by Tony Batton
"We could just torch this place."
"After we're done, you two can come back here and turn the place over, just in case. For now, let's get moving."
FORTY-SIX
IT WAS DARK WHEN KATE parked outside Tom's apartment building. The street was deserted. Tom sat staring through the window. He could almost feel the hum of the streetlights above him.
"We should just go to the police," Kate said. "That would be the sensible course of action."
Tom shivered. "Things in my head? Bombs killing people? The police will think I'm mad." He paused. "Or a killer."
Jo gripped his shoulder. "These people just sent a professional to kill you. The question isn't whether the police believe you, it's whether they can protect you."
Kate rolled her eyes. "C'mon. You think they'll do anything if they know he's spoken to the police?"
"All we know," said Jo, "is that whoever is involved wants Tom dead."
"They probably think they've succeeded," said Tom, his voice weak. "I just need to stop. To think about what to do next. Let's go inside and take it from here."
Jo nodded. "And hopefully the journalist can hold off calling her editor."
Kate sighed. "Believe it or not, I'd prefer to focus on us all getting out of this unhurt."
They made their way into the building and up the stairs to the second floor. Jo unlocked the door, ushering them all inside while Tom closed it behind them, sliding the bolt into place. He frowned at the keypad on the wall. "Didn't you set the alarm when you left?"
Jo looked puzzled. "I haven't been home all day, so it must have been you."
Tom jerked his head to Kate. "We need to get out--"
"Stay where you are," said a chillingly familiar voice.
He turned and saw the woman from the party: the woman who had killed Chatsworth and left him to die. Tom knew he ought to be afraid, but something overrode it. This woman knew what was going on: she must know who was behind it. She would give him answers. Tightening his fists, his heart banging in his chest, he threw himself forward.
But Kate moved faster, stepping forwards and driving the heel of her hand towards the other woman's throat. Tom's eyes could barely follow the movement. Yet the woman simply swayed back and caught Kate's wrist, twisting it sharply, horribly. There was a loud crack and Kate screamed in pain, falling.
Tom began to run forward, but another voice called out, "Stop right there!" A large man with a shaved head appeared in the doorway to Tom's bedroom, holding a silenced pistol.
Tom edged away, dimly aware that Jo seemed to have vanished. "What do you want?"
The woman took a step towards him. "How did you get away from the bomb? You should have been unconscious for an hour."
"I don't know what to tell you. What the hell did I do to deserve all this?"
She laughed. "You were born."
Tom was about to speak again, but, with a loud shriek, Jo charged from her bedroom, a baseball bat raised over her head. Everyone looked on, stunned, as she brought the bat down towards the gunman's arm. But she was not quick enough. The man spun away, his expression intense. He raised the gun.
And fired.
Everything seemed to move slowly. The impact hit Jo in the chest and she was knocked backwards. Tom leapt to catch her, but she was heavy, lifeless. She slipped through his arms, crumpling onto the floor. There was blood. So much blood. And she didn't seem to be breathing. He needed to do something. Then he saw her glassy, staring eyes, and he knew that it was already too late.
He screamed.
"So much for doing this cleanly." The woman reached inside her jacket and produced a similar pistol. She pointed it at Tom. "Look what I have to do now."
"No!" shouted Kate.
But the woman swung her gun away from Tom, towards her colleague.
The man with the shaved head blinked. "What are you doing, Alex?"
"Giving them a killer. Someone of no consequence." And she fired. The bullet struck him between the eyes: the back of his head exploded and he fell to the ground. A terrible silence, mixed with the smell of gunshot and blood, permeated the room. The woman shook her head as she raised the gun. "I'll make this quick."
Tom stared at the barrel: at her finger on the trigger.
He wanted to stop her. He needed to stop her.
He would stop her.
And something within him connected with that anger. Something reached out. He curled his fists, digging his nails into his palms, drawing blood. Next to him Kate seemed to be shifting her balance.
He shouted, a cry of pure rage. But his voice seemed to have gone and all he managed was a hoarse gasp. In the next room there was a pop and a voice spoke, commanding and loud: "...and now it's time to take a few calls...".
Alex turned, confused. "Who else is here?"
Tom started to move, but again Kate was faster. She scooped up the baseball bat Jo had dropped and swung it at Alex's head. Alex started to react, to sway back from the blow.
But this time she wasn't fast enough. There was an ugly thunk as it connected with her temple and she fell to the ground.
FORTY-SEVEN
THE RUINS OF RICHARD ARMSTRONG'S house were immersed in darkness. Putting some form of lighting on would certainly have helped in the search, but it would also have alerted the small police team still stationed outside. Lentz stood up from where she had been scouring the remains of the kitchen and rubbed her back. For the first fifteen minutes, the smell of charred wood and melted plastic had made her want to gag, but she'd worked on regardless. Yet, despite her diligence, it all looked like a huge waste of time.
Had Armstrong hidden the data in a secret fire-proof safe? He'd always been so thorough, so careful, she couldn't believe he wouldn't have tried something of the sort. But if he'd been too careful she might never find it. And if she were to take steps to thwart CERUS, she needed a weapon: her weapon of choice was always information.
