Sir Peter stepped inside, Karl lagging behind him like a servant. The major roused a little, took sight of the latest arrivals and sank back against Clarity.
“You had the Land Rover all along?” Thomas threw it in Karl’s direction in the hope that some of it stuck.
“I’m sorry, Tommo. I needed to be sure about Major Eldridge, once it was obvious who’d put Jess and the remaining Scavenger off the base. I thought I could smoke him out, along with anyone else involved.”
“So what the bloody hell’s it doing here then?”
“It was my decision, Thomas.” Sir Peter announced to the room, as if addressing an inquiry. “It’s here as collateral.”
Schaefer gestured to Sir Peter then at the major. “Now you see why I wanted you to join the team, Tommy? You don’t think like these guys — Sir Peter has told me all about you.”
He glared at his boss, who stood there calmly, withstanding his contempt.
“Okay, enough Limey chit-chat, let’s get to the main event. What sort of damage limitation are we looking at here?” Schaefer spoke directly to Sir Peter.
Thomas gazed back at the screen. Why would Karl be stupid enough to bring the Scavenger firing mechanism over to Engamel? Simple: he wouldn’t. And maybe that was why he didn’t look Thomas in the eye.
Sir Peter was still talking with Schaefer, as if no one else was around, like the transatlantic special relationship gone wrong.
“Holy shit,” Karl blurted out, and everyone followed his line of vision.
Schaefer must have pushed another magic button because the monitor was split-screen now. On the right-hand side was the miraculous Land Rover; and on the left, some sort of military hardware. Thomas choked on a breath as the armoured vehicle sharpened into view — it was the C12, no question.
The C12 swung hard left and as soon as the turret started turning, it was painting by numbers. He knew exactly where Deborah was now and what was coming. It was still mesmerising, watching as the big gun fired.
The direct hit was a foregone conclusion. Even so, everyone in the room jolted as the Land Rover exploded into flames. Schaefer let out some kind of Texan cowboy whoop, and both Thomas and Karl made a move towards him, at least until the baseball bat put in a reappearance.
Sir Peter looked lost, as if Schaefer had deviated from some prearranged plan. “Michael, let’s be reasonable. What are you looking for?”
Thomas wanted to block his ears, but his hands had tightened by his side.
“It’s like this — Peter, old pal. The next phase of the Scavenger development cannot be hampered by past events.”
Jesus, this guy has no soul. His eyes widened to take it in.
“What we need is to finish the clean-up operation. That crazy bitch Jess is stateside now and as for the last remaining Scavenger test model . . .” He pointed his bat at the screen, where the smouldering wreckage told its own story. “Which leaves three little details. One — the second encrypted disc of images from the range accident. What you might call Amy’s finale.”
Thomas felt his mouth dry and his muscles start throbbing. The only thing holding him back was whether Schaefer was packing a piece as well as the bat.
“Two — the test data, which I gather Jess gave to Tommy as a leaving gift. Let me guess, Major Eldridge? Am I right?”
No one spoke. No one had to.
“And lastly,” Schaefer was really playing to the gallery now, “There’s all of you. We’re the only ones who know exactly what happened. And let’s face it, an inquiry ain’t getting in the way of business.” He reached for his glass again.
Thomas was already doing the maths: how much run up he’d need to get over the counter and start pounding the shit out of him. He looked around for a surprise weapon — nothing doing — then remembered the torch. Yeah, and then what? Apart from Karl, no one else seemed to have a problem with all of this.
Sir Peter muttered something to the major, who nodded slowly and opened his coat. Clarity reached in and pulled out the plastic case.
Thomas watched the scene play out in slow motion. The DVD went first to Sir Peter, who calmly walked it across. As he passed, Thomas felt a twinge, an urge to pull the Makarov and take them both down. But he was banking on Karl being smarter than Sir Peter and having some kind of backup plan. Although that hope was waning by the minute.
Karl had edged to the right a little, his face was a mask of calm. Thomas had seen that face before, just after Mrs Langton’s car won a weekend pass to the glaziers.
