She handed the bars to Waxtead, who promptly dropped them, then stepped back from the window and kicked out the rest of the glass with a series of rapid, high kicks.
“Not MI5, my arse,” Waxtead said.
Sandra picked up a rug from near the door and laid it over the jagged shards in the window sill. “Anyone could do that,” she told him. “All it takes is to train like your life depends on it for twenty years or more. OK, out you go.”
She waited long, agonising seconds for Waxtead to climb out through the window, then hurried through after him. They were at the side of the building—the opposite side to where she had spied on the time sphere and its rig when she had first sneaked into the factory. It was dark and there was a high fence to climb to get into the adjacent industrial unit. Waxtead would never manage it but fifty meters farther along was what looked like a truck, parked next to the fence. If she could get Waxtead up onto the roof of the cab, they could maybe jump over from there.
She grabbed him and started running. She could hear shouting from inside the building. They must have found the empty cell and now the hunt was on. The truck was close to the front of the building, which was a risk, but she had to take it. She pulled Waxtead harder, forcing him into a sprint.
They were still twenty meters from the truck when two people came running round from the front of the building—Hamiye and one of the hamsters she guessed from their profiles. They spotted the fugitives and skidded to a halt, both raising their weapons. Surrender seemed like the only sane option, but Sandra hadn’t got that far by taking the sane option. She stopped too and cast about for some kind of shelter, heart racing, fists clenching. If she could—
Waxtead’s arms wrapped around her from behind in a bear hug. “It’s me,” he yelled. “Don’t shoot. I’ve got her. Don’t shoot.”
Too surprised to react for a second, she hung there, facing the two guns. “You fucking tosser. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Choosing sides,” he said.
“Christ, you’re stupid,” she said and slammed her head back into his face.
He cried out in shock and pain, letting her go as he reached for his shattered teeth. She grabbed his inert bulk and used his weight to swing herself round and behind him just as two shots exploded and bullets thudded into Waxtead’s torso. She left him to fall and threw herself at the fence in a reckless leap, vaulting up and over it as gunshots barked from out of the darkness. Bullets zipped past her.
***
“Gunshots!” It was Jock’s voice over the comm. “Two shots fired. More. Stand by.”
“Where is he?” Fourget asked and Gerhard lit up Jock’s avatar on the tactical display. He was on the far side of the building, setting up an observation post two hundred meters beyond the perimeter fence. “Where’s that damned satellite?”
“Thirty seconds out. Jock, what can you see?”
“Not a damned thing. We’re trying to find a line of sight.”
Gerhard touched another avatar. “Davidi, relocate to grid fifty-seven. I want eyes on that shooter.”
“I can hear footsteps, Captain,” Jock said in a whisper. “Sounds like a bloody rhino heading straight towards us.” His head cam revealed only an empty parking lot with shrubbery about ten meters away. Fourget could hear the footsteps too now. There was a crash as the shrubbery exploded and a gigantic figure emerged into the parking lot. Jock’s head cam jerked towards it, just as the giant turned to stare in the EDF soldiers’ direction. The picture broke up as Jock and his buddy moved. Fourget heard him say, “Stop or I’ll shoot. Lay down your—” But the giant sprang into action, moving with incredible speed, he raised his weapon—a massive machine gun few ordinary men would be able to wield—and fired in Jock’s direction. The image streaked up the display as Jock went down. The Scot’s companion’s head cam still showed the merc, now swinging his weapon towards him. There was the familiar burp of the man’s standard-issue Heckler & Koch UMP9c as it spat bullets at fifteen rounds a second at the hamster. Even as the super-soldier blasted back with his massive weapon, Fourget could see dust rise from bullet impacts on the giant’s armored vest.
Davidi was on the comm asking for orders. Gerhard sent him and others to help Jock, but Fourget could see it was too late. The display of Jock’s vital signs showed him fading fast. His head cam gave them an unmoving shot of the sky. Jock’s companion was in better shape but unconscious and undoubtedly wounded. As Fourget stared in shock at the image from Jock’s head cam, the mercenary walked into view, towering into the sky above the dying man. He knelt down and peered into Jock’s face, reached out a hand and turned his head from side to side. He looked puzzled, as if trying to work out who he’d just killed. Graphics flashed quickly across the man’s face as facial recognition software measured and coded the image.
“Piers Langbroek,” Gerhard said, reading from another display. “British national. Wanted by Interpol and several African states for murder and other crimes.”
Fourget studied the hyper-masculinised face. “Tell me about the gun,” he said and Gerhard set the software to identify it. When Fourget had encountered Langbroek and his team, his combat suit had protected him from their gunfire as it should. But they’d been carrying submachine guns. The weapon in Langbroek’s hand looked more like a .50 caliber field gun.
A page of specifications came up on the display. The machine gun was an L21 heavy machine gun. The kind of gun that would normally be mounted on the back of an armored vehicle. He checked the ammo for it and found a range of nasty options, including a variety of armor-piercing rounds, some designed specifically to penetrate advanced body armor.
