All Or Nothing

by Ollie Ollerton

  Beside the Kilgore mini-me sat Montana Norton, who if anything was even more attractive in the flesh than she’d looked on the news. Next to her a guy who could only have been her boyfriend. A surfer dude, for want of a better description. Probably not as laid-back as his normal state of being, but still comfortably the second-most relaxed person in the room.

  There was another man present. He sat slightly apart from the others. An older man around Lady Norton’s vintage, healthy-looking but nevertheless seeming distinctly uncomfortable and out-of-place. Was this the lawyer she had referred to, perhaps? Coombs?

  Behind them all was a wall of screens and Coombs used a remote control to switch off the screens as Abbott entered. Abbott was just in time to see images being broadcast from what looked like the entire park before the wall of flickering pictures went to black.

  And then Lady Norton stood up and with a grand sweep of her hand, said, ‘Everybody, can I introduce you to Alex Abbott, my proxy?’

  CHAPTER 51

  They were looking at him carefully, each one of them wondering why he had not cropped up during their own process of selection. Why had their security consultants not proposed this ‘Alex Abbott’? What was so special about him that he was to represent no less a figure than the family matriarch?

  The answer was twofold. First, the fact that instead of following the tried-and-tested path of leaving The Circuit and then moving into close protection work, Abbott had gone solo, taking himself off to Singapore to nurture his drinking problem and deal with his PTSD. His son had died. He had suffered the betrayal of former comrades. He had gone back to the bottle. As a result, and because word spreads fast in their industry, he had been considered a bit of a burnout among those in the game. Second, the events of the last two weeks, during which time this burnout had got himself back on track.

  ‘Green looks less than enthusiastic,’ said Montana Norton, who had been assessing Abbott as though he were a racehorse.

  ‘Whatever makes you say that, darling?’ smiled Juliet.

  Abbott’s eyes had gone to Montana, to Ross, to Clifford. Had they any idea what Sir Charles Norton and his wife had got up to in their spare time? And assuming that they were ignorant, did that make them innocents? Did that mean they should escape Abbott’s wrath?

  No – no, it didn’t.

  ‘Well, it’s the fact that these two men are holding guns on him,’ said Montana sweetly.

  ‘Yes, that is a bit of a giveaway, Grandmama,’ smirked Ross. ‘Are you sure – I mean, are you absolutely certain – that he’s here of his own accord?’

  ‘It’s true that I have had to use a little persuasion on Green,’ admitted Lady Norton.

  ‘Hang about, is that in the rules?’ argued Ross. ‘Won’t he have an extra incentive to win?’

  His mother, Montana, seemed to be agreeing, nodding at him vigorously. ‘Yes, darling, yes.’ Abbott wondered how she felt, this mother who had just lost her son. There was no reason why a bereaved mother should not be dolled up as she was. Far be it for him to give a shit, much less dictate how a woman should dress, whatever the circumstances.

  But a bereaved mother competing in something like this? That was different. That was just further validation that this lot were scoring high on the psycho scale.

  ‘Well? Mr Coombs?’ Ross demanded to know.

  ‘There is nothing in the rules that prevents proxies from being coerced,’ Coombs said blandly, in response.

  Abbott wondered if this was what Coombs had envisioned doing at law school, all those years ago. Defender of the dispossessed? No. Legendary criminal lawyer? No. Plaything for a bunch of sick millionaires? Sign me up.

  Their eyes met and like Monroe, the lawyer’s gaze slid away. There was one thing to be said for his position, thought Abbott. Impossible though it seemed, tough as the odds were, it felt great to know you were the good guy for once.

  ‘Well, now that we’ve got that sorted,’ said Lady Norton, ‘how about we tell you what happens next?’

  Abbott looked at her. ‘That would be grand, Lady Norton,’ he said with just a trace of irony.

  ‘Excellent,’ she sniffed. ‘In a moment we shall be randomly selecting for you one of our four areas. Shortly, you will be transported to your given area, where the game will begin. You will find a weapon in the area. Unless, of course, you would prefer to use your fists.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Abbott, holding up a hand.

