"Okay. Before you try, just answer some basic questions, so I know you're ready. How many of them are there?"
Tom didn't reply.
"From the shape of that gunstock, it's most likely a Heckler and Koch MP5SD, am I right? Not a weapon you see often in the UK. I imagine you worked that out, eh, Tom? Suppressed, too. That means the neighbours won't hear the shots. Now, that narrows the field. I'm guessing mercenaries, sent by our friend Winter."
No, mm, not a friend.
"Really? Are you sure? Because you stopped me putting a bullet in his head, remember? The man who killed Mum and Dad. After twenty years, after everything I've been through, after all that planning and preparation, you suddenly turn into Jiminy Cricket and ruin everything. Well, here's the result, champ."
Bedlam Boy giggled. "Come on, T-T-Tom. Come, mm, on. I'll give you some help before you start. I'd put money on there being four of them. A bigger team might draw attention, and they don't want anyone spoiling their fun before they're finished. A lookout at the back, another at the front. Two in the house. Two inside with the hostage. If she's still alive."
No. No. They, mm, mustn't hurt her.
"Whatever. While she's alive, it gives them power over you, so I doubt they've killed her yet. They will, though, once you go blundering in and get yourself shot."
The Boy started singing. Tom wondered if he knew more than one song. He hadn't understood everything the Boy said. Bedlam Boy spoke too fast, and Tom couldn't keep up. But Tom knew he had to decide. It was up to him. But if he answered the Boy's call this time, allowed him to take over, he'd lose what ground he'd gained since sparing Winter. For a few days, he hoped he might learn to control Bedlam Boy. Not anymore.
Okay. Mm, mm, you do it. S-s-save her.
"What's that, Tom? Didn't quite catch it. Did you say something?"
S-s-save her.
"And what's the magic word, mad Tom?"
Mm. P-please.
As the tears dried on Tom's cheeks, he forgot why he was crying. He turned back towards the sea. Shadows thickened and massed around the top of the stone steps, drawing themselves into the shape of a man. A man who looked like Tom, but confident, moving with the ease of someone sure of their place in the world. Someone with focus so sharp he bends reality to his will.
The sea roared, but Tom no longer heard it. He breathed in and inhaled the shadow man, becoming empty as the darkness filled him.
Bedlam Boy watched the mercenary scan the horizon. When he looked towards the lights of Lowestoft's piers, the Boy moved silently away from the bin and scooped up a handful of loose stones, crouching behind the low wall at the end of the small yard.
His body shook for a second with silent laughter, wondering what Winter had told the mercenaries to expect.
He hoped they liked surprises.
Chapter Nine
Timing was everything now.
When Bedlam Boy took on Winter's crew on his home turf, he engaged the enemy from a position of strength. The element of surprise was considerable. No one considered an unarmed man in a concrete dungeon behind a steel door to be a credible threat. By the time they appreciated the situation, he had gained the advantage, following a plan made years before, every move mentally rehearsed for weeks.
This was different. Very different. The Boy held no advantage tonight. Winter had seen the Boy work, so the mercenary team would be briefed and ready. The Boy knew what he would do in their place. Lookouts front and back. The hostage upstairs, so anyone coming had only one route available. One mercenary to cover the hostage, another to watch the top of the stairs.
The mercenary team needed to communicate with each other, but they were maintaining radio silence. So how did they do it? Bedlam Boy reviewed Tom's memories for the answer. Tom had seen—without understanding—the left hand of the lookout resting on something clipped to his belt.
The Boy watched closely. Once a minute, the mercenary pressed something with his thumb - four rapid pushes. If each member of the team had the same device, they could check in that way. The pattern was clear: the man waited until the others checked in: one buzz, then two, then three. That was the rear lookout's cue: four pushes from him.
A clever system, new to the Boy. But with an exploitable weakness.
The Boy grinned in the darkness. He looked up at Debbie's bedroom window, the middle window, not expecting to see anything. Seasoned professionals didn't stand in front of windows, inviting any enemy to take a shot. He thought of Strickland and stifled a giggle. The Boy heard a muffled sob. Debbie was still alive, then. In pain from the sound of it. And in her bedroom with at least one mercenary.
