“That’s what been buggin’ me, mate,” Bruce said, pushing their objective as far back as the closet allowed. “You don’t think it’s just a little odd that these Houseboys are sittin’ on something like these Firebird feathers, and they give ‘em the same security you would find at a beach house in Noosa?”
“Where?”
“Think about it—why Ryfka thought we were really here, the lax security, that bloke Iliad taking the ‘Bear’ back to the ‘Cave’ and what the hell are they making in here at 3 in the morning?”
Brandon raised a finger at Bruce, his lips pursing tight before his shoulders fell and he checked his own wristwatch. “We make this quick.”
The two agents shared a nod before sprinting back into the factory, this time heading towards the thunk-thunk-thunk and low rumble. The sounds of whatever the House of Usher was producing eventually grew to a point where the agents resorted to hand signals. Bruce touched a heavy door in front of them and immediately drew it back. Bloody thing was hot. Through here, he said to Brandon silently. Eyes sharp.
Brandon nodded, hefting the M1899 higher.
Bruce slipped his hand into the cuff of his coat, pulled open the door, and Brandon led the way. The two of them had not felt themselves ascend or descend, but they were on a gangplank that was passing by a massive steel oven, the heat so intense that the world around them rippled slightly. Bruce and Brandon pushed ahead through the fierce temperatures, the oppressive warmth lifting further down the gangplank.
Their crossing abruptly stopped on seeing the open cavern below. Through a large mouth at the opposite end of the factory lumbered what appeared to be something like a giant bear, forged from black steel. The tank’s four legs were a series of three spheres, all connecting to a larger, central orb. Mounted on top of that were a pair of large-bore Maxim machine guns, while at the most forward point was a half-hemisphere from where a variety of rifle barrels and small cannons extended.
“So I guess this is the Cave?” Brandon shouted into Bruce’s ear.
The loudspeaker overhead blared out some Russian. The Bear that had just come in from the outside now trudged its way to an open slot nested between other tanks all forged in the same style. Bruce counted at least ten of these monsters. More than enough to claim a city. Hold it, if necessary.
Bruce gestured back towards the oven, and took the lead. They had seen more than enough.
Once clear of the heat, and further away from the sounds of the factory, Bruce turned to face Brandon. “This was what Ryfka was expecting us to take care of. We need to get this intel back to the Ministry.”
Brandon nodded, then brought the M1899 up. Bruce hit the deck.
He heard something crackle above his head, then there was a burst of light. He rolled over to his back and drew his own Remington-Elliott. He fired and felled a guard while Brandon took down the other with a shot from the hand cannon’s top barrel.
Klaxons were now blaring all around them.
“Time to move,” Bruce said, pulling himself up on his feet.
“I like this cannon,” Brandon said in a conversational tone.
“Faired up nicely against those two guards.”
“Three.”
Bruce stopped. “Three?”
Brandon flared up the arc welder at the tip of the M1899. “Three.”
He would have to hear about what happened to the mystery guard later. Bruce and Brandon were forced to sprint back to their entry point. Hopefully, on account of the late hour, the guards would be light. So far they had only faced...
Turning the corner, five guards were bearing down on them.
Bruce pulled out the second Remington-Elliott and slid feet first, opening fire as he did. Two more guards dropped, immediately followed by two more as Brandon fired off several shells. The last guard drew aim on Brandon, but not before Bruce delivered a single shot to his forehead.
“Right then, Bruce,” Brandon said, “let’s hope we’re beyond the worst of it.”
“I’m feeling pretty optimistic, mate.”
They stepped through the door to the ready room, right into the sight lines of a dozen Houseboys. Bruce counted five on each side of them with the Bloke and the Yank dead centre.
Bugger.
“Guess my punch was closer to thirty minutes,” Brandon admitted with a shrug.
