Bionic Agent

by Rose, Malcolm

  The guy was not going to give in to ridicule. “The boss said she wanted to sort him out. I’m calling her.” He put his phone to his ear.

  The mood changed instantly. At the mention of the boss, there was no more joshing. The others seemed to realize that calling Melissa Pink meant this business was deadly serious.

  Jordan rose to his feet and almost all of them took a step back. The nervy one from the sports centre trained a gun on him. “Make a run for it and I’ll put a bullet in your back. You won’t stop that with your hand.”

  The sudden appearance of a gun took the tension to another level. Jordan held his breath.

  “Let’s take him to the shed.”

  The dealer with the gun waved it in the direction of a long windowless shack with a corrugated plastic roof. It was an outbuilding for storing and maintaining boats. Four of the young men led the way and the rest – including the guy with the gun – stayed behind Jordan. This time, Jordan couldn’t see a way to escape from Melissa Pink’s heavies. He entered the workshop.

  Inside, it could have been the set of a horror film. It was lit by a flickering fluorescent tube. There were workbenches along both sides. Tools and parts of boats littered the place. There were chains and ropes everywhere. At the far end there was a pool filled with a dirty liquid. The smell coming from it was evil.

  The thugs formed a circle around him.

  “Now we wait,” the gangster with the gun said. “She won’t be long.”

  Melissa Pink was an unremarkable and compact woman. She was in her late thirties, Jordan guessed, but she was the height of a twelve-year-old. Her freckly face was pale and her long ginger hair was probably natural. She wasn’t carrying a weapon but both of her muscular minders were armed under their jackets. One of them was the bald man with the bushy beard who had tried to shoot Jordan in the sports centre.

  “What have we here?” Melissa said with a smile. “A freak, I think.” Keeping at least one pace away from him, she walked right around him. She reminded Jordan of a vulture checking out a carcass before pouncing and tearing off pieces of flesh. She came to a halt on his right and gazed at the fake hand. “The bionic boy, no less. What’s your name?”

  “Jordan.”

  “Jordan what?”

  “Stryker.”

  She continued her circuit until she faced him again. “You roughed up my club. Why?”

  “Your bouncers tried to rough me up,” Jordan answered. “I was defending myself.”

  “Have you been to the police about what you saw?”

  “No.”

  Melissa stared at him coldly. “Who are you working for?”

  “I’m fourteen. I don’t work for anyone.”

  “No one official maybe.” She sniffed noisily. “What does the name Goss mean to you?”

  Her question took him by surprise. “Er... Nothing.”

  She laughed. “Bionic and transparent.”

  “I mean, I’m not working for him.”

  “Yes, you are,” she replied, scratching her nose.

  Jordan’s legs were trembling. He fought to keep control. He wondered if he would be better off letting her believe that he worked for her gangland rival. If he persuaded her that she was wrong, she might demand answers he would not dare to reveal. He didn’t deny it again.

  “If I got close enough,” she asked, “could you crush my arm – or my neck?”

  He nodded. “Easily.”

  “Hmm.” Sneering, she said, “I wonder what you’re worth in scrap metal.”

  Her henchmen sniggered. They probably knew what was on her mind. Perhaps it was also compulsory to acknowledge her clever remarks.

  Saying as little as possible wasn’t helping Jordan to cope with his situation – or with his nerves. He changed tactics. “Can I ask you something?”

  She shrugged. “It makes no difference.”

  Jordan didn’t like the sound of that. He shuddered but carried on anyway. “Did you set off the estuary explosion?”

  She laughed cruelly. “Neat operation.”

  “But was it you?”

  “Doesn’t Goss know? I’d like to claim it but, no, it wasn’t one of mine.” She was a restless and fidgety woman. She removed some wax from her ear with her little finger, flicked it off, and then continued. “Canvey Arms Factory copped it. Ask yourself why. There’s some stupid people around here who don’t like war, guns and bombs. Anti-war protesters.” She shook her head as if she felt sorry for them. “They think we should all hold hands and be nice to each other instead of making weapons. Believe me, you don’t have to look much further to find out who did it. They wanted to whip up a backlash against the arms trade.” Putting on a high-pitched voice, she said, “Now you’ve seen the harm that bombs do, let’s make sure this country never builds any more. Peace and love.”