Bedlam Boy waited for number four's turn to check in, listening for the quiet tuk tuk tuk tuk as the mercenary pressed the button on his device. When he heard it, the Boy threw the handful of stones, lobbing them to land at the foot of the house's gable end. He vaulted the low wall a split second after they hit the ground, the mercenary turning towards the unexpected noise. An old trick, and the man's training meant his next reaction was to return his attention to the yard. He was fast. Just not as fast as the Boy.
A straight-fingered jab to the throat is a brutal, sometimes fatal, move, but it's risky. A fraction too high or too low, and all the Boy would achieve would be making an armed man angry. But the Boy never doubted his aim for a second. This wasn't a man trying to kill another man. Death came from the darkness. Bedlam Boy flowed out of the night, fingers crushing cartilage. The lookout wheezed once and crumpled, twitching as he died.
Taking the man's gun, knife, and the vibrating device, which looked like a tiny, old-fashioned pager, the Boy listened for any sounds upstairs. His kill had been almost silent, but he needed to be sure. After a minute, the pager vibrated as everyone checked in. Bedlam Boy added his own four pushes to the tally, before climbing over the wall to the north and, once out of earshot, sprinting down the next set of steps to the beach.
There were no more vibrations after his four-push confirmation, confirming his guess. Four enemies. Three, now.
The upturned fishing boats slept like giant beetles, the starlight that fell across them as the clouds passed overhead lending them the illusion of movement. The Boy knelt beside the nearest boat, hooking his fingers underneath, lifting. He rested the gunwale on his shoulder while he reached inside, exploring the wooden hull. Nothing. The pager vibrated, and he checked in again.
He dropped the boat back onto the pebbles; the sound lost in the sea's crash and boom.
The third vessel yielded a length of coiled rope. The Boy looped it over his head and shoulder, then ran back.
He took a moment to review what he expected to find at the front of the house. The lookout would have to stay out of sight. It might be a quiet dead end, but that didn't mean no one would walk, cycle, or drive by. An armed man in Pakefield would provoke an immediate 999 call. The mercenary would pick somewhere hidden, but still commanding a view of anyone approaching the house.
The bike store. It was by the hedge, and someone sitting inside would be hidden in the shadows. There were no bikes in it now, if there ever had been.
The Boy stood at the edge of the wall, his back pressed against it. Lampposts out front meant he would be visible the moment he came around the corner.
He waited for the next round of pulses from the pager, checked the safety was off on the Heckler and Koch, put his weight on his left arm and pivoted around the corner of the wall. The bike store was empty. He swept the gun barrel left to right. No one in the garden either. Which meant...
The Boy dropped to his knees as the bullet zipped through the air above him. If the shooter hadn't gone for a head shot, he would have been hit. He rolled to his right, braced his arms against the hard ground, and started firing, five muffled phuts as the bullets left the chamber. One metallic ping, but the other four shots found their target, and the next sound was a heavy thump. His enemy got one more shot in, the bullet digging a channel into the grass to his left.
T
he reactions that saved him were so fast, his escape must have seemed supernatural to the sniper who squeezed the trigger. The truth was less esoteric, but possibly as rare. Bedlam Boy acted on the information his senses provided, but did so without hesitation. In a combat situation, every synapse he could spare operated in accord. When he swept the gun barrel across the open space, he registered the van parked side-on a hundred yards from the house, the open sliding door, the darkness within. A perfect spot for a sniper. When he rolled into position, he fired blind through the hedge, the van's open door almost as clear to him as if looking right at it.
If he moved forward now, he risked being seen by anyone upstairs. Instead he crawled to his left until he saw the van through the open front gate. The vehicle still rocked on its axles. His first shot had hit the side of the van, the next four pumped into its dark interior. The thump had been the sniper's body falling. The Boy waited until the van settled, and everything became quiet.
Nothing stirred in the street, the suppressed weapon's shots not loud enough to draw attention.
