by Sepulchre
'We're being followed?' Kline asked, nervousness now mingled with expectancy.
Cora, next to him in the backseat, stiffened, and Monk, who occupied the front passenger seat—riding shotgun, as he liked to think of it—shifted his bulk to look first at his employer, then out the tinted rear window. His fingers automatically went to the revolver at his waist.
'No need for that,' Halloran warned. 'And use the side mirror if you want to spot them.'
'Nobody can see in,' Monk protested petulantly, already aggrieved with Halloran for having made him look so useless twice the day before.
“They can see shadows through the glass. Face the road and take your hand off that weapon.'
'Do it,' snapped Kline. Then to Halloran: 'Which one is it?'
'The light blue. A Peugeot, a few cars back. It's been on our tail since we leftLondon . My guess is it took over from another car that picked us up in the City, probably close to the Magma building.' In fact, Halloran had felt uneasy long before he'd arrived at Magma early that morning to take Kline down to hisSurrey home for the weekend. Yet he'd been unable to spot the 'tag' until they were into the outskirts.
'Are you sure?' asked Cora, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder at the traffic. 'This road is a main highway south most of these cars have probably been with us for miles.'
'Cora,' said Kline, 'if he says we're being followed, that's it -I believe him.' Halloran's easy penetration of Magma's security system the night before had impressed him. By wearing clothes that had merely resembled the security guards' uniforms, Halloran had strolled into the basement carpark, hidden until most of the day staff were leaving that evening, then found his way to the upper floors using the outgoing rush as cover. Nothing more than a stroll against the tide. Then a vacated room, a broom closet, or a toilet—Halloran hadn't given him details—until night time, then through to the chairman's suite, locked.
doors only slowing him down, not barring him. Observation cameras? No problem. Only certain corridors and halls were monitored that late at night and, at an agreed time, Shield had created a minor diversion. No more than a motor-bike messenger thumping on the glass main door to attract the attention of the two security guards on the monitoring desk. The messenger had waved a package in his hand and one of the guards had gone to the door while his colleague watched from the desk, poised to press an alarm button which would alert the other two security guards patrolling the building as well as the local police station should anything untoward occur. So his eyes had been on his partner and the messenger outside (the latter insisting that delivery forms had to be filled in and signed before he released the package) and not on the screens behind him. The ruse had allowed Halloran to negotiate the more exposed locations without being seen. Naturally a risk was involved, but human reaction being what it is, the risk was slight. The rest of the journey had been simple (simple that is, for someone like Halloran): the private elevator, the 'pacification' of Monk and Palusinski, the entry into his, Kline's bedroom. No big deal (and heads were already rolling in the Corporation's office that morning as specialists from Achilles'
Shield revised Magma's security arrangements).
Someone else and you could be dead. Kline remembered Halloran's words. Not quite that simple, Halloran, he thought. No, not quite that easy.
He smiled and Cora was puzzled by the sudden burning intensity in his eyes.
The Mercedes was slowing, the left indicator blinking. Halloran turned the car off the main road, then picked up speed again, their surroundings soon vignetting into green fields and hedgerows, with few houses between.
Cora noticed Halloran occasionally glancing into the rearview mirror, but his reflected eyes betrayed nothing. He had warned Monk not to look back and she, herself, followed the instruction. Their car maintained a steady speed and still Cora could not detect from Halloran's manner whether or not they were being followed.
Several minutes passed before he reached again for the radio transmitter.
'Hector-One.'
'Hector-Two. Over.'
'Tag's still with us, keeping well back.'
'Yeah. We made out three occupants. Want us to block them?'
'No. No offensive until we're sure. There's a village ahead. Pull in somewhere and let 'em by. Follow at a distance and come up fast if they make a move. Out.'
'Will do. Out.' Houses quickly loomed up, then they were into the village, a hamlet really, only a few houses on either side of the road. Halloran saw the small filling station and knew where his back-up would pull into. He checked the mirror as theGranada slowed into the forecourt. The blue Peugeot soon came into view and he put his foot down a little to give them cause to hurry.
