by Vic James
The building was sterile and pitiless. The floor was polished concrete and echoed so loudly beneath their boots that Luke cringed. His brain started up a traitorous chant in time with their footsteps: Break. Out. Break. Out. He was half astonished that no one else could hear it. Surely they couldn’t hope to get away with this?
But no. He remembered a conversation with Asif. The guy was a tech whiz who’d been building his own computing arrays from childhood. Technology, Asif had told him, was a simple thing that everyone had convinced themselves was complex. It was fallible, but everyone believed it to be faultless. People had delegated their better judgement – and the evidence of their own senses – to the power of technology. If you could fool the tech, you needn’t worry about fooling the people.
So their uniforms and ID cuffs saw them through a second manned door, and then a third verification point. Here they had to press the bands against a panel set into the wall. The last stage was the entrance to the high-security wing.
‘You lot are keen,’ said the guard there, as he took out a set of old-fashioned keys. They unlocked two sets of double-bolted barred doors, like wild animal cages. ‘Only got the final say-so ten minutes ago. So where’s the lord and master – waiting back at the MADhouse with your boss, eh? Guess he decided doing it here wasn’t to his liking. Too near the common folk, eh? At least using his Skill he won’t have to worry about getting blood on her carpet. Though I daresay Daddy Jardine’s got enough money to pay for a new one.’
Thankfully the guy was bent over the locks as he spoke, because even Jackson’s composure slipped. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he tried to make sense of what had just been said.
Luke’s brain was whirring, too. The name ‘Jardine’ had been distracting, making Luke think of Kyneston and his family, but one thing was clear from the guard’s words and the Doc’s reaction. They weren’t the only ones coming for Oz.
The open-barred cells beyond didn’t contain the stench. It was a rancid blend of everything revolting that could come out of a human body. At first Luke strained to make out the huddled shape of Oz on the floor. When he did, he really wished he hadn’t. The guard aimed a torch so bright it was effectively weaponized light straight at Oz’s face. The only small mercy was that his eyes were swollen completely shut. Oz couldn’t have opened them into that blinding glare even if he’d wanted to.
‘Up you get,’ said the guard, poking Oz with his baton. ‘The Overseer and Heir Gavar Jardine request the honour of your company at a party for one. And you’ve not bothered to dress for it. Tut tut.’
Luke’s fists clenched. Oz didn’t move.
‘Dunno if he can stand,’ said the guard. ‘Reckon you might have to drag him.’
‘I’ll deal with this,’ said Jackson, stepping forward.
He crouched down by Oz. Could their friend even recognize him? Oz gave no sign. But he yielded up a sudden, almighty moan and rolled onto all fours. The Doc must have jabbed him with a shot of adrenaline.
‘Get up,’ Jackson said, making his voice hard and indifferent. Then to Luke: ‘Get him moving.’
Luke grabbed Oz by the back of his boilersuit and hauled. Oz came up slowly, but at least partly under his own strength. Thank goodness. Nothing broken, then.
Apart from his nose, perhaps. Probably a cheekbone. Maybe an eye socket. There was no way Jessica could have coped with seeing him like this, in here.
‘We’ll be going,’ Jackson told the guard. ‘Don’t want to keep our betters waiting.’
The cell guard shrugged. ‘Good riddance to that one. He kept quiet in interrogations – daresay he fancies himself a tough guy. But when he was by himself you’d hear him crying like a girl. Hope your boss gets more out of him than the lads here managed.’
Fortunately, both of Luke’s hands were clenched in Oz’s overalls, the fabric stiff and sticky, because everything in him ached to give this scumbag a pasting.
Once back out through the barred doors, Jackson and Luke supported Oz through the corridors. Oz had somehow cracked one eyelid open, and a tiny black pupil swimming in bloodshot sclera peered out at them, like the eye of a deep-sea creature fathoms down. Could he see clearly enough to recognize them? Luke hoped so.
Jackson’s earpiece hissed in a different pitch than before. Renie, must be.
‘Keep walking,’ said the Doc, when the sound stopped, ‘and don’t hesitate. On the other side of the second checkpoint, we’re going to meet some people. Ignore them. You know the pickup point. We’ll take Oz straight there. If I get caught up in anything, you keep going. Don’t wait for me. Get him in that vehicle and away.’