Schaefer tilted the plastic case as if he could read its contents by eye, and smiled his smug bastard smile. “Nice work, boys. And now, the test data.” He put the bat down on the counter, as if indicating that the rules of the game had changed.
Sir Peter opened his tailored coat, and retrieved an envelope. The major sank a little, as if someone had just put his mother on eBay. “It’s for the best, Charles.”
“Wise move guys. Now, we have one final problem. The Scavenger is a multi-million-dollar deal. Maybe billions, once we get to full deployment.”
“It’s not ready!” the major shrieked. “It’s unsafe. I won’t let you . . .”
“You won’t do shit.” Schaefer pulled out a gun and gave it some air.
“Now, Michael,” Sir Peter folded his hands together. “There’s no need for that — let’s talk terms. I propose limited deployment — with an addendum to the user manual that ammunition must not be loaded randomly — just until we sort this glitch out. We cannot afford any more collateral damage.”
As Thomas turned towards Sir Peter Carroll he felt his hands go cold.
Karl had found his voice at last. “Poor Amy died because he wanted to meet some godforsaken delivery deadline and now you’re gonna allow him to go ahead?” He shook his head violently. “No way, not a chance.”
Thomas stole the moment and pulled the torch out, flinging it towards Schaefer. It wasn’t exactly an assault, more of a distraction. It did the job though. Schaefer blocked it with his hand and by the time he’d looked up again, Thomas had him in his sights, the Makarov pistol resolute and unwavering.
“Put it away, son, before you write a cheque you can’t afford to settle.” Schaefer faced him down, drawing his own weapon.
“Nah, you put it away.” Karl had seen the Makarov and raised Thomas a Browning, catching the Yank in a three-way standoff.
Schaefer tried to play it down. “Say, Peter, I’m disappointed,” he laughed aloud, like he was waiting for everyone else to join in. “I thought you could control your boys.”
The old man’s face turned a shade of apoplectic. “You will both stand down immediately!” he roared. “I order you.”
Thomas glanced towards Karl, who took a moment then nodded slowly. “Do as he says, Tommo. Sir Peter is our superior.”
Thomas recoiled like he’d been stabbed. When it came down to it, even Karl was willing to knuckle under to preserve the double-edged relationship his people had with Sir Peter. He stuffed the weapon in his pocket and turned to Karl silently — no sense in wasting any words.
Everyone else seemed to be focused on Schaefer. Meantime, Thomas caught the flicker of the monitor screen before it fractured into eight squares, each one a different camera view. Something flitted across three of them, like a shadow. Then the shape stopped moving and hunched down.
I spot details that other people miss. That was the line he’d sold Sir Peter Carroll at his SSU job interview. He wasn’t kidding. He watched the stand-off play out around him and an instinct awoke. Something triggered, like a lyric sung before the full song is recognised. The Internal Comms caller had told him to protect the operative.
He looked back at his oppo. Fuck. “Karl, get down — gun!” He launched himself across the space between them, taking Karl to the ground. Seconds later, a bullet punctured the window and hit the wall.
Karl rolled Thomas off him and hunted around to retrieve his Browning. Thomas was ahead of him, levelling back at Schaefer, unt
roubled by conscience.
Schaefer’s hands were wide in protest, and neither one held a gun.
“You better call her in,” Karl kept low, signalling to Thomas to do likewise, “or I’ll put a bullet in her.”
“Er, Deborah, you heard what the man said,” Schaefer sounded as convincing as a car salesman on a Friday evening.
“Sorry, Michael,” Deborah’s voice had shed its playfulness. “There’s been a change of plan. It looks like the clean-up is gonna be more thorough than we anticipated.”
Another bullet zinged through the glass, into the ceiling, popping one of the strip lights.
“She’s got us pinned down,” Karl spoke directly to Thomas then turned towards Schaefer. “How many exits out of here? And for God’s sake cut the microphone.”
Schaefer reached above the desk. “Done. There are three ways out of this block — assuming all the doors still work — but she knows that.”
“Mr McNeill, it’s time you took care of this.” Sir Peter sounded sombre.
“Sir,” Karl acknowledged, as if they’d reached some kind of accord. “Right, Michael, give your gun to Clarity.”
