“Dear God, you’re amateur,” said Cooper as I glanced back at him. “Never played much poker, did you?”
He stood up then and turned to one of his soldiers.
“These two aren’t the whole story. There’s someone else coming, another attack. They’re supposed to be here by dawn, but he’s worried they won’t make it because of the snow. Spread the word to be ready.”
Cooper looked down at me contemptuously. “I used to be a copper, lad. I know all the tells.”
He turned to Ferguson. “And you, Green Arrow, what’s your story?”
Ferguson didn’t say a word, he just stared straight ahead, jaw clenched tight.
“Smart man,” said Cooper after a moment’s silence. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’re one of these Rangers I’ve been hearing reports about. I think you’ve teamed up with these school runts. Quite the little power base. My question is this: is the next attack your lot?”
Ferguson stayed silent.
Cooper clapped his hands once, as if about to sum up at the end of a staff meeting. “Right then. Lock the boy up. Take the man and start chopping bits off him until you find out everything you can about his organisation. When Kate gets back, bring her to me. Double the patrols and issue extra ammunition.”
He turned his back on us and walked away.
“I’m off to bed,” he said cheerily. “I want to be fresh for the firing squad.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CAROLINE FELT LIKE crying.
She’d spent so long fighting these bastards, trying to keep the children safe, trying to avoid ending up exactly where she was now — locked up, weaponless, powerless, cattle waiting to be shipped to the slaughter.
When the lorry had come to a halt she’d given the order for the kids to get their weapons out and be ready. They’d crouched there in the dark waiting for the back of the container to open, ready to pour out and finally take their revenge. But when the doors swung open she found herself staring down the barrels of about fifteen machine guns. She heard gasps and cries of alarm from the children ranged behind her. There was a moment of stillness during which Caroline was sure they were going to open fire, kill them all there and then. But the moment passed and one of the soldiers ordered them to get out one at a time and throw their weapons on the floor as they did so.
Caroline was at the front, so she got down first and tossed her gun on the ground. She was then frisked and sent to stand in the corner where she was covered by two guns. The children in both lorries went through the same procedure until they were all standing together, penned in, surrounded by guns.
She looked for the adults — Tariq, Wilkes, Green — but they were nowhere to be seen. They must have been taken away the second they arrived. She wondered if they’d been shot already. She tried to reassure the other children, but half of them were from St Mark’s and didn’t know who she was.
“Why should we listen to you?” sulked one boy, and she didn’t have an answer for him.
She wanted to tell them that all was not lost, that they were only half the attack and if they just held their nerve Lee, Ferguson and the kid with the limp would be coming to rescue them. But the soldiers could have overheard her, so she kept her mouth shut.
When the last of the children had been unloaded, the soldiers marched them up the stairs into the Palace of Westminster. They went down a narrow corridor lined with heavy wooden doors and were herded into a big room dominated by a series of tables arranged in a square. Each sitting had a computer screen mounted in it, so Caroline reasoned it was some kind of committee room.
When all the children had been crammed inside, one of the soldiers stepped forward to close the door.
“For you, Tommies, ze var is over!” he said as he pulled the door shut. She heard some of his colleagues laugh as the door slammed shut and the lock turned.
She turned to see her army. An hour ago they were a heavily armed bunch of feral kids ready to kill any adult they encountered. Now they were just a bunch of scared, powerless children, jostling for space in a too-small room.
Behind them, huge leaded windows reached to the ceiling. The first light of dawn broke over the buildings that ranged along the opposite bank of the river.
“UM, MILK, TWO sugars,” said Tariq. And then, instinctively, without thinking: “Thanks.”
Green flashed him an amused look. “Tariq, mate, they’re going to kill us. I don’t think we should be thanking them for putting sugar in our tea.”
Wilkes just glowered.
“Who said anything about killing you?” said the man who entered the room rubbing sleep from his eyes and yawning. He turned to the soldier who was pouring tea for the prisoners. “Bill, did you say we were going to kill them?”
The soldier shook his head. “No, Sir.”
“Thought not. Carry on. Oh, and a tiny splash of milk and one sugar for me too, while you’re at it. Ta.”
The man sat at the head of the conference table and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands through his bed hair. He looked at Green. “You’re English, right? And you, your accent is… what?”
“I am Iraqi,” said Tariq, proudly.
The man nodded. “You have a touch of Black Country in your accent, though. Learned it from squaddies, at a guess. Yes?”
Tariq nodded.
“You can call me Spider, I’m in charge here,” said the man as he reached out to take the mug of tea his subordinate was proffering. He stirred it thoughtfully. “You gentlemen would be the second pincer of the St Mark’s attack, am I right?”
The three captives sat silently.
“Yes, I am,” said Spider. “I noticed that when I said that, you gulped,” he nodded at Green, “and you glanced ever so briefly at the table,” he pointed at Wilkes. “Dead giveaways.”
He took a sip of tea. “So let me fill you in,” he said. “Your advance team botched it. One of them is floating out to sea, the other two — Lee and one of your colleagues”, he indicated Wilkes, “are in custody as we speak. My men have been torturing the Ranger but he’s stayed silent. So far. Master Keegan is languishing in a committee room, contemplating his fate. I intend to have them shot in,” he glanced out of the window at the pink light bleeding across the rooftops, “ooh, about half an hour.”
