and a violent wrench re the Matron's horrified eyes, and Slater was ting one of the chair's curved mahogany legs, of yellow damask trailed from the heavy less end.
'Phone,' he whispered, and slipped from the room, the corridor he stopped and listened again, all his racing. Jean Burney still lay unconscious by the s. From the furthest sick room came a broken, luring sound.
29
The Hit List
Slater kicked open the three doors, the chair-leg raised to fend off any attacker. In the first, he found only darkness and silence. In the second, gagged as Jean Burney had been but half-conscious, he discovered a boy he recognised as Christopher Boyd-Farquharson a dreamy fourteen-year-old excused from games on account of his asthma. The boy had received a nasty bang on the head, and judging from the confusion in his eyes was badly concussed, but - thank God appeared to be breathing more or less regularly. Cutting him free, whispering to him that on no account was he to leave the room, Slater hurried on.
Behind the third door he found Gary Ripley and an empty bed. Ripley, twisted beneath a grey school blanket, had been beaten badly; his face was bruised and lacerated and he was bleeding from one ear. His knuckles, Slater noticed, were also bleeding and there was blood beneath his fingernails. He had not gone down without a struggle.
'How many men?' Slater asked gently.
'Two.'
'They took Masoud?'
Ripley nodded, a movement that was clearly agonising. 'I did my best, sir,' he whispered. 'One had a gun.'
'Describe the gun, Gary.'
'Revolver . . . heavy revolver. Other had a knife.'
'And the men?'
'Two Arabs. In black. Beards . . .' Tears of pain and helplessness began to run down the boy's cheeks. 'My
30
Chris Ryan
stomach, sir. Could you
Slater pulled back the blanket. A black, inch-long lit gaped just below the boy's navel. Blood pulsed jm the wound. The sheets and the boy's cotton pyjamas were dark with it. Grabbing a towel from the andrail, Slater pressed it to the stab-wound. Ripley sped and his eyes rolled backwards. 'Gary, you've done well. You've done fucking well, low you've got to hang in there, understand?' 'I'll be OK, sir. You go on.'
But the voice was barely audible, and as Slater raised self from the bed the boy began to shake. Slater lew what was coming. He'd held men on the edge af death before, seen them move from this world into le waiting room of the next. Convulsing, Ripley lost Consciousness.
Mrs Mackay, her nightdress smeared with Jean Jurney's blood, stood in the doorway. Taking in the cene at a glance she moved swiftly to the bed and held i finger to Ripley's neck.
'I've rung an ambulance for Jean, but it's got to :>me from Reading. This boy's not going to last that ang.'
Slater pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled a
lumber on the pillow-case. 'Get back on the phone.
Tell whoever answers there's been a kidnapping and
abbing, that there are firearms involved, and that we
eed an emergency services helicopter immediately.
Say you're calling on behalf of Neil Slater from B
Squadron.'
31
The Hit List
Mrs Mackay looked at him uncertainly. 'What is this number?'
Slater picked up the chair-leg. 'It's the headquarters of the Special Air Service.'
'And you're . . .'
But Slater had already vanished.
Ignoring the lift, he ran headlong down the stairs to the bottom of the tower, then at full speed along the road fronting the main school buildings. The security team was based in a small ornamental lodge half-way up the drive - previously the domain of the estate's head gardener. During the day two men manned the main gates in a car, and at 7pm, when the main gates closed, the night team took over in the lodge, keeping watch over a bank of monitors.
To Slater's eye the system was all but useless, and he had told the headmaster as much within days of his arrival. Apart from loudly advertising its function, Slater had pointed out, the lodge was at least 200 yards from the main school buildings and
'Phone,' he whispered, and slipped from the room, the corridor he stopped and listened again, all his racing. Jean Burney still lay unconscious by the s. From the furthest sick room came a broken, luring sound.
29
The Hit List
Slater kicked open the three doors, the chair-leg raised to fend off any attacker. In the first, he found only darkness and silence. In the second, gagged as Jean Burney had been but half-conscious, he discovered a boy he recognised as Christopher Boyd-Farquharson a dreamy fourteen-year-old excused from games on account of his asthma. The boy had received a nasty bang on the head, and judging from the confusion in his eyes was badly concussed, but - thank God appeared to be breathing more or less regularly. Cutting him free, whispering to him that on no account was he to leave the room, Slater hurried on.
Behind the third door he found Gary Ripley and an empty bed. Ripley, twisted beneath a grey school blanket, had been beaten badly; his face was bruised and lacerated and he was bleeding from one ear. His knuckles, Slater noticed, were also bleeding and there was blood beneath his fingernails. He had not gone down without a struggle.
'How many men?' Slater asked gently.
'Two.'
'They took Masoud?'
Ripley nodded, a movement that was clearly agonising. 'I did my best, sir,' he whispered. 'One had a gun.'
'Describe the gun, Gary.'
'Revolver . . . heavy revolver. Other had a knife.'
'And the men?'
'Two Arabs. In black. Beards . . .' Tears of pain and helplessness began to run down the boy's cheeks. 'My
30
Chris Ryan
stomach, sir. Could you
Slater pulled back the blanket. A black, inch-long lit gaped just below the boy's navel. Blood pulsed jm the wound. The sheets and the boy's cotton pyjamas were dark with it. Grabbing a towel from the andrail, Slater pressed it to the stab-wound. Ripley sped and his eyes rolled backwards. 'Gary, you've done well. You've done fucking well, low you've got to hang in there, understand?' 'I'll be OK, sir. You go on.'
But the voice was barely audible, and as Slater raised self from the bed the boy began to shake. Slater lew what was coming. He'd held men on the edge af death before, seen them move from this world into le waiting room of the next. Convulsing, Ripley lost Consciousness.
Mrs Mackay, her nightdress smeared with Jean Jurney's blood, stood in the doorway. Taking in the cene at a glance she moved swiftly to the bed and held i finger to Ripley's neck.
'I've rung an ambulance for Jean, but it's got to :>me from Reading. This boy's not going to last that ang.'
Slater pulled a pen from his pocket and scribbled a
lumber on the pillow-case. 'Get back on the phone.
Tell whoever answers there's been a kidnapping and
abbing, that there are firearms involved, and that we
eed an emergency services helicopter immediately.
Say you're calling on behalf of Neil Slater from B
Squadron.'
31
The Hit List
Mrs Mackay looked at him uncertainly. 'What is this number?'
Slater picked up the chair-leg. 'It's the headquarters of the Special Air Service.'
'And you're . . .'
But Slater had already vanished.
Ignoring the lift, he ran headlong down the stairs to the bottom of the tower, then at full speed along the road fronting the main school buildings. The security team was based in a small ornamental lodge half-way up the drive - previously the domain of the estate's head gardener. During the day two men manned the main gates in a car, and at 7pm, when the main gates closed, the night team took over in the lodge, keeping watch over a bank of monitors.
To Slater's eye the system was all but useless, and he had told the headmaster as much within days of his arrival. Apart from loudly advertising its function, Slater had pointed out, the lodge was at least 200 yards from the main school buildings and
Similar Books
First to Jump
Jerome Preisler
Orchard Valley Grooms
Debbie Macomber
The Rebellion
Isobelle Carmody
Three Stories
J. D. Salinger
Traitor's Knot
Janny Wurts
Behind the Lines
W. F.; Morris
Cheerleading Can Be Murder (Horror High #1)
Carissa Ann Lynch
Your Band Sucks
Jon Fine
Prisoner
Megan Derr
Fear No Evil
Debbie Johnson