KILLER T

by Robert Muchamore

  Charlie wondered if she looked sexy or gormless as she stared up Brad’s arm at pumped veins and boyishly hairless skin. Her breathing sped up as Brad put a hand on her leg.

  ‘Gotcha now,’ he said, smiling as he pulled the front of her T-shirt and sprinkled muffin crumbs down her cleavage.

  ‘You dick!’ Charlie protested, squirming as Brad pinned one arm, leaving the other free. She gave him a gentle slap. ‘Big bully!’

  Charlie liked his weight pressing on her, and the sense that he was messing about but strong enough to do anything he wanted. He looked down, keeping eye contact until it got uncomfortable and she laughed.

  ‘You’re crazy, Brad.’

  ‘Shall I go back across the hall?’ he teased.

  Instead of answering, Charlie leaned back and relaxed her body. Brad got the message, and closed in for a kiss.

  • • •

  Harry stumbled to the shower, crying as he stripped off. The water washed blood off his neck. After his previous encounter with Man Bun, he’d had nightmares and spent days jolting at every strange noise. This time he was more angry than fearful, thinking how pathetic he must have looked, cross-legged at the garage door and too puny to stick up for himself.

  Harry hated his skinny limbs and blotchy red skin. He hated his D in math, his Saturday detention, Queensbridge Academy and being too chicken to put his arm round Charlie’s back when they’d strolled the Swallow Park lakes.

  Dad said I could live with him now he’s back in London. But I’d lose Matt, and Kirsten, and Vegas Local. And didn’t someone famous say running away just moves your problems to a different place?

  The fancy house had CCTV, but Harry wasn’t surprised when he logged into the monitoring app on his phone and got a green SYSTEM INTERRUPT – DRIVE MISSING screen. He knew he ought to be studying for tomorrow’s math quiz, but could barely understand it even when there weren’t six other thoughts screaming for attention.

  So Harry froze on his bed, staring at a cobweb on the ceiling. He tried to calm his breathing, but thoughts fluttered between wishing he’d never existed, wracking his brains trying to think of ways to destroy the Janssens and visions of beautiful girls who’d never go near him.

  Harry’s cell was next to him on the bed, ringing, but he didn’t feel like talking to anyone and only weakened on the fifth ring, answering without looking at the display.

  ‘Yeah,’ Harry said, a touch surly, predicting Matt or Charlie and not feeling strong enough for either of them.

  ‘Hiya, Harry,’ a woman said brightly. He didn’t recognise the voice, but it had a quality that was eerily familiar. ‘This is Fawn Janssen.’

  Harry shot up and got this creepy feeling, like his bedroom walls were about to get hauled up, revealing a studio audience that was laughing at him.

  ‘Need a favour,’ Fawn said. ‘Been having a spot of bad publicity …’

  ‘It’s too late to take the story down,’ Harry said warily.

  ‘You sound scared of something, Harry,’ Fawn teased. ‘And I’m not dumb – I’m not asking you to undo the undoable.’

  Harry wanted to tell her to get screwed and cut the call. Just thinking what she’d done to Charlie made him sick.

  ‘What are you after?’

  ‘Good publicity,’ Fawn said. ‘JJ’s at our house, resting after his operation. I thought Vegas Local could run a nice puff piece, where you come along and interview us.’

  ‘I can put that on the home page, but nobody will read it,’ Harry said bluntly. ‘I’ve run hundreds of different stories on Vegas Local and I know what doesn’t click with the punters.’

  ‘Don’t you want to be nice to me, Harry?’ Fawn purred menacingly.

  I’m never going to beat the Janssens in a fight, but what if I could get them to trust me?

  ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,’ Harry said sourly. ‘I said, nobody would read it. People can sniff out a bland puff interview. You need a hook to draw them in.’

  ‘Then find a hook,’ Fawn snapped.

  Fawn crushed her own sister. Fawn can squash me like a bug. What the hell do I say …?

  ‘People love seeing inside their rich neighbour’s houses,’ Harry blurted finally. ‘That way you sneak your wholesome message in. I can do a short interview, pictures of your chandeliers and fancy stuff, pictures of you looking nice. If you or JJ have any swanky cars, park ’em in front of the house and you’ll draw in clicks from men too.’

