Cara’s eyes widened. To her generation those names tolled just like Hiroshima and Nagasaki had to her great grandparents. “Mum would never help them do that.”
Jay smiled. “That’s what I told them.”
Cara started to smile too but then her face fell. “That’s why they came for me, isn’t it?”
Jay said nothing, but Cara was insistent. “She still won’t help them. She knows I wouldn’t want her to. She wouldn’t, even for me, would she?”
Jay wasn’t so sure. “I know one thing, whatever she does, she’ll make sure you’re safe.”
Cara fell silent. “You should have seen her at the house. She was like a superhero or something. She was covered in blood and her clothes were torn and she was wounded and it was like nothing could stop her.”
She looked at him with wonder shining from her eyes, and Jay recognized that feeling, too.
-oOo-
Cara fell asleep soon after and Jay propped himself against the wall and watched her. He’d known her just a few days but he would have given anything to get her out of there, back to her own life, back to her childhood. Sandra had been right to keep her hidden. This was his life, a world of criminals and terrorists, where children were tied up and thrown in dingy little rooms to be used as leverage. And yet … He wondered what this beautiful young woman had been like as a toddler. Had she laughed a lot, or had she been the serious, thoughtful type? Had she been always grazing her knees, dressing up in Mummy’s clothes, trying to do things beyond her years and understanding? A sharp pang of regret twisted inside him. It was a lot to take away from someone. It was a hard, cruel thing to deny him the joy of being there to watch his daughter grow up.
He worked at his bindings as he thought about Cara. He’d been working at them since the minute they’d been tied. The stinging soreness of his wrists merged with his newfound pain of loss and betrayal, sharpening it and focusing it.
Sandra had been right to want to save Cara, to hide her, to keep her away from the cesspit of greed and hatred that Jay worked within. He could see that. He could see how she would want to protect that precious child at whatever cost. But to hide her from Jay only showed how little she trusted him. How little she knew him. Because he would have felt the same way. He would have wanted Cara safe from her parents’ past. He would have done anything, gone anywhere, to ensure that his daughter grew up free from any danger haunting their lives.
And yet …
How seriously would he have taken the threat? When he thought of the preparations Sandra had made, the lengths she had gone to, to keep herself and Cara off the radar of the kind of people she had once known … He had to admit that he probably would have said she was being paranoid, overprotective, a crazy woman. But everything had happened the way she feared it might. Somehow, the past had reached through time and space and plucked her out of her obscurity, thrusting her—and Cara—back into the nightmare.
Could he have been trusted to take the threat seriously? Could he have given up the Temporal Crimes Unit and gone off to live a quiet life—the life he might have led if a timesplash hadn’t killed his best friend that infamous night, eighteen years ago? If he had never joined MI5? If he had never met Sandra?
The questions bubbled like a simmering stew in his mind as he watched Cara, strained at his bindings, and slipped in and out of a fitful sleep. They were the questions he and his colleagues at the TCU would discuss on late night stakeouts. What if you jumped back into your own past and changed some crucial incident? How big a splash would it make? Was his friend’s death and Jay’s reaction to it a big deal, or would the world have gone on much the same either way?
Well, he knew the answer now. If he had never become involved with Sandra, hunted Sniper with her, fallen in love with her, then Cara would never have been born, Sandra’s life would have been very different, and she would probably not be here now helping a crazy man kill a million people. Changing his own past at that splashparty in Ommen might well have created a bigger timesplash than anyone could have imagined.
-oOo-
Not far away, Sandra was also deep in thought. She had all the splash parameters now. Matthew had shown her the plastic spheres and explained how they worked. The lob would be three hundred and thirty years into the past, all the way back to 1736. One other man would be traveling with Polanski in the sphere. Matthew gave her the mass of the occupants.
“Guns?” Sandra asked. They would need guns if they were to do any killing. On such a long lob, the weight of even handguns would add hugely to the energy requirements. As it was, sending two people back was pushing the capacity of the rig to its limit.
Matthew stood there with his mouth open. He’s thinking up a lie, she realized.
