by James Lawson
Max searched for other options. The next time the cops opened the cell door, he could rush at them, try and bolt out. But all that was likely to earn Max was a bullet in the back. He could grab one of the guards, or the senior cop himself, and hold him hostage?
Max almost laughed at that idea. That it had even occurred to him underlined exactly how stuck he was. He didn’t even have the cash to bribe his way out. If he faked being sick, they would probably call the Hive immediately, afraid of letting a potentially important suspect die in the cells.
He heard a guard in the hallway outside the cell, chuckling. The guard was looking in at Max, amused by his situation.
“Something funny?”
The guard laughed, and shook his head, murmuring to himself.
Max leaned back against the cold stone wall. He stared at the opposite wall.
The jail was quicksand. It was inevitably pulling him down, but if he struggled against the pull, he’d only doom himself quicker.
“Time’s up, Señor Gunston!” The senior cop walked towards Max’s cell. “I’ve had my morning coffee, and I’m certainly in the mood for an interrogation.” He came to the cell bars and tapped the plasma charger on them. “You’ve got a story to tell, and you can bet that you’ll get a lot worse than a bit of electricity with the Hive.”
Max forced a smile. He stood up from the cot, still feeling the ache in his legs. There was almost no point in saying anything. If he could get the plasma charger away from him, maybe he could force his way out…
The deputy ran into the corridor. “Sir, come quickly!” the deputy said, panic on his face. “It’s urgent.”
The cop sighed, and threw an annoyed look at Max. “Excuse me.” He walked over to the deputy. They started talking in rushed and quiet Portuguese. All of a sudden the cop wasn’t as annoyed; without a word, they both dashed from Max’s view, before running back down the corridor a moment later, both carrying shotguns and ignoring their prisoner.
Max heard the door to the police station open, and a moment later the roar of motorcycles riding off. A chair squeaked down the corridor.
“Hello?” Max called out. The chair squeak was probably another cop stationed to watch over the front desk. “Anyone there?”
No response from the cop. The door to the station opened, and then a quick struggle, punctuated by the sound of a gas discharge. A moment later a large ring of keys flew down the corridor and slid in front of Max’s cell. The door to the station closed, and there was silence.
“Hello?” Max called out again, eyes on the keys. No response. He went right up to the bars and tried to look down to the front reception area, but couldn’t get the angle to see. He looked down at the keys. Ever since he had left Madrid, he knew someone had been pursuing him. He had been shot at and chased, running to the side as the crosshairs followed him.
But now he was stuck in a jail, and someone was providing him the means to continue his mission to Lisbon.
He snatched the keys from the ground. The keys landing in front of him could have meant anything, but staying in the jail meant only one thing; he’d be handed over to the Hive and the mole would find him.
He found the right key and opened the cell door. The cop at the front desk was slumped over on the floor, a syringe jutting out of his neck. Max’s bag was sitting on the desk in front of him.
“Better you than me, buddy,” Max said, grabbing the bag, and ran out the door.
7
A wailing came from the other side of Campo Maior. Dozens of townspeople exchanged nervous words, trying to decide whether to go and investigate or go and hide.
Max strained to hear a snippet of the words. “A hybrid! A hybrid in Portalegre!” one man gasped to his wife.
Max tensed. Could the hybrids from Illescas have found him in Campo Maior? And if they had, why hadn’t they attacked him during the night as he walked from the border? And why were the jail keys tossed down the corridor to him?
Acutely aware it was not the time to be discovered as a strange face, Max ducked behind a truck carrying lettuces and carrots, and climbed into the back of it. He did not know where the truck was going, but hazarded a guess from a conversation that he had overheard between the drivers that it was going to Lisbon, or at least to a larger town.
Once the truck was on the road, with Campo Maior behind them, Max finally relaxed. The road stretched long and far back behind the truck, and the produce was cool. No doubt once the Campo Maior police had realised he was gone, there would be a manhunt. Thankfully they had retained his Gunston passport; if they chased that identity for too long, they’d only end up chasing their own tails.
It wasn’t long before the truck slowed and entered another, larger town. The truck slowed to turn a tight corner, and Max jumped out, not wanting to be discovered by the driver. The truck had travelled far, maybe for half an hour or so, but this town – wherever he was – was far more built up than Campo Maior. He spotted a municipal rubbish bin stamped with Elvas. From the memory he had of the map, that was barely twenty miles from Campo Maior, but still a hell of a long way from Lisbon.
There was no reliable way he’d be able to get to Lisbon quickly. Any sort of truck was liable to go in an entirely different direction, or could take days to get there. If he was going to get there with any speed, he’d need to go directly – either by car or train. But he looked like he’d been tilling fields; he’d need to clean himself up and get some new clothes. What about when he got to Lisbon? He’d need a gun. But he could handle that when he was there.
He started walking, surveying the streets. Before long, the detached houses gave way to taller buildings crammed with apartments. He noted for a moment the balconies adorned with flowers. All seemed to be blooming with vibrant colour, except for one on the second floor. There, the flowers were dead and limp.
