Free Strike Back by Chris Ryan

with slate floors, and a bank of glass at the front. Marble-clad walls led up to a bank of elevators. Along one side there was a reception desk with three uniformed guards sitting at it. At the other, there was a pair of black leather sofas, and a collection of the day’s papers spread out on a coffee table. All of them, Porter noticed, had pictures of Katie Dartmouth on them. ‘ BRING OUR BOYS HOME TODAY ’ said huge letters across the front page of the
Independent
. ‘ SAVE HER ’ said the
Mirror
.
    Porter walked steadily up to the desk. A thickset man inhis forties looked straight at him, his expression as welcoming as a chunk of granite.
    ‘I know how to get Katie Dartmouth out,’ said Porter.
    Even as he delivered the sentence, Porter knew how ridiculous he sounded. If it wasn’t for the fact he knew it was true, he’d be laughing at himself.
    The receptionist looked at him, taking half a second to make a judgement, and then reached underneath his desk to press a button. Even though he was trained to remain impassive, Porter could tell he had already reached his own verdict. He thinks I’m a nutter. Who know, maybe he’s right?
    Five armed officers appeared from the door that led away from the elevators. They walked quickly across the slate floor. Not running, but moving with purpose. A few people were coming through the entrance doors, heading towards the lifts to get to their desks, but they simply made way for the armed men, paying them no attention. ‘We’ll have to ask you to leave, sir,’ said the first officer, standing in front of Porter.
    He glanced at the man’s face. It was expressionless, like rock. He was wearing no uniform but he didn’t need to. There was an MP-5 assault rifle strapped to his chest, and that gave him all the authority he needed.
    Porter looked straight into his steely blue eyes. ‘I know how to get Katie Dartmouth out.’
    He could see the man’s reaction in his face. Nutter, he was thinking. Just like the other guy. But he remained silent.
    ‘I can get her out.’
    ‘This way, please, sir,’ said the officer.
    Porter could feel his chest thumping. This was his one chance to show Sandy he could amount to something. To look her in the eye without feeling ashamed of himself. He’d no more throw it away than he’d throw away his own life.
    ‘I’m the only man who can get through to her kidnappers,’ Porter shouted.
    He could see a few of the office workers looking at him distastefully before hurrying on. None of them wanted to hear what he was saying, and none of them were looking in his direction. The five guards were slowly closing in on him, forming a tight semicircle from which there was no chance of escape.
    ‘This is your one chance to save her,’ said Porter. ‘I was SAS, I know something about the man who’s holding her, something we can use.’
    He could feel a hand grabbing hold of his arm. The MP-5 wasn’t jabbing into his chest, but it was definitely pointed in his direction, and the expression of the man with his finger on the trigger suggested he wouldn’t hesitate to use it if he had to. They were starting to move him towards the door. Porter shrugged himself free. These goons weren’t going to listen to anyone, he reflected bitterly. Osama bin Laden could walk through the door offering to turn himself in, and they’d tell him to come back when he’d made an appointment. ‘I can walk,’ he growled.
    A fresh blast of cold air struck Porter in the face, as he stepped out into the morning air. A gust of wind was blowing through him. It can take my hopes and blow them away, Porter told himself. I must have been mad to think they would listen to me.
    ‘Don’t come back,’ said the officer firmly.
    A Jaguar was pulling up outside, and a man in a charcoal-grey suit was climbing out of the back seat. Porter recognised him at once. Sir Angus Clayton, the director general of the Firm. Porter had seen his picture in the papers he sometimes fished out