

Privateer

By Jacob Magnus

Copyright 2011 Jacob Magnus

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Prologue

The hydrofoil raced across black foam, so fast it skittered on the sea waves like an insect. Sinker glared at the dark water, willing it to part before his vessel, to let them pass unimpeded, and rush back upon the monster that hunted them. His eyes, dark as the night sea, stared ahead, straining to make out the jagged cliffs and wind-torn palm trees that would tell him he'd reached safety. He kept his back to his crew, quiet and tense as he.

The rushing hydrofoil, the Dancing Cat, tore at the sea, and sent a plume of stinging water to lash their faces. It added a briny edge to the melange of sweat, diesel and cordite that hung about each man.

"Come on," said Sinker. It couldn't be much farther. He had to get there soon, to the safety of the islands. That little port in the Indonesian archipelago had kept them safe for months now, raiding and running in the sea lanes. Sure, they'd taken risks, but the Dancing Cat could outpace any pursuit. But she couldn't cross the ocean. Hydrofoils burned too much juice to take on a long voyage, and right now he was squeezing every last drop of speed from her engines, going through fuel faster than ever. He had to, to get out of international waters, and back to the safety of the islands.

"Shouldn't we be home by now?" said Sten, one of the muscle boys Sinker had picked up to help with 'trade negotiations'.

"You order another postal bride?" said Sinker.

Sten muttered and spat, but he shut up. That was fine, but the problem was, he'd echoed Sinker's thoughts. They'd been running too long. He checked the compass again, but the reading hadn't changed. Going by instruments, they should have been at their hideaway ten minutes ago. Instruments don't lie, instincts lie. That was one of the lessons he'd learned a lifetime ago, before he'd quit the navy, before he'd turned pirate. But whatever the damned naval instructors had said, they were off course. Everything told him it was true, from the twisting feeling in his gut, to the scent of exhaust fumes and carbolic acid carried on the wailing wind.

Tub Jack leaned over the rail and waved at the water below. "I like a boat ride," he said in that sing song voice of his. Sinker smirked in spite of himself. Trust the Tub to find peace. Big, stupid Tub Jack, red as a beacon in his Hawaiian shirt. That boy would be serene in a hurricane; he lived in the eye of the storm.

"I tell you this is wrong," said Sten. He never listened to anyone. Sten said he was ex-military, and he wore the crew cut and jungle camo with a swagger. He argued so much, Sinker was sure he'd have been booted out by any professional army, but the man fought like a hungry Rottweiler.

"Oh no," said Tub Jack. "It's-"

Whatever insight the Tub was about to impart was lost in the roar, as a bolt of lightning bathed the Dancing Cat in an flash that seared the eyes, and left Sinker blinking and shaking his head. His experienced hands never let go of the wheel, but he couldn't see or hear anything except the dwindling roar for painful seconds. When his senses returned, he found Tub Jack folded in a massive heap, head between his knees, one hand wrapped around his legs, and the other pounding an assault rifle against the railing, like a baby with a plastic hammer.

Sinker cursed. "Sten, get that thing off him!"

The muscle boy started forwards to obey, but Sinker didn't see what happened next, because a second blast of lightning struck the sea nearby. It boiled up a cloud of water, and filled his nose with the electric scent of ozone. He turned back to scan the horizon for a sign of home, just as a third flash of lightning illuminated the whole sea ahead. His heart lurched. Sten must have seen it too, because he started to swear at Tub Jack to let go of the gun so he could use it himself.

Jack 'Sinker' Harz stood six feet tall, ruggedly built, and handsome in an unshaven adventurer sort of way, though his blue jeans and black polo neck always carried the scent of engine oil and sweat. Formerly of the Royal Navy, thirty seven years old, thief, pirate, and fearsome brawler, he'd faced many dangers in his life, and feared few things. What he saw ahead of him made his heart sink into his gut.

Outlined by lightning, he'd seen the unmistakable silhouette of a British destroyer. The thing itself didn't scare him. He remembered serving on one under Captain Tewkesbury, long years ago, when he was a proud young runaway trying to be a man. The powerful guns, the rockets, the marine raiders, none of these things scared him. No, what hit him hard, like a low blow in a prize fight, was the art of the trap. Someone had fooled the compass, rigged it. They'd lured him away from safety right after a theft, when his fuel tanks were too low to get away. And then they'd brought him up close to the destroyer, an enemy he couldn't fight, right when he couldn't run.

"What are you waiting for?" asked Sten. "Get a gun." He had the assault rifle ready.

"Put that thing down," said Sinker. He killed the engines, and the hydrofoil gently lowered down into the water. "Chuck it, and then dump the winnings."

"Are you off your head?" said Sten.

Sinker rolled his eyes. "We're caught. They've got us. I don't know if you realise this, but we're not quite equipped to fight off a destroyer."

"Is that what it is?" asked Sten. "Huh, I don't give a-"

Sinker moved in before Sten had time to stop talking. He slammed a fist into his solar plexus, and at the same time he slapped the rifle up, so it wouldn't blow off Sten's feet by accident. Sten sank to his knees, his face red, choking from the pain.

"We don't have time to argue," said Sinker. "I'm trying to keep you alive."

***

Sinker put the gun out of Sten's reach, and then he shouted down to Seb to come up and help him toss the cargo. Seb, the Serbian cook and engineer, yelled back, but thunder drowned his words.

Sinker looked at Sten, who lay on the deck, huddled around his pain. He turned his attention to Tub Jack, but the massive man child, cowed by the storm, was no help to anyone. He shook his head, and turned to the crates. Moulded from dark blue carbon fibre, and stamped with a red caduceus, they were locked fast with a thumbprint scanner. The buyer had told him that any attempt to open one would set off a security measure; it would incinerate the contents. Now, with the naval destroyer looming on the horizon, promising imprisonment or death, temptation struck him. Was it true? The story his buyer, Jermyn the Grouch, had told him, it had sounded ridiculous, but there had been nothing ridiculous about the money.

Cold wind blew in his face, damp with salt spray, filling his nose with the stink of ozone. Lightning burst ahead, revealing the shape of the predator ship, closer than before. More, the flash glinted off something bright and small, rushing across the waves. He frowned, and gripped the rail, felt the cold metal slick with rain water. He narrowed his eyes, and strained to pierce the darkness of night and the hazy violet afterimages. Thunder rang in his ears, rumbling out across the open sea, but somewhere under that booming sound, he caught the murmur of an engine.

Sinker had the instincts of a navy man, even if he'd long since burned his uniform. The destroyer was waiting for him, but it wasn't just waiting; they'd sent men to intercept the Cat, marines in fast boats, armed for assault. He calculated in his head; they had about two minutes, and then the marines would be on them.

"May sulphurous boils swell between your toes," he cursed at his nameless enemy. "And may your mother in law live forever!"

"Boss?" Seb had heard him after all, and come up from the galley, where he always got engine oil in that thick meaty stew he loved to serve. His greasy black hair and ringlet beard contrasted with the long white apron he wore. Seb's mother was a stickler for hygiene, and though he never applied it to his cooking, he always kept his apron clean.

"Help me with this," said Sinker. He grabbed one side of the dark blue crate, and Seb ran over and helped him lift it up. "Good," said Sinker. "No, no, wait! Not down there. Over the side."

Seb stared at him. "My English, he is a problem. You said over the-"

"Over the side, yes, over the side."

Seb frowned, and then he shrugged. "You are the boss."

Together they hefted the crate to the edge of the upper deck, and heaved it over the rain-soaked rail. It fell straight down, and hit the water with a splash. Sinker grinned. It felt good to get something done, but then he recalled how much money the crate was worth; he'd already taken half his pay. Dumping that crate was going to cost him. He felt worse when he remembered there were five more.

"Come on, come on," he said. He heaved up Tub Jack, and pushed him towards the crates. The big soft oaf mumbled and sobbed, but Seb patted him on the arm, and pulled a fresh-baked cookie from the pocket of his apron. Tub Jack took the cookie in one massive paw, and nibbled at it like a humongous, Hawaiian-shirted chipmunk.

Seb smiled. "Yes, cookie is good, eh, Jack?" Jack nodded, and Seb led him to the crates, while Sinker turned his attention to Sten. After their argument, he felt no trust for the man, but Sten seemed to have accepted the situation, and he helped Sinker grab another crate. Between them, the crew hefted another two crates over the side, to splash down and disappear in the cold black waters.

"Good work," said Sinker. He started to feel optimistic, to believe they could get it done. They weren't carrying any other illicit cargo, and what weapons they had were, if not legal, de rigueur for that part of the sea. "We can do this," he said. "Come on, we can get it done." Seb smirked at him, and Tub Jack gave him a sloppy grin.

Even Sten nodded.

They had the next two crates almost to the railing when the lightning bolt struck. One moment, he was shifting his grip to keep a hold on the wet plastic, and the next a flash of light obliterated everything. The last thing he saw before it hit was the red caduceus stamped on the crate, and when everything went white, that staff enfolded in twin snakes burned into his vision like a pillar of fire. With light came noise, a blast like a firework exploding inside his skull. The crate slipped out of his hands, and it was all he could do to stand still, when every part of his body screamed at him to collapse on the floor and roll up in a tiny ball.

His eyes shut, hands clamped over his ears. Moments passed and he felt them go, precious time fleeing, safety torn away, and he wanted to move, knew he had to act, but whether he opened his eyes or held them closed, he saw nothing but a blazing white field, and a pair of writhing red snakes. He feared the blast had damaged to his eyes, that he would see nothing for the rest of his life, but those hideous leering snakes. The thought made him sick in his gut.

He covered his eyes rubbed them, and the painful white light began to fade. It took more seconds for his sight to come back, but he began to make out the upper deck of the Dancing Cat. There stood Sten, cursing, spitting in his hands and rubbing his eyes. Tub Jack had folded up again, bawling in fear and agony. Seb lay on the deck, his legs all twisted up; the crate had slipped and scraped the flesh off his shins. His white apron, no longer pristine, soaked up his blood. He gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound, though the pain had to be immense.

Sinker sighed with relief, but his peace didn't have a chance

They were not alone on the rain-washed upper deck. Men surrounded them, men in dark blue uniforms, armed with stubby black assault rifles. His foot knocked against something that rattled across the deck like a tin can. He recognised it, a spent casing, and realised it wasn't lightning that had struck them; it was a thunder flash.

He knew now it was hopeless to resist. The marines could kill them in an instant. His one hope of saving his men was to obey. Obey. He hated that word. He hated the sound of it, and the way it tasted in his mouth. The trap was perfect; he had no choice. That's what they were thinking, that's what they wanted him to believe. The rational part of his mind knew it was true, but something deep and bloody rose up inside him. One of the marines moved towards him, cuffs in his hands. He moved close enough for Sinker to smell the soap on him, and the polish on his boots.

"We've got you," the man said. "Don't do anything stupid."

Sinker grinned and held out his hands. The marine clamped the cuffs on one wrist, and was about to lock on the second one when Sinker jerked his arm back, pulling the man into a solid right hook. He felt the marine's jaw crack.

The dark, feral part of him laughed, even as the other marines clubbed him into darkness.

***

He woke to the stink of disinfectant and urine. Bruises throbbed all over his head and back, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Something hard and cold pressed against his face, and it took him a moment to realise it was the floor.

He gathered the strength to lift himself, but his arms wouldn't move right. Something held them back, twisted behind him, a cold metal bracelet on his wrists that made a soft clinking noise when he moved. He opened his eyes, and the yellowish glare singed his retinas. He moaned, shut them again, and waited for that drum to stop pounding in his skull.

Time passed in a daze, as he drifted across a wine dark sea to the shore of an island of mountains and forests, and cool fresh waters that sprang from the rock. He began to think he could settle here, and live in freedom and peace, when the drumbeat started again. No, not a drumbeat, it was an earthquake, shaking the island, breaking it up, drowning it in the sea. No, not an earthquake...

Footsteps. Military boots on a metal deck; rough hands that seized his body, and lifted him into the air. Their grasp revealed new bruises on his shoulders, ribs, and the small of his back, and inflamed them with agony. He cried out, and someone cuffed his face.

"Awake now, are we?" An English voice, the broad accent of the west country.

Sinker forced swollen eyes to open, and again the yellowish light hurt him, but he took the pain, and made himself look. He saw gunmetal grey walls, low ceiling, thick bulkheads, and felt a constant, shaking hum.

The destroyer. They had taken him captive.

The two marines still wore their black assault gear, their uniforms and boots were damp, and their hard faces were flushed red; they must have been up on deck before they came down to see him. They had short dark crew cuts, and they stank of sweat, saltwater and engine exhaust fumes.

They dumped him in a brushed steel chair, bolted down, and then they shackled his ankles to special rings welded to the floor. Whatever chance he'd had to escape, he'd lost it, but his brain wasn't all blown away by pain and the after-effects of the beating they'd given him. They could have killed him when they'd assaulted the Dancing Cat. God and his angels knew he'd given them reason when he smashed that boy's jaw. No, they didn't want to kill him. They wanted something from him.

He prayed it was something he could afford to give.

They let him wait long enough for the excitement, the readiness to wear off. He got thirsty and sleepy, and he tried to make himself comfortable, but the men who'd designed that chair had known what they were doing. The chair had sharp edges that dug into his thighs and lower back, and he found it impossible to sit without part of his body twisted, awkward.

His eyes went dry and itchy, and his lips dried up. He licked his lips to moisten them, but soon his mouth and throat grew parched, and he felt a new headache, a thirst headache, join the assembly of pains and aches. He tried to put up with it, sure that it was nothing but a ploy to weaken him before the interrogation, but thirst and pain began to wear at his mind.

He wondered if they had forgotten about him. He could be one prisoner out of a hundred. How many cells on a destroyer? No, they'd taken him in a well-planned raid; they couldn't have repeated it a dozen times that night. But maybe this was punishment. Perhaps they'd given up on that 'uphold the law' business, and now when they caught a waterborne snatch artist, they shackled him, stowed him away, and forgot.

"I don't believe it," he mumbled, shocked how weak and slurred he sounded. No water, no food, no rest, no knowledge. He could go days and nights without sleep or food, but confusion weakened a man, made him unsure of himself, a victim of anyone who offered certainty, no matter how warped.

He thought of his crew, and wondered if they were in the same position, thinking the same thoughts. When the interrogator came, he'd tell him all sorts of things about them. He'd say they'd betrayed him, they'd sold him out; that he was going to suffer in their stead. He had to be on guard against those lies. But no, they couldn't betray him. What did they know? Seb knew how to make goulash that was ninety per cent diesel, and Sten knew how to be a surly bastard who didn't like anyone, and Jack...

Tub Jack. Sinker's brow knotted, and he gritted his teeth. Big, slobbish Tub Jack, with his floppy hair, his hideous red Hawaiian shirt and his face like a melting pear, that poor fat idiot, how could he stand this kind of treatment? Sinker felt his eyes moisten, and that shocked him out of his reverie. He hadn't thought he had water enough for tears.

Maybe they were watching him, or maybe it was a meaningless coincidence, but the metal door squealed open, and two big brutes in dirty grey overalls and neat white hats shouldered their way into the cell, muscling a familiar object: one of the dark blue crates that Sinker had 'liberated' hours before. They dumped the heavy thing in front of him. Then they paused to catch their breath. "A little more to the left," said Sinker.

The navvies exchanged a glance, and then one of them came up beside his chair. "You feeling comfortable, laddie?" he said in a thick Glasgow accent. "Can I get you anything?"

"No," said Sinker. "You can go back to your boyfriend."

The Scottish navvy spat on the floor, and smashed a fist into his head. He felt his brain bounce in his skull, as flares exploded across his vision. His left eye, already bruised and swollen, felt as if it would burst. Blood trickled from his nose, and filled his mouth with that taste like salty copper. He blacked out.

When he came back to himself, he went through the same process of discovery, learning how many types of pain he could feel at one time. He didn't like it any better the second time around. The yellowish light still made his right eye sore, and this time he couldn't even open his left.

"Not very good at making friends, are you?" The voice sounded young, male, and sardonic. Forcing his working eye to withstand the glare, he looked up, and saw a tall, slim naval officer standing before him. The man was handsome in a cold, sharp way, with dark blue eyes and a hatchet nose. His blue uniform looked far too neat. The parts of Sinker's brain that still worked pegged the man as a specialist, perhaps an interrogator or a naval policeman. "And the friends you have made, well...they're not the cream, are they?"

Sinker said nothing. He was caught, he knew it. Nothing he said would make it any better. He kept his mouth shut, and his face blank, as much as was possible with that new bruise swelling at his temple, and filling his head with a drumbeat of pain.

"They're quite the dreggish slops. You must have been desperate when you hired them. And they must have been desperate to work for you."

The naval officer's words made him angry. He knew his crew, and yeah, they didn't look so professional, and maybe they all needed a bath, and sometimes, when Seb served him pig knuckles smeared with oil, or Sten acted like a barbarian, he wanted to strangle them. And Tub Jack was another story.

"Yes, a real rabble we took off your little boat."

Black anger surged through Sinker. I've got to hold my tongue, he thought, I've got to keep from giving this loathsome chump any more rope. He tried to contain himself, and in the midst of the struggle, a second voice spoke in his mind, and asked him why? Why not speak, when the man had him already? That crate sitting right there in front of him, that was full of rope, it was made of rope.

"What the hell do you know, you starched-shirt saltwater tadpole? My boys are great men. Well, they're good men. Well, anyway, they snatched that thing pretty well!"

If the naval officer was impressed, he didn't show it. Instead, he smiled.

"What's so funny, tadpole?"

"Rastiff, if you please. Rastiff, Naval Intelligence."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise. Please forgive me, Ratfish."

Rastiff stiffened. His sharp face looked hungry, and his blue eyes gleamed with murder. Then he seemed to remember something pleasant, like a birthday or a promotion, and he relaxed. "Do you know what the punishment is for treason?"

The question startled Sinker. "I've done no treason. Not in Britain, anyway."

Rastiff's face twisted into a parody of concern. "You... You can't be so oblivious."

Sinker wanted to know what the guy was talking, but part of him warned it was a trick.

Get him interested, get him curious, and lure him into some kind of semantic pit.

He wouldn't tumble.

Rastiff shook his head, and stepped back. "I wouldn't have thought it possible. How could you not know? I guess I have no choice... I'll have to show you." He turned his back on Sinker, who wished he had a gun. He'd show Ratfish a thing or two. Rastiff crouched down in front of the crate, and Sinker heard a click as he opened the electronic lock. He threw the lid open and stepped back.

Sinker craned his neck, but Rastiff blocked his line of sight.

"You've never done treason," said Rastiff, his back to Sinker. "Then what do you call abducting a royal princess?" He stepped aside, and turned to face Sinker.

Sinker had no idea what the man meant, but the thing he saw pushed the thought out of his mind.

The crate lay open, and he saw why it was heavy. Air tanks, a life support system was packed inside. In the centre of all of that hi-tech equipment, like the kernel of a nut, nestled a clear glass capsule, filled with amniotic fluid.

An artificial womb.

A tiny wet pinkish thing floated, suspended in the capsule, and as he watched, it moved one minute hand to shield its eyes from the light.

He stared. "That's what I took?"

"Better than that, my little pirate," said Rastiff. "When we caught you, you had already thrown three of them into the sea."

It felt like a body punch, like a hammer smashed into his solar plexus. His lungs seized up, and he couldn't breathe. He felt his face burn, and his stomach threatened to spew out whatever was left of his last meal. The sound of his pounding heart and rushing blood filled his ears, drowning out the engine hum of the ship, and the noise of Rastiff's talk.

That tiny pink creature filled his eyes, and the thought of three others just like it, helpless, too small to think or act, locked in boxes and dumped in the sea. They'd still be alive.

They are still alive.

