No triggers.

Chapter Twenty Eight

The SUV had only travelled a couple of miles when it turned onto a duel carriageway road. In Sherlock's opinion, this was a risky move. He was sure that John would have alerted Mycroft to the situation by now and his brother's minions would be actively hunting for a black Audi Q7 in this area. It would be far more easily spotted on a major road than on a country lane. But far be it from him to inform his captors of their major error of judgement.

Then he felt the vehicle decelerating and he turned to look over his shoulder. Was it a road block? If so, his brother had excelled himself in speed of response. But it was not a road block. They were approaching a layby and, parked in the layby, was what Sherlock recognised as a large, deluxe horsebox, with the rear ramp lowered to the ground, exposing the empty interior.

The SUV slowed right down to a crawl and pulled into the layby. The driver, Robinson, lined it up, carefully, with the horse box ramp and drove right up it, into the box, applied the brake and immediately cut the engine, as two men standing either side of the larger vehicle, pulled up the ramp and locked it into place before running round to the cab, climbing in and driving off, with the SUV tucked safely away, inside.

In the quiet, low-lit interior of the Audi, Moran caught Sherlock's eye and gave a grin.

'How do you like my disappearing act?' he taunted. 'I got the idea from a Michael Caine movie. He plays a great villain, that man. I think he's my favourite actor. Had to have the floor reinforced, obviously, and the ramp, too, of course, but it was well worth the money, don't you think?'

Moran opened the passenger door as far as it would go, within the confines of the horse box, and slipped out. The detective watched his new Nemesis disappear through the Groom's Door, into the part of the box fitted out for human habitation, leaving Sherlock, Arthur and Josie inside the car with their three guards and their guns.

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the back of Josie's head, mere inches from his nose, where she sat in the middle row of seats, in this seven-seater vehicle. She was hugging her brother's arm, resting her head against his shoulder, but he was unresponsive.

'Josie, are you alright?' the detective asked, speaking quietly in the still air.

At the sound of Sherlock's voice, Arthur curled in on himself and leaned as far to the right as he could, pressing his shoulder against the side door. Josie raised her head, abruptly, as though she had just remembered that Sherlock was there, and rubbed her brother's arm, to sooth and comfort him, but he remained tense and withdrawn.

'I'm scared,' she replied, after a moment or two.

'I'm so sorry. I never should have let you get involved in this,' Sherlock murmured.

Josie twisted in her seat to look at him.

'Don't even go there, Sherlock. I'm here because I chose to come. No one is to blame but me.'

'Stop talking!' Mick Robinson snarled, from the driver's seat, and the two guards in the back seats jabbed their respective charges in the ribs with the butts of their rifles.

'Oh, take no notice of them, Josie,' Sherlock drawled, in his most dismissive and disdainful tone.

In response to that, Sherlock's minder shouldered his weapon and pointed the barrel, from inches away, right in the centre of the detective's forehead. Sherlock stared, insolently, past the gun barrel into the foot soldier's eyes.

'If you're planning to use that, I suggest you get on with it. Otherwise, get it out of my face.'

The soldier tightened his grip on the gun and did not desist until Robinson said,

'Stand down, Hawkins.'

Hawkins lowered the gun and resumed holding it across his chest.

'You see, Josie,' Sherlock continued, eyeballing the soldier, challengingly, 'if they intended to kill us, we'd be dead by now. They clearly have something else in mind.'

'What do you think that could be?' the young woman asked, not particularly comforted by Sherlock's analysis of the situation.

'I've no idea,' he replied, 'but I intend to ask!' he declared, brightly.

He turned to look at Robinson, meeting his gaze in the rear view mirror.

'Tell your boss I want to talk to him,' he demanded.

'He doesn't want to talk to you,' Robinson snapped back, rather put out by this arrogant prat's manner.

'Oh, you speak for Colonel Moran., do you? I rather doubt that! Go and tell him that I want to talk. I think you'll find him quite receptive to the notion.'

Robinson was torn between fear that Moran would be displeased by the interruption and fear that Moran would be angry if he did not deliver the message. Either way, Moran's anger was not something one wished to provoke. But that snitty bastard in the back seat was smirking at him and that really pissed him off. He made a decision.

'Don't take your eyes of him,' Robinson warned the other two men, then slid out of the car and walked round the bonnet to tap on the Groom's Door. He must have received permission to enter because he did so, and disappeared form sight, inside the Groom's Hole.

Moran was sitting in a comfortable leather wing chair, in the surprisingly well-appointed 'room'. He gave Robinson a quizzical look and listened with ill-disguised amusement to Sherlock's demand for a parlais. He didn't even have to think about it.

