Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy

by Dominic Adler

  Leah enlarged the image, showing a dark-haired woman wearing a shapeless dress and wraparound sunglasses. A black bag was slung across her shoulder, the sort favoured by couriers. “She looks completely forgettable,” said Leah.

  “Dark workers usually do,” Hooker replied. He pulled a stick from a belt pouch and downloaded the footage. “I bet she’s Crimson Brigade.”

  “I didn’t know,” said McCaffrey. “At worst I thought she was Bloc.”

  “Play silly games, win silly prizes,” Hooker shrugged.

  What happens to me now?” said McCaffrey. “Will I be arrested?”

  “Depends,” said Hooker. “This girl’s been kidnapped, and she’s a VIP’s daughter. You’re connected, like it or not.”

  McCaffrey rubbed his face, fingers trembling. “I know people up in Birmingham. Non-political folk. Quakers. I could get a train up there and lie low. Then Scandinavia, maybe.”

  Hooker handed the activist a wad of RDs. “There’s a grand. Sorry ‘bout your nose. Anyhow, I wouldn’t go back to your flat.”

  “Caretaker’s a NatSec grass,” said Leah.

  McCaffrey took the money and stumbled away. He pulled a tatty smog mask from his pocket. “I never want to see you again.”

  “Keep your mouth shut and you won’t,” Hooker replied.

  “He just gave you a grand. Fuck off to Sweden you ungrateful prick,” Leah added. “Fucking Reds.”

  “Easy, Leah,” said Hooker. “It’s different in the Green Zone.”

  “I can see. They’re all soft and full of shit. They need a kicking.”

  “You’re gonna love the Reconstruction.”

  “I won’t if it means living like this. I’ll fuck off to Scotland.”

  “That’s fighting talk,” Hooker laughed. “We need to get you back to the No-Zone.”

  “Damn right,” Leah replied, watching McCaffrey disappear into the smog. “Lottie Rhys is pregnant. Didn’t see that one coming, who d’you reckon did the honours?”

  Hooker uploaded the surveillance video to his fob, “Don’t matter. I’m darkwiring these images to Gordy. Let’s see how good Hyatt’s contacts really are.”

  “What about the van?” asked Leah. “Torch it?”

  “Return it. I did a deal with NatSec.”

  Leah pulled a face. “A deal?”

  “I was on the Taskforce with their sergeant. She owed me a favour.”

  “A favour?”

  “We called Tollen The Cannibal when she was on Taskforce Seventeen. I’ll leave it at that.”

  “You’ve got dodgy friends, Hooker.”

  Hooker smiled. “I’m sitting with you, ain’t I?”

  They returned to the Merc. Tapping Tollen’s code into his fob, Hooker sent the NatSec vehicle’s location down the Darkwire.

  “You’re too honest,” said Leah. “Where now?”

  “Everything points towards the Goons. We’ll take the Old Dover PROTEX to Woolwich, take the Lagoon City ramp.”

  Leah pulled an apple from an ammo pouch. She had several others taped to her fighting rig, like fruity grenades. “You gonna tell Gordy the girl’s pregnant?”

  Hooker made a so-so gesture. “Not yet.”

  They headed south, driving across the London central expressway. It took them even closer to the ever-present BluSky, painting the motorway a lurid blue. Near Southwark, they passed a NatSec convoy. Personnel carriers and trucks, machineguns mounted on hard points. “More rioting in the Goons?” said Leah.

  “It’ll keep NatSec busy, at least.” Hooker’s fob flashed. Gordy Rice’s darkwire code scrolled onscreen. “Get the pictures, Gordy?”

  “Hyatt fast-tracked them through the Security Service B3i system.”

  “B3i?”

  “Biometric and Imagery Intelligence Index. It cross-references zettabytes of datasets in seconds,” Gordy replied. “Heavy shit.”

  “Did it shit out any heavy matches?”

  “No. The technicians think the suspect’s using body-worn doppling tech to change her appearance. But dopplers aren’t fool-proof – the spooks got a couple of partial hits. One was from last year, on a tram in Croydonia. Another, in the Goons, in the company of a known black-marketeer. Two weeks ago, not far from the Crosland Estate.”

  “Tea.” Hooker felt a surge of adrenaline, “Roisin buys black-market tea.”

