“I made a deal.”
Paolo stopped by the door, voice low. “Speak with the girl first – it’s all I ask.”
The apartment smelt of smoke, floors littered with rubble. The living area was crudely barricaded with sandbags and furniture. “Paolo?” said a voice, “in here, with the girl.”
The room was candlelit. A soiled mattress on the floor, a bucket to piss in. The girl was slumped against the wall, dressed in a dirty orange jumpsuit. “Lottie?” said Hooker.
A dark-haired woman stood next to the girl, eyes narrowed. Hooker knew it was the woman who’d called herself Roisin. She cradled a gun in her hand, finger resting along the trigger guard. “Who was shooting outside?”
“Caleb told the General about the girl,” Paolo replied. “He’s dead now. Hooker, this is my colleague, Rourke.”
“I told you he’d overheard us,” she said.
Paolo shrugged. “So why didn’t you kill him?”
“Don’t be funny,” she said, nodding at Hooker. “Who the hell’s he?”
“I’m here for the girl.”
The woman pulled a face, “Paolo what the hell’s going on?”
“Not now,” Paolo replied. “Hooker, whatever your extraction plan is, activate it now.”
Rourke studied Hooker with interest. “He can get us out of here?”
“I didn’t say that,” Hooker replied. He rested his hand on Lottie’s shoulder. “Are you okay? I’m gonna take you home.”
Lottie shrank from his touch. “Are you one of them?” she said. “A terrorist?"
“No.”
Paolo stood over the girl. “Hooker, she’s carrying an Archangel in her womb. They drugged her and impregnated her. She’s the fascist’s very own Virgin Mary, don’t you see?”
Lottie glowered. “What did you just say?”
Rourke stood up, pistol ready. Her smile was cruel. “The boy you talked about, the one you kissed at the party in Winchester? He’s a CIA agent called Tristian Gramercy.”
“We think he’s an archangel,” said Paolo. “My guess? You’ve been chosen for the next phase of the Project. Your father used you, Lottie. You’re a brood mare.”
Lottie stared at the wall. Hooker gripped her hand. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“You’ve got aviation on standby, I assume?” said Paolo.
Hooker shouldered his MP5 and flicked off the safety. “What were you gonna to do with her?”
“Take her somewhere safe. Kyiv, or Free Cordoba. She’ll be looked after, and her child will…”
“You want it, don’t you?” said Lottie, teeth bared. “The baby. You want it. It’s just a weapon, isn’t it?”
Hooker caught Rourke’s eye, but the Irishwoman looked away. “Yes, Lottie. I make you right on that one.”
“No, not a weapon,” said Paolo. “It’s almost a miracle, don’t you see? They said it couldn’t be done, that archangels could never breed. Our scientists will want to know how it was achieved, germline transfer is …”
Hooker shook his head. “I’ve heard enough. Lottie, get up. Grab the back of my belt and stick close to me. We’re leaving.”
Lottie nodded, threading her fingers through Hooker’s web belt.
“No!” said Rourke.
Hooker towered over the Irishwoman. “Lottie, this is the one who murdered your friend Evie. Killed her mother too – I saw the body myself. You’re just a science experiment to these people.”
“Nor will she be safe with her father,” Paolo replied. “With us Lottie has a chance of a different life. A virtuous life.”
Hooker pressed the send button on his fob. The signal for Gordy pinged into the ether. In the corridor, an alarm trilled. “The Spanish,” said Rourke, checking the action on her pistol. “Hooker, if you think our plans for the girl were bad…”
Paolo unholstered his HK. “I suggest we settle this after we’ve dealt with our friends from The Black Rifles.”
Hooker was already out of the room, Lottie close behind. With a ripping sound, the apartment’s front door burst off its hinges, something bouncing on the floor.
Grenade.
Wrapping Lottie in a bear-hug, Hooker crashed into the nearest room. The explosion sounded like a monstrous cough, concussion shaking the walls. “Not in here,” Lottie cried. “No…”
Hooker took in the gloomy, black-walled room. Flags and a chopping block, a sword lined up in front of a camera. “Lottie, get down,” he whispered. “Low as possible. Do it now.”
“Is the girl okay?” called Paolo.