'Bring him in!' he exclaimed. 'Let's hear what he has to say for himself.'

Robinson returned to the back of the horse box and squeezed along to the rear of the car then opened the hatchback.

'Get him out,' he snapped at the guard, who jumped from the car and stood back as Sherlock stepped, gracefully, down from the vehicle, then turned and leaned back in, as if to kiss Josie on the cheek, but whispered,

'Don't be afraid. Just take care of Arthur. You're both going to be OK.'

Robinson reached in and grabbed Sherlock by the arm, dragged him out of the back of the car and slammed the hatchback shut then shoved him through the narrow gap between the side of the car and the wall of the horsebox, toward the Groom's Door.

Josie watched him go, marvelling at the calm dignity with which he bore all the pushing and shoving around. He didn't resist or object, he just took it, with a strange half-smile on his lips. It was this, along with his verbal reassurances, that filled her with hope. He looked like a man with a plan.

ooOoo

As the plane came in to land at London City Airport, Mycroft was straight on the phone to Delaney.

'We have captured eight personnel – all alive, some injured but nothing life-threatening. It is believed that Moran escaped in a black Audi Q7, with three hostages and three additional personnel. However, so far, no trace can be found of the Audi. Nothing on any traffic cameras or from any eye witnesses. The police helicopter is still searching and we have an All Points Alert across ten counties.

We have located Dr Watson and the body of one IC1 male, Phillip Knowles. He advertised himself as a Reparation Therapist, sir. According to Dr Watson, he was hired to 'convert' Alpha Beta. Watson claims that Moran shot Knowles with Watson's gun – an illegal weapon, sir – but no gun has been found at the scene. We are processing the scene. We will have more information, shortly.'

'You said there were three hostages,' Mycroft queried. 'Who is the third?'

'We believe, sir, that the third hostage is Miss Josephine Braocklehurst, the sister of Alpha Beta. Dr Watson advises us that she drove him and Alpha Alpha to the target location in her brother-in-law's car. We have located the car, where Watson told us it would be, and it is empty. No sign of a struggle.'

'Oh, for God's sake!' Mycroft muttered, furious at the debacle which this operation had become.

'We must keep this out of the public domain, do you understand?' he hissed.

'Yes, sir, I understand,' Delaney replied.

'Who's on the ground?'

'The assault team, the local police and two of our regional agents,' Delaney advised.

'Good. This is the official story – make sure EVERYONE is briefed,' Mycroft began. 'Acting on information received, the hospital was raided by anti-terror personnel and arrests were made of terror suspects who were using the disused hospital as a base. Some members of the cell, who were not present at the time of the raid, are being sought. I want no mention of hostages or dead bodies. Understand?'

'Yes, sir. Affirmative.'

'I want all of Alpha Beta's relations taken into protective custody and placed in a safe house. Do this with the MINIMUM of fuss. The cover story is that a family member has been taken seriously ill and the entire family have been called to their bedside. Make sure that their employers are all informed, so as not to arouse any suspicion.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And, finally, I will be transferring to a helicopter and flying to Ground Zero myself. Please appraise our agents on the ground of that fact.'

'Yes, sir.'

Mycroft hung up. He was still sitting in the private jet, which had taxied to the terminal, during his conversation. He looked over at Anthea, seated across the aisle.

'I have arranged for a private helicopter to take us there, sir,' she assured him, as she stood up. 'I'll go and make sure all the arrangements are in order.'

Mycroft nodded his thanks and she disembarked from the plane.

Yes, Anthea would be hard to replace, if she ever decided to further her career in the service. Not only had she anticipated that he would want to go to Stalybridge by the fastest means possible but she also knew that he would need privacy to call home and tell Molly that her husband was missing in action, believed captured.

ooOoo

Molly was in bed but not asleep. She found it hard to sleep when Sherlock wasn't beside her, even when she knew he was somewhere safe. It was nigh impossible when he was on one of his Big Adventures. Yes, that was how she thought of his escapades. This was the man to whom she had given her heart and the father of her children but she was under no illusions as to the kind of man he was, that he was an adrenalin junkie, hopelessly addicted to danger.

So this was her life and always would be, keeping everything running smoothly at home, staying outwardly calm and cheerful, for the sake of the children, but lying awake at night, wondering if they would ever see him alive again. When her phone rang on the night stand, she looked at it, apprehensively, then picked it up.

'Yes, Mycroft, tell me the worst,' she said.

And he did.

ooOoo