Edge

  There were twenty-three people in total working here right now, several sporting shoulder holsters as well as knives at their hips. Far too many to fight. He took a silent pace forward as–

  Attack.

  –a pair of brown eyes widened, too late to process the real danger because for Josh the reptile brain was in control, and this man-shaped thing in front was a problem framed in geometry and forces, and here was the objective: to shut the thing down. Josh's fist slammed into the throat, collapsing it like cardboard, then both hands cupped the man's head and ripped it down, into his rising knee; and he dropped all his body weight, his forearm vertical, elbow piledriving into the back of the neck. The corpse smacked face-first into the floor, the darkening stain in its trousers and the stench of shit confirming death.

  His ware had not indicated anyone up here, so this guy had been out of camera sight, not just him but – two more of them – tugging guns from shoulder holsters so this was it, milliseconds before death, and the fallen corpse was a springboard he used to launch his jump, a flying knee into a face, hammering down on the other man's head. He snapped one gun away from its owner's grasp – fingers crunched – and smashed back, dropping the guy to his knees. The other was out cold from the knee strike, so there was just this man to deal with, but he was still battling, left hand going for Josh's throat, but Josh slipped beneath, whipped a ridgehand, caught his own hand – the bastard's left arm and head in the circle of Josh's arms – and tightened the arm triangle-choke – so-called but really a strangle – twisting as he took the guy down, squeezing the carotid artery closed, sending the brain into shutdown.

  Finally he stood up, slick with sweat and maybe blood.

  What have I done?

  This was no military mission, and he had no mandate for murder. At least one of the guys was dead, and the other two were likely to–

  You bastards.

  Inside the white-lit room was a glass table, and splayed upon it was…

  You fucking bastards.

  …a naked teenage girl, spreadeagled and webbed with translucent tubes, connecting her to a rack of nanoviral cells. She was alive, perhaps more so than Sophie, perhaps not – but at least Sophie was no factory, no farm for viral pharmaceuticals growing and evolving by unnatural selection, because viruses in the wild, under stress from antiviral drugs, flip into a new state of accelerated mutation, call it a metamutation; and what nature can do, humankind can subvert.

  There were bite marks around the girl's nipples – one of the staff obtaining added value from the goods. Perhaps one of these three lying on the floor. Josh thought he had probably seen the girl in his peripheral vision, reacting unconsciously before rationalism kicked in after the event; which meant he hadn't murdered anyone – he had saved His Majesty's courts the expense of an official execution.

  I ought to kill you all.

  This was more than enough for him to call in the police, let them deal with the rest of Khan's people; but Khan himself might lead the way to Richard Broomhall. Checking his phone display, he flicked from monitor view to monitor view, tracking Khan's progress, two hard-faced men in tow. Then Khan stopped, said something, and went into a room alone, a room without spycams. A toilet. Under other circum

  stances, Josh might have smiled.

  The other two waited around a corner. They were one floor down, and in the next unit. Josh made his move, with one glance back at the abused girl. Invisible to the system – his malware continued to hack his image out of the data – he went through the next internal door, downstairs, and padded to a halt outside the toilet door, just as the flush sounded. When Khan came out, Josh whispered from behind:

  "Did you wash your hands?"

  "Wh–? Mmmph."

  Ducking low, Josh was under Khan as he toppled, taking the weight on his shoulders, then powering upright. There had been little sound, but time was collapsing, and he needed to get out now. Running upstairs with Khan across his shoulders was easy, almost a joy, triggering memories of basic training. Then he was past the room with the girl and the three prone men – and how many other victims lay in rooms throughout the building? – and jogging along the carpeted corridor, through two more doors, until he was underneath the ceiling hatch he had entered by.

  Rolling Khan to the floor, Josh undid his own belt, unravelling high-tensile cord. Then he wrapped it crosswise around Khan's body, forming an X across chest and back, and played out the tension as he swung himself up into the loft. From there, he braced his feet either side of the hatch opening, and began to pull upward, hand over hand, enjoying the hard burn in hamstrings and back, ignoring the cord cutting into his hand, thankful for the years of kettlebell swings and snatches, of barbell deadlifts and Hindu squats, feeling in control. Finally, he manhandled Khan up through the opening, and lowered the hatch in place. Now let the fuckers wonder where their boss had gone.

  Khan's eyelids fluttered. Josh punched once, to the carotid.

  Then he hauled Khan across the loft, pushed him through the opening in the partition, followed, and forced the cut portion back into place. Next, he lowered Khan through the loft hatch, dropped down beside him, and picked up the slack weight, across his shoulders once more in a fireman's carry. Downstairs, out through the kitchen and the back door, causing it to relock… and then Josh stopped, because a whitehaired man was standing there, examining the flowers. His stance was ramrod-straight, and his eyes were clear.