  ‘My yellow Lamborghini?’ Fawn suggested.

  ‘That’ll work,’ Harry said, hooked on the idea of photographing a fancy house, until he remembered who it was for and why he was doing it.

  ‘It’s a neat idea,’ Fawn said. ‘I’d heard you were smart. And how’s my kid sister faring?’

  ‘Not bad. She’d really like to see Ed.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Fawn said, though her tone made it clear she wouldn’t. ‘I’ll look at my diary and message you some possible dates for the photo shoot. And be sure to give my best regards next time you hang with Charlie.’

  Harry heard a sly cackle as Fawn hung up, and the image of Cruella de Vil in the old 101 Dalmatians cartoon came into his head. He realised how tense he’d been when he saw the back of his phone smeared with sweat.

  ‘Bastard Janssens,’ he shouted, throwing a big punch at his mattress. Then Harry muttered under his breath, as if he was trying to convince himself, ‘Nobody’s unbeatable. There’s got to be a way to get them.’

  33 EARLY BIRD

  ‘You normally need an atomic blast to get you out of bed,’ Kirsten told Harry. ‘What happened?’

  Kirsten was dressed in a silk Algarve Casino-branded robe, holding her first coffee of the day. It was only a quarter past seven, but Harry had his school uniform on, and stood at the counter checking his bag.

  ‘English lit, English lit textbook, Spanish, math, clean gym kit.’

  ‘Earth to Harry?’ Kirsten said. ‘Come in, please.’

  ‘Ellie called me,’ Harry explained. ‘He’s on a super-early flight from San Francisco. He wants to meet me before school.’

  ‘When did that happen?’ Kirsten asked.

  ‘Midnight.’

  ‘You’re spending so much time on Vegas Local and talking to Charlie,’ Kirsten said, keeping her tone bright so that Harry didn’t accuse her of repeating her usual moan. ‘You’d better not be letting your schoolwork slip.’

  ‘Would I, Auntie?’ Harry charmed, smiling guiltily as he dashed round the counter and gave Kirsten a goodbye kiss. ‘Love you, gotta dash.’

  Harry wondered why Ellie had called him in a late-night panic as his Mini shot down the Beltway, with the sun low on the horizon and barely a car in sight. Ellie had made the midnight call with a bawling toddler on his lap. He’d refused to go into detail, but he told Harry to make sure he was on time and that it was regarding a business deal that would make all our lives easier.

  Huddy’s was a popular diner, close enough to McCarran International Airport to be populated with the high-vis jackets worn by aircraft mechanics, ground staff and in-flight caterers. Harry had to circle twice to find an empty bay, something that hadn’t troubled the huge Rolls-Royce Phantom blocking three disabled spots in front of the main entrance.

  Harry’s morning appetite was tempered by angst as he pushed through bodies queuing for breakfast bagels and take-out coffee. The air was dense with talk and hissing deep-fat fryers as he cut between busy tables, his youth and Queensbridge Academy blazer drawing glances as he picked out Ellie’s thin white shirt, yellow tie and shocking dispersion of red hair. An older, somehow familiar man sat facing him.

  Harry wasn’t late, but empty breakfast plates and half-drunk coffee mugs suggested that he hadn’t been invited to join from the start.

  ‘Here’s my boy wonder,’ Ellie said, sliding into the booth to make space.

  Harry felt like he’d been kicked as he linked the man to the Rolls out front. I’m gonna open my eyes and Kirsten will shake me aw
ake.

  ‘Jay Janssen Senior,’ he said, stretching out to shake Harry’s hand. ‘Heard you’re a young mover and shaker, Smirnov.’

  Harry felt queasy, crunched by a big old hand as he settled on the bench. Janssen was seventy-six, sporting a denim shirt and bolo tie, his ink-blue cowboy hat on the table beside him.

  ‘I … Umm, hello,’ Harry said, realising that Ellie knew nothing about Earl’s accident, or Man Bun’s visit.

  ‘I admire someone like you,’ Jay told Harry. ‘World’s full of kids expecting everything on a plate, my two boys included. When I was your age, I was buying and selling cars. Making more money than my old man by fourteen. School was a drag, so I stopped going. When my pa whipped me and made me go back, I got myself expelled.’

