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The stage was dark except for Truitt. Then a spotlight appeared on Elton John sitting at an elevated piano. Still dressed in the yellow jumpsuit, his head was covered with a British army Kevlar field helmet.
The introduction music for the song “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” started to play. A second later, John began to sing.
Truitt walked off-stage and approached the MI5 agent.
“He’s headed this way on a motorcycle,” the agent said.
“I’m going into the crowd,” Truitt said.
THE URAL RACED past Nelson’s Column with Cabrillo and the Vincent Black Shadow hot on its heels. Cabrillo wanted to open his coat so he could get to his shoulder holster, but he couldn’t take his hands off the handlebars to get at the weapon. Twisting the throttle, the Vincent shot ahead and came abreast of the Ural just as they passed Charing Cross. Huxley and Jones ran into the street and tried to line up shots as the two motorcycles passed, but Cabrillo was too close and the crowds too great.
At the intersection of the Strand and Cockspur Street, Cabrillo pulled up next to the Ural and kicked at Amad with his boot. The Yemeni swerved but retained control.
“They’re going straight down the Mall,” Jones shouted over the radio.
Kasim and Ross started running down Queen’s Walk toward the concert.
Murphy could become excitable, but with a sniper rifle in his hands he was always quite calm. Lincoln was spotting for him and scanned the parks in front. “The only clear shot through the trees is when they almost reach the Queen Victoria Memorial,” Lincoln said.
“The street around the memorial runs clockwise, right?” Murphy said.
“Correct,” Lincoln said.
“I’ll plink the bastard as he slows for the turn—JFK style,” Murphy said.
“I’ve got them,” Lincoln said, just catching the front end of the motorcycles.
ADAMS MADE A left turn above the Old Admiralty Buildings and started down the Mall to the rear of the racing motorcycles.
“Head and shoulders,” King said through the headset.
“Shampoo?” Adams said.
“No,” King said, “where I’m going to shoot this little shit.”
He sighted in his scope and regulated his breathing. The cold wind through the open door of the helicopter was making his eyes tear, but King hardly noticed it at all.
CABRILLO GLANCED AHEAD. There was a line of food vendors and booths ahead lining the circular drive where the Queen Victoria Memorial sat. They were nearing the edge of the concert grounds. He pulled alongside in preparation to leap over to the Ural.
“FOUR, THREE, TWO, one,” Lincoln said.
Murphy squeezed off a round at the same time King let loose a quick volley from the helicopter. Amad was almost to the circle when blood burst from his head, chest and shoulders. He was dead a second later, almost exactly the same time Cabrillo jumped from the Vincent across to the Ural. His hands grabbed a lifeless corpse.
The Vincent hit the pavement in a shower of sparks and rolled end over end before stopping. Cabrillo tossed Amad to the ground; he bounced across the pavement like a crash dummy dropped off a table. Reaching for the clutch, he took the Ural out of gear and applied the brakes. The motorcycle rolled to a stop near the line of vendors.
Cabrillo looked over at the timer. The countdown had just passed two minutes. He only hoped it was regular time and not metric time.
Truitt had made all of twenty yards into the crowd when he realized the mask had to go. As Prince Charles, everyone wanted to touch him—once he’d peeled the mask off, people backed away.
“Mr. Cabrillo has control of the bomb at the Queen Victoria Memorial,” Lincoln reported over the radio.
Whooping sounds filled the air as the MI5 teams in the decoy cars attached their portable lights and sirens and raced toward the memorial. Blockers moved into place to stop traffic and an air-raid siren started to blare. Truitt ran across the road to Cabrillo just as he was snipping the wire.
“She’s still active,” Cabrillo shouted as soon as he saw Truitt.
Truitt glanced up quickly. There was a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream truck alongside the road. He ran over and opened the rear door. The attendant started to say something but in a second Truitt was in the rear. Grabbing a block of dry ice in his gloved hands, he ran back across the str
eet to where Cabrillo was rapidly taking apart the nose cone with a pair of Leatherman pliers.