The soldier placed mugs of steaming tea in front of the three captive men.
“You three have a chance to avoid being executed,” continued Spider. “If, and only if, you answer all of my questions quickly and completely.”
Tariq folded his arms and shook his head. “No chance,” he said.
“But they’re quite simple,” replied Spider. “For example, number one: were you really responsible for the destruction of Operation Motherland and the American army at Salisbury?”
“Oh, hang on, wait a minute, I know this one,” mugged Tariq, scratching his head, scrunching his eyes up and thinking hard. Eventually he opened his eyes and beamed in triumph. “I know. The answer is: yes we fucking were! How many points do we get? I want lots of points for that one!”
Green stifled a laugh. Wilkes continued to glower.
“And you, funny man, would I be right in thinking you met Lee in Iraq?”
Tariq nodded.
“So, not a fantasist after all,” said Spider thoughtfully, sipping his tea. “Good. Next question. I understand your role in this abortion of a plan. Trojan horse, army of children. Very Lord of the Flies. But what was the role of Lee and his team? I know your attack was planned for dawn, so what were he and the Ranger going to do during the night? What trap were they planning to spring? Or were they just a diversion in case you couldn’t get in the gates?”
Tariq smiled smiling, holding Spider’s gaze, giving nothing away. He shook his head slowly.
“Sorry mate,” he said. “Don’t know that one. Ask me something about movies. I’m good with movie questions.”
“All right,” said Spider, putting down his tea. “Here’s one: you know that mome
nt in the final act of an action movie, when the wisecracking hero gets captured by the bad guy who interrogates him but, realising he’s getting nowhere, tells a lackey to kill the supporting character and then leaves the room, enabling the hero to overpower the lackey, escape, and win the day?”
Tariq’s smile faltered for a moment, and something behind his eyes changed. Then the smile returned, although it was sadder than before, knowing and resigned. He took a deep breath and nodded.
Spider put his tea down, reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a handgun, raised it casually, and shot Tariq right between the eyes.
“My question is this,” said Spider as the gun smoke drifted across the table. “Why does the bad guy never just shoot the hero himself?”
The Iraqi sat there for a moment, his eyes wide with surprise, the smile still fixed on his frozen face. Then he crumpled forward, his shattered skull hitting the table with a solid crack. Blood pooled around his head as it shook and juddered then eventually lay motionless.
Spider moved his arm slightly to the left so the gun was pointing at Green.
“I’ll ask again,” he said. “What was their role in your attack?”
Green sat transfixed, staring at his dead friend, tears pooling in his eyes.
Spider reached up and ostentatiously chambered a round.
“Diversion,” whispered Green after a moment. “They had a bag of grenades. They were going to set off some explosions at the south end of the complex when the kids came through the gates. Draw your forces away.”
Keeping the gun trained on Green, Spider turned his gaze to the soldier by the door.
“We didn’t find a bag of grenades, did we Bill?” he asked.
“No,” replied the lackey. “But the one who went out the window, he had a big kit bag with him. That was probably it.”
Spider lowered the gun and nodded satisfied. “Good,” he said. “Now if only your smartarse friend there had told me that earlier he could have enjoyed, oh, another half an hour of breathing.”
Spider stood up and walked to the door. “Put these two in the Moses Room with the boy, then assemble a firing squad on Speaker’s Green.”
“And the body, Sir?”
Spider glanced at Tariq’s corpse absent-mindedly as he walked past. “Oh, toss it in the river.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I SAT BENEATH the huge fresco of Moses bringing the tablets down from Mount Sinai, and made an accounting of all the ways in which I had fucked things up. It was a pretty impressive list. Dad was missing, Jack was dead, Ferguson and I were prisoners, and Matron had been shot. With our part of the attack prevented and Cooper expecting trouble, there was a very good chance Tariq and Caroline’s forces would be wiped out the second they arrived.
It looked like Tariq was right. I would shortly be getting everyone killed.
“Feeling sorry for yourself, Nine Lives?” Mac whispered in my ear. “Don’t be pathetic. Take your lumps. This is the third time you’ve gone strolling into enemy territory. The third time you’ve baited the bad guy in their lair. How did you think it would end? Did you really think you were invincible? Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t shoot you dead in the Member’s Lobby. He looked the type.”
I paced the room, ignoring my internal heckler, looking for a way out. But the place was buttoned up tight. There were guards outside and nothing in here I could use.
Eventually I sat down in the chairman’s seat at the head of the huge square of tables, put my feet up on the polished desk surface, and tried to sleep.
I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
“HOW THE FUCK do you sleep at a time like this?”
The voice startled me awake and I jerked in alarm, unbalancing my seat and toppling myself in a heap on the floor. That such a quality piece of slapstick didn’t elicit any laughter was my first clue that things were even worse than I realised. When I’d gathered my wits and looked up to see Green and Wilkes standing over me, I felt a knot of fear solidify in my stomach.
