The Agents

[FullAuto]

London

 

Chris lay in gentle stupor. The drugs were the good stuff, true quality that you just couldn't get on ops. Morphine, with its warm dulling cloud, wasn't even close to this. He rolled over to get a drink of water and his back twinged.

The bullet, according to the doctors, had punched in through the top of his shoulder and tunnelled just under the skin of his back to hit his shoulder blade, fragment, and stop, right under the bone.

-hours digging holes in me-

They'd cut him open twice, once in Bogota and once in London. His dressings were changed twice a day because the wound was weeping pus, and it hurt so much they had to dope him up half an hour before they did it. He had what amounted to a trench in his back, and it hurt. He felt it sometimes, when the medication was a little late, or when he moved too fast. Now he lay still, watching the telly or reading.

-a week wasted-

No, not wasted, resting. Recuperating.

"Bloody bullet magnet." Kev had said affectionately a week ago, pinching his cheek.

"Just lucky." He'd replied, dredging up a smile from somewhere.

Feeling sick because of the way Pete was looking at him.

-binned, off the job, non-operational-

There was going to be physiotherapy, eventually. But before that, endless days laid on an immaculate bed, all the rough smoothed out of his life with painkillers, all the pain, all the-

-achievement-

-stress gone.

Pickering and his congratulations. Well done, month's pay plus bonus, rest up, back on ops in no time.

Bullshit.

-well done for getting shot, Davies-

Oh yes. Bravo.

Someone knocked on the door.

His throat was so dry he could barely call out. "Come in."

"Feelin sorry for yourself?"

"Jock" Chris sat up, forgetting the pain in his surprise.

"Aye." The big Scotsman moved into the room. "Been out of hospital all of two weeks meself."

"How's the leg?" Chris picked up a glass of water and sipped.

"Not too bad." Jock sat in the chair by the bed. "Had a few skin grafts."

He pulled up the leg of his jeans, showing a pallid shin. "I'm normally that colour anyway."

"You look alright." Chris said, leaning back against the pillows.

"Oh, I am, no bother." Jock shrugged. "Gettin back into things is goin to be hard. Pickerin arranged for me to get a full pension, and it looks like I'll be your quartermaster. Maybe, perhaps, dependin."

Chris grunted.

"Bit like you." Jock said, looking right at him.

"Yeah." Chris stared at the wall.

"Back wounds are funny. Sometimes they just don't heal right." Jock frowned.

"I'm shitting it." Chris confessed.

"Don't blame you. Broke me leg in Cambodia and the Regiment tried to bin me. Said I was too old." Jock grinned. "Can't blame them for tryin."

Chris grunted again.

"Look, just don't challenge anyone to an arm wrestle any time soon." Jock stood. "Off to get a cuppa. Want one?"

"Please." Chris watched Jock leave, then shut his eyes.

Jock had bounced back. A little skinnier, but still powerfully muscled. The faintest hint of a limp perhaps, but that was all.

-operational-

He was tired.

 

"Corporal Davies?" A voice asked him softly.

"Uh?" Chris blinked, moving back to consciousness.

"Christopher Davies?" A man asked.

He was stood by the side of the bed in a white coat, looking down at something in his hand. Dark hair, dark eyes, a wide mouth with upturned corners and a squashed boxer's nose.

-doctor-

Chris struggled to sit up. The doctor pushed him back down. "Easy, sir. I'm sorry to bother you. I'm looking for a guy called Christopher Davies."

Chris waited for his brain to catch up. "That's me."

The man smiled. "Excellent."

Chris peered at the clock. "Time for my painkillers?"

"Yeah, it is." The doctor rooted in his pocket. "I've got them here."

Chris saw the gun out of the corner of his eye.

The doctor's left hand was fumbling in his pocket. His right was holding a suppressed automatic, something small and compact. It was below the level of the bed, but rising had put it in his view.

The man smiled. "Don't shout for help. Don't move."

Chris considered his options.

Lay still and die. Move and probably die.

He moved.

The man stepped back and swung, a backhand that laid Chris out. "Don't move."

-can't fight drugged up and wounded-

Chris recognised the accent as faintly American. "Piss off."

The man hit him again, in the stomach this time. "Not any time soon."

Chris folded his arms across his guts, curling up. Too slow, too weak.

-use it-

"Where's the money coming from?"

Chris managed to breathe around the ball of pain in his chest. "What?" He gasped.

"No. No stalling. I'm not going to repeat myself."

Chris looked him over carefully. He had changed from a fairly innocuous looking doctor into something much more unpleasant, someone a lot sharper.

"Answer." The gun came up and pressed against his chest.

The automatic had a suppressor. No hope of being heard if he managed to get out of the way of the first shot.

"No." He looked from the gun up to those dark eyes and spat it again. "No."

The cold hard nose of the gun was like death's finger probing for his heart.

"You sure?"

Jock entered carrying mugs of tea. "Terrible friggin time findin-"

The doctor spun, shooting. The bullet buried itself in the wall.

Jock threw both cups. Hot tea splashed in the doctor's eyes. He screamed and fired again. The bullet splintered the edge of the door.

Jock flung himself forward. He palmed the gun away with his left and jabbed with his right. His knuckles hit the doctor in the throat.

There was a soft crackling sound and the doctor collapsed. Jock picked up the gun, looked it over and shot the writhing man in the back of the head.

"Bad way to go, suffocation." Jock said mildly.

Chris sat up. "Christ."

Blood was pouring out of the head and forming a growing pool. It was already lapping at Jock's boots.

"Can't clean this up. Let's go."

 

Hereford

 

"J-ingle bells, j-ingle bells, j-ingle all the way." Kev took a deep breath as he turned onto his street, singing softly to himself. "Oh what fun it is to ride, a one-horse open sleigh, hey."

-carols months before Christmas, you have cracked this time, Hawkins-

He grinned. Swinging his shopping jauntily, free hand tucked into his pocket, Kev strode the last hundred metres to his house with a spring in his step.

He had beer, he had enough curry to kill a platoon, and he had at least a dozen good films to watch. And there was always the possibility that Jude might see the error of her ways...

He laughed aloud at that.

"Sergeant Kevin Hawkins?"

Kev was too preoccupied to do anything but react naturally to the sound of his own name. He turned, smiling.

The bullet hit him in the face.

 

Frankfurt

 

Lukas hurried up the path to Greta's flat, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, bouncing gently against his back. She always insisted he bring something back from wherever he went, and he had a jar of coffee that had cost more than he believed anyone would dare charge.

-can't be that good-

He reached the door, shrugged the duffle bag off his shoulder and dug in his jeans for his keys. He always put them in a different pocket.

The first load of shot caught him low in the back. He staggered against the door, clawing for something to hold onto.

The second blast caught him across both legs and they folded. He clipped his chin on the door handle as he fell.

His back and legs were stinging like he'd been whipped with nettles. He could feel blood soaking his socks, making them sticky and warm.

Another blast swept overhead, peppering the door.

The ground felt like sandpaper against his wounds. He rolled over, groaning, drawing his Glock with slow care.

-both hands, front sight, double-tap-

He folded one hand round the grip, then the other, turning his head and aiming.

Blue van, side door slid halfway open, the black silhouette of someone behind the long dark barrel of a shotgun.

Another blast. This one bit deep into his arm and the side of his face, a few pellets merely grazing his shoulder with a hot kiss.

His arm died. He dropped the Glock.

Another blast, digging up the path by his hands. Flecks of stone pierced his fingers.

-that's five, can't have many more left-

Until he reloads.

Lukas picked up the Glock. Blind in one eye, an arm dead, he rolled over onto his side and fired. He missed the van, never mind the gunman.

Another blast. A hundred hot needles pierced his chest, prickling his lungs and heart. He coughed blood even as he shot back.

The bullet blasted the handle off the passenger door.

-getting closer-

He squeezed the trigger again.

A small hole appeared in the half-open side door.

Lukas tried to steady his aim. The gunman leaned forward, lowering the shotgun, and slid the door closed.

Lukas fired through it, emptying the magazine into the van, hoping to get lucky as the recoil and his own erratic nerve impulses swayed the gun back and forth.

-enough, time to call an ambulance-

His mobile was in his duffle bag. He turned his head to look at it. Only a metre away.

The world dimmed. The steady rumble of the van's engine faded to a hum.

-can't make it-

"You can." The effort of speaking made him pant, gentle sprays of blood dotting the path with each exhale. "Ja. Schnell, scheissekopf."

His grandfather, Ernst, had survived World War Two, even though he'd had nightmares four nights a week for the rest of his life afterwards. His father, Jan, had served in the West German Army and then as a mercenary in South Africa. He'd returned to Germany with scars Lukas had never dared ask about.

If they could survive, so could he.

-reload-

He tried reaching for a mag, then realised he was holding the Glock in his only working hand. He ejected the empty first, then dropped the pistol. Fumbling a mag free of its pouch, he glanced at the van.

Someone was peering out of the passenger window at him. Lukas couldn't see any detail, just a pale blob that floated for a moment, then disappeared.

Lukas pushed the Glock up against his dead arm using the hand holding the mag, to make sure it didn't get knocked out of reach when he reloaded.

He saw a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye and ignored it. He was busy.

Slipping the mag into the butt of the pistol, he pushed gently until it clicked home. Then he picked the pistol up, raised it to his face and bit down. Teeth clamped on the slide, he pushed the gun forward, then opened his mouth and let the slide snap into place.

Lukas smiled grimly, blood running over his teeth, and levelled the Glock.

Passenger door was wide open. A figure was stood by the side door, leaning in.

Lukas fired and missed.

The figure looked over its shoulder at him, then reached into the van.

The wavering sight began to cross the target.

Lukas fired, the recoil almost making him lose his grip.

-getting weaker better finish it-

The man slumped, but didn't stop moving.

Lukas steadied his arm.

The man turned slowly, awkwardly, dragging something long and black.

Lukas dropped the Glock. He lay there for a moment, empty hand pointing at the target, before realising what had happened.

The boom of the shotgun lit his dim world for a second. The pellets displaced air which stroked his face.

He picked up the pistol, holding it gently in his sweaty grasp, rested the butt on the ground and double-tapped the target.

And again. And again. And again.

-now call the ambulance-

He set the pistol down carefully and fumbled for his bag. His fingers found the zip. They slid, slick with sweat and blood. He tasted blood and cordite in the back of his throat.

The world faded to black.

 

London

 

"How long are we going to be here for?" Nat asked, threading her arm through his.

Pete smiled. "As long as you want. We're busy at the moment, so there's not much point in me going home." He cleared his throat. "Thanks for coming, anyway. I know you don't like the city."

"It's nice to visit." She said, looking up at him before resting her head on his shoulder.

It was a warm afternoon. Dressed in jeans and T-shirts, they made their way past Harrods, strolling at an easy pace. Pete nudged his wife. "Want to go in?"

"Oh, no." Nat glanced in at the window display. "We haven't got the money."

"Oh, I don't know." Pete said airily. "Or we could go to Harvey Nichols."

"We-ll..." Her tone said she was willing to be talked into it.

Pete laughed and kissed her forehead, then her mouth. "I love you."

"Charmer." She took hold of his hand squeezed.

His phone vibrated in his hip pocket. Nat saw the change in his face and bit her lip.

Pete took out the phone, checked the number. "Sorry, love."

"It's ok." She gave his hand another squeeze and hurried on, leaving him behind.

"Yep?" Pete watched her arse sway as she walked.

"Pickering. We've been hit."

"What?" Pete stopped walking.

"Someone tried to slot Chris in his hospital room. Lukas is on an operating table in Frankfurt full of holes. I can't reach Kev, but I called in a favour and the Regiment are sending some people round to check on him."

"Shit."

"Where are you?"

"London. Brompton Road." Pete glanced down the street at Nat.

"Get to the Mason's Hall as soon as possible. Parker will let you in."

"Right." Pete ended the call and jogged up the road to his wife.

She looked away from the window display as he neared. "Well?"

"Emergency, sorry." He hated how trite he sounded, how insincere, every time he said it.

"Home or the hotel?" She smiled.

"Neither."

She noticed the tension in his voice. "Alright. Is it bad?"

"Yes." He took her hand and looked for a taxi.

-got the 23 at least-

What were his chances of being left out if they were being hit?

Slim to none.

Chances of Nat getting caught in the crossfire if he did get hit?

He looked at her. Long brown hair, silky where it brushed his skin. She was tanned from the recent summer sun, and whenever she turned those big dark eyes on him he felt a pleasant little shiver deep inside.

Too high. Far too high. Get her somewhere safe.

He kissed her again, hard.

"I'm sorry."

"It's ok." She kissed him back just as firmly.

The bullet entered just under her nose and blew out the back of her head

[FullAuto]

Nat rocked back on her heels, eyes wide open. Pete caught her by instinct, grabbing her shoulders.

Her whole body went limp.

Pete hugged her close to stop her falling, mind half a second behind events.

Another bullet hit her below the right breast and erupted from her back, splashing his hands with her blood.

He lowered her to the pavement gently. A bullet shot overhead and shattered the display window.

-Nat-

He knelt by her, one hand cupping her head. Warm mush slimed between his fingers and slopped out onto the pavement.

"Nat?" He asked.

-dead-

Him. "I'm sorry."

Her. "It's ok."

Pickering. "We've been hit."

"Nat?" He begged.

She didn't reply, though her lips were slightly parted as if she was hesitating to speak.

He kissed her for the last time. Her lips were still warm.

He realised he was crying and he'd been shot. The round had sliced open the side of his neck. It didn't hurt as much as his heart.

He got up, blood and brains dripping off his hands and turned to face the shooter.

-she's dead-

He was on automatic but it wasn't going to last. Something horrible was surging up behind his eyes, something black and burning. It was red-hot and it got him moving.

The gunman was leaning out of a car, rifle at his shoulder.

Heckler and Koch G3 assault rifle, 7.62mm, twenty-round magazine.

Pete rounded a black cab, not hearing the screams of the late shoppers or the squeal of brakes as cars stopped.

He didn't even hear the gunshot that parted the air by his face.

He saw the muzzle flash though and it sparked an instinct, a muscle memory so strong it got through the thick blaze of rage setting like stone in his mind.

He drew the 23 smoothly, putting two rounds through the driver's headrest.

The driver's face was destroyed, painting the interior of the windscreen with pink gobbets.

Pete switched targets. He double-tapped the gunman.

The man fell out of the car, losing the G3.

Pete walked over to him, holstering his gun.

The gunman drew a pistol and Pete stood on his hand. He drove his heel down until the gunman screamed and bone splintered. Stooping, he prised the pistol out from among the damaged fingers.

Beretta 92F semiautomatic, 9mm, fifteen-round magazine. Good.

He hauled the gunman up into a sitting position and shot him in the knee.

The scream hurt his ears. Pete nudged the leg gently with the toe of his boot and the gunman screamed again, hands hovering over his wound, afraid to touch it.

"Talk."

The man was too engrossed in studying the hole in his leg.

It was nasty, a shard of shattered kneecap poking up out of the bullet hole.

Pete stood on it.

The man howled.

Blood squirted out from under the leg, forced out of the exit wound by the pressure.

"Be glad I didn't use the forty-five." Pete said. "Talk."

He looked up and down the street. No police, no backup teams.

The man started to pray.

Pete shot him in the other knee.

The gunman fainted.

Pete slapped him hard, again and again, until he returned to consciousness.

"Talk."

Knees just looked up at him, hands fisted in his lap.

Pete knelt and pushed the muzzle of the Beretta against the gunman's crotch.

Knees closed his eyes against what had happened and what was about to happen.

"Hundred an' two Cullompton Street. Warehouse by the river."

"More." Pete jabbed with the Beretta.

"A-At the embassy, name of Russell. Little guy, some sorta fixer."

"CIA?"

Knees clammed up.

Pete recognised that look. The man was ready to die.

The 9mm round burrowed through his groin before cracking his pelvis.

Pete stood and fired again, blowing brains all over the car door.

The body jerked.

Another shot was unnecessary. And so was the next.

Pete kept on shooting. Until the slide snapped back and stayed back.

 

"I've got better things to do than get you out of trouble." Pickering snapped, stood in the doorway of the cell.

Pete looked up at him from the bunk, eyes blank.

"Shooting it out in the middle of a busy street and torturing a wounded man in front of dozens of people-"

"He killed my wife." Pete said, going back to looking at the ceiling.

