Sudden Death (6 page)

His dad eased up the throttle once more and the plane’s nose lifted. Jake saw the ground approach, maybe a hundred feet away.

Too fast
, he thought.
We’re going too fast.

‘Hold on!’ his dad shouted.

T
hey hit the road.

Jake was thrown up out of his seat with the shockwave that thudded through the cockpit. The nose of the plane angled down into the road, showering sparks up across the windscreen. The noise seemed to fill Jake’s head. Metal crushing and grinding, like the scream of a creature torn apart.

The plane tipped to one side as it slid at close to a hundred miles per hour, eating up the tarmac. A crack snaked across the Plexiglas, then it shattered into a thousand pieces, bursting inward. Jake threw up his arms. Everything became white noise – the searing air, the shower of sparks, the random debris bouncing off his body. It all filled his head like floodwater.

The wing must have caught the bank at the side of the road, because the plane jack-knifed round. The whole fuselage rocked sideways and Jake was thrown into the control panel to his side. The sensation of his body being shaken like a rag
doll was without pain. Somewhere, deep within his mind, he knew that this was just the adrenalin numbing him – all of this was going to hurt tomorrow.

If it didn’t kill him tonight.

He caught a glimpse of his dad’s face, twisted with shock and teeth gritted.

Jake’s head smacked into something hard. Then he couldn’t see anything. His fingers closed on the armrests and he held on grimly.

The plane juddered to a halt.

Jake wasn’t sure how many seconds passed. Gradually the creaking and clanging of the decimated plane stopped and Jake was left with the sound of his own breathing and the chorus of dissonant alarms. He was pressed against the wall, his arm on the floor. Or where the floor had been. The cockpit was tilted at a sharp angle. Pain flooded everywhere. Jake checked each of his limbs in turn. Left leg. Flex. Right leg. Flex. Hands. Arms. Neck. All complained, but nothing seemed to be broken.

Jake unclipped the belt slowly and sagged out of the seat. Dizziness swallowed his vision for a second and his knees wobbled. Something tickled his forehead and he knew it was blood. He wiped a red smear away with the back of his hand. His dad was lying on the control panel, his legs still draped
across his seat, which had been torn from its housing.

Jake rolled on to his knees.

‘Dad?’ he said. His dad wasn’t moving.

He’s dead.

‘Dad!’

His dad groaned, his face creasing in pain.

‘You’re alive,’ Jake said.

‘Just about.’ His dad rolled off the control panel. ‘We need to get out of here.’

Following his dad, and leaning against a tilted wall for support, Jake stumbled back into the main cabin. It was unrecognisable. The furniture was scattered to one side, upturned or broken into pieces. The whole place stank of alcohol, burnt plastic and fuel, mixed with smoke that seemed to billow from several places. The back of the plane was gone, and through a tangle of torn metal and wiring Jake looked out into the road behind. He could see the tail-end of the plane, and what looked like half a wing, about 200 metres away. Small fires burnt around the wreckage.

A foot stirred beneath a sofa.

‘Powell!’ said Jake.

The name brought a moan of recognition from the injured man. Jake and his dad rushed forward and together eased the weight off the journalist’s body. His clothes were torn and
his left arm was bleeding, but otherwise he looked OK.

‘Tell the pilots to go back to flight school,’ he said, smiling weakly.

Taking an armpit each, Jake and his dad pulled Powell upright. He winced and hissed when Jake looped his left arm over his shoulder. ‘Probably broken,’ Jake said, trying to lift from his waist instead.

Together, the three survivors climbed from the back of the plane into the cold night. The tarmac of the road had been chewed up like earth by a plough. The long trail of debris was mostly pieces of the plane, but Jake noticed one of his shin-pads, singed at the edges, discarded on the improvised runway.

Welcome to Russia
, he thought.

Less than five minutes later, Jake heard the distant thudding of helicopter blades. In that time, his dad had managed to fashion a sling for Powell from a torn piece of upholstery. Jake found some bottles of water in the dented fridge, which was lying on its side on the road.

‘Wait here,’ his dad said. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. There are some things I need.’