“One gun,” said Peter. Peter was her constant companion now. He watched her like a cat watching a rodent.
She looked from one to the other. “What the hell is going on here?”
“He’s right,” said Matthew. “There’s just one gun.”
“Mass?”
“Eight hundred and fifty grams, loaded.”
That would be heavy for a handgun but not excessively so, Sandra thought, yet too light for a shotgun or a semi-automatic rifle. “So he’s just taking one handgun?”
“So what?” Peter asked.
“That’s why the spatial accuracy is so important,” Matthew said, and she could see it was another lie.
“Two men,” she said. “Two big men and one handgun. And they’re going back three hundred and thirty years to shoot one man on a remote farm.” Again she studied their faces. “So what’s really going on here?”
“Just do as you’re told, woman.” Peter stepped close, standing over her like a slab of meat.
She was so sick of this kid throwing his weight around. The great bullying, misogynist lout summed up so much of what was wrong with this whole set-up. Maybe it was time for a little revolution of her own. First she had to give Peter what he had coming.
She looked into his eyes and said, “What is it about me that bugs you so much, Sidekick? Do I get your hormones all stirred up? Have you got a secret crush on me that you’re fighting for the sake of the cause? Or are you worried that Polanski fancies me? He does, you know.” She put a hand to her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh, I’m so sorry. All this time you were hoping he fancied boys but he likes women after all.”
The young man was almost trembling with rage. Words came belching out of him in minor eruptions. “Foul-mouthed. Disgusting. Filthy. Whore!” His fist came swinging at her head like a sledgehammer but she ducked under it easily and landed a fast, hard punch in his right kidney before skipping back, balanced and ready. Roaring, he threw himself at her but she stepped back again, deflecting the remains of his lunge with a solid forearm block and again jabbed him in the kidney as he stumbled past. He found a few more insults to yell as he came at her again. Again she sidestepped his lunge, shooting out a kick to the back of his leg that brought him down. He knelt on the floor, glaring at her. She almost hesitated at the sight of so much hatred, but then took a step forward and delivered a flying kick to his head. Peter dropped to the ground as if his strings had been cut.
Sandra turned at the sound of booted feet running into the room. Two men with guns advanced on her, weapons raised. Sandra was still in the mood for a fight. She squared off against them.
“What do you think you’re going to do, arseholes, ugly me to death? Oh look, it’s the Great Leader himself.”
Polanski came to a stop at the sight of Sandra and his fallen friend. Sandra pointed at Peter. “You need to get a muzzle for that thing.”
“If he’s dead, I’ll …”
“You’ll what?” It was time for step two. In a blur of speed, she threw herself at Matthew, kicking and punching him in a furious attack that left him lying on the ground too, bleeding. She got off him. Polanski had stepped forward, perhaps to try to intervene, but it had all been over so fast, he didn’t have a chance. The guns were still poin
ting at her.
“This one’s alive,” she said, panting from her exertions. “But I doubt he’ll be much use to anyone for a few weeks yet. I’m pretty sure I felt his jaw break, and both arms. So now what are you going to do, Monster? I’m the only one who can run your fucking lob. If you want to destroy Washington and everybody in it, I’m your only option.”
Polanski looked stunned. His eyes went from Matthew to Peter and then to Sandra. His face was gray and his breathing was shallow. “I’ve still got your daughter,” he said, his voice a croak.
“And you’re going to bring her to me. And Jay while you’re at it.”
He seemed to come out of his shocked state. He shouted at his men to get Peter and Matthew out of there and get them some medical help. Then he turned his attention back to Sandra.
“You think the tables have turned, don’t you? But nothing has changed. Not really.” Sandra was pretty sure things were very different now, yet Polanski sounded sure of himself. He even managed a taut smile when he said, “It’s all a question of who needs what the most, isn’t it?” He began walking around Sandra, easing his way into his theme. “I really need this lob to happen right now. Today. Groups all over the country have been given the signal. Allies outside the country have been assured we’re about to act. If we don’t go today, my leadership loses a lot of credibility. It could take years to get everybody to this peak of readiness again. It would be a disaster for me and my cause.”