Shit. The pager. It was overdue. Which meant the sniper was number one, and, because his body was full of bullets, he missed his cue. The two remaining mercenaries now knew Bedlam Boy wouldn't walk right into their trap. Couldn't be helped.
They'd expect number four—the rear lookout—to investigate. The Boy toyed with the idea of continuing to pretend to be number four, then discarded it. No; better to let them believe he killed two of their colleagues within the same minute without them hearing a thing. Let them wonder if they still had the upper hand.
He tossed the buzzer into the bushes and turned back to the old oak tree a young Tom Lewis would have found impossible to resist climbing. Bedlam Boy was no different. He took a running jump, caught the lowest branch and, as it sagged under his weight, pulled himself up. He wondered if the remaining two mercenaries were discussing whether sticking together or splitting up was the smarter play. The Boy didn't mind which they chose. It ended the same way. He pressed his lips together to stop himself singing.
He climbed quickly, reaching the fourth limb up, which stretched out towards the roof. After pulling himself along the branch, he lowered his feet to the tiles beneath. The roof had the steep pitch of a nineteen-thirties house, with concrete tiles instead of the original clay. The Boy's experienced eye guessed at a late seventies job - nicely done, solid. Easy to walk across without dislodging anything.
When he got to the red brick chimney, he looped the rope around it and knotted it. He fed the rope out as he walked down the steep roof to the back of the house, stopping just above Debbie's bedroom window. Once in place, he leaned out, the rope tight across his shoulder.
He looked down at the first lookout's body in the backyard, thirty feet below. No one came to check when number four and number one stopped broadcasting. More evidence of the team's experience. The leader would be inside. It wouldn't do to underestimate him, or her. Then again, Bedlam Boy considered, as he played out an extra five feet of rope between his hands, they expected him to arrive from below.
At the second he jumped, before his mind returned to the dark, silent stillness he embraced in combat, the Boy remembered a moment from his years of training. The barn owl. He was travelling through a dense forest, learning to leave as few signs of his passage as possible. This meant choosing each footstep, aiming for silence, but never quite achieving it. It meant taking a route through the tree branches when necessary. It meant a long wait when no cover was available, crouching in absolute silence until a muntjac, fox, or badger provided an audible distraction, then sprinting through the open landscape, exposed for a few intense seconds. During such a sprint, a white shape drew his attention to the left, passing about five yards away. A barn owl, swift, deadly, and utterly silent. Until that moment, Bedlam Boy thought he was intimate with the silence of a predator stalking its prey. But the owl moved soundlessly. Beautiful, lethal, and impossible to defend against.
The Boy faced the chimney, leaned out, bent his knees, and jumped, the rope spooling out in front of him. Just before it snapped taut, he fell into the darkness, and the scene inside the bedroom snapped into focus. It was as close as he'd ever get to that barn owl. They didn't know what was coming.
Chapter Ten
The landing light gave Bedlam Boy a freeze-frame of the dark bedroom in the half-second before his entrance.
Debbie, pale, sweating, ankles cabled together, left hand tied to the bedpost. Her right hand pushing down on her upper leg. White sheets stained dark with blood. By the door, a mercenary with a spider tattooed on his neck, looking away from him. Lucky.
Debbie looked towards the window as the Boy dropped into view. She may have made an involuntary sound, because the man at the door turned.
Bedlam Boy's arms flexed, muscles knotting as the rope—wrapped twice around his hand—went taut. He knew he would get cut. Sugar glass in movies exploded without injuring anyone. Actual glass wasn't so amenable. To minimise the damage, he turned his head away, his left shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.
He hit the window at speed. This helped him avoid deep lacerations as the glass imploded, driven by the weight and velocity of his body. The force of the impact sent glass flying towards the door. The mercenary threw an arm over his face to avoid being hit.
