by Matt Stark
He heard a voice. No, two voices, one male and one female – arguing. But they were muffled and he couldn’t make out they were saying. This wasn’t good. He needed Glaser to be calm, so he wouldn’t start shooting hostages or blow himself up. He pressed his ear hard against the door trying to hear but it was no good.
He turned away from the door and began to move back down the corridor toward the staircase. He had to call Peter now before anything kicked off in that room, and people started getting hurt.
Bang.
Chapter 19
8.30 a.m. Sunday 1st February; 10 Downing Street
Sam ran back to the door. It would have been pretty stupid for Glaser shoot the PM if he wanted Peter to co-operate. But people behaved stupidly in stressful situations, so Sam had to assume the worst. The PM might be bleeding out right now. He paused at the door for a moment, heart suddenly racing. He’d be running blind into an unknown number of armed and pissed-off terrorists, but the time for covert action was gone. Before he could overthink the situation Sam fired into the door’s lock and kicked the door open. Then, holding his pistol in front of him, he moved into the room looking for a target, but instead found bright light. He cursed and squinted, trying to shade his eyes with one hand, pointing his pistol forward with the other.
“Drop it,” said a gravelly voice from behind the glare.
Sam squinted trying to reduce the light flooding his retinas, but it didn’t help. Whatever they were shining at him was too powerful.
“Drop the fucking gun, now.”
The voice was husky as hell. Its owner must have been a forty-a-day man. Sam narrowed his eyes to slits, trying to see where the hostages were, and who’d been shot, but couldn’t see a thing. He was still light-blinded.
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
Sam didn’t want to be separated from his weapon, but had no choice. He let go of his Glock, and it hit the floor with a dull thud, leaving him feeling naked.
“Jean, get his gun.”
So far he’d only heard two voices – two threats and potentially two guns pointed at him. But he was still blind. There could be half a dozen bad guys in the room. And he couldn’t see the hostages or the PM, so didn’t know who was hurt. He was in the shit. So much for going it alone. All he could do was keep his eyes and ears open. He needed more information before he tried anything.
He heard a click and the bright light was gone. At least that was good news. He blinked as his eyes started to adjust to the lower light, and Craig Glaser, the leader of the post-human terror group, slowly came into focus. He was standing in the centre of the room, in front of a highly polished mahogany desk. Behind that was a tall window with the blinds drawn, blocking out most of the early morning sun. To Glaser’s right stood a stunningly attractive woman in her late twenties. She was pointing a Glock at Sam, her finger on the trigger. Her other hand held some kind of heavy-duty flashlight. Huddled up against the wall to the woman’s right were five women dressed in trouser suits. And at Glaser’s feet knelt John Buller, Prime Minister of Great Britain, Glaser’s 9mm Glock pressed into his temple. He’d been gagged with what looked like a torn-off strip of shirt. His face was grey, and his left eye was swollen, and there was a gash on his temple – but no sign of a gunshot wound.
“Sam?” said Glaser in a sandpaper growl, taking a step forward, and letting his Glock slip from the PM’s head.
Sam’s eyes ran over the hostages. They were all lined up against the wall, huddled together. They looked like admin staff, not politicians. A woman in her sixties with a pink perm was being comforted by a much younger blond girl. Next to them three middle-aged women in trouser suits sat watching Craig and Sam with saucer eyes, as if they couldn’t really believe what was happening. Sam didn’t blame them. They were all shit scared, and in psychological shock, but none of them had a gunshot wound. And that didn’t make sense. He’d heard a shot – for sure. If the bullet hadn’t hit one of the hostages then where was it? There was another problem. If the shot had been heard outside, through the triple-glazed windows, Peter was very likely to ditch his sniper plan, and send in Special Forces. They could be on their way in right now – which would be a disaster. However quick their entry Glaser or Jean would have time to start shooting, and the PM or the hostages would likely end up dead.
Glaser took another step – leaning forward and squinting at Sam like he was an exotic bird.
“Sam Barrick?”
