“Leagues? Just criminals in drag,” Ignacio sniffed. “I should know - we sell them cotics, crack and synthetics. So, they know we have quality product and treasure.”
“You think they’re coming simply to rob you?”
“Why else march against us? They saw the police weakened when the rioting spread and took their chance. Petit bourgeois scum! Class traitors!”
“NatSec won’t let them cross the cordon, and if they did your defences are too strong,” Paolo replied, suspecting Karl Marx would be churning ever-deeper into his Highgate grave.
Ignacio’s runner appeared, a girl in a beret carrying a hunting bow. “General, there are at least six leagues mobilizing. Including Loyal Croydonia.”
“That’s twelve thousand men,” Ignacio replied.
“It’s even more important for me to get my people out,” said Paolo. “You’ll honour our deal?”
“Yes of course,” the Spaniard replied, stroking his beard, “Although I’ll admit we require an extra… favour.”
“Just name it.”
Ignacio grinned. In the shadows, beery henchmen hefted weapons. “I want half of your cache. The explosives, I mean.”
Paolo felt his trigger finger tense. He squinted, optical implant warming up. It would take only a moment to kill everyone in the room…
“Relax, my friend,” Ignacio replied, flashing a smile. “I assume you’re from the Crimson Brigade? I’m guessing Special Action Group.”
“What do you plan on doing with the explosives?”
“I’m going to blow those street league bastards sky-high,” the Spaniard laughed. “You’re going to help us do it. Perhaps it’s consistent with your plans, whatever they are.”
“How did you know?”
The Spaniard picked up a rifle and worked the action. “Spies are worth as much as bullets, I’m sure you agree. You were seen near the basement, so I had it searched.”
“They were well-hidden, and booby-trapped. Your searchers must have been good.”
Ignacio bowed, a sly grin on his face. “High praise, from a soldier of the Crimson.”
Paolo nodded. “Tell me, General, why didn’t you simply take the explosives for yourself?”
The brawny Spaniard shrugged. “Why make an enemy of the Crimson, when you can make a friend? And, of course, I expect you to build devices for me.”
“I have some knowledge of explosives,” Paolo conceded, accepting the general’s handshake.
“In which case, you have a deal,” Ignacio nodded, “but your people must leave now.”
“They’re ready.”
“Get them to the lobby. My people are waiting.”
Paolo raced to the apartment, knocking on Abid’s door. “Get ready, Abid. Right now!”
The hulking Yemeni wore military-grade body armour over his courier’s uniform. He’d converted the plate carrier into a suicide vest, pouches bulging with liquid explosive. “I’m ready,” he said, hefting two Kalashnikov rifles. He slung one across each shoulder and pulled on a baseball cap.
Rourke appeared, dressed in a raincoat and woollen hat. Unremarkable as always. Across her shoulder was a rummage bag, the stock of a machine pistol glinting inside. “I suppose we’d better get on with it,” she said.
“Good luck, Sorcha,” Paolo replied. “For the Crimson.”
“Aye, Comrade, for the Crimson,” the Irishwoman replied. “Abid, tell me, what do you think The Prophet would have said about all this?”
“That victory is inevitable, inshallah.”
“Even a heathen like me hopes he’s right,” Rourke replied. “Let’s go.”
“Yes, kaffur,” Abid replied. “I will lead the way.”
Thirteen
The sentry drone’s cannon spewed smoke, unspent bullets clattering to the floor. Hooker realised the ammo feed had been knocked out of alignment. He leapt at the door, the drone snapping a new ammunition hopper into position. Outside, the Merc’s engine growled. Leah’s voice rang in his earpiece. “Move to the left wall, Hooker. Now!”
Hooker flinched as the G-Wagen burst into the room, its ram scattering brick and plaster. It slammed into the drone, spinning it like a garbage can. Cannons roared in reply, bullets punching into the Merc’s hood and windscreen. Hooker staggered towards the felled machine, stamping on the cannon and pinning it to the floor. The drone’s optics snapped open and shut, rubberized tracks spinning crazily. Pulling another thermic lockpick, Hooker flipped the ignition. It burned and crackled, washing the slum silvery-white. Leah leapt from the driver’s seat, falling on the upturned drone and clamping her hands either side of its optical array. “Do it,” she barked.