Pickering stayed quiet for a few minutes. "Shit. I heard a woman got shot, I didn't realise-"

"No, you didn't realise." Pete sat up. "I got some info out of him. He mentioned a bloke called Russell, at the American embassy. Also mentioned an address, Cullompton Street, a warehouse by the Thames."

"Let's go and look it over." Pickering stepped aside.

Pete stared at the doorway.

He wondered why he was still alive. The police had turned up, an armed response unit, and he'd felt an urge to draw his 23 and carry on shooting.

It didn't seem to matter who at.

Nat would still be alive if he hadn't volunteered for this job. She'd still be alive if he hadn't invited her to London. She'd still be alive.

-my fault-

"I understand if you want to quit." Pickering offered.

Pete didn't hear him.

He replayed the shooting, closing his eyes. Her head snapping back from the impact, displaying the small hole under her nose, that innocuous little circle that hadn't even bled until she was on the ground.

The splash on the window, her brain, her mind.

More of it pouring out onto his hand, slipping through his fingers.

-felt like warm snot-

"I wish they'd killed me first." Pete said tonelessly, getting up. "Let's go."

 

He didn't respond to Jock, or Chris, with anything more than a nod.

"I want to know about the loose ends." Pete asked after Pickering forced a drink into his hands.

The Mason's Hall was as dim as before, with only the fire crackling in the hearth and the flambeaux over the bar throwing out light.

Pickering paused before he spoke. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything." Pete looked into the fire.

"In the Highlands of Scotland, there's an abandoned military base. It was built and first used during World War Two. German prisoners were held there and turned. Not always successfully, but it enabled Intelligence-"

"Get to the fucking point."

Pete's voice made Pickering flinch.

"Alright. We're holding the loose ends there. All of them." He turned to face Chris. "Including Miss Webber, you'll be glad to know."

Chris nodded. Pale and exhausted, he was leaning forward, face taut with pain.

"The pilots?"

"Joe Hughes and Douglass Bell."

"What's the deal with them?" Pete squeezed the glass in his hand.

Pickering watched the knuckles whiten. "Same pay as you. They do all the flying."

"Voluntary?"

"When they found out the alternatives, yes."

Pete grinned. "Oh I bet."

He took a drink. Orange juice stung his mouth, cold and sweet. A headache started right between his eyes.

"The two Russians you airlifted out of Siberia are there, along with one of the Americans Chris captured at the Webber farm."

"Where are the other two?" Pete asked.

"Upstairs. Awaiting interrogation." Pickering raised his eyebrows. "Shall we?"

Pete finished his drink and nodded. "Let's get to it."

"Have to sit it out." Chris spoke up, swallowing. "Sorry."

"That's fine." Pickering got up and led Pete and Jock to the back of the room. "Masons and their secrets, eh?"

He pressed a panel and a whole section of wall swung back, revealing a set of steps leading up.

They followed him up a flight of stairs, the warm colours of the wooden panelling abruptly giving way to white-painted concrete. A security camera in an armoured box watched them impassively. The stairs ended at the foot of a heavy steel door. It was smooth and unmarred by any obvious locks.

Just a slab of bright metal, slotted neatly into the concrete frame.

Pickering turned and waved at the camera.

The door clunked four times, each one sounding like someone beating on the door with a sledgehammer, a dull reverberation that came up through their feet, penetrating their bones.

It swung inwards, silently.

Beyond, a white corridor, lined with doors on both sides. Another security camera.

Pickering led them down to the first door on the right. This one was steel as well, though not as fearsome as the first. There was a square of reflective glass set into the top half of the door.

"One way mirror." Pete said.

"Correct." Pickering knocked. "If anyone ever breaks into here, they're going to have to knock down the doors to see what's behind them."

The door opened, slowly. A slightly overweight, balding man smiled at them.

He was the very image of a security guard, except for the sawn-off shotgun in his hands. "Sir."

"Monaghan." Pickering acknowledged, moving past him.

The guard watched Jock and Pete carefully as they moved into the room, shutting the door firmly behind them.

The room was tiny, barely enough space for the two desks it contained. On one desk, a bank of small monitors that displayed the feed from the security cameras. The picture was colour, the quality excellent. The other desk was covered with a PC, four phones and a logbook.

"Monaghan, this is James Lindsay and Peter Walker. They'll be regular visitors. Full access." Pickering looked at the monitors and smiled.

"Sir." Monaghan put the shotgun down by the PC, but stood close to it.

"How are our guests?"

"Quiet."

"Any word on our friends?"

"Three days, sir."

"Maybe you'd better sit this one out, boss." Jock suggested, turning away from Monaghan and Pickering to get eye contact with Pete.

"If I stop I'll never get started again."

"Maybe it's better if you don't."

Pete pretended not to hear.

"Alright. I suggest putting them in separate cells. Pete, you stay with one, Jock with the other. I'll play bad cop and bounce back and forth. You be nice and sympathetic."

Something deep inside Pete screamed and hammered at the walls, begging to be let out.

"I've got a better idea." He wondered how his voice remained calm. "Put them both in the same cell. Let me talk to them."

Pickering shook his head, almost smiling. "No chance."

"You play bad cop, good cop, you might not break them for a week. Give me ten minutes and I'll have them talking."

"Torture?" Pickering asked. "What? Water? We don't have any sodium pentathol."

Jock was having serious doubts about Pete. He could see something in those blue eyes that he didn't like. That he'd seen before.

"I don't need drugs. I just need ten minutes. Alone. With them."

"But-"

"You said you needed intel." Pete glared at him.

 

They were hungry and thirsty. They were cold and tired.

Pete looked at the two men sat opposite him and smiled.

The interrogation room was a classic, a cheap table, four chairs, and a big one way mirror in one wall. Harsh lighting and pale décor.

Dressed in T-shirts and jeans, the clothes they'd been captured in, they were slouched, not meeting his eyes, staring at the table.

"Carl Johansson. Or is that Yohansson?" Pete peered at the file in front of him

The man on the right twitched. Blonde, gaunt, fidgety.

"Joseph Montaine."

The man on the left didn't move. Black hair, dark tan, scarred chin.

"Alright." Pete said cheerfully, closing the file. "You've been starved, deprived of sleep and given as little water as possible. Are you ready to talk?"

Neither of them moved. Neither of them raised their eyes.

"Because if you're not, then I have to start. If you are, we can feed you, get you a few beers, chuck you in a hot shower and then let you have a whole night in a warm bed."

No reaction.

"Alright." Pete got up, taking the file with him.

 

"Well?"

"It's a mistake to leave them together." Pickering said, waving at the mirror. They're already talking."

Johansson and Montaine were whispering hurriedly. It came through the speakers as if they were talking normally.

"-got our names, I didn't give em my name, did you?" Johansson, panicking.

"Shut up." Montaine, rock-solid.

"We gotta give em somethin, we're black, that means two inna head an a unmarked grave if we don't."

"Shut up. They're taping and listening." Montaine looked up from under his brows at the mirror, then back at the table.

"Clever boy." Pickering muttered. "This is a mistake. Take Montaine away, maybe Johansson will crack."

-lettin him back in there is a mistake-

Jock bit his lip. Pete was a big lad, he could look after himself.

Pete smiled. "It's alright. Look, you put them together, let them get comfy, then you take one away and the other crumbles."

Jock dismissed it as soon as Pete said it, but Pete was already out the door.

"Shite."

 

"Well." Pete settled back into his chair. "Going to talk?"

He watched the muscles in Johansson's neck go taut.

"Thought not. My turn, then."

Johansson's eyes flickered up, at Pete, the door, the table, Pete again.

Pete drew his 23 and held it below table level.

 

"What's he doing?" Pickering asked.

Jock's mouth went bone dry as soon as he saw the gun. He didn't have the heart to reply, because it was too late.

 

Pete brought the 23 out from under the table and levelled it at Johansson.

Montaine saw the shadow on the table and looked up. Pete gazed back at him as he pulled the trigger.

In the small room, the gunshot was deafening. The bullet plunged into the top of Johansson's head and burst out at the base of his skull, blasting gobs of brain all over the wall.

Johansson went limp, face hitting the table. Piss pattered to the floor and the rank smell of shit filled the air as his muscles let go.

Montaine stared at the corpse.

Pete stared at Montaine.

Blood welled up out of the hole in the top of the skull, running down through Johansson's hair, strings of pink matter carried out with it, clotting the lank tufts.

"Oh, Jesus." Montaine said clearly, and turned away to vomit.

Pete waited until he had finished, ignoring the fresh odour stinging his nose. "I suppose you thought I was going to slap you about a bit."

Montaine looked up at him, then away again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Pete shot Johansson again.

The whole body jumped, galvanised by some last dying spark as the bullet blasted a whole chunk of skull away, leaving a hole big enough to poke a hand into.

The thought of doing so made Montaine sick again.

Pete lowered the 23. He ignored his aching ears, the sour smell of piss, shit and vomit curdling together, and only felt the quiet inside him.

Montaine stared at him. "Holy Mary full of grace-"

"Shut up."

Motntaine's mouth clacked shut.

"Now. I know about Russell. I know about the warehouse on Cullompton Street. Tell me more."

Montaine hesitated.

Pete shot Johansson again.

This bullet kicked off the back of the skull and pinkish slop oozed out, dribbling like spilled porridge.

Montaine shut his eyes and turned away.

"Safe houses in Luton, Sheerness, Stevenage and Crawley, there's operations in Blackpool and Liverpool right now, I don't know what they are but we haven't been allowed near them for months, they're good connections to Ireland, maybe, Russell has a team on standby for emergencies in Paris, eight guys, I know the address-"

Johansson started to slide off his chair.

Montaine began crying as he grabbed Johansson's arm, keeping the body in place.

"-I know guys who worked for Russell before me and I know how you can contact them, I know his main recruiting guy in the States, an ex-army guy, O'Brien in New York, I know-"

Pete smiled over his shoulder at the mirror.

 

"Proud of that?" Jock asked.

Pete ignored him.

Jock slammed him up against the wall, getting both hands under Pete's jawbone, digging his thumbs in hard.

"That. Was frigging disgusting." Jock resisted the urge to bear all the way down and forced himself to let go.

Pete stood, rubbing his throat. "Got the job done."

Jock turned away. "We're the SAS, not the SS."

Pete didn't even hear him. He was too busy replaying it over and over in his head. It had stopped the feeling, for a little while. It had stopped the hurt and made him feel full, if only of something dark and cold.

Killing the driver. Killing the rifleman.

Pulling the trigger over and over, losing himself in the blast and the recoil and the impact.

Killing a defenceless man. He had crossed a line.

He had barely noticed.

 

"You've got to get him under control." Jock snapped, grabbing Pickering's shoulder. "He's gone off the deep end. He needs to be sedated an tied down before he goes friggin crazy"

Pickering shrugged him off. "How? Do you want to try taking that gun away from him?"

Jock stepped back, trying to ease the confrontation down a gear. "We can do it. He's off his head with grief. He's goin to regret what he's done. The blokes who killed his wife, fair enough, but that lad in there didn't stand a chance."

"I can't lose any more men." Pickering replied. "Not for any reason."

Jock stared at him for a few minutes.

"I had to kill a Regiment lad before." Jock said suddenly. "In Cambodia, there was a bloke who was meant to be trainin this resistance group, but it all went a bit Apocalypse Now and they sent me in to slot him. I don't want to kill another, but I'll have to kill Pete unless we do somethin. He needs to be stopped. He needs a good psychiatrist, by the look in his friggin eyes."

Pickering shook his head. "We're under strength. Lukas is probably dead by now. Kev is missing. Chris is non-operational. You're not long out of hospital."

"Whatever needs doin, I can do." Jock said. "I'm operational. I can bloody outrun you, skin grafts or no friggin skin grafts."

Pickering pursed his lips. "I'm sorry. You can't operate alone. I'm busy. Kev is missing. Lukas and Chris can't operate."

"You'll lose Pete for definite, then." Jock snarled, jabbing a finger at him. "Cause he'll get himself killed-"

Pickering wasn't impressed. "Just get on with it."

The anger ran out of Jock, leaving him cold. His leg hurt. "Yes, sir."

He walked to the door and spoke one last time before leaving.

"We're responsible for Pete. He doesn't know what he's doin. We do. He murdered that bloke in cold blood. We're responsible."

Jock slammed the door behind him.

Pickering shut his eyes and hoped.

 

"Who's coming?"

"Just me an you." Jock kept his voice even, working his way past the shelves to the middle of the room. "Found it alright, eh?"

"Parker gave me directions." Pete flipped the chamber of a revolver out, inspected it, then flipped it closed and put it back.

"Just got all this unpacked." Jock looked at the shelves all around them. "There's a problem with damp down here, so I put everythin on shelves and covered them with oil."

Pete wiped his slick hand on his jeans. "Really."

"Aye." Jock perched on the edge of a table.

"I want magazines for my twenty-three, a suppressor, something small for a backup gun-"

Jock was nodding. "We'll take care of it. I've got a Rover loaded with full assault kit, fives, stun grenades, body armour, the lot." He scratched his chin. "Revolver do you for a backup?"

Pete nodded. "And a nine mill, too."

"Brownin?"

"Browning, SIG, Glock, I'm not fussed." Pete lifted up a rag and peeked under. "What's the biggest shotgun you've got?"

 

"There's sod all goin on." Jock said, for at least the fiftieth time.

Pete had parked up at the top of Cullompton Street, and they had a clear view all the way down to 102.

Most of the street was abandoned, derelict, or being renewed. 102 had looked abandoned on the walk past, but the padlock on the gate was new. It was a large warehouse, no outbuildings, just a big rectangular cement block. A few windows next to the front entrance, boarded over. Surrounded with a clear expanse of tarmac and ringed with a three-metre fence topped by barbed wire, it would be a nightmare to assault.

Pete touched his plastic cup.

Cold. He wound the window down and poured it out. "Pickering say anything?"

"Supposed to call him if we see anyone." Jock checked chamber on his P226, then put it back under his thigh, grip sticking out for him to grab.

Pete glanced down at the shotgun. A 10-bore pump-action loaded with four magnum cartridges. The familiar shape of his 23 pressed against his stomach. The .38 on the back of his belt dug into his spine, a new irritation.

Both of them were wearing covert body armour, twelve layers of Kevlar under baggy shirts and thick jackets. It wouldn't stop rifle bullets, but against pistols and submachine guns, it should do the job.

Jock had an MP5 under his seat, a full thirty-round magazine of armour piercing loaded.

Pete rested his head against the glass. It cooled his brow, smeared away the sweat, cooled the rising thoughts he didn't want. They sank again, and waited just below the surface of his conscious, lurking.

-not yet can't cope with it yet-

Blood dribbling in a timid little rill from the hole under her nose. Johansson's skull smashing apart. The gunman clutching his groin, the look on his face, like a wounded animal finally cornered.

Nat, smiling up at him. "It's ok."

-it's not ok love I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I wish I could change it-

He shut his eyes. The images didn't stop.

The spray of pink that was the driver's face, spread across the inside of the car. Standing on the gunman's leg and feeling the broken bones grind together like teeth. Montaine, tears running down his face as he held Johansson's corpse upright and confessed everything.

Siberia. Putting Gordeyev down like a rabid dog.

Texas. The guard's head exploding.

El Rey. Shooting all those men, seeing them in such detail through the scope he might as well have been stood next to them.

Further back.

Bosnia. Families crawling through the mud and snow, leaving blood tracks behind them, parents shielding the children.

Iraq. Putting a 40mm grenade through the open doors of an APC and listening to the screams as flames boiled out.

Northern Ireland. Ambushes in the dark, suppressed weapons spitting, tearing holes in bodies.

Her eyes, blank with death. The back of her head gone soft because the bullet had fragmented her skull like a spoon tapping an eggshell. Brains sliming between his fingers, warm, slippery, sticky. Her lips, warm from residual heat, soft because she was dead.

-I'm so sorry Nat-

"I'm so sorry." He whispered, forcing his head against the window.

"Get some sleep, boss." Jock said.

"Can't." Pete glanced down the street at the warehouse.

He needed to feel that relief again, the feeling he only got when pulling a trigger on one of her killers, that black surcease of emptiness. Whatever it was, whatever it meant, putting rounds into the same bastards that killed his wife had stopped that emptiness eating his soul. Only when shooting holes in fellow human beings did he feel anything like peace.

