This American had no idea what it was like on London’s streets. You didn’t stay around and wait for trouble, and you certainly didn’t go find it.
He spotted the red, white, and blue symbol for an Underground station, but since he did not have a travel card or money, and there was no time to steal anything, that escape route would do them little good. He actually liked the fact that Gary Malone seemed lost. The cockiness he’d seen in the Atlanta airport, when Gary tackled him during his own escape attempt, had vanished.
This was his world.
Where he knew the rules.
So he led the way as they ran off.
Ahead he spotted the backwater basin of Little Venice with its fleet of stumpy boats and array of trendy shops. Modern apartment buildings loomed to the left. Traffic encircling the brown-gray pool was moderate, given it was approaching 7:00 PM on a Friday. Most of the stores bordering the street were still open. Several owners were tending moored boats, rinsing off the sides and shining the lacquered exteriors. One was singing as he worked. Strings of lights decorated the basin above him.
Ian decided that would be his opportunity.
He trotted to the stairs and descended from street level to the basin’s edge. The husky man was busily cleaning a teakwood hull. His boat, like all the others, was shaped like a bulging cigar.
“You going toward the zoo?” he asked.
The man stopped his dousing. “Not at the moment. Maybe later. Why do you ask?”
“Thought we’d hitch a lift.”
The boat people were known for their friendliness, and it wasn’t uncommon for tourists or strangers to be given rides. Two of the water buses that made a living hauling passengers were moored nearby, their cabins empty, the busy weekend coming tomorrow. He tried to appear as this man was surely perceiving him—a young boy itching for some adventure.
“Getting ready for the weekend?” he asked.
The man drenched his scalp with the hose and slicked back his black hair. “I’m readying to leave for the weekend. People will be everywhere here. Too crowded for me. Thought I’d head east, down the Thames.”
The idea sounded appealing. “Need some company?”
“We can’t leave,” Gary whispered.
But Ian ignored him.
The man gave him a quizzical look. “What’s the problem, son? You two in trouble? Where are your parents?”
Too many questions. “No bother. Don’t worry about it. Just thought it would be fun to take a sail.”
He glanced up to street level.
“You seem awful anxious. Got somewhere to be?”
He wasn’t answering any more questions. “See you around.”
He started for the towpath that paralleled the canal.
“Why aren’t you two home?” the man called out as they hustled away.
“Don’t look back,” he muttered.
They kept following the gravelly path.
Off to his right, and above, he spotted a blue Mercedes turn onto the encircling avenue. He hoped it wasn’t the same car, but when Norse climbed out he realized they were in trouble. Their position below the street and by the canal was not good. Escape options were limited to front and back since water flowed to their right and a stone wall rose to their left.
He saw that Gary realized their predicament, too.
All they could do was run down the towpath and follow the canal, but Norse and Devene would certainly catch them. He knew that once they left the basin it would be nearly impossible to escape the canal’s steep banks, as property fronting the waterway was fenced. So he rushed toward a set of stairs and leaped up the stone steps two at a time. At the top he turned right and dashed across an iron bridge that arched over the canal. The span was narrow, pedestrian only, and empty. Halfway toward the other side the Mercedes wheeled up and screeched to a halt. Devene climbed out and started toward the bridge.
He and Gary turned to flee the way they’d come and were met by Norse, who stood ten meters away.
Their pursuers seemed to have anticipated their move.
“Let’s stop this foolishness,” Norse said. “You know what I want. Just give me the drive.”
“I threw it away.”
“Give it to me. Don’t piss me off.”
“Where’s my dad?” Gary asked.
Ian liked the distraction. “Where is his dad?”
“That Yank’s not your problem. We’re your problem.”
Norse and Devene were creeping toward them. The bridge was only two people wide and both ends were now blocked.
His pursuers were less than ten meters away.
To his left he caught sight of the beefy man with black hair motoring his boat away from its moor. Apparently he was heading for the Thames early. The boat’s bow swung left, straight toward the bridge. He needed to buy a few moments so he thrust his right hand into his jacket and lunged toward the iron rail.
He quickly withdrew his hand and plunged it over the side. “Not a step closer or what you want goes into the water.”
Both men stopped their advance.
Norse raised his hands in mock surrender. “Now, there’s no need for that. Give it to us and we’ll be done with you.”
He silently breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, neither man had seen that his closed fist contained nothing. He kept his arm pushed below the railing where the angle did not allow Norse or Devene to discover his ruse.
“How about fifty pounds,” Norse said. “Fifty pounds for the drive and you can go away.”
The chug from the boat’s motor drew closer and the bow disappeared on the far side of the bridge.
This was going to be close.
“Make it a hundred,” he said.
Norse reached into his pocket.
“Jump over the side,” he whispered to Gary. “Onto the boat that’s coming.”
A wad of money appeared in Norse’s hand.
“Do it,” he breathed.