“Tell Davidi and the others to proceed with extreme caution,” he told Gerhard. “Tell them that gun will shoot straight through their combat suits.”
Gerhard relayed the message and Fourget, scanning the displays, noticed that the satellite image was up at last, showing an infrared display of the target area. He located the bright spot of the merc standing over Jock. His own men were invisible, shielded by their suits. Another person, a normal person judging from the heat signature, was moving about nearby. Around the target building, there were four more mercs plus three more normals. Inside the building another half-dozen people moved around. There was also someone lying on the ground outside, in the area where Jock had first heard shooting. The figure did not move. Someone was dead or injured.
He called Jay. “Sir? You’d better get in here.”
Fourget could think of only one person it could be.
***
“Looks like the bitch did us a favor,” Langbroek said. Hamiye crossed the parking lot looking around himself all the time. The merc stood up as he approached. “If we hadn’t been out here chasing her, I’d never have surprised these two.”
“Are they dead?” Neither man was moving. There were scars on the combat suits where bullets had torn through, but the suits had already repaired themselves and he was spared the sight of the smashed and bloody bodies inside.
“Come on,” Langbroek said, heading back to the bushes. “There’ll be more of them on the way.”
Hamiye dragged his gaze away from the men on the ground and followed the giant. Neither spoke again until they were inside the factory building.
Lee was standing inside the reception, waiting for them. Two of his Chinese henchmen were with him.
“I hope Hong’s ready,” Hamiye said. “We’ve got to do it right now or not at all. There are government agents outside and it won’t be long before they’re all over us.”
He’d expected Lee to go off in a rage but the Head of Special Projects seemed oddly composed. “How long can you hold them for?”
Hamiye glanced at Langbroek. “So long as they don’t decide to blow up the factory,” the merc said, “we can keep them busy all night.”
“Bring Waxtead inside,” Hamiye told him. “Tie him to a chair. I want them to think we still have a hostage. Then they won’t start lobbing missiles in
here. Mr Lee, I’ll need those new guys on the team too. We’ll need every gun.” For some reason, he wanted Lee to fight him about it but his boss just nodded and said something in Mandarin to the men beside him. “What about a pilot?”
Lee regarded him steadily. “You let the woman go. You are the pilot.”
“Someone has to coordinate our defense.”
“Mr Langbroek can do that quite well without your help, Farid.”
There was no alternative, of course, and Hamiye had known it from the moment he’d seen the dead special forces men outside. The time shot had to be done now. The only suitable pilot was himself. As much as he didn’t want it, that was how it had to be. He nodded. Lee turned away and left.
He took a deep, steadying breath and turned to the hamster. “How do you read it?”
Langbroek sucked his lips. “We surprised them while they were setting up their obbo. They were fully suited so I reckon they were just doing a quick recon before swinging through the windows on ropes. Probably led by a special ops team—SAS, maybe—with an MI5 anti-terror squad as backup and maybe the Met out there somewhere to mop up. I bet there’s a chopper coming in to drop guys on the roof too. Their plans are shit now. No surprise any more. They’ll either negotiate or they’ll try rushing us. Negotiate for sure. When the woman contacts them, they’ll know our hostage is Waxtead.”
Hamiye could only agree. It was the only scenario that made sense. So it would be a siege. They had plenty of time.
“OK. You’re in charge. Good luck.”
“Where are you going?”
Hamiye gave him a weak smile. “To see what tomorrow brings.”
***
Jay watched the satellite image as one of the bright blobs moved towards the cooler shape of the person on the ground, merged with it, and went back inside the building. He hadn’t spoken since Fourget explained the situation. The idea that it was Sandra lying there chewed at him like a live animal in his chest.
“We need to establish a perimeter,” he said. His voice, even in his own ears was hollow and emotionless.
“Done,” the lieutenant said.
“And notify the Met liaison.”
Gerhard grunted. “That will make them happy. They’ve been in my ear all night asking for updates. They want to know why the spooks are involved at all when this is clearly a police job.”
“At least someone will be happy.”
“We’re going to negotiate, then?”
Jay could hear the reluctance in Fourget’s voice. He tried to ignore it. With Jock dead and a man injured, with Sandra … The need to strike back was like a physical force in the room. He had to control it, for everybody’s sake. For Sandra’s sake, in case she was still alive. Their plan had been risky enough when they had a full squad and surprise was on their side. Now it would be a bloodbath.
“Sir?” It was Gerhard. “I’ve been watching what they did with the person they just brought inside. Watch.” He replayed a few seconds of the satellite imagery, zooming in tight on the shooting victim. Jay saw the bright blob of the mercenary move down a corridor, into a small room, then deposit the person it was carrying. But the dead or unconscious person did not lie on the ground. It continued to have a small profile, as if it were standing or sitting. The bright blob moved from one side of the person to the other, as if working on it. Then it left the room. The victim remained where it was.
“They’ve tied whoever it is to a chair,” Gerhard said. “I'll tell the Met we have a siege situation with one hostage.”
“She’s still alive,” Fourget said, amazed.