Johansson had been unlucky. Just like the men in that warehouse were going to be.

Pete reached up and rubbed his face. It felt cold and stiff, like a mask. He rubbed some life back into it. He yawned, just to stretch his aching jaw muscles. He was a mess, he knew it deep down, but it wouldn't be a priority for some time.

Blood and brain were still caked under his nails. He stank of sweat, not the vague healthy odour of exercise or work, but the thick stench of sickness, fear and anger. He had missed shaving this morning-

-when Nat was still alive-

-and stubble prickled at his palms. It annoyed him, in a vague way.

Job. Kit. Self. That's how you took care of things.

The op came first, you did what you had to do.

Then you took care of your weapons and your gear.

Then and only then, you sorted your shit out.

There was still a job to do.

 

"Where am I going?" Chris asked weakly.

Pickering had given him something to help with the pain, but it wasn't strong enough. He could feel how broken he was. The motion of the car was making him nauseous.

"I'm getting you to a heli, take you to that base I mentioned in the Scottish Highlands." Pickering looked at him closely. "You'll be safe there."

Chris leaned forward, slumping against the dashboard. "I should stay."

"Not in your state." Pickering glanced at the wounded man again.

He had changed since the first time Pickering had met him. There were new pain lines around his mouth and eyes, and his face had lost its boyishness. The last vestiges of puppy fat that had clung on even through Selection, adding a softness to his features, was gone. His face was now as lean as the rest of his body, angular even, saved from being harsh by his blue eyes and blonde hair.

"Should stay." It was almost a moan.

"You're going." Pickering took a corner slowly, checking his rear view mirror.

London differed, street by street, at this time of night.

Some were dark canyons of steel, brick and glass, reflecting only the cold light of the moon, sounds leaking in from other streets, passed back and forth between the buildings as they tasted them, draining them of life, of energy, until they fell away into silence.

Other streets were washed in warm glows and laughter, cheers and shouts and music, a bright opposite of the dark places, spilling over into the shadows and driving them back.

Pickering drove on, indifferent. Few of his worries were as clearly defined as the streets. No new men for three days, and the Opposition on the attack.

 

Jock checked his watch, yawning. He was operational, but his leg hurt if it wasn't kept straight. He flexed it again, easing the pain a little.

Both muscle and bone were in good shape, it was just the skin that was the problem. Still, the graft had taken well, all the doctors had been surprised at the speed of his recovery. But he still wasn't one hundred per cent.

-probably never will be-

He grimaced at that. Staying in the Regiment had been tricky. He'd been forced into proving he could still do the job year after year, in most cases better than anyone else, but head shed had still tried to bin him when he'd broke his leg in Cambodia back in '91 doing their dirty work. Apart from the broken leg, this was the only injury he'd ever received while operating, and it was by far the worst.

All those wars, all those conflicts, slipped through without a scratch. Not shot, blown up or burned like so many others.

Contacts in the dark, muzzle flare and black blades, the crump of explosives going off, the smell of cordite and napalm, burned out cars, a woman begging for her life-

-when was that--

His memory snapped the details up like a flipped card.

1985. Northern Ireland. Janet Gammell, part of an IRA active service unit famed

for slotting half a dozen targets all in the same night and driving blithely back into the Republic. Five kills to her name, two of them children.

He'd killed all six members of the ASU, despite four of them surrendering. Then he'd piled them back into their van with their discarded guns, riddled it with two magazines of 5.56mm and chucked a white phos under it.

Job done.

Jock gave Pete a careful once-over.

Not so long ago, he'd been a model Regiment member. Strong, fit and dedicated, able to get the job done. A good education and a pretty wife too, which was a good education and a wife more than most members of the SAS.

Now he was something else entirely. He looked older, weaker, less sure of himself and more alone than just about anyone Jock had ever seen.

"Boss."

Pete took a moment to respond. "What?"

"You sure about this?"

"Yes." Pete fixed him with cold eyes.

"Ok." Jock fished a paper off the back seat and began to read.

Pete rose out of his slouch, stretching. He was tired of waiting. Reaching down, he closed his hand around the pistol grip of the shotgun, lifted and reversed it.

Jock flipped over a page, trying to shut Pete out of his mind. The job was all that mattered.

The butt of the shotgun crashed into the side of his face. He dropped the paper, grabbing for the P226 under his leg.

Pete pulled the shotgun back and jabbed it forward again.

The butt hit Jock full in the face as he turned. His nose broke and his world blurred.

Pete lashed out, elbow thudding in under Jock's ear.

Jock found the P226, grabbed it. Fumbled.

Pete slammed the butt down on Jock's hand, then swept it up sharply.

The butt cracked onto the point of Jock's jaw and knocked him out.

Pete slipped out of the car.

10-bore, pouch of magnum cartridges.

23, six magazines.

.38, two speedloaders.

He stopped, breathing the cold night air, shotgun dangling from one hand.

Nat was in a morgue somewhere, cold and dead. He swayed for a moment, leaning back against the Rover for support. He could feel his blood congealing in his veins, felt his heart going cold and still

-keep moving-

There was still a job to do. Perhaps not the one Pickering had in mind, but an op was an op.

Pete pumped the shotgun, trembling, and began to walk down the street.

He'd never been more certain that an op was for a good cause.

[FullAuto]

Pickering watched the heli disappear into the night sky, leaning back against the car.

Chris was now on his way to join the rest of the loose ends. So now he had three men, counting himself, to fight the Opposition.

He was on home ground, admittedly. But that was not as great an advantage as it first appeared. The Opposition could afford public exposure. X-INV could not. The Opposition had a lot of resources to call on. X-INV did not. The Opposition had extensive networks of operatives. X-INV had three men.

His mobile buzzed, trembling in his pocket. He answered it. "Yes?"

"Monaghan here."

"Go on."

"Hawkins is in Hereford Hospital, in a critical condition. They've been operating on him for six hours. Source contacted by the Regiment says he took at least two rounds and he'll probably die."

Pickering gritted his teeth. Another one down.

"Description of his shooters is two white males, aged twenty-five to thirty-five, average height-"

"Forget them. They are long gone." Pickering kicked the tyre of his car.

"ID on the two London shooters will be difficult. Both of them had their faces blown off. We can't even use dental records on one of them. Tentative match with the other, Louis Rickard, American, reported KIA during the Gulf War."

"Well, he's definitely dead now." Pickering sat down on the bonnet of the car, pulling his coat close against the chill air.

"Bit of good news, sir. Krieger is out of surgery. They pulled nearly three hundred pieces of steel out of him. He won't be fighting anytime soon, but he'll live."

"Three hundred?"

"Yes, sir. They used light birdshot. We got this message on one of our voicemail services."

The quality was poor, but the words were discernible.

"Krieger gets a warning. The rest of you don't."

Pickering frowned. "Trace?"

"Not possible."

"Alright. Call me if there's any more news." He tucked his mobile away and climbed into the car.

So much to do, so little time.

 

George Tapert was a drug addict, and he did not have long to live.

He had been a drug addict for close to ten years, ever since his dishonourable discharge from the US army. He had barely set foot back into civilian life before getting recruited into something so secretive he still didn't know what it had been.

His training had taken three years, and had finished just before the Gulf War. He couldn't remember much of it, even when he wasn't high.

The food had tasted bad. The water had tasted strange. His head hurt a lot, all the time in fact. Except when he was asleep. Sometimes he woke up with new scars. Sometimes he woke up with several day's worth of stubble. He was never allowed out. The TV only showed reruns. The rooms had been clean, but there had been an insect problem. All the others had complained about them too.

On a Chinook over Iraq. He didn't remember leaving the States, or even getting on the heli or collecting his gear, but nevertheless, he was wearing desert camo, body armour and a helmet, and he had an M16 between his knees.

He knew he had a full mag locked and loaded, tracer as every tenth round and eight more mags on his chest, a Beretta on his right thigh and four spare mags for that on his left thigh, six grenades, two frag, two white phosphorous and two smoke, a knife in his right boot and a loaded syringe in a forearm sheath.

He knew all this like he knew his birthday, how to piss, how to walk, how to blink.

-dose-

He didn't move, just sat there in the Chinook with two dozen other men, armed exactly the same as he was. Without even thinking, he rolled up his left sleeve with his right hand, then took out the syringe.

It was small and slender, loaded with clear fluid. He pushed the stubby gleaming needle into the tiny rubber mouth of the catheter set into the crook of his elbow, and hesitated.

-dose-

Sweat sprung up on his skin. His thumb slipped off the plunger. All around him, everyone was not hesitating. Shooting something into their veins that made their heads snap back, teeth bared in a snarling grin, tendons standing out in their hands, necks, faces.

A loadmaster moved in front of him, bulky with body armour and equipment. "Problem?" He asked, face a dark blur.

He flashed a torch in Tapert's eyes, the light an odd off-green colour.

-green means go-

"No, sir." Tapert's thumb moved of it's own accord and light surged into his veins.

His head rocked back as muscles locked in place. It brought knowledge, as well as pleasure. Painkiller, stimulant, calmative. Pure gold.

-good dose-

The loadmaster waited a few more seconds, then moved away, with an odd lack of speed. Tapert watched him go, knowing he should be worried about a thousand things, but that there was a job to do.

Yeah. A big, important job.

George Tapert had never been more than an adequate soldier, but that night he killed fifteen Iraqi soldiers, nine with his rifle, four with his pistol and two with his knife.

He came back to earth with a jump, dropping the needle.

"Shit" He snatched it up, inspected the syringe.

It had taken him a year to find the right mix. Percodan. Ritalin. Prozac. Dexedrine. It was rough, but the best he could do without a massive military industrial complex supplying him.

He giggled, then bit down on it, pinching his tongue between his teeth as he slid the needle into the veins of his wrist.

-oh God oh God oh God-

He was wired already and he hadn't even dosed yet.

-dose-

His heart was pounding, he was sweating furiously and he was trembling all over. The cocktail would sort all those things out, but first, first he had to actually get it into his Goddamn veins...

He slid it in a millimetre at a time until it was couched nicely in a fat blue vein, and he could feel the cool tip of it right there, right in the sweet spot and then he eased down on the plunger, pushing a warm flush into his blood that quickly spread and cooled, evening out to a firm chill.

His heartbeat and breathing plateaued. His pupils dilated, then contracted. He slipped the syringe out and flipped it into a nearby bin. Guard duty would now be a pleasure.

-good dose-

Leaning back in his chair with a foolish grin on his face, he rolled his sleeve down, careless of the blood dripping from his wrist.

Pete's first magnum slug punched through the door lock and sheared George Tapert's head off above the nose.

Pete crashed his boot against the door, the remains of the lock popping off. He saw the body and turned away, shotgun at his shoulder.

Wall to the left, door to the right and another one behind the corpse.

Pete moved, knocking the corpse aside with his hip and shouldering the door open, moving into the next room.

Two men struggling into body armour.

He fired. The slug tore through the first and into the second man, shattering bone.

The first was dead before he hit the floor. The second begged, holding his hands up as blood pumped from the ragged hole above his hip. Pete shot him again, smashing his face apart, the 10-bore roaring and punching back.

The room was small and square, no other doors.

The first man was squirming, trying to move even with his spine shot out.

Pete watched him, thumbing cartridges into the shotgun.

His hands skittered through the pooling blood, splashing, flecking the walls and Pete's legs.

Pete worked the pump. The sound got the dying man's attention, his darting eyes locking onto the gun.

Pete stamped on his throat, feeling the fragile tube collapse under his heel.

There was a long, drawn-out hiss as the man fought for breath, hands pattering at his neck, nails scraping at the concavity where his Adam's apple used to be.

Pete turned away, forgetting him instantly, raising the shotgun and moving back out into the first room.

He heard shouts. He heard safeties and bolts click. He slammed a round through the door.

Someone yelled in pain. Pete grinned so hard it hurt the corners of his mouth.

Return fire holed the door, puffs of shredded wood blowing outward from each hole.

Pete flipped the desk and knelt behind it, resting the shotgun on the edge and emptying it, three rounds as rapid as he could pump, a trio of blasts that hacked the top half of the door free.

He leaned the shotgun against the desk and drew his 23.

The section of door toppled. Bullets poured through, pocking the wall above his head, showering him in plaster dust.

Pete settled his sights on the doorway.

Someone lunged into view from the left of the door, one hand outstretched, the other holding a pistol.

Pete fired as the man vaulted the door.

The bullet drove deep, burrowing between lung and heart before punching out in a spray of crimson.

The man collapsed across the door.

Pete put another round into his back and charged.

-speed aggression surprise-

He jumped the body, landing in a crouch.

They were waiting on both sides of the door.

Dark overalls and Kevlar. Matte black guns.

Faces pale and clenched with adrenaline.

The closest recoiled, bringing his gun up, falling backwards even as he fired.

Pete shot him in the face, staving in his cheek. A bullet ripped off the top of his ear.

The man rearing up behind Pete caught it in the eye, collapsing backwards, knocking men sprawling.

Pete spun, firing, emptying the mag into them, ejecting it and finding a fresh one even as he stepped in amongst the squad.

"Get him" A hoarse scream.

-come on then-

Pete started killing.

 

He was nothing but rage, one hand clenched tight around his 23 as he slammed the muzzle into a man's teeth, triggering a bullet and moving before they could close in, driving an elbow into a throat and his thumb into an eye.

A round smacked into his back, knocking him off-balance.

Someone grabbed his gun arm. He fired anyway.

A man staggered away, clutching his fingerless hand.

Someone jumped onto his back, arm circling his neck.

Pete felt his knees buckle as he snapped his head back into gritted teeth, feeling them shatter under the wrecking ball of his skull.

A gun muzzle slammed into his temple.

"Get him"

Pete twisted, tearing skin, the bullet ploughing along his cheek instead of through his skull.

"No guns" Someone yelled by his ear.

-too close for you-

More bodies hit him, swarming, chains of muscle and bone constricting his limbs, the arm around his neck ratcheting tighter.

-Nat-

He bent at the waist, throwing the strangler over his head, firing into the huddle as quickly as he could pull the trigger, men flinching and jumping back as the .45 rounds hacked a path through the tangle of their flesh.

Space and time. He reloaded, surrounded, kicking free of hobbling hands, stamping on fingers and faces. He levelled the 23 and fired, the gun bucking back as it hammered a bullet between a pair of eyes.

"Fucking get him" Someone behind him yelled.

Pete swivelled and fired, a double tap that blew the target off his feet.

-too many too close no other way to win-

Another man dived, getting inside the arc of the pistol as it turned on him, driving his knuckles into the inside of Pete's wrist, other hand bladed for a throat chop.

Pete bulled forward, forgetting the gun, butting his forehead into the man's face and biting down, tearing a chunk of cheek free. That got a howl of pain.

Pete slammed him back, shoving and clearing the .38 from its holster. Two from the hip, low and tight, ripping open thigh and groin.

"Jesus, what are you waiting for" That voice again. "GET HIM"

Pete looked around. A punch broke his nose. Another clipped his chin. A badly-aimed elbow dropped onto his shoulder. Pete turned, shooting, four bullets spoking out from him at waist height and finding flesh. He spilled free as a dying man grabbed him and dragged him down, out of the pack, free of the scrum.

Pete abandoned the .38, rolling him over, worming his hand down, looking for a holster.

Found it.

-Nat-

He slipped the safety off and yanked the gun free. Someone stamped on his knee. Cartilage popped. Something important snapped. He rolled as the foot came down again, across the body, slipping in a wash of blood, bringing the pistol up as he flopped onto his back.

Target, knife in hand, blood dripping from a hole in his arm.

Pete lined up the sights and squeezed.

The bullet just missed the windpipe, slicing through the neck, clipping a vertebrae and exiting in a mush of blood and bone chips.

The knifeman fell, eyes widening in surprise as he realised he wasn't dead, just paralyzed.

Pete rolled again, firing, hitting arms and legs and heads, shooting into the disintegrating mass as they realised their opponent was no longer amongst them, individuals breaking off and diving for weapons.

Pete slotted one as he rose into a crouch, MP5 at his shoulder.

Another rolled free, pistol in a flailing hand. Pete laid open his shoulder and blew off his jaw and the slide clacked back.

-Shit-

Pete crawled back over to the corpse and found a mag pouch, tearing it open.

A bullet shattered his ankle. He ejected the empty and reloaded, thumbing the slide release.

It shot forward, picking the first round off the top of the stack in the mag.