“Surprise,” said Wilkes dourly, pulling out a chair and sitting down wearily.
I scrambled to my feet, the implications racing through my head. All my questions died in the face of their presence as one by one the obvious answers presented themselves. In the end there was only one thing left to ask.
“Where’s Tariq?”
When Green also took a seat, not meeting my eyes, that answer also became apparent.
“How?” I ask eventually.
“Spider,” said Green.
“Short guy? Blond?”
Green nodded.
“His name’s Cooper,” I said. “Spider’s his stage name. Cooper sounds a lot more ordinary, doesn’t it? Less menacing, more suburban. Call him Cooper, robs him of some of his power, I reckon.”
“Whatever you fucking call him,” growled Wilkes through gritted teeth, “he shot your pal in cold blood less than five minutes ago.”
“I don’t think he likes you,” whispered Mac.
“Where are the kids?” I asked.
“No idea,” said Green. “They took us away before they opened the lorries. I reckon they’ve got them locked up somewhere. That’s assuming they didn’t just leave them in the lorries and drive them back to Heathrow.”
I shook my head. “Not in this snow.”
“Did you not hear me?” barked Wilkes, red in the face and suddenly furious. “Your friend is dead, Keegan. Does that not register?”
To be honest, it didn’t. I’d seen so much death, lost so many friends and comrades, Tariq’s death just added a digit to the death count. I didn’t think anybody’s death could affect me any more. Maybe even Jane’s. I knew I’d do anything to save her, but if I imagined her death it left me cold. I knew that whatever happened I’d just carry on living. I didn’t think I could be any more damaged than I already was.
“Jack’s dead too,” I said, as if it were an answer to his question. “We were caught before I even got in the window. He ended up in the river. Did you know he was the rightful King of England?”
“What?” Wilkes looked at me as if I was a madman.
“No really. King John. Honest,” I said. “He was being looked after by the military when we met him. He kept it very quiet, though. Didn’t want anyone to know. Just wanted to be one of the gang. Someone out there became the monarch earlier tonight. But whoever they are, they’ll probably never know.”
Wilkes shook his head in disbelief. “You are a bunch of fucking loonies. How the hell did we ever let ourselves get involved with you? I should kill you right now, you little shit.”
“Easy,” said Green, his voice stern with warning. The sight of this slight teenager telling the burly Ranger to behave was laughable, but such was the authority in Green’s voice that Wilkes just clenched his jaw and turned away in disgust, done with the pair of us.
“Ferguson’s alive too, in case you were wondering,” I said archly. “I think they’re torturing him at the moment, trying to get intel on your lot.”
Wilkes didn’t say a word.
“Fine, you have a good sulk,” I said. “Green and I will try and come up with a plan to get us out of here.”
Green laughed. “We’d better be quick,” he said. “They’re assembling a firing squad right now. The guy who marched us here said we’ll be dead on the last strike of eight o’clock.”
“There’s still Jane,” I pointed out.
“You saw her?” he asked.
“Yeah, she was here. She got shot by Cooper and went to a hospital to patch herself up. She knew his name, and he called her Kate.”
“Kate?”
“Hmm. It’s her real name, from before she came to work at St Mark’s. She was there under witness protection. And Cooper said he used to be a copper. I wonder.”
“You think they knew each other before The Cull?”
I nodded. “It’s possible. I didn’t get the impression she was a prisoner here. Not like you’d think, anyway. Jane’
s our ace in the hole. When she gets back, she might be able to influence Cooper somehow. I don’t know.”
“You’re clutching at straws, kid,” sneered Wilkes. “We’re dead. Simple as.”
As if to prove his point, the door to the committee room swung open and a tall soldier stood framed in the entrance.
“Up,” he barked.
We all got to our feet and shuffled towards the door.
“Get a fucking move on,” shouted the lackey.
As we walked down the long corridor between the Lords and Commons, on our way to be executed, I was surprised to find that I wasn’t nervous. I recalled the terror I felt when the Blood Hunters wrapped that noose around my neck and dropped me into space, or the fear when Blythe pulled the lever of the electric chair, or the desperation when I realised Rowles was about to blow us to dust. The urge to live, the fear of death, were strong in me then.
But now I just felt numb, empty, resigned. Maybe even a little relieved. I’d been shot before and it hadn’t started to hurt until a good few minutes afterwards. The nice thing about a firing squad is that there aren’t any minutes afterwards. I reckoned it’d be a painless death, give or take. And once it was done there’d be no more fighting. I wouldn’t have to bury any more friends. I wouldn’t have to sit Dad down and explain about Mum.
It’s not as if I was looking for an opportunity to die, but I admitted to myself that I wasn’t that upset about the prospect of it. Tariq had been wrong, I realised as I walked. I didn’t wish for death. I was simply indifferent to it.
We passed through a stone archway out into the cold dawn air. The patch of grass that sat between the walls of the Palace and the edge of Westminster Bridge was almost knee deep in drifted snow. A gaggle of armed men huddled against the wall, smoking cigarettes and gossiping quietly. They fell silent as we processed into the yard.
The man walking with us waved for us to line up against the metal fence, facing Parliament with the river at our left.
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