The Horse at the Gates Read Online Free
Author: D C Alden
wall of black clouds as they headed towards them.
‘One minute,’ announced the pilot over the intercom, and Bryce began to relax a little as the aircraft dropped lower and the turbulence subsided. Chain-link fencing flashed beneath them, then a jumbled collection of flat rooftops. The nose of the helicopter tilted upwards as it flared for landing opposite a single-storey building, cloaked in darkness and fronted by a tarmac apron. Bryce glimpsed a solitary figure sheltering beneath the overhanging canopy, then he was lost in a storm of spray as the aircraft settled onto the tarmac. The bodyguards were already unbuckling their belts and Bryce saw the tension in their faces, glimpsed the ugly black weapons concealed beneath their raincoats. There was a pause as the rotors wound down and Bryce saw the figure by the building head towards the helicopter, body bent over, the umbrella held like a shield against the weather.
The bodyguards piled out of the helicopter and stood guard on either side of the door, their eyes probing the night, raincoats flapping in the wind. Cold air rushed in, snatching the warmth of the cabin away as the man with the umbrella waited by the open door. His thin face had a well-worn look about it, the eyes sunk deep into their sockets, dark hollows under the cheekbones. The corduroy collar of his Barbour was turned up around his ears and a fine sheen of raindrops clung to its waxy surface. He held the umbrella aloft, his hands wrapped in black leather gloves, his eyes squinting against the rain. He had to shout to make himself heard.
‘Welcome to Heathrow, Prime Minister. I’m Mike Davies, Chief of Operations.’ He nodded to Ella. ‘Miss Jackson. Follow me, please.’
Bryce stepped out of the aircraft. Silver sheets of rain swept across the tarmac, driven on by the relentless wind. He buttoned his coat to the neck and thrust his hands in his pockets, following Davies toward the unlit building, where they huddled beneath the canopy. Overhead, one of its metal panels had worked loose and was banging a demented tattoo in the wind. Davies held open a filthy glass door and gestured them all inside. Bryce stamped his wet shoes on the floor, the sound echoing around the darkness. Should’ve worn something a bit sturdier, he realised.
Davies stooped to pick up a large flashlight by the door and swept its powerful beam around the immediate area. Bryce saw they were in a small terminal building, quite obviously abandoned. The place was devoid of furniture, the floor a mixture of cracked tiles and threadbare carpet, the walls sporting chipped and discoloured patches of paintwork where a myriad of signage once hung. Most of the external windows were boarded up, the surrounding walls heavily stained by water damage, the wind squeezing through the inevitable gaps and moaning through the building. Overhead, rain hammered on the roof and buckets lay scattered around the floor, catching the leaks from above. The place was to all intents and purposes derelict, an unused concrete shell located at the far edge of what was once the world’s busiest airport.
‘This is Security Station Four. It used to be the old VIP terminal,’ explained Davies. ‘We’ve had one or two snoopers since we opened for business, but they never get further than the fences.’
Davies led them through the building, the sound of their footsteps competing with the wind, the cone of light bouncing in the darkness. They filed into a short corridor, at the end of which was a heavy-looking grey door emblazoned with a black stick figure being zapped by a large bolt of electricity. The words beneath read: Danger of Death – No Entry To Unauthorised Personnel.
Davies tapped the sign and smiled. ‘More subterfuge.’ He produced a swipe card and waved it against a section of the wall close by. The door clicked. Davies placed a hand on it and pushed.
‘Please follow me.’
‘Wait here,’ Bryce ordered the policemen. He ushered Ella
‘One minute,’ announced the pilot over the intercom, and Bryce began to relax a little as the aircraft dropped lower and the turbulence subsided. Chain-link fencing flashed beneath them, then a jumbled collection of flat rooftops. The nose of the helicopter tilted upwards as it flared for landing opposite a single-storey building, cloaked in darkness and fronted by a tarmac apron. Bryce glimpsed a solitary figure sheltering beneath the overhanging canopy, then he was lost in a storm of spray as the aircraft settled onto the tarmac. The bodyguards were already unbuckling their belts and Bryce saw the tension in their faces, glimpsed the ugly black weapons concealed beneath their raincoats. There was a pause as the rotors wound down and Bryce saw the figure by the building head towards the helicopter, body bent over, the umbrella held like a shield against the weather.
The bodyguards piled out of the helicopter and stood guard on either side of the door, their eyes probing the night, raincoats flapping in the wind. Cold air rushed in, snatching the warmth of the cabin away as the man with the umbrella waited by the open door. His thin face had a well-worn look about it, the eyes sunk deep into their sockets, dark hollows under the cheekbones. The corduroy collar of his Barbour was turned up around his ears and a fine sheen of raindrops clung to its waxy surface. He held the umbrella aloft, his hands wrapped in black leather gloves, his eyes squinting against the rain. He had to shout to make himself heard.
‘Welcome to Heathrow, Prime Minister. I’m Mike Davies, Chief of Operations.’ He nodded to Ella. ‘Miss Jackson. Follow me, please.’
Bryce stepped out of the aircraft. Silver sheets of rain swept across the tarmac, driven on by the relentless wind. He buttoned his coat to the neck and thrust his hands in his pockets, following Davies toward the unlit building, where they huddled beneath the canopy. Overhead, one of its metal panels had worked loose and was banging a demented tattoo in the wind. Davies held open a filthy glass door and gestured them all inside. Bryce stamped his wet shoes on the floor, the sound echoing around the darkness. Should’ve worn something a bit sturdier, he realised.
Davies stooped to pick up a large flashlight by the door and swept its powerful beam around the immediate area. Bryce saw they were in a small terminal building, quite obviously abandoned. The place was devoid of furniture, the floor a mixture of cracked tiles and threadbare carpet, the walls sporting chipped and discoloured patches of paintwork where a myriad of signage once hung. Most of the external windows were boarded up, the surrounding walls heavily stained by water damage, the wind squeezing through the inevitable gaps and moaning through the building. Overhead, rain hammered on the roof and buckets lay scattered around the floor, catching the leaks from above. The place was to all intents and purposes derelict, an unused concrete shell located at the far edge of what was once the world’s busiest airport.
‘This is Security Station Four. It used to be the old VIP terminal,’ explained Davies. ‘We’ve had one or two snoopers since we opened for business, but they never get further than the fences.’
Davies led them through the building, the sound of their footsteps competing with the wind, the cone of light bouncing in the darkness. They filed into a short corridor, at the end of which was a heavy-looking grey door emblazoned with a black stick figure being zapped by a large bolt of electricity. The words beneath read: Danger of Death – No Entry To Unauthorised Personnel.
Davies tapped the sign and smiled. ‘More subterfuge.’ He produced a swipe card and waved it against a section of the wall close by. The door clicked. Davies placed a hand on it and pushed.
‘Please follow me.’
‘Wait here,’ Bryce ordered the policemen. He ushered Ella
Readers choose
Kate Klimo
James Byron Huggins
Bruce Coville
Lily Harper Hart
Clint Adams
Nicole Peeler
Normandie Alleman
Rhonda Lee Carver
Dennis Wheatley