A bullet drilled into his side, smashing ribs.

Ear gone, dripping blood. Cheek laid open, oozing. Both eyes blackened, nose crooked. Two gunshot wounds. Nothing but pain.

Nothing but pain since she died.

He rolled out from behind the corpse and rose to his knees, both hand folding around the pistol.

-Nat-

He dropped his first target with a textbook triple tap.

-two in the heart one in the head-

He turned, one knee mushy and unstable underneath him, loosing off two rounds that missed a prone target, wasted on dead flesh. Return fire plucked at his shoulder, killing his left arm. A bullet holed his palm as it fell away from the gun.

He focused, keeping a tight sight picture and firing once, a smooth slow squeeze that put the bullet right into a heart.

They had killed his wife and almost killed him, stripping back everything he had with a single bullet, laying him bare and reducing him to his basest nature, blowing away everything, every layer of humanity, every thought and feeling, until he was nothing more than a weapon.

A bullet plunged into his thigh.

Three targets, one prone, one kneeling, one rising, guns aimed at him.

Three swift shots and three empty casings airborne simultaneously.

Two collapsed, third eyes bleeding out onto the floor.

The third twisted away from the impact, hands cupping his groin as he began to squeal.

-too bad-

Pete placed another round into the nape of the target's neck as he went foetal around his castration.

The body slumped.

Pete swept the room.

No one was left standing. He did a full three-sixty, ignoring the pain as it almost overloaded the network of his nerves, clenching his teeth, blood pissing out of his wounds, cold and tired after the heat and fury, unable to believe, even for a second, that he might have-

The first .357 slug smashed into the base of his spine and the pain in his legs died as he fell forward, dead below the waist.

The second battered all the way through him, rupturing a lung.

Blood flooded his throat as he fought to keep hold of the gun. He experienced a cold second of panic, the emotional equivalent of freefall.

-Nat sorry Nat I failed-

Then the training reasserted itself and his hand contracted around the gun, grip warm and slippery. His strength was leaking out with his blood. Not long left.

He rolled, looking for the shooter, the dead weight of his legs slowing him.

A foot came down on his gun hand. Fingers snapped, trapped under the metal, grinding against the cold concrete floor as more weight bore down.

A powerful hand rolled him over, making him gasp as the contact renewed the pain of his wounds.

He was short, powerfully built. Grey hair in a sharp crewcut. Eyes the colour of dull steel. The .357 revolver he held was clearly too big for his hands. Dressed identically to his men, he knelt and took the gun from Pete's mangled fingers, tossing it.

Pete watched it clatter and then slide away, his last ray of hope receding into darkness.

"I'm Russell. But I guess you knew that. Coming here and everything." Russell surveyed him. "Got my men, but my men got you. Well, I did. Laid down, played possum until you looked away."

Pete coughed up the blockage in his throat, spitting blood all over his face. "Nat."

"Your wife?" Russell raised his eyebrows. "Yep, my idea. You'd be surprised how often it works. Kill some guy's woman, his life goes to Hell. All that avenging-hero movie shit is just that. Except for survivor types like you."

Russell nudged him.

Pete cleared his throat again, blinking blood out of his eyes as it splashed from his mouth. Something had burst inside him. He could feel it, warmth swelling, clogging his breath as he went cold.

-Nat I tried I tried-

"Hey. Want me to put you out of your misery?" Russell stood, aiming the massive pistol, looking down it into Pete's eyes.

Pete's heart stuttered in his chest. Warmth flooded the floor around him, as his blood poured out. He wasn't cold any more. He stared up at the gun, into the darkness of the muzzle. Blood ran into his eyes. He could still see her.

-Nat-

 

Jock sat up. He spat blood, slowly and deliberately.

-Boss you friggin idiot-

He climbed out, collecting his SIG and the 5. Jock knew where Pete was. The only issue was whether he was too late. He ran down the street, limping slightly as pain clawed at the skin of his leg. Moving too fast without a warm up.

He was halfway down the street when the gate to 102 swung open and a car eased out. Jock knelt behind a van and waited, flicking the 5's safety off.

The car slid past, engine at a low rumble, first gear. Jock moved parallel, peering over the bonnet of a car.

One man inside. Jock aimed the 5, catching the head in the ring sight and keeping it there, skulking in the shadows.

A streetlight splashed amber glow into the car as it passed.

-grey hair not Pete-

Jock's mind raced as he paced the car. Pete went in there. He might still be in there. Alive. If they're holding him, and he's alive, and they hear gunfire outside, they'll kill him. Hostage situations are no good to black ops, no one will acknowledge them. He's weight to them. Nothing more.

Jock tripped on a stone and stumbled, falling behind a car, taking his finger off the trigger as the 5 was jolted by the impact.

-nice one arsehole-

Jock rose, dragging himself upright using a wing mirror as a handhold, getting back into aim as the car pulled out onto the connecting street.

-shoot/don't shoot-

The car accelerated, pulling away.

Jock took up pressure on the trigger, shrugging to seat the butt of the gun firmly.

-Pete's dead/alive shoot/don't shoot-

Jock squinted against the sweat running down his face.

"Shit." He lowered the 5 and hurried back down the street.

 

"Yes." Pickering answered the phone curtly.

"Pete's dead." Jock's voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"How?"

"He hit the warehouse on his own. Slaughtered everyone except one bloke."

"How many?"

Silence for almost half a minute. When Jock spoke again, it was with the tone of a man holding back a murderous rage. "Are you keepin score, or somethin?"

"How many?" Pickering leaned back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling of his office.

Nothing more than a nook in the third floor of the Mason's Hall, it lacked the luxury of the meeting rooms downstairs, and was strictly utilitarian. Painted in pale cream, with dark mismatched furniture and a badly varnished floor half-covered by rugs, it was halfway between homely and institutional. It got on Pickering's nerves.

"I don't know. I didn't make an exact count, just got him out of there. Clean up?"

"I'll arrange it. How many roughly?"

"Fifteen. Twenty. I don't know. Or care." Jock cleared his throat. "Will he get his name on the clock?"

Pickering frowned. "Clock?" He rubbed his forehead, thinking.

"If you die Regiment, you get your name on the regimental clock tower." Jock started to say something else then bit off the words.

"Yes, I'll arrange that. Burial at-"

"With his wife."

"Alright."

"He deserves that, at least." Jock snarled. "You knew this was goin to happen-"

"I don't have time to argue with you." Pickering sighed. "Now, because of what we're doing, I can't arrange any medals, not even-"

He heard Jock spit. "Medals? Medals? Pickering, you had better stay out of my way for a bit." He slammed the phone down.

Pickering dropped his mobile on the desk and stared at it. He wondered if others, sending men out to fight and die, had felt this cheap when talk of medals and other prizes of war were mentioned.

He supposed they did.

 

 

 

We are the pilgrims, master. We shall go

Always a little further: it may be

Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,

Across that angry or that glimmering sea.

[FullAuto]

"What's wrong with her?" Chris lowered himself onto the chair slowly, one arm in a sling across his chest.

Dexter looked across the desk at him. "She has cancer."

Chris leaned back slowly, gritting his teeth as the cushioned back of the chair pressed against his wound. He glanced again at the bank of monitors to his left.

Six monitors, two rows of three, each showing a small room with a bed, desk and television. Several of the beds were filled, but Chris had eyes for only one.

The top left monitor showed Anna Webber. She was laid on the bed, on top of the sheets, hands pillowed behind her head. She was hooked up to an IV. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling above her.

Dexter cleared his throat. Chris dragged his gaze away from the monitor.

The doctor loomed across his desk. He was slim and narrow-boned, thinning brown hair combed back, emphasising his high forehead. His eyes were dark, and drooping bags underneath gave him a hangdog look. His mouth, downturned at the corners, only made it worse. He toyed with a pair of glasses as he spoke.

"It's not very advanced. We've got her on some medication, for the pain, mainly. We've just carried out some tests, done two biopsies, fine aspiration only, no surgery as yet." He paused to look down at his notes. "I've sent off samples to several good hospitals. I have a colleague at Johns Hopkins, and I've also acquired the names of several specialists here in the UK. They've received the test results and probably the biopsy samples by now."

Chris wondered how he was supposed to reply. Every possibility seemed like a cliché.

"We've caught it early, at least. At the moment, it's little more than a small node in the cervix, which of course was picked up during a routine check. Pickering informed me of her previous condition, of course, and I thought it best to-"

"Does she know?" Chris interrupted, eyes sliding back to the monitor.

Dexter frowned. "No. I thought it best not to say anything, I didn't receive authorisation, after all. In this sort of situation, the patient remains ignorant as long as possible-"

"This sort of situation?" Chris broke in again, leaning forward.

His back was healing, but it still hurt. Too much to lean on, too much to sleep on. If he slept on his front for too long it stiffened up on him.

Dexter grew more annoyed. "Yes. This sort of situation."

Chris caught the tone and turned his eyes back to Dexter. "And what sort of situation is that?"

"We called them Code Nines. The subject has had contact with extraterrestrials, usually involuntary, typically for a duration of twelve to forty-eight hours. Repeated contact, over a span of time consisting in some cases of up to twenty years, isn't unusual." Dexter flipped open a file at his right elbow. "Patient definitely fits the profile for a Code Nine. Removal of the foetus was complex, but not life threatening. Possible complications with any future natural birth are probable."

"She has a name." Chris reminded him, glaring.

Dexter flushed lightly. "Miss Webber recovered from the operation fully. She does fit the profile, except for the cancer. However, my involvement with Code Nines was always limited to consultation before this. I've never been party to their recovery."

"You are now." Chris' eyes moved back to the monitor. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Physically, she's very healthy. The only way you can help is by providing emotional support. The rest depends upon the biopsy results." Dexter almost sneered, before moving back behind a calm façade. "A patient's state of mind is certainly a large factor when any illness is involved. It would be best if you could assist on that front."

Chris got up slowly, feeling the wound in his back stretch unpleasantly. "I will. You take care of your side."

Dexter flickered a smile.

 

Jock pushed the doors open, stepping through as they swung wide.

The ward was almost silent. There was the soft hiss of intubation machines. That soft susurrus whispered back and forth across the ward, a choir of gentle rushes of air. The silence was reverential, almost akin to a church. Jock found himself stepping lightly as he moved deeper into the ward, looking for the nurse's station.

The ward had large windows, with plenty of sunlight pouring in. Most of the beds were occupied. Only two of the many patients were moving. The others lay still, sleepers locked in a dream. There was a row of private rooms at the back, doors uniformly closed.

Jock spotted the nurse's station, a semicircular bank of monitors on a desk, close to a phone and a small pile of charts. A nurse was sat behind it, reading a book, doe eyed and still young enough to have the last fading traces of acne. Jock walked over slowly, glancing around.

A few of the sleepers were swaddled in bandages. Most were not. One sat up, looking at Jock hopefully.

Jock ignored him. "Excuse me." He spoke softly.

The nurse looked up from her book. "Can I help you?"

"I'm lookin for Kevin Hawkins." Jock mimicked a nervous smile. "I'm, er, his dad."

The nurse blinked.

"Well, his step-dad." Jock added. "I'd like to see him, please."

"Oh, yes, you called ahead. I'm sorry, I didn't recognise your voice."

-nice of Pickering to sort that out-

"No problem. Bad line, I was out of the country." Jock smiled sadly. "Otherwise I would have been back before now."

"Of course." She stood, smoothing her uniform. "Follow me, please."

Jock trailed behind her. They walked softly to the back of the ward, and the nurse held the door open for him. "If you need anything, I'll be at the nurse's station."

Obviously eager to get back to her book, she hurried as quietly as she could back to her desk. Jock let the door swing shut, watching the nurse to make sure she went and buried her nose in her book.

She did.

Jock nodded to himself and moved closer to the bed, slumping onto a chair, looking over the comatose man carefully.

Kev was pale, and he had lost weight. He was intubated and bandaged. Two tubes disappeared into his mouth. One for air, one for food. Jock grimaced. Well, not food. Nutrition. The bandages covered the wounds, cloaking one side of his face entirely in white.

"Alright, Wanker." Jock murmured.

He caught himself waiting for a reply and bit his lip.

Jock knew the diagnosis. Irreparable brain damage. Persistent vegetative state. Little brain activity. Barely a blip on the screen.

Jock glanced at the monitors. Heart rate, temperature, blood pressure. The EEG blipped, then settled back down. Jock stared at it until his eyes watered.

It didn't show any more activity.

Jock took the syringe from his inside jacket pocket, and laid it on the arm of the chair. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bed by Kev's arm, pressing his palms together, intertwining his fingers.

-how does it go again-

Jock summoned the words up out of his past, words he had tried to forget during his childhood. Words his family had said so often he had no choice but to remember them, so deeply integral were they to his memories.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness-"

 

Kev flinched back from it again, squirming away from its alien touch.

He didn't know how long he'd been here, or where 'here' was. He'd tried keeping track of time, but lost count. He'd tried finding light, but there was none. He'd tried fighting, and he always lost. He was backed into a corner, now, with no way out and it skittering through the dark just inches in front of him, seeking him, sniffing for him, long fingers probing the black.

He vaguely remembered being shot, but he must have survived it because he was here and whatever was going on, he was in the dark.

Both literally and figuratively.

He was tired and alone, harried and trapped. He couldn't remember when he had last slept, or ate, or drank, or pissed, or shat.

It hissed, somewhere behind him, and it's fingers found his head, seeking purchase.

He flung it off, running headlong into the dark again. No weapons. Too tired to run for long. Nowhere to hide.

He gave up even as he ran.

-this is never going to end-

 

"-though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest-"

 

Kev ripped at it as it clutched at him tearing off handfuls of darkness, throwing clumps of it aside as it scrabbled at his mind. They spun through the darkness together, Kev snarling and spitting into the thing's face, trying to find a grip on it as its fingers explored his skull, prodding and probing.

"Come on you bastard." Kev punched and ripped, trying to find purchase or knock it free, striking at anything that presented itself.

It clung on tightly, a leech, a parasite, fingertips digging in, penetrating, pushing through bone.

"No" Kev shoved its hands away, even as the last of his strength fled.

It wanted something fundamental, so fundamental to him he couldn't imagine what it was. He fell back, flailing, grabbing its wrists and holding it's hands away from his head.

But it was stronger. Much stronger. Even though it was shorter and slimmer, in the darkness he knew it was stronger, and it brought him to his knees.

"No." Kev hissed from between gritted teeth, every muscle and tendon standing out with effort. "No. God, no. Please."

Its hands touched lightly on the crown of his head, palms flat, fingers spidering out, tickling.

"Please."

 

"-mercy shall follow me all the days of my life." Jock took a deep breath. "And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."

He stood, drawing his SIG from a shoulder holster. There was a suppressor already threaded. He picked up the syringe, flicking off the cap. He gave the plunger a small push.

Liquid spurted.

"This is just insurance." Jock said softly, pushing the needle into the IV and thumbing the plunger all the way down.

Sodium thiopental and potassium chloride.

Jock leaned in close, aiming carefully. "You'll get your name on the clock."

He fired twice.

"You're free now, mate." Jock holstered the SIG and left, bowing his head and keeping his eyes on the floor as he passed the nurse.

She didn't look up.

 

"What are you doing here?" She asked, not moving.

"Charmed, I'm sure." Chris moved into the room, sinking into the chair next to the bed.

"I didn't say you could come in." Anna said.

"You didn't say I couldn't." Chris smiled at her.

She was still staring up at the ceiling. "Would it make a difference if I did?"

"Not in the slightest." He replied cheerfully.

"Just like every other time we've been together then." A sigh.

"Oh, not every time." He said archly.

She turned her head to look at him. Her green eyes were drug-dulled. "There are exceptions to every rule."

"Except that one about you being horrible to me." Chris said.

"Except that one." She agreed, turning back to the ceiling.

"Though that's an exception to the rule that there are exceptions to the rule." Chris' brow furrowed.

"Don't think too much, or you'll end up cooped up like me." She stretched, then rolled over, curling up on her side, facing him. "What's wrong with your arm?"

"This? Oh, nothing, it's my shoulder." He smiled. "Climbing accident."

"Peep in the wrong window, did we?"

"Very funny." He cleared his throat, feeling a blush warm his cheeks. "Look, have I done something wrong?"

"You'll get a quicker answer if you ask what you've done right."

Chris sighed. "It's no good blaming me."

