Executed (Extracted Trilogy Book 2)

by RR Haywood

  ‘Yep,’ Ben says at the next turn, easing to jog past the imaginary line.

  ‘Stop if you want. Not competing,’ Safa says.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tango Two says. She feels like she should stop so it doesn’t appear she is trying to compete, but it’s nice to be running.

  Safa applies more speed to the end of the bunker and belts it back down. Tango Two stays at her side. Arms pumping. Legs buzzing. Lungs opening.

  ‘Out,’ Tango Two gasps, running past the start line.

  Now Safa goes for it. There is no risk to anyone now. She sprints hard up and down. Turning fast with a fluidity that is a joy to watch.

  ‘Water,’ Ben says, nodding at the cups next to the flask on the table. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Tango Two pours a cup while watching Safa. The woman is incredible. Her level of fitness is far greater than she initially thought.

  Ben sips his water and muses over the thoughts he had of Safa this morning when she came into his room.

  In truth, those thoughts were simply her climbing into his bed so he could sleep next to her. That’s all it was. That sleepy fug of wanting someone to hold. Now he feels like a creep for thinking it, and looks away. She came into his room when he was sick. He remembers it vaguely. No, he remembers it perfectly; the vagueness comes from his state of mind at that time, like it wasn’t him. Safa is beautiful, but she is more than that. She is perhaps the single most incredible person he has ever met. Just to know her is an honour, and for that reason he banishes any thoughts of anything else. The memory of the ocean pops into his mind. Did they kiss? He thought so at the time, but now, looking back and remembering the waves and the noise, the fear, the adrenalin and pure frenzy of it all, he isn’t so sure. Ah. Be a decent human being. Don’t be a dick.

  ‘Fucking fuck, that was so fucking good,’ Safa exclaims to the world as she finally stops. Ben chuckles and turns back to see her bent over with her hands on her knees. She stands straight, breathing deep to regulate her diaphragm. A look from her to Tango Two. A simple glance that Tango Two immediately understands. She pours a cup of water as Safa walks over. ‘Thanks, shithead,’ Safa says, still breathing hard, but only sweating lightly.

  People in service used to do this all the time. Give abuse by way of endearment. The British Secret Service doesn’t promote the use of banter. Instead, it promotes individual excellence and an allegiance to the service itself. Is being called a shithead a term of endearment, or is Safa actually being abusive?

  ‘Few circuits?’ Safa asks everyone.

  ‘Yep,’ Ben says.

  ‘Aye,’ Harry says.

  ‘Thank you,’ Tango Two says.

  Miri moves back from the window. The wire stretches from her left ear to the smartphone in her hand. At the desk, she puts the device down, and sits with her palms flat against the rough-hewn wood.

  Time passes. Time will always pass, but time is not fixed. Every action has a reaction. Every behaviour elicits a behaviour in response. Understanding behaviours is what she does. Stripping away all the frills to scrutinise the bare bones of the individual. To see them react when passive and when threatened. To see the perception of them through their own eyes and through the eyes of others. To know all those things and apply them to everything else.

  She stays motionless. Focussed. Entirely and utterly focussed, and loving every minute of it.

  After a time, she hears them filing in through the back door and grabs the top newspaper from the pile beside her desk. She opens it somewhere near the middle and adopts a perfect persona of being absorbed.

  ‘. . . yes, but I am still sore,’ Ben says, humour in his voice.

  ‘So how does it feel knowing both women did more press-ups than you?’ Safa asks. Miri listens to the tones and inflections. She hears Tango Two laugh and a comment from Harry.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Harry says, passing by her door with the prisoner behind him. Tango Two looks flushed and rosy. Smiling broadly from the endorphins released by exercise and the humour of the others.

  ‘Mr Ryder, Miss Patel. A word. Sergeant Madden, take Tango Two into the main room.’

  ‘Roger,’ Harry says. Miri clocks the uncertainty that flits across Tango Two’s face at hearing she will be alone with Harry. The chemistry between Ben and Safa is strong. Tango Two will see that. The doctor is too old and not such an intrinsic part. Miri knows Harry is the viable option.