  Gordy whistled through his teeth. “I’m not surprised, you know there’s a forty percent tax on Darjeeling? Anyhow, the smuggler’s called Natly Hare. Lagoon City born and bred, previous for revenue violations, drug-trafficking, black-marketeering and multiple border infractions. She’s in and out of Kent like a ferret.”

  “Location?” Hooker asked.

  “Last known address is in Abbey Wood.”

  “Got it. We’re on our way.”

  The Old Dover PROTEX towered over south London, a high-rise freeway protected by anti-rocket mesh. It overlooked the Kent DMZ, where metal signs warned of IEDs and snipers. The border was protected by fields of anti-personnel mines, a hundred metres deep, covered dog runs and motion-sensitive fencing.

  Leah sped by a long-dead speed camera. “You know the Crimson Brigade won’t care if the girl’s pregnant. They’ll kill her anyway.”

  Smoke rose from east. “I know,” said Hooker. “We’ll get to her before that happens.”

  Leah cocked her head. “Whoah. I thought this was a locate-only gig, Hooker, not a rescue attempt.”

  “Vassa Hyatt’s plan is bullshit. There’s no way a load of foreign mercenaries will get her out of the Goons. Especially if there’s a riot and the Street Leagues mobilize.”

  “And we can?”

  “I know the Goons better than half the fuckers who live there. I could sneak in and out if I knew where Lottie Rhys was.”

  “If the job changes, so does the fee.”

  Hooker sucked on his teeth. “You never used to be this mercenary, Leah.”

  “You never used to be this soft.”

  “If it means that much to you, take sixty percent of the fee. I’ll have forty.”

  “Rufus, we’ve got these Green-Zoners by the balls. We need to squeeze. You’re talking about going into the Goons and fighting. For who?”

  Hooker shook his head. “Leah, you need to get that shit out of your system.”

  “What shit?”

  “Hate? Anger? Whatever it is, it’s fucking with your head,” Hooker replied. “We’re getting decent money for this gig.”

  Leah grimaced, eyes angry slits. “I can see why Trashmob got pissed off with you. You sound like a fucking Answerer.”

  Trashmob shared Leah’s twin obsessions – money and an enduring fear that one day the No-Zone would become civilized. “Just drive, Leah.”

  “Or what?”

  Hooker shrugged.

  Leah muttered under her breath, the Merc’s speedo hitting a hundred. “I’ll take sixty percent.”

  “Noted.”

  Abbey Wood was a bomb-site. The smugger, Natly Hare, lived in a grubby backstreet of boarded-up houses. The pavement had dissolved into ankle-deep marshland, the big 4x4 churning oily mud. It was nearly dusk as Hooker walked towards the door, shotgun ready. “I’ll go in. You cover me, okay?”

  “No problem,” Leah replied, fishing her Kalashnikov from the Merc’s trunk. She took cover behind the engine block and checked her comms. “I’m right here. Full of hate and anger.”

  “Save it for the bad guys, partner.”

  “Partner?”

  “Well, now you’re takin’ sixty percent I suppose you’re the boss.”

  “Glad you finally worked it out,” said Leah. When Hooker looked back, she was smiling.

  Hooker nudged the door jamb with his boot. Warped and mouldy, but surprisingly solid. Pulling a thermal lance from a pouch, he slid it into the lock mechanism. It flared white, melting into the keyhole. Using the end of the lance as a lever, Hooker prised the door open. “OK,” he whispered into his mic, “I’m going inside.”

&n
bsp; “Copy that.”

  The ground floor smelt of damp and old tobacco, the ceiling stained black. A trove of tinned food and bottled drinking water were stacked against a wall. Hooker circled the room, pump-gun trained on the stairs. “Ground floor clear,” he whispered.

  “Got you,” Leah replied through his earpiece.

  Pulling a torch from his pocket, Hooker walked towards a flight of rickety stairs. Snick… something tensed across his foot.

  Tripwire.

  The ceiling buckled, plaster falling like dirty snow. A ripping, crashing noise as something plummeted into the room – a rust-streaked machine, trailing cobwebs like crazy hair. Rubber-tracked wheels spun, a cannon whirring, sniffing for a target.

  “Sentry drone!” Hooker yelled, pump-gun roaring, pellets splashing harmlessly off armour. The drone’s cannon barked in reply, lighting the room white. Hooker dropped to his belly, the wall behind him torn apart, bricks tossed into the street. He racked his shotgun, aiming for the machine’s optics. Pellets scarred metal, the drone making a strange clicking noise.