"No, I know, you just happen to be here." Her eyes teared up and she shut them. "Get out."

"I'm not going to just-"

"Get out" She sat upright, pointing imperiously at the door. "Go on"

Chris just looked at her until she lowered her arm, blushing. "Have you finished?"

"I haven't even got started." Anna flopped back down onto the bed.

"Well, after you have finished your bitch impression, we can go for a walk. If you like." He raised his eyebrows.

"Your charm is just too much for me." Anna rolled off the bed. "Let's go, tiger."

 

They tramped through the snow, side by side. Colour rose in their cheeks thanks to the cold. The wind was bitter, but the camp was situated in the lee of a mountain, and only an occasional gust caught them. Chris' wound ached with the chill.

He was too busy catching glimpses of Anna to pay much attention to it.

Blonde hair tucked under a woolen dut, green eyes alert now, head bowed a little against the wind, she trudged on, looking dispirited and determined at the same time thanks to the slightly crooked set of her mouth.

He took hold of her arm and turned her to face him.

"What?" She snapped. "Look, I've got some que-"

He kissed her, gently, insistently, feeling the cold on her lips melt and disappear, feeling the warmth now.

She kissed him back, then pushed him away. "Sorry. But I have some questions."

He licked his lips, tasting her warmth. "Go on."

"Where are we?"

"Scotland, the Cairngorm mountains." He took a deep breath of the icy air. "This camp goes back to World War Two. Hence the watchtowers."

He pointed to the tall structure at the corner of the camp.

"The place got a bit of maintenance now and again after the war. Kept it from falling into ruin. That's it."

"O-kay." Anna looked around slowly. "Why am I here?"

"You're here, along with some others, because there's a war going on, and you're at risk."

"Like getting blood out of a stone." She muttered. "A war? Who with?"

"I think you already know that." Chris looked into her eyes calmly.

"That's mad." Her breath puffed out. "People get locked up for believing stuff like that."

He shrugged, then winced. "Anyway. That's where we are. You got involved. We uninvolved you. Now we have to keep you uninvolved."

"Why me?" The wind picked up a little, making her shiver.

"Because your farm was in a rural, secluded area. Because you're young, female and physically healthy." Chris zipped his jacket all the way up. "Those are the only factors we've identified so far."

"What happened to me?"

Chris bit his tongue for a little while before answering. "You had an embryo implanted in your womb."

"Like a surrogate mother?"

"I think so." Chris huffed, shivering again. "Only it wasn't human."

"Okay."

"There might have been damage. There might be problems if you ever want to have children." His heart felt colder than the air around him as he said it.

"Okay."

-tell her the whole truth-

"And you have cancer."

"Okay." She nodded thoughtfully even as she cried. "Is that why I have that scar?"

Chris nodded.

"That's why I have that scar? Because I had a c-section abortion?"

He bit his lip and nodded again. "It wasn't human."

"Then what was it?" She screamed, fisting her hands.

Chris closed his eyes. "I don't know."

She slapped him. The hard crack hardly sounded above the sudden howl of the wind. His cheek flamed red, but he didn't move. "I'm sorry."

"What good are you then?" She sobbed. "What good are you?"

He looked away.

She buried her face in her hands and wept.

"I won't let you get hurt again."

-I promise I swear-

"You don't even know who to protect me from." Wiping her face, she pushed past him.

 

Pickering pushed the videotape into the player and settled back in his chair. The combination TV/video took up a quarter of his desk. The rest was covered by a laptop computer and six files.

There was darkness, then the picture jumped into focus.

The camera was set up at one end of a small room, probably on a tripod or resting on a desk, behind and to the right of a small woman with blonde hair

Kev, sat at a table, hands folded before him. He was smiling. The room was small, cubic; the walls painted a mellow green. The chairs and table were a light brown, varnished pine. The carpet was black. The lighting was soft and quite dim.

"Alright, Sergeant Hawkins." The interviewer appeared at the left of the screen as she leaned forward. "Can I get you anything before we start?"

"No, thanks though." Kev gave her a big smile.

"And you don't mind being recorded?"

"Not at all." He relaxed, mugging for the camera.

"Ok." She leaned into view again, giving Pickering another look at her shoulder-length hair and little else. "Today, I'm going to hypnotise you, and ask you some questions. You've already had a couple of tests today, I'm sorry to keep you so long."

"Pickering said it might take a while." Kev shrugged.

"Well, we've given you a little something to make you relax, so if you'd just like to lean back-"

Pickering hit fast-forward. He let the tape hum on for a few minutes, then pressed play.

The picture flickered back. Kev was gone. The interviewer was facing the camera. She was in her thirties, bone structure too strong for her to qualify as pretty. She'd scooped her honey-blonde hair back into a ponytail. Pickering found himself watching her blue eyes carefully. He'd dropped in part of the way through her summing up.

"-subject was good, obviously very relaxed. I think your estimation was right, he was more receptive to me because I'm a woman." Her accent was more British than American, although Pickering knew she was Canadian. "He passed the interview and the polygraph, I've emailed you the files. The tape you have is a back up, I couriered it to you because I know how often you check your email."

Pickering allowed himself a small smile.

"The day before, the subject was hooked up to an EEG and mildly sedated. He immediately dropped into a deep sleep, although judging by the brainwaves," she held up a piece of paper close to the camera, "he was awake. Beta waves."

The paper showed a line made up entirely of small irregular spikes.

"He was asleep. He wasn't faking. But his brain was working as if he were concentrating. If you took an EEG reading while he was driving a car at high speed, or having an argument, the readout would look exactly like that." She lowered the piece of paper and held up another one. "See the difference?"

The line was made up of wide peaks and troughs.

"He dropped right into this after three hours. No progression, just a switch. These are the deepest, slowest delta waves I have ever seen. The usual range is one-point-five to four cycles per second. The subject was at around zero-point-five. I've seen comatose patients with more brain activity." She took a drink of water. "The subject slept for another four hours, then awoke. I took his blood pressure, heart rate, etcetera, all normal."

Pickering drummed his fingers impatiently.

"The subject has abnormal brain activity." She frowned, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "Very abnormal. There's no brain damage, but he obviously has a very serious sleep disorder of some kind. I recommend a CAT and PET scan, possibly prescribe some mild sedatives in the interim. I know you're not an expert on brain activity, so I'll sum up."

She took a deep breath.

"His brain was going all-out, for three solid hours. While he was asleep. That's impossible. That type of activity is impossible while sleeping. When people go to bed, they go from beta, to alpha, to theta and then delta when they fall asleep. Cycling back up to theta while asleep is normal, it's REM sleep. But you can't go further up without waking up. Except this subject did."

She sighed, leaning back and rubbing her eyes.

"All other subjects test normal. They passed the interviews and polygraphs; showed no abnormalities once hypnotised...Walker was a difficult subject, but nothing unusual. I even tested Krieger too, as a sort of control, even though he didn't report any blackouts like you, Walker and Hawkins experienced. That's all."

The picture flipped to static.

Pickering thumbed rewind and looked thoughtfully at his computer.

[FullAuto]

He studied her, the new lines at the corners of her eyes, the way her lips quirked when he stroked his palm over her stomach.

The scar was a thin, rough ridge that bisected her bellybutton and faded into the first curls of pubic hair. He ran his fingertips up and down it's length slowly, lightly, making her squirm out from under his touch.

"Don't."

"Sorry." Chris laid his palm flat on the scar. "Better?"

Anna nodded, sighing. Hair unbound, spilling across the pillow in a thick wave, it tickled Chris' chest as he moved closer, laying his head down next to hers.

The room was spartan but warm, and the bed was comfortable enough. Dimly lit by a bedside lamp, it was cosy enough for them both to relax. They lay under a pair of thick blankets, the radiator behind them pouring out warmth. Folded together like spoons, warm and pleasantly tired, they drowsed. Between his injury and her anger, sex hadn't been easy, but they had managed with a minimum of pain. Chris could feel his wound leaking a little thanks to their exertions, but he just couldn't summon the energy to do anything about it.

"Supposed to go back to my room." Anna murmured, shifting a little, pressing back against him.

She was long and warm and smooth, and Chris pushed right back, smiling, kissing her hair. "Stay."

"If you insist." She yawned.

He chuckled, nuzzling forward. "I'm afraid so."

The soft silence lingered, heavy in the air like the warmth, almost stifling. Anna sighed, reaching back and finding his hand, fingers interlacing tightly. "So, how bad is it?"

Chris gave her hand a squeeze. "They've caught the cancer early. You can still have kids."

"I wasn't talking about me. I meant...the other thing."

"Oh." He pursed his lips as he thought for a moment. "Pretty bad, I think."

"Yeah?" She rolled over to face him, letting go of his hand.

"I think so. I can't say much about it. I don't know much about it." He looked into her eyes thoughtfully. "The embryo was removed. There's no reason for them to try to get to you again."

"But you don't know for sure." Her tone wavered close to combative.

"No, we don't." Chris stroked her cheek. "But you're safe now. We stopped them before-"

"There were four of you before."

"The other three were dead weight." He assured her.

Anna frowned. Chris smoothed her furrowed brow with a thumb. "You are safe, Anna."

She covered her eyes with the crook of her elbow. "I feel safe. But that doesn't mean I am."

"It doesn't mean you're not." He replied, keeping his voice low and soft.

"Oh, don't, Chris." She sat up. "I'm angry but I don't want to argue with you. I don't want to blame you any more. It's not your fault, you're just here, and you're nice to me. I know you don't have to be."

"Just like you don't have to." Chris added.

"I know." She rolled her eyes, turning away from him and looking into the dark corners of the room. "But you fought for me, risked your life for me-"

"You don't owe me anything." Chris said.

"I know that." She turned her head and looked down at him. "Is that why you think I'm here? Because I'm supposed to owe you something?"

Chris felt his cheeks heat up as his brain stalled. "What?"

"Sometimes, Davies, you are absolutely useless." Anna said, climbing out of the bed and pulling her clothes on. "God, I can't believe that's what you-"

"Just stop, a second." Chris sat up, wincing as muscles in his back moved. "Will you just listen?"

Anna jumped into her jeans, yanking them up around her waist.

"Hey! Will you just give me a second?" Chris swung his feet out of bed and sat on the edge, leaning forward to grab her arm.

She twisted free, almost pulling him off the bed. "Piss off"

He got up, angry now, and grabbed her arm again. She tried to pull free but he jerked her in close, twisting her arm and stepping around her until she was between him and the bed. He let go of her arm as she pulled again, throwing herself off balance.

He only had to shove gently and she fell, sprawling on the bed.

She glared up at him, jeans falling down and T-shirt riding up. "Oh fine, knock me around a bit." She muttered, trying to rectify both clothing problems at once.

"Shut up." He moved and sat beside her. "What just happened?"

"You pushed me over." Anna sat up, folding her arms across her chest. "Can I go now."

"Stop it." He sighed, reaching over to the bedside table and picking up a small pill bottle.

He cracked it open and dry swallowed two, then after a moment, a third. Grimacing at the taste, he capped the bottle and put it back on the bedside table. "I meant, what just happened to us? We were fine. Now we're arguing."

"Well, what do you expect?" Anna spat the words as if they tasted as sour as they sounded.

"Arguing. Over nothing." Chris sighed. "Do you want to argue?"

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands. "No."

"Then don't." He laid back down, gritting his teeth against the pain.

-shouldn't have forgotten to dope up earlier-

"Why did you join the army?" She asked him after a moment.

"Where did that come from?" Chris asked, rolling over a little to take more weight off his back.

"Just tell me." She stood up, pushing her jeans down her thighs.

"Well, if you're going to take your clothes off..." He mused.

She looked over her shoulder at him, smiling. "Just answer the question."

Chris turned his gaze up to the ceiling. He studied the moving shadows for a moment. "Order. Purpose. A sense of duty or honour or something." He shrugged and hissed as the movement stretched the wound further. "Not many jobs about when I got out of school. Army always needs people."

"You joined up when you were sixteen?" Anna stepped out of her jeans and tugged her T-shirt over her head.

Chris studied the line of her back thoughtfully. "Yes. Signed up for three, did that, signed up for another three."

She turned, bronzed by the golden light of the lamp, hair gleaming, mouth setting into a small crooked smile as she saw the look in his eyes. "What?"

He reached out a hand, stroked her hip, took hold of her wrist and pulled her down.

 

"We know where they are." Jock argued. "Give me the list, I can have them all cleaned up by the end of the week."

Pickering read from his notes. "Luton, Sheerness, Stevenage, Crawley, Blackpool, Liverpool and Paris. Maybe Ireland as well." He sighed down the phone. "Seven places, in five days. Ok, four of them are close to London, but you still have to do close target recces, at least. There's not enough time."

"Direct assaults, then." Jock said, controlling the anger he felt, hand going white as it clenched around the phone.

"By yourself? No." Pickering pushed the files aside and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, tired. "Operating alone is stupid. Come back here, get a heli up to Scotland, join Chris. I'll send our new agents up to you to train."

Jock squeezed the handset so hard the plastic cracked. "Fine. You joining us?"

"No. I've got some recruiting to do." Pickering put the phone down.

At the other end, Jock dropped the handset back into the cradle and stepped out of the phonebox, checking his mobile again for signal.

Still nothing.

The sun was going down on the other side of the Thames, setting the murky river alight with it's last rays. Shining shimmering gold diffused into burnt simmering orange, in the sky and the water. The buildings loomed, not tall but bulky, dark with foreboding, pale lights flickering here and there, winking eyes.

Jock tucked his hands into his pockets. A cold wind came in off the water, chafing his skin, making him squint, smelling like the rest of the city, faint decay overpowered by teeming life. He took a deep breath and sighed it out, enjoying the simple instinctual feeling of it. He walked to the Rover and climbed in, buckling up and driving off quickly.

He didn't look back at the hospital. He didn't glance aside, across the river, to the warehouse. He kept his gaze straight ahead.

-the living are always more important than the dead-

[FullAuto]

London

 

May Jun Li waited.

Outside was ice cold, the air stung her throat. Inside the van it was sweltering, stifling, the air blood-warm and close. Most of the other officers had taken off their jackets and T-shirts, wearing only their body armour on their torsos. She sat, folded neatly into a corner by the rear doors, and watched them.

Little light leaked into the back of the van, but she could see Samson sweating furiously, fiddling with the sight of his MP5. Cagnacci, flicking a coin over his knuckles, a little gleaming flash dancing back and forth. Gallaher, stroking his chin with a vacant look in his eyes. Koehn, sat opposite her, shotgun braced beside him.

He grinned, rolling his eyes.

"Stop playing with it, or it'll fall off." She said, keeping her voice low.

Samson looked up guiltily. He toyed around with it for another moment, then slung the weapon, slumping against the back of the driver's seat.

Li didn't mind that they resented her. She was half a foot shorter and massed two-thirds as much. Primitive animals like men don't easily accept women telling them what to do. Koehn threw her a wink, taking up a water bottle and drinking deeply.

She hid her smile, turning away to look down at the revolver on her right hip, a .38-calibre Smith & Wesson 64. Shining stainless steel and black custom grips, it sat, waiting to be used. The heavy 4-inch barrel projecting from the bottom of the slide holster made the gun look bigger, closer to a .357 or a .44 than it's actual calibre. Li carried two speedloaders on her left hip, and two more in her left jacket pocket. She also had twelve loose rounds, six in each hip pocket of her jeans.

She had run out of ammunition once. Never again.

She could smell sweat and taste almost-fear. Tension. Anxiety. Something the driver had been eating before he had left was slowly rotting somewhere up front, spicy decay wafting back to her on currents of male sweat and sour breath.

She was getting too old for this.

Thirty-two years old, born in Hong Kong to a British mother and Chinese father. A degree in criminology. Two years at Scotland Yard. Then back to Hong Kong for another nine years. Eleven solid years of work she loved, work she was good at. Investigations, task forces, then her first stint with an armed response unit. Finding she had a flair for it, despite the resentment, dislike and downright hatred of men on both sides of the law who found they were out-fought and out-thought by a woman. Working all aspects of it, from command and control to surveillance, sniping to leading an assault team.

Her hand went to the Smith on her hip. A month's wages improving upon fine engineering, the leering little gunsmith and his wandering eyes, adjusting trigger pull and balance, narrowing the grips for her small hands, customising the sights so they wouldn't catch when she drew the gun from under clothing.

