by Joe Craig
When the groan of the engines forced the huge vessel forward, Jimmy felt the power in his gut. HMS Enforcer quickly gathered speed.
“Any word?” asked Stovorsky’s driver, hunched over the steering wheel with binoculars clamped against his face.
“Two units are on their way,” replied Stovorsky, “but they’ll be half an hour at least. Getting across this terrain at night is a pain.”
“Two units? But he’s just—”
“Don’t you dare say he’s just a kid. Don’t be a fool.” Stovorsky lifted his hands from his laptop to wipe the sweat from his face. “If I could call in twenty-two units I would. If that boy does anything to that mine, France will be plunged into economic chaos.” He sucked a lungful of air in through his teeth. “Anyway, if I can get this signal to him we might not need the military support.”
They were much closer to Mutam-ul-it now. As soon as it had been cool enough, they’d driven out of the town and taken a position a safe distance from the mine compound, watching and waiting for Jimmy to show himself.
“I think I’ve got it!” Stovorsky exclaimed at last. “How’s this?”
He tapped a couple of keys and swivelled the laptop round on his knee to face the driver. A second later a voice recording rang through the speakers, as clearly as if the speaker had been sitting in the car with them. It was Felix.
“We’re in a safehouse,” said Felix’s voice.
Then came Georgie’s, adding, “We’re doing fine.” Then, after a short pause, “The French rule.”
Felix again: “We owe them.”
Stovorsky stopped the playback. He and the driver stared at each other.
“Is that it?” asked the younger man cautiously.
Stovorsky threw up his hands. “You want to try?” he roared. “Zafi sent me a two-hour recording of a game of Monopoly! This is all I could edit together that’s even remotely usable.”
“Nothing from his mother?”
“His mother must be a mute or something. She barely said a word.”
They both thought in silence for a minute. Eventually Stovorsky asked gently, “Do you think he’ll…?”
The driver shrugged.
“It’s our only chance,” announced Stovorsky. “I’m sending it.”
He tapped a sequence of keys on the laptop then sat back, trying to seem relaxed – and failing. Straightaway his body snapped upright again and his eyes almost popped out of his head.
“Look at this.” He turned the laptop screen to the driver again. “The British destroyer. It’s moving. It’s heading towards the mine.”
“What are they doing?”
“They’re not slowing down.” Stovorsky frantically tapped at the keys again, adjusting the contrast of the satellite feed. “They’re going to crash straight into the dock.”
“Wait, look.” The driver pointed at the corner of the screen, to a cluster of dots on the map a little further down the coast. Stovorsky zoomed in. At first the dots were blurred and pixelated, but as Stovorsky tinkered with the settings, the shapes became clearer. They were lifeboats. And from those lifeboats figures streamed up the beach.
“It’s the British crew,” Stovorsky gasped.
“But if they’re not manning the destroyer…”
Stovorsky was already scrabbling for his radio. “This is Stovorsky,” he screamed. “Where are those two units?!”
HMS Enforcer powered through the waves like a charging rhino through tall grass. And the only soul aboard was Jimmy Coates. His eyes almost throbbed as he stared at the horizon. All he could see of the dock of Mutam-ul-it was the line of huge warehouses, black rectangles against the faint orange of the mine. Somewhere there must have been embers still glowing after the British attack.
Every few seconds Jimmy adjusted the navigational heading on the ship’s computer. But when his fingers touched the controls he felt a rush of doubt. Who was making his decisions? He couldn’t tell any more whether it was his programming acting to make sure he survived, or his human side pushing his programming out of control. All he knew was that his doubts were crushed by the urge inside him to destroy the Mutam-ul-it mine. He could feel it in his assassin’s instincts. And he wanted it too. It’s the only way, he thought, forcing away any hesitation.
He looked up at the dock. It was close enough to make out the individual lights on the piers now. He wiped the sweat from his face. Then his hand reached out to the controls again. There was still time to turn the ship and avoid a collision.
“No!” Jimmy shouted. “Force them.” His voice cracked in every word.