“If it’s her,” said Jay, but he too felt the elation. It changed nothing, of course: the planned attack could not proceed. They had to surround the factory and try to talk to the people inside. But the hostage was alive.
Sandra was alive.
But injured. Perhaps dying. He pulled in a deep breath through his nose. His skin crawled. He felt as if every muscle trembled. This was worse than ever. Sandra was dying in there and his duty was to set up a siege that might last hours, or days. He reached out, took Fourget by the arm and led him out of Gerhard’s hearing.
“I’m going in, Pierre. Just me. I have to get her out.”
“It will take more than one,” the Frenchman said. “She is injured and cannot walk. When do we leave?”
Jay felt a rush of gratitude towards his taciturn friend but couldn’t accept. “Thank you, but someone needs to run things. You have to stay.”
“Pfftt! To organize a siege?” He waved the idea aside with contempt. “Gerhard can do it.”
Jay had to agree. The captain’s skills were wasted on such a task. The police could handle it perfectly well—up to the point where the mercs decided to break out. But there was no time for finessing the decision.
“I’m going to suit up. Meet me by the cars in five minutes.”
He hurried through to where Laura was still waiting in another room.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
He threw open the case in which his own combat suit was kept. He took it behind a chest-height cubicle screen for privacy. “Badly,” he said. “I don’t understand why but they were running patrols in the nearby buildings. They surprised Jock while he was setting up. He’s dead. The man with him was wounded. We’re bringing them back here now. The plan’s no good any more. We’re going to have to talk them out.”
“Dead?” Her voice was small and weak. After a moment she said, “Wasn’t he wearing one of those things?”
He glanced her way and realized she was referring to the combat suit he was wriggling into. “They can’t protect you against everything,” he said.
“You’re going in, aren’t you?” Her eyes went wide with revelation. “You’re going after Sandra. Oh my God. Isn’t that, like, really stupid?”
“Sandra might not think so. She’s hurt. Probably dying. I can’t wait for the people in there to decide what it’s worth to hand her over.”
“But you wouldn’t do it if it was anybody else, would you? Well, Cara, I suppose.”
A denial sprang to his lips but he suddenly felt he owed Laura more than that. He stopped wrestling with the suit for a moment and looked at her. “No, probably not. Don’t ask me why it is. Our relationship is … complicated. But if I could swap places with her right now, so she was here, safe and free, I would do it in a heartbeat.” And he knew that was true. So true that the knowledge was stamped into the fabric of his being. So much a part of him that pulling it out and putting it on display like that was as surprising and strange as if he’d pulled out his heart and could study it beating in his hands.
He shook off his amazement and finished dressing. “I’ve got to go.”
Laura simply nodded. “I wish …” she said, but didn’t finish the thought.
He grabbed up the helmet and ran for the door, his mind already on tactics, access points, tools and weapons.
***
Sandra didn’t stop running until she was absolutely certain she’d lost her pursuers. She’d taken a direction away from the main road into the quiet streets nearby. She wanted to be able to hear Hamiye and the hamster if they got close. She wanted to hear vehicles if any came prowling the streets, hunting for her. But all she heard was the rasp of her own breathing, the pounding of her own heart.
At one point she thought she’d heard heavy-caliber gunfire, way behind her. She hoped it was Hamiye, shooting at shadows.
She went to earth in a scruffy, half-derelict suburb, crawling through a damaged front door, peering out through a broken window. Her wrists hurt, her mouth was dry, her stomach was tight with hunger, and she was woozy with sleep deprivation.
She had glimpsed the bizarre flying-saucer shape of Southgate tube station, so she knew where she was. It had been shuttered and barred like so much infrastructure in the outer London suburbs. One day, the Lord Mayor of London promised, they would revive and refurbish the whole underground network and breathe life back into these areas the
Adjustment had left to die. But various city governments had been promising that for over thirty years and the right time never seemed to come. Europe continued to stagger from recession to recession as the shock of the Adjustment continued to reverberate through the world’s economies. The economic pundits said that, if the rebels won the civil war in the U.S., and the American economy came back from the dead, perhaps things would grow more stable and prosperous. Until then, they reckoned, the world was like a three-legged stool with a leg missing.
She looked at the shabby buildings around her and wondered what it must have been like to live in a world of riches and plenty, as people had done at the beginning of the twenty-first century, burning through the world’s resources without a thought for what would happen in the future. It must have been such a good time, that bonfire of the vanities.
Confident at last that she’d lost her pursuers, she sat down on the kibble-strewn floor of the abandoned house, rested her back against the cold, damp plaster, and called Cara. The signal was strong and all the usual net services were available, but Cara’s netID was out of service. She called Dot and got the same message.
What the hell …?
How could Cara and her grandmother be offline? She supposed a lingering fault in the comms network could have cut them off. It was possible. But, given the situation, other, darker possibilities seemed a lot more likely.
She called Jay. A recorded message told her he was unable to take her call.
She called his office and a pleasant young woman in an EDF uniform gave her the same message.
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