‘A precise address? Like you managed with Daniel Amopoulos? Or Alex Ginelli?’
Daniel… Alex… two of my boys. Will I ever know what you did to them ?
‘Neither of them had the address we needed to extract,’ Crossland continued. ‘This man will have a much higher likelihood of knowing. And if your traditional methods fail, call your friend Nathaniel and clone this person. We haven’t used the memory transfer technology since…’
Marshall turned to her with a transparent look of surprise.
‘Well,’ Crossland said, ‘I probably shouldn’t talk in front of a patient as if he’s not in the room.’
She pursed her lips, and turned to face the exit.
‘I’ll be in my lower office, on Floor G,’ she finished, ‘setting up my equipment. If you could dispatch a team of clones to escort him down Stairwell 32, I’ll be happy to meet them there.’
Floor G, Stairwell 32, thought McCormick, far, far away from the luxury of Marshall’s office. Right next to the satellite control room, if I’ve memorised the maps right.
The thought filled him with uninhibited dread.
When the time comes, should I tell her we’ll both be in the blast radius ?
Before Crossland could leave the room, a string of buzzes sounded on Marshall’s radio. He held out a flat hand to stop her in her tracks, and brought the radio to his ear.
McCormick had not learned the clones’ coded language, but a translation became visible on Marshall’s horrified face. He turned a shade of maroon, and his quivering gun hand pointed his pistol at McCormick’s head.
‘Nothing found on Floor Z,’ he snarled. ‘Nothing.’
McCormick did not move a muscle. Not even in his face. Especially not in his face.
‘Six minutes until half past, and the bomb is nowhere to be found. Gwen… better get to work now.’
Gwen Crossland shook her head.
‘I’ve told you before,’ she said with the slow voice of a playschool leader to a three-year-old. ‘Just like I told Nicholas when we had Ginelli. My work is not fast food. It takes time and precision. I can promise results that are accurate and trustworthy. But I cannot produce them at the speed that you and all the other impatient men want me to. If you have six minutes, my methods can’t help you with any reliable accuracy.’
She walked away from Marshall’s office, and her faint footsteps didn’t take long to leave McCormick’s earshot.
‘For the record,’ McCormick said to Marshall, ‘I don’t think six minutes is long enough either.’
‘You’d be amazed what I can do in six minutes,’ Marshall answered. ‘Gwen can spout whatever crap she wants about her precious methods, but I’ve got methods of my own.’
Marshall lowered his handgun just a little, and squeezed the trigger. A horrible bang sounded, and the bullet struck McCormick in the shinbone.
Chapter 26
10:25 p.m.
‘Guys!’ Kate screamed into the radio. ‘Talk to me! Where are you?’
Her eyesight was blurred with tears. The Floor D corridors were a mess of unfamiliar sights and the layout was barely navigable.
‘About half a corridor from the stairwell to Floor C,’ came Ewan’s voice. ‘If a miracle happens we can make it.’
Raj used to believe in miracles. I don’t think I ever did.
Her whole world was racing through her mind. The thought of her grandfather figure, trapped in a mystery location somewhere on the upper floors. Marshall’s computer not far above her. Mum and Dad in New London. The possibility of James still being alive. Her dead boyfriend. But more than anything else, the cigar-shaped detonator in her left hand.
She had dialled in the code the moment McCormick had revealed it, not trusting her panicked memory to remember it later. His secret weapon had been armed for what had felt like several hours, with the top cover closed to prevent her pressing the button by accident.
Kate didn’t know what the world would look like once she pressed the button. She only knew that the closer she was to Floor B when it happened, the easier it would be to reach Marshall’s computer while everyone was distracted.
‘Kate,’ came Alex’s voice, ‘we need a favour.’
‘What is it?’
‘We found the stairwell to Floor C. The security door is humans only, and the keycard we stole has been cancelled already.’
Kate wiped her face, leaned against the nearest wall and let out a moan. She knew what was coming.