He had taken a more circuitous route than necessary to Kline's country house, but now they couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes away. If these people were hostile, he wanted them to make their play soon, before they were too close to home. He preferred to keep trouble off the doorstep.
He eased up on the accelerator, inviting in the possible pursuer. The Peugeot increased speed, coming up fast, beginning to fill the rearview mirror.
Halloran had faith in the 'hardened' vehicle he was driving. The door panels, trunk, roof, and engine compartment were armoured with Kevlar, aluminium oxide ballistic ceramic tiles, which was lighter than the old-style heavy steel plate that tended to render a vehicle clumsy and so impede its performance. The windows were of layered bullet- and blast-resistant glass and the tyres were compartmentalised and self-sealing so that speed need not be reduced should they be punctured by bullets. Even the fuel compartments, main and reserve, consisted of separate cells which would limit the outbreak of fire should they be pierced.
The French car was directly behind now, only feet away from the Mercedes' reinforced bumper.
'Sit back,' he told Kline, whose face was still close to Halloran's shoulder. 'And keep low, legs against the back of the front seat, as though you're resting. Cora, they'll be coming up on your side, so brace yourself. You'll be okay—they'd need a bazooka to dent this tub.'
'Speed up,' Kline urged. 'Don't let them get alongside us!'
'Stay low,'Halloran calmly repeated. 'They may be no threat 'Why take the chance? I don't like this, Halloran.'
'Trust me.' Cora wasn't sure if Halloran's tone was mocking.
Monk had drawn his revolver by now. Halloran didn't even look his way, but said, 'Keep that bloody thing tucked into your lap and don't even think of using it unless I tell you.' They were rounding a bend and the Peugeot was straddling the middle of the road ready to overtake.
Halloran continued to instruct the bodyguard. 'Put your elbow on the sill and keep your left hand in sight.
You know how to act nonchalant?' The American grunted something.
'Okay,' said Halloran. 'Here they come. See that church steeple in the distance? I want you all to keep your eyes on that. No watching our friends here.' The road had straightened, a clear stretch ahead for at least half a mile. The Peugeot drew level with the Mercedes' rear wheel and Halloran deliberately glanced over his shoulder and touched his brakes, a gentlemanly gesture to allow the other vehicle to pass by. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, holding it steady, as the Peugeot inched its way alongside. He could feel the occupants' eyes on him and his senses sharpened to such a degree that he could smell new-cut grass under the petrol fumes, even though all windows were closed, could hear the Mercedes'
tyres rumble over the road's hard surface, could feel the pounding of machinery beneath the car's bonnet.
The acuteness of danger overlaid all those sensings.
Halloran smiled at the other driver, nodding at the deserted road ahead, an indication that he was leaving the way clear.
The Peugeot suddenly accelerated even more, then was by them, tail rapidly receding into the distance.
'Hogshit,' grumbled Monk.
'You scared us far nothing, Halloran,' Kline complained. Bastard, you scared us for -'
'Keep down,' Hallo
ran warned.
There was yet another bend ahead and the blue car had disappeared around it.
Kline's mouth dropped. He snapped back into his seat and said, 'You're right. They're there.' The Peugeot was parked across the road, blocking it completely. A fence lined one side of the road, trees the other. The occupants of the car were outside, crouched low behind the bodywork.
Halloran slammed on the Mercedes' brakes and the car screeched to a halt, rubber burning off into the concrete in straight black lines. He immediately shifted into reverse and stabbed down hard on the accelerator pedal, throwing his passengers forward then back into their seats.
Monk's revolver had slid onto the floor and he doubled over, restrained by his seatbelt, podgy hands scrabbling at the floor to reach the weapon. Cora felt herself propelled forward again by the reverse motion of the car. Kline had already scrambled down into the well between backseat and front Halloran increased speed, looking over his shoulder through the back window, both hands still on the steering wheel. The bend in the road loomed up fast. He began the turn, hardly slowing down at all, the passengers hurled to one side. Round the curve and out of sight from their attackers. He straightened the car, increased speed.
Suddenly Halloran stamped on the footbrake, rapidly winding an full lock as he did so. The Mercedes responded beautifully, making a 180-degree turn so that it faced the direction in which it had been reversing.
