Ark Angel - Anthony Horowitz [49]
He had to do something now, before it was too late. He glanced over his shoulder. Steel Watch was being careful, keeping a safe distance between them. The man had his hands tucked under his jacket. It didn’t even look as if the two of them were together, but Alex knew that the gun was trained on him. If he tried anything, Steel Watch would fire through the fabric. He couldn’t speak; he couldn’t turn. He had to keep moving.
The gates were getting closer. The Fulham Road was beyond. One of the policemen was giving somebody directions. But they weren’t going to help him. What about the crowd? Ahead of him, next to the exit, he caught a glimpse of red and black. Two Stratford East supporters in team shirts. One of them was a skinhead with small, red eyes and a ruddy, pock-marked face. He was scowling at the departing Chelsea fans and Alex could see that he would love to cause trouble. He was swaying on his feet. He’d probably been drinking. But there were too many policemen around. All he had was attitude – and he was showing as much of it as he could.
Alex was heading straight towards him with Steel Watch close behind. And suddenly he had a thought. Steel Watch was keeping an eye on his every movement. But he couldn’t see his face. He couldn’t see what he did with his hands.
But the Stratford East supporter could.
Alex slowed down.
“Keep moving,” Steel Watch ordered in a low, ugly voice.
Alex stared at the skinhead. He had once read somewhere that if you stared at another person hard enough, they’d become aware of you. He had tried it often enough when he was bored in class. Now he focused all his attention on the man even as he continued walking forward, weaving through the crowd.
The man looked up. It wasn’t telepathy; there was no real way he could avoid him. Alex was about fifteen metres away, getting closer all the time. People were crossing in front of him – fathers with their sons, couples, fans dressed in the blue Chelsea strip – but Alex ignored them. His eyes drilled into the Stratford East supporter.
The skinhead noticed him. His own eyes narrowed.
Alex’s hand was against his chest. With his gaze still fixed on the man, he raised two fingers slowly and deliberately, then dropped one of them. Unseen by Steel Watch, he had signalled the score: two–one. And he had left his middle finger standing offensively upright. Alex sneered at the supporter, trying to look as aggressive as he could. The supporter stared. Alex repeated the sign. This was the worst insult he could throw at the man without opening his mouth.
Alex had been right. The Stratford East supporter was drunk. He had watched his team lose with almost as much disgust as Drevin himself, and the botched penalty in the final seconds had enraged him. And here was some cocky little sod, a Chelsea supporter, making fun of him! Well, to hell with the police. To hell with the crowd. He wasn’t going to stand here and take it. He was going to sort him out.
He lumbered forward. Alex felt a spurt of excitement as he saw that his tactic had worked. Behind him, Steel Watch hadn’t realized what was going on. Things had to happen very quickly; Alex needed the element of surprise.
The Stratford East supporter stopped in front of him, blocking his path. “What’s your problem?” he demanded.
Alex came to a halt – he had no choice – and he felt Steel Watch bump into him. There was no longer any distance between them.
“I said – what’s your problem?”
Alex said nothing. He had