Cormac reached inside his pack, “take my medical kit.”
The French woman introduced herself as Florence. She picked her way along the wall of bonnets, doors and chassis. Finally, she stopped. “Here,” she said, fingers sliding into a crease in the rusting metal. There was a loud click, and a door panel slid open.
“Okay,” said Hooker, readying his rifle. “Let’s go.”
Twenty Two
“We need another hour,” said Hyatt. “Mister Rhys is going through the press release with his legal team – he’s preparing to put the record straight.”
“An easier tactic would be to simply tell the truth,” Paolo replied.
“It isn’t just Mister Rhys impacted by this. Besides, it needs to be accurate if it’s going to be credible. Please, can you cut me some slack?”
Paolo smiled. The woman didn’t realise her stone-walling was convenient. “Against my better judgement, I’m granting you an hour Miss Hyatt. Use the time wisely.” Ending the call, he checked Rourke. She sat in a chair, head lolling to one side. Her eyes flickered crazily as she absorbed data from the brainstem injector.
Paolo didn’t hear the explosion, plunging the apartment into darkness, walls wobbling like jelly. Clambering to his feet, he watched something bank lazily over the river. A drone. Moonlight played across it’s beetle-black fuselage, cannon-pods spitting fire. Flipping a table against the window, he wedged it in place with the couch. Finally, he dragged sandbags from the kitchen, making a crude barricade.
“Huh? What the hell?” said Rourke, snapping upright. Her chin was sticky with drool, eyes bloodshot.
“Drone attack,” Paolo replied. “Get down.”
“MADRIGAL,” the Irishwoman gasped, fingers fluttering in her lap. “All that stuff’s really true?”
“It is, and now we’ve got a girl who might be carrying an Archangel in her belly…”
Torchlight cut through the darkness. Caleb. “You okay?” the Englishman called. “Anybody hurt?”
“We’re alive,” said Paolo. “It was their drone, it strafed our floor.”
“It’s gone?” said Rourke, staggering to the window. Outside, a fresh wave of leaguers began storming the walls.
Caleb shook his head. “It’ll be re-arming, I reckon. Bastard thing was targeting marksmen on the lower floors. You can’t shoot ‘em down without rockets.”
Paolo returned to the omni, its power node flickering. “Twenty percent left on the battery. Caleb, we need to get out of here.”
The Englishman nodded. “The General has a plan, but he won’t be taking passengers.”
“Nor would I expect him to. I have my own arrangements.”
“You’ve got a magic wand you’ve not been telling me about?” said Rourke. “Damn I’m thirsty.”
Caleb pulled a water bottle from his belt and passed it to the Irishwoman. “Cold sugar-water,” he said. “It’ll give you energy.”
Rourke nodded her thanks and took a gulp. “I could murder a cuppa.”
Paolo touched the omni, scrolling through hacked data. “NatSec have a forward aviation base, a place called Biggin Hill. It’s only twenty miles south, there’s a squadron of Wildcat copters based there.”
“You’re gonna to steal a copter from NatSec?” Caleb laughed. “Can you even fly one?”
Paolo raised an eyebrow. “I’d hardly steal one if I couldn’t. Caleb, wait here with Rourke and the girl until I get back.”
“About the girl…” said Caleb.
“There’s a change of plan,” Paolo replied. “We’re taking her with us. I’m going to see Ignacio about clearing the roof – I’m going to need somewhere to land.”
“Yes, Colonel Paolo,” Caleb replied. He took up position outside the door to Lottie’s room, Kalashnikov ready.
“Steal a copter? You’re crazy,” said Sorcha.
“Just wait for me to return,” Paolo replied, leaving the room. “Ready weapons. Protect the girl.”
Rourke nodded, pulling the machine pistol from her bag. “Where you going now?”
“To see the General.”
The Commune’s corridors and stairways echoed with moans and the occasional gunshot. In the command bunker, General Ignacio studied a bank of omnis, issuing orders to his staff. “The enemy Generals drag their feet in the south,” said a riflewoman.
“They’re letting their men take the brunt of the assault?”
“Yes sir,” the riflewoman replied. “They’re conferring about casualties, I think.”
“Good,” the General replied. “Ah, Paolo. Did you hear the drone?”
“It blew my apartment’s windows out. I suspect the rental value just headed south.”
