The Whitehall Syndicate: A time travel conspiracy thriller (27 page)

The whole place resembled an emptied out factory. Jack sunk his head at yet another dead end. Patting him on the back for support, Anisha started to help Frank investigate.

There were a few rusty old machines still intact that had gathered a thick carpet of dust. As everyone looked around, the grimy sting of the stale air began to take its toll. Soon everyone was coughing, covering their mouths with their sleeves, and hurriedly bobbing their heads around, eager for fresh oxygen.

A dense thump rang out over the coughing as Frank's large black boot toe-punted one of the boilers. Jack walked over and helped him
pull back the door to reveal a large wooden chest inside. Dust flew everywhere and the two men grunted and squinted as they heaved the hefty object out and onto the floor.

There was a padlock on it and Frank looked around for a key. He spotted a length of metal pipe and fetched it, deciding it would have to do.

Taking a swing, he smacked the lock with the full force of his towering body. Sparks flew and a hollow sound rang out but the lock remained intact. Undeterred, he swung again and began a brutal assault on the padlock until it finally snapped open.

Jack strained open the top and gasped as he broke into a cold sweat. There was a small red LCD display counting down next to a mass of wires and components. It was a bomb.

It happened almost in slow motion. Jack shouted out, “It's a bomb,” and everyone's heart rate shot up, their faces filling with panic. Jack began running for the exit, his heart thumping with every crashing step. As it sunk in, Kim's head began to feel light and she collapsed onto the floor, dizzy and disorientated. Anisha instinctively turned to run for the exit and seeing Kim, took a detour to scoop the petite woman off the floor and drag her along.

As she started running, Kim regained her composure and began to sprint as well, the adrenaline finally kicking in. Time seemed to lose all meaning as they strained every muscle and fought for every breath to reach the door. Frank stayed perfectly still, staring at the bomb in his statuesque pose. Even in a crisis his head was calm and collected. After all, this wasn't the first time someone had had tried to blow him up.

The LCD display said six seconds and with all the flammable chemicals and equipment lying around he knew there was no way to clear the blast scene in time. He reached for his knife. Five seconds left. Shoving his hand into the wires he saw three leading from the main explosive pack.

Thoughts whirred through his mind from his days at police training. Action switches, triggers, dummies; it was all flying around his bran like a tornado of facts. Three seconds. He had to choose a wire. It wasn't like in all the books and films: there was no specific colour to cut.

He had to trace where each wire was leading and hope it was a simple bomb. His eyes began shooting around the jumbled up mess. Two seconds. He saw one that looked like it connected to the detonator but he couldn't tell. Should he try it? One second. His arms felt frozen and with a mental push he forced the blade in his hand down onto the wire and saw it split.

He held his breath and closed his eyes. It seemed as if a second
had gone by but there was only one way to tell. Slowly opening his eyes he saw that the timer had stopped with nine milliseconds to go.

He let out a deep breath and closed his eyes one more time, before yelling, “It's okay.” Jack stumbled over trying to stop and once he had hit the ground, lay there, staring at the ceiling and breathing hard. He was short of the exit by at least another fifty meters.

Picking himself up off the floor, he slowly walked back to where Frank stood, his feet aching. Anisha and Kim did the same. Approaching him, Jack and the girls couldn’t help feeling a little ashamed of their actions; they had acted like cowards.

Frank stood waiting, a smirk covering his face. Even though the digital display was frozen, Jack and the girls stood a few steps back, worried for their safety and about somehow triggering the bomb again. Frank wasn’t as frightened and ignored their caution. He began looking around again, and found that the explosive was resting on a metal plate.

Pulling it upwards and putting the bomb to one side, he found a whole stack of MLDs underneath. The labels on the cases clearly showed what they were. MONDAY, HOTEL, 6PM-12PM. WEDNESDAY, APARTMENT, 1AM-9AM and so on. It was a list of security camera films.

After a little thought, Jack ventured an explanation.

“Now that Ortega thinks Green is dead, he must have been trying to get rid of any evidence. So I guess he left the bomb in this place so that when it exploded it would take out the video too.”