“Yeah,” Hooker grunted. He peered around the corner, gunmen crowding the doorway. Weapons barked, riddling the walls with bullets. A ricochet slammed into Hooker’s upper arm, numbing it beneath his armorgel. Ripping a grenade from his belt with his good hand, he lobbed it at the doorway. A gunman shouted in Spanish, hurling himself on top of the explosive. His body bucked crazily, purplish offal spattering the walls. With a roar, the remaining Black Riflemen charged.
Paolo and Hooker poured fire into the tiny corridor, weapons rattling like buzz-saws and chopping the first wave of attackers to pieces. The cocking lever on Hooker’s SMG snapped forward. Weapon empty. Nano-munitions from Paolo’s HK35 sparkled in the half-light, ripping into a gunman’s chest. He grunted and fell, only to be replaced by two more. The Crimson Brigade agent flinched, bullets hammering his armoured vest. Hooker reloaded and opened fire, two more Spaniards joining the barricade of corpses blocking the doorway. Rourke crawled out of cover, firing wildly.
“Get down!” Hooker ordered, readying another grenade. He pitched hard, bouncing it off the wall and through the front door. There was another muffled explosion, followed by screaming.
Paolo was still firing, teeth gritted, face masked with blood. Hooker went to join him, a bullet punching into his chest. He fell back inside the black room, gasping for air. Heart hammering, ribs burning, armorgel burning into his skin. He didn’t know if the vest could take another hit. “Lottie?” he gasped.
The girl tugged the sword from the executioner’s block. She didn’t look strong enough to heft it. “We’re going to die,” she said.
“No,” Hooker gasped, coughing blood. He fumbled in his belt pouch, fingers clutching the respirocite autojet. “I need your help – I’ve been shot. Take this and fight. If you don’t, we’re both dead.”
“Is that a military stim? I’ve seen them in movies,” Lottie replied. “Where do I inject?”
“Your thigh will do. Quickly, do it now.”
She flipped the cap, fingers shaking. “What will it do to the… baby?”
“I dunno.”
Lottie shook her head, steel needle glittering. “I can’t.”
Hooker fixed her eyes with his. “Then the baby’ll die anyhow.”
Lottie slammed the autojet into her thigh, through the leg of her grubby jumpsuit. She winced, tears beading the corner of her eyes. Hooker fumbled in his pocket for a foil package. A trauma-pack. He rolled it across his chest, feeling a Ketamine buzz “Lottie?”
“Oh fuck,” the girl sighed, eyes rolling. She tumbled backwards, a tangle of orange-clad limbs. Her mouth frothed, sword clattering to the ground.
“Go!” bawled a voice from the corridor. “Get in there, you useless bastards!”
Paolo’s voice was calm. “I need help, Hooker.”
“I’m shot.”
“We’re all shot.”
Hooker stumbled towards the corridor, Kalashnikov ready. The Crimson Brigade agent was waiting. He made a series of hand signals. Hostiles to the left of the doorway. At least three.
“Paolo,” said a voice in English. “Surrender, you bastard. The leaguers are coming!”
“That’s General Ignacio,” Paolo whispered. “Kill him if you can.”
A fighter appeared in the doorway, pausing to step over the bodies littering the corridor. He wore heavy body armour and a full-faced helmet, a belt-fed machine gun cradled in his arms. Paolo fired, peppering the gunne
r’s thighs and groin with armour-piercing rounds, blowing him off his feet. Another took his place, also armoured. His shotgun roared, Paolo spinning like he’d been punched by a giant fist. Hooker felt the sting of shotgun pellets across his arm and face, the Kalashnikov dropping to the floor. In the black room, Lottie shook like a drunk, grinning and gibbering.
Pulling his knife, Hooker lunged at the armoured shot-gunner, blade sinking into his throat. Eyes bulging like eggs, the dying man smashed his weapon against Hooker’s head. They both fell to the blood-slicked floor, the armoured hulk pinning Hooker to the ground. More men appeared, bulky in black-painted armour. One spoke in accented English. “The black guy is over here, General. He’s in a bad way, but I think it’s the NatSec bastardo.”
The man they called General strode forward, a pistol in each fist. He wore his coppery hair long, a lop-sided smile splitting his handsome face. “Was this fascist Paolo’s man all along, I wonder? What is it to be Comrades? Interrogation or execution?”
“Do motives matter now, General?” said one of his soldiers, a gingery weasel with a northern accent.
“Execution,” growled a man with a patch over one eye.