The Spaniard let out a belly laugh, “Are you making your escape?”
“More or less.”
“How?”
“The only way there is – through the Leaguers.”
“Impossible.”
Paolo shrugged. “I have a plan, but I need a favour.”
“You need only ask.”
Paolo’s voice was matter-of-fact. “I’m going to land a copter on the roof. There’s junk up there. Can you arrange for its removal?”
“You make it sound as simple as stealing apples. Okay, I’ll send a work party. They’ll have to use the scaffold, though. We’re repairing the lifts – the power is screwed.” The tower was criss-crossed with scaffolding, used for everything from maintenance to graffiti-painting.
Paolo bowed. “Again, my thanks. My report to the Command Committee will mention the valour and loyalty of the Black Rifles.”
Ignacio’s smile was wily. “The money and gold were reward enough.”
“Until the Crimson Banner flies,” Paolo replied. The salutation was usually shouted, accompanied by a raised fist. From Paolo Falcone’s mouth it was prayer-like. A quiet promise.
“’TIL THE CRIMSON BANNER FLIES!” hollered Ignacio of the Black Rifles. Licking stray brandy from his beard, he grabbed and kissed the nearest female fighter with passionate gusto. The rest of the soldiers laughed and cheered. Paolo smiled as he left the bunker, remembering the days when a man would be arrested for less.
Sentries, armed and armoured, swung open the lobby’s blast doors for Paolo Falcone. Outside, anarchists erected fresh barricades, others taking ammunition and water to the palisades. Smoking craters peppered the ground, the able-bodied dragging casualties to an aid station. Crouching in the tower’s shadow, he unzipped an assault pack. Inside were weapons, gold coins, a Blue Force tracking fob and a set of black fatigues. The jacket bore the insignia of NatSec’s elite Apex commando unit. He slid two axes into a back harness – black carbon iterations of the Native American tomahawk. He’d been taught to use them a lifetime ago, at the CIA paramilitary school near Fort Hood. Noting that Paolo was ambidextrous, an elderly veteran of the Afghan wars had taught him how to fight with two blades.
Finally, he opened a cigar tube. Inside was a gold-and-scarlet autojet, covered in Mandarin script. A dose of the experimental Chinese respirocite called Kwan Kung. Twenty-five thousand US Dollars, the black-market dealer promising a state-of-the-art combat augmentation experience. Paolo jabbed the needle into his thigh. He felt euphoria, almost sexual in intensity. It was even better than the genetically-modified opium he’d smoked in the ruins of Kabul.
Now, something more than human, the Crimson Brigade agent disappeared into the night. Quickly gaining speed, forty kilometres an hour, he sprinted towards the perimeter. Vaulting the palisade, he landed in no-man’s land. A gaggle of rifle-armed squatters, huddled in a trench, watched open-mouthed as he flashed by. The Generals gathered in the back streets beyond, readying axes and swords and spears. Paolo’s augmented hearing detected hushed conversations, men talking tactics and intent. Yes, they were waiting for the Western perimeter to fall. Paolo stepped from the shadows, an axe in each fist.
“A tactical?” a leaguer growled. “What the fuck?”
Paolo smiled.
His first vic
tim was a blue-clad Urbanski, burly and moustachioed. He rushed Paolo, only to have his jugular pierced by a whispering tomahawk. More generals charged, gaudily dressed in surcoats and gold. Paolo’s blades sliced through armour, a killing arc biting deep into muscle and flesh. He feinted, dodging a spear-thrust, then pirouetted with axes akimbo. Two more generals screamed, clutching at jelly-wet entrails. Seeing a raised riot shield, Paolo leapt, using it as a platform. Tomahawks flashed, and more men died.
Finally, a pile of corpses lay at his feet, the moon-washed concrete slick with blood. The leaguers rallied, men in orange surcoats and black helms. Warriors of Loyal Croydonia. “Who the fuck are you?” one bellowed.
Paolo laughed, axes ready. “Does it matter? Is this all you’ve got?”