  There was a slight shift in the room. Nobody was accustomed to hearing Grandmama addressed that way. Nor, judging by her face, was she. ‘I suggest you remember your place, Green,’ she said.

  Abbott cocked his head. ‘Oh, yes? Or . . .?’

  She tilted her chin, as though letting this latest act of defiance ride. ‘Go ahead. What is it that you want to say?’

  ‘I want to know about weaponry. What will I be using? What will the others be using?’

  ‘My understanding is that you have all been issued with a Sig Sauer and thirty rounds of ammunition. Is that correct, Mr Kilgore?’

  ‘That’s correct, ma’am.’

  She smiled wanly at Abbott. ‘Is that all you need to know . . . Green?’

  Abbott looked at her.

  Green, he thought. Not wanting to show his hand, reveal his intentions but unable to help himself.

  ‘I saw that video,’ he told her.

  The words dropped like a stone in the room.

  ‘A video taken a very long time ago,’ she replied tartly.

  ‘Does that help you sleep better at night?’ asked Abbott.

  ‘What video?’ said Ross. ‘It wasn’t a dirty video, was it, Grandmama?’

  Abbott looked along the line. They didn’t know, he realised, but – and this was maybe worse – nor did they care.

  Lady Norton was regarding him icily as though she at once pitied and resented his hapless attempts to invoke family disapproval. ‘I do hope that you are not going to be any trouble, Green.’

  ‘I’ll play your game,’ he told her. ‘First, though, I need to see proof of life.’

  ‘We are referring to Mrs Oakley, are we? You seem awfully attached to her given that she is, as far as we can tell, happily married with two children.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m awfully attached to her. Which is why I won’t be doing any death matching until I know that she’s safe and well.’

  Lady Norton nodded at Kilgore, who leaned forward on the table and nodded at the lawyer, who stood and raised his remote control.

  Abbott noticed that his other hand shook slightly and that he disguised it by shoving it into his trouser pocket.

  The screens flicked on. When Abbott had entered the room, they’d showed different images, now they showed just one. It was Tess. She sat on a sofa, unaware that she was being watched. Not far away stood a guard with an M-16.

  ‘Not good enough,’ said Abbott. ‘That could be anytime, anywhere. I need to see her.’

  ‘And how on earth do you expect that to happen? How do you know she’s even here?’

  ‘I think she’s here,’ said Abbott. ‘I think she’s here, and I want to see her, or the deal’s off.’

  ‘I do not appreciate being spoken to like this, Green,’ snapped Lady Norton. ‘There is no deal. There is simply you doing what you’re told if you want her to stay alive.’ Her colour was up, the carefully cultivated cut-glass accent slipping. Her family were looking on, fascinated.

  ‘I think I want this guy,’ smirked Ross. He turned to his companion. ‘Kennedy, is it too late to change our minds and have this guy instead?’

  The man called Kennedy shot him an if-looks-could-kill glare but said nothing. To Lady Norton, Abbott said, ‘Call it what you want. But you’ve just hit the nail on the head. There’s no point in me doing it if I don’t know that she’s alive.’

  Lady Norton turned her head to whisper into Kilgore’s ear. He nodded and left the room. For two minutes or so, Abbott stood watching the Norton clan watching him. The amusement of Ross, t
he barely restrained anger of Juliet, the curiosity of Clifford and Montana. Didn’t expect this, did you? Fireworks before the fireworks.

  Kilgore returned. He motioned to List and Wilson, who hefted their weapons and then indicated Abbott to the door.

  With a final look at Juliet Norton, Abbott left the main conference room, crossed the smaller reception area outside, went to the door and out onto the balcony beyond.

  He stood at the rail, List and Wilson taking up position on either side of him, guns trained on him. His eyes went to the balcony on the opposite side of the quad where Tess stood stock-still, staring across the quad at him, her face impossible to read. It struck him how unusual that was. How normally she wore her emotions on her sleeve, written all over her face. Had the terror of her predicament forced her into herself, he wondered. Had the trauma shut her down?

  Needing to speak to her, needing to reach out, he called across, ‘Tess . . .’

