9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev

by Unknown

  Peter sensed the attempted probe and slammed the door to his mind closed, but not before he’d caught the briefest of glimpses of the invading intelligence.

  “That was a mistake,” he murmured.

  “What’s that?” said Tom sharply.

  “The pilot of the chopper just tried to enter my mind. I kept him out easily enough, but he inadvertently revealed himself, and his companion, to me. His name is Bishop and he hates me—all of us—with a rare passion. He won’t stop coming until we’re dead.”

  “We?”

  Peter nodded. “I told you it would be dangerous coming with me. But he’s also furious that he can’t get to us. And furious people often make mistakes.”

  “Can he invade our minds? Mine and Ceri’s?”

  “I think he’s tried, but the protection I gave you against the Commune will last for many weeks yet. He won’t stand a chance of getting past the barrier. Not on his own.”

  “You said ‘companion’. Are there only two of them?”

  “Yes. The other one’s a woman. Bishop doesn’t fully trust her. Seems she doesn’t share his hatred.”

  If Tom was about to say something further, he was interrupted by a sound from the back seat. A low, rolling noise, like a distant idling motorbike.

  Peter glanced in the rearview mirror to see Ceri shrinking back against the door.

  “Tom? Peter?” Her voice was small, timid. Scared. “Why is Dusty growling at me?”

  As a black shape rose into view in the mirror, Peter slammed on the brakes. The Range Rover slewed a little to one side, but its speed had been pedestrian and the tyres found traction, bringing it to a halt.

  “Damn,” said Peter, twisting round in his seat. Dusty had stepped from his basket and approached Ceri, his hackles raised and the low growl turning into a snarl.

  “What the–?” said Tom, also turning in his seat.

  Ceri said nothing, but hunched her shoulders and brought her hands up to protect her face from the imminent attack.

  Dusty lunged. Ceri screamed.

  * * * * *

  Bishop recoiled and his head thumped against the back of the seat. He glanced at Diane, who was watching him with concern, though whether he was the object of that concern he wasn’t so sure.

  “Damn! Damn! Damn!” he muttered.

  “What happened?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you try to probe Ronstadt?”

  “He kept me out. I couldn’t get anywhere near the drones.”

  “But you might have given us away!”

  Bishop felt his mouth turn down into a sneer of contempt and didn’t try to hide it. “Given us away? They know we’re here, darling.” He snorted. “There was a mind I could enter. They have a dog.”

  “And?”

  “It almost worked, but Ronstadt drove me back out before I could inflict any real damage. Gave the female drone a fright, though.”

  Diane looked away. Then she shouted.

  “They’ve stopped!”

  Bishop looked out of his side window, down at the lane. Sure enough, the vehicle had halted, skewed a little to one side.

  “Now’s our chance.”

  He yanked on the joystick, making the machine turn sharply and Diane scream.

  * * * * *

  The dog’s lips were drawn back, exposing its teeth; teeth that looked long and sharp to Ceri in her heightened state of awareness. Wolf’s teeth.

  As Dusty lunged at her, Ceri shrieked and felt her bladder let go in a hot rush. Something hard struck her hands where they covered her face. Too late, she tried to bring her knees up to her chest, but the animal was in the way.

  But it was no longer growling. It was . . . whining? And she could feel something warm and wet against her hands. She slowly lowered them. Dusty licked her face instead. She tentatively pushed him away and the animal shuffled backwards, its tail lowered, still whining.

  “Are you all right?” It was Peter, peering at her with such a look of concern that she almost laughed.

  “Um . . . yes. I’m fine. What just happened?”

  Tom had unbuckled his seat belt and was kneeling on the passenger seat so he could stroke the dog. Dusty licked his hands.

  “He’s trembling like a leaf,” said Tom.

  “It wasn’t Dusty’s fault,” said Peter. “Bishop entered his mind and made him attack you, Ceri. I should have anticipated that. I’m sorry.”

  “You made him stop?” Ceri realised that she, too, was trembling.

