by Oisin McGann
Through a doorway at the far end of the room, a tall figure enters. A path clears for it as it moves into the room. Nobody tries to talk to it, nobody flirts with it or dances up against it. Unlike anyone else in the room, it has a circle of clear space around its blue-grey cloak. The helmet that extends all the way down to its shoulders hides a multitude of lenses and sensors behind a long, smoked-glass visor. The Safe-Guard has come to watch the party.
“Jesus,” FX mumbles. “Talk about a killjoy.”
“Nobody’s paying it any attention,” I point out. “They’re just carrying on regardless. Some people hardly even notice them anymore—unless they’re the type that actually want to be caught on screen.”
“Here, you don’t … you don’t reckon it’s someone in costume, do you?” he asks.
“Nobody would dare,” I reply.
It’s illegal to impersonate a Safe-Guard—even to wear the costume. And the old bill don’t mess about on that particular point of law.
“Mani needs to shed as many of those cameras as possible,” he says. “The peeper shouldn’t see them in the room unless it’s really looking, but if it spots her carrying them, it could get suspicious.”
Manikin has already placed a few more, and is working her way upstairs, mingling with the other guests like she belongs there. We have views of the front door, the hall, the living room, the dining room, the stairs, and the landing. She’ll try and get into a couple of the bedrooms too.
The Turk and his driver, Klump, are watching the screen over our shoulders now. They both curse when they see the Safe-Guard on the screen.
“This is all we need!” the Turk rumbles in his Greek-London accent. “Stinkin’ peepers always there when you do not want them. Who’s got the coffee?”
FX and I exchange glances. The troll in the back with us passes a large flask forward, along with a couple of plastic cups. Klump pours a drink for the boss and then himself. I keep a discreet eye on the Turk as he tears open a couple of sachets of artificial sweetener and adds them to his coffee. I watch carefully while trying not to show it. I swapped out his real sweeteners when we were setting up the van. The ones he’s emptying into his cup are sweet all right, but they also contain a powerful laxative. Like I said before, I’m good with chemicals. The Turk is about twenty minutes away from suffering some pretty disastrous bowel movements.
Nimmo should have the gun set up on its mount by now. We just reached the point of no return. We’re going for it.
Chapter 7: The Search for the Duke
FX is getting fidgety again but I don’t pay it too much attention. Even without our little work of sabotage, this is a bloody risky job, so it shouldn’t look suspicious to the others. I know what he’s thinking though: Has Nimmo done what he’s supposed to do?
This is the problem with relying on somebody whose job is to be a ghost. And that’s what he is, out in those trees facing the two large living-room windows. He has to place the gun and fire it at just the right moment. Yesterday, I gave him the remote-control mount FX rigged up. FX stole it from the wall of a car park, where it held a CCTV camera. He modified it so it could be attached to the trunk of a tree. It has to be strong enough to hold a rifle steady and its movement has to be extremely accurate. Accurate enough for Nimmo to aim and fire a shot through the living-room window of the house—by remote control.
FX is worried about Nimmo screwing this up—or not turning up at all. I’m worried about that rifle mount. The idea is to scare Jonny, convince him someone’s trying to kill him and force him into hiding before the Turk’s crew can snatch him. The gun has to be fired by remote because Nimmo can’t be anywhere near it when he takes the shot. The instant the gun goes off, the peeper’s attention—and the focus of all its surveillance gear—will be drawn toward the trees outside. At that point, Mani will pull Jonny in the other direction, away from the Turk.
Even though we intend to miss Jonny, the gun still has to be aimed properly. It would be a real downer if we went to all this trouble to avoid murdering someone, and then accidentally blew somebody else’s head off instead.
FX and I are studying all the video feed from Mani’s cameras. We examine every person whose size and shape match the last known description of the Duke. He’s a big guy: six foot three and stocky with dark-brown hair and pale skin. He’s got a small scar on his neck where he had a run-in with one of his criminal clients, back when he was an accountant. The knife wound was little more than a threat, but it left its mark. We’re looking for that scar, or anything else that might give him away—even signs of an older man in this young crowd.