At last his breath came back, and his senses returned, but he knew, if he lived through Rastiff's torture act, he'd spend many nights without sleep, seeing those pink hands reaching out for help that could never come, hearing those little piping voices call for a mother who couldn't hear them, a mother those children would never see.

Rastiff was speaking. "...so they have the right genes, they're of the royal bloodline, even if they were conceived in an isolation pod. Princesses they are, and certified."

"I don't understand," said Sinker.

"You're not a prudent, small print reading kind of guy, are you, John?"

"Sinker," he corrected.

Rastiff laughed. "Your fence knew what he was buying, but he left you out in the cold."

"I don't understand. Babies in crates! It doesn't make any human sense."

"Money. Don't think babies, John, think royal stem cells. Think sick rich people. I do mean sick, with decaying organs, hereditary illnesses. In olden times, when daddy killed himself a dinosaur for breakfast, people used to believe the king could cure illness with a touch. You get the idea."

"But..." He couldn't finish that sentence, the thing felt so wrong.

"Even our beloved royals have to pay their way in this world, and this is one of the few businesses where they have exclusive control of the product. But enough. I asked you before, if you knew the punishment for treason."

Sinker shook his head. "No, this is wrong. I never-"

"You abducted six princesses-"

"No! I-"

"Six royal princesses. And three, you murdered."

Sinker strained at his shackles, pulling and twisting at them until they cut into his wrists and ankles, and all he managed was to draw his own blood. He ground his teeth together and kept up the struggle, as Rastiff stood over him like a hanging judge.

"Nine counts of treason. Then, when agents of the crown made to retrieve the lost children, you resisted arrest. Ten. Ten counts of treason. That's enough to hang you ten times over."

Sinker slumped back in his chair, gathered his strength, and threw his weight forwards, trying to burst his shackles by brute force. He strained every muscle, and it felt as though all of the tendons in his arms and legs would tear free.

Still he couldn't escape.

"Of course I can't execute you ten times, but I can have the satisfaction of hanging your men, one by one, before your eyes."

He paused in the struggle. "My men?"

"One by one. And then you."

"No, it's wrong. You can't. I want a lawyer!"

Rastiff's face lit up, as if he'd been waiting for the request. "You can't have one."

"I want a real trial, in a real court, with a real judge, not some arrogant starched shirt intelligence officer! This is illegal. You don't have the authority."

Rastiff smirked. "I have all the authority I need."

Sinker fell back in that agonising chair, and turned his eyes from Rastiff to the tiny unborn clone. The yellow light made her look a jaundiced imitation of a real baby. He wished it was a mere imitation, a bad copy of a human being. Then he'd be out of this trouble. But that was a fantasy, a useless daydream. He looked back at Rastiff, and saw, beneath the pompous humour and the facade of legality, the soul of a shark. Blood hunger lurked in Rastiff's eyes.

He knew this was not the first time Rastiff had captured some damned crook, had taunted and tormented him, and had at last killed him.

"You'd hang us all? Every man of my crew?"

"Every one."

"Even the slow guy, Tub Jack?"

Rastiff put his head on one side. "He means something to you?"

"He's a born fool. Doesn't know what he's into. Doesn't deserve to die for it."

"Hmm."

He felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps...

"I'll hang him right before you. After he watches two of his shipmates get the noose, he might just start to catch on."

"You son of a bilge sucking whore!"

Rastiff's smile grew wider. He seemed to be enjoying his work. "One thing does surprise me. Perhaps you can clear it up. You're a business man, of sorts. You must get paid well to run these risks, and as a former navy man, you know which risks I mean."

"Get to the point."

"I've dealt with a lot of other 'business men', and they all, well before this point, every man of them starts to talk about money."

Sinker sneered. "Begging with money? I wouldn't give you the satisfaction."

"No, I didn't imagine you would. But what would make you beg? What's worth that price?"

"Nothing you can give."

"What if I let you go?"

There came a pause.

He admitted, in the privacy of his heart, he yearned to get away. He stifled that desire. Rastiff wanted something from him, probably his contacts in the smuggler's world. Why else offer hope? "You wouldn't."

"What if I gave you your cute little boat back, and let you run? I'd have to keep the prize, of course, and the money. Think about it."

He did. He tried not to, but he did. And he shook his head. "I can't do that."

Rastiff waved his hand in an airy fashion. "Perhaps I could let you take one of your men away as well."

"You're...you're asking me to choose."

Rastiff shrugged. "I can't let you all go, of course. But Her Majesty's justice is...measured."

He shook his head, trying to clear out the man's insidious words. He didn't want to trust him, no, he didn't trust him. Rastiff was a trained liar and manipulator, he'd use any trick to get what he wanted. But...

His men were good, and if they weren't good, they were his. If there was a chance of getting them out, he had to take it. It was that, or the rope. And he had another thought, an insane one, knocking on the gates of his mind, insisting to be heard. Once you get free, it ran, you can come back for the rest. Crazy, he knew, but he lived on a flair for audacity.

And as for the last reason, he couldn't bring himself to name it, even in the depths of his heart.

"Just one?" he said.

Rastiff grinned and nodded.

"The boy, then."

"The boy?"

"Tub Jack. The big, slow kid."

Rastiff clapped his hands together. "Oh! The big jelly with the terrible taste in clothes. Well well, you surprise me." He stood there rubbing his hands together long enough for Sinker to grow uncomfortable.

"Get on, then," said Sinker.

Rastiff crouched down, so he could look straight in Sinker's eyes. His face had lost its warmth and animation. The cold, murderous gleam had returned. "Listen to me, John. I'm going to make you an offer. If you accept it, I'll let you and every member of your crew go free tonight."

His heart kicked.

"But if you refuse, I'll get a couple of chaps from the gun crew, you know, the squat, muscular types who spend their time carrying around shells for the ship's guns. I'll get them to bring up your Tubby Jack, and chain him down, right here where I am, right in front of your face, and a bazillion miles out of your reach. And I'll get some scalpels from the medical bay, and first I'll cut off that hideous red shirt, and the rest of his clothes, and then I'll-"

"Stop."

"I'll start with his fingers and toes, and I'll-"

"Just stop!"

"It's something we learned in Afghanistan. The Russians used to do it to the locals when they were playing up. It takes a long time, and you have to be careful or the poor chap bleeds out long before you're finished, but I've found that's easy to handle if you prepare a your tourniquets in advance."

Sinker felt icy sweat break out across his face and body, and his stomach felt full of battery acid. He couldn't believe how the man had tricked him. "You're a damned monster," he said.

"So I've been told, by better men than you. This is my offer, John. You get one chance. Her Majesty's Royal Navy has to face and overcome an unlimited range of threats all across the globe. We have the finest men and women on the seas, but we're stretched thin. We can't afford to fight every enemy, but neither can we afford to let them go free."

"I don't want to listen to a speech, Rastiff."

"So we recruit people. Irregulars. People like you. Disposable assets they're called."

"You mean you catch poor sods and torture them into doing your bloody wet work, and then you wash your hands and let them take the blame!"

Rastiff grinned as if he'd made a great joke. "We call them privateers."

"I don't want to be your goddam scurrier and slave!"

"So I'll go get the boy." Rastiff rose, and started for the door.

Sinker watched his receding back, and a sick wave of helplessness washed over him. He felt as if he was drowning. "Wait."

Rastiff ignored him, and opened the door.

"Wait! Please! Please, Rastiff, wait."

Rastiff paused in the doorway, not looking at him.

"I'll do it. I'll do whatever you want. Please don't hurt that boy."

Rastiff beamed down at him, no warmth in his smile, a wolf looking at a broken legged deer.

"I'll be your damn prisoner, won't I?" asked Sinker. "I'll never be free of you."

"Freedom," said Rastiff, "is now impossible. Today's question is not whether the state will learn your secrets. It's how we will use them."

Chapter 1

The man on the operating table moaned under his oxygen mask, and he shifted, trembling as if in nightmare. Liana Gleicker looked up from her work, and glared blue lasers at her anaesthetist. In her green surgical gown and white face mask, with her platinum hair wound tight and tucked away, it was impossible to see anything of her birdlike body or her thin face except those eyes, yet that was enough.

The anaesthetist dropped his eyes, and adjusted the flow of gas. As he adjusted his equipment, it made it a high-pitched squeal, subsiding into a low hiss that mingled with the other sounds of the clinic: the steady beep of the heart rate monitor, and the electrical hum of the refrigeration unit.

Liana glared a moment more, then turned back to her patient. He lay face down on a rubber mattress, every part of his body covered in sterile cloth, except his lower back, which had been shaved and washed.

The theatre stank of carbolic acid and medicinal alcohol, with a hint of vulcanised rubber from the anaesthetist's gas tubes.

Liana picked up a scalpel, lowered it to the flesh, traced the motions of the operation first, and then made the first incision. The minute steel blade glittered like a mirror under the intense white lights of the operating theatre, and it slid into the man's skin as easily as if she had put her foot into a hot bath. At first the flesh under the skin looked a whitish grey, and then bright red blood welled up in the cut, staining the scalpel. Liana thought it looked like a paintbrush. For a moment, she saw herself back on the waterfront in one of the old Spanish towns on the west coast, painting the sunset while Jake swam in the sparkling red gold sea. Her eyes grew moist, and she caught her breath. Her assistant cleared his throat, and she blinked, shook her head, and focused.

Her patient, Henny Vinkel, had made a fortune in synthetic plastics. His materials were cheaper, lighter and stronger than anything his competitors could produce, and he'd kept the process of manufacture a prized secret. A bold genius, he'd developed the formula of his plastics himself, and done the original work in a lab he'd converted from his grandfather's attic. Now he owned ten world-class labs, and employed dozens of scientists.

But the work he'd done in the early days had cost him.

He'd made his fortune, but exposure to hazardous compounds had done damage. Though still in his forties, his organs were degenerating. If left untreated, he would die of kidney failure within three months. He needed a transplant, but all of the legitimate hospitals he'd tried had told him to wait six months. "We'll plug you into a dialysis machine, and you'll be fine. It'll be over before you know it." Henny wasn't the kind of man to let other people tell him what to do, and he was no longer that crazy loner risking his health in granddad's attic. He had money, and he knew how to use it. He'd soon found Liana Gleicker's private clinic.

Liana sank deeper into the operation. Organ transplants are delicate work, they take time, and some surgeons need music or banter to cope with the demands of the job. Liana didn't care for that attitude. She held it in contempt. Once she became involved in the work, she performed with the intense focus of a ballerina. Every move, every stroke of the knife, every delicate, cutting touch, had to be perfect.

Some people are born to wield a scalpel.

She finished tying off the last blood vessel, took a deep breath, and severed the right kidney from its seat in Henny's trunk. He twitched, and she gave a warning glance at the anaesthetist, but he shook his head, and gave the thumbs up. She eyed the heart rate monitor: low but acceptable. Under her white mask, Liana pursed her lips. This was the crucial moment. If Henny fell apart now, even she couldn't put him back together again.

She reached into the bloody cavity, took the soft, reddish, bean shaped organ, and pulled it out. It was blood hot, slippery, wasted. She dumped it in a polished stainless steel pan, and gave a curt nod to her surgical assistant. Primed to obey, he jerked to life, and opened the refrigeration unit. He lifted out a moulded white plastic basin, filled with ice, and set it down on the kit bench beside her. Sitting in that basin, on a mound of ice, was Liana's prize: a healthy, fresh, dark red human kidney. Liana looked at it for a second, as water vapour rose around it like a shimmering aura, and felt something akin to a mother's pride. Then she went back to work.

***

Some hours later, they wheeled Henny off to recovery. When he woke, he'd spew his guts from the anaesthetic, but Liana's new kidneys would save his life. She left her assistant to clean up the theatre. She stripped off her bloody gloves and green robes, washed her pale, slender hands, and took off the white mask and the net that had bound her hair. Her long, platinum blonde hair rolled down from her head in a natural, wavy cloud, like a cool halo around her pale, beautiful face.

Alone in her private washroom, she stripped off her clothes, and went to the shower. She turned the cold, glittering steel faucet, and set the water so hot it was almost scalding. As the rushing water splashed and soaked her slender body, her pale skin turned bright pink. It came close to being painful, and the closer it came, the more she enjoyed it.

She closed her eyes, and let herself delight in the sensation. Sometimes she imagined the water was a solvent, peeling away her layers, evaporating her body, setting her free to become something new, brighter, cleaner and more graceful than one of the womb born.

She came out of the shower, bright pink from the heat, and dried herself with a fluffy blue towel. She was about to dry her hair, when she remembered that Pamik had scheduled one of his infernal video calls after the operation, and she had to check on the transgenics before talking to him. Why he couldn't just leave his long European nose out of the business of her clinic, she couldn't fathom. It wasn't as if he understood a single part of her job, but just because he paid the lease on the building, he acted as if he owned it! Well, he'd just have to wait. This was her clinic, and as chief surgeon and head of research, she wasn't going to walk around with wet hair.

Decision made, she started to chew her lip. Every time Pamik called, she started to make irrational choices, turn left and then jump right, that sort of thing. She picked up the hair dryer, put it down, and glared it.

A few minutes later, she walked into the transgenics lab. She wore a white tennis skirt, white lace stockings, and a peach blouse. Her moist hair sparkled under the fluorescent tubes. One of her research assistants stood beside the steel pens, feeding the pigs. She tried to remember his name. Stanley, or maybe Steven.

Connie and Kelvin slept almost all the time, now, and they refused to exercise when the animal trainer made his daily visits. They'd lost all appetite, and had to be fed intravenously. In spite of that, they remained large for their breed, North German black haired pigs, but almost none of their bulk went to muscle or fat.

Connie eyed Steven, or maybe Stanley, as he tried to attach the feed tube to the cannula in her midleg. The closer his hand came to her dark, hairy hide, the more alarm showed in her eyes and her wrinkled snout.

"Stanley," said Liana, "You're doing it wrong."

"Stanley's at home with his baby," said the assistant. "I'm Tim."

"She's getting upset. You'd better let me do it."

"I know what I'm doing, doc," he said.

Liana decided she didn't like him. The next time Stanley wanted some family time, he'd have a shock.

"I'm the head of research, Tim. These are my babies."

"You call a couple of pigs your babies?" He sniggered.

Liana wondered if anyone would miss Tim if she dissected him for practice, but as luck would have it, she didn't have to find out. As soon as he looked away, Connie bit him on the wrist. He yelped, and his face turned red. He jumped away from the steel pen, and danced around the room, holding his wrist.

Liana picked up the intravenous feeding tube from the floor, and smiled at Connie. She could have sworn the stubbly pig winked at her. "You'd better go get that cut disinfected," she said. "And get Doctor Nembler to take a sample of your blood while you're at it."

Tim slowed down. "Why?"

"Tim, you know these pigs have had dozens of retroviral treatments. We don't need hazmat gear because they can't be passed on through the air. But once one of those viral treatments enters your bloodstream..."

Tim's face turned a sickly greenish white. He stared at the wound on his wrist, and when he looked back at her, there were tears in his eyes. "You don't believe I could..."

"Just get yourself to Doctor Nembler," she said. "Hurry!"

He ran from the lab.

She tried not to laugh, but it was too much. What moron gave Tim a doctorate? She felt guilty for taking the joke so far, but at least that fathead would be more careful next feeding. She bent over the pen, and made soothing noises, calming Connie and Kelvin. In fact, she was pleased that Connie had bitten Tim, and not just out of schadenfreude; it was a sign that the old girl still had some life in her.

Liana looked at Connie, at the surgical scars on her lower back, and the unnatural bulges under her skin. To men like Henny Vinkel, this pork was worth a million dollars. New organs. Healthy organs.

Genetically human organs.

No risk of rejection. For many, this research offered literal new life. That thought always made Liana feel a warm glow of pride, but pioneer work came at a price. You could brave it out at a university, try to squeeze research into a busy teaching schedule, and struggle every day for funding, or you could work for one of the big interests, and hand over your rights to some company mook. Liana had taken the third option. She had gone to work for Pamik Hessler.

"Festering assholes!" she shouted, remembering the call. Pamik was uptight about his calls, and the gap in time zones meant that if you didn't keep up, you made him 'miss a day', and then he got mad. She tried to pop the feeding tube into the cannula, but Connie shied away. She was getting more sensitive. Liana, torn between the two needs, stamped her foot like a petulant little girl, and dropped the tube. She dashed out of the lab, praying Pamik wasn't in one of his talkative moods.

***

"You're late, Doctor Gleicker," said Pamik, his heavy features twisted in a reproving grimace.

Liana took pleasure in many forms of stimulation, but she was happy to be removed from Pamik, from his tobacco stink, from that cologne. He'd said he had it made from eucalyptus oils, camomile, and rose blossom, but on the occasions she had met him in person, it had proved redolent of mildew and creosote.

His domed head was mottled with brown patches, and his watery blue eyes were shot with yellow. When he spoke, he pronounced his words with great care, but that thick accent distorted everything, so she always felt as if she'd just misheard whatever he'd said.

But she couldn't mistake him this time. "I'm sorry, Pamik," she said. "Mr Vinkel's operation took a little more time than I expected. There were, uh, complications."

He wrinkled his long nose, as if he'd caught a whiff of something that stank worse than his damned cologne. The picture on the video screen was as clear as if he were sitting at his desk in front of her. Someone had taken her cosy chair, and she had to stand. "There were no complications. Henny Vinkel is in the recovery lounge, sleeping."

"Er, I think-"

"The nurse, Annabeth Slippens, will observe him, and later, if his stomach can take it, she will bring him roasted lamb, with Caesar salad."

Liana chewed her lip. She didn't like how this was going, and she felt worried about Connie and Kelvin. How long would the beastly man go on, quoting the nursing schedule at her? Didn't he realise how important her time was?

"Delay," said Pamik. "That's what I can't stand. Wasted time."

She choked a laugh.

"Time is the one thing we can never get back. Once you let it go, it never returns." His slow, ponderous way of speaking jarred with Liana's swift, incisive mind. She felt like a race car driver, stuck behind a cyclist.

"I'm most sorry, Pamik. Let's get up to speed, eh? I suppose you want to hear my report on the special research project."

Pamik shook his massive head. "You have no news to report."

She blinked in surprise. "Um, I'm pleased to tell you that we've made some critical advances in our telomerase application techniques, and I think we'll see much slower tissue degradation in the next generation of implants."

He sucked his teeth, a habit that jarred on her ears. Once or twice she'd seen him work at a bit of gristle stuck between his large, yellowish teeth, and even now the memory made her stomach twist. "No news to report."

His casual dismissal of her work, of what she knew would be a real and helpful advance in technique, hurt her. She felt her heart beat faster, and moisture bloomed on her palms and in her armpits. "I don't think you realise-" she cut herself off, aware that her voice had grown shrill. She took a deep breath. "Pamik, we're on schedule. We're even ahead of it."

"Ahead! You make a joke at me."

She shook her head. "No, not at all. But I want you to realise-"

"Ach! I know all about your work. I read the reports you upload to the database, and sometimes I watch you."

"You watch...?"

"Through the cameras."

She twitched, and fought the urge to look up at the ceiling, at the video camera that had to be there. They were ubiquitous. She'd long forgotten that someone could watch her from the other side of that dead glass lens.

"Doctor Gleicker," he said. "I have always admired your intellect. Your thesis on artificial evolution inspired me to invest in your work."

"Thank you-"

"But the quality of that work leaves me aghast. Just compare the number of baseline human organ transplants you have performed, with the number of enhanced organ implantations."

"The work is so different, Pamik. It's not like baking different kinds of cake. You can't compare them that way. I have to grow every organ, and the enhanced organs take so much longer than the transplants. There are so many factors I have to control, and every attempt at enhancement reveals new problems. You want a stronger heart, fine. But if it's too strong, it'll tear right out of your chest!"