Getting promoted through the ranks. Becoming an Inspector with the Royal Hong Kong Police. The thought made her smile even now.

Yes. Becoming an Inspector, six months before the handover back to China.

The smile fell off her face. Her mother had wanted to stay, too at home in the small colony. Her father had wanted to go, too afraid of what it might become.

She had pre-empted a decision and approached Scotland Yard. They offered. She accepted. The work bored her now, stuck in this cold city, an almost-home to her. She found herself spending more and more time in Chinatown, where she felt at home, not so displaced. Perhaps because it was one of the few places where Asian faces outnumbered white.

She raised her hand to her face and stroked under her left eye, as if wiping away a tear. Her forefinger traced the scar, a thin tight line across her smooth skin that ran all the way back to her ear. The bastard had been lucky, she hadn't seen him flick open the butterfly knife.

But then he probably hadn't felt so lucky when she had put him through that window face-first.

Her radio crackled. "Two minutes."

"Two minutes." She repeated, looking at each of them in turn.

She tied her hair back in a tight tail, smoothly scooping and harnessing it so it didn't fall into her eyes.

Koehn picked up the shotgun, bracing the butt against the floor as he began to load it. Samson loaded his MP5, moving slowly and methodically. Cagnacci checked his submachine gun quickly before slinging it across his chest. Gallaher checked the laser on his MP5, aiming the gun up and waving the red dot across the ceiling of the van.

"Remember who we're here for." Li glanced out of the rear windows, making sure the street was clear.

Charlie Floyd, aka Charlie C. The only white man to ever head and successfully lead a Yardie gang in London. Partly due to his South American contacts, partly due to being a psychopath. Known to have killed at least half a dozen people, four with his bare hands. He ran the London Spliffs with a machete and a MAC10, and was just as touchy as any rude boy fresh off the plane from Jamaica. He was also surprisingly clever and organised, holding the gang together despite its fragmented nature and encouraging it to branch out.

The Spliffs started out as an almost benign entity in Brixton. Less than a year after Charlie had taken over, they had branched out into crack, set up an underground armoury and taken over a brothel.

Li glanced up at the blurry photo blutacked to the rear door below the window. Charlie was squat, powerfully built, a thick froth of spiky blonde hair crowning a pug face. The photo looked little like him. It didn't show how alert his eyes were, or how charming his smile could be. He looked thuggish in the photo.

-and he is-

But he wasn"t stupid. Li took a drink of water. He wouldn't be on the top floor of a condemned school with a dozen Yardies armed with automatic weapons if he were stupid.

"We want him alive, if at all possible. He's not daft, but he's not soft either." Li drew her revolver, popped open the chamber and then flicked it shut. "We're just back up, we cover the rear and wait for Charlie and his mates to come running out. If they don't, the main assault team will go up and call us if they need us. Watch for crossfire, make sure your background is clear. If we do go up, the ground floor is blocked up with rubbish, we go straight up the stairs. Our grass says the first floor is used for growing cannabis, the second is the crack lab, the third is where we want to be. Okay?"

She didn't wait for or expect acknowledgement. Taking another drink of water, she tugged at her bulletproof vest, making sure it was on firmly, rinsing the metallic taste of fear out of her mouth.

Here she was, thirty-two, should be working cases but loved this too much to stop. Volunteering for jobs like this got her no extra pay, and was only valued by a few of her fellow officers who knew the full extent of her expertise and experience. Invariably she ended up commanding a back up team, consisting of men who resented her.

She had to force the smile off her face. She still loved it.

 

The doors swung open and she stepped out into the grey London day. The cold had leeched the colour out of everything, and her breath misted the air as she sighed with relief, free of the muggy interior. Koehn slid out next, shotgun wrapped in a plastic bag. Li moved, walking quickly towards the alleyway which led to the rear of the school grounds. The cold air quickly stripped the sweat from her skin, the wind flapping her jacket open. Koehn was two steps behind, shotgun tucked nonchalantly under his arm.

They knew Charlie had watchers for several streets around, but there was no reason to totally make a meal out of it and leap out with guns drawn.

She glanced back. Koehn, handsome, smiling at her. Cagnacci, lean and grim, bulky puffa jacket zipped up to his chin, hiding his MP5. Samson, stolid face miserable. Gallaher, preoccupied and tired-looking, scratching at his straggly goatee.

She faced forward and hurried on, slipping into the alley, skirting a cluster of bins and sticking close to the right-hand wall that fenced off the school grounds so as not to be noticed from one of the upper windows of the school.

"Stay to the right." She called back, drawing her Smith.

The wall was eight feet high, solid brick, good cover. Them turning up at the rear should be a surprise. Li didn't envy the main team their frontal assault, there was a good fifty metres of clear ground between the main gate and the school doors.

She could taste fear again, and she was sweating under her body armour despite the cold. She carried on, stepping over puddles and refuse, eyes fixed ahead on a break in the wall, where they would enter and run for the rear doors.

Only ten metres of bare concrete. Only a few seconds to cross it. She took a deep breath and mentally rehearsed the Eight Gates, something that always calmed her.

Lu. Chi. An. Tsai.

"Ready." Koehn murmured, bumping into her gently, shucking the plastic off his shotgun and working the pump. Chik-chak.

She inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled slowly through her mouth.

Lieh.

Her radio crackled. "Ten seconds."

"Ten seconds" Koehn hissed at the others as they filed up.

Chou.

She focused, both hands around her Smith now, feeling the grips quickly warm, sweat running down her arms. "Cagnacci, cover us from here." She said as they reached the break.

It was a savagely-created rift, two metres wide, bricks scattered everywhere, chunks of mortar rendering footing unsure. Jackets were unzipped and MP5s readied.

K'ao.

"Go go go!"

She leaped out, clearing the spray of shattered bricks and running, Smith aimed, eyes scanning the building, doors/windows/rooftop.

-come on come on come on-

Halfway there, breath panting in and out, revolver leading the way, barrel sniffing out a path.

The back door, rotting wood, peeling paint, dusty glass, bins overflowing with rubbish either side.

She headed straight for it.

A piece of mortar rolled under her foot.

Li went down hard, one leg shooting out in front, the other folding awkwardly beneath her. She kept hold of the Smith, gritting her teeth.

-relax don't tense up-

She went limp just as she hit the floor, her arse slamming down on her ankle, twisting it painfully. She rolled onto her side, chips of brick stabbing her flesh, unfolding her twisted leg quickly.

-good thing I stay flexible-

She rose to a crouch, wincing as the limb twinged at the knee and ankle, her foot aching.

Steps behind her, Koehn wrapping a helping hand around her upper arm. "Alright?"

The back door burst open.

"Fuckin murderise ya" The Yardie screamed, gaudy Hawaiian shirt like a beacon.

The distinctive sound of a shotgun pump and the ugly blunt snout of a sawn-off rising out of the shadows beside him, stainless steel, shining with compressed death.

Li lined up the shot, leaning forward a little and moving her sight onto that bright shirt.

She squeezed the trigger.

Koehn shouldered her aside.

The shotguns and her .38 fired.

Her bullet smacked into the door frame. Koehn's blast tore a bin in half. The Yardie's shot caught Koehn.

Li watched from the ground, concrete gritty under her, watched him drop the pump-action and stagger back, curled up around the pain, losing balance and falling.

Li rolled, hearing the click-clack of that nasty little shotgun and aiming her Smith, two rounds rapid, both solid hits, the shirt flowering with blood.

She rolled up onto one knee.

The Yardie didn't fall. He just aimed his shotgun right back at her.

-he's high don't tense up meet force with softness yin with yang-

She let out her breath, relaxing as much as she could, preparing herself for the impact.

Stuttering fire and the Yardie was slapped back into the dark interior.

Samson and Gallaher moving up, 5s at their shoulders, Gallaher running past, Samson stopping to check Koehn.

-keep the momentum-

She surged into a run, following Gallaher, keeping to his right so she had a clear line at the dark doorway. Gallaher paused on the step, leaning around the door frame and looking inside.

Sirens, faint because the bulk of the building was between her and the source.

The popping rattle of fully automatic gunfire.

-assault team starting in-

She wondered if anyone had been killed as the cars had roared over the ground between the gate and the doors.

Gallaher moved over, making space for her. "Clear."

Li stepped up, Smith levelled. The dead Yardie, sprawled back, face holed, shirt now various shades of crimson. She knelt, grabbing the shotgun by the muzzle and throwing it clear of the doorway.

The gunfire intensified. She could tell the difference between the police MP5s and whatever the Yardies were using, but there was a lot of overlap.

"We should go in." Gallaher said.

"No." Li stepped aside and reloaded her Smith, dumping the cylinder into her cupped palm, slotting the three unused cartridges back in and adding three more from a hip pocket, letting the empties fall.

Gallaher grunted in reply. Li snapped the chamber closed with a flick of her wrist. Samson joined them, Koehn slung over his shoulder. He dumped the wounded man behind some bins and joined them, unslinging his 5. "Vest stopped most of it."

"Bleeding?"

"Not much." Samson took up position on the same side as Gallaher.

"We contain them and arrest them. One at a time or all at once." Li glanced inside, taking a longer look.

The corridor within was choked with rubbish, only a narrow channel between the towering piles leading to the foot of a staircase. Perfect place to trap them.

Li took a deep breath. Her mouth was dry. Her bladder felt alarmingly full. The bulletproof vest was rubbing her breasts raw. Her knee and ankle hurt. The whole place stunk. Mouldering rubbish, the sweet thick smell of cannabis, sharp chemical odours from the drug lab.

The only relief was the cold air, and that made her shiver.

Hard thudding footsteps.

She stood up, flattening herself against the wall by the door.

They came clattering down the stairs, sounds echoing in the corridor.

Li gave them a three count, glaring at Gallaher and Samson, then swung out into the doorway, Smith aimed.

"Police"

Two of them, living stereotypes, baggy khakis and dangling gold chains, one bald, one dreadlocked. She stared down the sights of her revolver at them. Gallaher joined her, sighting down his 5 at the lead Yardie, the red dot of his laser winking off gold jewellery.

"Drop the guns! Get your hands behind your head" Li thumbed back the hammer of her .38 for emphasis.

Dreadlocks bit his lip. Li could see his hands shaking. One of them was holding an automatic, sleekly compact.

"Drop the guns, now" Gallaher stepped into the doorway, nudging her aside, advancing on the pair.

Samson followed him before she could step in. Both officers kept their stubby submachine guns aimed as they advanced closer. "Put the guns down! Put them down"

More footsteps on the stairs. Li aimed past the men, leaning over to get a clear shot.

Charlie Floyd. White T-shirt spotted with blood, more dripping from a cut on his face, a flood of it staining his khakis black. A submachine gun in his hand.

She recognised the blocky profile of a MAC10 even as she started screaming. "Floyd! You're under arrest!"

Sometimes it worked. Shout something loud enough and they believed it.

Floyd didn't. He aimed the MAC10 and fired. Both Yardies died, caught in the snarling spray. Gallaher dropped, Dreadlocks falling on top of him. Samson reeled backwards, forehead staved in, spouting pinkish fluid.

Li ducked back as the doorway dissolved into splinters, .45 calibre slugs chewing at her cover hungrily.

The stream stopped. She heard the clatter of an empty mag hitting the floor.

She swung out, looking down her Smith, getting a good sight picture.

Charlie framed in the corridor, smoking MAC10 in one hand, fresh mag in the other. Bodies sprawled before him.

-put him down-

Li squeezed the trigger three times, each shot amplified by the close walls of the corridor, setting off her tinnitus.

Charlie jerked back with each hit, hands white around gun and mag. His heels met the stairs and he dropped back, sitting down clumsily on a step.

He reloaded the MAC10. Li gritted her teeth.

Glass shattered and rained down. "Bamba klart!" Someone screamed.

Something thudded into the ground behind her. She spun, away from the door, getting her back to the wall beside it.

A Yardie, limping for the gap in the wall, trailing pieces of glass. He had an AK-47 dangling from one hand.

"Police" She shouted, covering him with her Smith.

He turned, slowly, not raising the rifle. Bloodshot eyes glared at her. "Po-lice bitch."

She saw Cagnacci lining up and ducked.

9mm pounded the gangster, bullets ripping through him to smack loudly into the wall above her. Brick dust fell into her eyes. She turned away, blinking them clear, sitting up.

The Yardie was down on his knees, bulges of intestine protruding through the holes in his gut, cradling the AK-47 in his arms. She glimpsed Cagnacci reloading in the background.

The Yardie lifted the AK in one trembling hand, lips peeled back in a rictus grin.

Koehn shot him.

Her head snapped left. Koehn managed a smile, clambering to his feet using a bin as a handhold. "That's a pint you owe me." He wheezed, leaning over.

A short burst of fire from inside the school. Li spun round in time to catch a .45 bullet in the chest, a small steel fist that struck so hard it cramped her lungs. She staggered, went down.

Koehn turned to face the new threat, bringing his pistol up in an elegant sweeping arc. Bullets hacked him down, a slashing line of them cutting across his midsection.

Li groped for her Smith as Charlie ran past, reloading again.

-stupid stupid too slow and stupid-

She found the revolver as Cagnacci stepped back out into the gap, MP5 at the ready.

Charlie cut his legs from under him.

Cagnacci fell, 5 slipping from his hands as he clutched at shattered bone and ruptured muscle, ripped nerves and spurting arteries.

Charlie stood over him, jamming the muzzle of the MAC10 against his forehead.

Li's hand finally found her .38 and she brought it to bear, the wavering sight on target. She emptied it at his back, pumping the trigger.

Charlie looked back at her, and grinned. Cagnacci shut his eyes.

Still grinning, Charlie pulled the trigger.

The strength went out of Li's arm. She managed to turn over onto her front, then to get on all fours, painfully, awkwardly. Slowly.

-missed all three might as well have shot Cagnacci yourself-

She reloaded her Smith.

"May."

She looked up from her gun, managing to stand despite her diaphragm locking up. She hitched in another breath as she moved to Koehn. He was bleeding out from multiple wounds, both exit and entry. A small river of almost-black blood was leaking from his back.

-that's his liver-

"May." He smiled up at her, waving one arm clumsily.

His Glock was held in his trembling hand.

"Kill him or nick him." His eyes drifted shut and his arm dropped.

He didn't look dead. He looked like he was asleep. Mildly ill, but asleep.

She picked up his Glock and tucked it into a pocket. Then she began to run.

 

She had always liked Koehn. He had always been polite to her, and what she thought had just been good manners had turned into a genuine kindness. She knew he had taken flak for it. But he had never let on, never said anything.

-always nice to me-

The thought drove her on. Samson and Gallaher had both been arseholes, but they hadn't deserved that. Cagnacci had got on with her well too, and she thought about that, thought about how the bullet hadn't just killed him, it had turned his head inside-out and splashed thick clotted strings of brain-

Screams up ahead. She ran faster, panting, pumping her arms for maximum speed. Her radio had taken a hit. There had been no way to call for assistance. The whole operation was a bloody mess and she was chasing an armed suspect through residential streets without support.

Turning a corner, Smith up and ready, six rounds hungry for flesh.

A woman, sprawled on the pavement, bleeding from her nose.

"Where" Li shouted, running towards her.

The woman screamed again, crawling back.

"Police! Where did he go?"

The woman jabbed a finger towards the mouth of an alley across the road. Li leaped off the kerb, sprinting.

She pounded down the cobbled alley, knocking over a bin and hurdling a spill of rubbish, skidding in dog shit.

A roaring steel snarl greeted her, bullets screaming by as they bit chunks out of the walls, showering her in fragments. Li went prone, slipping, feeling the thick sticky warmth of shit smear across her knees as she got stable and fired into the shadows, all six right back into that blinding muzzle flare.

Her last round cut the gunfire off abruptly. She popped the chamber out, dumping the empties with a smack of the ejector and thumbing in a fresh 'loader. She heard feet scrabbling for purchase. "Floyd" She yelled, clawing at the wall with her free hand to help her up. "Floyd"

She staggered on, around a slight bend, to find a pool of blood and an empty mag. The alley dead-ended in a wall seven feet high.

He had already gone over it. With God knew how many bullets in him, he was outrunning her. He had killed Cagnacci and Koehn.

She holstered up and flung herself at the wall. Her fingers hooked the rough top, the corner cutting into her palm. She hauled, using every bit of strength she had, forcing herself up, until she rose over it and changed her movement, from pulling to pushing, shoving herself up on top of the wall and drawing her-

A school playground.

