CHERUB: The General

by Robert Muchamore

  ‘Even your big butt should fit through there now,’ Rat said.

  ‘Smartarse,’ Lauren replied, as she swung her leg up on to the window ledge. Rat quickly flicked on his torch to make sure she wasn’t going to land on anything apart from an empty parking bay. It was a four-metre drop and Lauren couldn’t help groaning as she landed heavily on her ankle.

  Rat came down a few seconds later and quickly found his feet. ‘You OK?’ he asked edgily.

  ‘Twisted,’ Lauren said as Rat helped her up.

  Fortunately the little Fiat Punto belonging to one of the guards was parked in front of a hedge less than ten metres away.

  ‘I’ve got you,’ Rat said, taking the car keys from inside his jacket before grabbing Lauren under the arm and making a dash towards the car. As they got close Rat pressed the plipper to unlock the doors. The car emitted a double blip and all four indicator lights blinked in the darkness.

  ‘Visual,’ a policeman shouted. ‘The Fiat!’

  Lauren moaned in pain, clambering in the back door as Rat fumbled with the ignition key up front. He fought to get the little car into reverse gear as three RAF police officers charged towards them. The swiftest officer grabbed the door handle as Rat lifted the clutch. The door flew open, but the car shot backwards, tearing the officer’s fingers away before the flapping door knocked him down.

  Every car has a slightly different feel that takes time to get used to. Rat stalled the engine as he juddered off in the wrong gear.

  ‘Shite!’ he yelled, as he jangled the key to restart the engine.

  ‘I thought you knew how to drive,’ Lauren shouted frantically.

  ‘Your sarcasm really helps my concentration,’ Rat shouted back as he found the right gear and made a successful second attempt at driving away.

  The front bumper shattered as the car hit the kerb at speed and reared up into the mud. Rat straightened up the steering wheel, floored the accelerator and aimed straight for the fence.

  13. COPS

  James lay face down on the floor of a speeding police van, plasticuffs tearing into his wrists and four officers sitting on the wooden benches alongside him. The female officer he’d knocked against the wall kept a boot on the back of his head, pressing his face against the floor and forcing him to breathe the smells of urine, dog and whatever else ends up stuck to the bottom of a police van.

  ‘Here driver,’ one of the cops said loutishly, as he leaned towards a grilled porthole and looked into the cab. ‘Can’t you find some nice bumpy roads for our boy on the floor here?’

  The cops were breaking all sorts of rules on the handling of prisoners, but if you assault a police officer you can be sure they won’t treat you nice when they arrest you. Not that James needed any extra bumps: police vans have firm suspension designed for speed not comfort and every pothole or dink in the road sent a jarring pain through the spot on his back where he’d been whacked by the baton.

  ‘Conspiracy to commit acts of terrorism,’ one of the three male officers said cheerfully. ‘Possession of a deadly weapon, assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest. You’d better get yourself a good lawyer.’

  ‘Not to mention a criminal hairstyle,’ the woman added.

  As a CHERUB agent James knew he’d never face any of those charges but the ribbing still riled him as laughter filled the steel box. More came when his body flew up and slammed the floor as they rode up over a speed bump at more than thirty miles an hour.

  ‘Ooopsie daisy!’ someone laughed.

  The driver shouted through the grille between the cab and the rear compartment. ‘Was that too fast?’

  ‘I dunno,’ the female officer said, as she pressed the heel of her boot down a bit harder. ‘We’ll find out if you drive round the block and go over it again.’

  ‘Quite a pretty boy too,’ one of the men joked. ‘The gays in prison will love you.’

  James was close to blowing up, but sensible enough to realise that it would be all the excuse they’d need to lash out with their batons and maybe throw in a few volts from their stun guns for good measure.

  After a slam from another speed bump the van slowed right down, and while James couldn’t see where they were going it was obvious they were pulling into some kind of parking compound.

  ‘On your feet, toss-pot,’ the biggest officer ordered, before opening the back doors and jumping out.

  James rolled on to his back, but with his hands cuffed behind him it was tricky getting off the floor and jumping out. He looked around and saw that he was in the well lit parking lot at the rear of a police station.

