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Chapter Thirteen

Alex

Alex was woken in the early hours of the morning by the sound of helicopters circling overhead.

He felt stiff and cold – the hoodie hadn’t been thick enough to keep out the chill of the October night, even with the added layer of his tuxedo jacket beneath.

He glanced up, blearily, to see bright lights above.

Another helicopter was whirring in the distance, and he could see a third heading south.

He hunkered down under the table, keeping completely still, his heart pounding.

The helicopters surely belonged to Tyler and were out looking for him – why else would they be circling over the common?

As soon as he’d realised Alex was missing, Tyler must have mobilised his security teams; if anyone had the money and power to arrange for search helicopters in the middle of the night, it was George Tyler.

By now, he must know that Alex had taken a bus duck off the floating city, and there was probably also CCTV footage of him getting off at the Streatham terminal.

Tyler’s men would have easily seen through his disguise of a hoodie and scarf.

The helicopter’s blades were now whirring so loudly overhead that Alex wondered if he’d been seen. He braced himself for the possibility that it would land on the common and disgorge a team of guards to haul him back to Ghost Eye .

He realised that he’d been a complete idiot.

He shouldn’t have taken refuge here overnight; he should have put as much distance as possible between himself and Streatham.

He’d been stupid, and he deserved to be captured within a few ignominious hours of his escape.

How had they tracked him here? Was it possible his ID tag had a tracker in it?

Maybe an unsophisticated one, that gave a general location, rather than a specific one.

He’d never given that any thought – he’d just assumed the microchip was the only way Tyler had to keep tabs on him.

Alex immediately removed the ID tag and threw it into a nearby bush.

There was something symbolic about getting rid of it.

He’d already carved the microchip out of his flesh, and now he’d thrown away the other hated symbol of his servitude.

He was free, and he intended to stay that way.

He had to get his act together, stop being an idiot, and start thinking with his brain instead of his fear.

After a few minutes, the helicopter moved off towards some nearby houses.

As soon as it left, he slid out from under the picnic table and ran down the opposite side of the hill.

He passed a closed iron gate with a sign saying The Rookery , leading to an area of what looked like mainly tangled undergrowth, and paused.

The noise of the helicopter grew louder in the distance – this was no time for hesitation.

He quickly scrambled over the gate and ran into the dark bushes.

Then he threw himself down and wriggled as far as he could beneath the thicket.

There was no way he could be seen here. He wrapped his arms around his body and tried to work out a plan. Tyler’s men would surely also be combing the streets in AVs, but their search would be hampered by the dark. When morning came, it would be a different story.

What resources did Tyler have at his disposal?

Alex had been so focused on getting away that he hadn’t thought about what Tyler might do next.

Leaving aside Tyler’s very personal hatred of him, nobody paid a hundred and sixty million quid for an IS and then sat back and let him get away.

Tyler would throw everything he had at finding him and dragging him back.

His name and face were probably already all over the news by now; he’d be on every screen in the country by breakfast, and then what chance did he stand of avoiding capture for over a week?

He decided to go to West Wickham as soon as the helicopters went away.

He wouldn’t use public transport, both to avoid their internal CCTV and also because people sitting on buses and trains would have plenty of time to stare at him and wonder where they’d seen his face.

It made more sense to walk – people rarely looked at anyone walking along the street unless they were behaving suspiciously.

He’d keep his head down and hope nobody noticed him.

The helicopters continued circling all night.

Then, at around 4a.m., Alex heard voices.

Suddenly, two men with torches appeared, moving slowly through the Rookery gardens.

He froze into a tiny ball in the bushes, barely breathing.

The men came closer, and closer still, so near now that he could hear their muttered curses as they beat the undergrowth with sticks.

If they’d had dogs he’d have been caught, but they didn’t; maybe even George Tyler couldn’t summon search dogs in the middle of the night on short notice.

One of the sticks landed next to his shoe, but he remained frozen to the spot.

The beam of a torch passed a fraction to his right and then moved on down the hill.

There was no more searching. The helicopter hovered overhead for a long time and then whirred away.

He remained huddled in the bushes for the next hour, until finally he felt safe enough to move.

Slowly, he uncurled his aching body enough to peek out.

The gardens were eerily quiet, and there was no sign of his pursuers on the nearby street, either.

At first light, he scrambled out of the undergrowth and pulled himself over the railings, suddenly glad of Mason’s stringent exercise regime.

He clambered out just as two SUAVs drew up next to the café on top of the hill.

Several big men wearing the black Tyler livery and ID tags jumped out…

and with them were four large dogs. They disappeared into the Rookery gardens.

He ran off down the street as fast as he could.

As he pushed himself to get as far away from The Rookery as possible, every so often, a black SUAV with Tyler’s logo on the side came by.

He spent a couple of hours evading them by hiding out in people’s gardens and down alleyways.

Finally, Streatham started to stir, and the streets became busier, making him less conspicuous.

He found a busy main road and, wrapping his scarf tightly around his face, put his head down and began walking.

He pulled up a map on his nanopad and was relieved to find that West Wickham was only a few miles away.

He was soon lost in the Saturday morning swell of people out walking dogs and families going about their business.

He felt as if every person was looking at him, despite his best efforts to be inconspicuous, and jumped at every loud noise and speeding duck.

He wondered how people managed to stay sane during months on the run – he was a nervous wreck after just a few hours.

Just before noon, he stopped at a grungy-looking café and ordered a hot tea and full English breakfast. There was a screen in the corner, tuned to a news site; he watched it avidly for over an hour as he shovelled the food into his mouth, but there was nothing about him.

Yet his notoriety would surely make his escape headline news – it made no sense.

Why hadn’t Tyler alerted the police and hired a national investigation agency to find him? All the bounty hunters in the land would drop everything and head this way if Tyler offered a generous reward for his safe return – and yet Tyler had kept his escape secret. Why?

Could it be that the great George Tyler didn’t want the world knowing that he’d been outwitted by an indie?

Or… no, it had to be more than simply pride.

Was it because Tyler didn’t want the world knowing that Alex was his indie?

Possibly, although enough people had now seen him wearing a Tyler ID tag that it was surely only a matter of time before it leaked out anyway.

Maybe it was more pragmatic than that. Maybe it was because if the spotlight was turned on Tyler’s treatment of his indentured servants, then all kinds of unpleasant facts might come out.

He might have a lot of blackmail material on a lot of different people, but he didn’t control every single person in the land.

Martin Bagshaw must have a boss… and once people started asking awkward questions, it could escalate.

Surely the last thing Tyler wanted was anyone digging around in his setup, considering what it was built on. That had to explain it.

Besides, Tyler didn’t need investigation agencies and bounty hunters to recover one scared IS: he had his own people for that.

Tyler knew he’d made a run for it, but he didn’t know he had the nanopad, cash cards, and the fact he’d been able to contact a rescue organisation.

Tyler probably calculated that it would be easy to find his escaped IS before too long, without anyone knowing he’d been missing in the first place.

Alex was determined to prove him wrong. He might not be a match for George Tyler’s wealth and cunning, but he was smart.

Tyler would be expecting him to make for the coast or an airport, not to hang around in this area for very long.

All Alex had to do was get to West Wickham and then lie low for ten days. He could do that.

He left the café and continued walking. It didn’t take him long to reach his destination. He scoped it out for a few hours, then went to a nearby park and sat on a bench until darkness fell, when he crawled into the undergrowth to sleep.