Hooker punched the white-hot thermic into the drone’s armorglass eye. It bubbled and smoked, globular optics fusing with the pick. Grunting, he punched the lance deep inside the drone’s head, plastic and circuitry hissing and fizzing. With a high-pitched whine, it powered down, smoke seeping from its armoured torso.
“Shit,” said Leah, rubbing her hip. “Who left psycho-bot up there?”
“Dunno,” Hooker replied, studying the dying machine. “I can’t see a two-bit smuggler being able to afford a surplus drone with a functioning autocannon.”
“Maybe she ain’t so two-bit after all.” Leah activated the flashlight attached to her rifle, “let’s take a look upstairs.”
“You’re going first?”
Leah nodded. “You’re getting old, Hooker. Old and slow. I almost ran you over there.”
Hooker eyed the battered Mercedes parked in the living room. “Thanks for the timely warning.”
“Don’t worry,” Leah replied, grinning. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now.”
Hooker rubbed his rib, which he reckoned was cracked. “I’m sure I would. Now, let’s move. You’d hear that gunfire in Dover.”
They climbed the stairs, Leah darting into a doorway. Carpet smouldered where a breaching charge released the drone. “Clever booby-trap,” she said.
“Feels like Crimson Brigade,” Hooker replied. “Too clever by half.”
On a bed lay a corpse. A woman, face-down. Leah’s flashlight swept the wound in her skull. “Large calibre round. Just like Evie Kendrick’s mother.”
“Yeah, looks like the same shooter, don’t it?” Hooker patted down the body, pulling a ration book from a coat pocket. “Here we go. Natly Hare.”
“Roisin’s smuggler friend,” said Leah, wrinkling her nose. The room stank of death – dirty and meaty. Flies already buzzed over the glistening void in Natly Hare’s skull.
Hooker switched on his torch and dropped to his belly. Reaching under the mangy divan, he rummaged through a mess of boxes and cartons. Finally, he pulled out a cheap suitcase, more mould than leather. He worked a rusty zip and flipped it open.
“What you got?” said Leah.
“Cigarettes,” Hooker replied, stacking red-and-white sleeves on the bed. “Marlboro Reds – proper coffin nails.”
“There’s something tucked in the lining,” said Leah, tapping the suitcase. “You need glasses.”
“The ageism is getting old,” Hooker replied. “See what I did there?”
Leah rolled her eyes.
Hooker pulled a grubby notebook from a slit in the faux-leather. “Well there’s a thing – Natly was south London’s most organised smuggler. She kept a sales ledger. Bush-meat, morphine, ammunition, antibiotics and this…”
12 SLEEVES MARLBORO RED (r$6000)
700g EARL GREY (r$1400)
TO CROSLAND (COMMUNE)
Leah raised an eyebrow. “Earl Grey? Dunno about the smokes, but McCaffrey said Roisin’s a tea-drinker.”
Hooker nodded. “The Commune International would be as good a place as any to hide a hostage. My contacts in the Goons tell me it’s run by Spanish mercenaries.”
“Spanish?”
“Call ‘emselves the Black Rifles,” Hooker replied. “They fought in Libya when I was in the army, the Germans killed most of ‘em. A proper sho
wer of shit. They pretend to be Reds, but they ain’t really. Just looters and rapists.”
Leah grimaced. “Yeah, I think I heard of ‘em. But Roisin’s Crimson Brigade, right? They’re sneaky. Maybe that note was left for us to find.”
Hooker pointed at the smouldering gap in the bedroom floor. “Or she reckoned anyone breaking in would get a drone dropped on ‘em.”
They returned downstairs and examined the Merc. Cannon-fire had pierced the engine block, greenish liquid pooling beneath the chassis. “As a mechanic might say, that’s proper fucked,” said Leah sadly. “Mebbe Trashmob could get the low-loader down here, we could strip it for spares.”
“What about Lottie Rhys?” said Hooker, shaking his head.
“Ah, the girl. I knew there was a reason we destroyed a perfectly good Mercedes. Maybe we’ll find some wheels I can hotwire.”