Schaefer skidded the pistol across the floor and Karl intercepted it.
“Tommo, swap this Browning for your peashooter — you’re more used to it.”
He did as asked, checking the clip and pressing his skin around the handle. The adrenaline began to surge. He knew what was coming, and this time he was ready.
“Right, here’s how we do this. Thomas and I go out the fire exit; I don’t suppose we can help the alarms. Mr Schaefer, we’re relying on you to hold Deborah’s attention. And if you warn her, Schaefer, you’ll live to regret it — that’s a promise.” He looked directly at the major, who nodded darkly.
Thomas crawled forward until he and Karl were shoulder to shoulder, facing the fire door. He felt blood pounding through his arteries.
“Ready, Thomas?”
He nodded, unable to speak, eyes glistening.
“When we get outside, make for the first embankment then we’ll split two ways. Schaefer,” he twisted his head back, “the agreements made here still apply — if we get Deborah out of the picture.”
Chapter 40
Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . GO! Thomas watched as Karl barrelled through the fire escape, claxons blaring after him. He wasn’t long in following Karl, straining every muscle to keep pace, forcing himself to look beyond the mirage of Yorgi’s face lurking at the back of his mind.
He slammed flat against the damp grass, panting into the moisture and dirt. Then he heard Karl’s call and twisted round to catch the finger movements, directing them in a pincer movement.
“I’ll draw her fire and then you run like the wind.”
Time didn’t slow down. It intensified, compounding focus, like a long lens. A gun went off behind him and he lurched towards the trees, colours blurring around him. He smashed against tree bark, one palm outspread to receive it like a blessing, crouching low, hand stinging, tracking all directions for movement.
There was no trace of Karl behind him; he was alone. He held his breath and listened. Then, caught between desperation and urgency, he got ready to move.
“Over here, Tommo!” Karl’s voice carried in the air, punctuated by a gunshot.
Karl had drawn her out as planned. Through the trees, Thomas saw his car — the one Karl had procured for him. Another shot rang out — hopefully return fire — and that made up his mind for him. He belted towards the vehicle, hitting the unlock button mid-sprint. His hands were shaking as he hurled himself inside but he got the engine to start first time, curving backwards to open out the tarmac ahead of him. He set the safety on the Browning in his lap and roared off, taking the kerb so fast that his head smacked against the roof; it didn’t delay him any.
Soon he was flying over the embankment and crunching down the other side, ploughing through the gears to get up speed. There was no plan, no strategy, other than to get to Karl.
He knew the sound of a Browning, homing in as Karl fired a volley at the femme fatale. As he got closer to the target zone, he could see Karl’s position — and Deborah’s — through the windscreen. Then there was a dull explosion and the car twisted round. He pulled the wheel, but it was no use — the tyre had burst and physics was running the show now. The wheel snapped back and the driver’s door arched over him. He thought he saw Karl’s face, framed momentarily through the glass, then the sky whirled by, over and over, as he tumbled inside the car. He tried counting the rotations, as if that would somehow help. He lost count after three and closed his eyes against the nausea, trying to hold his arms in and keep still as possible.
As the car slow-somersaulted for the final time and rocked to a standstill, he heard shouting. Then a sickening lone shot rang out, like a mercy killing, and Karl was nowhere to be seen.
He pressed against the headrest, blinking as the blood seeped down his face. Something was getting closer. A dull static filled his brain, like a broken machine. He wanted to sleep, wanted to let it all slip away from him. But the sharpest pain, in his thigh, wouldn’t let him be. It felt like a chunk of metal, wedged tight against his skin, puncturing it. He reached down and felt the back of the Browning. It took two breaths to prise it out from under his leg; he’d been lucky.
He wiped the blood away with his left hand and forced himself to focus. The shape became steadily clearer, and Deborah’s laughter left him in no doubt. She was dressed head to foot in combat gear, hobbling towards him like his crippled nemesis. He moved his hand over his gun and released the safety catch, waiting and watching, as she closed in on him for the kill.
