Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page B

main station. Over.’
    ‘Roger that,’ said Brewer.
    Shepherd stepped off the escalator and hurried after Khalaf.
    The station concourse was busy. Dozens of travellers were standing around staring up at the electronic screens waiting for their platform numbers to be announced. Those lucky enough to know where their trains were hurried towards their platforms. Two British Transport Police officers were standing outside a coffee shop, deep in conversation.
    Shepherd looked around but couldn’t see the man who had been in the carriage with Khalaf. ‘I’ve got eyeball on Tango One but I’ve lost eyeball on Tango Two,’ said Shepherd.
    ‘Whisky One and Whisky Three are on the Tube heading north,’ said Brewer. ‘Whisky Two is coming your way in his taxi.’
    ‘I’m sticking with Tango One,’ said Shepherd.
    Khalaf was heading towards the podium in the middle of the station above which was the massive four-sided sign indicating the exits, platforms and toilets. When he reached it, Khalaf stopped and began to remove his backpack.
    ‘Jamie, he’s taking his bag off. I think it’s about to kick off.’
    ‘ARU is one minute away, and there’s another en route,’ said Brewer.
    ‘I can’t wait,’ said Shepherd, breaking into a run.
    ‘Be careful, Spider,’ said Brewer.
    Khalaf bent down and placed his bag on the floor and unzipped it.
    Shepherd ran behind a woman in a dark suit and realised too late that she was towing a wheeled cabin bag behind her. He swerved, clipped it with his left leg and stumbled, arms flailing, He managed to recover his balance but narrowly missed colliding with a pensioner with a walking stick who glared at him aggressively, even though he was in his eighties.
    Khalaf was tying something around his head. Shepherd sprinted again, his arms pumping like pistons.
    Khalaf straightened up. He’d tied a strip of white cloth around his head on which was Arabic writing in black. His eyes were wide and staring and he was muttering to himself. He looked as if he was high on something, amphetamines maybe, taken to give him the energy to do what he was about to do. In his right hand he was holding a machete, at least two feet long with a wooden handle and a strap that he’d wrapped around his wrist so that it wouldn’t slip from his grasp. In his left hand he had a combat knife, almost a foot long with a serrated edge on one side.
    Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as the adrenaline surge kicked through Shepherd’s system. Khalaf stood up and held his weapons high. No one was paying him any attention. Passengers were either concentrating on the announcement boards, fiddling with their smartphones or were too wrapped up in their own thoughts to be aware of what was going on right under their noses. Two businessmen in suits were so engrossed in their conversation that they walked within feet of Khalaf without noticing him.
    Shepherd was about fifty feet away from Khalaf when he threw back his head and screamed, ‘Allahu Akbar!’ at the top of his voice. There was an echo from the far left of the station, but Shepherd realised immediately it wasn’t an echo, it was Tango Two. And half a second later there was a third yell, then a fourth, and a fifth.
    The passengers nearest Khalaf began to scream and run like sheep suddenly startled by a snapping dog. He raised his machete and sliced at a man in a green anorak holding a tennis bag, catching him on the arm. Blood spurted and the man screamed. He tried to run but seemed to have lost all his coordination and his left leg collapsed and he fell. A woman let go of her suitcase and screamed. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide and staring. Khalaf turned to look at her and raised his machete again. The man on the ground was screaming in pain and clutching at his injured arm.
    The woman backed away, still screaming, and Khalaf took a step towards her. ‘Allahu Akbar!’ he yelled.
    He was side on to Shepherd. Shepherd sprinted