The other gunmen nodded. Hooker saw something ripple in his peripheral vision, a flash of orange. And a sound – halfway between a cackle and a hiss. The red-headed man’s head toppled from his shoulders. Then a grunt, a black sword biting into the General’s shoulder. His arm fell to the ground with a wet thud, pistol clattering into the corridor. The head rolled across the floor, a look of surprise on its face. The three remaining gunmen spun, struggling to aim rifles in the cramped corridor. Lottie slid between them, lithe as a snake, sword chopping and slashing. A gunshot rang out, a fighter mistakenly blasting another in the chest. “I am Ignacio of the Black Rifles!” growled the one-armed man, eyes wide. “I’m…”
“Dead?” Lottie Rhys replied, drawing the sword across his gullet. She stood over a pile of corpses, face agleam with blood, eyes blazing with dark fire. She cocked her head like a bird of prey, hefting the blade in doll-like hands. Her skin oscillated, mottled red and mauve, tendons and muscles bulging like the innards of some strange creature.
“Not me, Lottie,” Hooker gasped, pointing to the door, “there might be others outside. Kill them all.”
“Yes,” Lottie nodded. “I can do that.”
Hooker dragged himself into the torchlit corridor. He saw only a fraction of the slaughter, Lottie screeching and howling. She fell amongst the last of the Black Riflemen, hacking them down with her sword. The girl’s blood-stippled head swivelled, owl-like, eyes scanning for threats. “It’s like I’m watching myself do this,” she gasped. “It’s unreal, the power...”
“You’re doing great,” Hooker replied. “Look for a fire escape.”
Rourke appeared in the corridor. She cradled Paolo’s HK35, aiming at Hooker. “What have you done to her?” she screeched, “what about the baby?”
Lottie smiled. “What do you care, Roisin?
“Lottie, put the sword down,” Rourke replied. She reversed her grip on the pistol, finger clear of the trigger. “See? I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
“You? Hurt me?” Lottie laughed. She hurled the sword, the tip skewering Rourke through the guts. The Irishwoman fell to her knees, eyes wide. Lottie tugged the sword free and handed it to Hooker, before scooping him up in her arms.
Paolo appeared, hair sticky with blood, a tomahawk in each hand. His coveralls were shredded by shotgun pellets, scorched ceramoweave gaping underneath. “Rourke?” he said, grimacing with pain.
“I killed her,” said Lottie. “You’re next.”
“Perhaps not,” Paolo replied, stepping over Rourke’s body. “I know where the fire escape is.”
“Then show us,” said Hooker.
The Crimson Brigade agent led them to a red-painted door. Inside was a small room, a metal ladder leading to a ceiling hatch. War cries echoed in the corridor behind them. “Leaguers,” said Hooker.
“It was only a matter of time,” Paolo replied.
Lottie climbed the ladder, Hooker close behind. Boots thumped on concrete, a face-painted leaguer lurching around a corner. He grinned drunkenly, hefting a spiked mace. Paolo stepped in his path, tomahawks ready. Other woad-painted warriors arrived, eyeing Paolo’s police fatigues with surprise. Loyal Croydonians and Urbanskis, dressed in leather and steel, weapons bloodied.
Ignoring Paolo, one of the leaguers pointed at Lottie. “Tasty little bitch ‘ere, boys,” he leered, “form an orderly cue for fresh pussy.”
Paolo Falcone smiled a bloody smile. “I’m not sure you should’ve said that.”
twenty nine
Paolo’s tomahawks flashed, severing the leaguer’s hand. Pivoting at the waist, he round-house kicked the fighter into his comrades. “Who’s next?”
The leaguers faltered for a moment, leery of the strange axeman. Lottie punched the hatch open and pushed Hooker outside. She hissed, dropping the sword. Hooker pulled something from his pouch. “Grenade!” he hollered.
Paolo scrambled up the ladder, leaguers scattering. The Crimson Brigade agent rolled onto the roof as the grenade went off, smoke billowing from the hatch. “That was too close,” he spat.
“You’re alive, ain’t you?” said Hooker.
Paolo looked skywards. “Where’s our ride?”
“Dunno,” Hooker replied. “All I know is they’re tracking my fob.”
From below came the clang-clang-clang of boots on the metal ladder. Lottie dropped to all fours, arching her back and howling. Bounding to the hatch, she plucked out a leaguer like a bear pawing for salmon. “Fresh pussy?” she laughed, hurling him from the roof, screams lost on the wind. The next leaguer out of the hatch had a pistol. He opened fire, a bullet whining past the girl’s head. Hooker drop-kicked the shooter’s face like a football, smashing his skull like a piece of bag fruit. The pistol bounced across the roof, the leaguer dropping into the seething mosh-pit below. Lottie panted like a dog. “This is incredible, I feel like I’m on fire, but the fire’s sweet. Like honey...”