"You haven't been giving it enough time. And you refuse to use the accelerated growth methods that Doctor Lingen-"

"Lingen!" she spat the name as if it tasted foul. "He's a fraud. And as for time, Pamik, you're the one who set this place up as a business; the demand for organ transplants keeps me so busy I can't devote much time to the enhancement project. You have to tell me what you want; do you want me to work full-time on research, or do you want me to keep on selling people new body parts? You're the boss. Make a decision!"

She paused, caught her breath, and waited to see how Pamik would react. She feared he would throw a tantrum. Liana had a cool head in the operating theatre, but any time she faced real anger, her guts turned to ice water, and she had to fight the urge to run away.

It was at times like these she wished Jake was with her.

Pamik watched her through the video link, his damp blue eyes narrow and sunken in his thick, mottled face. He curled his lip, and licked at a bubble of saliva. When he spoke, his voice was slow, even and hard. "I didn't make this call to argue with you, Liana." She jumped a little. Pamik never called anyone by their first name. "I called you to tell you, because I've already made my decision." He paused. Her belly was full of writhing snakes. "Your work is not up to the mark. I'm giving you one week to show me that you can make the enhancement project work."

She gasped. "A week! But that's not possi-"

"And when you fail, I'm handing all of your research data over to a new team."

This time she couldn't even speak. Her vocal cords seized up, and she found herself mouthing words with no sound. When at last she found her voice, she could find but one thing to say. "But... Lingen!"

Pamik frowned. "One week. After that, you're on your own. And remember," he leaned forwards, and it was a testament to the quality of the visual feed that she could almost feel his presence, "everything you've done in Seattle is mine. If you talk about your work, it'll be jail...at best!"

She rallied a little. "Pamik, you don't own my brain."

For the first time, he grinned. "Break trust with me, and we'll see about that. One week!"

He cut the link. Liana couldn't move at first, and she couldn't hear anything over her heartbeat. She staggered over to a corner of the office, and dropped down on the floor. Her hands shook as she covered her face, and soon they were soaked with tears.

***

That night, Jake roasted a chicken, with grits and a Bremen-style German salad, but Liana could do no more than pick at it. The scent made her mouth water, but she couldn't keep her attention on the meal, and she couldn't bring herself to speak to Jake, in case she started to cry. She knew how it hurt him to see her weep, and just then she needed to think more than she needed his shoulder. He knew something was wrong, but he could be surprisingly sensitive for a man who spent his days training guys to fight at his own MMA gym.

Jake let her lack of appetite pass, and was careful not to push her. She wanted to talk to him, to tell him all about her work at the clinic, and all of her fears about Pamik. But she prided herself on being a cool, intellectual worker, and she loathed to discuss a problem until she'd analysed it herself. She'd never heard of Pamik firing a top research scientist, had never imagined it would happen to her. But what he was asking, it was insane! As she nibbled at her chicken like a pecking bird, she pulled and twisted at it in her mind. She saw reasonable possibilities. The first was simple: Pamik was a businessman, and he liked to get something back from his investments. If an employee wasn't performing well enough, wasn't bringing gold home in huge sacks, it would make sense for any boss to put the pressure on, and try to grind out more effort, more value.

She stabbed her chicken breast with such violence that the knife squealed and skidded across the plate. Jake said nothing, but he gave her the raised eyebrow. She coloured, and shook her head. She had no experience of business outside the clinic; Pamik had hired her right out of grad school. Even so, she could understand that attitude; she often used similar ploys to motivate her assistants. But Pamik flaunted his knowledge of her day to day work. He had to know he couldn't expect more from her. Research took time, especially when it was focused on the growth and development of human organs. It would be different if you wanted a new heart for a fruit fly. But when you moved up to the really complex organisms, way past mice and monkeys, you had to grow some patience. And Pamik knew it, damn his East European earlobes.

She munched on a fresh green lettuce leaf, cool and sweet on her tongue. Jake had done a good job in the kitchen. She wished she could show her appreciation, but Pamik's words wouldn't leave her alone. No, it couldn't be the first option. He'd tied her up too much; no one could do good research in that much time. It had to be the second choice, but even to think of that scared her to her core.

Pamik had set her up to fail. He'd given her just enough time to rationalise it as an opportunity to be the brilliant scientist, but they both knew that unless she'd been hiding an amazing discovery all this time, something she could whip out to thrill him, she could not succeed.

He wanted her out.

The injustice of it made her want to cry and scream, but she settled for chopping up her cut of chicken into tinier and tinier pieces, and as she cut, she pictured Pamik's thick, mottled face under her knife.

This is your cheek, she thought.

Stab!

This is your eye, she thought.

Stab!

She knew what had happened; he'd been talking to that leech, Lingen. She didn't know what he'd promised, but she could guess. Lingen would have said anything to get Pamik's facilities, not to speak of his bank book. Lingen was an 'expert', ha, a mountebank who specialised in forced growth. She shook her head. Stupid. You couldn't do that with human organs. But you could promise it. What were lies when your funding was at stake?

Pamik had set her up to fail. In one week's time, he'd turn her out of the clinic, take all of her research, and install Lingen in her place. Unless she could do the impossible, and give him something amazing.

"Honey," said Jake, in his warm, deep voice. "Maybe I put too much salt in the salad again. We can always order in, if you'd like to try something different."

She jumped in her seat, and stared at him in shock. "Something different?"

He looked at her, concern all over his face. "If there's-"

She slipped out of her chair, and came and sat on his lap. She put her arms around him, and kissed his face. "You never put too much salt in the salad, Jake. You always give me just what I need."

His worried look melted away, and he beamed in surprised joy.

"But it is tastier," she said, snatching a hunk of meat from his plate, "when I steal your food."

He laughed, and she popped the stolen chicken in his mouth, and then they took turns to feed each other, and that got messy. Liana got salad sauce on her blouse, and when Jake laughed, she retaliated by smearing sauce on his shirt. That escalated into a regular food fight, which turned into a wrestling match.

By then, they'd moved to the bedroom.

Later that night, Liana crept out of bed. She gazed at Jake's face, pale in the moonlight, and kissed his brow. He stirred but stayed asleep. She left him to his dreams, went downstairs, and switched on her laptop. She sat on the couch, and in a few seconds she'd connected to the internet, and the idea that Jake had given her over dinner came to life. "Something different," she whispered, her pale, birdlike face illuminated by the glow of the screen. "Another option, another way... Pamik Hessler, I'm not your damn slave! You're going to regret picking that monkey's asshole Lingen over me."

***

Jerrick 'Heartbeat' Mann narrowed his eyes as he watched Doctor Gleicker enter the clinic on his security feed.

He sipped his green tea, and rubbed his hands once more with alcohol gel. He could feel Jill Fontaine's eyes burning into his back, tasting his athletic body. He finished disinfecting his thick, powerful hands, and turned his attention back to the doctor.

He followed her by camera into the depths of the building. He checked the time; it was eight thirty in the morning; she'd arrived half an hour early. To anyone else, it might not have seemed important, but as head of the clinic's security, Mann took a deep interest in any breach of pattern. He noted her time of arrival in the log book, watched her by video feed as she came to her lab, and started to fuss over something in one corner.

He leaned closer to his computer screen, and took control of the camera, focusing it in on Liana, intent on her behaviour. Some days he tried not to, but he couldn't help himself. Even if Hessler had ordered him to stop, he would have disobeyed.

With the digital relay, the video image was clear as cut diamond. He could see her delicate features and pale hair, and he noticed that the lace hem of the yellow dress she'd worn to work was frayed.

Jill, sitting at her workstation over to his left, stuck her nose in the air, and sniffed. "That alcohol rub stinks, Heartbeat."

He ignored her. Pretty cherry blonde Jill, with her pouty lips and sexy black suit. The only times she spoke to him were when she wanted to stick a barb under his skin. He shrugged. You got assertive, aggressive types of women in security; it came with the job. He watched Liana move about the lab, switching on computer equipment, readying materials for some kind of test... It all fit with Pamik's message: expect a flurry of activity in her lab, and to be prepared to make changes.

"Be prepared to make changes," he whispered.

"What did you mutter, Mann?" asked Jill.

"Just trying to remember where I spilled that vial of contact poison," he said, deadpan.

"From the stench, I'd say you just rubbed it all over your hands."

You could say that for Jill, she didn't roll over without a fight. He felt his heart beat a little faster. He shut his eyes, and performed his yogic breathing exercise: breathe in for seven seconds, hold for three, breathe out for seven. It helped to calm him. Of all people, he needed to stay calm.

He opened his eyes, and found himself staring straight into Liana Gleicker's face. She held her gaze on the camera, long enough for him to feel she knew he was watching, long enough to wonder what kind of 'changes' Pamik had planned. Then she dropped her gaze, and went over to the big steel pen in the corner of the lab, to the oddly shaped animals she kept there.

The pigs. The ugly, stinking, brutish runts. Those hairy, loathsome beasts, with their weird, misshapen bodies. That was bad enough. But what made it too much, what made it personal, were the scars each pig bore, the thick pink lines, like worms under the skin, that each animal had on its lower back.

He watched her plug lines into the pigs, whether to feed them or to treat them with drugs, or even to dose them with poison to test their extra organs, he couldn't say. He wished she would poison them.

As he stared at the video feed, his right hand slipped around his back, down his spine until it came to the place, just above his right kidney, where the skin was still knotted in a thick scar. He had one over each kidney, and the skin was still pinkish, not fully healed. Every time he looked at those animals, he remembered what he was, and why he could never afford to leave Liana alone.

So focused was he, he didn't notice Jill until she was leaning right over him, her eyes half-lidded, her lips open just a little, and moist from that ginger scented lip balm she liked. "Are you alright, Heartbeat?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he said, wishing she would leave him alone.

"You look tense."

"I'm great, I'm loose as a jellyfish," he said, aware that the lie was obvious. His mouth was dry, and his palms were damp.

"Maybe I could help you relax," she said, leaning close, so that she brushed his shoulder with her breast. "Maybe I could give you...a back massage."

She'd hit him with a hard, low shot, and it hurt. But he'd endured so much already, to become the best in his profession. He was the best; no matter what anyone else could bring, he had a unique quality. He'd paid for it with his work, with his commitment, and with the very organs of his body. When he remembered that, he was able to shrug off Jill's provocation. "Sit your cherry blonde ass back down, Fontaine."

She prowled back to her seat. "You don't know what you're missing, Heartbeat. But someday, I'm going to make you explode."

Not today, he thought, not today. As he turned back to the video feed, he paused; one of the external sensors had picked up movement. He turned on the camera linked to the motion sensor, brought the video feed online, and narrowed his eyes.

The image showed a dark, narrow space, filled with blocks of grey concrete, rather like a crypt in an abandoned church. After a moment's thought, he recognised it as a sub basement, a machine layer below the actual facility. He couldn't see anyone down there, or anything that would have triggered the motion sensor, and he began to suspect a malfunction.

His professional instincts told him to be thorough, so he took over the camera, and panned it around, peering into the gloom. Still nothing to see but dark blocks, concrete housing for the machines that plugged into the electrical grid and the water supply. He felt like giving it up as a technical fault, and his hand was on the phone to call in an engineer, when the darkness lit up with lightning.

The flash hurt his eyes, and bright pink afterimages stained his vision. An intense white light burned in a corner of the vault, flickering like a dying fluorescent tube. Sparks showered from the corner. Lit up by the searing light, he could see what had set off the motion sensor: a man in dark baggy overalls, his face obscured by thick goggles, crouched in the corner, burning through a section of wall with a plasma torch.

Mann felt his hair stand on end, and he couldn't keep the smile from lips. "Finally," he said to himself, "some good news."

"You're muttering again, Mann," said Jill.

He ignored her. He had a guest, an uninvited, prowling, thieving guest, and Mann knew the exact way to make him welcome. It was what he was born for. It was what he had trained for.

It was what he was remade for.

Chapter 2

It took him five minutes to run down to the basement, three to find the access panel. Olsen, a lab assistant, had found it already.

He stood in the grey, undecorated room, with the preoccupied air of a guy who's scared he'll miss the last bus. Olsen was medium height, with a nervous, sallow face, and he wore a loose white coat, quite different from the neat black suit that Mann wore, or his calm, hard face.

From time to time, Olsen reached down and brushed the black case by his feet, one of those hard rolling ones that people like to take when they fly. He would reach down, and pat it, as if he to reassure an anxious puppy.

Mann thought Olsen needed reassuring.

Olsen didn't notice him. He didn't know what was in the case, but he could imagine: one of Doctor Gleicker's transgenic kidneys, perhaps, or a fat sheaf of printouts describing her research. The real prize would be a piece of the human enhancement project: an advanced adrenal gland. Mann stiffened at the thought, and had to use his yogic breathing technique to keep from pouncing on Olsen, and smashing that access panel with the twitchy man's face.

He fought to keep control. Jill, with her endless, sexually charged taunts, never pushed him so far. But then Jill wasn't stealing clinic property, in collusion with a mole man.

A thrum grew, and an acrid stink filled his nose and mouth, burning plastic coupled with that metallic taste you get before a thunder storm.

The sound grew, and Olsen paled and trembled. Mann caught his scent, sports deodorant overlaid by sweat. The thrum grew to a roar, and the access panel shook. Olsen backed away, and gave a nervous glance around the room. He saw Mann, and froze.

They locked eyes, and then Olsen twitched, and ran straight at him, screaming. His hands lashed out, flailing in panic. Caught at the foot of the stairs, Mann had no room to evade, and no time to use a weapon. But the changes made to his body were weapon enough. Under those thick pink scars, seated above both kidneys, his experimental glands secreted their gift into his bloodstream.

In the lapse of a heartbeat, a cocktail of human and transgenic adrenaline rushed through his body, soaking his muscles in liquid power. He felt his body sing as the flood of energy washed away his tension and eased and greased his nerves. Time slowed down, and he watched Olsen come at him like an arthritic jogger wading through syrup.

He pitied him.

To an outside observer, it happened too fast to see. One moment, the white coated lab rat was charging at the suited head of security, then came a blur, and the next moment the lab rat lay twisted on his back, neck bent at a wrong angle, blood weeping from ruined eyes.

Mann slowed down, looked from the broken corpse to his blood-smeared hands, and pursed his lips in regret. He wanted to know how this theft had come about; he wanted to learn who had paid for it. Olsen lay, a busted wreck, and whatever secrets he'd had, he'd kept.

He didn't get time to mope. The thrum became a roar like chained thunder, and the stink of ozone and burning plastic clogged his nose, and soaked his eyes with tears. He got close to the access panel, and a moment later it crashed to the floor. The thief dumped his glowing plasma torch on the fallen panel, and then he pulled himself out of the cramped tunnel. His overalls were black as night, and his goggles made his head look bulbous and deformed, like a giant insect. He stank of raw sweat, plastic smoke, and cheap tobacco.

The thief pulled off his goggles, to reveal a bullet head with black, sweat-damp hair, high cheekbones, and a pallid complexion. He could have been one of Genghis Khan's finest, in another life. He squeezed his eyes shut, and wiped sweat from his face with a rag. Then he caught his breath, and lit a cigarette.

Mann watched in amazement as the man stood there and smoked, oblivious to what had passed.

Perhaps he was thinking too loud, or he'd made an unconscious sound, but something caught the thief's attention, and he turned, and started to speak. "Olsen?" Then he caught sight of Mann, and he frowned. "Shit man, you don't look like your picture."

Mann said nothing, instead he pointed at Olsen's corpse. The thief looked at Olsen, and he jumped up in the air, and backed away, his hands on his face. "Oh shit, God, you motherfucking killer!"

Mann kept his voice low and even. "Shut up and sit down," he began, but the thief didn't wait to hear the rest.

He pulled out a gun, jabbed it at Mann, and fired.

The first bullet went wide, and Mann dropped flat on his face, so the next one passed over him, right where his liver had been a moment before. By then, the gunshots had triggered his fight or flight response, and his transgenic glands dumped a second dose of synthetic hormones into his blood.

He ran forwards on his hands, like a human lizard, and sprang up under the thief, one arm throwing a vicious uppercut at his groin, the other shooting higher to catch the elbow under his gun hand, forcing the man to waste his next bullet. The rising blow hit hard, and he fell to his knees, his face contorted in pain.

But he still had the gun.

As he fell, his arm slipped away from the elbow hold. He shoved the gun against Mann's chest, aiming by touch because his eyes were squeezed shut, and then he crushed the trigger.

Even when tangled with an enemy, no time to think, and a gun kissing his flesh, Mann's enhanced body and his rigorous training acted faster than thought.

His left forearm smashed into the thief's wrist, as his right hand chopped down into the fold of his elbow. Either move would have moved the gun just enough to prevent a lethal wound, but together the rapid, coordinated strikes gave him enough leverage to throw the hand all the way back, and reverse the direction of the shot. The gun blasted, and Mann felt the kick through the man's arm where he held it, and the sound and flash of fire deafened and blinded him.

He held on tight, intent on preventing the thief from getting in another shot while his eyes were useless. He blinked, and shook his head, and held on to that arm with all his strength. After a time that felt like weeks, even if it could only have been a few seconds, his vision returned, and he saw what he had done.

His aggressive instinct had worked. His training had been worth the years of sweat, the blisters and agony. In striking the thief's arm at reflex speed, he'd not merely sent the bullet away from his body. That last shot had drilled through the thief's face, fractured his cheekbone, and blasted his brains out the back of his head.

With care and attention, Mann untangled his arms from the dead thief, took the gun from his hands, made it safe, and set it down on the floor. Then he stretched out, and lay back on the cool, hard concrete, and closed his eyes against the harsh fluorescent light. The air was redolent of burnt plastic, cigarettes and sweat, and now he caught the coppery scent of blood.

He lay there, eyes closed, and brought down his breathing until it flowed in a calm and even rhythm. And he thought, but for the surgery, but for being a human guinea pig, I'd be dead. It was worth the price.

It was worth it.

Chapter 3

Jake spat blood, wiped the sweat out of his eyes with one thick, hairy arm, and grinned at the kid in the middle of the ring. At six foot six, he supposed he shouldn't call Carson a kid, but some boys never grow up. All around the gym, lean, well muscled guys grunted and sweated as they worked out with skipping ropes, or hit the bag, or just did floor work: press ups, sit ups, bear crawls. A couple of them writhed and rolled on the mats, practising their ground game. The thing they all had in common was they were willing to get sweaty, to get tired, and to keep going

Carson was a different story. He looked like someone had shaved a gorilla, and then squeezed it into lurid green running shorts. Jake owned that he himself was a husky, hardass dude, with his broad chest, jutting jaw, and flattened nose, but he'd worked at it, taken his lumps. Carson didn't give a baboon's ring piece for training, all he wanted was "c'mon, let's spar." Jake had given him to Leonard Hunter, an amateur boxer from some little town in New York State, who wanted to get into mixed martial arts. Leonard had taken Carson away, and come back a couple of minutes later with a black eye and some loose teeth. That kind of thing came with the territory, so Jake hadn't thought too much of it, but Carson had repeated his trick with two more training partners. Jake had decided he'd better get this bird in hand before he tore up the nest, or whatever it was that foul minded fighting cocks got up to.

Carson leered at him. "C'mon, Mr Mongoose," he said, his voice muffled by the mouth guard. Other guys slipped them out when they talked, but Carson was happy to sound as much like a gorilla as he looked. "Let's spar."

Jake had picked up the nickname back when he was a rookie fighter, given him by some wag who didn't know what a mongoose looked like; Jake was agile, sure, but hefty. He'd never liked it. He'd started out by hoping someone would call him 'the Viking'. It would have made a lot more sense; his name was Jake Hardraada.

"What's the matter, Mr Mongoose?" asked Carson. "Are you tired? You are getting kinda old for this."