Charlie 'Crack Cocaine' Floyd with a demonic look in his eye and a wide grin on his face. Surrounded by children, who were staring up at him in awe and fear, paralysed by the appearance of this blood-spattered monster in their safe sunlit world.

He drew back the cocking handle on his MAC10. The metallic snap sounded to her like a vault door booming closed. He aimed, not at her, at the nearest group of children, nothing more than bright blobs of innocent colour in her peripheral vision.

Li moved, leaning forward on her precarious perch, wrapping both hands around the gun.

-can't miss look at the background can't miss can't miss can't-

She slipped.

-nonononono-

She fired anyway as the sight crossed Charlie's grin.

The ground came up and hit her in the face.

 

"So, in front of thirty-four children and two teachers," Chief Inspector Ridley checked his notes, "pardon me, four teachers, the caretaker and a parent, you shot Floyd in the head. Is that an accurate summation?"

Li wasn't paying much attention. They were in an interview room, and she was busy looking herself over in the two-way mirror. Her cheek had scabbed quite nicely. Her broken nose was going to take a while to heal, though. She looked small and tired, and she felt it. Both eyes were bruised thanks to her broken nose, and that made her look exhausted. Her chest still hurt. Her left breast was just one big bruise. The nipple had bled quite a bit, and she was worried, somewhere in the back of her head, about permanent damage.

"Li." Detective Inspector Allam snarled.

She turned slowly to look at him. He was a total contrast to the pale, slight form of Ridley, swarthy and thickly built, dark hair shining greasily.

"You didn't identify yourself-"

"I identified myself as a police officer back at the-"

"You did not identify yourself as a police officer or ask him to surrender before shooting Floyd dead." Ridley, relentless.

"He was going to shoot those kids." Li struggled hopelessly to stop her voice rising.

They were probably packed in three deep behind that mirror.

"You don't know that." Allam, arselicking his way to another promotion.

"You weren't there. Sir." Li leaned back. "He was going to shoot."

She wanted to fold her arms, but her chest hurt too much. She settled for wrapping both hands around the plastic cup of lukewarm tea on the table in front of her.

Ridley flicked back through his notes. "Cagnacci, eleven. Koehn, eight. Gallaher, twenty three. Samson, only one." Ridley looked up at her from under his pale bushy eyebrows. "That's how many forty-five calibre bullets were pulled out of them, by the way."

Li clenched her mouth shut.

"Floyd himself had..." Ridley returned to his notes. "Eight bullets in him, not counting the one you put in his head. Four from your thirty-eight and four nine-millimetre from a police MP5. Not from your team, though. Looks like one of the main assault team got lucky. Not that it did any good."

"Do you think you could have done anything differently?" Allam asked, frowning.

Li stood up. "Piss off. You couldn't second-guess me if I gave you instructions and a fucking map."

She flung her at tea the two-way mirror and walked out.

 

-just given them all the reason they need-

Even if she didn't get sacked, that had just made her the butt of every joke in the station for the rest of her career. Little girl with a nasty temper, got some good men killed and-

"Inspector Li." Someone called behind her.

She stopped, halfway to her car. Whoever it was, she couldn't make things any worse by talking to them. She turned, sighing. "Yes?"

He slid out of the shadows, tall and powerfully built, face pockmarked with small scars. She hadn't seen him when she had left the station, but he had been standing right by the door. Partly the dark suit, she supposed. He didn't look like a copper. "Yes?"

"Sounds like you're in a bit of trouble." He said, walking closer.

Her .38 was in her jacket pocket. She slipped her hand into it, wrapping her fingers around the grip. It was late, and he had obviously been waiting for her...

"You won't need that." He raised both hands slowly, smiling. "Inspector, my name is John Pickering. I'd like to talk to you about a job."

[FullAuto]

Los Angeles

 

Tran Dinh was annoyed.

He didn't like America. He didn't like Los Angeles. He hated Beverly Hills.

It was too hot, and he was stuck up on a rooftop that some sadist had painted white, waiting for the unfortunate Mr Sanchez Ruez. An FBI team was due any time now, and as soon as Ruez answered his door, he was going to get a 7.62mm bullet in the face. Courtesy of the Accuracy International sniper rifle lying at Dinh's feet.

He had been practising with it for a month now, and could get a two-inch group at two hundred metres. It was two hundred metres from where he was sat to Ruez's door. He had drop and elevation worked out, the figures of which he had triple-checked. Dinh was confident he could choose which eye to put the bullet through.

He was an adjudicator. He was only brought in to resolve difficult situations that could not be handled by other means. He took pride in his work. He was careful, methodical and ruthless. However, he also had tact and subtlety, which was why the AI was suppressed, the barrel twice as thick as normal to accommodate the sound baffles.

The sun hammered down, and he sweated. He was still wearing his suit, and inside his gloves his hands were slick. It was very unpleasant. The white stone shone in the sunlight, reflecting the fierce glare right up into his eyes. Dinh raised the binoculars, not so much to check his target as to prevent having his retinas burned.

Ruez's house was a small Italian-style faux villa, terracotta and tasteful marble, a large immaculate front lawn bordered by a low red brick wall. The house Dinh was currently perched upon was situated on a T-junction, at the top of the T. Ruez's house was at the end of the cul-de-sac, at the bottom of the T.

Looking through the windows was fruitless, they were all stained glass, depicting various Christian icons, the movement behind them sparse and warped. Even the window set into the front door depicted the Virgin Mary, and it was no more than six inches square.

The porch was covered in a variety of sporting equipment and toys, footballs, a baseball bat, tennis racquets, croquet mallets, a pogo stick, a small guerrilla force of toy soldiers-

Dinh snapped back, lowering the binocs, frowning. He put getting distracted down to the heat and his annoyance, then concentrated on the job at hand.

Mrs Markowicz, who was unlucky enough to live here, was drugged and tied up downstairs. The stupid woman had greeted him warmly enough, but had stopped smiling when he had tasered her.

Strange how quickly people's opinions changed.

His car was parked in the alley behind the house, a rented shitbox Oldsmobile. In case something happened, he also had another car parked not a mile away, a slightly less shitboxy Trans Am. Everything he needed, he had on him. ID, cash, credit cards, passport. The rifle he would take inside and dump in the bathtub he had already filled with water, to get rid of any possible trace evidence. Then he would go out of the back door, climb the fence and get into his shitty Oldsmobile and drive to LAX.

If things looked good there, and after contacting Mr Ko everything was deemed satisfactory, he would get on a plane back to Canada.

If not, he would simply drive out of the city, pick up an alternate identity in San Diego or San Francisco and fly back to Canada.

In a worst-case scenario he would pick up an identity in San Diego and cross the border into Mexico, and fly from there.

But the thought made him shudder. The reality would probably make him physically sick.

Mr Ko had once offered him a lucrative contract there, three instances over a period of six months. But he had to reside in Mexico. Dinh had flatly refused, and Mr Ko had gone away, his usual polite inscrutable self.

But Dinh knew he had not been pleased.

Dinh wiped his forehead on his sleeve and sweltered. He was beginning to detest LA. It wasn't even a real city, just a lot of small towns that had grown together over time, each stubbornly, stupidly, holding onto their own individual identity. The city disgusted Dinh on a basic, innate level. Neo-Nazis one block, Crips the next. Buddhist monks and muscle freaks, bimbos and greasy executives. Residential neighbourhoods with enough private security to shoot it out with the LAPD, slums with enough staggering crack whores and swaggering gangstas to fill a prison.

LA was pretentious, empty of meaning, as schizophrenic as its inhabitants, each reflecting the other.

Dinh sighed sadly. He liked New York. New York had character. He liked Chicago. Chicago was cold and windy enough to make him feel almost at home. Even Washington, with all it's grandeur and achingly bad architecture, was better than LA.

He stretched slowly, listening to his joints pop one by one, then swept up the rifle, resting the bipod on the low wall that bordered the roof. He flicked up the front and rear covers on the scope, switched the safety off, got the butt against his shoulder, holding the rifle firmly, and found the Ruez house. He panned down and left, resting the marking post in the centre of the scope on the door. He slowly eased his aim down until the Virgin Mary's head filled that small black circle.

"Bang." He murmured softly.

He lowered the rifle, laying it down at his feet again, putting the lens covers down and the safety back on.

Everyone he met in LA irritated him. They were all extremists, of religion, of attitude, whatever they could take advantage of. Dinh wiped sweat from around his almond-shaped eyes, pushing back his hair with a flowing continuation of the same gesture.

His hair was black, glossy and straight, reaching almost to his shoulders. He liked it that way in case he needed to change appearance quickly. He could shave it off in minutes. He was tall, something from his father perhaps, slender as a long-distance runner. He moved slowly but gracefully, sure of each movement. His suit was terrible, nicely cut but in a shade that almost matched his skin, and the metallic grey shirt didn't help.

Still, he didn't look like a killer. Here in LA, he was just another gook who had got lucky and made some money, a studio executive or the manager of a Vietnamese restaurant.

Not a killer.

He couldn't wait to get back to his hotel room and have a long, cold shower. The thought of it made him shiver. Sluicing all this greasy sweat off would be the high point of his day. Well, that and going home.

Dinh thought of the cold snow and the biting wind and allowed himself the smallest flicker of a smile. Home. Miles from anywhere. No unbearable heat, no smog, no traffic, no gangs eyeing him from corners, no crowds.

Tran Dinh wiped sweat from his face again, and went over the activity so far.

9:30. Mrs Ruez goes to the store.

9:49. Mrs Ruez comes back from the store, eating a Twinkie, as if the fat cow needed any more weight on her hips.

10:23. Mrs Ruez makes a thirty-second attempt to clean up the porch before waddling back inside.

11:07. Mr Ruez's brother, Marco Ruez, turns up in a gaudy red Cadillac.

Nothing else. Dinh checked his watch. It was now 3:42, and he was getting anxious. The FBI raid had been scheduled for the morning. He glanced behind him, suddenly paranoid, expecting to see agents in full black assault kit creeping up, MP5s aimed.

But there was just the empty rooftop, and the smog-blurred sprawl of LA beyond.

He turned back, and waited. Whether the FBI turned up or not was irrelevant. He was here to kill Ruez. That was all.

Then he heard the helicopter.

 

Tran Dinh's mouth, already so dry his tongue felt like sandpaper, got drier. He turned, picking up the AI, supporting the rifle with his left as his right wrapped around the grip. He looked hard, sweeping the sky with his dark eyes until he saw it. Wavering in the heat haze, coming in low, still about a kilometre away.

He sighted through the scope, taking a second to acquire the heli. A small McDonnell-Douglas, dark paint job, bubble-style cockpit. Assault troopers stood on the skids. One of them turned, gesturing to the pilot. Tran Dinh clearly saw the letters stencilled in white on the trooper's black body armour.

FBI.

-shit-

He spun, turning back to the house, aiming down slightly into the street. He hadn't counted on a heli. None had been mentioned. Mr Ko's brief had been very specific. Three to four dark sedans, fed sleds. Eight to twelve federal agents. Nothing else. No assault teams, no SWAT vans, no LAPD.

No helicopters.

-come out Ruez come out come out-

The front door opened.

Dinh's right hand slipped from the thumbhole stock to the safety, pushing it forward before returning to the grip. Bipod legs resting securely on the small wall that ringed the rooftop, Dinh sighted down the scope and took up first pressure on the trigger. Poised, leaning forward, rifle cushioned by his muscles and supported by his bones, he looked down the scope, keeping both eyes open and his finger on the trigger.

Despite his hammering heart, he took a deep breath. Let it out and then stopped, holding his breath. Stillness settled into his body and soul even as the roar of the helicopter crescendoed behind him, making his heart beat ever faster.

For that second, Tran Dinh was nothing more than a guidance system for the 7.62mm bullet in the rifle's chamber. There was a strange sense of connection as the target stepped into the doorway, Dinh's eyes and the black pupil of the AI's barrel focused on the sun-browned face that came into view, emerging from the interior shadows. A link between the trinity of men and weapon, from the rifle to the target to the shooter to the rifle.

Dinh took up second pressure as the marking post crossed that broad nose and squeezed the trigger all the way back.

The rifle spoke, a quiet phunt that broke the link as the bullet flew, gun pushing back against his shoulder.

The hollow point bullet performed perfectly, smashing through the nasal cavity and on into the brain, mushrooming as several pieces broke off and spun away, carving through grey matter like knives through butter. The main mass sliced the brain stem and carried on, punching through the vertebrae to exit in a burst of gore.

Dinh watched the target fall, trigger still locked back, then let go and raised his hand to the bolt. A second shot was probably unnecessary, but it was best to make sure. All he could see of the target was a pair of legs, sprawled awkwardly across the doorstep, but if he placed his shot an inch or two above them-

"FBI! PUT THE RIFLE DOWN AND STEP AWAY"

Reality rushed back in and Dinh turned to see the heli hovering almost directly overhead, assault troopers aiming down at him with their MP5s. Rotorwash stroked through his hair and made him squint. The speaker squawked then burst to life again. "PUT THE GUN DOWN! DO IT NOW"

Bolt-action rifle versus submachine gun. Not a winning prospect.

Fat coils of rope were hurled down, slapping onto the roof like restless snakes. Two of the four assault troopers turned, slinging their 5s and getting ready to fast rope down. The helicopter sat under its blurrred blades, fat and heavy with promised death.

Dinh clasped the rifle close as he moved, diving for the stairway to the house and spilling down it in a jarring tumble of bashed elbows and scraped knees. He halted halfway down, stuttering fire smacking into the steps, and jammed himself into the lee of the closest wall. He worked the bolt, up-back-forward-down and popped up, aiming.

Shooting it out with the troopers was not a solution.

He fired on instinct, no time to use the scope. The bullet shattered plexiglas, and the helicopter banked, turning and dipping as the troopers began their descent.

One locked down, holding on tight. The other didn't.

He fell most of the way, limbs flailing, before his hand caught a loop which jerked him to a halt six feet shy of the roof.

Dinh moved, dumping the rifle and jumping up, rolling clear of the stairway and running across to the trooper as he touched down.

-short chopping blows-

The trooper turned, bringing his 5 up. Dinh knocked him off balance, slapping the muzzle aside with his right and punching with his left. The trooper grunted, and Dinh slammed a knee up into his groin and as he folded up, shot an elbow into the side of his neck.

The man dropped, 5 falling loose on its sling. Dinh stomped down, head and neck, before knee-dropping the trooper's chest. Ribs broke under body armour, muted cricks.

-gun-

Dinh knelt, snatching the pistol from the trooper's thigh holster. Black and bulky with large calibre rounds. He looked up and started shooting, emptying the magazine into the underside of the heli, gun ramming back against his hand with every shot. The heli swooped away, roar receding a little as the troopers clung on, lowering their weapons. Dinh ejected the mag and rolled the gasping trooper over, patting him down. No, no, no, no, ah.

He tore open a pouch and drew out two spare mags, thick blocks of black steel filled with double-stack columns of rounds. He checked them even as he pushed a magazine into the butt of the pistol. Oh what a surprise. Americans and their .45s. Like a child with it's favourite toy.

He snapped back the slide and tucked the spare mag into his belt. Vague thoughts of shooting the trooper surfaced and submerged. He had fucked up enough. Killing an FBI agent was neither tactful nor subtle. Time to leave.

Even as the heli swung back around, he aimed as he ran, loosing off rounds at the fuselage as he headed for the stairs. Return fire chipped the roof. Dinh shot twice more, fast trigger pulls that slammed rounds into body armour, then stooped and grabbed the rifle from the steps and hurried into the house. Mrs Markowicz's bedroom, the lady herself lying ramrod straight on the bed, staring at him. Dimmer and quieter in here.

He grinned at her and winked as he hurried past. Hall, bathroom on the left. He threw the rifle into the tub and then ran downstairs, jumping the last half dozen and grabbing the banister, swinging around and sprinting into the kitchen, kicking the back door open and moving outside, back into the hot sunlight.

The heli was coming around again, moving to the other side of the house, troopers probably hoping to rope down and catch him inside.

-tough shit-

He ran through the yard, vaulting the fence easily and dropping down next to his Oldsmobile. The classic ninety-eight had seen better days, the white and sea green paint job scratched and fading. But it would blend in.

He got in, dropping the pistol onto the front seat and sliding behind the wheel. Fifty metres ahead, the end of the alleyway. Too close, the helicopter would see him emerge. He peered into the rear-view mirror.