  Harry smiled uneasily. He sensed he was being softened up. Ellie must have told Jay that he was earning good money and didn’t like school.

  ‘You can relate to that, can’t you?’ Ellie asked.

  Harry looked over at Ellie as he noticed the two hulking figures at the table behind. Apparently, the elderly tycoon had too many enemies to go out unaccompanied.

  ‘So what got you rushing here on a 5 a.m. flight, boss?’

  Harry had asked Ellie, but Jay answered. ‘The Vegas Mirror is the only newspaper left in town, and it’s owned by that streak-a piss Kent Clark. It tramples my family name every chance it gets. But, thanks to you guys, Vegas Mirror only has the second-biggest Vegas news website.’

  ‘Mr Janssen has offered a long-term deal, for Janssen Corp to become Vegas Local’s biggest advertising partner,’ Ellie explained, his voice wavering because he knew Harry would be furious. ‘The money will fund Vegas Local and Elliegold Media for the next five years, at the end of which Jay will have an option to buy Vegas Local outright for twenty-five million dollars.’

  My one-third of twenty-five is … Well, three eights are twenty-four, so it’s eight point something …

  ‘But won’t it affect our independence?’ Harry asked, riled. ‘We’ll lose credibility if we’re taking Janssen money.’

  ‘Credibility?’ Ellie said, smirking. ‘We’re hardly The New York Times.’

  Harry realised that wasn’t a strong argument, and stabbed anxiously at another. ‘I thought you were talking to venture capitalists about investing money.’

  ‘Cool down, Harry,’ Ellie said, smiling awkwardly and making an it’s fine gesture at Jay Janssen. ‘If I take money from outside investors, I must give them shares in the company, and I have to clear all the big decisions with them. If I make this advertising partnership with Janssen, you can carry on running Vegas Local and I can build Elliegold Media without interference.’

  Harry narrowed his eyes and decided to be bold. ‘Except I get my head kicked in if I say anything about Janssen Corp?’

  Jay grew larger in his seat, but Ellie spoke before he got to say anything.

  ‘I’ve got four kids,’ Ellie said, raising his voice, then lowering it because there were people all around. ‘Your deal gives you a generous cut of the advertising money from Vegas Local, and it’s basically pocket money. All I’m taking is a small salary, so that Elliegold stays afloat. I don’t have health insurance; six of us live in a tiny two-room apartment. My car is eleven years old. I have one pair of sneakers and my only pair of dress shoes leak when it rains.’

  If I get into bed with Jay Janssen, Charlie will never speak to me again …

  Jay cleared his throat and sounded stern. ‘Mr Gold owns a majority share in Vegas Local and its parent company,’ he began. ‘The contract your family lawyer drew up when you invested in Vegas Local gives you a right to a share of all advertising revenue if you run the site, and a right of reasonable consultation over any change of ownership. But you are only a minority shareholder …’

  Harry got where this was going. ‘So you got here before me, you had breakfast, made a deal and Ellie can outvote me no matter what I say.’

  ‘I want you to stay on the team, Harry,’ Ellie said. ‘You have an instinct for great stories. If I could click my fingers and make money rain from the sky, I would. But I have to make a deal with someone, and this is the best on the table.’

  Ellie’s always been good to me. It must be tough raising four kids with no money. I don’t agree with his business-model bull crap and national expansion plan, but he works seven days a week and deserves financial security … But why did it have to be Janssen?

  ‘Ellie tells me you’re one of the biggest factors in Vegas Local’s success,’ Jay said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. ‘But I can get someone in to take the strain off if you like.’

  ‘Or you could take on a different role,’ Ellie suggested, trying a reassuring smile that came out creepy. ‘You may be young, but you know what people want to read. The start-up sites in other cities need that.’

  Jay nodded. ‘My daughter-in-law, Fawn, thought your idea for a photoshoot at their house was genius. And I remember the frustrations of being a sixteen-year-old. Tell me what kinda girl floats your boat and we’ll make sure your new assistant makes you a very happy boy.’

  Harry felt patronised and shot out of his seat. His first instinct was to tell everyone to go to hell and storm out, but Harry was too placid for tantrums and he knew Ellie was just putting his family first.