Chapter Ten
In Which Old Acquaintances Are Reunited
Eliza did run towards the explosion. Trousers made that so much easier, though the heat did not. Ahead the grey cloud of smoke and debris drew her on, rising above the buildings down by the waterfront, and wafting the faint scent of gunpowder in her direction. Eliza might not have Vania’s understanding of the city, but she did know from their earlier arrival that the port was in that direction.
The retort of gunfire was now almost constant. As she slowed down her approach, she could identify heavy weapons, as well as handguns—that, combined with the explosion, warned of bad things ahead. As she got closer and the press of fleeing people going in the opposite direction thinned out, she drew one of her pistols and held it low and ready. Then, approaching the corner at a wide angle, she gave herself enough room to see around it, while not risking a bullet to the face. Then came an explosion she recognised as a Firestorm grenade. Another. And a third.
Then the gunfire became intermittent, sounding as if it came from inside a larger building. Leaning around to assess the situation, gun held in front of her, Eliza canted to one side, her eyes darting from one direction to another. The plaza just outside the Army & Navy building had been hit hard. There were several small fires, some of these flames were blue-green in colour.
She quickly ducked back. All those additional windows in the Army & Navy building, plus the roof, offered excellent perches for snipers. It occurred to her how ironic it was now, that she had been that sniper at the Diamond Jubilee.
Between where she stood and the remains of the fight, there were several automobiles parked: a lorry, a small open topped motor car, and a strange looking, almost military vehicle that she couldn’t identify. However, that one provided the best chance of cover since it looked to have at least some partial armour.
Decision made, she sprinted from around the corner. As she approached the strange, transport from the rear she noticed a form crumpled by the driver’s door. It wasn’t a separatist, but neither was it military. Blood had saturated the ground under him, indicating he’d been shot were he fell. A final stand. Crouching down, Eliza touched his throat, searching for a pulse. Nothing. Bending lower, she recognised him immediately as a Ministry agent from the Indian office. What was his name again? Thorp. That’s it. Don Thorp. He’d been doing paperwork when she’d last seen him. Had he seen the explosion and attempted to take on the Ghost Rebellion all on his own?
The wind shifted, carrying clouds of smoke out to sea. Eliza heard retorts of gunfire once more, then relative silence. Over the sound of the waves striking the pier and the groans of the wounded, she heard a noise that would have been more appropriate in a jungle or perhaps a zoo. It was a snarl conjured from somewhere primitive and primeval.
Easing herself around the vehicle, on the opposite side to the firefight, Eliza angled herself out wide enough to assess the situation, but not get shot herself.
Immediately she saw that there was a good reason for the silence, though it took her a moment to properly identify it. Even after comprehending what she saw, a part of her still refused to accept it. A man stood in the centre of the causeway, surrounded by downed combatants from both English and rebels. Some had been shot, others burned, and some twisted and broken as if they had been rag dolls thrown aside during a wild tantrum. Weapons of all makes and models remained scattered about. An English soldier charged for the man, his rifle with fixed bayonet extended before him, but the man’s left hand swept back with incredible speed and swiftness while the right clasped around the young man’s neck. The rifle clattered to the ground as he was lifted into the air.
That
was when Eliza saw the profile of the mysterious man standing within the carnage.
“Wellington!” she screamed.
As Eliza stood there, pistol up and ready, her mind desperately scrambling to grasp what must have happened here, Wellington tossed the man—the English soldier—aside as if he weighed nothing. He slammed into a small stack of crates, and from the force of his landing and the way his body bent, his back was surely broken. From the angle of his head, his neck as well. She almost shot her lover then, but it was his eyes that stopped her cold. She’d seen passion and hunger in his expression before, in intimate moments. In the field, particularly during the Diamond Jubilee, she had seen compassion and concentration. Here, surrounded by the injured and dead, the eyes of Wellington Thornhill Books had nothing in them. No remorse. No regret. His eyes were dead, like the frozen gaze of a child’s doll. He made no differentiation between friend and foe. Her love was a stranger—a terrifying vessel of death.