Hard on the accelerator again, and they were away, scorching road, using its full width.
The back-upGranada was hurtling towards them and Halloran swerved over to the left-hand side of the road, both cars screeching to a halt beside one another. He was already snapping orders before the electric window was fully down.
'Hostiles just around the bend. Stop them following.'
'You want us to engage?' the other driver shouted back.
'Not if you can help it—I saw guns in their hands. I'll use another route to Home.' The cars took off at the same time, the exchange taking no more than seconds.
'Am I safe?' came Kline's querulous voice from the back.
'Not yet,' Halloran replied, looking into the rearview mirror in time to see theGranada disappear around the curve. He returned his attention to the way ahead, on the alert for possible support for the 'hostiles'.
A van was approaching, two more cars behind that. He pressed the button to raise his window and made ready to accelerate or slam on the brakes yet again, whichever course of action might prove necessary.
The line of vehicles passed without incident and he checked the mirror once more. Still nothing coming up from behind, the van and cars continuing to travel away from the Mercedes. He felt some of the tension ease from him.
Kline was back by his shoulder. 'Why didn't you tell your guys to shoot the bastards'?' he demanded angrily.
'This isSurrey ,' Halloran told him, 'not the Middle-East. Gun wars are frowned upon here. Besides, they're not armed at present, a condition that'll have to be changed, I think.'
'Listen to me, Halloran . . .' Kline began to say when the radio transmitter interrupted.
'Hector-Two.' Halloran reached for the hand-set. 'Hector-One. Give me the news.'
'They were gone before we rounded the bend. We drove on, but there was a junction not far ahead—they could've gone off in any direction. Our guess is that they'd spotted us earlier, so didn't hang around or try to follow when you got away.'
'You made out the number?'
'Sure, when they passed the garage.' So had Halloran, but there was no need to repeat it to his operatives: they were too well trained to have made any mistakes. 'Call Base, get them to use their influence to run a check.'
'Will do. As it was a Peugeot, it°s probably been stolen, not hired.'
'I agree. Check it out though. Scout the area for a while, then make your way to Home. Out.'
'Catch you later. Out.' Halloran drove on, moving briskly without breaking any speed limits, using the roadway to the full when he could, everwatchful at sideroads and bends, even though instinct told him they were now safe.
'Who were they, Felix?' he heard Cora ask from the back, nervousness still in her voice.
'How should I know?' was the reply. 'Thugs, lunatics!'
'Take it easy,' Halloran soothed. 'It won't be long before we reach your place.' Kline peered out the windows. 'Oh yeah? Well this isn't the tuck the way.'
'No, but it'll get us there eventually. I worked out various routes this morning before I collected you. My team will use another way and meet us there. Monk, you can put the gun away, you won't be needing it.'
The pony-tailed bodyguard reluctantly obeyed.
'I told you, Cora,' Kline said, his words rushed, his breathing excited. 'I said I was in danger, I told you all.' He was once again the Felix Kline Halloran had first met, nervous, arrogant; too many words spilling from his lips. 'I sensed the danger, I just damn knew didn't I? Bastards! Halloran, I need more of your men to protect me. I could've been hurt back there.'
'Wasn't it your idea that we limit our forces?'
'Yeah, yeah, you're right. You'll do. You got us out of a tight spot. No more manpower required. Right: I don't feel too good.' Cora immediately reached for him.
'Leave me alone!' Kline snapped, sinking back into his seat. 'I'm tired, I need to rest. You all want too much from me, you all expect too much. Let me rest, will you?' Halloran heard a clasp being opened, a rattling of pills in a container.
'Felix,' said Cora, 'take them, they'll calm you.'
'You think I want drugs at a time like this? You trying to make me weak'?' There was a slapping sound and the pills sprinkled onto the seat and floor.
'I've got to stay alert, you stupid bitch! Those bastards want to hurt me and you're trying to dope me up.'
'They're only Valium, Felix, that's all. You need to calm down.' Monk's seat jerked as Kline kicked its back. The bodyguard continued to watch the passing countryside as if he hadn't noticed.