  "Is that the dodgy bugger who owns the shop?"

  "Yes, sir. And I apologise for being in your home, but this dodgy bugger has been running virapharm labs in those four houses. Your loft was my way in."

  "Virapharm."

  "There's at least one teenage girl in there. And very shortly there'll be police by the truckload. I'd appreciate it if you weren't around, and had amnesia about this."

  "Well." The old guy's smile gave Josh hope. "My daughter makes a tremendous curry. Think I'll go see her."

  "Right. You don't want this bastard's people thinking you had anything to do with this."

  "So how did you get in? My door's unmarked."

  "Shit."

  "Not to worry." The old guy strode up to the door, and slammed a kick forward with plenty of hip thrust. The door crashed in. "There."

  "Blimey."

  "Clean living."

  "Right. Er… It would have been nice to meet you, sir. If I'd ever been here."

  "Likewise. If you ever had."

  Josh hoisted Khan over the rear wall, gave a final nod to the old guy, and went over the top. There, in the back alley, he lifted Khan across his shoulders once more.

  Hope I'm like that guy when I get old.

  But Sophie would never get old. Some people did not get the chance.

  Twenty minutes later he was sitting in his car, with Khan unconscious in the boot. The only tricky part had been leaving Khan dumped out of sight while he retrieved his car from the car park. But now he was ready to do something about the virapharm labs. It took another couple of minutes to rework his subversion ware – it was still loaded in the building system at Khan's place, and communicating with Josh's phone – and break through additional defences, uncovering the secondary surveillance net that had to be there, the one that monitored the virapharm production, meaning the helpless teenage bodies of both sexes splayed naked across glass tables. There were twelve of them in total, none of them Richard Broomhall; but he had needed to check.

  He placed a call to Petra.

  "I'm on duty." Her image revealed she was in uniform. "Day shift again this week."

  "At HQ? So I can talk to you officially?"

  "Officially? You?"

  "Sort of. Take a look at these."

  He tapped his phone, then waited. Petra's expression became stone as she sifted through the attachments.

  "Shit. Poor bastards. Who did this to them, Josh?"

  "Some nasty fucker called Khan. Look at this map." Another attachment. "The last four houses are knocked into one. There's
two dozen guys in place, maybe more, with guns."

  "Really."

  Bladed weapons might have become legal, but firearms remained anathema, as suspect as paedophilia. When the presence of guns was suspected, the cops went in hard.

  "Don't take my word for it. Here's more from their internal surveillance logs."

  "I presume there's no sender ID on this anonymous tip-off here?"

  "How would I know? I didn't send nothing to no one."

  "Uh-huh. Like I'm sure forensics won't find traces of your DNA inside the place."

  "It would be nice if they didn't."

  "Well, I'm sure they won't. Take it easy, Cumberland."

  "You too, Osbourne."

  He was about to end the call when she said: "Shit. That girl. I know her."

  "Excuse me?"

  It was the naked girl he'd found.

  "Her name's Angelina Kolchek. Her father's been ranting at us about his missing daughter. He's hard to ignore."

  "Someone important?"

  "Only to scum. Vinnie Kolchek is a grade-A bastard, into everything, except he boasts that he never exploits kids, and any whores he runs are volunteers, not kidnap victims."

  "Sounds like a lovely chap. Where would he be, if I ever wanted to visit?"

  "You wouldn't." A chime sounded: an attachment arriving in his phone. "But if you did, he'd be there."

  "Take it easy."

  "You too. Don't let him sell you a car."

  The phone went blank.

  Perhaps fifty used cars were parked in front of the single-storey building. Red, white, and blue pennants fluttered, while moving posters scrolled through hyperbole – Prices slashed! Lifetime bargains here! – and cheerful music played from outdoor speakers. Josh drove past the customer parking slots, circling round to the back. Inside a cavernous garage, mechanics were at work. A welding torch was incandescent. Several men paused as Josh parked, climbed out, and walked towards them, phone in hand.

  "Hey, guys. I need to talk to Mr Kolchek."

  A bulky man came forward, his skin grease-stained, his hair incongruously bleached.

  "Don't know no Mr Kolchek."

  "Sure you don't. Take this." Josh held out his phone. "Show that to the guy you've never heard of."

  "Huh?"

  "I'll wait here while you do it."

  The guy with the bleached hair took the phone, weighed it in his hand, then carried it inside the main building. His colleagues stopped working – apart from the welder, who perhaps had not noticed – folding their arms and forming a semicircle focused on Josh.

  "You all training to be salesmen? You've got the charm thing down, big time."

  "Just try us, pal."

  "You mean, like a test drive?"