  Peter nodded. “He’s further away. My closer proximity trumped him. I’ve given Dusty protection. It’s not as strong as yours, but it’s enough to stop that happening again.”

  “All the same,” said Ceri, “I’d like to swap places with Tom.” She looked at Tom, who nodded.

  “No problem. I want to calm him down.”

  Tom squeezed himself through the gap between the front seats and helped Ceri to squeeze into the front.

  “Mind where you’re putting your hands,” she said, unable to keep a note of shame from her voice. “I had a little, er, accident.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Tom. “Once we’ve shaken them off, we’ll stop so you can change.”

  “Speaking of which. . . .” said Peter, turning round to peer through the windscreen. “Ah, shit!”

  Ceri followed his gaze. The helicopter was lower, only just above the tops of the trees, and headed straight for them. The pylons to the other side prevented it from coming down the middle of the lane, but it was being flown as though the pilot didn’t much care if the rotors hit wood or metal so long as it also hit the Range Rover.

  “Fasten your seat belts!” yelled Peter, slamming the vehicle into second gear and gunning the accelerator.

  For a second, the wheels spun, throwing up snow, but then gripped and Ceri was pressed back against the passenger seat. She fumbled for the belt and managed to do it up as the Range Rover shot forward.

  The engine whined as Peter fought the steering wheel to control a slide. A drystone wall abruptly loomed in her vision, looking sturdy and way too close.

  It disappeared as Peter corrected the slide and the Range Rover surged forwards again.

  Ceri peered through the windscreen. The helicopter hadn’t come any lower, couldn’t because of the trees, but it was still making directly for them. As they drew nearer, the front end dipped slightly; the top branches of the trees swayed under the turbulence. Ceri was certain that the pilot was going to fly it into the Range Rover and closed her eyes.

  “Shit! That was close!” Tom’s voice sounded high-pitched behind her.

  She opened her eyes. The helicopter had gone. She craned her head back to look out of the rear windscreen, past Tom’s wide-eyed, pale face.

  The helicopter looked like some giant yellow bug as it skimmed the trees before lurching upwards again just as it seemed its rotors must snarl in the branches.

  * * * * *

  Diane’s fingers felt tingly, she had gripped her shoulder straps so tightly.

  As the Sea King rose sluggishly, she turned on Bishop. He gripped the joystick in a white-knuckled grasp; his jaw was set firmly and he looked as though he was willing the machine to gain height.

  “You freaking nutjob!” she yelled. “You almost killed us!”

  “Shut up.” Bishop’s voice was low. She almost couldn’t hear him above the clatter of the straining engines. He didn’t look at her.

  The helicopter had risen higher than the pylons and Bishop levelled it off. Immediately, he started to bring it back round to pursue Ronstadt.

  Diane’s inner thighs ached and she felt something hard clutched between her knees. She had forgotten about the pistol. With a shaking hand, she grabbed it and turned it on Bishop.

  “Back off!” she said. “Bishop, goddamn it, back off! I’ll use this.”

  Now he did look at her, his lips curled into a snarl. His left hand shot out and knocked the pistol from her grasp. In the same movement, it rose and struck her nose with the knuckle
s.

  Pain flared hot and white.

  Diane brought her hand to her face and felt the warm flow of blood. Hot, stinging tears flowed from her eyes to mix with it.

  “Bastard!” she muttered.

  Bishop had returned both his hands to the controls and his attention to the vehicle. Having completed the chopper’s turn, the bronze roof was visible below and directly in front of them once more.

  “A bit of advice, darling,” said Bishop. “Never tell me what to do again.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Bishop laughed. “In your dreams, darling. In your dreams.”

  The shooting pain in her nose slackened to a dull throbbing ache. She tentatively explored it with her fingers and winced as she felt something jiggle that she was sure hadn’t moved before.

  Bishop gave a low whistle. “They’re approaching a bend.”

  She looked down. It was true. The lane turned sharply to the left about fifty yards ahead of the vehicle. The electricity pylons continued in a straight line, marching across fields towards a distant town. The line of trees the left side of the lane continued, following the bend, but only the wall separated the lane from the fields on the other side.

