Under Cover (Agent 21) (22 page)

And if there was a tracking device, it meant there was someone tracking him.

The Russians.

– Get the batteries out. Quickly! Disable it!

As soon as that thought rebounded in his head, he heard the screeching of tyres outside and he felt a surge of adrenalin.

– They’re here! THEY’VE FOUND YOU!

Ricky’s fingers felt suddenly clumsy as he fumbled to remove the batteries from the cell. Once they were out, he shoved them in his pocket and replaced the false base. He slammed the briefcase shut, then grabbed the folder. Removing his rucksack from his back, he crammed the documents inside. His fingers touched the jewellery he had stolen from Izzy’s house the night before, but right now he wasn’t thinking about diamonds. He slung the rucksack over his shoulder again, grabbed the briefcase and sprinted up the aisle.

– Put the briefcase on top of the altar. When they see it, they’ll stop to look inside. It’ll give you a few extra seconds.

Ricky did as the voice in his head told him. However, as he laid the briefcase on the altar, he heard voices outside. They were shouting in Russian. He had barely taken two steps away from the altar when the heavy door of the church swung open. Dmitri and Gregoriev appeared. They took one look at Ricky and sprinted up the aisle towards him, their heavy boots echoing around the church as they ran.

Ricky sprinted for the door behind the altar and slipped through it. It led into a dark, poky vestry, and to his horror there was no external door – just a small window that couldn’t be opened. Frosted glass, wooden frame with peeling paint. Ricky spun round and examined the door. There was an internal bolt, which meant he could lock himself into this little room. He quickly engaged the bolt – just in time, because a second later he heard the heavy thumping of a fist against the door itself.

But now he was stuck inside, sweating and panicking . . .

– Think. Think!

Ricky took in the contents of the room with a single glance. Along one wall was a line of priest’s cassocks, and along the opposite wall was another bookcase full of prayer books.

He needed to hide the documents. It was only a matter of time before the Russians broke their way into the vestry. Minutes, if he was lucky. More likely seconds. He quickly strode up to the bookcase and removed a prayer book. Opening it up, he ripped out clumps of pages from the middle . . .

There was a sudden thump on the door. It rattled alarmingly in the door frame. Ricky could picture either Dmitri or his mate shoulder-barging the door.

– It’s not going to hold!

Ricky lowered his rucksack and shoved his hand inside. He pulled out the documents, folded them twice and then placed them in the cavity he had created in the hymn book.

There was another colossal crash against the door. The iron latch shuddered.

– You’ve got less than thirty seconds!

Ricky hesitated for a moment. Then he dug inside his rucksack for a second time and pulled out Izzy’s mum’s jewellery. He placed this inside the hymn book along with the documents, then carefully returned the doctored book to the shelf. He took a split second to satisfy himself that the damaged book looked no different to the others, then he took the ripped-up pages and shoved them inside the pocket of the dustiest, least-used cassock he could find. There was a pen inside the cassock. Instinctively, Ricky pocketed it for himself.

Thud!

An alarming creaking sound accompanied the third shoulder-barge on the door. One more, maybe two, and the Russians would be in here.

Ricky grabbed another prayer book from a different shelf. Then he turned his attention to the window.

It was about two metres off the ground. In size, a metre square. Ricky reckoned he could climb through it, but he needed to shatter the glass first. He pushed the table up to the wall and lifted the heavy chair onto it.

Thud!

Glancing over his shoulder, Ricky could see that the bolt was splintering away from the door frame. He jumped onto the table, then awkwardly lifted the chair and slammed it feet first against the window.

The glass held.

He slammed again. Nothing.

Thud!

The bolt splintered inwards. The door was a couple of centimetres ajar.

– It’ll only take one more hit!

For the third time, Ricky slammed the chair against the glass, putting behind it all the strength his exhausted body could muster.

Finally, it gave way.

For the second time that morning, the sound of shattering glass filled his ears. Ricky threw the chair back towards the door – one more obstacle to slow the Russians down. There was still some jagged glass around the window frame, so he used his sleeve to force it away, then winced as a shard of glass sliced into the back of his hand. It started bleeding badly, but he couldn’t let that slow him down. Clutching the prayer book and the pen, he practically hurled himself through the open window, falling heavily on the hard ground outside.