A fist-sized lump of dread lodged itself in Luke’s throat, but he swallowed it down. He let his gaze fall slightly out of focus, in that dead-eyed way Security often had. He was Security. He had the ID to prove it.
At the second checkpoint Luke said nothing as he held out the cuff. Didn’t let himself wince when Oz groaned as the guard grabbed his arm to run the chip-sensing device over it.
‘You got the alert?’ the Doc asked as he submitted his wrist. ‘I think news travels faster across our network than it does on general comms. Because you really don’t want to miss it. Screw up and they’d put you in this one’s old cell.’
Jackson gave Oz a nudge that made him stumble, and laughed nastily.
‘Alert? What?’ The guard screwed up his face anxiously.
‘You’ve not heard? Rescue attempt. Seems Walcott’s associates have been listening in on your piece-of-junk channel and are on their way to free him. That’s why we got dispatched in a hurry. I’ll be sorry to miss it. They’ve got some bloke posing as Heir Jardine himself. Except I guess they never checked the photos, ’cause they’re trying to pass off some red-haired dude. Everyone knows the Jardines are blond.’
‘They are?’ The man’s face was ashen. He revolved the cuff on his wrist and swiped the display. ‘No notification. Why are we always the last to know? How am I supposed to stop them?’
‘Better share it with your colleague at the entrance,’ said the Doc. ‘If I were you guys, I’d let them through, then keep them locked in. You’ll have caught them all by yourself, and they’ll be where they’re going to end up anyway, in the max wing. Job done.’
The relief on the man’s face was palpable. ‘Yeah. Yeah, neat. Thanks.’
And on they went, leaving the guard calling up his colleague on his helmet’s mic. Up ahead came the bang and echo of the concrete floor. It was hard to tell how many pairs of feet were headed towards them. Three?
‘We’re into the general remand space,’ Jackson said, low and fast. ‘So our prisoner could be anyone. Gavar Jardine will almost certainly be with the Overseer’s personal Security, so they won’t know Oz on sight either. Not that his own mother would know him, given the mess he’s in. Keep walking.’
They were one turn away from the entrance when the others came round the corner. And the hairs on Luke’s arm lifted the minute he saw him.
Gavar Jardine was a monster of a man. Well over six feet tall, with a black leather overcoat falling from his wide shoulders to the top of his leather biker boots. Black gloves.
But the psycho outfit was the least scary thing about him. The Jardine heir could have been wearing Happy Panda pyjamas, and he still would’ve been the most terrifying person Luke had ever seen. Abi had shown them all pictures, but no photo could prepare you for the reality of an Equal in the flesh. And there was a whole family of them. Abi worked in their office. Mum nursed one of them. Hopefully Daisy was at least keeping clear.
‘We’ll get in front. Eyes down,’ hissed Jackson.
And just like that, the groups were passing: Luke and Jackson together, Oz half shielded behind them; Gavar Jardine striding ahead. The two Security men were so intent on keeping up that they didn’t spare them a second glance.
Luke’s bones felt as if they’d been replaced by unsteady stacks of ball bearings. Any minute now, he’d fall apart.
But not y
et. Not until he’d got Oz to safety.
The guy at the entrance was wide-eyed, ready with two scanners.
‘You saw ’em?’ he whispered, and the Doc nodded. ‘You guys were just in time. They’ve got some nerve, though – gotta hand it to them. Backup’s on the way once they’ve been contained. You get the prisoner delivered.’
Jackson nodded – and just like that, they were out into the freezing night.
As they crossed the road, a small shadow detached itself and followed them. They walked two streets, then Jackson propped Oz up against a wall. He took the big guy’s face between his hands, ever so gently thumbed up his eyelids.
‘Nearly there, big fella. You’re safe now.’
Jackson’s very presence restored life to Oz. The puffy eyelids forced themselves open. A tongue licked at swollen, split lips. Renie put a water bottle to Oz’s mouth and he gulped eagerly. His hand came up to feel his face.
