Chapter Seven

Playmate

It was about four, and at Paddington Station, the last train to Manchester was pulling into the station from Waterloo.

James Ford had been visiting his son for the weekend, but at the last second, his flight to the States had been delayed. He had to be back before tomorrow evening, so it meant a last minute booking from Manchester Airport. But that meant a train journey first.

"Station Announcer. London to Manchester – non VIP's to any open door please."

It was his boarding call. He folded up a copy of The Sunday Times he had been reading, packed it into his briefcase, and approached a policeman guarding the door.

"Hi, we've had some security, and I'm just here to check everything out."

He handed his ticket over, and watched the man. He wasn't old, with short pitch-black hair poking out from under his cap. He was tall, very tall in fact, towering over James. And on his face was a look of concern.

"Sorry, mate. This is a fake."

"What do you mean? I just bought this."

"Did you get it from the ticket office? Coz some people sell fakes to yeh, and you can't tell the difference."

The people in the queue were getting agitated, pushing and shoving to get onto the train before it left.

"I got it from the ticket office!"

"Could you step aside please, sir?"

Before he could be stopped, the officer had grabbed him and dragged him away from the train. They continued walking towards the front of the train, then stopped.

"Look, mate, I don't appreciate you not co-operating with me. That's an offence, you know? Not co-operating with the police? Oh yes. So, you either bought the ticket somewhere else –"

But a sound interrupted him. The whistle. The train was leaving. And James Ford wasn't going to be on it.

"– or you were trying to get on the train free. I really should search you, to make sure you weren't trying to smuggle something across."

"Look, I didn't know it was fake. Look, I have money – I'll buy another one!"

But it was too late. The train had started to move, slower, but gaining speed heading towards them.

"Look, mate, you'll be dead before you can buy another ticket," hissed the police officer quietly, and suddenly, James knew.

But it was too late. He wasn't going to be on the train. He was going to be underneath it.

Hunter hurried away, and waited for the scream. It came, and he rushed to the scene. Eventually the whole place would be incredibly crowded, and no one would notice the police officer slip into the winter night.

But maybe they would notice the suicide note clutched in his hand.

A girl walked into the office of Joe Byrne, at Centurion International Advertising.

She was tall, with black hair and striking blue eyes. She wore a black Metallica t-shirt, and black, faded jeans with a flower on her left thigh. She had a tattoo of a rose on her arm, but it was temporary. She was only sixteen. Her face could have been beautiful, but it was cloaked in white makeup and black eye shadow. Her lips were also black, and her canines had been sharpened to a point. She was, in every sense of the word, a Goth.

She was also, now, a qualified agent. Her training had passed well, especially anything involving weapons or killing. She was extremely fit, and passed the assault course in nine minutes. She'd been told the record for the British SAS was only seven.

But now, it was time for her first briefing.

"Victoria?"

"Vicky."

"Please take a seat."

She sat down, and spit some chewing gum into her hand. She dropped it into a bin.

"Okay. Your first mission is an easy one. We have been contacted by our London counterpart. One of their agents is in California, and he needs picking up."

"Okay."

Joe Byrne sat back, and proceeded to explain everything.

It was Alex who'd had the idea. He had thought of it as they left, and now it was time.

He was intending to go back to the club, and find the last number dialled from that phone. Blunt had said he'd been called – maybe that was the last call made.

He had called, and Alan Blunt had contacted the CIA. Now it was just a matter of waiting.
They'd been forced to stay at the house. Otherwise the agent wouldn't be able to find them. But they needed to hide, or someone from the warehouse may come after them.

In short, they were sitting ducks.

He looked at Sabina. Tears gave her eyes a familiar glint. He walked over to her and gave her a hug. She gave him a sad smile, and then they took each other's hand and walked to the edge of the roof. They sat down together in silence.

Alex knew they would be safer on the roof. He could see over the edge from his position, and if anyone entered the house, he would see. The only flaw was a secret entrance, perhaps underground, or behind the house. It was likely to exist.

Alex hoped, for Sabina's sake, this CIA agent was fast.

It was when they decided to give Vicky a helicopter that they made a mistake. It was her first mission, and even though there was a guy supervising her, she didn't feel safe at the controls.

Of course, she had pioneered these kinds of vehicles hundreds of times on video games. It just wasn't the same in real life. For one, in this instance, her life was at stake.

She was seriously pissed off with Joe Byrne. He couldn't give a sixteen year old a helicopter. Well, actually, he was probably more powerful than the president. He could do what he pleased.

After about three miles of nothing but endless rows of identical streets, overtaken by fast food restaurants, and other places to eat, she came to a boulevard of posh, tall buildings. One was the home of Edward Pleasure. She had read one of his books, about a demented singer, and understood how he could afford to live there.

Her heat seeker detected three figures on a roof, at the far end of the cul de sac. There was only supposed to be two.

Alex didn't feel the knife sink into his stomach until it was too late. The man, probably a guard from the warehouse, sent to finish them off, had sneaked up behind Alex, and reached round, to get the lethal cut. He had dropped his knife, and then gone after Sabina.

Alex turned around, and saw her running, but his head slipped to the ground, practically knocking him unconscious. He saw the glint of blood on the knife next to his head. He heard a muffled noise somewhere far away, and he once again slipped into the coldness of death.