Coming from someone smarter, Jake would have read that as a ploy, a jibe to make him angry, get him off his game. But Carson...he lacked the finer graces. With everyone in the gym eyeballing them, he decided he'd better put on a show. The gym was his place, after all. If he slowed down, so would business.

"You know, Carson," he said, as he ambled into the middle of the ring, "you could be right about that. Maybe I am getting a little slow. You might want to go easy on an old man. Are you ready?"

Carson had time to nod, and then Jake popped a jab into his jaw. They both wore headgear and soft gloves, but he still felt the boy's head snap back. Jake believed in the Jack Dempsey school of striking, and he put his mass into every blow. "Sorry Carson," he said. "I thought you were ready."

He heard a sort of collective sigh, as the guys who'd gathered to watch nodded to each other, and imitated his punch. He got a little taste of the glamour, that thrill he'd loved back when he was fighting for money, when he'd just knocked some slugger on his ass, and the crowd would shout his name. It made him hot inside, and he forgot about the sweat pouring down his back, the pain in his cheek where the kid had socked him, and the silence, the preoccupied look on Liana's face when they'd eaten dinner the night before.

He saw everything but the punch.

He was looking into the middle distance, then everything went black, the gym whirled, the floor rose up, and whacked him in the face. The impact knocked the breath out of his body, shook his brains, and left him stinging.

He lay there a second, then fury surged inside, and he jumped to his feet.

Carson eyed him. "You still got a little juice left, Mr Mongoose? You wanna go again?"

The fire inside wanted to rush out and consume the ugly monkey, but Jake was a professional, and he couldn't just mow the kid down. Not without a warning. Standing, he slipped out his mouth guard. "You hit me when I wasn't looking, Carson," he said. "So you can walk out of my gym, or this is going to get personal."

Carson's ugly, gorilla mug didn't change. "C'mon, Mr Mongoose. C'mon."

"I gave you a chance."

He replaced the mouth guard, shuffled forwards, feinted at the kid's face, and threw a hard right into his ribs. Carson staggered back, his mouth twisted in pain.

Jake followed, caught the timing, and rocked the kid's head with another jab. Carson fell back, almost at the ropes, blood running from his nose. He smeared the blood away with his glove, and looked at it. His eyes bugged out, and Jake thought he was about to faint, but instead he made a sort of snorting roar, and charged forwards, lashing at Jake with wild hooks.

There was no skill in the attack, just animal rage, but Carson was strong. Jake heard some of the guys shout, but he couldn't think about them. He dodged, tried to get in a right hook, but it glanced off Carson's shoulder, and gorilla boy threw another volley of murderous blows.

A lot of random thoughts passed through Jake's mind. He'd forgotten how his head could drift, could lose focus during a fight. He found himself wondering how he'd ever got into this situation, and why he'd ever thought professional fighting was a good idea. Ram your body up against another man, and see who falls apart first. Yeah, that was a smart way to make a living. Screw that, he thought, I'm good at this. Yeah, came back the reply, but now you're getting old, you're getting slow, your best days are long past, and they were never worth crowing about.

Carson swung. His fist fell short, but his arm entangled Jake's hands, threw them low, left him open. Carson grinned through the blood, and smashed Jake in the temple.

The blow knocked him back, off-balance, and he came close to falling. He caught his feet, and hit the monkey boy with a fast jab, but all it did was slow the guy down.

That voice in his head came back. You're too old. You're too weak. You can't do this anymore. A few more punches like that, and you'll be sucking down gruel for the rest of your life. A few? One would do the job, and then you can kiss your sweet brain goodbye. Liana won't mind; she's a doctor, she can handle feeding you, and cleaning you up... But she's going to get lonely at night, as you lie there in bed, drooling.

He pictured it.

Screw that!

Next time Carson came at him, Jake slipped to the side, and threw a kick that scythed the kid's legs out from under him. One moment Carson was charging at him, windmilling, and the next he was falling through the air, to hit the deck hard.

Whump!

It wasn't over. Jake let the kid get to his feet, shaking his head, and then he threw a jab and hook combo. The hook snapped Carson's head around, and he hit the floor a second time. Jake hoped that he'd finished it, but Nature loves her children, and in Carson's case, what she'd held back in brains, she'd made up in bone and muscle. The boy refused to lie still. He got onto his hands and knees, and heaved himself back up to his feet like Neanderthal reborn. He looked around with foggy eyes until he found Jake. And then he came forwards, weaving, swinging more of his signature punches.

Jake backed away, giving ground. Carson couldn't chase him, not now it hurt to walk. He limped, favouring the leg that Jake had kicked. But he stayed upright, and his caveman style didn't need any fancy footwork. He kept coming, swinging blow after blow, and Jake backed away, until he felt the ropes at his back.

Carson leered. "You can't run away now, Mr Mongoose."

Jake tensed his body. "I ever tell you I hate that name?"

Carson threw a right that would have made a grizzly bear cry. But it didn't connect. Jake slipped aside, and this time he didn't even try to hit Carson. Instead, he gave him a little push, so the kid's own mass and momentum carried him into the ropes. Then, while Carson tried to free himself, Jake came up close, and got his arms around gorilla boy's neck, and clamped down. Carson kicked, struggled and flailed with his elbows, but Jake had him locked up tight. It took ten long, painful seconds, and then he felt the boy go limp. He let the kid tumble, but he held onto his head, so it wouldn't slam into the floor.

He backed away, spat out the mouth guard, and sighed. The guys in the gym, his students and buddies, started to clap and cheer. Jake pulled off his gloves, and his headgear, and rubbed his face. His cheek and temple stung, and his right eye felt swollen. Liana was going to have some questions for him tonight.

***

When Jake came home, he was surprised to find the lights on in their house. He frowned, and grunted as pain stabbed his skull. He rubbed his brow. "My punishment for being paranoid," he muttered, and opened the door. Then he remembered Carson's history at the gym, and decided maybe he wasn't paranoid enough.

Liana had celebrated getting her job at her private clinic by buying their dream house, and she'd taken charge of all of the decorating. She'd had the rooms painted a soft peach, which glowed in the light. She'd also had the carpets ripped out and replaced with pine boards.

The air in the house was redolent of fresh pastry, cinnamon, and roast beef. Just to taste the air made Jake's mouth water. But it made him nervous. He usually handled the cooking. When Liana put on her apron, the results could get...unpredictable. She liked to experiment. When it came to novel surgical techniques, Jake supported her one hundred per cent. But when it came to the food on his plate, in his belly, his ardour for discovery cooled. It wasn't that she was a bad cook. You just had to let go of your expectations, see the treasure in front of you.

Take, for instance, her scrambled eggs. Great, if you like foamy yellow soup that hardened on contact with air. Her meringues doubled as insulation padding, her cookies were bulletproof, and her seafood surprise had crawled away to freedom.

Jake found he had paused in the threshold, halfway into the house, and halfway out. He lingered there for a moment or two, and thoughts of the Golden Buddha takeaway curry house came into his head, sat down, and got comfy. But then he thought of Liana. He pictured her sweet, birdlike face, her luminous skin and shining blue eyes, framed in that white gold halo of hair, like the icon of a mediaeval saint. He imagined how she would look if he rejected her food, how her generous lips would twist and pout, her brow would wrinkle, and her eyes glisten with tears. No matter how exotic or palate-shattering her cuisine could be, nothing was worth that.

He closed his eyes, summoned his courage, and shut the door behind him.

***

Liana glared at the dishes; beef in one, apple pie in the other. She checked her watch; five thirty. Jake would get home soon, and she wanted everything on the dining table, ready to eat.

He'd come into the dining room, and his mouth would fall open in surprise, the way it always did when she cooked for him. Then his blue eyes would light up, and he'd show her that big Jake grin, rush over, sweep her up and crush her in his powerful embrace. She'd laugh, and tell him to put her down, and then she'd pepper his face with kisses. He might carry her up to the bedroom right away, without even waiting for supper.

Her vision faded as she looked at the beef and the pie.

She ground her heel into the wooden tiles of the kitchen, and her eyes burned. People had sometimes told her she had eyes like cool lasers. She wished it were true, so she could nuke the food with a glance. That didn't work, so she shoved both of the dishes into the oven at once, turned the heat right up, and hoped.

Jake arrived at six, as she'd expected. She welcomed him, and fussed over the bruises on his face; his cheeks and his right eye were swollen. As she'd planned, her cooking took him by surprise, and he managed to contain his desire until he'd eaten a little, before he rushed her out of the dining room.

They made passionate love, and later, he went downstairs, and brought a picnic up so they could eat in bed, laughing, stroking and kissing each other.

It's not the last time, she told herself.

But it was hard not to cry, so she had him lie on his face, and kissed and massaged every part of him, stoking his desire until he could stand no more, and swept her underneath him. She used her every art to please him, and he held back until he'd brought her to the crest of satisfaction. At last they collapsed in joy, and lay tangled together.

When Jake was deep in sleep, she rose from their bed. She leaned over him, stroked his face, and kissed his brow. Then she tiptoed downstairs to the living room. She took her laptop from her briefcase, and dropped down on their cream leather sofa, naked in the dark room, enjoying the feel of the cool leather on her skin. The only light came from the screen.

She perched the computer against her thighs, and felt it hum. She activated the silent running program she'd prepared that morning, and routed her internet connection through a ghost server. Only when she believed she was absolutely untraceable, did she begin her night's work.

"Think you can buy and sell me, Pamik? Think you own me? Not this girl. I'm not your damn doll."

***

Connie lay sick. Liana saw it in the pallor in her skin, and her thinning hair; she'd shed thick black hairs all over the steel pen. Kelvin looked stronger, but if he didn't eat, he'd go the same way.

She tried to coax the pigs to let her insert the feeding tube, but they lay flat, and rolled away when she came near. Connie gave her a little warning bite; not hard enough to break the skin, but a clear message. She sighed, and let the pigs rest. She could appreciate how they felt. Even she was off her food today, and the lab's fluorescent lights glared off the white decor, hurting her eyes.

Tim came over from the work bench, where he'd been shuffling papers, pretending to be busy so she wouldn't ask him to help feed the 'damn hairy hogs.' "Doctor Gleicker, you need to reconsider."

"Not again, Tim," she said. She brushed some lint off her red tartan skirt, and adjusted her cream blouse, hoping see his quibbles were not worth her attention.

"You've got to weigh the values," he said. "Those organs are worth thousands of dollars, whereas those hairy assed hogs are worth-"

"They're living animals, Tim," she said, aware that her voice was louder than it needed to be. She hadn't slept much last night, and her eyes felt sore and puffy.

Tim's aftershave stank like overripe watermelon.

"They're a growth medium, and a cheap one at that," he said. "The research is worth more than any number of dumbass hogs, and so is the market value of those kidneys!"

She ground her teeth together, and glared at him. "Your balls are a growth medium, too, Tim," she said. "And I'd like to do some genetic research. Do you mind if I harvest some material with a scalpel?"

He swallowed, and backed away, and she saw his eyes grow damp, and his lips quiver. Who does he think I am, she thought, Doctor Mengele? I would never really-

"If you won't listen to me," he said, his voice high pitched with emotion, "then I'll go way up over you."

She put her hands up in a placating gesture. "Tim-"

He kept backing away, and he didn't give her a chance to speak. "I'll call Mister Hessler, yeah, that's what I'll do. There are all kinds of things I could tell him about this lab. I bet he'd like to hear them. Yeah, I bet he would."

Now that was just too much. She set her jaw, and folded her arms. "Okay Tim, you sound as if you know what's what. I bet that Pamik would love to hear your story. I believe he's in Basel, and it's about three AM over there, but I don't think you should wait. I think you should call him right now."

She stood glaring at him, her arms pressed together over her chest. His eyes rolled, his face bright red. Then he went pale, and twitched, as if he'd had an electric shock. He turned and ran from the lab.

Liana sighed, and rubbed her face with her hands. One of the pigs gave a weak snort, and at that moment, it sounded eerily like human laughter. It tickled Liana, and she laughed too.

She had begun to think about coffee, when Mann ran into the room, and he never ran. Something had to be wrong. She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Hey, it's my new Mann. If this is about Tim-"

"What? Who's Tim?"

"My lab assistant. We just had a bit of an argument, and he looked like he might do something stupid, but-"

Mann shook his head, and held up his palm to stop her. "Forget Tim. We have a real problem."

***

Liana stared at him, and felt her cheeks grow hot. She hoped that Mann would make it quick. A flood of emotions rushed over her, washing away her cool, strong self-image. She'd been playing before, but now she felt sinking dread in her belly. She wished Jake were there to protect her, but against Mann, even he would have been helpless.

Just as she was helpless.

Her heart beat faster. He already knew. He knew everything. She didn't want to see it coming, so she shut her eyes, but she couldn't stop the pictures in her mind. She'd seen him once, doing a test after the operation; she'd thought it up herself. She'd hired a former pro boxer to test his reflexes. The boxer had laid into Mann without warning. One moment the thin, clean man in the suit was standing with that air of quiet authority, and the next he was a blur, and the boxer was on his back and spraying blood from the hole where his left eye used to be.

The memory sickened her. "Make it quick," she murmured, her voice made thick as her mouth dried up.

Mann was silent.

Perhaps he wasn't going to run her over. Maybe he was going to... Question her. She shivered, ice in her veins. "Damn you, Mann," she said. "I don't have all morning!"

"I'm sorry, Doctor Gleicker."

"I'm sorry too," she said, wishing that she'd never got involved in this madness.

He cleared his throat, and the sudden noise made her jump. "I guess this is a bad time, but you've got more important problems than a troubled experiment."

She laughed without thinking. Was that how he saw himself? "Mann, you're so much more than a troubled experiment." Her voice shook.

"Doctor Gleicker, I need you to listen. You can't afford to joke."

"You think I'm..." She opened her eyes, and looked at him. His face was serious, pained. He didn't look like Pamik's assassin. He looked as if they were low on gas in the desert. She licked her lips, and was surprised to find she had some saliva. That crushing fear began to slip away.

Mann wiped sweat from his forehead with one powerful hand, and she caught a whiff of that alcohol rub he used all the time. No, she thought, not all the time. When he's in trouble... When he's nervous.

"Mann," she said, trying not to let her feelings into her voice. "I think you'd better tell me exactly why you're running into my lab, talking all sorts of nonsense." She felt amazed she could say that, hold his gaze, without falling apart.

"Urgent message from Pamik," he said, falling into clipped sentences. It was probably a hangover from his military days.

"Well go on," she said. "What does the bloated devil want? Custom corneas? Transgenic toenails? Honestly, I spend more time struggling with his ill-informed suggestions than I ever do on actual-"

He put his hand on her shoulder, and she flinched. "Doctor Gleicker, with respect, zip your lips and listen."

"I-"

"Listen! Pamik's intelligence unit-"

She snorted. "Intelligence!"

"Doctor Gleicker."

She pressed her lips together.

"They report that we have an information leak. Someone in the European division sold his story to German Intelligence, and they passed it on to the FBI."

She stiffened. A new wave of fear hit her, that he was gaming her. She couldn't keep from shivering.

"You're scared," he said.

"No-"

"You should be. We're leaving, right now."

"Leaving? But-"

"They're planning a raid. We've got one hour, at best. We're still here after that, we go to prison. And Doctor? You won't like prison."

Her mouth fell open, and she didn't even have to pretend. Certain words had floated through her head as soon as she'd come up with her scheme, words like madcap, brainless and suicidal. She hadn't bothered to argue, because leaving her fate to Pamik would be just as brainless, perhaps in the literal sense of having that vital organ scraped out of her skull. She'd gone ahead with the gamble, but she hadn't dared hope.

Mann squeezed her shoulder, hard enough to make her gasp. "I said we're going."

Liana drew back and pushed away his hand. She massaged her shoulder, and as the pain faded, she rallied. This was her plan, and they were standing in her lab. She could smell the pigs! She would never take this nonsense from a research assistant, and she wasn't going be hustled around by her own test subject. "We're not going anywhere until I get a copy of the research data."

Mann's face twisted in exasperation. "There isn't time," he said, his inhuman calm showing cracks. "I'm talking about federal officers, kicking in the doors and pointing shotguns at us. Have you ever had a shotgun shoved in your face? You'll forget all about your precious research, I guarantee it."

Liana folded her arms. She tried to give him a schoolmarm look. "Have you ever had your body cut open, and your organs replaced with synthetic enhancements?"

He froze. His eyes lost their cool, grew wide.

"Have you ever signed your bodily health over to the care of a brilliant and unique scientist? Working, I must add, in a field not legal. Not insured."

"We can't stay here." He'd lost his air of authority. A pleading note had entered his voice. He squeezed his hands together, and then he started to massage them, almost as if he was applying another lot of alcohol rub.

Liana felt her dominance. "If you value your health, you'd better follow my instructions, and wait for me to get that data. I am the only person in the world who understands your special glands, Heartbeat."

Mann flinched, and hung his head. She almost told him to get her coffee, but decided against it.

That would be pushing it.

Chapter 4

Liana slipped the memory stick into her silver handbag, swept the hair out of her eyes, and took one last look around the lab, at the computers, the workbench, and at the cages. She drew in a deep breath, and tasted the air, the pig smell with Tim's cheap deodorant and Mann's alcohol rub.

She felt moisture bud in her eyes when she thought that she would never stand in this room again, that she could never come back. When she looked at Connie and Kelvin, she didn't see a pair of test animals, living growth tanks for her synthetic organs, she saw two hairy, stinky partners in science.

She'd miss them.

Mann began to pace the room with arms folded, his face unnaturally blank. He could control his face, she thought, but he needed to work on his body language. An Australian aborigine could tell that he wanted to get outside. She sniffed, and wiped her eyes. Once she'd got his cooperation, it had been a matter of a minute to copy the research data, and she'd made sure to permanently delete the original material. She could leave right away, and yet she lingered.

All I have to do is sit down, she thought, and copy the data back onto the computer. No one would ever know. Pamik checks the logs, but he wouldn't comment if I put it all back. Mann thinks we're going to get hit by a raid...hard to explain.

She had a plan, but would it work? Pamik was a mean boss. To quit this way would turn him into a raging enemy. Worst, was Jake. She'd wanted to tell him everything, but she couldn't. He was a stubborn fighter, and he would never have let her run. He'd have taken the fight to Pamik.

He'd have lost.

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"So I'm thinking too loud now?" said Mann.

She ignored him. Jake couldn't know, not yet. She had a plan to bring him in, but this had to be a done thing. He'd understand.

"Unless you've got a telepathic link with your computer, I'd say you're finished, Doctor Gleicker," said Mann.

"Call me Liana," she said.

"Let's get out of here!"

And they did.

***

Jill Fontaine sat in her padded leather chair in the quiet security office, one eye on the video feeds, and one eye on the UFC match streaming on her netbook. The Australian Blaine Carlyle smashed Tuvalu's Jim Tuahua in the face, spraying blood across the octagon. Jill grinned, and rubbed sweaty palms up and down the legs of her tight black suit.

Something caught her eye on one of the monitors, and she focused in on it; Mann had gone into the lab, and was having some kind of argument with the doctor. He'd been acting weird that morning, ever since he'd come to work. She decided to sneak a look at his workstation, but he'd locked it. She snorted, and kicked his empty chair.

When she sat back down, she took another look at the lab, and this time she jumped up in her seat. Mann's body language was all threat, like a cat with his hair on end. She panned the camera. His face showed actual emotion.

He looked dangerous.

Jill threw herself back in her chair, her eyebrows drawn close together, and she flicked strawberry blonde hair out of her eyes. On the screen, she saw Mann take a step towards the doctor, who backed away. Jill licked her lips. This looked promising. If that sexless son of an onanistic pig went mental on the doc, she'd stick the video on the net. That'd teach him what happens when you pass on a Fontaine.