The moment they held between each other was abruptly fractured when he took a step towards her, and she fell back one. His smile held no mirth, but when Eliza backed away from him on his next step the smile on his face widened. There was no one between him and her, and nothing could stop him.
“Wellington,” she called, despite the fact that she brought up the pistol, “calm down. All our enemies are undone, so let us go, have a spot of tea, and talk about this whole thing.”
He continued to walk towards her, the gunfire from inside the Army & Navy building dying down to nothing. Now, only the hiss of the flames was audible.
“It is over, Wellington,” she said, pulling back the hammer. “Stop.”
Her eyes roamed over his body as she contemplated where exactly she could shoot Wellington without killing him. Had he worn his bullet-proof corset this morning? In this moment she couldn’t quite recall. If she was sure then she would have planted one right in his chest. It would hurt, it would knock him down, but it wouldn’t kill him.
Perhaps a bullet in the shoulder? Placed properly, if she was careful, it would not be near any major artery; and it should stop him. If the wound did not heal properly, which was always a chance, it could alter his own gunmanship. Was that worth the risk?
Maybe in the meat of his legs, maybe in his thigh. She liked his thigh, though. He did have lovely legs. And same with the shoulder wound—if the leg did not heal properly, he would be reliant on a cane, or worse.
In a moment there would be no time for contemplation, he would be on her.
The leg then, yes, oh God the leg. Please forgive me, Wellington. I love you, darling. She had to hold the gun still. I love you, and I have never even told you.
Her finger wrapped around the trigger when Wellington suddenly lurched backward, his hand snapping up to his neck.
But I didn’t pull the trigger, she thought hurriedly. Or had she pulled the trigger on instinct and killed the man she loved?
Wellington managed one more step before crumpling face down on the ground.
“You hesitated, sigñorina,” spoke a voice from behind her. Eliza would have never expected to hear this accent in India. “Deciding where to shoot him, yes?”
Eliza turned to face Sophia del Morte, her arms held up in surrender. In one of her raised hands, hanging off her index finger, was a pistol. Not the sort of weapon she would attribute to the assassin. Her fashion choice of a deep crimson jacket with matching Turkish trousers and a trilby topping the outfit was hardly appropriate for one on the run from both the Ministry and the House of Usher. Yet that was hardly surprising.
Eliza brought her own gun back up and pointed it at the centre of the assassin’s forehead. One bullet and she would be done, but in that same moment she realised Sophia had been standing behind her for some time. The assassin had her, and did not take the shot. Her eyes jumped to the small pistol in Sophia’s hand. It was the kind of weapon the Ministry issued to agents when targets needed to be taken alive.
“Some of Jekyll’s experiments would suffer moments of passion, much like your lover here just experienced. I mastered dart guns quite quickly,” Sophia said, tipping her hat a fraction. They stood there, looking at each other in silence, the Italian’s smile melted away. “You can say ‘thank you’ at any time,”
Eliza’s throat tightened. She still held Sophia at gunpoint. “What difference would that have made to you?” she managed to growl, snatching the tranquiliser gun from her hand.
Sophia made a tsking noise. “Quite a great deal actually. You and Mr Books are my only friends in the whole world...well, at least, the only people I can trust not to sell me out to the House.”
“Are you sure about that?” Eliza wanted to do two things at once: shoot Sophia, and check if Wellington was alright, but she found herself unable to do either.
“May I please lower my hands?” Sophia asked with a twist of her lips and a shrug.
Eliza eased the hammer back to a safe position, and gave her a sharp nod.
“I cannot blame you for hesitating,” Sophia said. “Shooting someone you care for is far too cold and detached. That is why I prefer the more personal approach when doing such things: poisons, blades, sharp spoons. These are the kills that are more intimate.”
Dammit, Sophia always looks so smug.
“Please don’t make me change my mind about shooting you.” Eliza strode over to the slumbering Wellington, but then placed a hand square on Sophia’s chest, stopping her in her tracks. “What are you doing here in India?”
“Looking for you.”
