Spider - Michael Morley [121]
Jack’s heart bangs in his chest. He smashes a clenched fist against the wing of Howie’s car.
Spider smiles as he watches on the computer link. ‘Temper, temper, Jacky boy. Now let’s get on with this. You only have five minutes to carry out the kill. Take any longer and I’ll start using my knife and saw on your wife and child. You’ll be able to see it all on the Internet a little later in the day. Technology is amazing, isn’t it? What a shame I don’t have time to tell you all the tale of the Spider and his Web.’
Jack stumbles around the car, pure rage and hate firing his determination.
‘Oh, and a few last rules. Leave your phone on; you know I’m going to want to talk to you. To make it a little more interesting, I should tell you there are booby traps in the house. I can trigger them from here, or you can trigger them, accidentally, from there. And finally, remember, if you don’t make it to the girl and kill her, I’ll blow you both up and then I’ll finish my business here. Is that clear?’
‘Yes. Yes, it’s clear,’ says Jack, spitting out the words.
‘Good,’ says Spider. ‘My mother always told me to take a ten count before doing anything really big. So, here we go. Ten!’
Jack frantically tries to work out the situation.
‘Nine.’
Ludmila may already be dead.
‘Eight.’
If she isn’t, BRK is hardly likely to let us both leave the house alive.
‘Seven.’
It’s possible that she isn’t even in there, and this is another one of his sick stunts.
‘Six.’
She may be in there, and the house may not be rigged with explosives; he might just be bluffing.
‘Five.’
The house may be rigged with explosives and he may blow the whole damn thing up as soon as I step inside.
‘Four.’
Will he really maim Zack? Is there any chance at all I can save my son from the agony and injuries that he says he’ll inflict?
‘Three.’
Whatever happens, he says he’s going to kill Nancy.
‘Two.’
My family is my world, my life, my everything.
‘One.’
Please God don’t let me fail them.
‘Zero.’
85
‘Howie! Howie! Give me your fuckin’ gun!’ shouts Jack.
The FBI man doesn’t question what’s happening, he unholsters his automatic and throws it to him.
Jack jams the pistol in his belt, sprints around the corner of the cul-de-sac and reaches the front of the house.
A big double garage at the end of the short drive faces him.
It’s undoubtedly locked.
That leaves a solid wooden front door and a bay window that may both be rigged to explode.
It has to be the window.
The curtains are drawn.
Drawn curtains can hide a nasty surprise.
Jack spins around and checks the garden.
Ornamental rocks around a flowerbed. They will do.
He picks the largest and shot-putts it through the lower pane of the window. He stands back.
Nothing.
The window frame and the floor behind it must be safe.
Jack tears off his jacket, wraps it around his right forearm and uses it to batter out enough glass to squeeze his body through.
If he’d had time, he would have cleaned away the glass and put his jacket down on the jagged edges while he climbs in.
But there is no time.
He hauls himself up and feels shards of glass spike into his hands and knees as he clambers through.
He beats off the curtain as it wraps itself around him but it clings tight and sends him tumbling clumsily to the floor.
By Jack’s reckoning he’s already lost a minute of the five he’s been given.
Two hundred and forty seconds left. That’s all.
The room he’s in is completely empty of furniture or carpeting. He runs across the wooden floor and pauses at the door.
It’s locked.
And Jack is sure it’s wired as well.
He stands back, releases the safety on Howie’s gun and empties a shot into each of the hinge areas.
Nothing happens.