He limped along to the remains of the cargo hold and began searching. What was so important? Jake sipped water and shivered. Finally his dad returned, holding the battered
box marked ‘Personal’, just as two choppers with the Popov Industries logo touched down at the top of the roadside bank.

How did they know where we landed?
Jake wondered.

One man, wearing a black suit and sunglasses, despite the darkness, ran over. Another four scattered to different parts of the wreckage.

‘Is anybody injured?’ shouted the first man as he approached.

‘Just a broken arm,’ Jake’s dad said, gesturing to Powell, ‘and minor cuts and bruises. The pilots are dead.’

The man nodded but didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘You will come with us.’

Jake’s dad seemed to deliberate for a second, looking first to the shattered plane, then to the helicopters up on the bank. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

Jake tugged his dad close. ‘What are you talking about? We almost died just now. That was Popov’s plane! His flight attendant killed the pilots – and she tried to kill you, me and Powell. Now you want to get into one of his helicopters?’

His dad breathed deeply. ‘We need to do as this man says, Jake. We can’t stay out here in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Yes, we can,’ said Jake. He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. The screen was cracked, but it seemed to work otherwise. And he had a couple of bars of signal. ‘We can
phone the police. This needs to be reported.’

Popov’s man shot out a hand and grabbed the phone.

‘Hey!’ Jake said. ‘Give that back!’

‘I have orders from Mr Popov. You
will
come on the helicopter. Now.’

His dad didn’t say anything, but instead walked away and climbed the bank to the chopper. Jake saw there was little he could do but follow. Powell, pale and shivering, did the same.

After they were on board, the thug barked something in Russian to the pilot, and the helicopter climbed into the sky.

A sudden boom made Jake’s head jerk round. A blast of heat bathed his face as the main part of the plane erupted in a huge fireball.

‘What about the bodies?’ Jake asked.

‘The fuel tanks must have exploded,’ said his dad.

‘In the front of the plane?’ said Powell, raising an eyebrow.

Has my dad destroyed more evidence? Just like the napkin. No traces
, thought Jake.

The helicopter circled once and Jake saw the devastation. The wreckage from the plane was scattered over a wide area in smouldering heaps. The ‘PI’ on the tail was the only part that seemed undamaged. Despite himself, Jake wondered if that was some sort of omen.

As the helicopter glided up and away, Jake couldn’t quite
process what had just happened. So many questions. Was Helga working for Popov? She had to be. It was his plane. She followed his orders. But why would the Russian want to kill his new coach and scout? And what about Daniel Powell? The man who turned up at the scene of Andrew Chernoff’s murder, almost before the man had died. Was he Helga’s real target? It seemed strange that he was now doing a profile on Popov’s team after some of the things he’d written about the ‘businessman’ in the past.

Keep your enemies close
, they said.

It was too noisy to think clearly in the back, and despite his mind racing, exhaustion overtook Jake and he only woke when the helicopter rails touched down at a small airfield near some low industrial buildings. From the lead-grey tint of the sky, he guessed it was nearing dawn.

‘Where are we?’ Jake asked sleepily. His body ached from head to toe.

‘The outskirts of St Petersburg,’ his dad replied. He was wide awake.

Powell was helped on to a stretcher, then wheeled into a waiting ambulance. Jake was escorted into the back of another. He sat still while a nurse cleaned, then applied mastic tape to the cut on his head. All the time, Popov’s henchman watched from behind his sunglasses.

‘You may have some mild concussion,’ said the nurse. ‘Make sure you rest for a couple of days, yes?’

Jake and his dad were ushered into a waiting limousine.

As they drove along an almost deserted motorway, Jake went over the details of the crash again.

‘Dad,’ said Jake. ‘The flight attendant . . .’

His dad shook his head. ‘It was a terrible accident. We were very fortunate.’

‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ said Jake. He noticed the driver watching him in the rear-view mirror. ‘If you hadn’t been able to fly the plane –’

‘But I was,’ his dad said. ‘I don’t want to talk about it now.’

Jake remembered the carnage in the cockpit, the spattered blood from the co-pilot.
Perhaps I don’t want to talk about it either
. . .

Twenty minutes in, the driver spoke for the first time.

‘If you look to your right, you’ll see the new stadium Mr Popov has built.’