The Generals bellowed and screamed, hefting weapons and promising death. Paolo attacked, axes making a steely blur. With a ripping noise, a severed head spun away into the night. Barely feeling a baseball bat slam into his side, Paolo chopped off an arm. More men, woad-painted, rushed to attack. They died too, only to be replaced by more. Paolo fought silently, faced blood-masked, dopamine flooding his brain. The ecstasy rush intensified. A blood-frenzy, twin axes stealing souls. It was obscene. Waves of power, no – pleasure, coursed through his veins. The respirocite made him a Dark God, and these cattle his sacrifices. Dull-eyed sheep, trooping to his blood-soaked altar. He’d enjoyed many identities and been many people, but right now he preferred this version the most – Paolo as Destroyer. Avatar of Butchery. This must be what it’s like to be an Archangel. No wonder they would rather die than surrender their power…
Then, gunshots. Intuiting a bullet’s arc, Paolo leapt for a wall, making a parkour across the rooftops. The remaining leaguers formed a shield wall, shuffling towards him with spears ready. Paolo’s reply to their chanting was an incendiary grenade from his HK35. The explosion was muffled by the weight of bodies, a flash of light followed by the screams of the wounded and soon-to-die. Watching the leaguers burn, gaudy surcoats blazing, Paolo scanned the rooftops. He saw what he was looking for – a globe-shaped camera, feeding images to Ignacio’s control bunker. He raised a fist in salute. Then, checking his Blue Force tracker, he checked the coordinates for the Biggin Hill airbase. The route took him through the Crosland estate’s gauntlet.
Taking a gulp of smoky night air, he ran.
Twenty Three
The French woman, Florence, pointed at the barricade. “I’ve shown you the way through. Can I go?”
Hooker watched the skies for the relentless drone. “Sure, but before you go, d’you know of a bloke in the Commune called Paolo. Or a woman called Roisin?”
“Paolo? The Italian? He lives at the top of the tower, with a big Arab guy and a woman with dark hair. But I’ve never heard of… Ro’sheen?” she replied, struggling with the pronunciation.
“Paolo and his friends – are they squatters? Anarchists?”
“People think they’re hackers, or maybe ‘cotics smugglers,” Florence replied. “They are okay, though. Friendly. Paolo always looks very smart, he has good manners.”
“Thanks,” Hooker replied, giving Florence his remaining guineas. “When you get to the Red Cross station, tell them Rufus Hooker sent you.”
“I will,” she replied, taking the gold, “bless you, Monsieur.”
Francis disappeared inside the wall. He returned a few minutes later, smiling. “This leads to the perimeter. Brother Samuel, I reckon we’ll be OK if you show that magic-bloody-wand of yours.”
“No problem,” the big monk replied. “Let’s hope they honour our neutrality.”
Hooker and the monks squeezed inside the tunnel. The air was stale, scented with rust and oil. Their feet clanged on metal, weapons making scraping noises. “All we need is a fucking trombone,” Hooker grumbled.
“Ranjit’s got a tambourine,” said Brother Francis, snickering. “Right, let’s get our monk-shit together.”
“Love and peace, baby,” Brother Samuel chuckled. He twisted the metal hand at the tip of his quarterstaff, blue flame curling from its fingertips.
They emerged into a no-man’s land of bodies and burning vehicles. The last line of defence, the palisade, lay before them. Smaller barricades had been pulverised by explosions, bullet-riddled ambulances littering the battlefield. Medics crouched behind them, taking cover from the gunfire spitting from windows and balconies. “Follow me,” said Brother Samuel.
They walked towards palisade, red and black flags snapping in the hot night wind. Combatants scurried through wreckage created by missile strikes, throwing themselves to the ground when snipers opened fire. “How many leaguers d’you reckon?” Brother Francis asked, taking in the carnage.
“Thousands – the Commune’s surrounded,” Hooker replied, watching fighters lurking in the ruins. Some wore the blue surcoats of the Woolwich Urbanskis, others the orange of Loyal Croydonia. The Urbanskis sported extravagantly waxed beards, the Brethren clean-shaven and crop-headed. Those with crossbows or firebombs occasionally broke cover to open fire, before scurrying back to safety.
Brother Samuel raised his staff, blue flames swirling about its tip. “We are Answerers! We mean no harm.”
More warriors appeared – fresh street leaguers, carrying stolen police riot shields. The Sutton Trollz, wearing monster masks. They watched the monks warily, weapons ready. Hooker’s hand gripped the rifle hidden beneath his cloak. “That must be three league’s worth of Propers and Yeomen. I’ve never seen so many.”
