BooksBarbecue
Back Outbreak
Chapters (124)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Acclaim for Frank Gardner’s Luke Carlton thrillers
  4. Also by Frank Gardner
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. 85
  92. 86
  93. 87
  94. 88
  95. 89
  96. 90
  97. 91
  98. 92
  99. 93
  100. 94
  101. 95
  102. 96
  103. 97
  104. 98
  105. 99
  106. 100
  107. 101
  108. 102
  109. 103
  110. 104
  111. 105
  112. 106
  113. 107
  114. 108
  115. 109
  116. 110
  117. 111
  118. 112
  119. 113
  120. 114
  121. 115
  122. Epilogue
  123. Acknowledgements
  124. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

Luke was well aware that he was still wearing his heavy Kevlar vest and ballistic helmet. He was never going to squeeze through the gap with those on, so he peeled them both off and dumped them at his feet. Through the gap in the fence, out the other side, and the only sound was the soft ripping of his jacket as it caught on a jagged piece of metal. He found himself standing on an empty stretch of concrete, not a platform exactly, more an abandoned siding. A sudden gust of wind sent an empty Coke can rolling noisily towards him, coming to rest against his feet. Was Squires hiding down here among the deserted railway tracks? Or was he making a run for it? Squires was certainly no athlete so, no, Luke was sure of it, he would have gone into hiding, somewhere close. Hell, he might even be watching him right at this moment.

Luke raised his eyes beyond the nearest platform. A blue sign read ‘Welcome to London’s King’s Cross’. A train sat silent and brooding on the other side and he could just make out the words on its silver-grey livery: ‘East Coast’. Beyond that, the great curved awning of the station and then a sprawl of ugly urban development reaching up into the pink night sky. Out of the corner of his eye Luke caught movement. He turned slowly. And exhaled. Just a rat.

He looked towards the train. It was the only available cover. Squires wouldn’t have headed there, would he? The thought of the pampered, privileged investment banker crouching amid the grime and spilled oil of a railway siding seemed utterly absurd. But then nothing about WaffenKrieg90 and its repugnant followers had made sense. And if Squires had fled to this railway yard there was simply nowhere else for him to hide.

Luke crept forward on silent footsteps, reaching the edge of the concrete siding and gingerly lowering himself over it, making barely a sound as his feet touched the stony aggregate. Speed had given way to stealth. He listened again for any movement. From behind him, in York Way, the siren of an approaching ambulance. A grisly reminder of what had happened to Inspector Newbold, felled by that high-velocity bullet. Her wound wasn’t fatal, but a few millimetres to one side and it would have been very different.

Treading carefully, Luke reached the first carriage. Squires, if he had come this way, must have followed the same route. It was too late to think about back-up: there was no time for that. If he stopped now, Squires would be gone before they got here, out of sight and then out of the country, with all that money in the bank and all that blood on his hands.