The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(55)

She jumped on the leather seat, glad she’d worn trousers, and put on the helmet and goggles. “Come on,” she said, using a kick start to ignite the engine. Mark nicked a helmet and goggles from another motorbike and climbed on behind her, grabbing her around the waist. She revved up the motorbike, then—with the headlight’s blackout slats on—made for the exit to the road.

The four guards didn’t see the motorbike in the darkness, but they did hear the roar of its engine. It was boring work, being a guard, and the night shifts were long. Usually, they passed bottles of hard cider back and forth, and smoked cigarette after cigarette.

Which was why Maggie on her motorcycle had already broken through the wooden security gate before they could react. “Bloody hell!” said the first guard, drunk and rubbing his eyes in disbelief. But the other three were already running to their own cycles. “Hurry! After him!”

The guard left behind pressed the alarm button, and a wail of low sirens pierced the darkness.


Maggie didn’t hear them—the rush of wind in her ears was too strong. She knew they were carrying information of great importance. Lives were at stake. Sarah’s life was at stake.

She opened the throttle full and adjusted the rearview mirror. Sure enough, in the distance she saw bright yellow pinpricks of light. Headlights.

She revved the engine. A narrow dirt path headed off from the main road, and she swung right to follow it. She knew it, having made her trainees run it often.

The path was narrow and full of stones, but she’d run it on foot enough times to be able to navigate it even in the darkness. Maggie clenched her teeth as her bike bobbed and weaved around the larger of the stones. Behind her, Mark tightened his grip.

The pinpricks of lights followed them. Damn, she thought, wondering how much of a lead she had, and how long she could hold on to it. She decided to take a risk. She hit the accelerator, rocks be damned.

It was a good thing she did.

If she’d been going any slower, she wouldn’t have made the jump over the ravine. The incline leading up to it served as a ramp, and the motorcycle was already airborne before she knew what was happening.

One exhilarating moment of flight and freedom as the motorbike soared.

When Maggie hit the ground on the opposite side, her front wheel made contact first, out of alignment with the back wheel. The bike swerved and tipped over, hurling her into the dirt. Gasping for air, she spit dirt out of her mouth and tried to move. Although everything hurt, nothing was broken. Her nose was bleeding.

“You all right?” she managed to say to Mark. She rubbed blood from her nose.

“Oh just ducky,” he panted, spitting out blades of grass. “Right as rain.”

“As my instructor Mr. Burns used to say, ‘Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing.’ ”

Then she saw the headlights in the woods behind them. Their pursuers were coming, fast.

She and Mark grabbed the bike and dragged it behind some bushes, then hid behind a tree to watch.

The guards were not so lucky.

The first biker didn’t make it across the gully—he hit the dirt-and-stone wall opposite. Bike and rider fell, bursting into orange flames at the bottom.

The two other riders, seeing what happened, pulled up short on the opposite side. “Bloody hell!” one exclaimed, getting off the bike and running to the ravine, seeing the dancing flames and smelling the burning petrol.

“He’s dead,” said the other.

“Is the other driver dead, too, then?”

The first driver listened, then shrugged. “Probably. I don’t hear a motor. But we’ll have to see in the morning. If he’s not dead, he won’t get far.”

That, Maggie thought, wiping more blood from her nose with filthy and scraped hands, is what you think.

Her mouth was parched. Her stomach was growling, too. She knew she could last without food, but she couldn’t keep up this breakneck pace without drinking something soon. Still, she didn’t want to stop. She had to get back to Edinburgh. Surely what they had found would help Sarah and find the murderer.

She was thirsty, bleeding, dirty, and tired. She stank of fear and desperation. Another man had just died—a Brit—one of their own. One who was working on biochemical weapons, she reminded herself. She would not cry, she would not—there would be plenty of time for a cry later.

To their right, through the evergreens, she knew there was a small pond. She led Mark to it, through cool pine-scented air. At the water’s edge, they both dropped to their knees and drank as long as they dared.

The icy water tasted of dead leaves, but she didn’t care.

She dropped back on the stones, panting, looking up at the dark sky encrusted with stars. “So, Miss Hope—this is winging it?” Mark dropped down beside her.