Gabrielle pulled up and grabbed a Muddy Fox mountain bike leaning against the wall. As she swung her leg over the saddle, one of the guys chasing kicked the back wheel. It almost knocked her off balance, but she just about kept in the saddle and started powering away.
The two boys were mounting their own bikes as she shot through the gates and out into the side street. There were now more than a dozen people standing in the road, surrounding the bloody knife and the spotty lad she’d knocked out beside the Fiat.
If she’d had time to think, Gabrielle would have turned the other way, but she couldn’t do a one-eighty with two boys on her tail, so she had to cut between two parked cars and mount the pavement to get through the crowd. As she did this her back wheel slipped, knocking her into a line of wooden fruit trays on the pavement outside a greengrocer’s shop.
Oranges and limes bobbling across the pavement caused an angry shout from the shopkeeper, who dashed out to gather the fruit and blocked the path of the two Runts. They slowed right down to avoid the woman and the lead rider kicked her out of the way as Gabrielle reached the junction with the main road.
As she slowed down, she could see more bikes on both sides of the road heading towards the Green Pepper. Then, as she noticed Aaron Reid lying with a serious head injury just a few metres away, she heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun blast.
Gabrielle was worried about Michael, but with Runts coming from every direction, Major Dee’s henchmen on the scene and the police sure to be arriving any second, she reckoned it best to head away and made the best of a small break in the traffic.
A car braked to let her in, but the time she’d taken to make her decision had allowed the two pursuing Runts to catch up. Gabrielle worked through the gears on the mountain bike until the parked cars were going by in a blur. But the two bikes following her were keeping up and she’d noticed two more – the bikes that had been behind Michael before the first shotgun blast – heading along the pavement.
Four against one wasn’t ideal, but Gabrielle hoped her high level of fitness would soon start to count. The lights at the top of the road were red and a queue of vehicles was building up. With a narrow pavement and cement mixer blocking the channel between the parked cars, she had to cut dangerously through the oncoming traffic and mount the wider pavement on the opposite side of the road.
As she got nearer to the traffic lights, she glanced back over her shoulder and was delighted to see that one of the riders had made a mess of mounting the pavement, forcing his mate to dismount and lift his bike over him.
Two police cars with sirens blaring turned into the top of the road as Gabrielle took a right on to the bottom of a steep hill. The cops either didn’t realise the significance of the chase, or didn’t see it and they sped on towards the Green Pepper.
Gabrielle was getting short of breath as she stood up in her seat and powered her bike up the steep hill. Another rider had given up the chase after a couple of hundred metres and when she looked back there was only one rider after her: a stocky Asian teenager, his fingers blinged up with gold rings and a hoodie shielding his face.
One on one didn’t seem too bad, but as she continued to pedal Gabrielle’s mobile phone started doing the Macarena. She took one hand off the handlebars and squeezed down her jeans to retrieve her phone. But concentrating on the phone caused her to miss a car rolling out of a narrow driveway between two houses.
She pulled the brakes and turned to swerve around the bonnet, but she overdid it and found herself going head first over the handlebars. Her skull thumped against the front wing of the car and her own bike landed on top of her as the shocked driver unbuckled and dashed out to make sure Gabrielle was OK.
But she wasn’t. Gabrielle had hit the car head-on with no helmet and was now curled on the ground near the front wheel of the car. Her mouth was filling with blood and her arm felt dead, as if it had been ripped out of its socket.
‘Oh my god,’ the driver gasped as she crouched down beside Gabrielle. ‘I’m sorry, but you were coming so fast I didn’t …’
As the driver tried to help Gabrielle, the Asian lad jumped off his bike. He looked about nineteen, with beefy arms and a powerful chest. Without saying a word, he grabbed the driver by her collar and punched her in the face with his ringed hand. Then he lifted up his sweatshirt and pulled a long knife from a sheath strapped to his thigh.
Gabrielle could see the light reflecting off the blade, but the knock to the head had drained all her strength. Everything was blurred and she thought about her training. But she was stranded on the edge of consciousness and could only watch as the youth plunged the knife deep into her stomach.
