Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,89

off down the street into the night.

At the command post in the building ten miles away, Worm stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door, smiling to himself, tossing his knife onto the desk. He grabbed a mobile phone from his pocket and pressed Redial, walking out into the dark centre of the safe-house.

The call connected.

'Sir, it's me. I'm at the command post,' he said, in Albanian.

'Did they talk?'

'Yes, sir. The woman did. Cobb and his family are at a big mansion south of the city, in Surrey. It's called The Hawkings. She said it's a big place - you can locate it on the map. Can't miss it.'

'Good. Very good. Did she play tough?'

'At first. Then she opened up like an opera singer. Did you find Fletcher, sir?'

'We're on our way there now. Once he's gone, we'll go straight to this house and kill Cobb.' Pause. 'Are they all still alive?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Wire up the safe-house, then come meet us at this house. The explosives will take care of them.'

'Yes, sir.'

The call ended. Worm walked across the room, flicking a switch on a wad of plastic explosives that had been set up on one of the desks. He thought for a moment, then set the timer to 2:00. That would give him enough time to kill the pretty boy then get out of here before the safe-house went up. It would vaporise the bodies and any evidence that the Panthers were ever here. He pushed the button, and the timer started counting down.

1:59.

1:58.

Walking quickly across the room, he put his knife back in its sheath, then grabbed a 9mm Beretta from the desk by two flickering televisions, pulling back the top-slide and checking the chamber. The cop had spat at him. Worm would shoot him in both testicles, then the chest, then the head.

He smiled and twisted the door handle, pushing the door open, stepping into the room, raising the pistol.

But he frowned and froze.

The blond man wasn't in the chair.

He was gone.

At that same moment, Archer slammed the door from the other side into the man, smashing him into the door frame. The pain and anger from the wound to his head and the man's threats had unleashed a terrible rage and Archer yelled with anger as he slammed his shoulder into the back of the doorframe again and again, smashing the soldier in the gap, his chest and head pounded and thumping against the frame.

Archer had never been so angry. He roared with rage and hit the torturer with the door again and again, slam after slam, as hard as he could, in a violent frenzy, the pain from his head fuelling the fire. He must have hit the man about twenty times. He only stopped when he finally ran out of breath.

He stepped back, wheezing from the exertion, and heard a slide and a thump as the soldier collapsed to the ground behind the door to his left.

Archer's hands and feet were no longer bound. The chair he’d been tied to had been damaged at some point and a screw was jutting out of the back where the seat met the chair. Archer had sawn frantically through the tape binding his wrists. Once he’d freed his hands, he'd unwrapped his ankles and wiped his face off with his shirt, holding it there to try to stem the flow. It was useless. Blood was pouring from the wound. He felt light-headed and dizzy. There was no other way out of the room than the door, so he had waited the other side for it to open then attacked like his life depended on it.

Which it did.

He moved around the doorway, looking down at the torturer. The guy's pistol had spilled from his hands. Scooping it up in his hands, he checked it was loaded then dropped down to his knees and checked the man's pulse.

He was dead. Archer had killed him.

He saw that the man's head and body were severely damaged from the metal doorway, his face bruised and smashed and bloody, his ribs and neck surely broken. Archer's rage had given him unprecedented strength. He'd beaten the man to death with the door.

But he didn't give the body a second glance.

Stepping over the dead man, he ran through next door. He barged it open and heard a stifled scream.

Flicking on the light, he saw Nikki there alone in a white bathroom, her face a picture of terror, duct-taped to the metal chair. She then realised it