Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,82

Fox raced back into the interrogation room that had held Wulf, smoke and the smell of cordite from the gunfight in the air. He had a red boxed first-aid kit in his hand, one he had grabbed from the viewing room next door. One of the officers had got to the reserve generator the other side of the building, hitting the switch, and it suddenly kicked in, dim lighting coming back on with a buzz and a flicker, showing the destruction and damage to the lower corridor of the station.

Inside the interrogation room, Jackson was lying on the ground, his head on Porter's knee, the ARU Sergeant desperately clamping his hands at the wound at the American's neck to try and stop the bleeding, blood pooling under them both. Fox ran forward and dropping to his knees, pulled out some bandages from the open box. He and Porter desperately started packing the wound on both sides, compressing it, trying to stop the constant blood flow. They were both kneeling in blood, the red liquid all over their hands, knees and boots, as Jackson's body started to tremble.

'Someone call an ambulance!' Fox shouted, as he and Porter compressed the bullet wound either side.

But the blood kept coming, soaking the pads, staining their hands, spreading out over the white floor.

He looked down at Jackson, who was shivering.

'Hang on, buddy,' he said. 'Stay with us.'

After a few more moments of desperate effort to stem the flow, the American looked up at Fox, who was holding one of the bandages to his neck, clamping it in position, the pad dark and soaked with Jackson’s blood. As Fox pushed it firmly, he looked down into Jackson's eyes.

The CIA agent gently shook his head. Almost imperceptibly.

He knew.

The blood was pumping out of him.

They couldn't stop it.

Fox looked over at Porter, both of them doing all they could, kneeling in the warm life-blood of the wounded man.

But before either of them could say a word, Jackson spoke.

'It's OK,' he said, quietly.

His face was calm, some of his blood smeared on his cheek, the back of his hair damp from it, his body no longer shaking. Although he spoke at almost a whisper, the silence of the room made every word clear. After a pause, Fox looked at Porter, who nodded. He leaned back, releasing his grip on the blood-soaked bandage. Jackson lay there, his face calm, the red puddle around them slowly increasing. If it wasn't for the blood silently pooling out of his neck to the floor and his complexion that was growing paler every minute, he would have looked quite serene, not a man in the last moments of his life.

Porter looked up and saw Deakins watching from the door silently. Deakins turned and pulled the door shut respectfully, leaving the two officers and the dying man alone.

The three of them stayed there in silence, just the sounds of Porter and Fox's breathing audible.

Fox reached over and gripped Jackson's hand, his own stained with blood, comforting the dying man. The CIA agent flicked his eyes at him and gave a faint smile. In the silence, blood continued to pool under Fox and Porter's knees, maroon in the dim light from above as it pulsed out of Jackson's body.

Then the American suddenly spoke, quietly.

'I have to tell you…something.'

Fox looked down at him.

'What's that?'

'Jason…Carver was my cousin. Did you know?'

Pause.

'No. We didn't,' Porter said.

'Spent my…whole life…trying to make up for what he did….to those poor people.'

The two officers nodded.

Jackson blinked, trying to see. He was finding it harder to focus.

Then he smiled, faintly, and spoke. His voice a whisper.

'It doesn't hurt anymore.'

Fox gripped his hand tight, as they stayed there in silence.

He felt Jackson give the faintest of squeezes back.

Then his grip relaxed.

And he died.

TWENTY FIVE

Sometime later, Archer blinked his eyes open and instantly winced.

His head hurt.

He was in a dark room somewhere. Alone.

It was almost pitch black, but a chink of light creeping under the door allowed him some visibility.

He blinked, looking round, trying to clear his head and figure out what had happened. And where he was.

Am I still in the interrogation room?

Looking down, he saw in the dim light that he was still in his dark blue overalls and white t-shirt.

He tried to move, but realised his feet had been duct taped to the chair.

And his hands were similarly bound behind his back.

Moments later, he heard footsteps outside the door and then a key jangle as it slid into the lock.

Then he remembered what