The other end was two hundred metres distant. He dug the key out of his pocket, jammed it into the ignition and twisted. The engine coughed and then rumbled, turning over sedately.

Dinh dropped into reverse and stamped down. The ninety-eight's tyres gave a brief squeal as they found their grip and the engine whined up, throwing the car back down the alley. Past the narrow mouth of the alley, Dinh could see traffic flashing past, and he gritted his teeth.

He glanced forward, ready for FBI agents to come scrambling over the wall. None appeared. His eyes flicked to the rear-view.

Nearly there.

The mouth of the alley drew closer and closer, tyres quickly winding the distance down until he was right there and as the rear poked out into the street he spun the wheel hard right.

The tyres screamed this time as the car swung out into the street, a ninety-degree spin that flung Dinh hard up against the door as traffic screamed by on both sides, horns blaring, brakes shrieking.

Dinh punched it, shifting up into first and swinging around a skidding truck, mouth locked into a savage grimace. Sweat ran into his eyes as he dodged an oncoming Humvee and got on the right side of the road, ignoring the screams behind him.

He reached across, picking up the pistol and ejecting the mag. He wedged the pistol between his legs, upside down, then sucked in his breath and delved behind his belt for the last spare mag. The mag slotted into the butt and he slapped his palm down on it, clacking it firmly into place.

He worked the wheel one-handed, spinning it right and then hard left, slewing around a taxi and moving up into second and then third when he hit a long flat stretch, eyes darting to the rear-view every second.

No sign of pursuit. He wound the window down. No roar of helicopter rotors. On his way to home free. He turned off onto a side street, trying to get his bearings.

-LAX is almost straight south of Beverley Hills-

He breathed deep of the muggy air rushing in through the open window. He grinned and slapped the dashboard.

-do pass go do collect two hundred thousand dollars-

 

He parked in Lot B of LAX and checked the pistol. A P14, a high capacity .45 calibre semiautomatic. He braced the gun between his hands and edged the slide back a little. Round in the chamber. He knew there were thirteen more in the magazine, he'd used the pistol before in his stint with the Canadian military.

But he couldn't take it with him. Not much further, anyway. He tucked it into his belt, climbed out of the car and locked it. He patted the ninety-eight goodbye and hurried off, gloved hands tucked into pockets, head down.

Avoiding attention was an art form. He kept his head tilted down as his eyes scanned the area, watching the reflections in windows, vehicles pulling up or cruising slowly by, people with their hands in their pockets.

But no one was watching him. No one appeared to be talking to themselves. No one was wearing too-heavy clothing. No one was pacing him.

Dinh looked up as he left the lot, glaring at the driver of a Jeep who bipped his horn as he passed in front of the vehicle. A jet roared directly overhead. Dinh grinned up at the fat white steel bird and then got his mind back on the job.

LAX was always busy, and he had to repress a shudder. Weaving through the crowd, trying to avoid bumping into anyone without seeming to, he walked quickly past terminal one, eyes noting the position of two LAPD officers. Sweating copiously now, knowing he looked suspicious, he strode to the Air Canada desk, confirmed his reservation and assured the girl first class would be fine, yes he was sure, thank you very much.

With fifteen minutes to spare he almost ran to the toilets. They were empty, though the smell made him gag. He dumped the P14 into the paper towel disposal, then locked himself in a stall and stripped his jacket off. It was slightly cooler in here, there was no hot sunlight coming through the windows, no press of clammy bodies, and he unbuttoned his shirt down to mid-chest.

Almost there. One phone call and it would all be over.

He waited until his breathing had slowed, until the sweat had stopped slipping from his pores, and got up. He wiped the sweat from his face, took his gloves off and pocketed them. He folded his jacket neatly and tucked it nonchalantly under his arm.

Dinh cast a single glance at the mirrors over the sinks as he left, and saw only a good looking businessman in a bad suit, slightly sweaty with the heat but not unusually so, his dark eyes pools of calm.

-just one phone call-

 

"I'm afraid there has been a problem."

Mr Ko's usual neutral tone was firmly in place, but it still made Dinh break out in a cold sweat.

"I see." Dinh aimed for nonchalant and got perhaps halfway there.

"Your adjudication was less than its usual standard. The matter was not resolved."

"If it's about the third party-"

"No." The flat toneless voice of Mr Ko iced over. "Their presence was anticipated. You were informed accordingly. Your lack of care was not anticipated."

"I adjudicated appropriately."

"You did not. You resolved the wrong matter. Our client feels entitled to full reimbursement. They are adamant. They will not even pay your expenses."

Dinh bit his lip, free hand fisting. "I see."

"I doubt that you do. A meeting is required to resolve the dispute. The usual place in two days. Good day."

Silence, as Mr Ko waited for a response. Even when furious, he did not shout or swear, and was never rude. He would not slam the phone down. To do so would offend his sensibilities.

"Goodbye." Dinh forced himself to ease the handset back into its cradle and stared at the keypad.

He was in very deep shit. He had hit the wrong target, most likely Marco Ruez. And now he had to have a face-to-face with Mr Ko, which would at the very least mean a chilling warning and no work for six months. It might mean a bullet in the head, or something more unpleasant if Mr Ko was feeling particularly annoyed. Not that he would give any sign of his intentions.

But not turning up would mean an immediate death warrant. Dinh had seen someone turn up five minutes late to a meeting with Mr Ko and leave half an hour later with no fingers.

"Motherfucker." Dinh hissed, turning away from the phone.

Running was simply not an option. Neither was waiting for Mr Ko to show up first. That would be almost as bad as turning up late.

Only one course of action lay open.

 

The Pheasant and Dragon was the usual place. A Vietnamese pub in Somerset Heights, the Chinatown of Ottawa. Wedged between a tacky pagoda tea house and a glaring neon sushi bar, it was a tall building of dark stone and wood, tinted windows and brass fittings.

It was also closed.

The city was cold and windy enough to pass for Chicago, except it was in better repair. Dinh enjoyed the cold, letting his long coat hang open as he crossed the street slowly. He hadn't spotted any watchers, and he'd been waiting almost an hour, pretending to be absorbed in a book at a bus stop.

He knocked on the door, loudly. He couldn't see in, thanks to the tinted glass, but he stepped aside a little anyway and knocked again.

Nothing.

Dinh looked up and down the street, hair falling about his face, tickling his cheeks. The wind picked up, stirring the dark fronds, blowing some across his eyes. He flicked them aside quickly, impatiently, pulling his billowing coat closer to him.

The envelope in the inside pocket crackled softly. Eighty thousand dollars. It was quite a bet he was making. Gambling with his life, in fact, something he was not used to. His job usually entailed adjudication from range, and where close work was called for, he always used a weapon. It was one of his conditions. The targets were nearly always civilians or at best, criminals, with little to no knowledge of combat. His job was safer than most recreational sports. He always had the advantage, in training, armament, positioning and intelligence.

But this was a different matter.

Dinh knocked again, so hard it hurt his knuckles this time. He wasn't going to just walk away, there was somebody on the premises. There was always someone on the premises. The Pheasant and Dragon was the heart of the Asian underworld in Ottawa. It was a meeting place, neutral ground that could be rented by the hour, and frequently the place was wall-to-wall with Chink Triads and Jap Yaks, the Viets always sidelined, always packed into a corner, laughing anxiously loud, trying to mix.

Dinh felt his jaw tense and fisted his hands hard, trying to draw the tension away from his face, down to where no one could see it. He thrust his hands into his pockets and started kicking the base of the door.

It jerked open. "We're closed."

Dinh stepped forward, leaning on the door, keeping it open. "I need to talk to Vuong."

"He's not here." Dinh could see a thin slice of the speaker's face and one dark eye.

"I thought this was a day of business." Dinh took the envelope out and passed it through.

It was snatched from between his fingers and torn open. Dinh waited a few seconds, wanting to smile, wondering what the expression was behind the door. Eighty thousand-dollar bills usually managed to raise an eyebrow.

The door swung all the way open. "Come in, please."

Dinh slipped across the threshold, shrugging his coat off. Two Asian men faced him, identically suited in dark blue, one small and squat with muscle, the other slightly shorter and shockingly thin. The second man held the opened envelope, his bony fingers pinched tight around it.

The first man stepped forward and took Dinh's coat, sliding his hands over it before hanging it up on a peg beside the door. He then turned and faced Dinh again, clasping the wrist of his left hand with his right and standing by the door. Dinh eyed him carefully. Chinese, at least half. Probably from Hong Kong by way of the UK. His knuckles were lumps of stretched scar tissue, and the thumb of his left hand was misshapen, elongated and thick at the middle. A particularly bad break that never healed right, maybe.

"Wait here, please." The second man spoke, gesturing with one pale claw of a hand at the tables along the wall.

The antechamber was a narrow rectangle, three metres wide and nine long, with a bar occupying half of the left-hand wall. There were three doors not counting the one behind him. One at the opposite end of the room, one halfway along the right-hand wall, breaking up the row of tables, and another behind the bar.

Dinh moved to a chair, and shifted it round so he could sit and keep both men in view. The second man hurried out, leaving through the door at the opposite end of the room, letting it drift shut behind him as he quick-stepped up the stairs beyond.

"Drink."

Dinh looked round. He wasn't altogether sure the man had spoken, he was standing so still, one hand still locked around his wrist, feet shoulder-width apart. Almost military in posture.

"Drink." The man said again, still no hint of a question in his tone.

"No, thank you." Dinh said, leaning back slightly in his chair.

The man gave a curt nod and went back to staring at the wall. Dinh wondered why he had taken up position by the door. It wasn't like he could afford to back out now. If he had miscalculated and Mr Ko was as omniscient as he seemed, Dinh had just killed himself. The man guarding the door certainly wasn't a good sign. But it certainly wasn't as bad as a bullet in the brain, either.

The door at the other end of the room swung open to admit the thin man, slightly out of breath. "Vuong will see you."

He stepped aside, gesturing to the door he held open. Dinh stood, looking at the guard. "After you."

He stared back, before moving his gaze to the thin man and shrugging out of his solid stance, ambling past Dinh. Letting a gap open up, Dinh looked him over telltale bulges, but saw none. He followed a few steps behind. Suits could be tailored to hide weapons, and most semiautos didn't make much of a lump anyway. Thanks to his stature, the thin man had even less chance of hiding a gun on him. He didn't seem to have one, and his jacket was buttoned up. Unlikely he was carrying.

Dinh waved the thin man ahead and was ignored. After a second, Dinh shrugged and carried on, following the guard up the stairs. Bracketed by the thin man, he knew exactly how vulnerable he was and wondered about taking action, removing the guard from the equation, then the thin man, but what would be the point? What would it gain him?

He had placed everything on one roll of a die and he had to stick with it.

Footsteps were muffled by the plush carpeting. The walls were painted dark, a deep shade of red like heart's blood. As the stairs turned back upon each other as they ascended, Dinh saw prints at each landing, fine examples of calligraphy, Wang Meng's 'Forest Grotto', and several he didn't recognise. Lit softly, it was difficult to make out the details in passing.

They stopped on the third floor and the guard opened a door, standing aside to let Dinh go first.

-this is it two in the back of the head here or not at all-

Dinh felt his shoulders and neck crawl, muscles tensing in preparation for the impact as he stepped through the doorway.

"Tran Dinh." A small, compact man in a grey suit rose, extending one hand in a short chop towards a chair set in front of his desk. "Please."

Dinh moved into the room, small, oval-shaped, decorated in dark walnut panelling and brass polished so well it shone like gold. A window of tinted glass took up one wall. The desk was clearly the centrepiece of the room, an altar to respect itself. Rectangular, with squared-off edges, it was immaculately sheathed in black lacquer with small designs etched into each corner in crimson. Pheasants and dragons.

He heard the two men follow him in and the door click shut. Dinh eased himself down into the chair, which was very comfortable. He resisted the urge to slouch, keeping his back straight and folding his hands on his lap.

"I am Vuong." The man smiled, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes showing an age his relaxed face did not. "Tea, Chan."

Dinh didn't glance over his shoulder. To move his attention from the man he had come to meet to a servant would not be wise.

Subdued footsteps, the door slipping open and closed behind him.

"How is business?" Vuong beckoned the other man forward. "Nguyen."

The thin man stepped into Dinh's peripheral view, passing the envelope to Vuong.

"Steady." Dinh cleared his throat, always unused to such small talk before getting down to business.

Vuong riffled through the notes lightly, then set the envelope down and sat, smiling still. The expression added ten years to his age easily, putting him somewhere in his forties, a sharp-boned face fattened a little with good living, the bright eyes hungry. He leaned back in his chair, looking expectantly at Dinh.

"And yourself?" Dinh asked after an uncomfortable moment.

"We do a brisk trade." Vuong's smile grew wider and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and interlacing his fingers, pressing the tip of each thumb against the other. "Likely to keep my family busy for some time. No foreseeable difficulties."

"I am glad to hear it." Dinh realised he was starting to sweat and made a conscious effort to relax while not moving.

The door opened behind him and he almost jumped out of his seat. Vuong saw it, and settled back in his chair. "Ah, tea. Nghe thuat uong tra."

Another expectant look. Dinh shot a smile back. "Tea smoothes the way."

Vuong sighed happily, relaxing. "I do so like to see a young man keep in touch with his roots."

Dinh mentally uncrossed his fingers. Something his father had taught him a long time ago, Viet culture. He had never been interested, never paid attention. Only repetition had made that phrase stick.

Chan set the tray down on the desk, directly in between Vuong and Dinh. The tea set consisted of a fat teapot with a small plump snout and large handle, one large cup that closely resembled a bowl and two smaller cups. Vuong poured as Chan stepped aside, the teapot dripping steaming water, the blue wave pattern on the porcelain as glossy as the sea it imitated.

"From Bat Trang, of course." Vuong waved to the tea set as he filled the bowl. "Only two cups made the journey successfully."

"Most regrettable." Dinh commiserated, smelling the tea strongly now, the usual flat herb smell mixed with something subtler.

Flanked by Chan and Nguyen, Dinh knew he was going to damn well drink the tea whether he enjoyed it or not. If he refused at this point, they would probably just pin him and then pour the boiling liquid up his nose. Bad manners didn't get you very far anywhere.

"Mmm. Though the journey itself was regrettable." Vuong poured from the bowl into the two cups. "The Americans are to blame, really. I understand you visit there regularly?"

"Only on business." Dinh accepted a proffered cup, nodding his thanks slowly. "Sadly, it is a necessity."

Vuong wasn't in the same league as Mr Ko, but he was still a competent player, hiding behind smiles and chit chat, insidious pretenses Mr Ko never stooped to. And he had Chan and Nguyen close by, even if he wasn't armed. One of them had to have a gun, or they were both deadlier than they looked. Letting him come up here without a search spoke of arrogance or stupidity.

Or perhaps just good manners.

"If only we could carry out our business from home." Vuong sighed, sipping his tea.

Dinh held the cup under his face, letting the warm scent waft up into his nose. It actually smelled quite pleasant and he managed to relax an inch. "That would be convenient."

"Still, there is some business that is better taken care of away from home." Vuong sighed contemplatively, taking another sip of tea.

"Very true." Dinh agreed.

The cup was burning his hand. He switched, taking a drink of the steaming liquid. It wasn't half as good as it smelled. He took another drink, then cradled the cup in his lap.

"Difficulties often occur, and it is better to resolve them somewhere other than your own doorstep."

-very subtle you fucking gook-

"Indeed. Most are easily solved." Dinh shrugged. "But one or two can be troublesome."

"Ah." Vuong tipped his head back and shook his head. "Business."

"Yes. There has been a misunderstanding." Dinh put the best face on it he could.

"In your adjudication?" Vuong raised both of his slender eyebrows.

"Between Mr Ko and myself."

Vuong sighed. "I'm afraid I cannot adjudicate a difference between the two of you."

Dinh nodded. "Of course. I would not expect you to."

"Oh?" Vuong looked through a haze of steam, poised behind his cup.

"I wish to resolve the dispute myself." Dinh drank the last of his tea down, and set the cup back on the tray.

It stung his mouth, tasting of flowers and the dull alkali tang of green tea.

"Most commendable." Vuong set down his cup and refilled Dinh's. "Most commendable."

He propped his chin on his hand, elbow supported by the desk, and narrowed his eyes.

"Tell me."