  ‘What’s up?’ Safa asks, breathing hard from the exercise and looking ridiculously healthy.

  ‘You okay?’ Ben asks, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

  ‘Good training?’

  ‘Er, yeah, fine,’ Ben says. ‘Why?’

  ‘The prisoner? Any issues?’

  ‘Seems okay,’ Safa says. ‘Did more press-ups than Ben anyway.’

  ‘I said I was still sore.’

  ‘Sore loser,’ Safa coughs into her hand.

  Miri folds the newspaper she was reading. ‘I will be going for supplies. What does the prisoner need?’

  ‘Everything,’ Safa replies.

  ‘What’s happening with her?’ Ben asks. ‘She’s been here six days now.’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Miri. I’d like to know your plans.’

  ‘And I will tell you when the time is right.’

  ‘Or, you know, maybe you could include us a bit more now. We’re debriefing with you every day. I guess you’re going to Roland, Bertie and Ria too. Tango Two is briefing with you. How long does that process take?’

  ‘As long as it takes.’

  Ben draws breath. Safa stays quiet. She knows how frustrated Ben is at not knowing. They talk about it a lot.

  ‘We’re not idiots.’

  ‘No, you are intelligent people. You, Mr Ryder, are an exceptionally intelligent man, and I will include you when I can, but there is a process. Give me time to do my work.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ben says. It’s the same answer she always gives. ‘So it’s okay for the prisoner to spend time with us?’

  ‘For now, but you will understand, all of you will understand, that it is my decision what we do with the prisoner. The world is at risk. We will not lose sight of that.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ Safa demands.

  ‘Means she’s not sure,’ Ben says.

  ‘You going to kill her?’ Safa asks, the alarm showing clear and obvious. ‘She seems really nice.’

  Miri stares at them, letting the silence speak volumes. ‘Provide me with a list of the things you need. I will be going shortly. Thank you, Miss Patel and Mr Ryder.’

  Seventeen

  ‘Trainers.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Normal clothes for chilling out and stuff.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Proper tracksuit bottoms for training.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Stop cultivating me.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Bras . . . So I forgot to ask what size you were. I’m 34B. Miri and me guessed you’d be 34C?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Alright, big boobs, don’t go on about them.’

  ‘I really wasn’t.’

  ‘Sports bras and a couple of normal ones . . . No lacy shit, so don’t try and honey-trap Ben or Harry.’

  ‘Right, of course not,’ Tango Two says, staring at the bed now piled with clothes.

  ‘It all looks okay,’ Safa says, standing next to her. ‘I was worried she might get crappy stuff. They went to a Walmart in Milwaukee. How messed-up is that? She got them with the doctor. Oh, that bag has loads of toiletry bits, shampoo and things. I said to get conditioner. If she got cheap stuff, just say, and you can use mine. Malc and Kon got decent kit for us before you killed them. She put tampons in there too.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do women still have periods in the future?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Safa tuts. ‘Bit shit. Do you get moody?’

  ‘Me? E
r, well, we take medication, so we can . . . you know . . .’

  ‘What?’ Safa asks.

  ‘Not have a period if we’re on an active mission.’

  ‘Oh. They have that in my time, but doesn’t it mess your body up? I never took it, but then I don’t get that moody. Not like crying and things, like some women do. Bit of tummy pain. Do you get that?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately,’ Tango Two says with a grimace.

  ‘Ha! Look at us, having girly period chats. Who is cultivating who?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Tango Two smiles back at her.

  ‘Is she debriefing you?’

  ‘Miri?’

  ‘She’s debriefing us, but she takes ages. But you’re . . .’

  ‘She’s debriefing you?’ Tango Two asks, cutting in without realising it.

  ‘Yeah, we only met the same day we got Bertie and Roland out.’

  ‘What?’ Tango Two says, clearly shocked.

  ‘Stop spying, shithead.’

  ‘I’m not! You just told me.’

  ‘I’m joking. Yeah, so she takes ages with us, but you’re done really quickly.’

  ‘She doesn’t ask me anything,’ Tango Two says, dropping her voice a little.

  ‘What, nothing?’ Safa asks.