  A green light on the cannon pod flickered. Target acquired…

  twelve

  Paolo’s fob masked his voice, every syllable channelled through international Darkwire routers. He was theoretically traceable and identifiable – if the British GCHQ had fifty years spare. “Yes, Miss Hyatt?”

  “I’d usually ask for your name and try to establish a rapport. You know the methodology, but it’d be a waste of my time and yours. I simply require proof of life. Now.”

  “You’ll have it,” Paolo replied. “Can you confirm Damon Rhys has arranged a press conference? One where he confesses his sins, as per our demands?”

  “It’s in hand,” Hyatt replied.

  Paolo parsed her words. No traces of nerves or evasion. “I was hoping for a yes. I’m afraid that isn’t good enough, Miss Hyatt. Disappointing, in fact, considering our intelligence suggests you’re reasonably competent.”

  Hyatt didn’t take the bait. “I assure you, I’m working hard as I can.”

  “Stalling tactics? So soon? Amateurish, Miss Hyatt. As you said, we all know the playbook for these situations.”

  Hyatt’s voice hardened. “In which case you’d realise you’re asking much, but offering little. For example, how do you intend to return Lottie?”

  “The girl will be left somewhere safe inside the Green Zone,” Paolo lied. “We’ll provide a location, as soon as Mister Rhys makes his confession.”

  “I’m not privy to what his confession, as you call it, concerns. The Minister simply tells me it’s in hand.”

  “It refers to the MADRIGAL Program, Miss Hyatt. What is it they used to say, sunlight is the best disinfectant?” Paolo rolled the word around in his mouth. Madrigal.

  “Madrigal? It means nothing to me.”

  She really doesn’t know. “You will have proof of life when you confirm the press conference. Or, should you fail to meet our simple demands, proof of death. Goodbye.”

  Roisin applied surgical glue to Abid’s cheek. The big Yemeni was expressionless as she probed the wound with a spatula.

  “Hyatt’s playing for time,” said Paolo.

  “Why would the silly bitch do that?” Rourke replied. “It’s not like they can stage a rescue, is it?”

  “Rourke is right. If we cannot leave, how can they get in?” Abid agreed.

  Paolo looked out of the window. It was near-dusk. “They’ll try to locate the girl, but Hyatt won’t go to the authorities. If they knew Rhys was about to reveal MADRIGAL, they’d stop him. NatSec might even kill him.”

  Rourke finished gluing Abid’s wound. “What are their options?”

  Paolo watched fires in the half-light, beyond the hulk of the old Thames flood barrier. “They’ll have access to mercenaries, I imagine. However, I doubt they’d make it past the rioters and NatSec. Abid’s right – these disturbances might keep us in, but it keeps them out. Assuming, of course, they even know where she is.”

  “The riot’s growing,” Rourke replied, joining Paolo at the window.

  Paolo drew smoke deep into his lungs, felt the nicotine hit. He allowed himself a smile. “If the mob’s angry now, wait until they hear Rhys’s confession.”

  Rourke’s voice was an urgent whisper. “What is it? Tell me.”

  “Many years ago, I worked for the Central Intelligence Agency. I’ve seen dark secrets, Sorcha. MADRIGAL is one of the darkest. Even I knew nothing about it.”

  Rourke gripped the windowsill with quick-bitten fingers. “CIA? You’re American?”

  Abid growled. “Why was I not told?”

  “You didn’t need to know,” Paolo replied, studying the tip of his cigarette, “I was American. I have no nation or allegiance now, except the Crimson Brigade.” For a second, he felt strangely homesick for Spokane.

  Rourke lit a cigarette too. “We smoke too much,” she said quietly. In the distance, a fireball erupted midway up a cloudscraper.

  “We all need a vice,” Paolo replied. Across the river, housing blocks smouldered. Tiny shapes dropped from its balconies, trailing flame. People.

  Abid stood, touching the wound on his cheek. “I must prepare myself for martyrdom,” he said.

  Paolo nodded. “Thank you, Abid.”

  Rourke nodded her agreement. “I’ll let you know when the Spaniards arrive, big fella.”