In his head he pushed himself to think through the consequences: Destroy the mine. The ship plunged onwards, unrelenting. Force Stovorsky to protect Mum and Georgie and Felix. He was so close to shore now he could hear the growl of the ship echoing off the warehouses. Go to London – finish their war.
Now the Enforcer’s warning system rang out an alarm – the water was too shallow and the shore was too close. The siren blended with the silent screams in Jimmy’s head. Each side of his mind pushed the other towards destruction, while somewhere in the middle was a tiny voice that knew it was crazy.
But now it was too late anyway. Jimmy’s ears were nearly ripped apart by a new noise. It drowned out the wail of the ship’s siren and the fighting in his head – the keel scraping against the seabed. It sounded like the screeching of a thousand ocean monsters, grinding the bones of their victims.
Still the destroyer tore on: 7500 tonnes of iron crashed into the pier at over 30 knots. Shreds of wood and metal exploded into the sky. The momentum of the ship didn’t drop. It smashed through the dock as if it was splitting the Earth itself in two. The impact knocked Jimmy off his feet. The vibrations and the noise quaked through his body, clattering every organ.
What’s happening? he wondered, even though this was exactly what he had planned. He crawled across the floor, every centimetre a battle against the massive juddering of the ship’s walls and floor. Now every instinct shouted the same thing: Get out of here.
21 NARNIA MUST BE CLOSED
“Faster!” Stovorsky roared.
His driver didn’t respond. The Panhard PVP 360 was already going at over 110 kph. The tyres slipped in every direction across the wet sand, but still the young driver kept his foot fully planted on the accelerator.
“I thought you were a driver!” Stovorsky cried. “DRIVE!”
That moment, Stovorsky’s wail was lost against an ear-splitting crack. The driver slammed his foot on the brakes. The off-roader skidded for 100 metres, spinning full circle before coming to a stop. Ahead of them, just visible in the darkness, was the compound of Mutam-ul-it. At one end of it were the charred skeletons of the bombed buildings. At the other were the giant warehouses of the dock. But ploughing through them, like a dog ravaging a house of cards, was the British Navy destroyer, HMS Enforcer. They were too late.
For a second they froze. Only the shaking of the earth brought the two men to their senses. The impact of the ship in the harbour shot tremors up the coast, creating huge clouds of ash, dust and sand.
“Turn around,” Stovorsky ordered. “Get us out of here.”
The driver was already doing it. In no time, they were speeding away as quickly as they’d arrived.
“They’ll never hold,” gasped Stovorsky.
“What?” shouted the driver.
“The tunnels.”
Stovorsky peered over his shoulder. Within seconds his sight of the mine was lost in a huge black cloud. Another massive crash echoed across the beach. The miles and miles of tunnels snaking beneath Mutam-ul-it were collapsing.
“He’s destroyed everything,” gasped Stovorsky. He couldn’t even hear his own voice beneath the sounds of obliteration.
Then a flash caught his eye. Against the huge black cloud that engulfed the landscape it looked like a diamond in a coalface. He strained his eyes to see what it was and scrabbled for his binoculars.
Racing across the sand, emerging
from the blackness behind them, was the solitary headlight beam of a MZ 125 SX French military motorbike. Driving it, bent forwards over the handlebars so far his chin was between his hands and his backside didn’t touch the seat, was Jimmy Coates.
“That way!” Stovorsky shouted. He shoved the driver in the shoulder and pointed wildly to the side. “It’s him!”
* * *
Jimmy squinted against the wind and clenched his lips tightly shut. He didn’t want a mouth full of wet sand. His heel never lifted from the accelerator. Even over the snarl of his bike’s 15 crank-horsepower and the elements bombarding his face, he could hear the crashing of Mutam-ul-it collapsing behind him. Maybe his imagination exaggerated it, but he thought he could feel the rumbles in the earth as each tunnel gave way. That place is finished, he thought with a rush of hot satisfaction.
Straight away his blood ran cold again. Streaking towards him in a brown/grey blur was a Panhard PVP 360 off-roader. Stovorsky was leaning out of the side, aiming his gun.