The blade went into her side below her rib cage. She doubled up as he pulled it out and the driver screamed, ‘Leave her alone!’ as a second stab thrust the blade into her back.
The youth turned towards the driver. ‘Where’s your car keys?’ he demanded.
‘Oh Jesus,’ the driver sobbed, handing over her keys as she shielded her face, fearing another punch. ‘Take the car, but leave the girl alone.’
Gabrielle was losing consciousness and bleeding heavily as the youth snatched the bag of cocaine from inside her backpack. He glanced furtively down the hill, before picking up his bike and hurriedly loading it into the back of the car. After slamming the boot, he jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
The car’s bloody-faced owner dragged Gabrielle back so that she didn’t get run over as it pulled into the road. She had no idea if the skinny teenager could survive, but she had to call an ambulance as quickly as possible.
As her car pulled off in a plume of diesel smoke, the woman realised that her mobile and door keys were in her handbag on the front passenger seat. She wiped her bloody nose on her sleeve and decided to run to her next-door neighbour’s and call from there. But then she heard a tinny rendition of the Macarena coming out of the gutter.
She turned sharply and picked up Gabrielle’s phone. It had slid shut when it hit the ground and the woman slid it back open to answer the call.
‘Gabrielle,’ Michael said. ‘Where are you? I’m with Major Dee and—’
‘Clear the line,’ the woman said urgently. ‘I need to call an ambulance.’
‘Gabrielle?’ Michael said, as the woman cut him off. ‘Gabrielle, are you all right?’
6. VENOM
They’d set up camp in a jungle clearing, with the trainees’ two-man tents arranged in a semi-circle around a fire. The instructors and assistants had more luxurious tents that were tall enough to stand in, and whereas trainees had to hike with their accommodation on their backs, the instructors’ equipment had been delivered by Land Cruiser and their tents erected by local guides who lived in a fishing village across the island.
It was dark now. James had washed at a nearby spring, but even at night the jungle heat was intense. He was in the tent he shared with Kazakov, sitting on an upturned crate wearing only cargo shorts and boots, while a crackly Malaysian radio station played Michael Jackson and a million insects dive bombed the outside of the tent, attracted by the glow from the electric lantern hooked to the ceiling.
Mr Kazakov lay on a metal-framed bunk, applying foul smelling glue to a pair of Russian army boots.
‘You can get these from the store room on campus,’ James said, as he kicked his state-of-the-art, lightweight, air-cushioned, waterproof-but-breathable boots in the air. ‘They’re dead comfy.’
‘It makes you soft,’ Kazakov spat. ‘Luxury doesn’t make a good soldier. All this fancy equipment you westerners use is just more things to go wrong.’
It said something about Kazakov that James had spent five nights sharing a tent with him, but still didn’t know his first name. It said even more that he’d taken British citizenship and worked for various government organisations over a fifteen-year period, but still thought of British people as you westerners.
James smiled as he moved across to his camp bed and yawned. ‘They’re a lot e
asier on your feet than hard-soled Russian boots, that’s all I know.’
Kazakov tutted, before leaning forward and wagging his finger. ‘During World War Two the German soldiers had the best technology; but when the snows came the German equipment froze and supply lines broke down. The Russian soldiers didn’t even have warm coats, but they were peasant stock, used to going hungry and surviving on scraps. While the Germans starved, Russian troops pulled up trees and bushes and stewed the roots until they were soft enough to eat. And if those Russians hadn’t boiled up those roots, Germany would have won the war and Britain would be a German colony.’
James shook his head. ‘I reckon the Americans might have had something to say about that.’
Kazakov laughed. ‘The Americans don’t like to fight dirty. Look at Vietnam, look at Iraq. I wear these boots because they’re the same kind I used in Afghanistan and they worked just fine. I know my knife because it killed in Afghanistan. I’ve worked with your SAS and I’ve seen SA80 rifles and Glock machine pistols jam. I carry a Kalashnikov because you can walk out of a swamp or a sand storm and know that a bullet comes out when you pull the trigger.’