Despite the situation, Sophia suddenly had Eliza’s undivided attention. “Come again?”
“Shall we tend to your lover first,” Sophia offered, motioning to the unconscious Wellington at their feet. “At your Ministry headquarters I will tell you more about my…delicate matter.”
“Take his feet then,” she grumbled.
A sudden flash of light erupted from the inside the Army & Navy building. Eliza and Sophia, both suspending Wellington between them, turned to see the strange light flicker and then wink out completely from the end of the plaza. They could now hear screams of confusion joining the calls for medics.
“What just happened?” Eliza asked.
Surprisingly, it was Sophia who answered her without hesitation. “It appears Doctor Jekyll has been quite busy providing your angry Indian friends here with an electroporter.”
If there was any word capable of striking fear into the heart of Eliza D Braun it was the horror of the electroporter. What it had done to the Chandi sisters at the end was not something she would ever forget.
Yet looking at the destruction around them, she knew there was no time to dwell on that right now. Reinforcements would be here soon. Medical teams. Military units. Local law enforcement. All of them demanding answers. She had to get Wellington out.
“Over there,” she said, gesturing with her head to the armoured vehicle.
“Can you drive that?” Sophia asked.
“We will find out, won’t we?”
They carried Wellington to the odd tank and opened the passenger door. Both women jumped slightly as another agent toppled out of it. Eliza prayed Wellington was not responsible for that death. Or for the death of Thorp.
They slid Wellington into the back across the metallic bench, pushing aside the odd scientific instruments jumbled together back there. They then loaded the other Ministry agents into the cabin, placing the corpses across the floorboard underneath Wellington. This macabre clean-up made Eliza slightly ill. She had dealt with dead bodies before, but this felt deceptive and improper somehow. She knew why; Eliza, with Sophia’s help, was attempting to remove their presence from this incident. She hoped Wellington left no survivors to tell tales, and that made her feel worse.
Sophia cast a wary look at the gore staining the passenger seat, but took it nonetheless. “This is new for you, isn’t it?”
She looked over the collection of gearshifts and gauges. The boilers, according to the readouts, we
re still stoked. Wellington or Thorp had never powered down this monster at any point. They could go whenever they were ready.
“I’ve covered my tracks before. I’ve killed before. But not like this.” She pulled down a series of gearshifts. The engine rumbled to life.
The tank lurched backwards. Hardly what she intended, but it was fortuitous when their transport reversed out of the plaza as locals ran past them. Eliza manage to spin the transport around to face up a street she vaguely recognized. In the distance, one building rose over the low skyline of the city. Home. They rumbled off towards the office, sharing no more words, leaving behind quite a mess for the Army, Navy, and the Ministry to clean up.
Chapter Eleven
In Which Ghosts Take Form and a Poltergeist is Discovered
The buzzing in his ears was the first thing Wellington became aware of, that and the sensation of drowning in a sea of light. Its radiance filled him, and it was delicious at first. Better to be carried away by this primitive tide than face a world of pain, but then as he let himself float on it for a time, he began to recall the others he’d left behind. A pair of blue eyes, which challenged and loved him. Those were the things worth fighting for, and this ocean of emptiness suddenly felt less than welcoming.
The drone changed pitch and became intermittent. There was a rhythm. Words. This sound was now becoming discernable. Distant, like an echo, but he could hear someone talking. It was a woman, and she was concerned…
“No, it is not as simple as that, sir.” That was the voice he dreamt of. From a land found at the edge of the Empire. It was voice of the woman with those challenging, loving blue eyes. “He was not in his right mind…”
He almost didn’t hear the respondent. Male, but there was something odd about his voice. “Agent Braun, are we in danger?”
“Stuff it, Maulik, this is Wellington we are talking about!”
“I know…”
Wellington struggled to reach this other world, swimming now instead of floating, climbing back to himself and her. The light was growing fainter. Keep talking. I am almost there…
The Ghost Rebellion Page 19
