a walking demon, and had focused much of their attention on the fact that he'd callously shot a young mother in front of her child. The mother had survived and was expected to make a full recovery since the bullet had missed all her vital organs, but the fact that Hook had pulled the trigger and used the child as a human shield meant there would have been an outcry had the person responsible for his death been accused of any wrongdoing.

  Indeed, Tina had become something of a minor celebrity, albeit a reluctant one. She'd refused to give any interviews, retreating behind the door of her flat as they dug up her past: the time she'd been shot before; the murder of one of her colleagues; the mysterious death of the man who'd been both her boss and her lover, DI John Gallan; the fact that some of her colleagues had called her the Black Widow.

  It had been a hard, lonely time during which only the drink had provided any real company. Mike Bolt had called her a number of times, and had been round to see her on several occasions in the immediate aftermath of the kidnapping. She knew he liked her. And she liked him too. A lot. And it wasn't just because he'd saved her life. Deep down, there'd always been an attraction there, right from the very beginning.

  But there'd also been a big and ultimately insurmountable problem. The booze. Tina hadn't kicked it, nor could she see a time when she would. It was too much a part of her right now, and Mike didn't deserve a woman like that. So, once again, she'd pushed him away, even though a part of her needed him more than ever.

  Today was the first day she'd been out properly since it had all happened, and it felt strange, yet liberating, to be out in the late October rain. She'd thought the graveyard would be empty at this time in the afternoon, but a couple with a young child were standing with their backs to her by one of the headstones. Tina could see that there were a number of fresh bouquets resting against it, and she instinctively knew that this was Rob Fallon's grave.