Kazakov only ever became animated when talking about war or weapons. James couldn’t help smiling. ‘You actually like all this, don’t you?’
‘Like what?’
‘Living in the jungle, washing out your clothes by hand, patching up your kit.’
‘I have no family,’ Kazakov shrugged. ‘The only thing I know is being a soldier – and a good soldier sticks with equipment he can trust.’
James lay back on his bed. He thought of himself as a tough guy, and compared to most fifteen-year-olds he was, but he was nothing compared to the Russian.
‘It’s time,’ Kazakov said, cracking a rare smile as he splashed the dregs from his canteen over James’ bare stomach. ‘Go get the snakes; I’ll prepare the rifles and simunition.’
James unzipped the tent quickly and ducked into the night, before the insects got a chance to pour in. The two-room command tent set up next door was presently empty. Dana had travelled with a local guide, taking the Land Cruiser deeper into the jungle to set up equipment for the trainees’ rafting expedition for the next morning; Mr Pike had taken Jo McGowan to a hospital on the mainland.
When James was a trainee he’d assumed that CHERUB instructors had free rein to commit acts of cruelty. In fact, the 100-day training course was meticulously planned. Every exercise took a mass of organisation and involved a complicated safety audit as well as careful consideration of what ten-to twelve-year-old trainees were capable of.
One of the guiding principles of training was that the pupils should always be uncomfortable. They were taught to expect the unexpected and to live with a little less food and sleep than they were used to. Tonight was going to be no exception.
James yawned as he walked around the back of the command tent to a pile of crates and boxes that had been unloaded from the boat. There was a glimmer of moonlight, but he needed his pocket lamp to read the laminated tags dangling from each crate.
He moved the torch beam back and forth until he found the boxes marked DAY 96 EXERCISE 7B (LIVE CARGO). The box was made from blue plastic, and as he lifted it the contents writhed around and bodies slapped against the plastic sides.
After resting his torch on the ground, James peeled off a strip of parcel tape. As he raised up the lid to peek inside, a blaze of light from a hot lamp blinded him. The lamp was set on a timer and designed to switch on and make the cold-blooded snakes inside hyperactive. The pinkish grey creatures snapped their jaws and began poking their heads into the gap beneath the lid, forcing James to slam it down in a panic.
The reptiles were Malaysian pit vipers. Although they were only babies, they would normally carry enough venom to kill a small human. However, these vipers had undergone a minor operation to remove their venom producing glands and as a result the only injury they could inflict was a nasty bite from their powerful jaws. But of course, the sleeping trainees had no idea that they were harmless.
By the time James had lugged the box around towards the trainees’ tents, Mr Kazakov was standing by the fire with an M4 assault rifle over each shoulder.
‘Are they loaded?’ James asked, as Kazakov handed him a rifle and half a dozen ammo clips.
‘Simunition rounds,’ Kazakov whispered. ‘The trainees won’t be wearing any protective gear, so aim above their heads unless you’re got a clear shot at their legs or back.’
As James crammed the clips into the pockets of his shorts and hooked the M4 over his back, he noticed that Kazakov was wearing thick gloves.
‘Did you get a pair for me?’ James asked.
‘You should have put them on,’ Kazakov said, as James turned back towards their tent. ‘I’m not your mother. Where do you think you’re going?’
‘To get my gloves.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ Kazakov shrugged. ‘They’re only babies.’
James didn’t want to seem weak in front of Kazakov, so he turned back. But his confidence drained when he flipped the lid to unveil seventy-two overheated vipers.
‘You undo the zips,’ Kazakov said.
As James crept up to the four trainees’ tents, Kazakov ripped the pin from the first of four smoke grenades hanging from a belt slung over his shoulder.
James shuffled along the ground unzipping the tents, closely followed by Kazakov who’d push his arm between the flaps of fabric and roll a smoke grenade into some far corner of each tent. None of the trainees stirred. After a parachute jump and a twenty-kilometre hike they were all dead to the world.