"I'm gonna take you out," she said, her voice husky with excitement. "I'm gonna..." She paused, as a new idea came to her. Mann couldn't afford exposure. What the doc had done, it wasn't legal; none of their business was. If he came into the public eye, he'd be locked up and experimented on.

She couldn't make threats, he'd kill her. She knew he was capable, and it made her sweat. But a video... That made her breasts tingle.

"Keep on going, you limp-pronged android. I'm gonna own your transhuman ass..."

Blaine Carlyle caught Jim Tuahua a hard one in the ribs, and Jim staggered back, grunting. Jill wondered if Mann would a grunt or shout, or if he stayed silent when hot. Speaking of hot, the doc looked like she'd fired up her engines, and ol' Heartbeat looked hangdog. Jill kept expecting him to jump back up and turn it around, but he just kept shrinking in on himself, limp and wilting.

"No," she said. "No, don't lie down. Get up and fight!"

On the screen, Blaine Carlyle kept up his momentum. He jabbed at Jim Tuahua, smothered his moves, and forced him back against the wire of the cage. Jill nodded. That was how you did it. She wished Heartbeat would get the idea, but he didn't have a clue. Minutes passed, and he stood silent and moping. And then, weirder than anything else, he followed the doc as she left the lab, and took an elevator to the ground floor.

Jill watched in surprise as the doc and Mann walked out of the building. She slumped in her chair, and the nice leather smell failed to comfort her. She turned back to the fight video, just in time to watch Jim Tuahua duck under Blaine Carlyle's exhausted swing, scissor his legs, and put him in a perfect lock.

A storm burst within her.

She jumped out of her chair and rushed out of the room. They could hide their tryst from her? No chance! Who cared about the clinic cameras? She had her phone.

***

Jill rushed to the main entrance, and threw open the glass panelled doors that led out onto the street. The first thing she noticed was the heat, as Seattle lazed through summer. The second was the smell; the clinic had air conditioning, and if the air wasn't fresh, it didn't smell of exhaust fumes, pine-scented cars, and a melange of spices and oil from the Mexican restaurant down the street. The third thing that she noticed was the noise of cars, motorbikes, trucks, chugging and crawling, honking their protest at being forced to move at an ant's pace. Once again, the city was in gridlock, a problem that grew more common each year.

The sensory impacts jarred her, and she found it hard to pick up any distinct idea of where to go, what direction to take in order to catch up with her quarry. From the busy grey sidewalk and the black tarmac, to the road squeezed with red and blue cars, to the sky above, smeared grey and yellow as all those engines contributed to the atmosphere, everywhere she turned hummed with suppressed energy and life.

Jill rolled her tongue against her neat white teeth, and bit down a little, just enough to make her wince with pain. She tasted blood, and the tiny wound helped her to counteract the sensory assault of the city street. She realised that, with the cars locked bumper to bumper, there was no way the two of them could have crossed the road, so they had to have gone straight.

People jostled one another along the sidewalk: suited workers coming late, ragged street types, and harassed couriers. Perfect for disappearing. They couldn't have gone far in the two or three minutes it had taken her to follow them, not through these crowds, but now they could be standing a block down from her, and she'd never know it.

A fat sweaty guy in a yellow muumuu shoved her, and she stumbled into the road, right into the path of a red truck.

She jumped back and swore at the fat guy, but he disappeared a moment later, swept away by the crowd. It gave her an idea. The truck moved at about thirty miles a month, so she scooted around to the back, clambered up the side, and used it as a lookout post. The driver leaned out of his cab, an aging bald guy with an out of control beard, fury printed on his shiny forehead. Jill blew him a kiss, and he winked at her.

Having established her territory, she searched the street up and down. She soon picked out a short woman with platinum blonde hair and a cream blouse, at the side of a tall man in a neat black suit.

Jill's lips curled in a predatory grin. "I got you, you sneaking pair of snakes!" She jumped down from the truck, waved to the driver, and jogged along the road. Her heart beat faster, and a new sense of purpose lent her energy. She could almost see them.

She was planning her approach when the blast hit. She felt as if a giant had laid his hand on her back, and shoved her forwards. At the same time, her ears screamed at the impact of a sound both louder and harder than any she'd ever heard, loud like the shock of her .357 magnum when she fired it at the range, magnified a thousand times. She flew forwards, crashed face down onto the tarmac, and still the force carried her forwards, grinding her face and chest against the road.

She blacked out.

When the light came back, she found her mouth open, her teeth digging into the surface of the road, and the taste of blood, tire rubber, and tarmac filling her mouth. She lifted herself up on hands smeared with blood, and climbed onto two weak, trembling legs.

Sound had drained out of the world. Blood choked her nose. The light hurt her eyes but she made herself look around, blinking, at the street and the road. The way ahead was a mass of people, flailing at one another in panic as they struggled to run. One guy tried to drive his blue sedan up the sidewalk, frantic to escape. She turned, and almost collapsed. The road was a mass of twisted burning metal, and ruined bodies littered the sidewalk. Blood soaked everything.

Offices and restaurants along the street had all been smashed up, their windows shattered, but the epicentre of the blast was right where Pamik's clinic had been, replaced now by a mauled, smoking ruin. She stared at it, and realised how close she had been to death. Then she looked down, and saw the blood soaking through her ripped blouse. She reached up to her face, and felt bloody ruined flesh. Her body had suppressed the pain, fear and shock. Now they rushed on her.

Anguish struck Jill, and felled her like an axe to the head.

Chapter 5

Liana checked her phone as she walked along the busy street. She got bumped by a sweaty Sikh in a faded blue turban and a brown suit, and had to grab Mann's arm before he struck him.

The air thronged with gridlock noise; she walked past three stalled cars, each one pumping out a different music; rap, pop, metal. She snapped her phone shut, tricked by the mess of sounds around her. The smell of hot tarmac and sweaty strangers crowded out the stink of Mann's alcohol rub. She decided, were Dante were alive and writing, Seattle would be the new Inferno.

She heard a crack, like thunder. She couldn't place it, but moments later, people screamed, car horns wailed, and alarms rang out. She paused and turned, craning her neck to see. The crowd was too thick, so all she had to go on was that cacophony of pain and fear.

Mann pulled on her shoulder. She shrugged him off. "I want to see," she said. "Something bad's happened, maybe a car accident." She felt an urgent need. Her medical training and habits came alive as pressure in her gut, a pull towards the noise, a pull to help.

Mann grabbed her shoulder and spun her around so her legs twisted under her body, and she came close to falling on her ass. He caught her and saved her balance, but he didn't let go.

"Get off me, you smelly ape," she said. He tightened his grip, and let her feel his strength. Without any obvious effort, he raised her up onto her toes, so she had no balance or leverage. His meaning was clear. She could not go back.

People began to move and speak again. Some headed towards the blast. Others ran away, up the street or into the road. No one paid them any attention. No one else heard him speak. "That was no car crash."

He set her down, and she stared at him, her brow knitted. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth fell open. "You-"

He grabbed her hand, turned, and started to walk up the street, jerking her after him. She had no choice but to obey, to jog to keep up, as her mind threw out wrenching images.

She pictured the clinic, ripped open; her poor pigs, the people, the guard at the front desk, her surgical assistants, even that idiot Tim, drenched in blood, his body cracked and burst, his ribs gleaming, his face charred black, his eyes-

She couldn't accept it. The people she'd known and worked with were dead, were broken, burned and murdered by the man who held her, the man she'd trusted. Her belly twisted, her legs buckled, and she crashed down on the sidewalk. Every part of her wanted to scream, to tear away, but she'd lost all power to move. Her arms and her legs refused to lift her, her vision fogged, and the street faded into shadows.

Time passed, and Liana drifted through a dark half-world. She heard muffled voices, the low roar of a car engine, the distant howl of a siren. The hard slabs of the sidewalk gave way to the softness of a plush couch or padded chair. The smell of exhaust fumes was replaced by the scent of honey and almonds.

When at last she came to herself, she found she'd been moved. She raised herself up from the soft seat where she lay, looked around, and saw she sat in the back of a private taxi. Mann sat in the front, watching her in the mirror. She felt the car's rhythm and sway. She looked out of the window, and saw a quiet highway.

"The airport," said Mann. He sounded careful, gentle.

Liana ignored him.

"I'm taking you to the airport."

She shrugged, and avoided his reflected gaze.

"It was in my instructions," he said. He spoke with care, as if she'd shatter if he spoke too loud. "Pamik's email. I'm taking you somewhere safe."

She couldn't hold back. "Your instructions!"

He looked uncomfortable. "Uhuh."

"Clear out of the clinic, fine," she said. "Get me to the airport, great. But- But Pamik didn't tell you to, to..." She trailed off as she realised the driver could hear every word.

Mann didn't need every word.

"How do you know what Pamik said?"

She bit her lip hard, and tasted blood. "Well, you, you would have told me if he'd... I mean, Pamik's smart, a sharp business type. He wouldn't have told you to...you know!"

He eyed her in the mirror, and then he sighed. "I used my initiative. We couldn't afford to leave anything behind. Not in this situation." He dropped his eyes, and said no more.

Liana slumped back in her comfy seat, miserable and guilty. I never wanted this, she told herself, I never meant this to happen. She felt sick, weak. Worse than the guilt, worse than the knowledge she was responsible for so much human wreckage, was the fear. Mann had acted on his own initiative, as he put it. He had destroyed a building, killed many people she knew, and an unknown number of strangers, passersby who had happened to walk down the wrong road that morning. That was his idea of a simple precaution. And she had put herself in his hands.

After that speech in the lab, she knew he wouldn't leave her side. He wouldn't give her a chance to get away. He'd call it protection, but he'd be her travelling jailer. If he ever found out she'd faked those instructions from Pamik...

He'd be her executioner.

Chapter 6

Coming home from the gym, Jake went to Mulligan's Feed Store to buy fresh eggs. He wanted to surprise Liana with a soufflé. He'd known tubby old Ed Mulligan since childhood, with his round red face and green chequered apron. He had a magical ability to bring in the freshest, tastiest food, straight from the local farms, much better than what they sold at Honkin' Hog Mart.

Mulligan wasn't around that afternoon, and his part time assistant, Poppy, looked startled to see anyone in the store. She stared at Jake's face, and when he noticed, she jumped, and turned on the TV by the checkout counter, busying her hands by braiding her long, bottle blonde pigtails.

Jake rubbed his face. He caught the bruises around his right eye, and winced with pain. He caught sight of his reflection in the soft drink refrigerator. No wonder she'd given him an odd look; he looked like a sack of hammered tomatoes.

He picked out six fresh eggs, a vial of vanilla essence to flavour the soufflé, and several handfuls of big red strawberries and succulent blueberries. Liana had a taste for sweet delights. The subtle perfume of the strawberries tickled his nose, and teased him, like Liana's own scent. For a moment, he forgot about the store, the eggs and fruit, and his plan for that night. All he could think of was Liana. He pictured her soft, glowing hair, her eyes like deep sapphires, the curve of her cheek, the warmth of her touch.

"Special offer," said Poppy. He jumped, and almost dropped the eggs.

"Jesus, Poppy! You move like a ninja."

She turned her head to one side, as if unsure whether to take his words as a compliment or an insult. Then she bobbed a little, and held up a piece of beef. "Special offer," she said again. "Buy, uh, six eggs, get this steak free."

He raised an eyebrow. "That's nice, but I've got enough-"

She thrust it at him. "It's for your face, you big goof!"

"Uh, thanks, Poppy." He took it, though he figured that his bruises were too old to benefit from a nice beef facial. Maybe he could make sandwiches...

"Just don't eat it!" She wagged her finger at him. "Daddy said I had to move that thing somehow. It's been sitting in our freezer for six months. I'm not supposed to just give it away, but as it's a good cause, it'll be okay. You've made my day." She beamed at him.

He fought the urge to dump the meat. "Glad I could help...I guess."

The afternoon news came on. "Ooh!" She grabbed his arm, and tugged him towards the checkout. "Come on, come and pay for your stuff. I gotta check my lottery numbers."

"I'm not done."

"Then you'd better hurry," she said. "When I win, I'm gonna lock the store and run away to Florida and eat cherry ice cream and drink pink daiquiris until I'm sick!"

Jake had faced guys who found it easier to break a man's jaw than shake his hand, but none of his martial arts training gave him a chance against Poppy. He resisted, but somehow she got him to the counter. What the hell, he had the makings of a good fruit basket soufflé. Focus on the good side, he told himself. You couldn't be a fighter, and live with bruises, sprains, and broken bones without that attitude.

Look on the good side.

"Twelve dollars," said Poppy, her eyes fixed on the TV.

"Cheaper than I expected," he said, counting out the money.

"Oh shit!"

"What? Did I count wrong? This old brain's taken a few too many punches, I guess, huh, Poppy. Poppy?"

She said nothing. Her face went ashen, and her mouth fell open.

"Poppy, tell me what's wrong."

She pointed at the TV. He stared at her in confusion, and then his eyes followed her finger, and focused on the news.

His world fell apart.

***

Mann led her to the check-in queue.

Liana brushed hair from her eyes, and looked around the departures terminal. A silver haired man in a pinstriped suit marched past, checking his watch and talking at his phone. A pear-shaped lady in pink running clothes argued with a sweaty guard, while her Yorkshire terrier chewed a potted palm tree. A pretty girl with green hair and black nails sipped her ice blended coffee as she surfed the net on a handheld computer.

The air had the same melange of scents as the perfume boutiques of a department store; here the tang of musk, there the aroma of rose and lavender, all mingled together and failing to mask the omnipresent odour of a thousand human bodies. It all looked so ordinary, oblivious to the pit of misery, the agony of so many thrown down in despair. She felt herself at the edge of that pit even now. No matter where she went, or what Mann said, she felt that precipice at her feet.

Something barged into her legs.

She flinched. Fear threatened to overwhelm her, and then she heard high-pitched giggles. She looked back and saw two little Indian girls, each dressed in a bright yellow sari. They were slapping their hands in the patty cake game, and every so often one would slip, and her sister would push her, make her stumble, and they would squeal with laughter. Their mother wore umber, texting with a hand that glittered with gold rings. She looked bored with her kids' antics, but what if they had been walking outside the clinic when it blew up? Would she be bored then, or would she screaming and tearing her hair out, clawing through wreckage in a desperate, futile search?

The Indian woman looked at Liana with large, dark eyes. Liana went quite still, afraid that this woman had somehow seen into her mind. The woman cleared her throat. Then she sighed. "If you're not going to move, would you mind if I went around you?"

"I..." She turned, and saw the queue had moved. She ran to catch up with Mann, who had reached the counter, and was talking to a voluptuous brunette whose name card said Dallas. Once she'd got beside him, she realised she'd missed her chance to slip away.

She put her face in her hands. She wanted to be alone, to cry her feelings away, but she found herself in a smoky void, and the airport sounds grew louder. A man spoke over the PA, but it felt that he spoke in her head, bawling about a lost child. His voice echoed inside her, over and over again, until she threw her hands down, her head bowed, her eyes scrunched up, and every muscle in her body tensed, but she couldn't run or jump or move at all. She stood fixed and stiff, sure that she would burst.

"You're attracting attention," said Mann. He'd got the tickets. He took her by the arm, and led her towards the departures lounge. She pulled away from him. He paused, glanced around, and then he crouched down so he was smaller than her, and he looked up into her eyes like a lover proposing.

"This is an airport. There are armed guards watching us. If you don't control your behaviour, they will take an interest. You don't want that."

He's trying to take care of me, she thought. He thinks he's taking care of me.

"That's not all," he said. "Remember that federal raid. Those agents don't know who worked at the clinic, but now, after the explosion, they'll look. If we make a disturbance here, we'll call them down on us."

He sounded so earnest. She had an absurd desire to applaud, but it reinforced one key point: he believed the story she'd fed him. She had to focus on that, on the power she had, not on her responsibility, his atrocity.

She noticed that she'd forgotten to breathe. She took several convulsive breaths, and the air, canned and recycled though it was, made her feel more alive.

She had power, she had to remember. Mann was here to look after her. Yes, and she knew someone else, someone who was a billion times more dedicated. She nodded at Mann, and squeezed out a shoddy imitation of a smile, at the same time as she reached into her purse, and took out her phone.

"Good," he said, standing up. "You're beginning to think straight." He held out his hand.

She looked up at him, and blinked. "Huh? You want to make a call?"

He pursed his lips, and his eyes tightened at the corners. "My phone is clean." He kept holding out his hand.

"I, uh. You-"

"I'll deal with it. They won't be able to track us."

He tried to take it from her. She held onto the phone, resisting him. "I need to call my husband," she said. "I need to speak to him, let him know I'm okay."

He shook his head. "Bad idea. He'll go to the police, the hospitals..."

She tugged on the phone. "That's why I have to call him!"

"If you speak to him now, you'll put him in danger."

Her mouth fell open, and she leaned her head forward, to hear him better. "Say that again."

He rolled his eyes, making her feel like the idiot at the back of the class. "He'll tell them you worked at the clinic. They'll think you're dead. They won't look for you. But if you speak to him-"

"Shut up! Shut your mouth!"

"I'm just trying to-"

"Just shut your mouth, Heartbeat!" A light shone, hurt her eyes, and made them well with tears. "I understand. I do. I should have seen it before. I should have seen all of this before!"

She hated to admit it, but he was right. She couldn't talk to Jake, and she couldn't go home. She'd have to rely on the plan. She'd have to see it through.

"I've got no choice," she said.

She handed Mann the phone.

***

Jake stumbled home from the blast site, head low, seeing nothing but an endless mass of ragged concrete and the burned out hulks cars. He could still taste the oily black smoke that hung over everything like a funeral shroud.

The weary policeman on duty, his face and hands streaked with dust, had told him to go home and wait for news, or to Saint Anthony's hospital to visit the wounded. He'd got excited to hear that, and had asked about the survivors.

"From the street?Jake had shaken his head. "What about the clinic? Tell me about the people in the clinic!"

The policeman had frowned at him. "You mean the building?"

"Yeah," Jake had nodded, eager to hear any news.

The cop had pointed one grimy finger at the smoking wreck. "That building?"

Jake had stopped nodding.

"I'm sorry, mister. We got a few from the street, and some from the adjoining buildings, but..."

"No," said Jake.

"From that building?"

He'd shaken his head, afraid to hear it. "No, please..."

"We got none."

Jake had hung his head, rubbed a hand through the bristles of his buzz cut hair, and massaged the back of his neck. It couldn't be true. There had to be a mistake. She couldn't be...

Something of his feelings must have kindled understanding in the cop. His voice changed, became more sympathetic, more human. "You lost someone in there?"

"I lost everyone!"

He'd wanted to pummel the cop, to punish him for making him say what he'd been afraid to whisper in his heart.

He moved with the slow, even pace of a sleepwalker, lost in an endless waste of smashed walls and shattered windows. He approached his house torn between hope and dread; he wanted it all to be a mistake, for her to be waiting at home. He dreaded coming back to a still, silent home.

He found a bundle of envelopes and one thick cardboard parcel waiting for him at the door. He picked up the mail with nerveless fingers, took it inside, and as he trudged through the quiet rooms he started to realise just how cold and unfeeling a place can be when the life gets ripped out.

Even his home needed Liana.

He walked through the kitchen, and caught the scent of coffee lingering in the air; they shared a pot of Arabica every morning, and as they talked about their plans for the day, they'd stroke each other's hands. Now the room was silent, and though the day was hot, he felt cold inside.

He heard a creaking noise, and whirled around, senses thrilling, with the hope that she'd walk in, and be there again.

Nothing.

He held his breath, strained every nerve for sound or sign. It came again, that squealing, creaking noise, like a wet hand on leather.

He ran up to the bathroom, praying, wishing, and when he got there, he threw open the door, and found-

Nothing.