‘Not like I was ever pretty,’ Oz croaked, and Luke thought he’d never in his life been happier to hear a rubbish joke.
Then from the direction of the detention centre, the muffled sound of an explosion was magnified by the hollow night.
‘Take him, Luke,’ Jackson said. ‘You too, Renie. Get him to the pickup point as fast as you can. There’s not a minute to lose.’
‘Why?’ Renie was all eyes. ‘What was that?’
‘That was Gavar Jardine.’
Jackson turned and ran back the way they’d come. There was shouting behind them now. Confused noise. The wet, sleety air crackled.
‘This way,’ Renie said. ‘Angel’s ready with the van.’
Luke had half hustled, half dragged Oz the length of one more street when he heard the sound of gunshots. Once. Twice. The second time there was an awful cry.
Luke couldn’t be sure, but it sounded a lot like Jackson.
‘Wasn’t ’im,’ Renie said fiercely, pulling at Luke’s sleeve. ‘Wasn’t.’
In the fourth street sat the van. As they hurried towards it, a figure came running. Jessica.
She threw herself at Oz, as if she could hold him up all by herself. She couldn’t, of course. Renie pushed the messy tangle of the three of them in the direction of the van, then yanked Jessica’s arm away so Luke had room to fold Oz onto the backseat. Jess gave a sob and pressed her face against his soiled boilersuit, and from the darkness of the van a large, mangled paw reached out to pet her hair. Jessie grabbed it and kissed it.
‘We’ve got to get moving, Jess.’
Then Renie’s face was lit up by a freakish glare, as a plume of chemical fire shot high over buildings several blocks away. Foul, acrid smoke drifted towards them, and Luke tasted it as he heard the patter of debris raining down on a rooftop nearby.
‘Time to go,’ said a voice from the driver’s seat. ‘Close it up, Renie.’
Angel. Luke had forgotten all about her. Looking at her face as she leaned out of the window, he wondered how that had been possible. Her blonde hair was stuffed up under a beanie hat and both hands gripped the wheel.
‘He’s safe now, I promise. Don’t worry about Jackson; he’ll be fine, too. Just look out for yourselves. Split up. Go home. Take different routes – not that direction, obviously.’
Angel nodded at where the smoke was still pluming upwards. The sky was lit with unpleasant shades of blue and orange, resembling a firework show for the colour-blind.
The engine was already running. As she tested the accelerator Luke stayed stupidly where he was, staring through the open cab window.
Then she reached out and – unbelievably – touched her fingers to his cheek. He felt that electric tingle again, and couldn’t take his eyes from her perfect face.
‘Be safe, Luke Hadley,’ Angel said.
She gunned the engine and the vehicle tore away into the night.
13
Bouda
‘They used Skill?’
‘That’s what I said.’
Her future husband crossed his arms, his face reddening at her scepticism.
Bouda sighed. Was this how married life would be? Gavar getting truculent at the slightest provocation: ‘Was it the marmalade you wanted, darling?’ Glower. ‘That’s what I said.’ ‘Is your great-aunt coming for tea today, my love?’ Scowl. ‘That’s what I said.’
She’d find out soon enough. Tomorrow was the Second Debate, at Grendelsham. They would be married at Kyneston after the Third. Three more months.
How would it have been if fate had delivered her one of the other Jardine sons: Jenner, or Silyen? Jenner would have been out of the question, she supposed. If he’d been the eldest, Whittam would have disinherited him. And Silyen? Well . . . maybe there were worse things than Gavar’s short temper.
And perhaps the strategies she learned for dealing with him would come in useful when they had babies.
‘But I understand from your father’ – she looked over at Whittam to enlist his support, and he gave a confirmatory nod – ‘that the escape can be explained entirely by Millmoor’s own lax security protocols.’
She counted off their failings on her fingers, wincing at the garish turquoise polish on each nail. Dina had returned from Paris in the small hours, spilling noisily through the door with bags of designer nonsense and exorbitantly priced cosmetics. She had insisted on giving her sister a manicure after breakfast, even though there were slaves for that sort of thing – ‘Because politicians can be pretty, too!’ There was another fortunate accident of birth, Bouda supposed. Just imagine if DiDi had been the Matravers heir.