“Craig, be careful,” said Jean.
“Sam?” repeated Glaser, ignoring her.
He was almost on Sam now. He had wild hair, a caveman beard and fierce eyes – a face you wouldn’t forget in a hurry, but no lights were going on in Sam’s mind. He could have been a complete stranger. Sam clenched his jaw. He should be talking, trying to capitalize on the relationship he and Glaser were supposed to have, but he seemed to have lost the ability to speak, as if Glaser had some kind of hold over him.
“Sam, is it you?”
Sam shook his head. Every time Glaser spoke he felt like a door in his mind that had been tightly shut for a very long time was straining to open. Just like with Deep Throat. He knew what was behind that door was important, but part of him was afraid to let it open.
“You’re dead,” said Glaser, in a voice so quiet he seemed to be talking to himself.
Sam frowned. What was wrong with him? He was here to save the PM and the hostages. He should be establishing a rapport with Glaser, persuading him to release at least one, but instead he’d frozen. It was as if his mind had turned to treacle.
Jean took a step closer to Glaser, keeping her Glock on Sam.
“Craig. What are you doing?” She seemed less fazed by Sam’s appearance than Glaser was.
Glaser didn’t seem to hear her. His fierce eyes were fixed on Sam, his jaw slack.
“I saw you die in Budapest,” he said, jabbing his gun at Sam with each word.
When Glaser said Budapest the door that had been straining to open in Sam’s mind did. And a torrent of images flooded his consciousness. It felt like the complete works of Shakespeare, War and Peace and every volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica were being downloaded into his brain. His legs buckled and he fell to his knees, clamping his hands either side of his head. Gradually the blur of images slowed, and a mental movie started playing.
He was with Glaser in a crowded, smoke-filled London pub. Pints of brown beer and packets of crisps sat on the table. Glaser, who looked and sounded much younger without the caveman beard and the Marlboro voice, was talking to Sam as if he were the only person in the room. He said they’d been watching Sam for years. He was exactly the kind of person the intelligence service needed. They could offer him a challenge, a life different to the humdrum existence 99% of people had. It was a chance to make a difference. Sam watched himself nodding and smiling, knowing it was what he’d always wanted.
The scene faded and more memories flooded his mind. He saw Craig and him risk their lives on missions all over the world. In London, Moscow, Beijing. Jean was there. She worked for the Intelligence Service too. The images came so fast Sam felt his head would explode. Then suddenly the torrent stopped, and Sam’s mind was blank except for one thought.
Craig and he were friends. No, they were family. Brothers, who’d die for each other. So what the fuck had happened to him? Craig hadn’t been in MI5 for the glamour, or the thrill. He was a democrat who loved his country. He really believed it was his duty to protect democracy. Even if that had faded over the years, he wouldn’t support a violent revolution, let alone lead it.
Sam’s awareness slowly came back to his body. He was still kneeling on the carpet with his eyes closed. Before he could work out what to do next the blinds clattered in a gust of wind. And when he snapped his eyes open Craig’s sweat-streaked, crazed face was staring at him with his mad dog eyes, his head tilted to one side, and the Glock loosely in his hand, like he’d forgotten it was there.
Craig was the first to break the si
lence.
“I saw a dozen bullets hit you.”
Sam searched his mind. When Craig said Budapest he’d remembered so much, but ironically nothing about what happened in that city.
“I don’t remember.”
Craig’s brow furrowed. It made him look even madder.
“Do you remember where you’ve been the last ten years?”
Sam blinked at Craig. He was confused. He’d expected to find a terrorist, but instead found a brother. He looked into Craig’s crazy eyes. Could he still treat this man as an enemy combatant? He had trusted him implicitly. But he’d also just seen him holding a gun to the PM’s head. After seeing that, he couldn’t trust Craig again, not yet. But his job was to get the hostages out alive. And establishing a rapport with the hostage-taker was the first step.
“In a Chinese prison,” he said.
“And now you’re here – why?”
“To stop you making the biggest mistake of your life, Craig.”