  ‘Watch it,’ said Wilson, the muzzle of the M-16 coming forward. ‘Nobody said anything about having a chinwag while you’re out here.’

  Abbott didn’t take his eyes off Tess but said to Wilson, ‘Go ahead, put a round in me. Should be fun explaining that to the boss, eh?’ And he didn’t need to turn to look and see the thunder on Wilson’s face as he tried again, calling across to her, ‘Tess, I’m going to get us out of this.’

  Her feet were shoeless, the result of a struggle perhaps, and she wore what was presumably the same suit she’d been wearing for work the day she was snatched – just yesterday, in fact. Dark circles beneath her eyes. Eyes that seemed flat to him. Lifeless. And yet he could have sworn that his words brought a little light to them, and although she said nothing in return, she slowly raised her arm, a clenched fist of strength and solidarity.

  A second later, she was being bundled away, back into the room in which she was being kept, the door slamming behind her. ‘Guest Suite’ said a sign on the outside.

  List motioned with the muzzle of his weapon for Abbott to return likewise, but Wilson stopped them, bringing his face close to Abbott. ‘Me and you are gonna have words this day, Abbott,’ he said.

  Wilson pushed open the door and went back inside. To Abbott, List said, ‘The guy on the stairs you shot . . . He ended up bleeding out.’

  Abbott looked at him. ‘You could have called him an ambulance.’

  ‘That guy was Wilson’s brother.’

  ‘Well, you could have ignored whatever orders you were given and called him an ambulance,’ repeated Abbott.

  ‘I don’t think Wilson sees it like that,’ said List. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  ‘Are we happy?’ said Kilgore flatly when the three of them had returned to the conference room.

  ‘We’re happy,’ confirmed Abbott, eyes going to Lady Norton.

  ‘Then,’ said Kilgore, looking along the table to the lawyer, the uncomfortable lawyer, Coombs, for confirmation, ‘I do believe that it’s time for the game to begin.’

  CHAPTER 52

  Almost exactly one mile away, the French sniper known as Scolar was scaling a ladder that ran the height of a water tower. On his back was a rucksack as well as his rifle case. He reached the observation deck, where he used an ultraviolet light to check that the spray he’d left the last time he was here had not been disturbed. As expected, it was just as it had been before.

  From his rucksack he took a blanket that he folded length-ways and laid down on the concrete walkway that ran around the circumference of the tower. Next from the rucksack he took his spotting scope, then lay down and focused it on Murder World, finding it, seeing the odd figure moving around, guards with assault rifles, but no activity yet.

  That was good. He was in plenty of time. Exactly twenty minutes before the game was due to begin.

  Scolar had selected his weapon carefully. During his time in the Middle East he had liked to use the old faithful Steyr SSG 69 or the more modern Barrett M95 as preferred by the US military. For quick jobs, the Steyr was the one. A standard sniper rifle that worked well in the desert. The Barrett M95, with its pistol grip and tripod, was a rifle for the patient man.

  For this job, however, Scolar had selected the McMillan TAC-50. This was a rifle designed for long-range antipersonnel work. Its manufacturers claimed it could take out a target at over two miles, though this had yet to be proven in the field. It, too, had a bipod and a pistol grip and was fed from box mags, each holding five rounds, as well as a muzzle brake to cut down on recoil.

  He set it up now, attaching the butt stock, the Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight, and unfolding the bipod. He lay down, pulling the stock into his shoulder, lifting the weapon slightly and adjusting it to the right, squinting through the sight to match the visuals with those of the spotting scope, adjusting it for distance and wind speed. He worked the bolt, slowly and then fast, enjoying the feeling of it in the palm of his hand.

  With that done he delved once again into his rucksack, drawing from it a photocopied picture of the operative called Trent.

  Scolar didn’t think he’d forget that Trent’s colour was yellow but he liked to be sure. As a member of the French Foreign Legion, he had served in the Gulf War, in Rwanda, the Congo, Afghanistan, the Ivory Coast and more. He understood at moments of high intensity, the brain had a habit of switching into battle mode, when salient facts, small though they were, defaulted to the instinct of training in combat. He preferred to have something to refer to.