‘The perpetrators wore valid identity bands. And because they posed as Administration Security, the fact that they were unknown to the prison guards didn’t raise suspicion.’ She folded down two fingers, counting. ‘Your father has just received confirmation that they compromised the CCTV cameras, too. They were also monitoring Security’s communications channels, which is how they knew you were coming.
‘And above all, they held their nerve. If Walcott’s escape weren’t so exasperating, I’d applaud their brazenness. Walking out with the prisoner, while telling the imbeciles on duty that you were the breakout team.’ She folded down the last finger. ‘All in all, more than enough reasons to explain how they extracted the prisoner from under the noses of such incompetents.’
Gavar held his ground, looming over her where she sat on the sofa. She wasn’t intimidated. They were in the snug sitting room of Daddy’s little Mayfair bolt-hole. Everything here was as cosily over-upholstered as Daddy himself, and Bouda felt secure. This was home territory.
‘It was more than that,’ Gavar insisted. ‘I daresay slavetown Security aren’t recruited for their intelligence, but for those guards to have fallen for such a simple trick? And me? I walked straight past them. Didn’t spare them a glance.’
And that, thought Bouda, was the simplest thing of all in this whole farcical business. Gavar Jardine misses a breakout taking place right under his nose. And to cover his own idiocy, he starts seeing Skill at work. In a slavetown, no less. Bouda had seen how agitated Gavar was at the thought of using special measures on the prisoner. He’d probably been drinking non-stop from the moment his car left London. Everyone knew about the decanters that nestled in the Jardine Bentley’s back seat.
‘It’s an interesting hypothesis,’ said Lord Whittam, who’d been leaning against the mantelpiece, observing the exchange. ‘But not a necessary one. The stolen vehicle was found abandoned just inside the Peak District, half submerged in a quarry. It’s being recovered now, though it doesn’t seem likely we’ll get much from it. That isn’t the sort of stratagem a Skilled person would resort to.’
‘Do we know who was driving the vehicle?’ she asked Whittam. ‘The fugitive himself, or an accomplice?’
‘Security ran a perimeter chip-check about five minutes after the breakout was discovered. That showed that all microchipped individuals not inside the boundary were absent with authorization, except for the prisoner Walcott. The vehicle passed throug
h several internal checkpoints. The guards at each report that the ID was in order and the driver was a Caucasian female, though their descriptions of her are unhelpfully vague.’
‘Female and unchipped?’ said Bouda. ‘His wife, is she on the outside? Free?’
‘Dead,’ said Whittam impassively. ‘Breast cancer three years ago. Seems to have been what prompted Walcott to start his days.’
‘I’m telling you’ – Gavar was clenching his fists – ‘it was Skill.’
Bouda felt certain that the only Skill that had been used in Millmoor last night was Gavar’s own. Infuriated at being trapped inside the detention centre by a guard who thought Gavar himself was Walcott’s rescuer, he had simply blasted his way out. The max wing of the prison had been reduced to rubble and several individuals inside were seriously injured. It was all rather excessive – albeit a well-timed reminder to Millmoor’s seditionists of the power they sought to defy.
He had then pursued someone through the streets with his beloved revolver, apparently in the belief it was either Walcott or his fleeing accomplice. Gavar Jardine the action hero. She smiled to herself. He was such a little boy.
But she didn’t want Gavar throwing all his toys out of the pram at this early stage. She’d be spending the next two days with the Jardine father and son, after all. Maybe it was time to use a softer tone.
‘What happened to the person you shot at? Whatever tipped you off, Skill, intuition, or a sharp pair of ears’ – she sent Gavar her most mollifying smile, though he seemed sadly immune – ‘your instincts about the rescue attempt were correct.’
‘I didn’t shoot at him,’ said Gavar. ‘I hit him. I heard him yell out.’
Gavar was touchy about his marksmanship. Had been ever since word had got out about the hunting accident – the one that killed the slavegirl mother of his child. Bouda hadn’t found it in her heart to be sorry about that particular incident.
‘But you never found a body, or any blood indicating a wounding, where you believed your target was?’