Using the hostage-taker’s first name was on page one of the negotiator’s handbook. Anyway it felt right.
“Peter sent you?”
“Who else?”
“Why are you working for that bastard?”
“Why are you working against him… and your country?”
Craig gave him the Are you mad? look again.
Sam wished he knew what Craig was thinking, but his ability was firmly switched off. Right now he was about as telepathic as a lamppost. And that really hurt, because if anyone knew what had made the post-humans want to terrorize the country, it was Craig. Serina said: Our people have suffered. You must save them. Peter said she was a fanatic, but then he’d lied before, hadn’t he? Sam couldn’t get Serina’s words out of his mind. Our people. That must be the post-humans. But how had they suffered? As far as Sam could see only the norms were being blown to pieces by Craig’s bombs. Sure, a few post-humans were locked up, but he didn’t think that was the kind of suffering Serina was talking about.
Craig opened his mouth to speak but before he did, Pink Perm groaned loudly. She pushed her leg out as she did, revealing a small but growing pool of blood under her left thigh. At least Sam knew where that bullet had ended up. His priority now was to get her treated before she bled out. The bleeding was too slow to be arterial, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t kill her.
He pushed himself up off his knees. Craig raised his gun.
“Stay where you are.”
The injured woman groaned, more weakly now.
Sam cursed. “She’s bleeding out.”
“And why exactly is that a problem, Sam?”
“You’re not a killer, Craig.”
Craig’s jaw dropped. He glanced at Jean and back at Sam. It was at least five seconds before he spoke.
“I’m not what?”
The pool of blood under Pink Perm’s leg was growing. She was conscious but only just. She couldn’t have much time left. He had to convince Craig to get her help.
“You’re not a killer, Craig.”
Craig looked up to the ceiling for a moment then back at Sam, his head tilted to one side. He spoke in a whisper.
“We’re all killers, Sam. Don’t you remember?”
“I mean you’re not a murderer. You wouldn’t shoot people in cold blood.”
Craig frowned at Sam like he was an alien. He seemed to be deciding between rage and incredulity.
Sam had the unsettling feeling that everyone knew more than he did. But he pushed doggedly on.
“I know you wouldn’t kill a man for no reason.”
Craig snarled, and took a step forward, jabbing the gun at Sam’s chest.
“For no reason?”
Sam was taken aback by the hate in Craig’s words. What was he missing?
“Craig, leave it,” said Jean, coming up behind him and putting a hand on his shoulder.
Craig pushed her away.
“How can you forgive them, Sam? You know what the norms did.”
There it was again, norms. Sam had never heard such a simple word used with such venom. What had happened to fill Craig with so much hate? Sam desperately wanted to know, but if he didn’t do something soon Pink Perm would die. Come on, Sam, remember why you’re here.
“I’m pretty sure she had nothing to do with it,” he said, gesturing at the woman.
Craig snarled. “They’re all guilty.”
What the fuck happened to make Craig like this? thought Sam.
But he didn’t have time to go into it now. Craig wanted the post-humans released. That was Sam’s leverage.
“If you want Peter to co-operate you need to keep the hostages alive, Craig.”
Craig stared at Sam for a long moment. His mouth hung open. One hand held the gun – the other clenched and unclenched. Then he shook his head.
“You don’t remember anything, do you?”
Sam blinked. An innocent woman was bleeding to death a few feet away from him, but his eyes were glued to Craig. All his attention should have been focused on saving her, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Remember what?”
Craig leaned forward until his face was almost touching Sam’s. His expression was a mixture of hate and disbelief.
“What they did to us.”
This was it. The truth. Sam held his breath. But Craig’s answer was interrupted by another groan and a heavy thud.
Chapter 23
Pink Perm was lying flat on the floor, her eyes shut and her chest heaving like she was running up Mount Snowdon. Sam knew her heart would be beating like a steam train, trying to get enough oxygen to her brain. But she’d lost so much blood, her blood pressure had dropped to her boots, and her body had responded by passing out. That way she would get enough blood to her brain to keep her alive, but not for long. The blond girl bent over her colleague, then looked up at Jean, her cheeks flushed and eyes wide.