Once the grenades were in position, Kazakov dipped his gloves inside the box of snakes, grabbed a handful and began throwing them on the baked earth in front of the tent flaps.
‘Muck in, James,’ Kazakov said firmly.
Without gloves, James decided that the best strategy was to pick the box off the ground and tip the snakes out. The method was fast and effective, but one of the reptiles had already slithered on to the side of the box. It reared up, swivelled its head and snapped its jaws shut around James’ bare nipple.
‘JEEEEEEEEESUS!’ James screamed, as the first of the smoke grenades began erupting.
Within ten seconds, all four trainee tents were billowing smoke and within fifteen the seven trainees had scrambled outside, barefoot and coughing. Even at night the jungle was extremely hot and the trainees soon found the young pit vipers snapping at their toes and ankles.
As they screamed, Mr Kazakov backed up behind the fire and began shooting at them. The simulated ammunition wasn’t lethal, but it was like paintballing on steroids and you knew all about it if it hit your bare skin.
Naturally, the trainees’ reaction was to run away from the hail of bullets and the snakes around their tents, but Mr Kazakov began shouting orders between blasts of gunfire. ‘All trainees, gather your equipment from the tents. Smoke-damaged equipment will not be replaced. I repeat, smoke-damaged equipment will not be replaced.’
As well as making everything stink, the pungent smoke would do serious damage to the trainees’ navigation equipment and would stain their briefings for the following day, making maps and vital sections of text illegible. The youngsters had no option but to brave the smoke, bullets and snakes and rescue their precious equipment.
Meanwhile, James had his own problem to deal with. He should have been standing alongside Kazakov shooting simulated rounds at the trainees, but instead he was in excruciating pain, with the fangs of a baby viper embedded in the flesh around his nipple.
He twisted its surprisingly rigid body, but the jaws didn’t budge. Pulling on the snake just made its fangs tear deeper into his skin, so James grabbed a section of the upper body with each hand, then did a Chinese burn; squeezing with all his might while twisting his hands in opposite directions.
It took all his strength, but eventually the viper’s backbone fractured and James ripped the bottom half of its body away from its head. He’d
assumed that decapitation would make the snake let go, but while its body writhed on the ground the snake’s head remained latched to his nipple.
Infuriated, James looked around and saw that the barefoot trainees had come up with a method for clearing the snakes from around their tents: they’d ducked to the opposite side of the fire from where Mr Kazakov was shooting at them and pulled glowing sticks out of the embers.
While snakes are surprisingly blasé about being ripped in half, they don’t like fire and sprang away as the trainees swept their flaming sticks across the ground.
As James moved in to grab his own stick, Kevin Sumner became the first trainee to get back inside his tent. As he reached into the billowing smoke, feeling blindly for the chunky canister, one of Mr Kazakov’s simulated rounds hit him up the arse.
Powdery yellow paint spattered up Kevin’s back as he found his hand wrapped around the hot smoke canister and – with a move he would later swear was accidental – ripped it out of the tent and threw it with all his ten-year-old might towards his tormentor.
‘I’m sick of you picking on me, dickwad,’ Kevin shouted.
James didn’t hear this because he’d grabbed a dried-out palm frond from the fire and he could feel its heat as he brought the flame towards the snake’s head. As soon as the flame licked the snake’s eyeball, its mouth sprang open and the head briefly joined the body on the floor, before James booted it into the flames.
After a glance at the blood streaking down his torso, James looked up and realised that the shooting had stopped. The trainees had all thrown their smoke canisters out of their tents and now stood over Mr Kazakov, who lay unconscious on his back with a cut the shape of a smoke canister on his forehead.
‘What happened?’ James yelled.
‘I think one of the smoke canisters hit him on the head,’ a twelve-year-old recruit called Ellie said.
‘Accidentally,’ Kevin added. ‘Because there’s no way I could have seen where he was through all the smoke . . '
James realised he was in charge. ‘OK,’ he said firmly. ‘If a couple of you help me to drag Kazakov into the command tent, the rest of you had better go back and vent the smoke out of your tents and equipment.’
CHERUB: Mad Dogs Page 4