  “You sound sure.”

  “It’s what I’ve heard. But if Goss – and everyone else – thinks I did it... Good. It serves a purpose. It reminds them not to mess with Melissa Pink. Fear works.”

  Jordan didn’t know this woman, but he thought she might be telling the truth.

  She gave another of her ugly smiles. “You know, if we were in a film, this is the scene where I say, ‘I could use a lad like you.’ I’d offer you power and money to leave Goss and work for me. But it’s not a film. I just want you out of my way and off my territory.” She glanced at the pool of foul liquid at the end of the shed.

  Jordan followed her gaze fearfully.

  “It’s caustic. It strips paint off metal – and flesh off bones.” She sniffed loudly again. “Put yourself in my place. I’ve got my reputation to think of. I can’t have a boy questioning – even undermining – my authority around here, so I have to deal with dissent. And it has to be known I deal harshly with dissent. Very harshly. I’m bound to make an example of someone who tries to rough up my club or my people. On top of that, you know too much about me and my business interests. You’ve seen too much.” She looked around her gang of young men and then pointed to the caustic pool. “Get on with it.” She began to leave but hesitated. “After you’re done,” she added, “drain the tank and send the arm back to Goss.”

  10 PRISON

  In horror, Jordan watched Melissa Pink walk out with her silent bodyguards. Presumably she wanted to be able to claim that she wasn’t around when the murder took place.

  A leering member of the gang came up to Jordan. “Let’s have some fun.”

  Jordan could sense temperature with his infrared vision, he could crush almost anything with his powerful right arm, he could pick up sounds and smells well beyond normal human senses, but he didn’t stand a chance against a bullet fired from behind into his back.

  “Move. Over there.” The gunman waved the weapon towards the stinking pool.

  Jordan could have sent a message to Unit Red’s computer system with his BCI, but Angel and Winter were in London. They wouldn’t be able to send help quickly enough to save him.

  Even with an enhanced body, Jordan felt feeble. He stumbled forward until he stood at the edge of the tank and looked down at the corrosive fluid. It was almost black and appeared to be as thick as oil. The lump in his throat made it hard to swallow.

  Someone said, “A jump or a push? The choice is yours.”

  Their brutality made Jordan angry. And anger gave him strength. He refused to believe he’d come through a year of torture to die in this miserable place in such an awful way. “Neither.”

  “A bullet, then?”

  “I’ll do it my own way.” Holding his breath, he squatted down by the paint stripper as if he was preparing himself to slide into the disgusting pool. But he didn’t. He had one chance. He dipped his cupped right hand into the liquid. In one swift movement, he spun round and flung the stuff towards the gangster with the gun. A shower of drops hurtled towards his head. The young man squealed, dropped the gun and covered his face with his arms.

  Jordan didn’t wait. He plunged his hand into the bath again,
scooped out more fluid and flung it at the thugs who were standing between him and the door. Two of them screamed as the spray stung their eyes and bare skin. The others tried to protect themselves by turning their backs or shielding their faces. One yanked off his shirt because the splattered drops had begun to burn through the material. All of them shut their eyes.

  Jordan took off. He ran to the door and burst through before any of the gangsters recovered enough to chase him. He dashed past the boats, the café and the entrance. He didn’t stop. He sprinted breathlessly into the housing estate. He didn’t know the area very well, but he zigzagged through it to put off anyone who might try to follow him. At the edge of the estate that was furthest from the marina, he found himself in The Copse. But it was a dead end. To conceal himself from Pink’s heavies, he sidled through the bushes and collapsed among the trees.

  There, he went online and left a message. Emergency. Collect me from The Copse, Hoo. Armed thugs not far away, looking for me.