This wasn’t part of Jimmy’s plan. He needed the chance to explain what he’d done if he was going to force Stovorsky to help him, but the man didn’t look in the mood to talk.
Jimmy jerked his wrist to open out the throttle even further. The engine gave a kick as more petrol ignited in the chamber. Jimmy felt like he’d been thrown into the next dimension of speed. The wet sand offered a perfectly greased surface, with no friction to slow him down. What’s more, the slightest bump in the ground became a launch pad, lifting Jimmy into the air for jumps that felt like short flights. He could almost feel the power of the machine underneath him infusing his limbs, as if they were just extra pistons.
But Stovorsky was racing to cut him off and the off-roader had a bigger engine than Jimmy’s bike. Jimmy charged north up the coast, with the ocean on his left. To his right was Stovorsky, hurtling nearer, trapping him against the water.
The two vehicles tore towards a collision point, through a bank of smog and ash, their tracks scarring the sand. Jimmy flicked off his headlight. Why give Stovorsky a clearer target?
Then came the first shot. Jimmy heard the crack of the pistol and the whiz of the bullet over his head. He swerved to the left. The slightest nudge on the handlebars sent the bike spinning wildly off-line, until he was skidding along the very edge of the beach, the tide licking his tyres.
It was no good. The water slowed him down and Stovorsky immediately changed direction to compensate, speeding up even more. Jimmy would never outrun them like this. His bike was straining at 120 kph and there was nowhere to hide. Any second Stovorsky would be close enough to shoot the hairs off his head. Get to the town, Jimmy told himself, his inner voice calm and clear.
With a sudden jerk, he twisted the bike back away from the water – and straight towards Stovorsky. Jimmy charged on, ducking left and right every half-second in case Stovorsky fired again. The car was heading straight for him now. They’d seen him turn.
Within seconds there were barely fifty metres separating them. Then thirty, then fifteen… Before Jimmy could even think, he was close enough to see the lines on Stovorsky’s forehead. And the barrel of his gun.
Jimmy didn’t wait for the shot. His body was in the grip of his assassin instinct. The instinct to survive at all costs. The instinct that constantly tested his body, pushing his abilities to the very limits of what was possible.
The instant the bullet left Stovorsky’s barrel, Jimmy let go of the handlebars and pushed with his knee to overbalance the bike. Still travelling at over 130 kph, it crashed to its side and slid along the sand, while Jimmy kicked off it, into the air.
Crash point. The two vehicles were on top of each other now – but they never touched. The tube-steel frame of the bike slid between the front wheels of the off-roader and right underneath it. Jimmy slammed into the front windshield and bounced back into the air. He soared right over Stovorsky’s head. As he flew, he rolled and kicked out one leg to push himself off the back of the car.
He reached out, in blind faith, clutching for something without even realising what it was. Then he landed on it – his bike spinning out from under the car. In a split-second, Jimmy grabbed the handlebars, but kept spinning, like a puck across ice. At the perfect moment, he gave one more kick, jamming his heel into the sand and heaving with his forearms.
The bike jumped on to its back wheel like a trained animal leaping to its feet. Stovorsky’s driver braked hard and swirled round in a giant U-turn, showered in sand. By the time they were in pursuit again, Jimmy had a head start. It wasn’t huge, but it was enough. He willed the motor to spin even faster and his wheels to find some grip on the sand. He didn’t dare look round to see how close Stovorsky was.
At last the terrain became more solid. There was the vague outline of a track and the occasional building. A few seconds at top speed and suddenly Jimmy was in the heart of Tlon.
What a difference from the open landscape. The narrow streets twisted like the branches of a desert tree. Jimmy careered up the main street, but then abruptly skidded to a stop and twisted 90 degrees. He kicked off again straight away, firing himself between two buildings. He just caught sight of the off-roader close behind him before he disappeared into the alley. The buildings were so close together Jimmy could have touched the walls on either side of him at once. There was no way the car could follow.