  The fob rattled and buzzed on the table, like a dying bug. Paolo answered. It was Hyatt. “The conference is confirmed, I’ll have the time in the hour. I want proof of life now.”

  “Of course,” Paolo replied smoothly. “I’m sending the image.”

  “I want a live feed.”

  Paolo laughed gently. “Don’t issue orders, Hyatt, unless you want MADRIGAL uploaded to LibNet. Then I’ll kill the girl for publicity – the Darkwire snuff-streams will go into meltdown.”

  “I’ve spoken with Mister Rhys about MADRIGAL. He says without his voice behind them, your allegations are garbage. He said you’d know that.”

  “Which is why I demand details of his press conference. I will consider your request regarding a live feed,” Paolo replied. “The girl is asleep right now.”

  “Wake her up.”

  “This conversation is over.” Paolo switched off the phone.

  “Is everything OK?” said Rourke.

  Paolo shrugged. “Just Hyatt trying to impress Rhys by being tough.”

  Rourke sat on the sofa and rubbed her eyes. “Let her see the girl as she is. It might concentrate the bitch’s feckin’ mind.”

  “Perhaps later.”

  They turned to the live riot coverage. The NatSec lines surrounding the Commune had thinned, tacticals diverted to disturbances north of the Thames. The remainder were bolstered by nervous-looking munis, an orange-jacketed army encircling the perimeter. They huddled behind riot shields, bottles and bricks raining from the tower. A muni would occasionally break cover to fire a baton round or a choke gas grenade. There was something half-hearted about the exchange, as if both sides knew it wasn’t time for the main event.

  “The main NatSec force went north? It might make it easier to get out,” said Rourke. “Why do you think Rhys will give the press conference before meeting the peace delegation?”

  Paolo studied his cigarette. “A press conference takes minutes. Negotiations take days. He could host the press anywhere, which is why your agent needs to access Rhys’s schedule.”

  “Get me out and I will. I’ll be an hour, maybe a little longer. But I’ll get that bloody schedule.”

  “Is your man answering his fob?”

  “No, but he’s never failed to make a meet.”

  They returned to the window. Below, a dark tsunami of humanity filled the streets. Paolo studied the scene with a soldier’s eye. “The police are letting rioters take the west side of the estate. I see the logic – it’s like a fire-break. It’ll burn itself out.”

  Rourke pointed at the omni. “Or they’ve decided to throw their fa
scist dogs a bone. Look, the Leagues are coming out to play.”

  The Street Leagues are marching on Lagoon City. A statement from the Woolwich Urbanskis declares they ‘intend to restore law and order to the Crosland if the police will not.’ Other leagues, including the Loyal Croydonian Brethren, are mobilizing…

  Paolo sipped his coffee and winced. It was cold. “Street leagues? I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

  Rourke began rolling a cigarette. “Kent will go crazy if they unleash those bastards. Free Medway would go up in smoke.”

  Paolo nodded his agreement. “Street leagues are reactionary analogues of the Bloc. Maybe the Government will eventually let them march south, to do their dirty work.”

  “That’d start a civil war,” Rourke replied. “It’d make the Balkans look tame.”

  “It would be to our advantage. The People would see how hopeless the Bloc were and join us.”

  The newsfeed crossed to a reporter interviewing a municipal policeman, an old man wearing a blue uniform. I’m with Chief Superintendent Bruno Banazewski, from Lagoon Command of the Municipal Police. Do you have a message for the Leagues?

  The cop wore a strip of faded medal ribbons on his tunic, mouth veiled by a grey moustache. My message to the Leagues is simple - send your Generals to parley. And, above all, stay away from the Crosland Estate. We have the full support of our NatSec colleagues. We’ve had too many deaths here today to escalate the situation further…

  Paolo’s fob trilled. The Spaniards. “General Ignacio wishes to see you.”

  “Very well,” he replied, heading for the door. “Sorcha, I’ll see the General now. We’ll get you out very soon.”

  Ignacio’s den was now lit by guttering candles and storm lanterns, walls covered with posters and political slogans. The General was dressed for battle, resplendent in ballistic armour and a black-painted helmet. Around his feet lay weapons, from swords to assault rifles. “Paolo, ciao!” he called easily.

  “Prego,” Paolo replied. “You wished to see me?”

  “The fascists march on the Commune.”

  “Yes, I saw on the omni.”