Three. Jude

My wig "was blond and long, down past my shoulders. Morgan had on glasses with black frames. I took the sunglasses and put them on, then pushed them up onto the top of my head until if and when needed. We changed out of our usual uniform of jeans and shirts and I now had on a cheap but effective dark-blue suit. Morgan wore dark grey trousers, a dark blue shirt and a long raincoat. Our old clothes were packed up in one of the medium-sized suitcases by the door. I didn't have time to check out the other suitcase.

'Tie your hair back in a pony-tail,' Dylan told me, handing me an elastic band.

Biting my tongue, I did as he said.

'I'd better take back the IDs,' said Dylan.

Morgan gave his back immediately. I was more reluctant.

'Each of you take a suitcase and walk behind me. Neither of you is to speak without looking at me for permission first. Is that clear?' asked Dylan.

Morgan nodded, already acquiescent. Subservience didn't come so easily to me. I was used to giving orders, not taking them. And as for doing what a dagger told me to, that stuck in my craw.

'You want to live, you'll do what 1 say,' Dylan said directly to me. 'You lose sight of the fact that I'm here to help you and we're all dead.'

'OK. Fine,' I spat out. 'Let's do this. But Dylan, you try to betray us, and you won't live to regret it.'

'Why would I betray you?' Dylan asked.

I didn't answer.

'Oh, I see. If I could work against my own kind then I can't be trusted by anyone – is that it?'

Jude's rule number two: Never trust a Cross. Ever.

'I suppose it doesn't occur to you that I can think the system just as unjust as you do,' Dylan continued.

'Is the system a bit unfair?' I mocked. 'You see that then, do you? How's the view from your warm, comfortable position on the inside?'

'I hate to interrupt the philosophical debate, but can we get the hell out of here?' Morgan hissed.

Dylan and I glared at each other. But each of us backed off – for now. Dylan looked at each of us critically.

'Morgan, take that suitcase. Jude, take the other one. We've got one shot at this, so no foul-ups.'

Dylan went to the door first. He took a deep breath, then opened it. He sauntered out of the room and headed for the one lift in the middle of the corridor, with Morgan and me only a couple of steps behind him. As he pressed the button to call the lift, he began to whistle tunelessly to himself. I'll say one thing for him, he faked nonchalance really well. The lift arrived after a few seconds. We all stepped in. Dylan pressed the button for the basement, which led straight out to the small car park at the back of the hotel.

As the lift sped downwards, my heart began to beat a little louder, a little faster. My free hand snaked into my jacket pocket, reassured by the feel of my automatic gun inside. My gun had fourteen bullets in the magazine and one in the chamber and I had four loaded clips on me, one in each sock, one in my other jacket pocket and one tucked into my belt at the back. Meggie McGregor didn't raise any stupid children – just damned unlucky ones.

'Take your hands out of your pockets,' Dylan told me without turning his head.

I reluctantly did as I was told. The lift opened. We walked through the hotel delivery and storage area. On one side of us were metal and wooden crates and boxes, some stacked on top of each other. On the other side were laundry bins full of dirty sheets and towels and wooden boxes, some filled with eggs and others with row upon row of sausages, covered only with cellophane. A mixture of smells assaulted my nose, most of them unpleasant. We made our way across the room to the double doors on the other side. Dylan pushed against one of the doors which led out to the car park. We walked out after Dylan, with no idea what we were getting ourselves into. A familiar feeling crept over me. A sense of suppressed panic and misplaced excitement. My adrenaline was definitely pumping. I decided that now was a good time to don my sunglasses. I pushed them down from the top of my head to cover my eyes.

'Excuse me, sir.' An armed dagger cop immediately came running up to us. Another one stood his ground, just a few metres behind him, his gun already in his hand.

Only by a supreme act of will did I stop my hand from flying into my jacket pocket.

'Yes, officer?' Dylan stepped in front of me and Morgan. 'Can I help you?'

'We're looking for two nought terrorists who're believed to be staying at this hotel,' said the officer. 'Have you seen anyone suspicious in the hotel?'

'Good God – no!' Dylan replied, shocked.

What acting! Next stop – the Academy awards.

The officer side-stepped Dylan to look directly at Morgan and me, then down at the sheet he had in his hand. Even from where I was standing, I could see a photo of both Morgan and myself. Suddenly our disguises seemed anorexic to say the least. There was no doubt about it – Morgan and I had been set up. I'd thought we were being let back into the Liberation Militia. Big mistake. Andrew Dorn was just letting the Cross authorities do his dirty work for him.

Dylan looked around, alarmed. 'You don't think the terrorists are in this car park, do you?'

'No sir, at least. . .' The officer scrutinized us like we'd just run over his dog or something.

'And you are . . ?' he asked me directly.

I remembered my part and looked at Dylan as if for guidance.

'This is Ben, my chauffeur, and that's John Halliwell, my secretary,' Dylan said. 'These two I can vouch for.'

'I see,' said the officer. He turned back to me. 'Can I see your ID card please? Yours as well,' he said to Morgan.

'When they're with me, I keep their ID cards, officer,' said Dylan.

'Why?' the cop asked, with a curiosity that verged on suspicion.

I held my breath.

'It's been my experience that if you grab a blanker by his ID card, his heart and mind will surely follow,' smiled Dylan. 'I'm not taking any chances on my nought staff skipping out on me with my car or my important documents. You understand?'

'I see.' The officer returned the smile as Dylan dipped his hand into his jacket pocket for our cards.

He handed them over to the cop, who looked at them, then handed them back.

'OK, officer?' asked Dylan.

'Yes. One last question. Why d'you have two suitcases?'

Nosy bugger. This cop would find curiosity killed more than the cat if he didn't let up.

'I've been away on business – at least that's what my wife thinks,' winked Dylan.

'I see. And if I asked to look in your suitcases, you'd be fine with that?'

'Of course – if you're really that keen to see my dirty laundry. John, open my suitcase please.'

Morgan unzipped the suitcase and threw open the lid, all without saying a single word. It was full of socks, shirts, trousers and underpants. A couple of financial magazines sat in one corner and a fat crime thriller book sat in another.

'Ben, open the other case.'

I bent down and slowly began to unzip it. My suitcase contained Morgan's and my original clothes.

'That's OK, sir,' said the cop. 'You can go.'

I zipped up the case, just as slowly. No haste, no speed, no suspicion.

'So you're on your way home, sir?' asked the cop.

'Yes, officer. Arriving without my secretary and chauffeur might get me into trouble. And these blankers know how to keep their mouths shut.'

'That makes a change.'

Dylan laughed at the funny, funny joke and the dagger cop joined in.

'Thank you, officer,' Dylan smiled, one Cross to another. Perfect understanding and, of course, much too subtle for us lowly blankers.

Dylan made his unhurried way to the mid-sized, black luxury car closest to the road. He took out his car key and pressed the button on the key to open the doors. Then he threw the key at me and waited, looking pointedly at me.

What the hell is he looking at me like that for? I wondered.

And then it hit me. Biting down hard on the intense antagonism I felt, I opened the back door of the car for him. He slid in like it was only natural. Taking the suitcase from Morgan, I deposited the luggage in the boot. It took all my self-control not to turn round and look at the cops behind me. What were they doing? Watching me? Could they smell the adrenaline pumping through my body? Could they hear my heart thumping like a relentless boxer? Or had they already left to help their colleagues search the hotel? I got behind the wheel of the car. Morgan sat next to me. I started the engine and we were away.

'Drive like you haven't got a damned place to go,' Dylan hissed at me.

And that's what I did. I drove like I had nowhere else to go – which was easy, because it was true.