At the other end of the alley he was spat out into another wider road. Jimmy’s pace hardly dropped. Stovorsky was tearing round the corner at the top of the street. They’d worked out where he would emerge. Jimmy didn’t have time to think. He slammed his heel down and charged straight towards the wall of a house.
All he could see was the white plasterwork plunging towards his face. One image flashed into his head: his brains going splat against the building. But his body had a plan. Immediately he cut the engine and redoubled his grip on the bike. The front wheel hit the wall with a bone-crunching shock. Jimmy’s chest clenched and he pulled with his arms. The back end of the bike was thrown into the air and Jimmy with it – straight through an open window directly above the point of impact.
Jimmy was aware of a woman’s scream. He tumbled over himself, still attached to the bike. The world became a whirl of colour, then CRASH!
Darkness. He’d flown through a window into a couple’s bedroom, right over the bed and smashed into the wardrobe. But still Jimmy’s body didn’t stop. He stood up, brushed the splinters of the wardrobe from his front and hauled his bike out of the pile of gaudy pink and orange dresses. With clothes like that, he thought, they don’t deserve a wardrobe.
The couple were sitting up in bed, with books in their hands and their mouths hanging open. Jimmy gave a small nod, then jumped on to his bike and drove out of the room. He let himself out of the front door of the apartment and sped along the hallway, building up enough speed to make another jump, this time out of the window at the end of the corridor, back into the open.
Any shadow of Stovorsky giving chase in the all-terrain PVP was gone.
‘All-terrain’ obviously doesn’t include wardrobes, Jimmy thought to himself with a smile.
22 JOSH BROWDER
The quicker Jimmy was off the streets, the better, so he kept up his speed. The last thing Marla had said to him was lodged in his mind: Find Coca-Cola. It didn’t take long before he realised she hadn’t meant he should buy himself a drink. He snaked his way through the labyrinth, sticking to the darkest corners, until he saw the Coca-Cola billboard. It was torn at two of the edges and the red was faded, but nevertheless it glowed under a line of spotlights – probably the brightest thing in the whole town that night.
Jimmy climbed off his bike and stared up at the swirling white letters. He’d seen the logo in New York and France, so he was beginning to get used to it, but it would always look foreign to him. There were no Coke logos left in Britain.
The billboard covered up the whole side of the building – three storeys – but next to it was an old blue door. You will be safe,
Marla had told him. Jimmy felt his gut churning. Was it natural nerves or his programming telling him to be wary?
It didn’t matter. He didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t stay on the streets. Any minute, Stovorsky or somebody working for him could come round the corner or spot him on satellite imagery. If this was where Marla and her friends were based, this was where Jimmy had to go.
He hid the bike under an empty market stall and approached the door, checking over his shoulders and scanning the buildings for surveillance cameras. There didn’t seem to be any. Marla and her friends had chosen this spot well.
Jimmy reached up to knock on the door, but before he could touch it, it swung open. He found himself staring up at a huge man with a machine gun and a wide, round face, like a black moon. Three round pearls shone from his mouth – his only teeth. At first Jimmy felt a jolt of anxiety. But he quickly put himself at ease – the machine gun was safely stowed over the man’s shoulder and he moved back to welcome Jimmy inside. As he stepped in, Jimmy noticed the click of the guard’s false leg.
Slowly Jimmy shuffled sideways, keeping his back close to the wall in case of an ambush. Then a door on the other side of the room opened. Light flooded in, dazzling him for a second. When his eyes adjusted he saw the silhouette of a tall, muscly man in the doorway.
“I never thought I’d get the chance to meet you, Jimmy.”
The northern English accent set off sparks in Jimmy’s head. It felt like the ringing of a thousand alarms. Jimmy peered closer to make out the man’s features. A ball of curly red hair filled the top quarter of the doorway and cast the man’s pale, freckled skin into shadow. His beard was also red and bushy, like an upside-down reflection of the hair on his head.
But Jimmy’s eyes continued downwards – to the thin black tie round the man’s neck; to the lapels of his black suit; to the green stripe. NJ7, Jimmy thought in horror. The people who had created Mitchell and Jimmy. The people who undid their mistakes with murder.