Jake wound down the window to let in some fresh air. The stadium was huge. Bigger than Old Trafford, Jake guessed. With its curved sides and soaring support stanchions, it looked a bit like a giant sixteenth-century galleon at anchor. But this was undoubtedly a modern building. It was all steel and glass, and as the sun rose over the hazy eastern
mountains, it glittered like gold. There was still some scaffolding along one wall of the stadium, but otherwise it looked complete.

‘It’s incredible,’ Jake said.

His dad leant past him. ‘It certainly is.’

The car took them along a forest road and up a gradual incline. With the cool morning air in his face, Jake wasn’t sleepy at all now. They emerged into a clearing with a gate ahead. The driver must have pressed a button, because the gate swung open automatically to admit the car. A building became visible over the brow of a small hill: single storey for the most part, with a single second-floor turret at one end. The whole thing was built of pale wood, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows along the front.

‘Welcome to your new home,’ said the driver, swinging the limousine round in front. ‘Mr Popov hopes you find it adequate.’

Jake slowly exited the car to take in the building better. The forest stretched out below, but beyond that was the stadium, two miles or so downhill, still glittering in the morning rays. Past that were the apartment blocks and offices of St Petersburg, and then the sea.

His dad came to stand beside Jake and put his arm round his shoulders.

‘Maybe the worst is behind us. I hope you’re glad you came?’

Jake could only nod.

The house inside was a mixture of traditional and modern. The front door opened directly into the kitchen. Jake noticed an espresso maker, juicer, ice machine. Above the oven was an entertainment unit. Jake only noticed it when the screen came to life and Popov’s face appeared.

‘Hi, Steven,’ Popov said, ‘and welcome to your new home. I hope you find it to your satisfaction.’ While the sight of Popov filled Jake with unease, the crisp image of what he assumed was a videophone call was damn impressive.

Popov continued: ‘Karenya is your maid and will help you find your way around the house, and she can also help with any immediate problems. If you need me, any time, day or night, my number is programmed into the in-house systems. For now, rest and explore. I’ve heard about your accident. I am pleased you are both OK. I’ve taken the liberty of providing some additional items of clothing and other things to make your stay more comfortable.’

‘Thank you, Mr Popov,’ his dad said, positioning himself in front of the screen. ‘When can I see the stadium and meet my team?’

‘I’ll send a car tomorrow at ten. For now,
do svidanya.’

The screen went blank.

Do svidanya.
The farewell greeting flashed an image of Helga, perched by the emergency exit, into Jake’s mind. He pushed it away.

‘Why don’t you go and look around?’ his dad said, surveying the stack of binders. ‘I need to do some work.’

Jake paused in the kitchen doorway. With the new house it was too easy to forget the extraordinary events of the night before.

If it wasn’t for their quick thinking and a hefty dose of luck, they’d both be corpses on a lonely road outside St Petersburg. If his dad was a killer, then someone else knew and was also trying to kill him. And without knowing who was pulling the strings, Jake was more in the dark than ever.

He decided to explore the house and grounds. The lounge area, lined with the glass windows, was sunk into the floor Huge, deep leather sofas surrounded a low slate table. Jake pressed a couple of the buttons discreetly embedded into a side-table. A motor whirred and a large modernist painting along one wall rose into the ceiling to reveal a home cinema system. Plants revolved to reveal four-foot speakers in each corner of the room. Experimenting with the buttons,
Jakerealised the system contained all the latest movie releases and a catalogue of close to 40,000 songs.

His bedroom was located on the second floor, up a spiral staircase in the turret. In the wardrobe, Jake found several items: jeans, shirts and smarter clothes. All tasteful, high-end fashion. His mother would have approved. The drawers were stocked with brand new T-shirts and underwear.

‘How did Popov know my size?’ Jake muttered to himself.

There was even a football kit. Jake lifted the shirt up. St Petersburg Tigers, sponsored by Popov Industries.

Lining one side of the room, close to the door of the ensuite bathroom, were several shoe boxes. Converse pumps, Nike trainers, smart shoes in brown and black – and a pair of Predator football boots. The same model worn by Devon Taylor.