Max paused to think. Could the owners be out of town, or just lazy gardeners? If they were out of town, Max could sneak inside, clean himself up, maybe steal some money, and find his way to Lisbon.
If they were home or returned while Max was inside? Well, it wasn’t too likely the residents were trained soldiers. He would be able to escape. And since he was in no state to get to Lisbon, he figured it worth the risk.
He entered the apartment building from the ground level, allowing a well-dressed elderly woman to pass by, glaring at his unsightly appearance as she did. The interior of the lobby was pristine; well-polished marble floors, freshly painted walls, and a handsome wooden staircase leading upwards. Very much aware that he stood out starkly in the building, he moved up the stairs quickly and went to the second-floor window.
From the window, he could see the dead flowers less than a metre away. The apartment had to be the one whose door was just a few feet from him. He gently knocked on the door, casting a glance over his shoulder.
There was no sound from inside, so he knocked again, a little louder. Again, nothing.
Max took a deep breath. It was now or never. He removed the small lock picking kit from the false heel of his shoe, got down on one knee, and got to work on the door lock. He paused every few moments to check over his shoulder. But the hallway was empty each time.
Finally catching a break, he thought. The lock clicked open. He opened the door to the apartment and took a swift step inside, expecting the confused cries of a family around a table. But there was no one.
The place smelt dusty, as though the windows had been closed for weeks. He took a few steps, allowing the sound of his footsteps to announce his arrival.
Nothing. He went from room to room, but he was alone.
Satisfied, he sat down at a table in the kitchen. The place was nice. Understated, but elegant. Max guessed the residents, whoever they were, had a bit of money. Probably some successful local merchant.
He poured himself a glass of water from the tap, and drunk deeply. Then he went through the wardrobe in the bedroom. Definitely a man and a woman lived here, but not often. The wardrobe was bare, sa
ve for a few suits and a few dresses. He probably used the apartment when he was in the region on business. The suit looked like it might be a little tight, but it would fit well enough.
He stripped off, went to the shower, and stood under the streaming hot water for a long time, watching the dirt streak off him and pool around his feet. He scrubbed his skin with soap, bringing it to a warm and exfoliated red.
He dried himself off, went back into the bedroom and took out one of the suits. It fit him better than he had thought; maybe over the last day he’d lost weight. He had barely eaten, and he’d been moving constantly.
Next he went through the bedside drawers, searching for some cash. He fished through, and found a wad of escudos, enough to get a train to Lisbon. He made a mental note to mail some cash back to the address when he got back to Madrid.
He was ready to go, but he felt somewhat naked without his pistol. He’d be able to get one in Lisbon in Alfama – there were black market dealers on every corner – but it still set him on edge.
But when he walked from the bedroom back into the kitchen, he saw a pistol.
It was pointed at his head.
“Morning, Mr Gunston,” said Elizabeth Fisher, who was holding the gun and giving him a sweet smile.
8
“I wondered if I’d be seeing you again,” Max said, one eye on the pistol.
“No need to act so fidgety,” Elizabeth said. “This gun is just a precaution. I’m not about to shoot you where you stand.”
“Your accent is different,” he said. “The Portuguese twang is missing.”
She nodded. “A red herring. I’m London, through and through.”
“I suppose the same goes for the tracker in the cigarette case.”
“Indeed. Remember buying that newspaper at the station? The seller slipped the actual tracker into your bag before you even boarded the train.”
He sighed. “I guess I’m getting rusty. I’ll admit that does confuse things quite a bit for me. Who exactly are you with?”
“You know who I’m with.”
“I really don’t. And I don’t suppose Elizabeth Fisher is your real name, is it?”
“Then let’s walk through it,” she said, ignoring the question. “You’re on your way to Lisbon to rendezvous with the Sailor–”
“Wait, rendezvous–?”
“And then you’re going to pass on vital intelligence on the disruption of the Spanish election.”
Max tried to speak, but he could only fumble for words. “I’m not going to rendezvous with the Sailor, I’m going to track him down.”
“You are a mole and a traitor to the Crown,” Elizabeth said, eyes narrowing. “Get down on the ground.”
Max’s mind was racing. Elizabeth wasn’t working with the hybrids.
“You’ve been caught in the act, Agent Green,” Elizabeth said.
“You’re with the Ministry of Detection.” Max tried to breathe, feeling his stomach tighten even more.
“The very same as you,” she spat back. “The only difference is I haven’t sold them out to the highest bidder.”
“I guess that little performance on the train was to throw me off the trail. A Hive agent would never announce themselves, unless they were playing an amateur.”
“Not as thick as I thought, then.”
The clockwork started ticking in Max’s head. Elizabeth had been sent to follow Max as he made his way to Lisbon to meet the Sailor. She had been told that he was the mole, scurrying out of Madrid before he was caught. But Max hadn’t been running. He’d been on his own mission to find out who the mole was. And he’d been sent by…
“Duncan Morrison sent you,” Max said quickly.
“My patience is running thin, Agent. Do not test me.”
“No, don’t you see? Morrison sent me on a mission to Lisbon to find the Sailor to discover the mole. And he sent you after me!”