  ‘Getcha butt inside,’ an officer barked nastily. He poked James in the back, but his body language changed when he saw a superintendent accompanied by another man walking across the tarmac towards them. James was relieved by the sight of Mission Controller, John Jones.

  ‘Is this your boy?’ the superintendent asked John.

  John nodded and looked at the giant officer. ‘Slice his cuffs and return his belongings.’

  The female officer looked pissed. ‘What’s going on, boss? The little shit was in the meeting with Bradford. Then he body-checked me and damned nigh threw me down a flight of stairs.’

  ‘Ours is not to reason why, Catherine,’ the superintendent said firmly. ‘The green-haired boy got away. Anyone who says otherwise can expect the remainder of their police career to be brief and unpleasant. Is that clear?’

  ‘Crystal, boss,’ the woman sighed, shaking her head as another officer sliced the plasticuffs off James’ wrists.

  ‘Have a nice life, officers,’ James chirped.

  ‘I don’t care who you are, boy,’ the woman growled. ‘I wouldn’t recommend showing your face around these parts ever again.’

  James waved his hand contemptuously. ‘Why don’t you go home and shove a broom handle up your—’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ the superintendent interrupted.

  ‘Don’t make a bloody scene,’ John growled, as he grabbed James by his arm and shoved him towards a Jaguar parked on the opposite side of the car park.

  ‘My back’s killing me,’ James moaned, as he lowered himself into the front passenger seat. ‘Bitch slammed me in the back with her baton.’

  ‘Sounds fair enough,’ John said sarcastically as he started the engine. ‘Pushing that nice lady officer down the stairs.’

  James shook his head. ‘She might be small but she certainly paid attention the day they did baton training at the academy.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ John smiled. ‘I knew some seriously vicious WPCs when I was on the force and the titchy ones always compensate for their size by acting like hard arses.’

  ‘What the hell happened back there anyway? Who was running that surveillance? Who made the arrests?’

  John waited until he’d negotiated the tightly packed police parking lot and pulled into the street before starting his explanation.

  ‘I haven’t heard all the details yet, but it comes down to a freak coincidence. Apparently Rich lost a bank card under his Richard Kline alias. He went into the branch to order a replacement, kicked up a bit of a fuss for some reason and it turned out that one of the tellers was a Belfast boy who recognised him as Rich Davis, ex-IRA. He called Special Branch anti-terrorist unit and they put him under surveillance at the address where they sent the replacement card.’

  ‘When did that happen?’ James asked.

  ‘Over the last two or three weeks,’ John said, as they stopped at a red light. ‘Pure coincidence: MI5 and the anti-terrorist squad working the same case from different ends.’

  ‘Have they got enough evidence to nail Davis and Bradford?’

  John nodded. ‘They wouldn’t have moved in if they hadn’t. We couldn’t bug the meeting because we had no idea where it was going to be. They obviously did, and as soon as they got the pair of them talking about a terrorist conspiracy they swooped.’

  ‘Oh well,’ James sighed. ‘Can’t win ‘em all.’

  ‘And it’s st
ill a result,’ John said. ‘The bad guys will be going down for a long time.’

  ‘Yeah …’ James huffed. ‘But that would have happened whether I’d been there or not, and I just spent six weeks walking around with this stupid bloody hairstyle.’

  *

  Bethany and Andy stretched the tarpaulin out between them and wrapped it over their shoulders before starting to climb the fence. It was hard to get hold of anything with cold fingers and trainers slippery with mud, but fear drove them upwards.

  ‘Don’t seem to have seen us,’ Andy said, as he looked back over his shoulder at the guards and torch beams.

  ‘Won’t take long once they see the giant orange tarp,’ Bethany said.

  Smaller feet gave Bethany better purchase on the fence and she reached the point below the razor wire first.

  ‘OK, ready to drop,’ Andy said.

  This was the trickiest part of Andy’s escape plan: holding on to the fence with one hand, while unfurling the tarp and then somehow throwing it over the strands and coils of wire.

  ‘Ready?’ Andy said. ‘Go.’

