Shroud of Concealment (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) by Andrew Towning

an attempt to sharpen himself up, and then tentatively touched a tender spot at the back of his head. He must have fallen backwards onto the concrete floor, for it felt as if it was about to split in two and his mind was a jumbled mess. He tried to pull himself up into a sitting position but the effort was only inside his head.
    Then there was movement all around him and a man’s voice shouting orders at others, trying to pull the debris off him. Dillon felt a surge of energy flow through him and managed to move a little. It was the site foreman’s determined voice that made Dillon strive further to free himself.
    “He’s alive, he’s coming round. Quickly man, go and fetch a coat or something from my office. Oh, and you’ll find a bottle of Jack Daniel’s inside the top drawer of my desk. Bring it with you.”
    Dillon slurred, “What the hell was that?”
    “It’s okay. There was some sort of explosion just outside the front of the theatre.”
    “Explosion?” Dillon pushed away the remaining debris and with a lot of help from the site foreman, heaved himself up off the floor. His memory was returning as quickly as he was finding his balance again.
    He gazed blearily around at the devastation in the foyer.
    “What a bloody mess. What could have caused such a blast? Has anyone called the emergency services?”
    “The fire brigade are already on their way, and so are the paramedics, but no one has called the police yet.”
    “And that’s the way I want it to stay for the moment.”
    Dillon wandered shakily towards the entrance. Through the haze of dust, he saw the big double doors – one had been blown completely off, the other hanging off one hinge at a peculiar angle.
    “I want those doors made good and secured immediately. If they’re still standing, get our own carpenters to do it.”
    He felt weak, but his survival instinct was much stronger. He had a bad feeling about what had just happened and reiterated to the site foreman that the doors were to be made good immediately.
    Dillon thought, as he stepped out into the narrow side street, that apart from the doors, which could easily be fixed and the general mess caused by the collapsing scaffold, things were not nearly as bad as they first appeared.
    He could feel the intense heat even before he could see where it was coming from. The smell of burning rubber from the raging fireball that was ensuing, and smoke still spiralling from the wreckage, made his stomach churn. He surveyed what was left of the Porsche 911 Carrera, sank down on to his haunches and started to take in what had caused the explosion. He looked on in despair and disbelief at the pile of smouldering scrap that had once been his beautiful car. The bomb that had been planted somewhere on the underside must have been of a substantial size to have caused so much damage.
    Dillon stood up as he heard the sound of sirens approaching at speed. The fire engine pulled up at the end of the street, not able to enter it because of its size. A moment later, the crew were jumping out and running towards the burning wreckage of the Porsche with hoses trailing behind them. Within seconds, the burning car had been completely submersed under a blanket of thick white foam. The only sound that could be heard was the metal contracting as it cooled off.
    For a while, he didn’t move; he was shocked and angry, and was using every ounce of self-discipline that he possessed to control the anger that he could feel rising within him. He eventually walked back inside the theatre to find two carpenters working to put the doors back onto their hinges. The site foreman came up and asked when he was going to call the police. Dillon ignored him, but took out his mobile phone and dialled the firm’s special number that was used for this type of emergency. He hoped that Vince would be there and was relieved when he eventually answered.
    “Dillon,” he said quietly. He glanced around the foyer, making sure that no one