She hesitated a brief second, then gripped the pistol tighter. “Agent Green. Don’t. If you had been sent by Captain Morrison, the Madrid office would have a record of your mission.”
“That’s the thing! Morrison said the mission was off the books because otherwise the mole would find me. But it was off the books because he was setting me up!”
She gave a small smile. “Your line of defence is that Duncan Morrison is the mole? And he sent you on a totally secret mission to Portugal, only so I would catch you making contact with the hybrids in Lisbon?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Max said. “What about the shootout in Illescas? Do you think a bunch of hybrids would be trying to shoot up a sympathiser in broad daylight?”
She eased back the hammer of the pistol. “Get on the ground. I’ll remind you that Captain Morrison has given me authorisation to use lethal force.”
Max raised his hands and thought hard. How the hell was he going to convince her? “Was Duncan’s arm broken?”
Elizabeth paused again. “What does that matter?”
“He was all over the front page of the paper, and no bandages. When he sent me on this damned mission yesterday morning, his arm was broken.”
“So?”
“So if he spoke to you right after he spoke to me, you would know his arm was broken.”
But as he said it, Max felt his hopes vanish. What would he be able to do? Duncan had set him up. If they put a call through to the Ministry of Detection, Duncan would only throw more fire on him. As Max watched Elizabeth tighten her grip on the pistol, he ran through his options. Jump out the window? Unlikely, given it was the second floor.
“You do not want to give me an excuse to put a hole in your face,” Elizabeth said, and Max felt himself involuntarily moving closer to the ground.
The list of options was rapidly narrowing. He could allow himself to get arrested and make a break for it later? Elizabeth came closer to him, and he realised his only chance was when Elizabeth was putting the cuffs on him. She was by herself, so there was little chance of her using a tranquilizer. He would have just a second to strike.
“Down on your face, there you go,” Elizabeth said. “Wise decision, Max. Wise decision indeed.”
She stepped behind him, and Max waited until he heard it – the clink of the metal cuffs, and the creak of the floorboard as Elizabeth lowered herself to cuff him.
With all his strength, he pushed himself up off the floor, slamming his body into hers, half expecting her gun to go off right in his spine. But all he heard was a startled cry and grunt as she stumbled back onto the ground.
Max was sure he had smacked his head on something hard, but he didn’t waste time nursing his wounds. He bolted for the door out of the apartment, with two bullets flying past him, slamming into the walls.
He flew out into the hallway and went straight for the stairs, the balustrade splintering apart in a flash of gunfire.
He dashed out to the street level and went straight for a narrow alleyway just off to the right, flying past a bewildered pedestrian who must have heard the gunshots. The alley was dotted with puddles and empty milk crates. It suddenly seemed very long and narrow, and Max realised he was making himself an easy target for Elizabeth to put a bullet in his back. He picked up the pace and came out the other side.
This street was busier, with half a dozen fruit trucks rattling over the cobblestones. Max skipped over the road between them, ignoring the furious blasts of the car horns. It was only then that the truth came back to Max.
With Elizabeth’s cover blown to Max, there was no point with the cloak and dagger. She would bring every available Hive wasp down on Elvas, and bag Max up.
He’d have to get the hell out of here, and he’d have to get out fast.
9
Max disappeared down the stairs, and Elizabeth felt a punch to her gut. She was letting the mole escape.
She went after him, down the stairs and out into the street, as fast as she could. The few onlookers jumped back in horror at the sight of her smoking gun.
“Has anyone see
n a man coming out of this apartment?” she barked in Spanish. One old man feebly pointed towards a nearby alleyway, although it looked as though he was only doing so to get rid of her. She took off at once down the alleyway, running as fast as her legs would allow. It was of course empty, but that didn’t mean Max hadn’t gone down it.
She came out the other end, and stopped short as a fruit truck blared its horn and swerved to miss her. She breathed hard, looking around frantically.
Max was nowhere to be seen.
“Shit.” She’d been tracking him for days, keeping a close eye on him from a distance, but the moment she makes herself known he vanishes into thin air? He had left his bag and the tracker in the apartment, so she had no idea where he had gone.
She could barely see through the crowds, but caught sight of someone’s back. It could have been Max – she didn’t know, but she didn’t have any better ideas. She went after him, weaving through the crowd. The man went down another alley. At least if it was Max, she’d be able to corner him in the alley. If it wasn’t, well, she didn’t want to think about that.
She came to the alley, drew her gun and opened her mouth to call out, but stopped.
Midway down the alley was the man, who she could see now was in fact Max. He turned back to her, a look of dread on his face. But not dread because of Elizabeth; standing ten metres further down the alley was a bearded man wearing a scuffed leather jacket holding a submachine gun.
“Stop!” Elizabeth yelled, and raised her pistol. “Ministry of Detection!”
Max leapt into a closed doorway as the man raised the gun and pulled the trigger, a hellstorm of fire and bullets flying towards them. Elizabeth jumped into another doorway as the stream of bullets smashed into the brickwork, filling the air with dust and flying chips. The gunfire seemed to last an age, and when it stopped her ears were ringing.