He winced as his knees and ankles jarred, then collapsed into a heap.

Half a metre away from where he was standing, he saw a pair of feet.

He looked up.

Jacob Cole was staring down at him.

Cole’s face was twisted with anger. There was a mad fire in his eyes, his grey hair was dishevelled and a vein pumped in his neck. He took a threatening step towards Ricky.

Two steps.

Ricky heard a clattering on the other side of the open window, and he knew the Russians had got into the vestry. He looked around. He was in a cobbled alleyway along the end of the church. High above him was the stained-glass window he’d seen from inside. The only way out was along the alleyway, which meant getting past Cole.

Ricky held the pen in his good hand, the prayer book in his bleeding one. He pushed himself up to his feet.

Cole sneered nastily. ‘I won’t be giving autographs today,’ he said. ‘And I really think it’s a bit late for prayers, don’t you, you stupid little boy?’

Ricky looked at the prayer book. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’

He moved quickly. With a sudden, sharp gesture he whacked the sturdy spine of the prayer book hard against Cole’s neck. Cole made a pained, strangled sound, then staggered uncertainly. But Ricky wasn’t finished with him yet. With a brutal swipe of his arm, he stabbed the pen hard into Cole’s right thigh. It punctured his trousers and sank deep into his flesh.

Cole howled in agony. Ricky left the pen sticking out of his leg, then jumped to his feet. ‘That’s for Izzy,’ he hissed, before pushing his open palm hard against Cole’s face and knocking him out of the way.

He glanced back. Dmitri was already climbing out of the broken window.

– Run.

The voice in his head was more urgent than it had ever been.

– Run! Run! Run!

Ricky skittlered down the alleyway. He knew he had to find reserves of energy and speed from somewhere, and somehow he did. He ignored the blood flowing from his hand as he flew across the cobblestones. The open end of the alleyway was thirty metres away. He looked back over his shoulder to see Dmitri the same distance behind him. The welt that Ricky had inflicted on the Russian’s face looked even worse than before, but Dmitri wasn’t running after him. Instead he had pulled out his gun and was cocking it.

Ricky sprinted even faster. Twenty metres to the exit. His skin tingled. He knew the gunshot was coming soon. Pictures flashed into his mind of the horrific, fatal wound the Russians had inflicted on the guy in the café.

– Swerve! It’ll make you a more difficult target!

He veered left and right. Fifteen metres to the exit.

Gunshot!

He knew exactly where the bullet had hit. On the wall, just to his left. It ricocheted off at an angle just in front of him, sending a cloud of powdered brick up into the air. Some of the debris smarted against his face, and he winced. But he kept moving forward, still swerving as he went, putting as much distance between himself and the gunman as he could.

Ten metres to the exit.

His muscles burned.

Five metres.

– Look out!

Suddenly the opening to the alleyway was blocked. Gregoriev was there. The huge bulk of his body seemed to fill the exit, and he was holding the metallic briefcase flat out in front of him. Although Ricky tried to swerve past him he knew, without question, that he’d never manage it.

Two seconds later he collided with the briefcase. It was like hitting a brick wall. Ricky felt the wind knocked from his lungs as he smashed into the sturdy metal. Then he shouted out in pain. The Russian had grabbed him by his bleeding hand. Now he had his other immense fist round Ricky’s neck and was squeezing so hard that Ricky felt his knees collapsing beneath him.

He struggled and writhed, trying to get away, but it was no good. The Russian had him.

And then the others were there – Dmitri and Cole. Ricky felt a sudden, heavy boot in his guts and a nasty, choking, coughing sound erupted from his throat.

He heard Cole’s thin, weasly voice. ‘What are we going to do with him?’

Another boot in the pit of his stomach. Ricky saw stars.

Dmitri’s voice. A low, angry rumble. ‘First,’ he said, ‘we’re going to find out who put him up to this. Then we’re going to take back what we’ve paid for.’

‘What then?’ Cole hissed.

‘Then,’ said the Russian, ‘we’re going to kill him.’

Ricky had never known fear like it.