“She’s going to die. Please, you’ve got to help her.”
Jean looked at Craig. “Craig?”
She wanted to help, Sam could see that.
Craig shook his head. “Leave her. We’ve got plenty more hostages.”
Sam pushed his sternum against the barrel of Craig’s Glock. He’d run out of clever strategies, so just had to appeal to Craig’s good nature, if it still existed.
“Craig, help her, before this goes any further.”
Craig gave Sam another hard evaluating stare. Sam could sense the hate emanating from him. After a long moment Craig flicked a glance toward Jean.
“Do it.”
Sam relaxed a notch as he watched Jean shove the Glock into her back pocket, then walk over and kneel beside Pink Perm. She was lying on her side, eyes closed, breathing in shuddering deep snorts. When Jean touched her neck she groaned. That was good; at least she was still responsive, but she wouldn’t be for much longer, if they didn’t get some blood into her.
“Weak and fast,” said Jean, without looking up. Sam thought he heard an edge of reproach mixed in with the relief, but didn’t know if it was directed at Craig or him. She moved down to the woman’s leg, lifted it up to examine the back, then inhaled sharply. That wasn’t a good sound.
“The exit wound is enormous.”
“Do what you can,” said Craig.
Jean jerked her head up. “Didn’t you hear me, Craig? Her leg’s blown to fuck. I can’t do anything.”
Sam pushed his chest against the Glock. Pink Perm was probably dead but they had to try.
“Craig, she needs a hospital. Why don’t you call Peter and tell him you’re releasing a hostage? You don’t need her. You still have four others and now you have me. You know how much I’m worth to Peter.”
Craig jabbed the Glock’s barrel into Sam’s sternum. “Why does this woman mean so much to you?”
For a second Sam was fazed. The old Craig would never have asked why a life was worth saving.
“I just don’t see the point in killing for no reason,” he said, finally. “There was a time when y
ou wouldn’t either.”
“Craig. It can’t hurt,” said Jean. Sam hadn’t expected support from her. Maybe she hadn’t changed quite so much as Craig.
Craig’s left cheek twitched. He blew out a breath, strode over to the woman, and knelt beside her. Then he looked at Jean and nodded. She pulled a knife from her jacket pocket, and the other hostages went into hysterics.
Shit, the bastard’s going to kill her.
Craig took the knife, sliced open Pink Perm’s trouser leg, and pressed his hand over the wound. She groaned. The sadistic son of a bitch was torturing her. Clenching his jaw, Sam started forward.
“Stay put,” said Jean, raising her Glock, her voice hard now.
Sam stopped. He thought he’d found a seed of compassion in Craig, but he was a full-on psychopath now.
“Craig, you can’t do this,” he said.
Craig didn’t answer. He had his back to Sam, and still seemed to be pressing on the injured woman’s wound.
In between gasping breaths the woman groaned again. Craig had to be really hurting her to get any kind of response. Sam clenched his fists and stared at Jean’s Glock. It was still pointed at his head, and she was staring straight at him, her finger back on the trigger. There was nothing he could do.
After a few seconds Pink Perm’s cries stopped. The room was silent. Craig blew out a very long breath and stood up. He moved like he was a thousand years old. Sam stared at his back wanting to knock him through the wall. Tears were in his eyes. He knew sometimes they had to kill, but this was wrong.
“You bastard,” he said. “You sick son of a bitch. You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
Craig’s back was still to Sam. Jean was leaning over the woman – her hand on her forehead – at least she wasn’t a cold-blooded killer – not yet. Suddenly a surge of anger rushed through Sam. He wasn’t sure whether it was what he’d just seen Craig do, or the loss of a brother that triggered it. But he wanted to make Craig pay. He noticed Jean’s Glock was on the floor. She must have put it down after the woman died. He stepped forward, raising his voice.