“That doesn’t make sense though,” chimed in Anisha. “There are much easier ways to dispose of things. I think he was storing the contents here rather than in a safe, since it’s the last place anyone would think to look.”

“I agree,” said Frank.

“So the bomb was probably just a safety mechanism, in case somebody looked at the chest who wasn’t supposed to?” asked Jack.

“Exactly. In addition to the padlock key there was probably also a radio switch someone had to use to deactivate the bomb before opening the chest.”

With everyone satisfied by the explanation, they turned their attention onto what to do next. As Frank and Anisha rummaged through the chest, Anisha saw a few scraps of paper lining the bottom. Peeling them off and bringing them up to the light she leafed through them sequentially.

“These look like invoices for equipment and bills for security personnel.”

“If they're invoices, shouldn't they have an address for the delivery or where the work was done?” Anisha began scanning through them and spotted one. Looking across at the other sheets, the same address appeared on all of them.

“Okay I've got one.”

“Let
's go,” said Jack immediately, and Frank interrupted to say,

“Let
's pack away the explosive first, just in case someone else finds it.”

Drury Lane was possible the most luxurious place in all of London. Every house radiated with good taste and it was home to only the wealthiest and most refined. Half way along the road stood a typical house for hire, towering and pearl white with a garden as big as a small public park. It was no hyperbole to call it a mansion. The golden gate outside the property warned against trespassing and an intercom controlled access into the estate.

A man in a white shirt tucked into his grey trousers sat on the table outside the house, enjoying the fresh breeze. Everything had gone according to plan so far and soon he would be in for a big payout. He closed his eyes and began humming, whiling
away the last few hours of his contract.

All he had to do was make sure nobody entered the house and so far this afternoon he had barely seen another resident walking the streets. He heard shouting inside and sat up, his ears focusing. Mr Ortega was having one of his typically heated conversations on the phone and through the walls he could the muffled sound of his voice booming.

He struggled to make out any clear words and moved a little closer to the window. Ortega was wondering why Tomlinson hadn't checked in and yelling blue murder at one of his unfortunate employees.

Being necessary to all security issues, he knew a little about what was going on and couldn't help but think that Ortega was overreacting. His plan had worked and the Green situation was taken care of, so he couldn't understand why the ferocious man was still screaming awake the dead. Everything had worked out perfectly. What could possibly go wrong now?

Pete took another sip of his second cup of mint tea and rubbed his head again. He felt a little embarrassed, having needed Gina to save him from the crazed
psychopath. They both sat on the sofa, tired and aching from too much stress and not enough sleep.

Tomlinson was definitely taken care of now but the muffled protests from Green still chiselled at the back of Pete's mind. All he wanted was some peace and quiet but it wasn't going to happen. He turned to Gina and they shared an uneasy look. There was something morbid about what they were doing, something dark and unsettling.

They were ordinary people that led ordinary lives and now here they sat watching over two tied up people, one of them an accomplice to murder and the other a kidnap victim. It didn't sit too well with Pete and he could see that Gina was also having trouble with the idea.

She hadn't been home in over a week and longed to return to her grotty little flat, hoping that home would wash away the memory of all they had done. As she started to say something to Pete, she thought she heard a groaning sound. He didn't look as if he'd heard anything, so she ignored it and carried on conversing as normal.

Behind them, in Pete's room, Green was on the offensive. The left side of his face was gashed from the cheek down, and he couldn't' feel half of his mouth. After rubbing at his gag for what seemed like weeks, the sharp edge of the bedpost had finally cut it free, and taken some of his chin with it.

In spite of all his struggling, he was still bound, although not as tightly as before. He had some room to wiggle and he looked around to find something useful. He was sweating profusely and the salt was caustic, burning his bounds like venom. His heart began beating faster,
knowing he had to do something quickly if he had any hope of freeing himself.

Looking around again he saw a mobile phone on the counter and tried reaching it with his bound hands. As he stretched his muscles the twine began digging into this flesh. Scowling in pain, Green continued to stretch his fingers out, pushing harder on the ropes.