  They both swung the thick tarp, trying to get it to flick upwards and cover the barbs, but the wind was blowing the wrong way and the tarp tangled hopelessly before a gust blew it on to Bethany. She couldn’t hold the tarp’s weight with her free hand and it knocked her feet out of the rungs, leaving her suspended by two fingers.

  Andy tried moving across to grab her, but Bethany was in agony and let go, falling from four metres and grateful for the muddy ground. Andy jumped down and helped pull the crumpled tarpaulin off her head.

  ‘It’s never gonna work,’ Bethany said, as Andy hauled her up. ‘We’ll never get the tarp over the wires and hold on at the same time.’

  ‘We could tie the corners to the fence, then go under the tarp and push it up as we climb.’

  ‘Might work,’ Bethany nodded. ‘There’s holes in the corners. Have you got string?’

  ‘I hoped you might have some,’ Andy said uneasily.

  ‘We’re screwed,’ Bethany said, stamping furiously. ‘My clothes are wrecked, I’m completely knackered and my knickers are soaked in freezing cold water.’

  ‘Unless we try and find one of the original holes in the wire,’ Andy suggested. ‘I know roughly where they are.’

  ‘In pitch darkness?’ Bethany huffed. ‘And the cops will find out where they are as soon as they untie the guards.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Andy sighed. ‘But we’ll never get that tarp over the wire, so why not give it a go?’

  As Andy turned around he saw two small figures racing across the grass, with half a dozen RAF police and a pair of dogs on leads chasing after them.

  ‘Over here,’ Andy shouted, waving.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Bethany gasped, batting Andy’s arms down and trying to cover his mouth. But Kevin and Ronan had already turned towards them.

  ‘Straighten out the tarp,’ Andy ordered. ‘Let’s get back up there.’

  ‘Why?’ Bethany shouted. ‘And who put you in charge?’

  ‘Trust me,’ Andy said firmly.

  He seemed confident, so despite complaining Bethany helped him flatten the tarp, draped it over her shoulder and they started climbing again. As they neared the razor wire, Ronan and Kevin arrived, with cops and dogs a couple of hundred metres behind and gaining.

  ‘You two climb up under this tarp, then push it over the wires,’ Andy ordered.

  Ronan didn’t get it straight away, but Kevin had done a training exercise where his team used a similar technique to get through coils of barbed wire by trampling it down under tent fabric and planks of wood.

  The small footholds meant the eleven-year-olds had an easier time climbing up the four metres of wire than their older team-mates. As Bethany and Andy stretched the hanging tarp between them, Kevin led the way climbing the fence beneath it.

  When he got near the top he pushed the tarp outwards, so that the top bulged out around his head, then gripped the fence with one hand while using the other to start feeding it over the razor wire. Ronan had now worked out what they were trying to do and joined in, while with the tarp’s weight now shared by four instead of two, Andy and Bethany could reach up and fling the corners.

  ‘Are we there?’ Kevin asked, as the barking dogs closed to within ten metres of the fence.

  Andy nodded as he saw the thick tarp spread over the wires, but it was too dark to see whether any of the barbs were poking through, or know for sure that the razor wire wouldn’t slice through both the tarp and his fingers when he grabbed hold of it.

  ‘Feels OK,’ Andy said, relieved, as he swung his leg over and bounced gently on the coils of barbed wire.

  ‘Get down from there!’ an RAF officer shouted. Two dogs snarled and jumped at the fence, but didn’t get within a metre of the quartet’s legs.

  Andy swung his legs over on to the far side of the fence before jumping clear and rolling as he landed on the soft ground.

  Kevin and Bethany followed within seconds.

  ‘AARGHHH,’ Bethany screamed. ‘I landed in a cow pat. It’s all over me!’

  There was nothing to stop the RAF officers from scaling over the tarp behind them, so before jumping down, Ronan squirted it with the pepper spray he’d taken from a guard and lit it with a lighter.

  As Ronan landed, the pepper spray ignited and the plastic covering over the tarp began to smoulder. But one RAF officer seemed determined to hoist himself over the flaming sheet and the razor wire, so Andy grabbed the last bearing out of his coat pocket and shot him in the chest from less than five metres.