The Boy rolled and came up fast. Spider didn't try for a shot. At the speed his opponent was coming, he would never get the Heckler and Koch angled towards him in time. Instead, he jabbed the stock at Bedlam Boy's sternum. The mercenary was fast and strong. When the Boy moved to block him, he reacted, pulling the gun back, jabbing at his stomach, expecting him to retreat. Instead, two huge hands closed around the weapon, stopping its forward motion. Then a clockwise twist forced Spider's left hand from the barrel, and the butt was under the man's chin. Two snaps upwards and he spat blood, jolted, unbalanced. He stumbled backwards onto the landing.
Ready to finish him, the Boy took a step, then stopped. His enemy's dazed retreat was a ruse. He was signalling Bedlam Boy's position. Which meant the final enemy was positioned close enough for a clear shot at the Boy, if he followed Spider onto the landing. Very close, then.
Spider darted back into the room, unleashing a flurry of punches. Bedlam Boy knew the attack was a diversion. He blocked the blows but stood his ground. Blood sprayed onto his face as his opponent hissed rapid breaths through crimson teeth.
When the mercenary dropped to a squat, he dropped with him, rewarded with the adrenaline-spiked illusion of time slowing during a life-or-death moment. Time to see shock and dismay in the man's eyes. Time to see Debbie twist her arm on the bedpost, trying to free herself. Time to register the shadow of a man preparing to fire. Time to ensure he never got the chance.
Bedlam Boy put the flat of both hands on Spider's chest. He was already pushing him when the barrel of the last gun came into view. The final man stepped into the doorway as his comrade exited, Spider's back knocking the submachine gun to one side and continuing with enough momentum to send both men back into the wooden handrail across the landing.
It was a beech handrail; solid enough, but not designed to withstand a quarter of a ton of battle-hardened muscle and bone hitting it at speed. It gave way with a sharp, splintering crack, and the final mercenary fell twelve feet to the bottom of the staircase. Something snapped in the man's shoulder, the back of his head smacking hard against the worn carpet. His eyelids fluttered, his pupils rolled up, and he sagged.
Spider hung in space, held by the Boy's grip on his jacket. Before he could act, Bedlam Boy unleashed a series of moves so fast it was a shame the only witness would be unable to applaud, on account of his being dead.
A head-butt first, pulling the man forwards as the Boy whipped his forehead into the centre of his face. The Boy let go of his jacket and the man fell backwards. When his fall was arrested by the Boy's left hand grabbing him, the mercenary looked almost relieved, until he saw the other hand contained a knife.
The
Boy plunged the knife between the ribs into the mercenary's heart, removed it, then repeated the same action twice more. The third mercenary's vital functions were already shutting down when Bedlam Boy noticed the lens on his shoulder. Larger than the cameras he'd concealed in London beneath streaks of fake bird shit. Fixed focal length. Why wear a camera unless he was filming? And if he was filming, who was the audience? One man came to mind.
The Boy looked into the lens. He smiled, blew a kiss, winked, and dropped the dead man.
The noise the body made when it hit the stairs was wrong. Too hard. Not cushioned by the first body. The last man had gone.
He reviewed the incomplete information available. There was Debbie to consider. The mercenaries hadn't killed Debbie, which meant they thought she had value as a hostage. They were wrong. The Boy didn't care if she lived or died. The window and the rope gave him a route to the yard. The fourth man was injured. If the Boy pressed his advantage, he would prevail, as the mercenary would expect him to protect Debbie.
He crossed the bedroom and stopped. His plan was sound. But it left Debbie in danger. He found, to his consternation, that he did care after all. Putting aside this revelation to process later, he cut the cable ties that held her.
The Boy sat on the edge of the bed. "Get on my back."
"What?" Debbie was in shock.
"Put your arms around my neck and hang on. Don't make a sound."
She did it, and he stood up. Her body knocked against his, and he felt her tense with the pain of the bullet wound. She didn't cry out. He climbed out of the broken window, grabbed the rope, took two quick steps along the sill, facing the house, then jumped to the side. When his feet hit the bricks, he climbed quickly, panting with the extra weight.
Once on the roof, he walked up the tiles to the chimney where Debbie slid off. He tossed the bloody stolen knife down into the yard.
Debbie pressed her back against the chimney. The Boy examined her wound.
The Fall of Winter Page 5