They retrieved their gear from the Merc and left on foot. They trudged through muddy streets towards the Crosland Estate. It was only a couple of miles, but Hooker hoped there was a taxi or a tuk-tuk running. An orange-liveried pickup truck pulled out of a side-street, blue lights flashing. A NatSec carrier followed, a steel-hulled monster with oversized tyres. A muni jumped out of the pickup, sinking to his ankles in muck. “Municipal Police – drop your weapons.”
Hooker slowly placed his shotgun on the least muddy piece of ground he could see. “Let me do the talking,” he said.
“Yeah, ’cuz you’re a natural diplomat,” Leah replied, making a show of unloading her Kalashnikov.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” said the muni, joined by a colleague armed with a shotgun.
“Ain’t a problem,” Hooker replied.
The cops approached, closely followed by a squad of tacticals. The first muni was a tired-looking Asian kid, wearing a riot helmet at least two sizes too big for him. He pointed at Hooker. “We heard a shitload of gunfire. Papers and pockets – both of you.”
“We’re authorised security contractors,” Hooker replied, tapping his red armband. “We’ve got firearms permits. We’re working a MISPER case, a lead took us to a house back there.”
“What, the one with the burning truck sticking out of it?” the muni replied.
“You’ve done the observation course, ain’t you?” said Leah.
Hooker shot her a look. “Yeah. There was a sentry drone inside, which is why you heard gunfire. There’s also a dead body, we’re about to call it in.”
“I’m sure you were,” the muni replied, running a scanner over their ID. “Their permissions check out,” he called to the tacticals. “Concealed carry firearms permits, too.”
One of the tacticals nodded and conferred with his squad. They advanced on Natly Hare’s, weapons ready. “The dead body is upstairs,” said Hooker.
The muni stepped back and spoke with his partner, fobs crackling with contact reports from the estate. “Authorisation or not, we’re taking you in. CID can ask you about the body,” said the muni. “Murders ain’t our remit.”
Hooker shook his head. “Come on, this is bullshit. I’m looking for a missing girl…”
“You’re under arrest,” said the muni, pulling a pair of gel-kuffs from his utility belt. “Section Twelve.”
“Am I under arrest too?” said Leah. “’Cuz I’ve got places to be.”
“Yeah, why not? Consider yourself pinched,” the muni replied cheerfully, “We’ll sort out why at the custody centre.”
“Hey, there is a sentry drone in here,” called a tactical, “looks like they took it out with a thermic.”
“That was ballsy,” another tactical admitted, joining the munis. “I’ll get an evidence team to bag and tag any evidence.”
“You really got time for this?” said Hooker, “my brief will have me out in an hour. You’ve got a riot to be dealing with, ain’t you?”
“Suits me just fine,” the muni shrugged. “It’ll get me off the Crosland for a couple of hours. It’s a nightmare up there tonight.”
Another tactical approached, two emerald stars marking her as an inspector. “If you’re pinching these two, drop ‘em off for processing. Let someone else book ‘em in.”
“I was going to deal with them myself, ma’am,” the muni replied.
“We’re needed back on the estate,” the inspector replied. “You know your way around better than we do.”
Hooker kept his hands raised. “Inspector, can you ask these officers to reconsider whether we need to be arrested? We’re contractors and fully authorised…”
Face covered by an armorglass visor, only the inspector’s mouth was visible. It twisted into a sneer. “I don’t think so, Hooker. I know exactly who and what you are.” Her fob hissed. She took a step back, speaking quietly into her throat mic.
“That’s your cosy night processing prisoners screwed,” Leah shrugged, offering the munis a stick of gum.
“Worth a try,” said the Asian cop, nodding his thanks. He pointed at Hooker. “You met her before?”
“No, I’m famous,” Hooker replied. “For all the wrong reasons.”
The inspector returned. “These munis aren’t taking you in, Hooker – we are.”
“Why?”
“I’m not a sleuth, but I’d say you’re in deep shit.”
Leah shrugged. “What’s new?”
Hooker put his hands out for the muni’s gel-kuffs, gloop hardening around his wrists, “who wants us?”
“OCS,” said the inspector, smiling. “Yeah, the Gestapo have decided to grace us with their presence.”
“Office of Counter-Subversion?” said Leah. “Fuck.”
“D’you want us to escort you?” said the muni, eager to please. “I know a short cut.”