  “They’re going too fast,” Diane murmured.

  “Yes,” agreed Bishop. “They are.”

  Bishop turned the Sea King a little to the left, choosing a course that would take it ahead of Ronstadt, over the trees towards the open fields beyond the bend.

  Diane held her breath as she watched the vehicle’s brake lights flare. Too late. It spun in a half circle and slammed into the snow piled in front of the wall, the driver’s side of the vehicle taking the force of the impact. The wall toppled, dislodging puffs of snow, and the vehicle came to a halt.

  “Whoo-hoo!” Bishop thumped the roof of the cabin with his left fist. “Got ’em.” He thumped the roof again. And again.

  In one swift movement that might have surprised Bishop had he been watching her, Diane unbuckled her shoulder straps and leaned into the gap left by Bishop’s raised arm. With all her force, she brought her right elbow crashing down into his groin.

  Uttering a high-pitched shriek, his face clenched in agony, Bishop brought both hands to clutch at his groin. Diane swayed sharply out of his reach.

  The helicopter spun out of control towards the trees.

  * * * * *

  If he passed out, it was only for a matter of seconds. Tom became aware of two things: a dull ache in his right shoulder and a wet tongue licking his face.

  “Dusty? You okay? Good dog.” He reached forward to ruffle the dog’s ears and drew in his breath at the pain in his shoulder. He glanced to the front.

  Peter was shaking his head as if to clear it. Ceri was glancing desperately from one man to the other.

  “Thank God you’re all right,” she said. “Yes? Tom?”

  “I think so. Done something to my shoulder, but otherwise seem to be in one piece.”

  “Peter?”

  “Hng. . . .” muttered Peter and for one horrible moment, Tom had a wild idea that Peter’s brain had been knocked out by the impact. “Bashed my head a little, but I’ll be okay.”

  The Range Rover had stalled in the crash, but the world was not as silent as it should have been. A high-pitched, straining scream enveloped them.

  “Quick,” said Ceri. “We need to get out. We’re sitting ducks.”

  She opened the passenger door and icy air came in, waking Tom fully. He felt behind him with his non-injured arm and tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. He half-turned and realised why. Immediately the other side of his window lay a mound of compacted snow and a leaning stone wall. They would all have to get out Ceri’s side of the car.

  He sidled across the rear seat, shooing Dusty out of the way. The dog’s basket had ended up on one end on the back seat. Tom flipped it into the rear compartment and opened the door. The scream of the helicopter sounded very near and Tom felt a strong urge to duck. He glanced wildly around.

  Ceri had also got out and was crouching, staring behind Tom with a look of abject terror on her face. Tom turned to follow her gaze, also dropping instinctively into a crouch.

  A life-jacket yellow, screaming helicopter came hurtling over their heads. As it passed, the engines cut out and it completed the short remainder of its journey in an eerie, near-silence, only broken by the faint whirr of its still-rotating blades.

  In the field beyond the wall, in the corner formed by the sharp left turn of the lane, a bunch of trees had gathered together to form a small copse. The leafless branches snapped and splintered as the stricken Sea King plummeted into them. It came to rest about twenty feet above the ground, lurching at a steep angle head first towards the ground like a gigantic sick canary. The trees creaked and complained but bore their burden.

  Tom let out his breath in a rush and turned to Ceri. She looked back at him wild-eyed. They both turned at a sound from the front of the Range Rover and they stood, hurrying forward to help Peter from the vehicle.

  He looked groggy and a lump was rising on the side of his head like half a coconut, but he shook off their concern.

  “Really, I’m fine,” he said. “It’ll take more than a bump to the head to keep me down.”

  Together, they turned towards the helicopter and, together, froze.

  The side window of the helicopter that faced towards them had been slid open. The head and arms of a man poked out, but not far as though he was constrained somehow. Tom did not wonder twice about that. He was more concerned with what the man was holding in his hands.