We’re also watching Manikin flirting with Jonny, who she’s finally found, dressed as Willy Wonka. She’s keeping him in the living room—in the sights of Nimmo’s gun.
Manikin, FX and I are wearing two earpieces each. What Easy’s trolls don’t know is that one of those lets us hear Nimmo on a separate encrypted line.
“It’s me,” he says suddenly in my right ear. “We’re set. Moving to the back of the house now. Be there in about thirty seconds.”
The walls of the house separate him from the Safe-Guard, but if the peeper switches to X-ray or thermal imaging and turns away from the party, it could easily spot him sneaking through the garden. Right now, Manikin is dancing, pulling Jonny with her as she shuffles into the peeper’s line of sight. She drops a beer bottle near its feet to distract it, making a loud apology about the mess. The music seems louder than ever, the beat fast and tense.
“Okay,” I reply thoughtfully, pretending to study something closer on FX’s screen.
The Turk and his goons can all hear me, and they’re all wearing piercings either in their eyebrows or noses. Those piercings contain micro-cameras and mikes. Using those, Move-Easy can watch the whole show from back in his Void. Easy doesn’t trust anybody, least of all his own people. The only person on this whole operation who isn’t onscreen somewhere is Nimmo. He’s our wild card, and it’s almost time to play him. I hear the Turk’s stomach rumble and he forces a loud belch, trying to relieve the growing pressure in his gut.
“What’s taking so long?” he growls at me. “Have you found them or not?”
“They’re all wearing masks and stupid costumes,” I explain, trying not to sound like I’m talking down to him—which is hard. “Manikin’s found Jonny and she’s sticking close to him. That’s him dressed as Willy Wonka there. Still no sign of the Duke, but we’ll find him.”
The Turk doesn’t answer, but his belly does, gurgling this time. He grunts with discomfort and shifts in his seat. I give him about three minutes.
“I’m in position,” Nimmo says in my ear.
Now he’s on the far side of the house from the gun, around the back. In a few minutes, all hell is going to break loose, and Nimmo needs everyone else to be looking away from him when it does. He’s not so far around that the weapon’s aiming in his direction. It’s a .22—not a powerful rifle. It won’t get past the solid brick wall it should hit, but bullets can do all sorts of dodgy damage if they miss their target.
“Balls,” Nimmo says then. “I’ve got no signal. The house must be casting a radio shadow. Had a signal from here last night, but I’ve got nothing now. I’ll have to move back ’round.”
The peeper’s facing toward the window—Nimmo would be moving right across its eye line.
“Hold it! Wait there!” I say.
The Turk looks sharply at me, but I point at FX’s screen as if that’s what I’m talking about. Then I shake my head and dismiss the image with my hand. The Turk is about to say something when he suddenly gasps, lets rip with a suspiciously gurgly fart and fumbles for the handle of his door. Lurching out, he scrambles over the garden wall and disappears from view.
“Wot’s got into ’im?” Klump blurts out. “Wotzit all about?”
From beyond the wall, in the bushes of Clayton Dean’s garden, we hear the unmistakable sounds of an explosive release of diarrhea. Klump an
d the other goon burst out laughing, but try and stifle it because nobody laughs at the Turk without getting their face broken. The three other trolls in the car down the road want to know what’s happening. Klump tells them and they’re laughing too.
I’m sweating now; my heart’s pounding against my lungs. The Safe-Guard is moving toward the front door, as if drawn to something outside. It mustn’t spot the Turk squatting in the garden. Or worse, the Turk might see the gun. Not yet. We’re not ready. Nimmo has to take his shot. …
“What’s going on?” Manikin hisses into her mike, momentarily turned away from Jonny. “Somebody talk to me!”
The two trolls are distracted by the Turk’s loud and violent bowel movements. Nimmo still has no signal. He can’t connect with the gun mount. FX brings up a new window on his screen, tapping into the signal for the remote control. The view through the gun’s camera comes up on screen, with a crosshairs in the center. He uses the cursor to aim, as if it’s some kind of bloody video game, except the rifle is real. The bullets are real. It’s firing into a house full of real people. I silently mouth words at him: “Don’t. Bloody. Hit. Anyone.”
