Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [87]
But where he was didn’t matter. There was a driveway ahead of them, and a road beyond and Jack drove as fast as he could to get to them.
Checking his rearview mirror, he saw Swain’s men spilling from the hospital entrance and running toward the remaining cars. But he already had a fairly good lead on them and it wasn’t likely they’d catch him.
Shooting out to the road, he picked up speed then blasted past a row of old country houses and disappeared down a tree-lined street into the early morning darkness.
* * *
The sun was coming up by the time they reached Central London.
Jack had used the GPS on the cell phone to chart the course, then memorized the route and tossed the phone into the street as they rolled through a suburban neighborhood. If these guys really were MI6, he had no doubt they’d be able to track the thing.
So be it. Even if the spook patrol found them they would probably give Jack some space, the way Swain did in San Francisco. Intelligence ops were like vampires: they preferred the night, the shadows. Especially now, when anyone with a cell phone could be a journalist.
Sara hadn’t said a word during the drive, and when he turned to check on her he found her flopped across the seat, passed out. He didn’t blame her. He was halfway there himself. He wondered for a moment if she had been hit by a bullet or a piece of shrapnel kicked up by the gunfire, but he saw no sign of blood. When they stopped at a light he reached back and touched her neck, found a steady pulse.
So he drove, too exhausted to think about much more than the mechanics of his journey—left turn, right turn, brake, gas, brake, check the mirror for any sign of hostiles.… It took special concentration because he wasn’t used to driving on the opposite side of the road.
When they got to central London he didn’t go back to the Beresford Hotel. Although he had checked in under a false name, he couldn’t risk Swain showing up there, so he headed into Paddington and found a place that made the Beresford look like Buckingham Palace.
He left Sara in the car as he checked in, then woke her enough to get her into the rickety elevator.
“’Ard night?” the round, scruffy concierge chuckled.
“The girl likes her scotch,” Jack said, affecting a British accent. He didn’t want to make the same mistake he did with Sara, tipping his nationality. Just in case anyone asked.
Jack got her into the room and onto the bed, its springs groaning noisily as she sank onto it. Then he went back to the car, drove for several blocks, and abandoned it in the car park of another, much larger hotel. That would keep the bastards busy for a while.
When Jack got back to the room, Sara was out again—which didn’t surprise him—so he drew the curtains to mute the morning sun, then sank into the threadbare armchair across from her and allowed himself to doze.
A couple hours later he heard her stir and opened his eyes. She still had her head on the pillow, but she was staring at him.
“We were interrupted,” she said. “You were about to tell me your name?”
Jack smiled. “Jack Hatfield. Nice to meet you.”
She haltingly pulled herself upright, as though testing her stamina each step of the way. Without a shirt or a bra, her sweater clung to her in a way that made it difficult for Jack not to look. The room was a little cold and it showed, but he was a gentleman and averted his gaze. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of danger, what kind of physical duress, it would take for a man not to think about sex. Obviously, he hadn’t reached that threshold.
“You ready to talk?” he asked. “I’m sure you have as many questions as I do.”
“I don’t know if anything I have to say would make much sense at the moment.”
“You seem fine to me.”
“Thanks to you,” she said. “And I mean that. Thank you. You could have left me with those sadists but you didn’t.”
“Not part of my DNA,” he said. “And you’re welcome.”
She offered him a wan, fragile smile. A grateful smile. It was restorative, not like the hardened mask he’d seen in