“Will you let it go?” the inspector sighed. “Get back to the estate and stop shirking, before I write you up for discipline. We’ll take the prisoners from here.”
“Where?” said Hooker.
“Millbank Tower,” the inspector replied, her smile cruel. “OCS Headquarters. They’ll process you there, in the land of Section Twelve. You can check in, but you never leave…”
“Process?” said Hooker, who’d heard stories about the goings-on at Millbank. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”
“No less than you deserve, I imagine,” said the inspector.
The tacticals trooped from the house carrying evidence sacks. A garbage can-sized drone buzzed overhead, landing on an apron of straggly grass. A tactical loaded the evidence inside the drone’s belly and it buzzed away. “I’ve never seen that before?” said the muni. “Sending a drone to pick up exhibits?”
“That’s the OCS,” Hooker replied. “All the gear and no idea.”
The tacticals bundled Hooker and Leah inside an armoured carrier, its cramped interior smelling of sweat and street food. Tacticals prised off their helmets while an omni played old-school Death Metal, roaring and guitar riffs interrupted by radio traffic. The eight-wheeler rumbled towards the Crosland Estate. Through an armorglass porthole, Hooker saw they’d turned off the metalled road. “We’re not heading to the Green Zone,” he whispered.
“No talking,” said a tactical, a wiry man with face full of scars.
Hooker guessed they’d travelled another mile, when the carrier stopped.
“Get the prisoners outside,” said the inspector wearily, pulling on her helmet. She was in her late twenties, Hooker guessed. Hard-eyed, a unit tattoo on her neck. Stepping outside, they stood in the shadow of the old Belmarsh high-security prison. Ivy-covered walls lit by old gas lamps, cell wings pock-marked by bullets.
“You know this place?” said Leah.
“I ain’t been here since the war,” Hooker replied. “I remember it burning, after the inmates rioted.”
“I suppose you’re something of an expert on incarceration, Hooker,” the inspector smirked. “I heard you were banged-up on the Isle of Man, along with the paedos and rapists.”
Taskforcers convicted during the Reconciliation Tribunals we
re all sent to the island’s lonely prison. Hooker cocked his head. “You’re starting to boil my piss, darlin’.”
The inspector checked her fob. “I couldn’t care less. Ah, the gentlemen from OCS appear to be running late. Constable Hasker, could you give Mister Hooker a beating to pass the time?”
“Yes ma’am.” Scar-face grinned, tugging a shock baton from his belt.
Hooker brandished his gel-kuffed hands, eyes boring into the cop’s. “Take these fuckers off. I’ll have a tear-up with the lot of you.”
Scar-face whipped his baton across Hooker’s knees, the weapon crackling with electricity. Groaning, he fell to the ground.
“Just a gentle attitude readjustment, Hasker,” the inspector warned. “He still needs to be fit for interrogation.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Scar-face grunted, smashing the baton across Hooker’s upper arm. Leah shouldered-barged the tactical, knocking him on his backside. His chin made an audible crack as it connected with the tip of her steel toe-cap.
The inspector chuckled. “Get on your feet, Hasker. Harris! Singh! Give the skank some volts. Apparently, she used to be Bloc.”
Two tacticals stepped forward, shock batons trailing sparks. “Bloc?” said one. “I’m gonna enjoy this.”
“Leave ‘em alone,” said a voice. Hooker saw a figure emerge from a black BMW Urban. A stringy white guy in a cheap suit, an ID tag hanging around his neck.
“Stand down,” the inspector ordered. The tacticals obeyed like Pavlov’s dogs, holstering weapons and snapping to attention.
“Can’t you fucking meatheads do anything without beating the shit out of people?” the suit sighed. His skin was greyish and pock-marked, thinning hair plastered across his scalp.
“Watch your tongue,” the inspector growled. “You’re Chisholm, ain’t you?”
“Detective Sergeant Chisholm to you. These are OCS detainees, so if anyone’s gonna give ‘em a battering, it’ll be us.”
The inspector hissed. “Until you sign for ‘em, they’re my prisoners. I’ll manage ‘em as I see fit.”
Chisholm was joined by a chubby black guy. He wore a maroon sports jacket and cowboy boots, his fingers encrusted in bling. “This is DC Bailey,” said Chisholm.
Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy Page 11