The Safe-Guard is near the front door. It will see the muzzle-flash in the trees. Fingers crossed. Everything’s crossed.
FX fires.
The bullet punches a spidery hole in the largest pane of the bay window and hits one of the bottles on a shelf behind the bar. The bottle explodes. Everyone stops to look. They’re drunk and puzzled. A few of them laugh. Nobody realizes they’re being shot at. FX fires again. Another hole in the window. The bullet strikes the wall higher up, thumping a hole in the plaster.
“Jesus!” Manikin shrieks over the music, in case they’re still not getting it. “Someone’s shooting at us!”
It takes a moment to register in their drink-addled brains, and then panic erupts. The costumed mob dives for the floor or desperately runs for the nearest door.
Klump’s eyes are on the garden. He sees the flash in the trees, hears the shot. He roars a string of swearwords and reaches for the hidden compartment under his seat. Pulling an automatic pistol from a lead-lined box, he jumps out of the van. The troll in the back with us pulls out a gun too and leaps out through the side door. Neither of them notice FX closing the window that showed the gun’s view of the house. The two men rush past the Turk and into the trees. They’re dead set on taking out the cheeky sod who’s trying to kill Jonny Grodin before Easy does. FX and I stay put, eyes glued to his screen.
Mani tries to pull Jonny in behind the bar; it’s her job to make sure he runs in the right direction—away from the Turk’s crew. But he breaks free of her grip and belts for the hall. The door clears as the costumed party animals clamber over each other and flee down the hallway. Jonny goes after them. They’re all running toward the kitchen—away from the side of the house that’s being shot at. The Safe-Guard will have woken the police up by now. A heavily armed jump squad will be piling into their vans and speeding toward us. Armed flying drones, and possibly helicopters, will get here ahead of them.
I expect the Safe-Guard to be out at the front of the house, trying to get a fix on the gun and whoever’s fired it. The Turk’s men should run right into the peeper’s sights. With a bit of luck, it’ll get a bead on the Turk too. It won’t be hard to identify them and bring up their records. Every copper in the city will have their descriptions within seconds. They’ll never make it back to the Void.
I hear the sound of an engine on the road behind me. The other car, with three more of Easy’s trolls in it, swings around and heads away down the road, not too fast, but not slow either. They know the game’s up.
“Get out of the van!” Nimmo’s voice rasps in my ear. He’s still lying low somewhere in the garden. “The fuzz’ll be all over this place in minutes. Get clear and get lost!”
Mani is shouting something at me too, but I can’t hear her. The music is still playing in the house and too many people are screaming or shouting. I can’t make out what she’s saying.
“Let’s get out of here!” I bark at FX, pulling open the side door of the van.
“Wait, look!” he cries. “What the hell …?”
That’s what Mani was trying to tell us. There, on FX’s screen, is the Safe-Guard. It’s in the kitchen, dragging Jonny Grodin toward the back door. The fact that he’s still dressed as Willy Wonka makes the scene all the more surreal. The peeper’s got hold of his arm and it’s dragging him—it’s running with him. Peepers don’t touch people. Most of the time they don’t even talk. They don’t get involved. …
“It’s Grodin,” I say under my breath. Then louder, so FX and the others can hear: “It’s the Duke. The Safe-Guard. He’s trying to save his son.”
The Turk is pulling his trousers up now. He’s taking in what’s happening. He’s hearing the sirens. Klump and his mate have run past him, but from his position, the Turk can see what they can’t—the Safe-Guard pulling Jonny across the garden, away from the back of the house. The Turk had taken his gun with him from the van. Pulling the ridiculously large, fifty-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from his jacket, he aims the weapon and fires five shots in quick succession.