  ‘Well, I mean, she asks me what happened that led to being here. That’s it. Oh, and she asked my codename. Why haven’t you asked my name? My real name, I mean.’

  ‘Miri said not to. So . . . is this not normal then?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What we’re doing with you. Is it not normal?’

  Tango Two hesitates and suppresses the urge to be honest and say, no, it’s not bloody normal; it’s not anywhere near normal. ‘I guess so,’ she says instead.

  ‘Has she asked why your side tried killing you?’

  ‘No. Nothing. Why? Do you know something?’ Tango Two asks, then instantly berates herself again for forgetting to keep her guard up.

  ‘Me? I don’t know anything,’ Safa admits. ‘I keep asking Miri, but she just says she is working on it.’

  Honesty. Raw honesty. There is no doubt in Tango Two’s mind that Safa is being brutally open. She sighs and shakes her head. ‘I don’t know, Safa. Really, I’ve got no clue.’

  ‘Did you do something then? Or maybe something you didn’t do? Like shoot Bertie? Maybe they told you to shoot Bertie, and you didn’t. Was that it?’

  ‘No. We just had to secure him. I mean, they did say we could kill if it prevented escape, but I had him. I had him right there with me.’

  Stop it. Stop opening up. Be reticent and passive. Be ignorant.

  ‘Got to be a reason.’

  ‘I . . . Safa, has Miri asked you to ask me all this?’

  Safa looks at her in earnest, a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth. ‘I’d tell her to fuck off if she did. I don’t play games like that. Never have and never will.’

  Tango Two searches for a sign of deceit, but again feels only pure honesty. She can’t help but like Safa too. There is something about her. Her humour. Her direct way of speaking.

  ‘I don’t lie. I hate lying. If I knew why they tried to kill you, I’d tell you, and if Miri told me not to tell you, I’d just tell you to fuck off. So you’re an agent?’

  ‘In the British Secret Service.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s, er, well, it was formed after you actually.’

  ‘Me?’ Safa asks, pushing some of the clothes aside to sit on the bed.

  ‘After the attack on Downing Street . . .’

  ‘My attack?’

  ‘Yes, it was, er . . . So you don’t know any of this?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘Right. Did you know it was the same group that attacked Ben at Holborn station?’

  ‘Fuck, no way. Was it really?’

  ‘You really don’t know this?’

  ‘No! Hang on, come for a coffee and tell Ben at the same time.’

  ‘Er,’ Tango Two says, looking down at the clothes she has been wearing for several days.

  ‘Oh, yeah, get changed,’ Safa says, standing up. ‘You don’t have to come for coffee.’

  ‘No, I would like to.’

  ‘Okay, shithead. I’ll wait out here.’

  Think. Stay clear. They are pumping you for information. These are the entry topics to get you talking. Be smart. Be earnest. Stay passive. I am not a threat.

  ‘That feels better,’ she says, walking out to the middle room.

  ‘Yeah?’ Safa asks, taking in the new clothes. ‘Fit alright?’

  ‘Perfect, thank you,’ Tango Two says, smiling at her. She feels different now too. Less jarred and more human from the boost of being comfortable in the clothes she wears.

  She follows Safa down to the main room, blinking at the big table stacked high with food. Bowls of fresh fruit and vegetables. Tins, packets, bottles, jars. Trays of eggs. Loaves of bread. Jars of coffee. Boxes of teabags and tubs of powdered chocolate to make hot drinks with. Books too. Stacked on one of the other tables. Loads of paperbacks in all manner of colours. Ben and Harry walk in from the other set of doors, both carrying more supplies that are set down by the food table.

  ‘You look better,’ Ben calls over. ‘Everything fit okay?’

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ Tango Two says, strolling to the table piled with books.

  ‘Reader?’ Harry asks, walking over.

  ‘Love reading,’ she replies. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ he says in that rumbling, deep voice. ‘It’s all so different now.’

  ‘Oh, of course. So . . . what did you read, er . . . well, before?’

  ‘Anything really. Was hard to get books in the war. Read the same things all the time. Lot of westerns and romance.’

  ‘Romance?’ she asks, smiling up at him.

  ‘Ach,’ he says easily, ‘what’s this one?’

