Ben looked out and saw the lights raking the trees and the surface of the lake. A helicopter was coming in to land close to Karswell Hall.

Chapter 64

Ben’s first thought was that it was a police chopper, reacting to an alert put out by the fleeing security men. If that was the case, then any second now the whole grounds would be swarming with rapid response vehicles and SWAT troops.

He raced to the bow windows and craned his neck up at the sky past the corner of the house, just in time to see the descending aircraft disappear behind the trees to the rear of the house. UK police helicopters were black and yellow. By the moonlight he could see that this one was red and white, making it a private aircraft.

And his next thought was Saunders.

‘Ben?’ Jeff said.

But Ben was already running for the door. Unlocking it and tearing it open. Wolf read the look on his face and said, ‘I’m coming too.’ Jeff was right behind them. The crowd of prisoners tried to surge towards the open door but Jeff slammed it in their faces and secured it shut, to the sound of muffled screams and heavy pounding from within.

Tuesday had left Reaper’s rifle propped against the wall outside the banquet room. Ben snatched it up as he ran, sprinted for the French windows of the members’ lounge and burst outside. The chopper was still on the ground, partially out of sight. The blast from its rotors was like a hurricane ripping through the treetops. The pilot keeping his turbine revving hard, in a hurry to take off again any moment. Which meant he was picking up passengers.

Ben jumped the body of a dead security guard and raced full pelt along the side of the house and across a stretch of moonlit lawn that sloped down towards the meadow where the chopper had made its landing. Veering a few degrees off course to give himself a line of sight around the edge of the treeline, he made out two figures hurrying towards the aircraft, bent low against its rotor blast. They were less than a hundred yards away and Ben could see them clearly. One was the figure of a very old man, hobbling on his feet, frail and stooped and carrying what looked like a cane. The other was a younger man, but no spring chicken either. He wasn’t tall, wasn’t short, wasn’t fat, wasn’t thin. The wind of the helicopter tore at the thick, unkempt grey hair that receded from his high forehead. The lights of the chopper reflected in his glasses.