So where could it be? It had to be hidden but accessible, because he'd probably have updated it regularly. But she'd already exhausted everywhere obvious that hadn't burned down. What if Marron and his team had removed it already?
Her phone vibrated.
Lentz held her breath. One of the two motion sensors she'd placed on the damaged external doors had been triggered.
Someone else was here. One of the police? Had she been seen, despite her precautions? Would she be able to talk her way out of this?
"I see you there," said a voice with a clipped accent. "The police have this building surrounded. But then you probably saw as much when you snuck in."
She held her breath.
"I can see you. You're in the remains of the kitchen. Now do you want to tell me who you are and what's going on, or shall I come and get you?"
Lentz sighed. She would have to respond. "Who are you?"
A man appeared in the doorway. "Officer Croft, CID. And you?"
"Daniella Lawrence, journalist."
"For which paper?"
"I'm freelance."
"Do you have some ID?"
"Do you?"
He smiled and held up a warrant card in one hand, shining a torch on it with the other.
"Very convincing. I have a similar one that I bought on Amazon."
He gave a snort. "Now yours, please."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a dog-eared plastic card, throwing it across to him.
He caught it and frowned. "So what are you really doing in here, Ms Lawrence? Because it looks like you're interfering with a crime scene."
"Actually I've been interfering with it for some time so I'm curious about why you only just came in. I think you were watching to see what I would do."
"You're not really a journalist."
Lentz smiled. "And you're not really a police officer because to see me in the dark you must have had some kind of thermal imaging camera. Why would you have one, and why would you be pointing it at a burned out house?"
"Fair point." He rea
ched into his pocket and pulled out a gun. "Shall we start again?"
"Do you work for Marron?"
He frowned. "Peter Marron? Why would you think that?" He pulled out a badge and turned it towards her.
She squinted. "So your name is Croft. Security service. Huh."
"Your turn."
She sighed. "Look at my ID card again. It tells you all you need to know if you look closely."
He held up the small piece of white plastic in his left hand. "And what am I looking for?"
Lentz reached into her pocket and touched a button on a mini controller. Then she closed her eyes tight.
The surface of the card pulsed impossibly bright. Croft shrieked and, as Lentz re-opened her eyes, she saw him stagger backwards.
Then something unexpected happened. Croft dropped to the floor and fell silent.
In his place stood an older man with thin grey hair and an intense expression. Someone she'd hoped never to see again.
Peter Marron.
In his right hand was a cosh. He glanced at Croft then stepped over him and smiled.
FORTY-EIGHT
LENTZ WATCHED AS MARRON PULLED a gun from his pocket. Had he come alone?
"I'm not sure what you're doing here," he said, "but I'm going to need you to explain." He raised the gun and pointed it at her chest. "Who are you?"
She cleared her throat. "I'm a journalist, please--"
He cut her off with a laugh. "Yes, and I'm an astronaut. You just disabled this man with some type of flash-bang grenade, so stop wasting my time. Why were you at CERUS Tower earlier?"
Lentz froze. It wasn't just coincidence that Marron was here then. "I'm researching a story."
Suddenly his eyes narrowed and his smile vanished. "Ah... Now I know who you are."
"I don't think--"
He shook his head. "Despite your attempts to hide it, you clearly know me. You know to be afraid of me."
"You do have a gun."
He shrugged. "You can change your face, your hair, but your voice is the same." He took a step forwards. "So tell me, Dominique, how are you still alive?"
Lentz glared at him for several seconds before replying: "Because whoever tried to have me killed sent a rather pliable hitman." She paused. "I always assumed it was Bern."
Marron blinked. "William has always been the one with the grand vision. He relies on me to take care of the details."
"Did he know?" she growled.
"How does the cliché go? I'll be the one asking the questions. What information did Armstrong give you to get you back here?"
"You don't want to hurt me," she said. "You'll just bring the police stationed outside down on you if I scream."
"Possible, but I have a heavily-armed team outside. If we have to, we'll take them all out. Do you want their deaths on your conscience?"
She sighed. "My conscience has always been somewhat complex."
"Mine too. But let's get over the notion that you have a choice in complying." He pulled a capped syringe from his pocket.
Her eyes flickered.
He smiled. "This is one of the simpler programmes we've developed for our nanites, but one of the most useful. I can't think of anyone more appropriate to use it on. I like to think of it as truth nano."
Lentz smiled and lunged at him.
He fired without hesitation, the subsonic squeal of the silencer bouncing off the walls. The bullet struck her in the chest and she fell backwards.
Marron gave a grunt and walked forwards, poking her with his toe. As he did, she rolled and grabbed his leg, lifting it sharply upwards, throwing his balance. As his arms wheeled, she plucked the gun from his hand then shoved him back across the room. Before he could recover, she had the weapon aimed at his face.
"Body armour," she said, tapping her chest. "Ultra-light. And twenty-five years of martial arts training. I figured it would come in handy one day."