  ‘Oh, er . . . maybe not a good choice.’

  ‘Fifty Shades of . . .’

  ‘What about this one?’ Tango Two says quickly. ‘Harry Potter.’

  ‘Harry Potter? Western, is it?’

  ‘Er, no, more, er . . . well, fantasy. Wizards . . . It’s about a boy who goes to wizard school. I mean, it was written decades before I was born, but it’s a classic.’

  ‘What’s a classic?’ Ben asks, walking over.

  ‘Harry Potter,’ Tango Two says.

  ‘Oh, you’ll love it,’ Ben tells Harry. He smiles at Tango Two, then regards Harry with a mock-studious look. ‘Hagrid?’

  ‘He does, yes,’ she says as Harry looks slightly bemused.

  ‘Coffee,’ Safa says.

  ‘Thank you,’ Tango Two says, taking the mug. ‘Do you read?’

  ‘God, no, bores the shit out of me,’ Safa says. ‘Ben, Tango says the same people that attacked you at Holborn did my one at Downing Street.’

  Tango. Safa shortened her codename. Tango Two notes it silently. ‘Environmental activists,’ she says. ‘That’s why my service was formed.’

  ‘Your service?’ Ben asks.

  ‘British Secret Service. After Holborn, they armed all the British police, and then a few years after Holborn, they attacked Downing Street. The government realised just how organised the terrorists were becoming . . . I mean, that attack nearly killed the Prime Minister . . . Safa, did you know you were credited for saving his life?’

  ‘Was I?’ Safa mutters. ‘Shame. Fucking prick.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Nothing. So what happened?’

  ‘They formed our service. British Secret Service. Modelled in some ways on the CIA, but they amalgamated all the previous intelligence services. MI5. MI6. Special Branch. Counter Terrorism.’

  ‘And you’re an agent with them?’ Ben asks.

  ‘I am, yes.’

  Miri walks in, silent and seemingly absorbed in her own thoughts. Tango Two notices the other three glance over at her, then carry on as normal. Who runs this whole thing? She still doesn’t know t
he reason for it. The purpose. Who is in charge of Miri?

  ‘Clothes fit?’

  Tango Two blinks up at Miri. She zoned out again. Lost focus. Switch on and do your job.

  ‘Yes. Yes, they do. Thank you, that was very kind.’

  ‘Not kind,’ Miri says. ‘Necessary.’

  It is not necessary. It is the opposite of necessary. Necessary would be denying food, water, sleep and clothing in exchange for a flow of information.

  ‘What’s happening now then?’ Safa asks brightly.

  Miri stays quiet for a second and sips at a can of Pepsi. Her eyes look more blue than grey in this light. ‘Tango Two will come with me,’ she says. ‘Safa, you will get your team ready for deployment . . .’

  ‘On it. Armed?’ Safa says, rising from her chair with a sudden switch to business mode.

  ‘Affirmative,’ Miri replies. ‘Tango Two, with me, please.’

  ‘She’s just got new clothes, so don’t shoot her.’

  ‘Make ready, Miss Patel.’

  ‘I’m so cultivated,’ Safa mutters, then shrugs because she doesn’t care one bit if she is cultivated or not. ‘Right, come on, beardy . . . Ben, you fit?’

  ‘Sit down.’

  Tango Two pulls the chair a fraction of an inch. Miri clocks the slight movement: an effort to control her environment. Tango Two sits with her knees together and her hands holding her coffee mug. Neither defensive nor open. Passive. Not a threat. Miri notices the position: too defensive. She is using the mug as a shield. Miri sits down behind the desk as Tango Two looks round, taking in the stacks of newspapers and magazines. Boxes pushed against the wall.

  ‘Who do you work for?’ Miri asks.

  ‘The British Secret Service.’

  ‘How long have you been an agent?’

  ‘Eleven years and three months.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty.’

  ‘What is your position within your organisation?’

  ‘I am a Two.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Agents are based on a hierarchal structure. Lead agents who are fully trained and experienced gain the position of One if they are sanctioned by Mother. I am a Two. I am working towards being a One. Trainee agents are a Three.’

  ‘How many agents does your organisation have?’