  He rested against a tree trunk and examined his right-hand side. His shirtsleeve was dissolving and small holes had appeared in his trousers. Underneath, his leg tingled. The artificial skin stretched over his arm had turned orangey-brown and, as he watched, it was still darkening. He hoped the paint stripper wouldn’t go right through.

  “More damage to government property,” he muttered to himself.

  As his heart slowed and breathing became easier, he wished for Winter to come early.

  In the underground medical room of the Highgate Village house, Jordan sat in the chair that looked like a dentist’s. With trays of tools at hand, a technician was peeling back the blackened skin from his arm. “It’s called de-gloving,” she told him.

  He knew why. It was like removing a very tight and stretchy glove. “Is the metal underneath okay?”

  “It’s fine. It’ll cope with a lot worse than caustic solutions.”

  Interrupting, Angel said, “But don’t try it. A bullet and paint stripper’s quite enough.” He sat down opposite his youngest agent. “So, you think Melissa Pink could be out of the picture. And she thinks it was peace protesters, but she didn’t have any evidence.”

  “Yes.”

  Even when Angel was sitting down, his stature was striking. Jordan would’ve liked to see him next to Melissa Pink. They would have made a comical mismatch. Opposites in height, opposites in law.

  Winter chipped in, “And you didn’t get anything more on Salam Bool?”

  “No.”

  “You won’t give up, though,” said Angel.

  Jordan never did. For one thing, he was alive. Even when ten thugs had been on the verge of pushing him into a pool of corrosive fluid at gunpoint, Jordan hadn’t surrendered.

  The technician looked like a nurse as she attended to Jordan’s arm, but really she was an engineer. She could have been repairing a dented car left at her service centre. Finishing the de-gloving, she cast the damaged silicone sleeve aside.

  Looking at it, Jordan imagined his fake arm was a snake that had just shed its skin.

  “Okay,” she said. “A wash of the casing, then I’m going to put the spare on.”

  Angel gave her a slight nod before announcing to Jordan, “And I’m going to send you to prison tomorrow.”

  Jordan stared at him. “What?”

  “Well, a Young Offender Institution attached to Chelmsford Prison.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a prisoner I want you to meet. An arms trade protester who’s inside for trying to set fire to a missile base. Name of Gideon Riley. Apparently, everyone calls him Giddy. He’s high profile in the anti-war movement. He’ll know if that’s what the estuary explosion was all about. To pass the time, he’s formed a group – he plays guitar – but he’s about to lose his drummer.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m getting him moved to a different prison. You can help Riley with the gap in his band.”

  “You know about me and drums?”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing my job properly.”

  Jordan wasn’t surprised, but he was dismayed. He knew very little about Angel, but Angel knew everything about him. To Jordan, that felt wrong. And creepy. He wanted to have secrets. Without them, he wasn’t his own person. He might as well belong to Unit Red. He promised himself he’d keep some secrets from Angel and Winter. Including Amy Goss.

  “You’ve gone quiet,” said Angel. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing,” Jordan replied. “I was just wondering what I’m supposed to do with Gideon Riley – apart from join his band.”

  Angel shrugged. “Make friends. Gain his trust. Let him talk. You just have to listen.”

  “And hope he mentions blowing up the Richard Montgomery?”

  “Or convinces you he didn’t. As soon as you find out, you’ll get early release.”

  Jordan nodded. “That reminds me. What am I supposed to have done to get banged up in the first place?”

  Angel laughed. “I’ll think of something.”

  The technician rolled the artificial skin right up to Jordan’s reconstructed shoulder and said, “There you are. As good as new.” She smiled oddly at Angel and added, “Everything’s in place.”

  It was Friday 20th April and Jordan was letting rip in the recreation room when Prisoner 1345 took an interest in his drumming. Under the watchful eyes of the guards, the man leaned on the pool table for a while before coming forward. “You’re pretty good,” he said.

