were tears in her eyes. ‘I live here, too, Rob.’
For now . The words almost slipped out, and thank God he managed to stop himself. But Wendy was glaring at him, her eyes narrow with suspicion.
‘Do you know who sent them?’
‘Of course not! How could I?’ He was genuinely offended by the question, and that acted to take the sting out of the conversation.
‘I don’t know.’ Restlessly, she thrust the note back at him. ‘We have to do something. They’re accusing us of killing him.’
Rob’s mind was in such turmoil that he could only mutter: ‘Who?’
‘The man on Sunday.’ She gave him a look. ‘Who else would it be?’
‘No, yeah, sorry.’ He scratched his head, then yawned. ‘Let’s go back to bed, talk about this in the morning.’
First he tapped a code into the alarm control, activating the room sensors. Even a false alarm would be better than getting caught unawares, he thought.
Not a word was spoken as he got into bed. Wendy immediately turned her back on him. Lying awake, Rob was conscious of the debilitating fear, slowly increasing its grip on his thought processes. If there was an enemy out there, then a Rob Turner at twenty, thirty – even at forty – would have liked his chances in a fair fight against anyone. But with fifty just around the corner, perhaps it was natural that he wouldn’t have the same level of confidence, or bravado.
As he lay there in the dark, he was forced to contemplate that his strength and courage might be ebbing away, leaving him ill-prepared to defend his family.
Fourteen
T he second challenge was more ambitious. It was outside, this time, at a location that offered no real cover. You were exposed to the risks of being seen, challenged, chased away.
You accepted those risks. By now you were committed. Devoted. Compelled to do whatever you were asked.
The tools required on this occasion were easy to source: a strong pair of gloves and a concrete paving slab, the latter favoured for its greater density over the original suggestion of a cement block.
You formed a plan. Roles were assigned, escape routes plotted and memorised.
The location was a busy stretch of motorway, close to Southampton. The precise site for the attack depended on a number of factors. First, there had to be a bridge crossing the motorway. The traffic volumes had to be high, but also moving fast: there was far less satisfaction to be gained from a bottleneck.
You had been instructed to produce a high-speed impact. Lots of noise and chaos.
You chose a late afternoon in winter. Fading light. Fast traffic. The rush hour.
You made the necessary calculations, carried out experiments, deployed a stopwatch and drew up plans.
Which I approved.
The vehicles below you were travelling at seventy, eighty miles per hour, some even faster than that. It came down to milliseconds, just as life, survival, so often does. A near miss or a tragedy: milliseconds.
The block almost landed on a windscreen, but the car seemed to veer slightly; perhaps the driver was spooked by a hint of movement on the bridge. The block glanced off the roof and ricocheted into another car, striking the side panels, shattering the windows and bursting into fragments. A noisy, fabulous detonation.
In truth, it was mostly harmless. But the shock of the impact had done its work, causing both of those first vehicles to lose control. One of them spun in the carriageway and came to rest sideways on to the approaching traffic. The other collided with the central reservation and formed a similar obstruction.
Two lanes out of three, blocked, impassable. In milliseconds.
There were fourteen cars, two vans and a truck involved in the crash. Nearly all contained just one person – an indictment of the wastefulness of modern travel. From this pile-up came eleven casualties: two serious injuries, including the loss of a limb, and five moderate injuries. A handful of the occupants made it out completely unscathed, even though the
For now . The words almost slipped out, and thank God he managed to stop himself. But Wendy was glaring at him, her eyes narrow with suspicion.
‘Do you know who sent them?’
‘Of course not! How could I?’ He was genuinely offended by the question, and that acted to take the sting out of the conversation.
‘I don’t know.’ Restlessly, she thrust the note back at him. ‘We have to do something. They’re accusing us of killing him.’
Rob’s mind was in such turmoil that he could only mutter: ‘Who?’
‘The man on Sunday.’ She gave him a look. ‘Who else would it be?’
‘No, yeah, sorry.’ He scratched his head, then yawned. ‘Let’s go back to bed, talk about this in the morning.’
First he tapped a code into the alarm control, activating the room sensors. Even a false alarm would be better than getting caught unawares, he thought.
Not a word was spoken as he got into bed. Wendy immediately turned her back on him. Lying awake, Rob was conscious of the debilitating fear, slowly increasing its grip on his thought processes. If there was an enemy out there, then a Rob Turner at twenty, thirty – even at forty – would have liked his chances in a fair fight against anyone. But with fifty just around the corner, perhaps it was natural that he wouldn’t have the same level of confidence, or bravado.
As he lay there in the dark, he was forced to contemplate that his strength and courage might be ebbing away, leaving him ill-prepared to defend his family.
Fourteen
T he second challenge was more ambitious. It was outside, this time, at a location that offered no real cover. You were exposed to the risks of being seen, challenged, chased away.
You accepted those risks. By now you were committed. Devoted. Compelled to do whatever you were asked.
The tools required on this occasion were easy to source: a strong pair of gloves and a concrete paving slab, the latter favoured for its greater density over the original suggestion of a cement block.
You formed a plan. Roles were assigned, escape routes plotted and memorised.
The location was a busy stretch of motorway, close to Southampton. The precise site for the attack depended on a number of factors. First, there had to be a bridge crossing the motorway. The traffic volumes had to be high, but also moving fast: there was far less satisfaction to be gained from a bottleneck.
You had been instructed to produce a high-speed impact. Lots of noise and chaos.
You chose a late afternoon in winter. Fading light. Fast traffic. The rush hour.
You made the necessary calculations, carried out experiments, deployed a stopwatch and drew up plans.
Which I approved.
The vehicles below you were travelling at seventy, eighty miles per hour, some even faster than that. It came down to milliseconds, just as life, survival, so often does. A near miss or a tragedy: milliseconds.
The block almost landed on a windscreen, but the car seemed to veer slightly; perhaps the driver was spooked by a hint of movement on the bridge. The block glanced off the roof and ricocheted into another car, striking the side panels, shattering the windows and bursting into fragments. A noisy, fabulous detonation.
In truth, it was mostly harmless. But the shock of the impact had done its work, causing both of those first vehicles to lose control. One of them spun in the carriageway and came to rest sideways on to the approaching traffic. The other collided with the central reservation and formed a similar obstruction.
Two lanes out of three, blocked, impassable. In milliseconds.
There were fourteen cars, two vans and a truck involved in the crash. Nearly all contained just one person – an indictment of the wastefulness of modern travel. From this pile-up came eleven casualties: two serious injuries, including the loss of a limb, and five moderate injuries. A handful of the occupants made it out completely unscathed, even though the
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