His whole arm had gone pale now and the skin behind the twine was becoming a sickly purple. He kept pushing, ignoring the blood that was dripping from the rope. Getting two fingers on the phone he slowly passed it over and into his hand, then quickly pulled his arm back, groaning in relief.

Although he couldn't see his wrists from the position he was in, with the burning sting he felt, he imagined they were a bloody mess. Feeling over the keypad with his thumb he felt the buttons on the display. He closed his eyes to visualise the layout and when he was sure he had it worked out, he dialled 999. There was silence and he wasn't sure if he's pushed the wrong keys. A long silence passed by, and Green hung his head. Then he heard a ringing sound and immediately he pushed the phone down under his leg to muffle the sound.

Straining his ears he heard an operator ask for an assessment of the situation. This was it, his only chance. Taking a deep breath he shouted out “It's Michael Green I'm being held captive. I'm in an apartment somewhere with a parking-,” He was cut off by the door dramatically flying open.

Seeing Green with the phone, Pete kicked him in the head and Green screamed in pain as tears swelled in his eyes. Pelt felt sick to his stomach at having to get violent but now it was his freedom and his livelihood at stake. There was no other choice.

Gina grabbed the phone and disconnected the call, then dropped it on the floor and stamped on it repeatedly until she as sure it was broken. “What did you do that for? That's a nine hundred pound phone.”

“They can trace it even when it's off, as long as it's still getting a signal. Neesh told me.” Pete nodded and then stood watch as Gina went off to get more twine and tape.

They both had a bad feeling in their stomachs, and were skirting round the issue. The police knew Green was alive. It was only a matter of time before they traced him back here.

It was late in the afternoon now and fatigue was beginning to set in for everyone. They all stood opposite the house and began planning their next move. Frank was convinced that it was too heavily guarded to just storm in and Anisha agreed.

She suggested they use a distraction to throw off the guards and the other staff while they sneak in and capture Ortega. In the back of everyone’s mind was the same question. What would they even do with Ortega if they did manage to capture him?

Frank could only arrest him for a minor parole violation and with his helping the police in the past, and the problem of over-crowded prisons escalating; he might not even serve jail time. Frank also knew there wasn't going to be enough time to torture the truth out of him. This was a well-protected man and someone would come looking for him.

Everyone left the question for now, choosing to face it when the time came. For now they just had to come up with the distraction. Frank volunteered to try and cause a scene at the front gate, hoping it would draw the attention of the remaining people. If the others could find a way in through the back then they might be able to get to Ortega.

“What do you think Jack?”

“I think they might kill you.” Frank laughed half-heartedly.

“Nice to know you have so much faith in me.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I
have
to do this, for Tony.” A solemn look filled his face and Jack nodded understandingly.

They said their goodbyes and walked around the road to the back of the house, leaving Frank to slowly stroll up to the gate. As he approached the man sitting outside the house got off his chair and walked over to address him. “Who are you?”

“I'm Detective Wilkinson. Mind if I come in?”

“Actually yeah I do.” Frank moved closer to the railings, his face staring at the guard’s; taunting him.

“I wasn't actually asking.” Now the guard moved up to the railings, intent on proving his machismo.

A cocky look filed his face and he held his chest out threateningly. Frank saw his chance and through the railings, fired off a sharp punch to his gut, managing to get in a quick second to his face before he reeled back completely. Rolling over, the guard got back up and switched opened the gate, revenge burning in his eyes.

Frank dropped his coat off and cracked his knuckles as the man approached. A punch like that would normally have a guy bawling like a baby. Unlike a lot of criminals he had met, this man was a professional and it was going to be a close fight.

The man ran up to him and swung a left hook, which he blocked, but then shot out an upper cut into his chin that sent Frank flying backwards into the ground. His back smacked the floor hard, and his jaw was throbbing, but the man was still approaching.

Swiping his legs across the ground, he knocked the guard of his feet and scrambled over, starting to batter him in the face. Making sure the sharp tips of his knuckles smashed right into the pressure points on the man’s skull, Frank could feel he was winning the fight. Then, from the corner of his eyes he saw two more men in white shirts approaching, and a few others further behind.