The bathroom was dark and empty. A little light from the landing reflected off the steel fittings, and his own shadowy image watched him from the mirror, eyes narrow and accusing. It came again, that blasted creaking sound. He stalked to the bedroom, but still nothing.

Accustomed to fight, this silent tension made his muscles knot, and turned his face into a scowling mask. He ran from room to room, he threw open doors, turning on lights, searched every corner, and found nothing, again nothing, useless nothing!

He ran out of power in the living room, and dropped down on the sofa, panting and sweating. But as soon as he sat down, he heard the damned squealing noise again. Furious now, he jumped up and whirled around, ready to tear the leather sofa apart. As he reached out, he heard the noise once more right beside him now. He still had the bundle of mail in his hand, gripped so tight that the letters had crumpled, and the brown cardboard of the parcel was scratched and bent. His every wild move had dug his short nails deeper into the cardboard, and his fingers had made that nerve-wracking sound.

"I've been chasing myself!"

He flung the bundle on to the floor. He lifted his foot to stamp on it. As he did, he caught sight of his reflection in the dead screen of the TV. Face red, eyes rolling, fists raised in the air, he looked like a madman. He froze, caught between fury and embarrassment, until the absurdity of it took hold of him, and his rage evaporated. He dropped down on the sofa, and laughed. First came a giggle, then a belly laugh that grew louder and louder until his face ached and his eyes flowed with tears. And then, at the height of his senseless mirth, the laughter died, but the tears, the tears kept flowing.

He wept long into the night, until at last, sometime in the long dark hours before the dawn, he fell into a black and bottomless abyss.

***

Chapter 7

Jake woke in the night. The air felt warm and heavy, like before a thunderstorm. He listened to the night, and heard nothing, not even the faintest whisper of a breeze.

He reached out to throw off his stifling sheets, but they refused to budge. Half-awake, he sat up in surprise, pulling at the sheets that swathed his chest, but he couldn't get free of that hot, close embrace. He tensed his muscles, and tried harder, and his reward came as a tearing sound, and with it, he felt material fall away from his skin, and his arms came free; his right hand flew out and smacked against...the wall? Too soft. The bed? Too upright. He reached out and explored the dark by touch, and what his fingers discovered felt cool, smooth and soft. His hand slipped away from the material, and pressed against his face, in a useless attempt to ease his confusion. His hand, rough with calluses, brought him the scent of leather.

As soon as he caught that smell, it all came back to him, the moments flashing by like a TV montage, accompanied by crippling pain.

He saw himself at Mulligan's store, tall and powerful in the upper body, his hair blonde stubble, his face aged by fight scars. His eyes were locked on that old TV, eggs, strawberries and blueberries tumbling from his hands as he saw the news.

He saw himself standing before the smoking ruin of the clinic, eyes red and weeping from black smoke that choked his lungs and turned the concrete ruins into a patchwork of shadows.

He saw himself at home, praying and cursing as he stormed the house, feet thudding on the wooden floors, until at last he ran out of power, collapsed, and his eyes swelled with tears.

He looked down, and knew that he'd not been pulling back sheets; in his half-awake state, he'd torn his polo-neck down the front, so it hung loose from his chest. He took it off, and sniffed. It stank of smoke. He emptied his pockets, and tossed his wallet and phone on the floor.

"The phone! Stupid, stupid, brainless dinosaur, running around when all you had to do..."

He knew it wouldn't be that easy. It couldn't be. Even as he picked up the phone and keyed in her number, he knew it was futile. He dialled by touch, and got a recorded message; this phone is off, please leave a message.

He threw his phone on the sofa, shaking his head. He'd known, in his gut he'd known already. If she had been able to call, she would have.

"Another nail in the damn-" He cut himself off, his words chilling his own blood. "No! No! She's alive, she's alive and she needs me." He squeezed his right hand into a fist, and punched his left palm to emphasise the words. "She needs me!"

"What would she want me to do? How could I help?" He found himself wishing he could ask Liana for advice; she always knew what to do. She made him feel like a dinosaur or an ape man, fresh from the trees, making a living with his fists and his attitude. She was cool, collected, and saw through things with ease. If she were there to help...

"I'm crazy," he said to the night. "Too many blows to the head." As before, when the laughter went, it left him colder and sadder. He stripped off the last of his clothes, wadded them up, and threw them into the washing machine in the kitchen. Then he went upstairs and took a shower. He had to get that smoke stink off him.

After his shower, he felt hot and fresh, but that energy evaporated, leaving him exhausted. He couldn't tell what time it was, but from the silent, still darkness he guessed it was deep, deep into the night. He dragged himself into bed, and lay there on top of the covers, wasted and powerless, unable to sleep, and alone, so alone. It got so bad he couldn't take it, so he stumbled out of bed and down the stairs, back to the cool leather sofa. He turned on the TV to take his mind off the unbearable absence.

He woke to sunlight, and the chirping of birds. The TV was still alive, but he felt dead.

Sunlight made the room glow, and hurt his eyes. He rubbed his face, and felt the rasp of stubble. His eyes felt puffy and sore, and the bird noises echoed in his head. He shut tried to sleep again, but he felt pressure down in his bladder. He staggered upstairs and relieved himself, disturbed at the loathsome creature he saw in the bathroom mirror; stubbly and red-eyed, it brought out the worst aspects of his face. His nose, crooked from being broken long ago, his bristly head, those scars on his cheeks and around his eyes, they conspired to make him look foul.

He shook his head to get rid of those depressing thoughts, and went back down to the kitchen, to fix a coffee for...

It caught him again. Tears welled up and stung his swollen eyes. That was something they did together, a morning ritual, a time to share. He looked at the steel coffee machine, and touched it with a shaking hand. He flinched back from the cold metal, and shook his head. He opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a can of beer. He held it up so it caught the sunlight.

Liana would not approve.

"She's not here, is she? God..."

He cracked the can open, and poured the cold, foaming brew down his throat. It fizzed, and filled his mouth with that bittersweet taste, and his nose caught that sharp, fermented scent. He drained the can, crushed it, and tossed it on the floor, surprised and ashamed at his behaviour, and also relishing in it in a proud, painful way. He took out another beer, and then he grabbed the whole pack, and carried it to the living room. He slumped on the couch, stewing in misery. He did his best to drown it.

But misery floats.

After several cans, much of his pain succumbed to the beer. He felt it in the background, like the throbbing beat of a sad, angry song. His body felt a curious mix of light and heavy, and his mind floated on an endless ocean under dim, cloudy skies.

Even in the depths of a good bad drunk, his body kept on working, and after loading it up to the limit with cheap, frothy beer, he felt growing discomfort in his bladder. He ignored it as long as he could, but discomfort grew to pain, and pain kicked a message up through his nerves, to thump on his brain and tell it to get back to work, or soon there'd be a splattery wet explosion.

Jake hefted himself off the sofa onto legs that wobbled and threatened to spill him. His foot landed on something that gave way, and his leg shot out. He flailed at the air, as his foot described a balletic arc which ended at head height. Back at the gym, he'd have got applause from the boys for his flexibility. Here, drunk as a rat in a barrel of brandy, it dumped him on his ass.

He couldn't even breathe.

The hard wood floor looked good, but it hurt like being spanked with a truck. After a few seconds of choking and gasping, his lungs remembered what they were for, and he sucked in a wad of air. He flailed around, looking for revenge. He found the offending article. He raised it over his head to smash it, then he saw it.

The parcel.

The brown cardboard parcel was fat as a book. He ripped the cardboard open. As the packaging came apart in his hands with a satisfying noise, a hardback book fell into his lap, and touched off the pain in his bladder. He swore, and rubbed his distended belly. He picked the book up, intending to tear it up as well.

His red, unfocused eyes noticed what book he was holding: the Wizard of Oz.

Some human level thoughts percolated through the mass of spongy matter in his skull. Why would anyone in the world send him, Jake the Mongoose, one-time UFC contender, a copy of the Wizard of Oz?

He stared at the book. He turned it upside down. He shook it. No joy. In desperation, he opened it. It was written in a nice, readable typeface, for anyone not wearing beer goggles, and the pictures were cute, if a little cartoony. Yet there was nothing unusual about it, except its presence.

And the handwritten note on the first page.

Dear Jake, gone to see the wizard. Come find me. Love, Liana.

"What the hell?"

The impact hit him like a jolting hook.

His eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them away. He couldn't give in to that again.

I've spent enough time in self pity, he thought. This was here all along. I could've opened it any time!

"A message," he whispered. "A message from Liana. It's great. It's great! What the hell does it mean?"

Gone to see the wizard, it said. "What wizard?" He pondered that for an age. Did she have a friend by that name? Was it an internet handle? Maybe it was an anagram of a place.

He shook his head, stood up, and lumbered upstairs to empty his bladder. He got relief, but no enlightenment. He took a steaming hot shower, shaved, and brushed his teeth. He had that coffee, and he took the book with him.

Having it in front of him made him feel less lonely, closer to Liana, but even with extra strength Arabica in his stomach, he couldn't figure the message. Doubts crept in. Maybe it didn't mean what he thought. Maybe it was a joke, or a trick. Maybe it meant nothing, and she was still buried under a ton of smoking rubble, her beautiful flesh...

"No," he said, making a fist. "No!" He thumped his fist on the kitchen table. She had to be alive. This had to be a message.

"But Liana," he said, staring at the troubling book, "why did you have to send me a puzzle? You know I'm no good with these things."

Yes, she seemed to say, I know that. You're a big lunk with more muscle than brains, and I love you anyway. You can't even do a crossword, but I love you.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he muttered.

He shut the book, and glared at it. On the cover, the little girl walked hand in hand with her tin man and scarecrow friends, all smiles and glee. They looked as though they were dancing. "Gonna get a surprise when you see the wizard," he muttered.

An idea struck him, so silly and so obvious he didn't want to admit to it. He'd tried everything else, so he opened the book, and flipped through it until he came to the chapter when Dorothy and her team came, a last, to the man behind the curtain. He'd seen other copies of the book, and he knew at once that this one was different; the artwork was sort of cartoony, and the wizard had manga style hair like Dragonball character.

He squinted at Dorothy, and her magic shoes, the secret, as he remembered, to going home. Dorothy's shoes had a funny design, which almost looked like writing.

"To hell with almost," he said, sitting bolt upright. "It is writing!" It was, and legible, too. The words on Dorothy's magic told him the name of a place, the place he had to go.

Broken Penny.

***

Chapter 8

On the monitor, a live feed showed the raid in grainy black and white. Light from the video reflected off Mochs's chubby face, giving his florid skin a grey pallor. The ship's movement sent a constant thrum through the cabin, shaking the screen. The wiring was old, and the picture dimmed and flickered. Mochs swore, and slapped it with one thick, heavy hand. Rastiff looked up from an after action report, and sniffed. "That's not going to help," he said.

Mochs shrugged. "I gotta bloody well do something, boss. This bleeding kit's been kept in storage since the eighties. The Russians don't use kit this old. God's bollocks, the Somalis don't use kit this old!"

He'd lost a piece of his throat in service as a Royal Marine, ripped out by a shard of debris from the explosion that destroyed his truck. He'd had it patched up, but no amount of surgery could hide that thick white band of scar tissue that grinned under his jaw. Rastiff thought he sounded like a man choking to death.

"If you want to continue to work as my adjutant," he said, "you'd better learn to listen and obey."

"Yer, right." Mochs had his uses. After his wound, he'd lost his spot in the marines. Bitter, he'd tried to drown his loss, and his once-fit body had melted into flab that oozed out of his dark blue uniform. But he still had of his training, his combat experience, and a lot of power under the fat. In spite of his coarse manner, he was easy for the average able seaman to get along with, unlike Rastiff himself, who well knew the effects of his harsh, patrician looks, and his special role. Rastiff had found that when he entered a room, everyone shut up, tense. Mochs never had that effect.

The video feed resolved into a low res picture. The current view was given by a camera set up in a hotel room opposite the target. The team, commandoes seconded from the marines, had prepped in the hotel, observing the target.

Mochs had wanted to lead the team himself, but Rastiff preferred to keep him on the boat, and see that he learned to think as an intelligence officer. They'd clashed over that. Mochs hungered for active service.

Ten armed men approached the building. Two peeled off to cover the entrance, as the rest stacked up on the door. The target was a private Lithuanian bank, Xeb Bank, a sign of Lithuania's free and growing economy, and a laundering operation that serviced a vicious drug cartel. The cartel funded militants throughout the commonwealth. This raid would cut the flow of money, and behead the cartel, for the chiefs had gathered for a rare meeting.

The commandoes, kitted out with Kevlar helmets, flak vests and MP5 submachine guns, waited for Mochs to kill the security. That was a new skill, one he'd picked up since leaving the marines, and part of his job that he relished. his fat fingers danced across his keyboard."Open... Pomegranates!"

"I'm not sure what's worse, Mochs," said Rastiff. "Those terrorists, or your sense of humour."

If Mochs heard his remark, he ignored it, absorbed in the grainy feed. The commandoes blew the lock, and rushed inside. Mochs hit the tab key to switch to the helmet cams, but the screen went blank. "What the squid sucking pig is going on?" He cycled the cams, but the screen remained void.

Rastiff sighed, and forced himself to turn his attention to the heap of reports on the tiny desk. Using a cabin as an office was a bad bargain even if security leaks had made it imperative to keep their operation secret from the crew. Using outdated computers for command and control was beyond a joke.

The commandoes were professionals, and well-briefed; he wasn't worried about their performance, but losing contact during a raid, that was something no commander could accept. When this mission was over, he was going to have words with the captain.

The screen cycled from blank to blank. Mochs cracked his knuckles, worked the keyboard like an angry monkey. Rastiff squeezed his eyes shut, and told himself that the team he'd sent could handle itself without nanny standing overwatch. What was his name... Smith, that's right, captain Smith was running the show, a level headed type, not gung ho like Mochs. Smith would see it right.

He leafed through the papers, a mix of reports from naval intelligence, and some censored, biased briefs from the Ms; MI5 and MI6. In theory all three agencies worked together as one happy tightly wound, paranoid family. In practise, they lived by secrecy. He regarded every communication as a stinking chunk of disinformation.

It had been worse. Back during the cold war, all three agencies had investigated each other as co-opted organs of the Soviets. With chaps such as Kim Philby and Aldrich Ames getting outed, it had paid to be cautious. That was all before his time, but the effects had permeated British intelligence, seeped through the culture.

He'd learned that paranoia wasn't a personality defect, but a valuable source of insight.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," said Mochs, talking to his computer like a lover. His fingers stroked the keys with an unsuspected grace. "Give it up for your big sweet teddy bear, and he'll be good to you..."

Rastiff prided himself on keeping cool under stress. His jaw didn't drop, but it loosened.

The video feed refused to work, and now he had images in his head, images of that big, scarred, teddy bear, being sweet and good. He squeezed his eyes shut, and massaged his temples. Then he went back to the reports. The trick was to remember that they knew you didn't trust them, and they planned on it. They told you the minimum of actual lies, preferring to tell the truth in such a way that your gut reaction was to toss it aside as...

"Bullshit! Bitch, you crossed the line," roared Mochs, thumping on the keys. "I was gonna be nice to you, but now I'm gonna do you like a shaved ape! I'm gonna show you how the marines do their-"

"Mochs," said Rastiff.

"You think I'm kidding? I got engine oil and salt water right here-"

"Mochs, that's enough!"

The ex-marine jumped, and twisted around in his seat. "Sorry boss," he said, his face red from embarrassment. "I forgot you was there."

"Mochs, we're in intelligence."

"Yer, boss."

"We're supposed to be stealthy."

"Yer."

"We're not supposed to howl sexual innuendo at our equipment."

Mochs smirked. "Heh heh... Sorry boss."

"I picked you for this job, Mochs. I brought you back to life."

Mochs went quite still, and his face lost all expression.

"If you value your new life, I suggest you learn to do it right. I'm not operating a charity. But I do, when I must, operate a funeral service."

He gave that a moment to reach the right depth.

"You do understand."

"Yer. I mean, yessir!"

"Carry on."

Mochs turned back to the computer, but though his face looked blank and obedient, the stiffness in his shoulders, and the way his feet twisted across each other, told Rastiff his resistance ran deep. Not the kind of resistance you could stamp out with a few words, he thought. I'll have to find a way to channel it.

"Yer, right, mate!" Mochs surged up from his chair, and punched the steel wall of the cabin, almost dancing with glee. The picture had come back, just in time to show the commandoes blasting away in a heavy fire fight.

"Mochs!"

He paused, flinching, and turned to face Rastiff. "Ur..."

"Good work. Now let's see what our chaps have got themselves into, shall we."

They hunkered around the screen, and watched as the marine commandoes went room to room. Gun blasts sounded muted and tinny over the antiquated speakers, and every muzzle flash lit the screen up like a firework.

"Bloody thick, innit," said Mochs.

Rastiff sucked his teeth.

He had never expected it to be easy, but he hadn't anticipated heavy resistance. In spite of himself, he leaned in, drawn to the screen.

The gangsters were armed with Sanvik XXIIs, cheap Filipino imitations of the Ingram Mac 10. Useless at distance, but in the claustrophobic rooms and corridors of the Xeb bank, those little guns spat burning death.

The point man gave the signal to stack up on a door, opened it, tossed a grenade, and shut it again in a fluid display of skill. Leidecker, his name was. A veteran, his every action spoke of textbook grace.

But the gangsters weren't playing by the book.

As soon as the grenade was out, a line of tiny, smoking holes, opened up in the door and wall, a ragged row of smashed plaster. The air filled with flakes of paint and plaster dust. Leidecker had no chance. Bullets tore through his thighs and smashed his pelvis. He crashed to the floor, screaming, at the same second as his grenade exploded.

The blast stopped the gunfire, but what shock value it had was lost as every man in the stack hit the floor. The guy with the camera was set back from the rest, leaning in the cover of a doorway, so Rastiff and Mochs were able to see what happened next. The second man in the stack took the lead, and crawled forward to check on Leidecker, who lay sprawled, trembling and screaming.

Rastiff watched his team lying flat and still, and his hands folded up into tight fists as the breath stopped in his chest. "Get a move on," he whispered.

Leidecker's second in command started to drag him back from the doorway, at the same time as the rest of the team crawled forward to make a second attempt at entry.

"I think they heard you, boss," said Mochs.

Rastiff ignored him. "What's that?" Something was protruding around the corner of the door, something round and bulky. "That's a..."

"It's a bloody bucket," said Mochs, frowning. "What are those devils up to?"

Rastiff had a sick feeling in his gut. "Tell them to get back, away from the door."

"Er-"

"Tell them to get back!"

Just at that moment, the camera view whirled and crashed, until it stopped with the image upside down. No matter how Mochs pounded at the keys, it refused to go back the way it was. "It's busted, boss!"

Rastiff shook his head. "No, there's nothing wrong with the camera."

Mochs kept trying. "Then what..." He ground to a halt, and turned to face Rastiff, his round face pale. "Oh no."

The commandoes noticed the bucket, recognised it was a weapon, and started to withdraw, but a hail of gunfire from behind pinned them. They returned fire, but couldn't retreat.

It was just as Rastiff had feared; the enemy had hit them from the rear. "Get out of there."

A firework flew out of the door and landed by the bucket. The commando trying to help Leidecker dumped his leader and threw himself at the fizzling stick. He snatched it, but it was already too late.

The firework exploded, and hurled the bucket down along the corridor, towards the commandoes. At the same time, it spilled out the bucket's liquid contents, and ignited them: petrol, or some other fuel oil, washed down the corridor in a wave of fire, roasting the trapped men. Those who lay still burned where they were, screaming, while those who leapt up to escape were ripped apart by gunfire.

Rastiff watched the screen, sick with horror. The screaming went on for some time. "We're being raped with bayonets," he said.

Mochs shook his head, pushing back from the screen. "Is that it then?" he asked. "Are we all in? Game bloody over?"