“It’s the cream of the Urbanskis, Trollz and Loyal Croydonia,” Brother Francis replied. The Propers wore red cloaks, the Yeomen black. Then, finally, a small delegation of Generals, older men in lacquered armour. One raised a flag, a jagged rune representing the Grand Alliance of the Leagues. The leaguers bellowed as one, straining at the leash, eager to attack.
Brother Samuel whistled through his teeth. “This is going to be a legendary tear-up.”
“Ain’t ever seen anything like it,” Brother Francis agreed. “And I used to go to Millwall when I was a kid...”
“But they ain’t shooting at us,” said Hooker in amazement, the palisade drawing near.
“Not yet,” said Brother Francis. He stopped to offer a field dressing to a wounded pup, who grunted his thanks.
The palisade was seven metres high. “Answerers!” called Brother Samuel. “We’re here to help the wounded.”
“Come up,” shouted a man wearing a crash helmet. He pointed at the leaguers. “just don’t expect us to forgive any of those bastards.”
“There’ll be forgiveness in good time, my friend. We have morphine.”
“Answerers! They have medicine,” someone hollered. A ladder snaked down the wall, aluminium slats threaded into parachute cord.
Brother Francis went first, digging a muddy boot into the wall.
Then gunfire.
Eyes bulging, a bullet struck Francis’ back. Another punctured his skull, a third tearing into the back of his thigh. He fell, tangled in the ladder. With a roar, a skirmish line of Urbanskis and Trollz charged, weapons gleaming from the light of a hundred fires. Some carried long ladders, others rope and grappling irons. A stolen fire engine followed, warriors crouching on its hydraulic platform. “Move,” Hooker shouted, pushing Brother Francis’ body free. The Urbanskis roared a war cry, a roiling wave of fury. Grabbing Francis’ weapon, Hooker began hauling himself up the ladder. Brother Samuel followed, unflinching despite the bullets peppering the palisade around him.
At the top of the wall was a trench. They rolled inside, two of the anarchists grabbing Samuel as bullets whistled overhead. “Come on, plata ojos.”
“The medical station’s halfway between here and the tower,” said a gunman in a greatcoat. “Take your medicine there, quickly.”
“Be careful of the cable, or you’ll trip,” warned another, pointing at a muddy length of hose running across the trench floor.
Hooker looked at the cable. Half-sunk into the palisade, snaking a
way into a metal box. A fob was duct-taped taped to the lid. “Is that what I think it is?”
“IED. A big one,” one of the defenders grinned. “We’re gonna make them fight hard for this position, make the fascists commit reinforcements. Then we’ll blow the bastards up.”
“Won’t that let ‘em in?” said Hooker.
The anarchist smiled. “It’s a very big bomb.”
“Let’s get going,” said Brother Samuel.
The defenders opened fire with crossbows and rifles as the leaguers advanced. A volley of arrows, crossbow bolts and rifle shots spattered the length of the palisade in reply, killing several Black Riflemen. With a roar, ladders rattled and grappling hooks bit into dirt. “Go,” said the anarchist, working the bolt on his rifle. “Quickly!”
Hooker and Brother Samuel descended a ramp into a courtyard. The squatters had rigged storm lamps to a medical trailer, a red cross painted on the roof. Three figures sat huddled on top, heads bowed. A row of walking wounded waited patiently outside, smoking and looking nervously skywards. Hooker touched Samuel’s shoulder. “Can you see who’s on top of the trailer?”
“Wounded tacticals,” the monk replied, squinting. “The drone won’t shoot a target with friendly Blue Force trackers, will it?”
Hooker and Samuel nodded at the doctor supervising the medical orderlies. She was red-haired, dressed in a bloody apron and rubber boots. “I’m Doctor Porter, Medicine Sans Frontiers. Always good to see Answerers. Are there only the two of you?” Her accent was of Wessex, well-spoken but strange.
“Yes, we’re it,” said Samuel, unshouldering his pack. “We lost a man on the wall. I’ve got morphine, antibiotics, blood plasma and field dressings.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the doctor replied, lighting a cigarette. “We’re doing okay here at the moment – mainly shrapnel, burns and crush wounds. Not too many gunshot injuries yet.”
“It’ll get worse,” said Hooker. “There are thousands of the bastards out there.”
Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy Page 18