He remembered the times before, when he’d held a gun. As a boy, confronting his own father, and then with Yorgi, over the moors — shooting him out of rage. He knew that Karl needed his help now — might even be dead — but he pushed those thoughts aside. Right now it was just the hunter and the hunted: simple as that.
Deborah was a hand’s grasp from the passenger door. He stayed very still, propping the gun against his leg and angling it upwards. The laughter hadn’t stopped — she was really on a roll. And now it was time for the punchline.
Their eyes met and in that instant he felt something. Maybe respect, maybe a fleeting twinge of conscience. It made no difference. He tensed up and squeezed the trigger, exactly how you’re not supposed to. It didn’t impede the bullet that hit her at close range, punching her backwards with a muffled scream.
He caught his breath, realising in that instant that he was more vulnerable than ever. He wasn’t sure where the bullet had struck her — and she could be wearing a vest. Terror shook him, his hands scrabbling frantically at the handle to push with all his might until the battered door gave free.
As he slid to the ground he saw her feet beneath the other side of the car, laid out like a corpse. He kneeled to stand, the ground swirling around him. Then he heard her moan and knew that it would not be over until she was no threat at all. He stumbled around the front of the car, reversing roles now, stalking her.
She lay, contorted, clutching her abdomen, blood smeared across her torso and hands. A look passed between them; the look a gazelle gives the lion when it realises there is no more room for manoeuvre. She coughed, and it sounded a little like tears, although he didn’t imagine that she had any. His gun arm was out, scenting her through the barrel, his gaze unblinking. She fumbled towards her own gun on the grass and her fingers trembled, but she didn’t have the strength.
He rushed forward and stamped down on her weapon, leaning over her, the Browning quivering slightly in the breeze.
“Do it!” She gurgled, her hand still extended for the weapon he was standing on.
He kicked her hand away and let her scream again. “Yeah, but I’m a civilian.”
“Tommo!” Karl’s voice was weary, raw.
Thomas picked up the .38 automatic and ran over, blinking back tears. “I knew you’d be wearing a vest.”
> “Yeah, but I hit my bloody head — it’s killing me. Is Deborah . . .?”
“She’ll live, probably.” He pulled out the mobile and flicked through his call register. “It’s Thomas. The operative is safe. We need an ambulance urgently.”
Karl dragged himself to sitting. “What? Have you joined the team now?”
“Nah. Just a favour for a friend.” He helped Karl to his feet.
They waited together beside Deborah, Karl using his field skills to make her as comfortable as possible. Neither of them spoke to her; she was hardly going to dictate a letter of apology. The ambulance wasn’t long in coming. A cynic might suggest that the clean-up crew had been waiting around the corner, waiting until Karl and Thomas had done the dirty work. And if that were true, it would be just like every other day in the Surveillance Support Unit.
He followed Karl’s example and let the medics have a couple of minutes on him, before returning to Schaefer and the others.
“You okay, Tommo?” Karl held out his hand for the major’s gun.
“Yeah,” he returned it willingly. “Better than okay, actually.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll tell the major that I took his gun — it saves a lot of complication.”
“Fine by me. I’m not looking for a mention in despatches.”
“Well, Mr Bladen, you deserve a medal as far as I’m concerned. Will you settle for a shandy and a bag of crisps?”
“Deal.”
* * *
Thomas saw it through different eyes now, the way the wheels turned in the aftermath. Sir Peter, the major and Michael Schaefer all playing together nicely, while he and Karl were consigned to the shadows. He preferred it that way — the less he knew about the handshakes under the table, the easier he would sleep at night.
Miranda had been to his flat three days running — a personal record, since their split up all that time ago. She didn’t ask any big questions and it saved him having to lie to her. He phoned Karl every day, just talking around things instead of confronting them. According to the Celtic Wonder, Deborah had admitted that Karl was one of the jobs she’d been paid to take care of. He also said that she’d undergone surgery and was expected to make a full recovery. Thomas felt nothing about it. And Karl’s confession that he’d visited her in hospital only prompted a vague sense of disbelief. But he knew that was how things were in Karl’s world — no absolutes, and a backdrop of permanently shifting grey.
Line of Sight Page 30