Rastiff rolled his eyes. "Unless you've got another team of raiders all lined up and-"

Mochs slammed his fist into the table, making the computer equipment jump and shake. "What about the rest of them?"

"What rest? There are no more-" Rastiff caught himself. Brutal honesty was one thing, self-indulgent grousing was another. "Switch cameras," he said. "Cycle to the one on the door."

Mochs obeyed, though he muttered something under his breath that Rastiff tried not to hear, and they wound through all the functioning cameras.

Heat from the fire had caused most of the helmet cams to break down, but one or two still showed a grainy, weird-angled view of the battle scene. Most pictures showed leaping flames, or close ups of the walls and floor, but one gave a clear image of the corridor, and of the commandoes lying sprawled, burning. One of the bodies in view twitched. Rastiff prayed it was an involuntary spasm. He didn't want any of those boys to suffer any longer.

"Move along."

"I want to see if-"

"Cycle those cams, Mochs."

Mochs cycled until they saw a high, angled view of the street, focused on the bank doors. Rastiff remembered the two marines who had peeled off to watch the door, as the rest of the team had made their entry. Were they still there? Yes, they had held their position throughout the raid.

Raid? Fiasco!

"Make contact," he said. "Tell them to withdraw."

"I'll send the signal for a whirly bird tango."

"No. Tell them to withdraw to their pickup point."

"That's what I-"

"Shut up and do it. Now!"

Mochs massaged his fat cheeks, and sent his fingers racing across the keys. It should have been the work of a second, but- "Something's gone bloody wrong," he said.

"Unwrong it. That's what we pay you for."

"You pay me?" He tried again, and a third time, and then he slammed his fist down on the keys. "It isn't working!"

I'm going to have the captain up on charges for this, thought Rastiff, as he leaned in closer over the unresponsive gear. I'm going to have him stripped, flayed, and dipped in the sea. I'm going to feed him to...

"Sharks."

"Not in these waters, boss. Ah! Something's happening. The camera..." his voice faded as he watched the view from the camera swing around, away from the street, and into the hotel room.

They saw pale walls, a thick carpet, a wooden-frame bed with a sagging queen-size mattress, and four brutish men in jeans, leather jackets, and black ski masks. "No," said Mochs. Two had pistols, and two had shotguns. A fifth man remained outside the field of view, manipulating the camera. It panned around with the shaky movement of a cheap film shot on handheld digicams, and the four guys struck a pose, showing off their guns and muscles, and then they laughed, and slapped each other on the arms and back.

"Fucksticks," said Mochs.

Rastiff felt his chest boil with suppressed fury.

"They're laughing at us, sir. They're bloody well laughing at us. If I could-" He shut up fast as the camera swung around again, back to the street. Back to the two commandoes guarding the doors of the bank. Back to the last two living members of the team, cut off from all communications, ignorant of their comrades' fiery death.

"Get that link working right now," said Rastiff. "Get it working, and warn those men. Tell them to go. Go!"

Mochs shook his head. "I can't speak to them, sir. I can't!"

Rastiff thought fast. The gangsters could have killed the relay transmitter, or they could have blocked the channel. In either case, the personal radio kit issued to each commando would still be functional. "Hack a radio station. Flood the comms channels, all of them. Use Morse code if you have to!"

Mochs looked at Rastiff in surprise. Then he saw the look on his face, and bent to his task. By overpowering the transmitter, he was able to send a broad signal. No information content, but powerful enough to be picked up on any radio, rather like a drum beat.

A lot of Lithuanians were going to miss their radio shows.

"Make it work," said Rastiff.

The camera turned to the street outside. The men had little time; the cartel wanted to send a message.

"Come on, come on."

The picture showed the two men, standing in the doorway of the bank, taking cover from an unexpected shower of rain. They had tucked their weapons under their flak vests, and if no one took a close look, they might have passed for a couple of ordinary guys huddled under cover. But it was no use for them to blend in. That wouldn't keep them alive.

Mochs shook his head. "It's no good!"

"Keep trying."

"But-"

"Keep. Trying."

Mochs went back to work, but Rastiff knew he was right. Any moment now, the gangsters would send a hit team, probably the very same men who had come to the hotel room to show off. They'd come out of that hotel, and gun down the marines in a blaze of fire. There was nothing he could do.

The marines stiffened, and tapped their radio earpieces. They held a brief dispute, drew their weapons, and started to move off screen. As they neared the limits of the camera's view, one of them waved his hand, and then he jerked as if he'd been punched. His comrade already had his weapon raised, and he returned fire. The wounded marine staggered, then he shouldered his submachine gun, and started blasting.

Rastiff felt every gunshot as a hot pulse in his viscera. Sweat rolled into his eyes, and he clenched his hands so hard they hurt. The fire fight lasted seconds, and then the marines disappeared.

Mochs looked at Rastiff, his chubby face pale and drizzled with sweat. "That's it," he said. "They're gone."

***

Chapter 9

Sinker gunned the engine and checked the mirror. A bullet smashed it, showering the car with glass slivers that scratched his cheek, and made Sten howl and claw at his nose.

Ahead lay the Hamburg docks, along a stretch of the vast river Elbe, and his beauty and saviour, the Dancing Cat.

An articulated lorry hauling rusted yellow gas tanks painted pulled out from the right, blocking their path. He pounded on the horn, and Sten cursed as he extracted a shard of glass from his nose. The lorry driver didn't notice them.

"Do something, Sinker," said Sten, spitting blood. "We're gonna die!"

The world slowed down, and his mind filled with bright shining details. He caught the scent of the leather seats and the copper and salt tang of blood from his cheek, Sten's nose, dozens of minor wounds. He felt the soft fabric of the suit he'd been wearing since the night; the silky black jacket was crumpled and ripped, and the white shirt was stained with blood and sweat.

He pictured it, saw their dusk blue Mercedes ram one yellow tank. The impact would hurl them through the windscreen, at the same time as it ripped a hole in the thin steel of the tank, releasing a cloud of natural gas. Sparks from the impact, or an electrical connection in their car, or the next burst of gunfire from their pursuers would ignite that gas, and envelop them in a cloud of fire that would roast them.

No one would hear them cry. The fire would eat the screams from their mouths, even as it destroyed their bodies.

"Not for that toffee nosed, blackmailing bastard!"

He jerked the wheel at the same time as he yanked the handbrake, making the tires scream and throw out gouts of smoke. The car rocked, and stopped.

Sten shook his head. "No, way captain," he said. "We're boxed in. Those boys are gonna-"

"What? They're gonna shoot at us now, with a thousand metric assloads of 'one spark and we all die' for a backstop?"

Sten froze, his mouth working.

"Stop doing fish impressions, and give me cover."

"But, but you said we can't fire," said Sten, struggling to keep up.

"I said they won't fire while we've got our backs to that lorry. I never said we couldn't shoot them!"

A look of awe swept across Sten's face. "By God captain," he said. "You're the most evil bastard I've ever met. I'm impressed."

"Stop being impressed, and shoot somebody!"

Sinker threw open the door, and began to lug out their prize. Sten jumped out, got down in a crouch, and started blasting with his shotgun.

The air filled with the acrid stink of propellant.

The lorry driver blared his horn, from so close that it felt as if someone was whacking Sinker's gritted his teeth, and focused on getting the blue steel crate out of the Mercedes. Heavy, bulky as a child's coffin, it was a two man job to move, and his arms and back protested.

Sten kept blasting, keeping their pursuers back, and with every shot he jeered, and racked another round into the chamber. He fired, jeered, and racked. He fired, yelled an obscenity, and-

Click.

Sten looked at his shotgun, open-mouthed. "Oh, shit! Captain, trouble!"

"That is news," muttered Sinker, heaving on the crate. A bullet spanged off the engine block. Sten leapt and rolled over the bonnet, to land next to Sinker.

"I thought you said they wouldn't shoot us," shouted Sten.

"I thought they had more brains. Help me."

They heaved the crate out the back of the car, and it clanked onto the tarmac. Behind them, the lorry driver honked his horn again. "Jesus!" said Sten. "If those bastards don't kill me, I'm gonna take that guy, and make him-"

Frantic, point blank honking drowned his words.

Sinker threw open the crate, and saw, for the first time, their prize. Matte black, it had the long barrel of a sniper rifle, made of dull ceramic, with a moulded plastic body and stock. Where a rifle would have a magazine, it had a gaping hole with a gleam inside, where the contacts showed. He reached in and lifted it out of the case. It was light; the weight had been in the protective shell of the crate.

"Is that thing gonna work?" asked Sten, fumbling with shells as he reloaded his shotgun.

Sinker shook his head. "It's a prototype," he said. "They hadn't finished the battery."

"So how does it fire?"

Another round punched a hole in the car, with and ripped sparks off the tarmac as it ricocheted under the lorry. Sinker scowled. "It doesn't." He grabbed Sten by the shoulder. "You hear that?" The lorry's engine was rumbling into life.

The driver had come to his senses.

"When he goes, they'll riddle us with holes," said Sten.

"Follow, and give me cover," said Sinker. He took the prototype and ran for the cab.

Sten blasted at the security team, behind the cover of their vehicles, and ran after Sinker. His foot skidded on a pool of engine oil from their blitzed car. The tarmac rose up at his face, but the oil slick saved his life. As he hit the road, he rolled with the impact. He heard the roar of a magnum, and felt the wind of the bullet whoosh across the back of his neck, accompanied by that tearing supersonic blast.

The bullet passed under the chassis of the lorry, or he'd have been engulfed in flames. He rolled, threw his hands against the slick tarmac, and jumped to his feet, except that his hands lost traction, and he smacked down a second time, winded, a spike of pain thrust from chin through skull.

He knew he had to move, that life lay in flight, but some primitive animal instinct took over, and told him, in a voice older than language, if he lay still, the hunter would pass by. "Be dead," the voice whispered. "Be dead, and you will live."

He felt hands reach under his armpits, and heave him off the ground. It was over. The beast's desperate ploy had failed, and he was being dragged to his death.

Death looked like the cab of a lorry.

He twisted, and the man carrying him lost his grip, so Sten hit the road once again. This time he struggled up to his feet, and looked up into Sinker's face. "You came back for me," he said, so surprised that his voice came out flat.

"This is no time for a nap," said Sinker. "Get in the cabin."

Sten stared at Sinker. "You came back for me," he repeated.

"Of course I did," said Sinker. "I don't know how to drive this stupid thing."

Around then the security team worked out that as long as they stood in front of the cabin, shooting them wouldn't set off an explosion. They opened up with everything they had, and lead rain shredded the bodywork, smashed the windows, and filled the air with the stink of burnt paint and scorched metal.

"Down," shouted Sinker, "down and go." The two of them dropped and rolled under the lorry, and crawled into the cab from the far side. Either the vehicle was possessed, or the driver had legged it. Sten applauded the idea; better than sitting on a huge bomb in a fire fight.

He found the keys in the ignition, but a stray bullet had torn the handbrake fragments. He scrabbled at the stubby remains, but it resisted, and he turned to Sinker with a sick feeling. Sinker jammed the end of the prototype into the ruins of the handbrake, and levered it off.

"Now might be a good time to go."

Sten fired up the engine, stamped on the accelerator, the lorry jerked, grumbled, and rolled forwards, but there was nowhere to go. Straight ahead stood a row of warehouses, built out of old mossy concrete and corroded steel, aged but solid enough to force them to stop.

"We're sunk," said Sten.

"Screw it."

Sinker stamped on Sten's foot, crushing the accelerator, and Sten's toes. He shut his eyes as they rammed the broad steel doors of the warehouse, and felt a judder that ran through the entire lorry as the machine strained to push through steel. He heard a cacophony of grinding metal and angry, overloaded engines, and smelled smoke.

"Open your eyes, idiot," shouted Sinker.

With one last grinding protest, the rig forced the doors to buckle and give, and they rolled inside. Sten sat gripping the wheel, white faced and shivering, sweat running into his eyes. He felt the shards of the smashed handbrake digging into his ass, and his foot ached where Sinker had stamped on it, and though they had stopped moving.

"Get up," said Sinker. He grabbed him by the arm, and tugged at him. "Get up, get up. It's not over yet."

"It is over," said Sten, his body shaking with the vibration of driving through the doors. "We're boxed in. We have to give up."

Sinker pulled out a small .38. He cocked the revolver.

Sten flinched.

"You wanna die?" he asked. "Because this is all that's waiting for you out there. If that's what you want, I'll take care of it now. And I don't want to do that. Do you know why? If I don't bring you back, it means Seb will cook a meal in your honour, every day for six weeks, and my stomach can't take any more engine oil in my bloody soup!"

Sten eyed him. "Can you get us out of here?"

"I promise."

Sten took his hands off the wheel. "If you're lying, I'll drown you in oil."

"Take a ticket and join the queue."

Sten jumped out of the lorry and looked around. The place was dark, the air full of choking dust. Cheap aluminium shelving ran floor to ceiling, laden with wooden crates that stank of pine and sawdust. He didn't need to open the crates; the lorry had done that for him. The front grille, once chrome, was now sunburst yellow.

The ruins of half a dozen cans of spray paint lay scattered around the crushed wreck of a crate under the front tires. The floor, too, was a slick yellow, in contrast to the original grey.

The cloying stink of the gas propellant stung his nose, and made his eyes water. It smothered all other smells, like his sweat, and the polish on his army boots. He tugged out his last pack of cigarettes. A good smoke would drive away the gas stink.

"No!" Sinker snatched the pack from his hand.

"What the f-"

Sinker covered his mouth with one large hairy hand. "The gas, you fool. The gas from all of those paint cans. It's still in the air. One spark of a match, and you'll burn your face off." He let go.

"Since I started to work for you, everything is trying to kill me!"

Sinker shrugged, grabbed his arm, and led him away. They came to a metal staircase, and ran up it, their footsteps clanking. From behind they heard furious swearing in German.

Sinker took the stairs three at a time, bounding like a tiger. They came to an office, and he tried the door, but it was locked. Without any hesitation, he threw a savage kick that wrenched the lock out of the door frame.

Sten followed Sinker into a cosy little office, with a blue plush carpet, red brick walls, and a fake mahogany desk cluttered with invoices and shipping orders. On one side there was a big steel fridge in a kitchenette. A scent evaporator perched on the desk, in the shape of a mushroom, filling the air with the fragrance of jasmine.

He turned around, and threw his hands up. "What now? We're boxed in. They'll be here any second."

Sinker ignored him. Instead, he yanked the fridge plug out of the wall, and began to manhandle the massive fridge towards the door. "Help me with this," he said.

"You want to make a barricade? That won't work. Their bullets will punch right through it. All you're going to achieve is to trap us."

Sinker shoved at the fridge, which had a hard time rolling across the plush carpet. Sten stared at him, aghast. How had he allowed this insane man to lead him here, to this makeshift condemned cell? "To hell with this, Sinker," he said, aiming his shotgun at his erstwhile captain. "You may have some bloody stupid wish to die, but I'm not gonna let you take me with you."

"We're both going to die," said Sinker, "unless-"

"You can die if you want to, but I'm not ready." He racked the shotgun.

"Unless I block this door before the charges go off."

Sten's jaw dropped, and his eyes grew into saucers. "Charges?"

A furious cataclysm shook the world. He felt it in his guts and in his brain, and even in his bones, like thunder that ran right through you. The floor jumped out from under his feet, and the ceiling cracked and rained plaster on his head.

Every bottle in the drinks cabinet, and the glass door itself shattered at once, and spat shards like razor mist. The strip lights in the ceiling blew out, and hailed down yet more lethal splinters. Sten fell to his knees, his arms wrapped around his bowed head, his jaw and lips and eyes squeezed shut.

If he'd been able to speak, he would have prayed, but the noise and the sheer force were too great. The floor shook so hard that his knees buckled. He hit the floor, and curled into a foetal ball, hands around his head, palms clamped over his ears, his eyes streaming with tears.

It felt that the world was ripping itself apart. But the storm passed. He uncurled his hands, blinked open his eyes, and peered through the haze of dust. The explosion had knocked out the lights, and with no windows, the only light came from the doorway, faint and faded with dust. It got in his nose and mouth, scratched at his mucous membranes, and made him cough. He heard no noise, except for that ringing in his ears.

He took a shaky step towards the doorway, and his leg whacked something blocky and hard. He stumbled forwards, and threw his hands out. He fell against the large rectangular block of the fridge; he realised it had been blown back from the door. The blast had pitched it over. If it had come a little further, it would have pulped him.

"Screw this," he croaked. "I need a holiday."

He couldn't hear his own words. He got up, peered around, and saw a murky figure spring up from the desk. He flailed for a shotgun that was no longer there, but the figure didn't attack. He made out Sinker's dust-covered face.

"You bastard," he said.

"What?" shouted Sinker, rubbing his ears.

"I said 'you bastard," yelled Sten.

"I can't hear anything," shouted Sinker. "Damned explosion's deafened me. Lost your shotgun, eh? At least I still have the prototype." He waved a long, stick-shaped object.

"I said that you're a... Oh, forget it, it's too dangerous here. We should go."

"Good idea," said Sinker, heading for the door.

Sten began to really miss his shotgun.

***

Chapter 10

The Charon oil platform jutted out of the sea like a bloody stump. Rust and chemical corrosion stained its surface red, and the aging steel groaned in the wind. Here and there you could see twisted, broken spurs where a gantry or support column had given way under weather and time, to break and collapse into the sea. In the rain it sounded like a giant steel drum, accompanied by the murmur of the waves.

"I hate this place," said Sten, as he vaulted down from the Dancing Cat, to land on a platform that shrieked under his weight. "Christ! I hate this place."

"I'll go, Mr Sten," said Tub Jack, holding the Cat's rail in his hands, and hopping up and down with the eager excitement of a puppy dog, his new lime green Hawaiian shirt billowing in the sea wind.

"Oh yes," said Sten. "That's just what we need. Have you looked at this stupid place, Bub? The moment you set your clown shoes on it, it'd sink." He appeared to think about it. "Ha! Just wait for me to get back aboard."

"I'll wait, I'll wait!" Tub Jack danced a sloppy jig, until Sinker patted his arm, and told him to cool down.

"We all have our jobs," said Sinker. "Don't we, Mr Sten?"

Sten moaned. "Don't you bloody start, you goddamn terrorist! Let blubberfish earn his ice cream. I should get to sit this one out. My ears are still ringing after Hamburg!"

Sinker ignored this. "Catch!" He tossed a long bundle of oilskin, like a rolled up carpet; the weapon they had liberated, wrapped for protection against the corrosive sea air. Sten yelped, and snatched it, his face contorted with nerves.

"Do you not remember?" he yelled at Sinker, waving the bundle at him for emphasis. "I risked my bloody life, and I won't have you tossing it like a tennis ball!"

Sinker vaulted over the side, and landed on the rusted steel gangway. The metal groaned under his feet, as if it echoed Sten's protest. "Go up," he said to Sten. "Go on up, and as you're so concerned about the safety of our prize, you can carry it."

Sten glared at him, and stamped over to the ladder. He strapped the bundle over his shoulders, and began the long climb up to the work level of the platform.

Sinker watched him go with narrow eyes. That tight knot in his chest told him something; it kept him from hiding from the knowledge that he was just as concerned as Sten, but the man's attitude was worse. They were all under great pressure... Apart from Tub Jack, who had no concept of stress. But Sten, an ex-military type, was supposed to be a solid, soulless merc.

"He's winning the race," said Tub Jack in that high-pitched, sing song way he had when he was happy. He pointed one thick, stubby finger at Sten, as he grunted and sweated up the ladder. "He's getting away!"

"This isn't a race, my lad," said Sinker.

Tub Jack chuckled. "Losers lie."