‘If you find a human, kill them and take their keycard. Ewan and I didn’t find anybody on the way here.’
10:26 p.m.
Shannon had not been frightened at first. Not until Lorraine had burst into tears. Her cries had been loud enough to hear halfway down the street, but she didn’t seem to care. The attic’s tiny size amplified the volume as the sounds echoed off the walls.
‘Do you want me to be in charge of the phone?’ Shannon asked.
‘Not a chance,’ Lorraine replied.
Shannon knew better than to argue. Perhaps Lorraine blamed herself for McCormick’s capture. And, in all likelihood, his eventual death once Dad was finished with him.
Shannon had vivid memories of Daniel Amopoulos’ torture, which she had kept to herself. Nobody in Spitfire’s Rise needed to know that her father had made her watch. Or how it had ended for Daniel, and what probably lay in store for McCormick too.
Unless, of course, his bomb helped the others rescue him.
‘Lorraine,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what’s happening in four minutes, but if you’re not up to talking then I have to be. Tell me everything I need to know—’
‘Maybe it’ll mean we win the battle, but not the war. Or maybe we won’t win either. But once it goes off, everything changes.’
Lorraine lay her head in her cupped hands, and rested her elbows on the table to support its weight.
‘I told you about Joey Shetland tonight,’ she said, ‘and my twenty years of trying to make the world less ugly.’
‘It was brave of you to tell me. Come to think of it, your whole life’s been an act of bravery.’
Lorraine ignored the compliment.
‘Nursing taught me that sometimes, ugliness can’t be avoided. And combat has taught me that sometimes you have to cause ugliness to make the world better.’
Shannon took a moment to remember Keith Tylor, Grant’s number two assassin, who she had stabbed to death the night she first met the Underdogs. That had been ugly enough, and it had made the world better. But she wasn’t sure it was the type of ugliness Lorraine meant.
‘McCormick’s bomb will make the world ugly?’ asked Shannon.
Lorraine nodded, but offered no details.
‘In a few minutes’ time,’ Shannon continued, ‘you’ll be explaining the whole thing to Ewan. If it’ll make it easier, you can practice with me right now.’
Lorraine gave Shannon a vicious eye, but turned her seat in her direction. Apparently she thought it was a good idea.
‘Lorraine,’ asked Shannon, ‘where did McCormick plant the bomb?’
10:27 p.m.
The return to Spitfire’s Rise should have felt warm and welcome. Instead, Jack felt embarrassed. He had found that replacement home at a speed that had impressed everyone, only for everyone to wonder why they’d bothered once Mark had called them with the good news.
Jack laid his box of weapons on the grass before he opened the trapdoor and leapt inside, and tried his best not to feel ungrateful. They were back in Spitfire’s Rise, a place that had become more of a home to him than any of the houses from his previous life. In fact, his time away from the house had reminded him exactly how much he both loved it and depended on it.
I did my duty and served the others well, he thought to himself, and ultimately it was all for nothing.
Then again, that’s what to expect when you live your life for the sake of others. Unrewarded servitude.
Jack bit his lip and let out the quietest sigh he could. Rew
ard or not, it had still been the right thing to do. And if Spitfire’s Rise were ever in danger of being exposed again, he would take the same actions again. His personal preferences had no right to enter into it.
But serving others did not mean they would like you. Gracie had been colder to him than frostbite ever since he had told her the truth. She and Simon followed him into the tunnel, and Thomas brought up the rear with a small box of food. Once they reached the entrance, Mark was waiting next to the Memorial Wall.
‘That’s everything, is it?’ he muttered.
‘Yeah,’ answered Jack. ‘What’s that in your hand?’
Mark lifted up the bottle of wine, and Jack read the label closely.
‘Crémant de-something-or-other-Frenchie,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t be offering that to underage teens, you know.’