  Jaw muscles clenched, but no one lost control. That was just as well. Josh had not taken any guns off Khan's men – he wanted the weapons to remain as evidence – but he had his own weapon now, holstered at the small of his back: a Browning PulseCloud, able to drop three or four guys at a time.

  There was a bustle at the back, then a large man with a scarred face came forward, with a smaller guy behind him.

  "Who the fuck are you?" said the big man.

  "The man who found your daughter, if you're Vinnie. Otherwise, I'm the man who found his daughter."

  "All right," said the smaller man. "Where's Angie?"

  So this was Vinnie Kolchek. He should have known by the eyes.

  "Safe by now." Josh held up his hands. "The police should be raiding the place about now. They'll have medics with them. Your Angie isn't the only kid Khan's people had."

  "Khan." Kolchek paled, still clenching Josh's phone. "That piece of shit did this?"

  "That's the man."

  "So what do you want?"

  "The police are raiding Khan's place, but they're not going to find him."

  "Fuck that. He got away?"

  "Not exactly." Josh reached out for his phone. "You mind?"

  After a hesitation: "All right."

  "Thanks." Josh took the phone back, then pointed it at his car. "And Merry Christmas."

  The lid popped open. Inside, Khan was awake, snarling and thrashing against his bonds. Before the others could move, Josh strode to the car, pulling out the Browning.

  "One chance." He aimed at Khan's head. "Either I leave you here with Vinnie boy, or you tell me what I need to know. Then I drive fast and drop you someplace, your choice."

  "Motherfucker," said Kolchek.

  "Shut up, Vinnie. This is my play."

  "What do you want?" Khan looked up. "I'll tell you, all right?"

  Left-handed, Josh brought up Richard Broomhall's image on the phone, and turned it towards Khan. It was a surveillance still from the corner shop: Richard and his unknown friend.

  "Who are these two? One of them ran an errand for you the other night."

  Khan's eyes narrowed. That was fast, he had already figured that Maxwell had talked.

  "Strange kid, first time I used him. Don't know him."

  "And the other?"

  "That's Jayce. Just Jayce, no other name that I know."

  Behind Josh, Kolchek's men were fanning out.

  "Where does he hang out, Khan? Give me something, quick."

  "Shit, these kids are on the street, you know? He could be anywhere."

  "Uh-huh. You know, I am kind of outnumbered here."

  "There's a shelter at Zenith Place."

  "Where you found him, is it?"

  Khan shook his head.

  "So where else?" Josh went on. "Other haunts? People he hangs around with?"

  "Had friends. The Spidermen threw him out. Kid was a shit. Loner."

  "You call him a shit? You're something, Khan. Gimme something more."

  "That's it." Khan shrugged his shoulders. "What do you expect? Just a punk. Now get me out of here."

  "Giving orders? Your world changed today, and you still haven't realised."

  "Hey, we had a deal."

  Josh holstered his Browning. Then he reached inside, hauled Khan out of the boot, and dropped him like a sack. He slammed the boot lid down.

  "Too bad I'm a liar."

  He nodded once to Vinnie Kolchek, climbed into his car, and put it in drive. There was no need to use his rear-view mirror as he left the dealership. Then he was out on the road, driving steadily, careful not to give in to adrenaline and boost the acceleration; because safety was everything. After all, he was a law-abiding citizen.

  [ FIFTEEN ]

  The pub was called the Golden Switchblade; Richard tried not to think about blades, the slitting of skin, the revealing of slick intestines. In the small yard out back – the sign read Beer Garden – Opal sat down at a wooden table, while he took a seat opposite. Brian was inside, fetching drinks.

  "What did you do today?" Richard asked.

  He imagined hours of gekrunning practice, or poring over educationware on screen, though she didn't appear to attend school.

  Zajac, with a blade in hand–

  "What's up, Richie?"

  "Nothing." He should not have thought of school. "Sorry."

  "Huh. Well I was helping Ciara in the market, unloading boxes of fruit, stuff like that."

  Across the garden, movement made them both look up. Not Brian, but a wide-shouldered man with shaven head and rolled-up sleeves, carrying three pints of beer by their handles. A smaller man had just taken a backward step into his path, at the cost of his own beer sloshing.

  "Hoy." He glared at the bigger man, not seeming to notice the guy's size. "What you think you're bleeding doing?"

  "I'm really sorry, mate. I hope I didn't spill any of your drink."

  "Well, you bleeding did, as it happens."

  "Here, have this full one. Pint of best, was it?"

  "Er… Yeah."

  "There ya go then. Take it easy."

  "Well. OK."

  The bigger man walked on, deposited his remaining two pints at a table where his friends were waiting. The two look
ed at him and he shrugged.