  Next, he sat up, loosening his shoulder muscles. He pulled an energy bar from his rucksack and munched on it as he used the spotting scope to monitor activity below.

  In the centre of the park was the huge execution-themed rollercoaster, while to one side was an area apparently designated for souvenirs and food, complete with picnic tables and concession stands, a set of balconied buildings on three sides.

  As he watched, he saw activity. A man in green overalls moved out to the balcony. Across the quad was a woman. The two of them were looking intently at one another, words were exchanged, and she raised her fist.

  Scolar thought nothing of that. Whatever was happening there fell outside of his remit.

  He sat, munched on his energy bar and continued to wait.

  He glanced at his watch. The game was very shortly to begin and so it was time. Time to go to work. He pushed the wrapper back into his rucksack. Same with the spotting scope. Next, he stretched out and then lay down on the blanket, pulling himself to the weapon, rather than the other way around. The first thing he saw was a motorcycle making its way to the far end of the park. It was carrying two people. Neither wore helmets. The rider wore a black denim jacket, the pillion passenger was a figure in an orange boiler suit.

  He took a good look at the guy in the orange overalls. Accepting the job, he’d wondered if he might recognise any of the proxies. The strange assistant, Kennedy, had told him that each competitor was operating in total secrecy and that none knew the identity of another’s proxy. Even so, Scolar had wondered. It might well be that he would see somebody he had dealt with in the past. A fellow traveller. Their world, after all, could be somewhat insular. But not the guy in orange.

  ‘Enemy,’ said Scolar to himself, finding the guy’s head in his crosshairs and tracking him as the motorcycle moved across the park. It would be so easy to pick him off now, but Scolar had his instructions. He was to use gunfire as cover. Under no circumstances should he give himself away.

  Tracking to the side he saw a second bike. This one’s pillion passenger wore the yellow boiler suit. ‘Friendly,’ said Scolar to himself.

  He felt the first drops of rain.

  CHAPTER 53

  ‘It’s just a final precaution,’ Abbott was told as he was zip-tied with his hands behind his back. He looked at the motorbike, rider already in the saddle. ‘And how am I supposed to get onto that?’

  McGregor pointed to the pillion handle. ‘Passenger rear grab. We used to call it a sissy bar back in Glasgow. Back in the day, when I was just a wee boy
.’

  ‘Did you indeed?’ Abbott motioned with his head for support as McGregor helped him aboard. ‘It’s good to have you on the team,’ said Abbott sarcastically.

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way, pal,’ replied McGregor in kind. ‘Your area, by the way, is the Fear Palace. I’ll see you on the monitors, eh? Don’t let us down, Abbott.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t,’ he said.

  And then something odd happened.

  McGregor’s eyes flicked behind Abbott, to the rider, who sat astride the bike with his back to them. He said, ‘Your lace is untied. Do you want me to get that for you? Rather than have to unzip you?’ He was looking significantly at Abbott, who went along with it, knowing full well that his laces were fine.

  ‘Thank you, that would be much appreciated. Not too tight, please.’

  McGregor knelt and, as Abbott watched, quickly hoisted up Abbott’s trouser leg and shoved his Gerber knife into his boot, giving it back to him. McGregor stood, looking meaningfully at Abbott. ‘There . . . That should be fine.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Abbott. Though he was glad of the knife, the gesture made him wonder what measures other players would be taking to help their proxies. It made him wonder, too, about McGregor’s loyalties. Could it be that McGregor was trying to send him a message? To show him where his allegiance lay? Difficult to know. Best not to ponder it. Abbott had more immediate things to worry about – like the fact that he was about to go into battle.

  They took off, and although Abbott had been half-expecting to hang on for grim life, in fact, his driver took it easy, presumably not wanting to risk harming the precious proxy by throwing him off the back of the bike.

  When they stopped, the rider was similarly careful in helping Abbott dismount. Soon, the zip-tie was cut, and moments after that, the rider was back on his bike and racing away.

  Abbott looked around. A couple of feet away was a brown hessian bag, the kind of thing people took to health-food shops. Abbott moved quickly to it. The choice of weapon was fundamental. It would dictate how he played the game.