The two Russians had him, one on either side, gripping him hard around the elbow. Ricky struggled and writhed as they dragged him along the side of the church. Cole was limping alongside them. He had removed the pen from his leg, but had lost none of the anger in his eyes.

Ricky racked his brains, trying to remember anything Felix had taught him that might be helpful in a situation like this. But none of his training had covered how to escape from two brutal thugs hell-bent on killing you. So he did the only thing that came to mind: he yelled.

‘Help!
Help me!
’

‘Shut him up,’ growled Dmitri. A split second later Ricky felt a fist connect violently with his stomach. He doubled over, gasping and spluttering. He wouldn’t be trying that again.

They turned a corner and Ricky saw that they were at the front of the church again. There was a black people-carrier parked outside and the Russians dragged him towards it. In a matter of seconds he was inside and Dmitri had him pinned down in the back, a handgun digging sharply into his guts. Cole and Gregoriev were up front. The people-carrier screeched away. Nobody spoke. Sweat poured from Ricky’s clammy body almost as fast as the blood from his wounded hand. Half of him wanted to continue struggling. The other half knew that Dmitri would like nothing more than to slam a bullet into his guts.

As they drove, the only sound came from Cole. His leg was obviously bothering him, and he kept muttering to himself – a low, unpleasant hiss, like a wounded snake. Ricky barely noticed where they were travelling. From the corner of his eye he saw a busy grey flyover and a signpost for the M1. He half registered a Big Yellow Storage Company, then twigged that they were in some faceless industrial estate.

The people-carrier screeched to a halt outside some kind of big grey warehouse. A large white shutter covered the vehicle entrance. Dmitri held up a key fob, pressed a button and it automatically opened. It closed again once the vehicle was inside the warehouse.

Total darkness. As Dmitri dragged Ricky out of the vehicle, the sound of the door slamming shut echoed for a good five seconds, making him realize that this was a big building. He felt himself being pressed violently down to his knees. The two Russians said something in their native language and a few seconds later a massive overhead strip light switched on. It was accompanied by an electric humming sound, just on the edge of Ricky’s hearing.

Ricky saw that he was indeed in a massive warehouse. Stone floor. Iron rafters in the ceiling. He looked around for an exit strategy. There was a fire door at the far end of the warehouse, but it was heavily padlocked. In any case, if Ricky made a run for it, they’d shoot him down before he even went ten paces.

Apart from that one door and the electric vehicle entrance, there was no means of escape.

Dmitri stood over him. He had his gun pointing directly at his head. Not so close, though, that Ricky could reach out and grab the weapon. It struck him that Dmitri had done this sort of thing before.

Gregoriev approached, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. Ricky felt his strong hands patting him down. He located Ricky’s phone, pulled it out then dropped it on the floor and ground it into pieces with his heel.

– The video evidence! It’s gone!

But Ricky had more important things to worry about than his destroyed footage.

‘Hand over the documents,’ Dmitri demanded. ‘I don’t have them,’ Ricky whispered. His voice was hoarse, and after the kickings he’d received, it hurt to speak.

Wrong answer. Dmitri’s knee cracked against the side of Ricky’s face. He felt his cheekbone go and a spurt of blood spray from his nose.

‘HAND OVER THE DOCUMENTS!’

‘
I . . . don’t . . . have . . . them . . .
’ Ricky gasped.

Dmitri barked something in Russian and Gregoriev strode over and roughly yanked the rucksack off Ricky’s back. As Ricky cringed on the floor in pain, the Russian turned the rucksack inside out to empty its contents over the floor.

Two items fell out. The first was the photograph of Ricky and his parents. The corner of the frame smashed against the hard floor. The letter from Madeleine followed. It settled on the ground next to the picture. The Russian grabbed it and pulled the letter from the envelope, clearly looking to see if Ricky had hidden the documents in there. When he saw it was just a letter, he screwed it up and threw it to the ground.

‘No!’ Ricky tried to shout, but his voice was weak and hoarse.

Suddenly Cole was there, crouching down beside Ricky, his lip curled in fury. There was a patch of blood on his trousers where the pen had entered. ‘What have you done with those papers, you little—’