  ‘Does anybody have wire cutters?’ a policeman shouted.

  ‘Flank them,’ a military policeman yelled. ‘Get men out the front gate into the fields to hunt them down.’

  Andy was impressed at Ronan’s quick thinking. ‘Where’d you get the lighter from?’

  ‘Had it in my jeans,’ Ronan said, ankles slipping as he ran through heavy mud. ‘I’ve always enjoyed setting light to stuff.’

  ‘Nice one,’ Andy said, grabbing his phone to call his mission controller as the four cherubs set off across the dark field. ‘Dennis it’s Andy, we need a fast pick-up … That far? I know there’s cops everywhere boss, but—’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Ronan asked, as Andy snapped his phone shut angrily.

  ‘Dennis won’t drive in to pick us up. He says too many questions will be asked if he’s spotted picking us up on a main road. He’s set a new rendezvous point five kilometres across country.’

  The four cherubs groaned. After all they’d been through, none of them fancied a five-kilometre run across muddy farmland.

  They jogged at a steady pace, occasionally bumping into each other in the dark.

  Kevin looked at Bethany. ‘Did you really land in cow shit?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes I did,’ Bethany snapped. ‘I’m covered in it and if any of you so much as smirks, I swear I’ll kick you so hard …’

  ‘So the dogs got Jake,’ Kevin said, trying to change the subject because he didn’t want to start laughing. ‘What’s happened to Rat and Lauren?’

  *

  Rat had seen this moment in movies a hundred times. The car hits the fence, the posts holding it up shatter and it blasts on to the road with a shower of sparks dragging behind it.

  ‘Brace yourself,’ Rat shouted to Lauren, as he realised to his horror that he hadn’t buckled his seatbelt in the rush to escape.

  He glanced at the speedo as the small Fiat ploughed towards the fence. But the front wheels couldn’t grip in the mud and they ploughed into the fence at less than twenty miles an hour. There was a great metallic crash and a loud bang as the front airbag exploded in Rat’s face. One of the concrete posts snapped and the nose of the car reared up high into the air until they were almost vertical.

  Lauren thought the car was going to topple backwards on to its roof, but the other fence post finally snapped. The car tipped forwards and began sliding dow
n a muddy embankment.

  ‘Hit the gas,’ Lauren screamed. ‘Have you stalled it again?’

  Rat’s ears rang from the airbag explosion and he could only just hear Lauren’s orders.

  ‘Engine’s dead,’ he yelled back, as a haze of white powder from the airbag filled the air. ‘Must be a safety cut-out when the car tips up that much.’

  It was pitch dark and Rat couldn’t see over the semi-inflated remains of the airbag, but he could feel the car sliding gently down an embankment. He squeezed the brakes full on, but it had no effect because the wheels were aquaplaning.

  After a ten-second slide, the front of the car hit a tree, turned sideways and came to a halt in a twenty-five centimetre deep puddle. Lauren pushed her door, but it only opened far enough to embed itself in the mud and flood the car with brown water.

  As they crawled over to the passenger side, which pointed into the air, a mixture of regular cops and military police scrambled down the muddy slope and surrounded the car. Lauren heard the unmistakeable click of a rifle being loaded, and while she doubted the RAF police would shoot a couple of unarmed kids, the sound still sent a shudder down her back.

  ‘Get out of the car, keep your hands where I can see ‘em,’ a man shouted as he grabbed a door and wrenched Rat from the front passenger seat. Lauren found her own way out, but in the chaos she’d forgotten her twisted ankle and collapsed into the deep puddle.

  A huge RAF policeman yanked Lauren up and pushed her against the car. As she struggled to blink muddy water out of her eyes she looked up and saw a series of photographic flashes fired off from the edge of the puddle.

  Lauren buried her face in her hands as the military policeman dragged her backwards out of the water.

  ‘Get that camera out of my face,’ she screamed. ‘Go on, piss right off!’

  14. SCOOP

  ‘So it’s all over?’ Dana said.

  It was Saturday morning. James sat on a swivel chair in the middle of his room. There was a bath-towel stretched underneath it to catch falling hair.