Sandra kept her eye on him as he moved around, not because she suspected an attack, but so she could watch his face. “On the other hand,” he went on. “Bad as it would be, we’d recover. We’d reorganize—with a new leader, perhaps—but we’d try again. We will be free. We will take back our country.”
The people around them grunted their affirmation, people that Sandra hadn’t noticed gathering until that moment. Polanski moved closer until he stood at Sandra’s shoulder. “You, on the other hand, could lose your daughter. It could happen like that.” He snapped his fingers in Sandra’s face and her fists clenched. “And once you’ve lost her, there’s no recovering from it, there’s just living with it for the rest of your life, knowing she died because of your stubbornness, or pride, or whatever passes for principles in your Godless morality.”
There was no arguing with his logic. Sandra knew full well she had more to lose. She fought down a rising panic and tried to stay calm. Whatever the perceived inequalities here, Polanski gained nothing by hurting Cara, and lost a great deal instead. For him, it would be a last resort. She still had lots to bargain with.
A couple of men picked up Matthew. The teknik cried out in pain. Sandra had not forgotten it had been Matthew’s idea to bring her there. She hoped the pain lasted a long time. As for Peter, two men struggled to lift him and called in a third to help. The boy was still out cold and Sandra thought it was probably best he stayed that way.
“Bring Cara and Jay here,” she told Polanski. “Once I know they’re OK, we’ll talk again about going on with the lob.”
Polanski’s lips twitched into a smile, making her heart labor at the sight. He knew she was stalling, looking for some way out. He knew she couldn’t risk losing Cara, no matter what.
If she killed him now, it would all be over. There would be no lob, no timesplash, all those people would go on living. Yet, if she killed him, the people around her would tear her to shreds. It might be worth it. The idea echoed in her mind. It was mesmerizing. She saw the blow that would do it, felt her muscles tensing for the sequence of swift actions it would require. Just one punch. She could almost feel her knuckles driving into his throat, his windpipe collapsing …
“Fetch the prisoners,” Polanski said, and walked away, breaking the spell.
-oOo-
Jay snapped awake at the sound of boots outside the room. Cara was still asleep. He was still sitting with his back to the wall. He tugged frantically at the bindings on his wrists. When a coil of rope slipped loose and his wrists jerked farther apart, he was so surprised he stopped struggling for a moment. Then he redoubled his efforts. In seconds, the footsteps came to a halt outside and a key rattled in the lock. No time for his feet. He freed his hands but kept them behind his back. As the door opened, he dropped his head, pretending to be asleep.
Two men entered the room. One went to Cara and the other to Jay. An arm reached down and shook his shoulder. “OK, buddy. On your feet.” Jay looked up, pretending to be thick with sleep.
The man’s pistol was in his trouser waistband. Jay reached out and grabbed it before his jailer had time to react. The man jumped back as if Jay had stung him. Which was fortunate, because, to Jay’s horror, the gun tumbled out of his hand onto the floor. His fingers were almost useless. Numb, weak and unresponsive, he might as well have had wooden sticks attached to his hands, and the pain in his shoulders made sweat spring out on his forehead. In a near panic, he fumbled up the heavy firearm using both hands and managed to get it pointing the right way just as its owner realized what was going on and came charging back.
Jay fired. The bullet took the man in the hip, and he swerved and fell beside Jay. The second man shouted, “Drop it!” and Jay looked to see him standing beside Cara, his gun aimed at Jay’s chest. There was no chance of swiveling around to fire at the man. He clenched his teeth in frustration and was about to drop the gun when Cara, her feet still tied, kicked out at the gunman’s knee. The gun went off and Jay heard the round zip past his ear. He took aim as the man staggered to regain his balance. “Don’t even think about it,” Jay said. The man froze. “Put the gun down and untie my legs.” The man did as he was told and knelt down at Jay’s feet. “Make it fast, or I’ll shoot you and do it myself.”