Paolo limped over to the girl, pulling something from his fighting rig. “Take this hydration pouch. The fire’ll burn out soon enough, girl. Take deep breaths.”
“Why do you care?” she spat, snatching the foil sachet. She tore it open, gulping the chilled liquid. “You were going to behead me, weren’t you?”
“I care because you’re the only fully combat-capable person up here.”
Lottie sneered, standing by the open hatch. She hissed and laughed. “Are you scared?” she goaded the leaguers below.
“Step back, Lottie,” Hooker ordered, picking up the leaguer’s pistol. He gasped, a sudden dagger-pain in his chest. His armorgel might have saved him, but the bullet had busted more than a few ribs.
“I want to fight,” said the girl.
“No, you don’t,” Hooker replied, looking out across London, blue-black in its vastness, quicksilver moonlight riming the lagoons. Beyond lay the Closed Zone where, even now, there was movement beneath dozens of geodesic globes. Earth-moving equipment and diggers, Hooker guessed. American. Blood-geld for The Emergencies.
Paolo nodded at the globes. “Don’t be taken in. It’s a lie. An illusion. The Archangels will return, and you’ll live as slaves. Or there’ll be another war. If we take the girl, maybe we can…”
“Give it a rest, for fuck’s sake,” Hooker replied.
“Force of habit, I guess.”
Hooker pointed at Lottie, “all we can do now is hold and wait.”
Lottie ran a claw through her hair, streaking it red. “Wait for what?”
“Help, Lottie. An old friend promised help would come.”
“What sort of help?”
“I don’t know.”
They retreated across the roof, taking cover behind the junction box of a long-dead ventilation system. Hooker tapped metal, hoping it was dense enough to stop a bullet. The top of a riot shield appeared from the roof ha
tch, an Urbanski crouched behind it. Hooker checked the pistol’s transparent magazine – eight rounds. Lottie found a wooden fence post and hefted it. Making a fighting stance, on the balls of his feet, Paolo readied his tomahawks.
The leaguers were all gold-torqued generals. The front rank wore ballistic armour, decorated orange and black – the cream of the Loyal Croydonia Brethren. They beat a crude tattoo on their shields, war-hammers pounding armorglass. More leaguers fell in, forming up behind the wall of shields. Some held metal spears, long enough to jab past the first rank. On each flank were more generals, cradling shotguns.
Hooker fired twice, the first round glancing off a shield. The second tore open a spearman’s throat, the dead man disappearing inside the phalanx. Shotguns roared pink-white flame, pellets spattering the junction box. More leaguers arrived, lesser-ranking Yeomen spilling from the hatch. Generals barked threats and curses, urging their men forward.
“I appreciate you coming to find me,” said Lottie.
Hooker tried to grab her arm. “Lottie, no…”
Lottie charged, making an orange blur, howling as she leapt into battle. “Magnificent,” said Paolo drily, pulling himself to his feet. “Whatever happens, make sure the girl doesn’t fall into the Archangels’ hands.”
“I told you, I made a deal.”
Paolo gripped Hooker’s arm. “This isn’t about deals or politics anymore, Hooker. It’s about something else.”
“Like what?”
“Who we are,” Paolo replied. Smiling grimly, he followed Lottie Rhys into the shield wall.
Hooker could only watch, pistol ready, body ketamine-numb. Lottie hurled herself into the leaguers, kicking a General between the legs and punching another in the throat. Men jabbed with spears, a shot-gunner scrambling to reload. Paolo jinked into the scrum, slashing with his cruel black tomahawks. A black-armoured warrior bellowed, locking his arms around Lottie’s waist, turning to the spearmen behind him. Lottie twisted, eel-like and threw her head back, smashing his nose. Breaking free, she seized a shotgun and blasted the front rank with birdshot. A spear pierced her thigh as Paolo lunged, hacking at the leaguer wielding it. A fighter grabbed Paolo’s leg in a clumsy tackle, another smashing a shield into his face. Stunned, Paolo fell to his knees. A leaguer wrenched a tomahawk from his hand, screaming in triumph. The mob bayed, weapons glittering in the torchlight.
Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy Page 22
