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Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-Fuck, fuck, fuck.
There was a rising warmth in the back of his head, spreading to his ears, as the blood pumped faster. That sinking feeling was his whole life just being flushed away. The gates to the research complex was a mass of military police jeeps, police cars, unmarked vehicles, men in suits, men in uniforms, women in uniforms, green, blue, black, white (coats), khaki, the sound of helicopters overhead, his mobile phone ringing. Miles was officially screwed.
At least that's what he thought, as he turned the car around the corner of the street, and saw the display of organized chaos that was the panicked MOD officials, desperate to get their most valuable research item back.
I could just give them the case. Just walk up to them and hand it over. Say, "Doug had it. I dunno how he managed to get it out of the lab, but he had it all along." They'd believe that. Fuck. Who am I kidding? They'll just see me with it and shoot me in the fucking head.
Or.
I could just run. I'm already in a car... I may have the case, but I could just go. Leave the country. It's just a suitcase. It's nothing special until someone looks in it. That's it. I just have to get out of the city. Make it out of York, head south. No one goes South any more. Make it to Europe.... sell it to the Yanks, or someone.
Sure that he hadn't been spotted, he turned the car in the opposite direction and headed to the ring-road.