  A short, mean-looking gun, with a long hand grip and a large magazine. Some sort of machine gun. The man pointed it directly at them and his mouth split into a wide grin. Even from the distance of thirty or so yards that separated them, Tom could clearly see the man’s finger move as he pressed the trigger.

  * * * * *

  Without the shoulder straps hugging her to the seat, Diane was thrown about and buffeted during the helicopter’s crazed fall from the sky. She ended up in the footwell, which probably saved her from serious injury when the descent ended in the trees.

  A little shakily, dazed and bruised, she rose to her feet once her world had grown still. An acrid smell hit her nostrils: some sort of gasoline. She clutched the back of the seat to avoid falling into the windscreen due to the sharp angle at which the Sea King had come to rest. She looked at Bishop.

  Apart from a cut to his head, which he didn’t seem to be aware of, Bishop appeared unhurt. He had opened the window by his side and was leaning out as far as his shoulder straps allowed him. Diane leaned back a little to see what he was doing. With a start, she saw that he had somehow retrieved the Uzi and was pointing it at the small group of people that stood outside the bronze vehicle a little way off.

  Still gripping the seat, Diane crouched and felt around for the pistol. Instead, her hands closed around the bag. She stood and threw the bag onto the seat.

  Inside, amongst the jumble of spare magazines and clips, she found a small knife. She took it and squeezed around her seat, wanting to be near the rear door behind Bishop. As she heard an empty click and Bishop started to curse, she slid the door open and glanced down. Through splintered branches, she could see the snowy ground, perhaps twenty feet below her.

  “Where are you, you bitch?”

  Diane turned back to Bishop and stepped to the far side of the drunken craft to stay out of his reach. She moved within his sight. He was fumbling with one hand at the clasp of his shoulder straps, but it was clearly refusing to release. In the other hand, he still clutched the Uzi.

  As she moved into his line of sight, Bishop flung the machine gun at her. She ducked and it clattered to the floor.

  “You did something to it, didn’t you?” he spat. Using both hands, he now scrabbled desperately at the clasp. The smell of aviation fuel had grown stronger.

  “Well,” Diane said, “I told you I didn’t know anything about machine guns and Uzis in par
ticular. That might have been a teensy white lie. You see, I know enough about them to know what parts to remove to prevent them from firing.”

  “You’re dead,” Bishop said.

  “Blame yourself, darling,” said Diane. “After all, you would leave me in charge of the weapons while you went off to stuff your face.”

  “Dead. Dead. Dead,” said Bishop. It sounded like a mantra.

  “You have to free yourself from those straps first,” said Diane. “Someone snapped them on too violently, methinks.” She held up the knife for Bishop to see.

  Bishop stopped struggling and a sly look came over his face. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s the deal. You cut me free and I won’t kill you. I won’t even mess you up. And, man, if you know how much I want to slice you into little bits. . . .”

  “You’re not very good at making deals, are you?” said Diane. “But. . . .” She shrugged and stepped towards him.

  Bishop’s eyes lit up and a smug sneer appeared on his lips.

  Diane stopped just beyond his reach. She opened her fingers and let the knife fall to the floor.

  In your dreams, darling. In your dreams she sent.

  She turned and stepped to the open door. As she arrived at the opening, the leaking aviation fuel, dripping onto hot engine casing from a tank pierced by a snapped tree branch, reached its flash point. The fuel tanks, a quarter full, exploded with a dull Hump!

  Diane was flung through the doorway and into the next tree. The last thing she heard before her world went black was the sound of Bishop screaming.

  * * * * *

  In the penthouse suite of the hotel a mile or so outside Heathrow Airport, Milandra stopped talking in mid sentence and clutched at her blouse. As Grant rushed to her side, she gave a short sigh.

  “It’s Troy Bishop,” she said. “Dead.”

  She allowed the man’s memories and experiences to flow through her. Some of them made her shudder. At one point, she cried out.

  Grant knelt by her side and grasped her hand, offering such support as he could. When it was over, she sighed again, heavier this time, and patted his hand with her other one.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That wasn’t pleasant.”