  ‘The world is full of lives that don’t matter,’ Janssen said, jabbing a fat pointing finger towards Harry. ‘Things have happened in the past that you don’t like, but I’m as loyal to my friends as I am ruthless in dealing with my enemies. So why don’t you sit that ass back down and see if we can work things through?’

  Harry thought of Earl and Charlie and seventeen seniors dying in hospital.

  ‘Ellie, it’s your company,’ Harry said, shrugging and starting a turn towards the exit. ‘You need to do whatever’s best for your family and I need to get to school. I’ve got a math quiz to flunk.’

  34 PATIENT Q

  Charlie felt helplessly smiley as she jumped off the bus and headed towards the giant sign over Radical Cake Collective’s main entrance. Brad had made her happy. She didn’t love him, and with his girlfriend in the picture things would probably get complicated. But the attentions of a guy who could be a model, and prospects of work and money made Charlie feel like she mattered.

  After donning a hairnet and face mask, Mango met up with Charlie in Radical Cake’s employee break room. Since her fresh start was underway, Charlie decided to be adventurous and try black coffee. But even with three sugars it still tasted like battery acid. She thought throwing it away might offend and hid a grimace every time she swallowed.

  Mango had made Charlie a series of lesson plans, like the ones she did for her groups at Maker’s Yard. After ensuring Development Kitchen 2 was locked from inside, Mango showed Charlie a printed copy of a case file from which she’d blanked the names.

  ‘Patient Q is thirty-two years old,’ Mango began as she sat at a table facing Charlie. ‘To help maintain security for my operation I don’t meet clients directly. I use a retired nurse, who consulted with him in Anaheim a couple of weeks back. Patient Q is a single man who’s made a lot of money with an online food business. But he lacks confidence and feels that his body isn’t attractive. He’s got pale skin with almost no pigmentation; he’s also a classic ectomorph. Do you know what that is?’

  ‘Scrawny?’ Charlie said.

  ‘Basically,’ Mango agreed, smiling and nodding. ‘An ectomorphic person is characterised by a slim body with little muscle mass. Most ectomorphs don’t bulk up when they do strength training. So, after some discussion, I’ve agreed to edit two gene groups.

  ‘One set of changes will affect melanin production and darken patient Q’s skin. The second will change muscle fibres and increase muscle mass. It’s a good example of a therapy that requires skilful patient matching. People with heavy musculature have also evolved heavy bones and strong tendons. But if you add Olympic muscle to a ninety-pound weakling, they end up with joint pain and injuries.’<
br />
  ‘But most gene therapies are reversible?’

  ‘They are,’ Mango agreed. ‘But every alteration carries a chance of a mistake, and increases the risk of mosaicism.’

  ‘Oh, I read about that yesterday afternoon,’ Charlie said.

  Mango smiled. ‘Show me what you’ve got, then!’

  Charlie felt the pressure and turned a touch red. ‘Each course of gene therapy targets and alters cells using a transmission vehicle such as a targeted E. coli virus, or stem-cell injection. But even after several courses of gene therapy, a tiny percentage of your original DNA will probably remain. Having two variants of the same cell type in the body can confuse the immune system into thinking one type is a disease, and the body starts attacking its own cells. Also, for reasons nobody understands yet, it gets more likely when you switch genes back and forth.’

  ‘Not bad,’ Mango said, satisfied with her recruit.

  ‘I was looking for information on how these gene-mods are tested,’ Charlie said. ‘I can see that someone would be willing to try an experimental treatment that might cure terminal cancer, but there are hundreds of gene-therapy mods. Who tests the long-term effects and how can you know they’re safe?’

  ‘I’m very conservative,’ Mango said. ‘There are tens of thousands of gene-therapy templates that you can download and synthesise. I only do mods that people I trust in the online modding community have already tried, and I make it clear to my patients that even the best mods carry a one-in-four-hundred risk of autoimmune disease, or tumours.’

  ‘So have any of your patients ever got sick?’ Charlie asked, uncomfortable with the idea that a mistake might kill someone.

  ‘All my patients get a sixty-day cocktail of autoimmune drugs. Mild side-effects are common after gene therapy and I know of a few that have got sick while the modified cells took over, but my only really bad result was an anti-obesity mod.