It’s dark and Jonny and his dad are moving targets nearly eighty meters away. The Turk’s hands can’t be too steady after his bowel-shaking ordeal, but he scores a hit. A section of the Safe-Guard’s helmet shatters. The Duke is flung to the ground and Jonny falls with him. Klump and the other troll run back, see the fallen pair, and set off after them. But the Turk’s already moving in the opposite direction. He knows the reaction times of the police and he’s pushed his luck as it is. A guy his size doesn’t disappear easily; in less than a minute he’s out of sight behind the houses across the road.
FX is trying to get me to run, but we only get about fifty meters from the van before I have to stop. After everything that’s happened, I have to see it through to the end. Klump will be caught for sure, but he’ll finish off Jonny and the Duke first. The Duke is moving. The round passed through the oversized helmet, but the bullet obviously smashed through all that equipment in there and missed his skull. He’s still hurt, though—he can’t stand up. Jonny’s trying to help. Klump’s almost on them.
Then Nimmo’s on his feet, rising from a hollow under a bush right in front of them. He hurls something—the cricket ball he was messing with before. The solid lump of cork and leather hits Klump in the head, knocking him out cold. Nimmo catches it on the rebound and whips it straight into the nuts of the second guy, who squawks like a shot duck and crumples to the ground. Nimmo takes a moment to glance at the Duke and then at Jonny and then, like a flickering shadow, he’s gone. That’s all the help they’re going to get from him, but maybe it’s enough. Jonny starts laying kicks into both men in a furious frenzy—they won’t be going anywhere for a while.
Something slams into my back and smacks me onto the ground with a thud that jars my bones and nearly bursts my ears. It takes my jolted senses a couple of seconds to register that our van just exploded. Either the Turk or Move-Easy is cleaning up loose ends, destroying it and any evidence inside: a small pack of plastic explosive, triggered by a phone call.
The sirens are all around us and now I’m running with FX, through gardens, over fences, rolling under a car to avoid a drone that passes overhead. We’re hoping all eyes are on the burning van and the panicking crowd of party-goers. Once we’re a couple of streets away, FX and I slow down and start walking normally to avoid attracting attention. Manikin’s got away in the other direction, as planned, pulling her mask off and grabbing a jacket hidden in the bushes to cover her costume. We’ll meet up with her later. I haven’t heard anything more from Nimmo.
My head’s pounding and my ears are still ringing from the explosion. I’m lucky I wasn’t deafened. FX sees it differently.
“We’re lucky we’re not dead,” he scowls. “Do you think Easy knew we’d got out of the van?”
“I don’t know,” I ans
wer.
And I don’t think it would have mattered. He’d have us killed rather than be caught. We’d be a liability if the coppers got their hands on us and Move-Easy doesn’t like liabilities. And he’s going to be in a foul mood after this monumental screw-up. The targets lost, at least two of his trolls taken and an almighty mess left behind.
I’m really, really hoping that we’ve played this right. Move-Easy is a cold-blooded thinker when it comes to strategy, but he’s got a terrifying temper. We’ve tried to cover our tracks, but we could still get it in the neck anyway if Easy goes ballistic. Despite the peeper and the Turk and the guns and the exploding van, it’s this last bit that scares me most.
Chapter 8: The Price to Pay
The Turk is one of the hardest men I know. Now, as we stand in Move-Easy’s audience chamber, the giant’s trembling. He’s hiding it well, but I can see it in his hands and his jaw. Me, Mani, and FX found Jonny and set him up, but the Turk was in charge of snatching him and the Duke and bringing them home. The three trolls who ran out early have already been yelled at—but the situation was beyond saving when they fled. Klump and the other guy who was caught are being held by the police, charged with attempted murder, possession of an unlicensed firearm etc. etc. They’ve been with Easy a long time and he’s pretty sure they won’t grass him up—due to a mixture of loyalty and abject terror at what would happen to them if they did.
I can only guess how the Duke must have convinced his protectors to let him attend his son’s party. Even working for WatchWorld as a Safe-Guard, they should never have let him go anywhere near London. But it won’t happen again. He and his son have disappeared once more, together this time. I suppose Jonny’s finally realized what kind of people are after him. The chances of finding either of them again are slim to none—those witness protection people know their stuff.