Private Games (Private 3)

‘You had no chance, Knight,’ he gloated, backing away and raising the mobile phone towards the sky again. ‘You were up against an infinitely superior being. You had no—’

Knight flung the Leatherman at Lancer.

It flew end over end before the narrow prongs of the pliers struck Lancer and pierced deep into his right eye.

Staggering backwards, still clutching the mobile, reaching futilely for the tool that had sealed his fate, Lancer let out a series of blood-curdling screams worthy of some mythical creature of doom, like Cronus after Zeus threw him deep into the darkest and deepest pit in Tartarus.

For a second, Knight feared Lancer would find his balance and manage to trigger the bomb.

But then thunder exploded directly over the Orbit, throwing a single white-hot jagged bolt that ignored the lightning rods fixed high above the observation deck and struck the butt end of the Leatherman tool protruding from Lancer’s eye, electrocuting the self-described instrument of the gods and hurling him back and over into the cauldron where he was engulfed and consumed by the roaring Olympic flame.

Epilogue

Monday, 13 August 2012

ON THE THIRD floor of St Thomas’s Hospital, sitting in a wheelchair, Knight smiled stiffly at the people gathered around the beds that held Luke and Isabel. While the effects of what turned out to be a concussion had mellowed to a dull thumping in his head, his broken and bruised ribs were killing him, making each breath feel like saws working in his chest.

But he was alive. His kids were alive. The Olympics had been saved and avenged by forces far beyond Knight’s understanding. And Inspector Elaine Pottersfield had just entered the room carrying two small chocolate cakes, each adorned with three lit birthday candles.

Never one to miss the chance to sing, Hooligan broke into ‘Happy Birthday’ and was joined by the twins’ nurses and doctors, and by Jack Morgan, Karen Pope, and Knight’s mother. Even Gary Boss, who’d arrived early to decorate the hospital room with bright balloons and bunting, joined in.

‘Close your eyes and make a wish,’ the twins’ aunt said.

‘Dream big!’ their grandmother cried.

Isabel and Luke closed their eyes for a second, and then opened them, took deep breaths and blew out every one of the candles. Everyone cheered and clapped. Pottersfield cut the cakes.

Ever the journalist, Pope asked, ‘What did you wish for?’

Knight’s son got annoyed. ‘Lukey not telling you. It’s secret.’

But Isabel looked at Pope matter-of-factly and said, ‘I wished we could have a new mummy.’

Her brother’s face clouded. ‘No fair. That’s what Lukey wished for.’

There were soothing sounds of sympathy all around and Knight felt his heart break once again.

His daughter was staring at him. ‘No more nannies, Daddy.’

‘No more nannies,’ he promised, glancing at his mother. ‘Right, Amanda?’

‘Only if they are under my direct and constant supervision,’ she said.

‘Or mine,’ Boss said.

Cake and ice cream were served. After several bites, Pope said, ‘You know what threw me about Lancer, kept me from ever considering him as a suspect?’

‘What’s that?’ Hooligan asked.

‘He had one of his Furies try to run him down on day one,’ she said. ‘Right?’

‘Definitely,’ Knight said. ‘I’ll bet he had that planned from the beginning. I just happened to be there.’

‘There was another clue if you think about it,’ Hooligan said. ‘Cronus never sent you a letter detailing the reasons why Lancer should die.’

‘I never thought of that,’ Knight said.

‘Neither did I,’ Jack said, getting up from his chair and dumping his paper plate into the wastebasket.