Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,64

other in his apartment, in DC and New York City respectively. The last clip and headline from the opening montage showed that there had also been some kind of full-on gunfight at a counter-terrorist police station across town. Working hard and upping the incline by pushing one of the buttons on the panel in front of him, King had watched the television closely, curious, wiping sweat from his forehead as the newsreaders began with the main headlines.

When he realised that one of the suicide victims was Charlie Adams, his old friend from the service, King had stepped off the treadmill immediately, staring up at the screen. He couldn’t hear what the reporter was saying. All of the televisions were muted, dance music from the gym pumping out of the speakers instead, but he read the teletext and got the gist. A single gunshot wound to the head, the text said. Unexpected and tragic. It damn well was. King had served with Charlie for almost eight years, and he was the best officer he had ever served under in the army.

But then the reports had moved on to cover the dead men found across the East Coast in America. Their names came up in white letters one-by-one on the black teletext.

Derek Spears.

Jason Carver.

David Floyd.

Under the cool blast of the gym’s air-conditioning, King suddenly felt ice cold. All three names and Captain Adams’ suicide were setting major alarm bells off in his head. They instantly took him from the cold cardio room in the posh London gym to a dark barren plain in Kosovo fifteen years ago. His worst fears were confirmed when he saw a dark-haired man giving a report at the police station where the gunfight had taken place. His name and position came up under the shot.

Tim Cobb, Director of the ARU.

Adams. Spears. Carver. Floyd. Cobb.

Five names, random and meaningless to probably everyone else watching the report, but with a chilling significance to King.

Everyone involved in that operation was being taken out.

He had stepped back, the treadmill beside him still whirring as the running strip continued to rotate round and round. He’d glanced around the gym, suddenly full of fear to see if anyone was watching him. He’d left the building instantly and driven home as fast as he could, trying to stay calm and work out a plan of escape.

Arriving back at his home, he’d raced through the lobby of his apartment building, frantically pushing the button for the lift. Eventually it arrived and he made his way up to his apartment as quickly as he could, making sure no one had followed him, checking that no one was waiting for him either side of the corridor when he got up on the 8 floor. Seeing no one, he’d eased his key into the lock of his apartment, quietly turning it and edging open the door. He stood still for a moment, watching and listening, trying to see if he could sense a presence, anyone hiding in there waiting for him. The place felt empty.

Shutting the door behind him, he’d quickly checked the entire apartment and to his relief there was nothing unusual, nothing disturbed, no one there. He’d found a bag and packed as quickly as he could, grabbing the most essential things and leaving everything else. He needed to get out of London immediately, lay low and hide out until someone explained what the hell was going on and got him some protection.

But just as he'd started packing, the phone on his bed-side table started ringing, making him jump, short-circuiting his already wired-up nervous system.

Standing still, his heart racing, he looked over at the phone as it rang.

Its shrill sound echoed around the silent apartment.

Like a warning siren. Or an alarm.

He stared at it.

Maybe it was the police.

Or maybe it's someone else.

Maybe they were waiting for him to answer. Maybe there were explosives hidden somewhere in the apartment, hooked up to the phone line.

He ignored it and continued to throw everything he needed into the bag, while the phone continued to ring. He finished packing, then looked quickly around the room, grabbing his wallet and passport from the top drawer of a desk in the living area. He had enough money to leave the country for a few weeks, and with every passing second that was looking like an attractive option. He moved through the apartment quickly, checking he had everything he needed to disappear, then headed to the door, still dressed in his tracksuit bottoms