With his legs free, Jay told his captive to untie Cara. He stood up slowly and carefully, shaking the blood back into his legs. The untying was going too slowly. There must be people on their way by now to see what the shooting was about. He didn’t have time. He went to the door to quickly look out into the corridor. When he looked back, the man had dived across the floor to retrieve his gun. Caught off-balance, Jay just made it out the door again before a shot put a hole in the wall beside him. His only thought was to get back in there and get Cara free, but even as he swung himself back to the doorway, people came running round the corner into the corridor. He fired at them and they ducked as best they could. There was no rescuing Cara now. With a yell of frustration, he took off along the corridor just as the first bullets came after him.
It was a miracle that Jay made it out of there alive. Bullets ripped through walls and plastic sheeting all around him as he careered through gaps and rooms and corridors, trampling people’s beds—with sleeping people in them—toppling makeshift tables, smashing down flimsy doors, knocking down anyone who couldn’t get out of his way fast enough. He had no idea where he was going and no sense of the ramshackle architecture of the place, so he went in as straight a line as he could, praying there would be an end to it all soon. Dogs barked at him or yelped as they fled, and he almost broke his neck dodging and skidding and splashing his way through a set of buckets set to catch the rain as it dripped through the ceiling. His pursuers thinned out and fell behind as his reckless sprint took him into dangers any sane person would avoid. When he saw a wall ahead with a window opening onto a gray, wet dawn, he dived straight through it, hitting the muddy ground outside in a roll from which he was up and running again in a single fluid motion. He would worry about the pain in his shoulder later, along with the many cuts and bruises he’d picked up during his escape. Right now, all he could focus on was keeping moving and not slipping in the mud.
Chapter 23: Target
Cara’s hands were still tied when they brought her to Sandra, but they had freed her legs. Her mother looked awful—exhausted and filthy—still wearing the same torn and blood-smeared clothes as when she had last seen her. There were bandages on her left arm and around her middle beneath the ragged jumper, but blood had soaked through them. Cara wanted to hug a
nd comfort her mother so badly it was an ache inside her.
Yet, when Sandra beamed her wide, beautiful smile and rushed forward to embrace her, Cara found herself crying helplessly on her mother’s shoulder, overwhelmed with self-pity and wallowing in the delicious comfort of her mother’s strong arms. When Sandra murmured in her ear that it would be all right, that everything would be fine now, Cara believed it with every fiber of her being, felt the comfort with a certainty that came from the very roots of their relationship.
As Cara’s tears subsided, Sandra pulled back and looked into her eyes. “Are you all right? Have they hurt you?”
The look in her mother’s eyes made her a little frightened about what she might do. “I’m fine. Don’t worry, Mum. But Jay—”
“That stupid man! What ever made him think it was a good idea to bring you here? When I see him, I’m going to—”
“It was all my fault, Mum. I made him. He didn’t want to.”
“Made him? How do you make a grown man take a child anywhere near a lob site? What kind of man lets himself be pushed around by a teenage—” She stopped, closed her eyes and visibly calmed herself, perhaps remembering her own time with Cara’s father.
Cara moved in closer and whispered in Sandra’s ear, “He got away, Mum. He’ll bring help, won’t he?”
“That’s enough,” Polanski said. Cara felt her mother stiffen. She hadn’t noticed him when she came in, but now she looked at the revolutionary leader. He wasn’t especially tall, but he looked tough and strong. He had a handsome face, but, though Cara looked hard, she saw little sign of meanness or cruelty. Instead she saw only sadness and a kind of stubbornness that might once have been determination. When he looked her way, she made sure that all he saw in her face was hatred.
“Sit over there, darling,” Sandra told her, indicating a chair near the console. “And can we have her hands untied, please?”
Cara glanced nervously at the faces around her but no-one seemed angry at her mother’s bossy tone. In fact, Polanski gave someone the nod and the man came over and removed the rope. Pins and needles built up quickly in her hands to the point where she felt they were swelling like blown-up rubber gloves. They looked normal, however, apart from the red welts on her wrists. She tucked them under her armpits and tried not to let the pain show.
True Path: Timesplash 2 Page 23