  “I used to be.” Jordan held out his artificial arm. “This doesn’t help.”

  “Still sounds cool to me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “They call me Giddy,” he said. “What are you in for?”

  “I’ve got a habit of setting fire to things. They said I’m doing it to get my own back for my accident.”

  “Are you?”

  Jordan shrugged. “I just like flames.”

  He couldn’t ever remember being so untruthful when he was plain Ben Smith. Then again, he was trying not to dredge up his past. He guessed that being a secret agent was always going to involve deception.

  Giddy didn’t seem to sense any threat in the young offender. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Jordan.”

  “And what are you going to do when you get out?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “More arson?”

  Jordan shrugged again.

  “You’re young. You don’t want to come back here. It’s not a nice place to be.”

  Jordan had learned that already. It was depressing. Everywhere he looked there were tall wire fences, locked doors, and prison guards. The place was a relentless grey. The loudest sounds were barked commands and slamming gates. Everything happened slowly. Everyone walked at a snail’s pace. Nothing was worth running for. He spent a large part of every day in queues. Queues for food, queues to go through doors, queues to be frisked, queues for the showers. Queues for everything. Prison erased choice and personality. Most of all, it was miserable because the prisoners couldn’t just pack up and leave whenever they needed a break from life inside.

  “After you’ve done your time, keep to drumsticks,” Giddy said. “Stay clear of matchsticks.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Perhaps I can help.”

  “Oh?”

  “How do you fancy playing in a band?”

  It felt good to be thumping out a rhythm again, but it wasn’t with the same joy. He was drumming as part of a mission, he felt as if his strong right arm was about to thrust the stick straight through the skin and, like most nervous drummers, he speeded up the beat too much.

  Taking a break from rehearsals, drinking a weird liquid that was supposed to be tea, Jordan asked Giddy, “What are you in for?”

  “Playing guitar very badly.”

  “Seriously.”

  Giddy smiled. “Not so different from what you did. They got me for setting fire to a military camp. Not for the fi
rst time.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like the arms industry.”

  Jordan played dumb. Puzzled, he looked down at his artificial arm.

  Giddy’s expression was part amusement, part annoyance. “No. Not that sort of arms industry. Arms. Missiles, bombs, guns and stuff.”

  “Oh. Right.” Jordan paused before adding, “What’s the problem with them?”

  “What’s the problem?” he exclaimed. “They kill people. That’s what.” He started waving his hands around and nearly knocked over his tea. “Bombs are what go off in the Middle East or wherever. Not England. Not usually anyway. We’re divorced from it. We don’t understand what it’s like. We don’t have to hide in basements and hope. We don’t have to bury victims. We’ve forgotten the reality of war. We make weapons and sell them all over the place, but don’t see the result.”

  Jordan nodded. “I used to live near Canvey Arms Factory. It’s not there any more. It went up in the estuary explosion.”

  “Good,” Giddy said.

  Jordan looked into his face. “You didn’t... Did you?”

  “Set it off?” Giddy shook his head. “No. But I’m glad someone did, because it taught us all a lesson. It brought home the havoc and destruction our bombs cause.”

  “People died.”

  Giddy gazed at Jordan. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that.”

  “You can’t be the only anti-bomb protester. Did one of your mates do it?”

  “Bombs set off by people campaigning against bombs. Does that sound very likely to you?”

  Jordan shrugged.

  “A few of them claimed it, but I’d know if any of them did it.” Giddy shook his head and got to his feet. “No chance. Come on. I’ve written a song about it. ‘Arms Trade’. You’ll like it. It’s fast and furious. Suits your style. Let’s give it a go.”

  Jordan knew that Gideon Riley would be kept in prison for a lot longer if he was convicted of the estuary explosion. So it was in his interests to deny that he was responsible. Jordan also suspected that he might keep quiet to protect one of his campaigning friends. But Giddy had no reason to believe that Jordan – apparently a young offender – would tell the authorities about their conversation. Jordan thought he was probably telling the truth.