Knife Edge Read Online Free Page B

Patricia Courtney,' the woman told him. 'We're with an outside broadcast unit from Thames Television and…'
        Doyle nodded, ran appraising eyes over her.
        About five four, auburn haired. Pretty.
        'Are you involved in this?' she asked him, nodding towards number ten.
        'You could say that. How the hell did you find out about it?' the counter terrorist enquired.
        'We have our sources,' she smiled.
        It was a warm smile.
        Doyle didn't return the gesture.
        'You can't film here.'
        'Who says we can't?' the cameraman demanded.
        'I just fucking told you, didn't I?' Doyle hissed.
        'You still haven't told us who you are,' Patricia insisted.
        'I'm the bloke who's stopping you filming.'
        'Can you show us some ID?' she persisted. 'You could be anyone.'
        Doyle slid the Beretta from its holster and aimed it at the reporter, who gasped and took a couple of steps back.
        'That's my fucking ID,' Doyle rasped. 'Now piss off.'
        'I want to speak to someone in charge of this operation, I have a right-' Patricia began.
        Doyle cut her short. 'You've got no rights here, now fuck off before I get mad.'
        'I could have you reported,' she said challeng-ingly.
        'Try it.'
        'Look, mate, we don't want any trouble, we're just trying to do our jobs,' said the man in the wax jacket, trying to inject a note of calm into the proceedings.
        'Then do them somewhere else. And I'm not your fucking mate.'
        'Just one quick shot of the house, that's all we want,' Patricia said, her eyes flicking nervously towards the automatic.
        'Forget it,' Doyle instructed, holstering the pistol.
        'Are you in charge here?' the cameraman said. 'Because if you're not, then I want to speak to your superiors, I-'
        Doyle grabbed the man with one hand, gripping his jacket, pulling him close. Their foreheads were almost touching.
        'Have you ever tried to eat one of these fucking cameras?' he asked, his eyes narrowed.
        The cameraman tried to pull away but Doyle kept a firm grip on him.
        'If you don't get out of here,' he continued, 'I'm going to stick this camera so far down your throat you'll be able to photograph your fucking breakfast. Got it?'
        He pushed the man away, watching as he sprawled against one of the other parked cars.
        'You're a real hard nut, aren't you?' wax jacket said, helping up his colleague.
        'Do you want some too?' Doyle snarled, glaring at him.
        The man didn't answer.
        'We're just trying to do our jobs,' the reporter told him.
        'You've told me that once. Just piss off. Go and make something up, that's what you bastards usually do, isn't it, if you can't get the story you want? Go on. Crawl back under your stone.' Doyle stood staring at the woman for interminable seconds.
        'You haven't heard the last of this,' the cameraman said defiantly, making sure he was several steps away from the counter terrorist.
        'I'm shitting myself,' Doyle said sardonically. He dug in his pocket for the Marlboros and stuck one between his lips.
        'We won't be the only ones, you know,' Patricia told him. 'This place will be swarming with media inside an hour. You won't be able to keep all of them away.'
        'In an hour it won't matter,' Doyle said cryptically.
        'This is a big story,' she told him. 'You can't hide it. The public have a right to know what's going on here…'
        'If you've finished your speeches why don't you get back in your van and fuck off,' said Doyle, tugging open the door of his car. 'And I'll tell you something else, if you come back here, you'd better hope I don't see you.'
        They turned and headed back towards the van, the reporter shooting him one last venomous glance.
        'Nice talking to you,' Doyle said smiling. Then, under his breath,