"I'll bear that in mind next time," he ground out.
She aimed the gun at his face. "I could just kill you now."
He blinked. "Go on then."
She glared at him, then punched him on the nose with a tightly curled fist. "If you follow me, I will shoot you."
Lentz kept low as she crept out of the door, moving to the cover of the trees next to Armstrong's garden pond. She had been sloppy and it had nearly cost her everything. She didn't even know how Marron had managed to track her down. She held her breath, watching the back door of the house. Marron would surely be calling his support team already, but the police meant they would have to act carefully.
Creeping forwards a few more steps, she nearly fell over two faded garden gnomes fishing in the pond. She rolled her eyes, moving around them. And then it struck her. Armstrong had always talked about spending time in his garden. For a techie, he loved to get his hands dirty, and part of that was the time he spent painting his prized gnome collection. He had said they were real collectors' pieces that most people ignored or laughed at.
Away from the house, hidden in plain sight. Could it be?
She picked up the nearest gnome and hefted it in her hand. It felt heavy and a tap suggested it was solid. She tried the other.
Also solid.
With a sigh she put it back, standing it carefully next to the first. They looked so sad, chipped and worn. Perhaps they got hit by the explosion. Her eyes roamed the pond. Something was sticking out of the water. She reached down and drew a third gnome out from under a clump of pondweed. It felt much heavier, water pouring out of it, the weight rapidly diminishing.
It was hollow.
She put down the gun and ran her fingers over the gnome's surface. No obvious hidden compartment. Was there a gap at the neck? She twisted the head gently and it lifted off. Inside was a small compartment containing a high-capacity solid-state drive.
From the house she heard footsteps. Marron's support team must have arrived.
Time to move.
◇ ◇ ◇
Marron waited in the kitchen, wiping blood from his nose and glaring at the back door. He was joined by one of his men, who entered through the front.
"You took your time," Marron said.
"Sir, there's been a development with Alex. She was captured at Faraday's apartment. The police are attending."
"We can't let them interrogate her." He raised his eyebrows. "You know what to do."
FORTY-NINE
IT TOOK LESS THAN TEN minutes for the armed response team to arrive at Tom's apartment block, just as the sun was starting to rise. Shortly after that there were dozens of plain-clothes and uniformed officers swarming through the building, putting up cordons, trailing police tape as they went.
But Tom didn't care. The inspector in charge quickly moved them downstairs and took initial statements. A growing crowd of onlookers watched from across the street. Two officers secured a groggy-looking Alex inside a prisoner-transport vehicle. She locked eyes with Tom and gave him an unreadable stare before the door was closed on her. Tom turned away, watching as two body bags were carried out of the building. One of those bags contained his friend.
A policewoman tapped him on the shoulder. "You're going to be at the station for a while. Is there anyone you want us to call for you? Your partner? A relative or friend?"
Tom stared at where they were loading the body bags into an ambulance. He shook his head.
"This way then, Sir."
Tom and Kate were guided to sit in the back of a police car. "Where are we going?" he asked.
"Charing Cross Police Station," the policewoman said, as she climbed in the front. "Say, how did you manage to overpower that woman if she had a gun?"
"The television turned itself on in the other room. Don't know why. It distracted her for long enough..." He took a long breath. "Where are you taking her?"
"Same place as you."
"I get the feeling the people she works for will try to get her back."
"I can assure you there's no chance of that."
His br
ows furrowed. "Well, officer, that's probably because you have no idea what you're talking about."
The woman blinked, then turned back to face front and the car eased away, following the prisoner transport.
Tom leaned back in his seat. Kate reached over and squeezed his hand, wincing as she did so.
"How's your arm?" he asked.
Kate looked down at the sling she was wearing. "They checked me over. It's not broken, just bruised. I said no to pain relief. I get hit worse in most karate classes."
"You saved both our lives."
"I'm just sorry that I couldn't..." She trailed off, her eyes glistening.
Tom closed his eyes and tried to shut out the world. In the space of a few days everything had changed. None of this should have happened. If he hadn't accepted the job, he wouldn't have been at the party, wouldn't have been in hospital. He would be just fine. And Jo would still be alive.
His eyes jerked open and he found he was breathing hard and fast.
"What's the matter?" Kate asked. "Are you sick?"
Tom looked around. They'd just pulled up near a set of traffic lights, behind the prisoner transport, which was blocked from proceeding by a van that had pulled out from a side road. "Something feels wrong." He narrowed his eyes. "Are these lights taking a long time to change?"
"Perhaps a little--" began Kate.
The doors of the van burst open and six men carrying automatic rifles emerged. Pedestrians nearby started screaming and running away.
"Assistance required!" the policewoman shouted into her radio. "Armed units respond."
The men moved to the prisoner transport. Two were carrying a heavy ram and they swung it at the back door. It dented but did not break. From the police car behind Tom's, two armed officers emerged and shouted a warning. They were answered by rifle fire and ducked for cover.
"Get down on the floor!" shouted the policewoman from the front of their car.