‘I think we need a bottle,’ Mark answered as Simon and Gracie dumped their boxes of weapons, and Thomas carried his food in the direction of the farm. ‘One way or another, we’re writing history tonight. Either we lose this war forever, and we’ll drink to the death of Great Britain. Or the guys will return victorious, and we’ll drink until we believe it.’
Gracie crept up close and brought her eyes level with the bottle’s label.
‘Be careful with that,’ she said. ‘It looks like strong stuff. It’s… seven hundred and fifty ml.’
Jack opened his mouth to correct her, but shut it again when he remembered he was her least favourite person in the world.
There was an odd sound at the door to the farm, like falling paper. Jack turned around. Thomas had dropped something from underneath his box of food whilst trying to open the tunnel door.
At the boy’s feet were a bunch of envelopes – the ones Jack had told him to hide under McCormick’s mattress and given no second thought to ever since. A look of fright appeared on Thomas’ face as the envelopes landed face-up. The top one read ‘Mark’.
The young man stormed over, ignoring Thomas’ desperate protests, and ripped the envelope open.
‘…I promised McCormick…’
Mark brushed Thomas to the side, and started to read. Jack ran over to look.
Dear Mark, the paper began.
10:28 p.m.
Ewan checked his watch, and swore.
He and Alex had been trapped in the stairwell to Floor C since they had arrived. So near to Marshall’s computer, yet so far.
The lower door burst open, too fast for either of them to ready their weapons. Thankfully the intruder was Kate, with a golden keycard in one hand and her detonator in the other.
‘You found a human then,’ said Alex.
‘Yeah,’ said Kate. ‘…I knocked him out.’
Ewan looked at her face. It reminded him of his own face on Takeover Day, right after he realised he had made his first kill.
‘Right,’ said Alex, ‘let’s get going.’
‘No,’ said Ewan. ‘Not for another minute and a half.’
His friends glared at him as if he had personally insulted them.
‘Whatever that detonator does, I’d rather get my breath back now and take Floor C by surprise after it goes off.’
He didn’t know whether Kate and Alex agreed with his strategy, but the suggestion of catching their breath was well-received. Kate climbed to the top step and sat down in front of the door.
She was afraid. Afraid enough for the detonator to tremble in both hands as she brought it close to her face. Ewan remembered McCormick’s sadness when Kate had volunteered for the task. He had never been one to underestimate his soldiers, but he must have had his reasons.
There was only one decent thing to do. Ewan climbed to the top of the stairwell and sat down next to her.
‘Alex,’ he said, ‘sit there.’
Alex rolled his eyes, but knew there was no time to argue. He sat down on Kate’s other side as commanded. Between them, Ewan could sense Kate’s chaotic breathing through the rising and falling of her ribs.
‘Kate,’ he said, ‘flip it open.’
Kate took several seconds to do so. Partly because of anxiety, striking at the most predictable but least convenient time, and partly because it was difficult to operate her twitching fingers.
But she did so, and the metal casing sprung open to reveal a solitary, harmless-looking clear button that would change the face of the war.
Ewan stuck out a thumb and aligned it next to Kate’s. He glanced at Alex, who got the message and did the same.
‘When the time comes,’ said Ewan as their three thumbs lined up, ‘you won’t have to push it alone. None of us should feel alone right now.’
He had no doubt that Kate would have pushed the button herself either way. She didn’t even know how to fail when it came to facing her fears. But this wasn’t about whether she would do her duty. The trembling in her hand slowed down, and her breathing steadied.
‘You guys are the best of friends,’ she said.
Ewan smiled.
‘United by our differences, guys,’ he said.
‘United.’
10:29 p.m.
McCormick was flat on his back, his shirt dampening in a growing pool of his own blood. But it didn’t matter. Despite his blurred vision, he could see the time.
Fifty seconds.
Iain Marshall was no longer recognisable as the war veteran and arms dealer he had once been. He was panicked, and there was nothing more dangerous than a panicked man with a gun. As demonstrated by the second and third bullets Marshall had fired: one into McCormick’s shoulder and the other into his left hand.
