Dead Ball by Tom Palmer (best novels in english .TXT) 📗

Danny didn’t have time to worry about that. He wanted to see what McGee was up to. Was it related to last night? This had to be more than a stroll around Moscow. McGee was walking in a circle – not actually going anywhere. Danny ran over a large expanse of grass, close to the river. Then to the steps he’d seen McGee disappear down.

He turned a corner and headed down.

And that was when he saw Matt McGee grappling with another man on the steps. Danny’s finger hit the record button on his phone camera instinctively.

At first, Danny assumed McGee was being assaulted. He went down the steps and shouted, hoping that would stop whatever was happening. And he saw the other man stare up, distracted just like he wanted. But instead of the other man stopping what he was doing, maybe casting an angry glance at Danny, Danny saw a look of horror on his face.

Horror because he was falling.

Danny must have looked shocked too. Because he’d recognized the man McGee was fighting with. The falling man. It was Robert Skatie. England’s other keeper.

What the hell was going on?

Skatie fell backwards, twisting in the air. He landed about six steps down, first on his shoulder, then rolling on to his back. Danny watched his head jerk backwards as he hit the steps.

And then Danny saw McGee staring at him, waving his arms, beckoning Danny.

Danny shook his head and turned to run back up the steps to find the traffic policeman. It was all he could think to do. But when he started up the stairs he saw four men.

One was the Englishman who had been following him. And, although he looked different physically, Danny recognized who it was.

For a moment he was stunned. Faced with the man he least wanted to see in the world, the man who had sent him to die in the bowels of City Stadium.

Sir Richard Gawthorpe.

The other three were dressed in black. He remembered what Anton had called them. Tupolev’s private army.

‘Run.’

The voice had come from right next to him. From McGee. Snapping Danny out of his confusion.

‘Come on. Run!’

Danny felt McGee’s hand on him, yanking him down the stairs. It felt like McGee had lifted him to the bottom of the steps.

‘Go!’ McGee snapped.

Danny looked up at McGee. McGee’s face was crumpled.

But Danny couldn’t move. He was paralysed with fear.

‘GO!’ McGee shouted in Danny’s face, releasing him from his grip.

So Danny did. He had no option. He’d witnessed a fight between two of England’s finest goalkeepers. He’d seen a private army coming down the steps, possibly to get him. And he’d seen Sir Richard Gawthorpe. His nemesis.

That was what was making him run. Not knowing what the hell was going on.

But why had McGee let him go? Why hadn’t he stopped him?

Danny knew there was no point in trying to sort out his thoughts. Not while he was running like this, one foot banging painfully down on the concrete, followed by the other foot. He had to run. Find a safe place. Then he could think.

NOWHERE TO RUN

Danny ran for five minutes. Without stopping. Without looking back. It was the only way he could cope with the fear he was feeling. He ran until he reached another set of steps going up from the river to the city.

He knew he had to keep running. Run. Don’t look to see if they’re catching up with you.

He took three steps up at a time.

When he reached the top he had no choice but to stop for air. His chest felt like it was being gripped in a vice. He squatted and looked back down the way he’d come.

He expected to see no one. He expected to have outrun anyone who was coming after him. And, really, he thought, they had no reason to chase him anyway. He was just a boy. There were two England goalkeepers on the steps Danny had left. Why would they come after him?

He exhaled.

Then he saw two men. Both in black. Both coming round the bend in the river at full speed. Both looking straight at him.

Danny retched. He thought he was being sick, but it was just a nervous reaction. He stood up, knowing he didn’t have enough oxygen in his blood to really run. The staircase had shattered him.

But he had no choice.

He turned. What were his options?

He had only one. Cross the road. To the other side. To a big red ‘M’. A Metro station. The underground.

Danny could hear the men on the steps now. Their footsteps pounding.

He wanted to cry. He couldn’t go forward. The traffic was horrific. He couldn’t go backwards or sideways or stay where he was.

He racked his brain for something. Some novel where the character had escaped over six lanes of traffic. But that was ridiculous: he could remember no such scene. What did come into his mind was a computer game he’d played when he was a kid. A very little kid. Frogger. You had to move a frog across a stream, jumping him on to logs. Then get it across a road without it being flattened by articulated lorries. All you had to do was judge the gaps – and go for it.

So he did.

The first three lanes were OK. He found gaps quite easily.

It was the fourth lane that threw him. And the dozens of horns being sounded at him. This wasn’t rush-hour traffic going at ten miles an hour. This was high-speed traffic. And all of it switching lanes at random.

Danny had three lanes left to cross. But he was paralysed in the middle. He looked ahead. St Basil’s Cathedral. He longed to be able to walk up to it like he’d had the chance before. He looked back. There were the two men laughing. And pointing at him.

They think I’m dead, Danny thought. They think I can’t do this and a car’s going to run me over.

So Danny put his arms up. Like