Kline's voice had risen to a high pitch. 'You know what I oughta do with you, Cora? You know what? I oughta dump you right now, out of the car into the road. Leave you here. How would you like that, Cora, huh? How would you get by then? What fucking use are you to me?'
'Don't, Felix.' There was a mixture of misery and low panic in her voice. 'You've had a bad scare, you don't mean what you're saying.'
'Don't I? Oh don't I? You think I give a shit about you?' Halloran heard the smack of flesh on flesh, heard the girl's small, startled cry. He brought the Mercedes to a smooth halt by the side of the road and turned round to face Kline, one arm resting casually on the back of the driver's seat. Cora was leaning her forehead against the window, eyes closed, a watery line slowly seeping onto her eyelashes; there were red marks on her cheek.
'Kline,' he said evenly, 'you're beginning to irritate. I can do my job better if you don't. I want you to sit quietly so I can think, observe, and get you to our destination unharmed. If by the time we arrive you're sick of me too, you can make a phone call and have me replaced. It's no skin off my nose, know what I mean? Do we have an arrangement?' Kline stared open-mouthed at him and for the merest instant, Halloran saw something in those liquid eyes that he couldn't recognise. He'd faced killers and fanatics before and each had a distinctly similar and identifiable glint adrift in their gaze; he'd looked upon gunmen, abductors, and extortionists—childmurderers even—and a certain mien linked them all, setting them apart from others of the human race. But there was a glimmer shining from deep inside this man that was like nothing else he'd witnessed before. Kline's stare was almost mesmeric.
Until whatever held him became dulled, or at least, was veiled by a creeping normality. Kline laughed, and it was a full, rich sound, unexpected and unlike his usual cackling.
'Whatever you say, Halloran,' he said good-humouredly. 'Yeah, whatever you say.' Halloran turned and shifted into D. The Mercedes pulled away, heading into the winding country roads. And during the last part of that journey, Halloran fr
equently checked the rearview mirror. But this time he was mostly studying the man who was resting, with eyes now closed, in the backseat.
While Monk, from the corner of his eyes, watched Halloran.
MONK A PILGRIM'S PROGRESS
It was a lousy name anyway. But none of the other kids ever added the 'ey'. MONKEY. Nah, too easy.
They called him Ape. Up until he hit fourteen, that is. That was when the ape pissed right back out of the cage.
Theo was never gutsy (or Theodore Albert, as his mama always called him — 'Theodore Albert you wuz baptised, and Theodore Albert you be called, honey mine'—as she parted his hair right down the middle, slicking either side with a licked palm, every fuckin' morning afore she pushed him out the door and along the path to where good of Uncle Mort waited in the pick-up—'You'd look real purty, boy,'
Uncle Mort often observed, 'if you wunt so porky'- to take him down to Coatesville Junior High where the boys bent their knees and dragged their knuckles along the ground behind him, lumbering from side to side in an ape waddle, imitating his high wheezy voice (another affliction which didn't help none) until he finally flipped his aid and whirled around and knocked them squat—no, a lie: he cried, he always fuckin'
cried. 'cos he was a mama's boy, he knew it and they knew it and they all knew he'd never raise a pudgy fist, he was too chickenshit to hit back, but . . .) but he hadn't been chickenshit those few years later at West Chester High when he stuck the fire under the assembly hall on prizegiving (no prizes coming to him anyway) morning, when all those turds had been up there nudging and sniggering and whispering, but soon wailing and screaming and punching, falling over each other to break out of that burning hell-hall, where only three were really roasted by the fire, but fifteen (no teachers damaged—the parents hated them for that) kicked off from chokin' and crushed rib-cages.
That day was the turning point for Theodore Albert Monk, 'pissin'-out day', the day he discovered every person had a power, anyone—big, small, fat or skinny—could decide for someone else when their Pay-Off Time (POT) had arrived. You didn't need to be Einstein or Charles Atlas (or even Charlie fuckin' Brown) to choose their day for 'em. Point a stubby finger and raise a meaty thumb like a cocked gun and that was it. Bingo. Not right there and then, of course; but that was decision time, that was as good as. After that you waited for the right moment. Could take days, weeks, maybe months. Thing was, it always came. You gottem when they and nobody else expected it. When you were safe.