‘Tell me,’ Marshall snarled. ‘Tell me where you planted it.’
McCormick swallowed, and dared to smile.
‘In a minute.’
Marshall did not take the joke well. Grant’s Head of Military was a man without control, utterly clueless about the war-changing event moments away, and McCormick could sense how much it scared him.
His fourth bullet struck McCormick in his lower thigh, a few inches above his knee. It hurt twice as much as the others, resting inside a big bunch of his nerves. McCormick yelled out, tears streaming down his face.
Forty seconds remained. Talking would occupy some time, and perhaps result in fewer bullets.
‘The bombs are… are spread across Floor Z,’ McCormick said. ‘Exactly where Adam King told you.’
‘They are not!’ Marshall yelled. ‘Even you’re not stupid enough to have that kind of plan! The explosions would kill more civilians than they would save! Hundreds around the Inner City borders would die. Thousands would crush each other to death inside the corridors. My laser cannons and speed mines would start a massacre, and any survivors would get sniper bullets to the backs of their heads as they ran for the electric fences!’
‘Oh,’ McCormick answered with the friendliest face he could manage. ‘We’ll be sure to cross that idea off the list then.’
With twenty seconds remaining, Marshall was using up the last of his cool. He pushed a foot down against McCormick’s wounded thigh, and pointed his handgun straight down.
‘Tell me the truth,’ he said, ‘or I will shoot you at point-blank range in the chest.’
McCormick raised his hand – the one that had not yet been shot – and twirled a weak finger around the centre of his ribcage.
‘This is my heart. Let’s see how well you can aim.’
Marshall’s aim was perfect. His fifth bullet struck McCormick exactly where he had pointed, and sheared through the muscles of his heart.
McCormick felt like the centre of his chest had been hit by a car. All strength left his body – his torso did not even bother to tremble – and the sensations in his nervous system began to fade. His time on Earth would only last as long as the oxygen in his brain, which his halted bloodstream would not refresh.
This is it… no going back now.
A voice echoed in his ears. Marshall, stomping back and forth after his moment of madness, was yelling.
‘Whatever your pl
an is,’ he screamed, with globs of saliva flying from his angry mouth, ‘it won’t do anything! Your war will be lost when the shield goes up, no matter how much of the Citadel you destroy! Don’t you get it? However many labs and archives you burn to the ground, the computer around you will still be active. It’s the only computer that has any control of the shield, and nobody in your team has ever come within half a mile of it!’
He’s almost right.
None of them except me.
Even though his brain was running dry, McCormick was astonished by how much information could pass through it.
His first wave of memories focused on the final week of his life. He remembered his guilt at the pack of lies he had told his friends outside Oakenfold. No bombs had been planted on his visit before Christmas.
He remembered his delight as he had snatched the acid grenades in the HPFC, and how his destruction of the Central Power Generator had allowed him to pass to Floor B with nothing but a physical search. The X-ray machine on Floor D would have cost them the war.
He remembered how he had spent a whole night arguing with Lorraine Shepherd about the true nature of his operation.
His seizure at Spitfire’s Rise had looked convincing enough. The cyst had been a convenient excuse for an operation, and one he could provide evidence for. But the only woman capable of operating had hated the idea of sealing their supply of NPN8 plastic explosives inside his abdomen.
Grant had called him fat the moment he had laid eyes on him. McCormick had hidden the extra weight from his friends under several layers of clothing, and carried the NPN8 inside his body for three days like his own destructive baby. Not long ago, the world’s most powerful dictator had stood two feet away from a bellyful of high explosives.
The plan had always been to get out alive, and perhaps even reverse the operation. But McCormick was dead the moment Roth found him, and he had been smart enough to know it.
He hoped that Kate would one day forgive him for telling her the code, and asking her to kill him.
McCormick’s head fell to the side, but he could not feel the carpet against his cheek. When he realised he could no longer read the time on the clock, he said goodbye to the world and closed his eyes.
Tooth and Nail Page 27