Sinker drew breath to educate the jolly lime giant, then sighed. When you had fallen to arguing with Tubby, you were beyond help. He went over to the ladder, and rubbed the metal. He felt cold metal, sweat damp with salt water, flaky with rust that came off on his fingers and stained them dirty red. He could smell the Cat's engines, that diesel smell, and his own perspiration, over the scent of soap from the shower, but they were all muted and dull when set against the salt odour of the sea. A wind chilled his face, and stung it with spray, and dark clouds massed in the east, moving towards the platform, carrying the promise of an evil storm.

He climbed up after Sten.

They had to wait thirty minutes for the helicopter. The weather grew worse, and he'd begun to think they had wasted their time, that the rendezvous would be postponed because of the storm, or some damned naval exercise, but after half an hour of Sten's griping, over the keening wind, he heard the telltale thrum of a chopper.

The grey machine whirled, screaming out of the sky, and set down on the landing pad. It had once been marked with a bright yellow cross, but wind and water had conspired to corrode every inch of the disused platform, leaving no surface unmarked. Tainted, that's what it is, thought Sinker. Corrupted by some evil, eating it away from skin to core; the same taint that's eating away at Sten there, rotting the soldier to a ghost.

The rotor blades wound down, and the screaming died to a whisper. The door opened, and Rastiff stepped out onto the platform, dressed in a dark blue storm coat, with black leather gloves and an officer's peaked cap. No warmth showed on his hatchet face or in his blue eyes. He took a few steps away from the chopper, and then he halted, waiting. He looked so neat, so pristine and aloof, that it felt almost a betrayal of nature for him to be there, on that broken scrap of metal.

Sinker caught Sten's eye, and jerked his head at the naval officer. Sten gave him a disgusted look, and went over to Rastiff, holding out the bundle of oil cloth. Rastiff made a circling motion with his hand, and Sten sighed, and unwrapped the weapon. He dumped the oil cloth on the deck, and presented the thing again. Rastiff gave it a cursory glance, and then waved Sten away. "You," he said, looking at Sinker. "Come here."

"You've got what you asked for," said Sinker, not moving.

"Don't make me repeat myself," said Rastiff in his icy patrician tones.

"We went through hell to get that stupid thing," said Sinker, feeling heat rise inside his chest, and moisture well up on his palms. "It cost a lot to get it out of Hamburg. You'd better be ready to pay for it."

Rastiff sneered. "I said come here, little pirate."

Sinker's fists clenched. "What did you call me?"

The helicopter door opened, and Sinker found himself on the wrong end of an SA80 assault rifle. Two men sat in the passenger compartment of the chopper, armed with the deadly weapons. Built to kill for the Queen, they could shred his body to bloody tatters. He froze, and felt his heart speed up

Sten looked from the guns to Sinker and back, his eyes tearing up, his lips quivering.

Rastiff allowed himself a brief, splinter of a smile. "Perhaps you understand our relationship a little better now."

Through tight lips, through his teeth, Sinker spoke. "We risked our lives to get that weapon for you, Rastiff. We were shot at and chased through Hamburg. We almost burned to death to bring it back for you. You can play the big, scary military man, but if you didn't want our services, you'd have killed us already. You've invested too much in this game to shoot us just because we don't want to play 'yes sir, no sir'." He clamped his lips shut, afraid he'd said too much. Sten's eyes rolled, and his face had turned green, like when he'd got seasick his first day on the Cat.

'Shall I shoot him, sir?" said one of the men in the helicopter. From where he stood, in a straight line with the door, Sinker got a clear view of the man. He was thickset and sweaty in a blue pullover and baggy grey combat trousers, with a round head and bulbous eyes. When he spoke, he sounded slurred, as if he was drunk, or his throat was filled with rocks. He caught Sinker watching him, and shot him a cheerful wink.

The silence alone would have made anyone uncomfortable, and the rifle sights never wavered from Sinker's chest. The wind whistled around them, and riffled Sinker's hair, but it couldn't shake Rastiff's hat. He must have had the thing nailed down. When at last Rastiff spoke, his voice had lost that harsh, demanding quality, and become soft. That alone made Sinker even more wary. "I'm so used to dealing with military men, naval men, I sometimes forget that out here," he waved his hands in a loose circle, "there are different standards of discipline."

"You could say that," said Sinker.

"Not every conflict is a matter of insubordination. And what reason could I have had to employ you, if you were not a strong, wilful, independent type?" Rastiff gave him another jagged rip of a smile.

Sinker had the impression that the platform under his feet was weaker than he'd thought; he felt that Rastiff was cutting a circle in the corroded steel, big enough for him to tumble through. He didn't feel happy, not a bit, but if he kept throwing anger at the man, right when he seemed to be playing nice, he was sure the results would be painful. "We've all of us fought to please you, Rastiff," he said. "Even a strong, wilful, independent man needs his pay."

Rastiff waved his hand, as if he was brushing away butterflies. "Let that wait; we'll come to it later. I have something important for you."

"I'd say that buying meat and diesel and bandages is important enough!"

Rastiff reached into the helicopter, and took out a black nylon duffel bag. "Here's your meat, John," he said. "And your diesel, and your bandages." Sinker started forward, but Rastiff held up his hand. "You can pick it up after we go. Right now, you need to listen."

"You don't tell me what I need."

"If you enjoy breathing, I suggest you hear me out. No, no, no, listen to me this time. There's a woman. She doesn't know it yet, but killers are after her. In a few days, she'll be dead."

Sinker sneered. "What did she do, tell you she was seeing somebody else?"

The chubby gunman in the helicopter sniggered. Rastiff scowled, and when he spoke, he went on faster. "She has something valuable, and a lot of nasty men want it. She thinks she's safe, but she isn't. She needs a guardian angel. But I don't have anyone like that, so I'm sending you."

Sinker laughed and snorted at the same time, and he took a step towards Rastiff, until the guns brought him up short. "Me? You're sending me? Didn't you hear anything I said? Didn't you catch the news? We were chased out of Hamburg at gunpoint. We have to hunker down and hide."

"This woman is outside the EU, in a place your enemies will never find. And this," he kicked the blag duffel bag at his feet, "will buy a nice hidey hole. But all of this is beside the point. You work for me. You are my creature. Nothing has changed. Nothing will change that. Except your death."

Just when things had been cooling down, thought Sinker, that dagger had to come out.

"So take your money," said Rastiff. "Take it, your instructions in the bag."

He knew it was useless to fight any more. He'd pressed Rastiff as far as he could, but once the man had committed, had made those plain threats, he'd kill to enforce them. Sinker wanted freedom so much he could taste it, but he knew he would never get free of Rastiff this way.

Sten watched him, silenced by terror, his face a pasty green mockery, a witch mask made by a child. Sten's feelings represented Seb and poor, dumb Jack, too. Some days, Sinker felt he could throw his life away for a shot at freedom, but he couldn't gamble with the lives of his crew. That was a price he would not pay.

He looked at the corroded metal floor. "Alright," he muttered.

"Pardon me," said Rastiff.

Sinker glared at him. "I said alright."

"One more time," whispered Rastiff.

"I'll do it! I'll do as you say. I'll find your precious girl and save her from the bad men. Alright? Is that good enough for you, you damned torturer?"

Rastiff beamed, and this time his smile made him look human, handsome, even charming. That disturbed Sinker even more than when the man was cold or angry. "Sublime. Instructions are in the bag. Hurry up, you have no more time to waste."

That 'more' rankled with Sinker, but he contained his ire.

Rastiff turned to get back in the chopper, but he paused in the doorway, and looked back. "One more thing. Don't come here again. This place is overdue for disaster." He got into the helicopter, and Sinker watched it roar up into the sky. He spat on the metal flooring, and the moisture mingled with the red rust that stained everything. It looked, to his eyes, like a drop of fresh blood.

***

"Charming," said Sinker, as he set the Dancing Cat moving across the billowing waves. "Just charming." The wind blew colder and chilled his face. The mass of clouds grew darker, the air was redolent of steam and hot steel, and he could taste the coming storm. Seb joined him at the helm, scratching the thick, dark ringlets of his beard. His skin looked red and painful under the hair, as if a new and troublesome strain of bedbug had begun colonisation.

"Shall I make a list of shopping, captain? Or shall I the fishing begin?"

Sinker didn't want company, and he didn't want to think about what went on in Seb's galley. If he could stuff it down his throat without it crawling back up, that was the best that he could hope for, but the man was asking, or trying to ask, a simple question. Sinker reckoned that if he gave a simple answer, he could get rid of him. "Yes, Seb," he said. "We got paid. Not as much as I wanted, but we work for the government now."

"Good, yes, good," said Seb. He leaned on the rail, and stared out to sea, scratching his beard. Sinker wished he would go back down to his hole below decks, to make supper or tinker with the engine. But Seb did not seem inclined to go anywhere. He started to wonder if he could just order the terrible cook below decks, but that had never been his style.

He recalled the days when he'd had command of a real ship, not a glorified jet ski. When he'd had hundreds of men, and been a real servant of the crown, and not a blackmailed thief. Some men served the crown with honour, and there was Rastiff, tarnishing it all.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen beneath the gilding on the crown, and the pain never eased.

The sky broke with a roar and a flash so bright he thought lightning had struck the Cat. That storm lay in their path, and it would be hellish to sail through. He noticed the dark clouds ahead had not split or cast their shining bolts. They did not bleed on the ocean. Seb grabbed his shoulder, and tugged at him. "Not now, scratchbeard," he said, casting his eyes across the waves, trying to make out the source of the thunder. If he could spot it, maybe he could go around...

"Captain, captain," said Seb, tugging at his arm, agitated about something. Sinker tried to brushed away his hand, but the Serbian cook had a powerful grip.

"I'm busy, Seb," he said. "I have to do captain things."

"The oil, the oil," said Seb.

"That's what I say, every time you serve breakfast. Now hush!"

"Captain Sinker," shouted Sten, from the lower deck. "look at the oil platform. Look at the fucking platform!"

Sinker swung around, his skin crawling. Seb let go of his shoulder, nodding. "Yes, Mister Sten, yes. The oil."

Not far back, the platform had risen out of the sea, a reddish pillar of rusted steel, a testament both to man's ingenious persistence, and his willingness to litter the world with abandoned wrecks. It had to be there, and if that cloud of black smoke moved out of the way, he would see it as clear as the Cat's foaming wake.

The black cloud rose from near the surface of the water, and towered over the Cat.

"What in God's name is that?" he asked, wishing he didn't know

Something whistled down from the sky, and slashed his left cheek open. "Ah!" he stiffened with the unexpected pain, and felt the wet heat of blood, and torn skin. He gritted his teeth against the pain, pushed away Seb, who had begun to cluck over him like a mother hen, and examined the deck. He saw a shard of jagged, rusted steel embedded in the deck near his feet.

"Captain, it would have killed you," said Seb, pawing at him.

"Could have, Seb," he said, looking up.

The storm wind blew stronger, as if the roar had been a signal. He saw the black cloud ripple and deform, and then wafted away on the wind. He saw what it had hidden; a short, tortured spur of metal rose from the sea, but of the platform, nothing remained. Rastiff's work. He'd said they could not go back, and now Sinker understood what he meant. You could not refuse the crown.

"You were right, Seb," he said. "It would have killed me."

***

Rastiff's head ached from the incessant roar of the rotor blades. The helicopter stank of vulcanised rubber and cheap Mongolian cigarettes. Mochs was playing magnetic chess with his marine pal, Jenkins, and the pilot was dead quiet, focused on outrunning the storm. Rastiff watched the explosion with a mixed sense of hope and doom.

"Good work, eh boss?" said Mochs, as he mated the king, and Jenkins threw up his hands in despair. "Nice fireworks show."

"It'll take more than a few firecrackers to get us out of this hole, Mochs."

"So the major's upset about losing a few commandoes," said Mochs. "It's not so bad. He gave you this job, didn't he? He didn't put you up against a wall with a blindfold and a bad cigar."

"He didn't give it to me at all," said Rastiff, squeezing his hands into fists, watching the skin turn yellow white under the dim helicopter lights.

Mochs opened and shut his mouth a few times, and then he leaned close, his round red face twisted in a frown. "I don't understand. I don't know if I want to understand."

Rastiff punched his left palm hard enough to hurt. Jenkins eyed him, then took great interest in his boots. "After the Lithuanian fiasco, the major was all for marooning us on Bikini Atoll."

"I didn't think there was a Bikini Atoll after the-"

"Exactly."

Mochs looked ill. "Oh shit."

"We've got no credit left, and bugger all men. But the major's occupied with a war game in the North Sea, so we've got about two days to do something that will astound him."

'And by 'astound', you mean persuade him not to shoot us in the arms and legs, and make us swim the Pacific."

"He's not going to bother with a court martial. Those stupid, smelly pirates are all we've got. I hate them, and I wish to the devil's favourite demon I had someone better, but right now, that bloody little thief John Sinker is our one hope for survival."

Mochs pondered that.

"Boss, we're fucked."

***

Chapter 11

Sten marched up and down the upper deck, wringing his hands and cursing, almost in tears. He ignored the wind and the lowering storm, oblivious to everything except his grievance. "They tried to murder us. Those evil bastards tried to blow us up!"

Sinker tried to ignore the pain as Seb patched up his face, but the man would insist on drizzling the wound with some Serbian antiseptic that smelled like boiled rats, and sent flashes of agony through his cheek and into the bone. If he'd been alone, he might well have stamped around shouting oaths and summoning devils, but with Sten to do it for him, he saw how useless it was. He wanted to grab the man and tell him to shut up, so he could think.

"Sten, settle down," he said. Speaking reopened the wound on his cheek, and made him feel the tearing pain again. Seb shook his head.

"Settle down?" said Sten, trembling. "What, lie back and think of Blighty while those sons of snake whores work on the next bloody bomb?"

He too was furious, but they couldn't afford to let anger screw them. This needed emotional field surgery, he had to cauterise the wound. "I'm angry too, but what do you want to do? Hit back at them?"

Sten froze in mid-step, his eyes bulging out. "Hit back at them? Hit back at them?"

"I know where you're coming from, Sten," he said. "I feel the same way myself, every day I wake up knowing I'm serving Rastiff. I hate his skulking ways, his blackmail and threats to shark us for treason. How do you like that? After the way that he and his navy treated me, he has the gall to speak of treason!"

Sten watched him with a pinched, maddened expression.

"Yeah, Rastiff can talk about treason, but he doesn't know what in God's blessed name he means. He can't recognise treason when he sees it in the mirror. If you want to hit back, smash him, show him what it's like to hounded, spied on, terrorised, so do I."

He came to a halt.

"Hit back at them?" Sten mouthed the words over and over, and his eyes took on a distant look, as if he wasn't seeing the same place: the deck of the Cat, the dark clouds, the looming storm. Sinker started to wonder if the man had knocked his head back in that warehouse in Hamburg.

Sten made an abrupt turn, and disappeared below decks. Sinker let it pass.

Seb came over to him. "He is a trouble man."

"I think you're right." And it would be trouble. If Sten started itching for revenge, he could snare up their whole play. Right now the man wasn't even responding to words. What would it take to get through to him? He rubbed the wound on his cheek. "You know Seb, we are all trouble men."

***

Jake walked out of Broken Penny airport, and the Mediterranean heat washed over him. After the air conditioned airport, it felt as if he'd stepped into an oven.

The sun shone so bright it hurt his eyes, so he put on his sunglasses. That cut the glare enough to look around; the airport was a few miles out of the city, on a rock promontory that bulged out of the south east corner of the island. The sky was an endless swathe of blue, the air was hot, stifling, and it smelled of curry, salt, and sweat.

He longed for a cool breeze.

A good, broad road wrapped around the curve of the terminal, and he saw several hundred people haggling with taxi drivers, or struggling to decipher bus routes. Broken Penny attracted tourists in blue jeans and sun hats, businessmen sweating through expensive black suits, and countless others; a party of Nigerians walked past him, and a group of white-robed Saudis argued over a limousine. So many voices, languages, buses, taxis, so many choices, it felt overwhelming. Worse, he didn't know where to find Liana. He didn't even know if he was on the right trail, and every time that he let himself question his decision to fly here, his gut knotted up, his head ached, and he had a sick sensation of falling.

"You come here looking for a woman, my friend," said a swarthy man in a pastel blue suit and a red fez.

Jake drew a sudden breath in pleasant surprise. Perhaps Liana had anticipated his problem here. Yes, of course, she had to have prepared for him. "I'm so glad to meet you," he said to the man, who looked him over with dark half-lidded eyes, and picked a nostril with one shrunken thumb.

"Yes," he said, coming closer. Jake tasted rather than smelled his scent, a powerful aroma of bitter coffee, garlic, and cloying, sugary perfume. "You have the look."

Jake tried not to show it on his face, but the man's odour made his gorge rise. "The look?"

"The hunger," he said. "I see it every day. Men come here from your so-called 'free land', but you are not free, not in the ways you want, the ways you need." His words flowed with practised ease.

Jake narrowed his eyes. Was this a test, some kind of code, or could the man really mean... "I don't think I understand," he said.

"On Broken Penny, you are free. You want a woman who will do things your Canadian women will not-"

Jake held up one hand. "Stop right there, pal. First, I'm American. Second, I'm looking for one woman. One. Tell me if you can help me find her."

The man in the blue suit smiled, and spread his hands. "Of course, it is always the way. We are always looking for one woman, the special woman, the princess, no? I can help you find your princess."

Jake shook his head. "I don't recall any princess in the Wizard of Oz. Anyway, I'm not looking for a princess, I'm looking for a surgeon."

The man looked dubious, and then he rallied. "Ah! You are on the drugs. I can help you. I know a man-"

Jake turned and walked away, ignoring the man's plaintive appeals. So this was Broken Penny? He'd expected somewhere hot and different, but he hadn't realised it would be like this. As he walked, half a dozen taxi drivers assailed him with offers to take him to a hotel, a nightclub, a brothel, a pit fight...

He walked, wrapped in a growing sense that he was never going to find Liana, that coming here had been a mistake. He was desperate to find her, desperate enough to hear messages in that driver's spiel. "But I have to find her," he muttered. "I have to." The only other choice was to jump on a plane back to Seattle, and spend the rest of his life raking through the ashes of her lab.

He found a clean shaven taxi driver in a well-fitted, pressed black suit. His car, a Vorkla sedan, looked immaculate. He walked up to the driver. "Take me to the city." Moments later they were racing along the road.

He looked at her picture in his wallet, and then he kissed it. "I'm coming for you, Liana."

***

As soon as they were on the road, the driver twisted in his seat to look back at Jake, and said "Air condition on?"

Jake shrugged. "Sure." After the shock of coming out into that heat, he could enjoy a spot of air condition on. The driver grinned at him, revealing a mouth that glittered with steel. If he'd seen that in Seattle, he'd have taken it for a Halloween joke.

The driver hit a switch, and the Vorkla, an East European copy of a Volvo, began to hum with the sound of an aged electric motor, gasping and spluttering moist air through the passenger compartment. At first he thought it would soon dry and cool down, but it didn't get better; the air got moister, until all the windows were opaque with condensed steam, and he saw the driver through a light mist. His blue jeans and his white polo neck soaked up the moisture, and all the while he heard that ancient machine, gasping, as if drowning.

He told himself to bear it in good grace, to be polite and accept the man came from a different culture, and...

"Hey man, I'm drowning back here. How about we go back to air condition zero."

The driver nodded. He hit some buttons on the dashboard, and the air filled with the jangling sound of a Bollywood dance number. The driver swayed his head, and beat his hands on the wheel in time with the beat, causing the car to sway. The air stayed wet, and all that vapour did nothing to cool him down. Worse yet, water condensed on the steering wheel. It grew slicker with every second, and still the driver ignored it, beating his hands in time with the drums.

"No," he said. "You don't understand. I want you to turn it off. Off!"

The driver nodded and muttered, and turned the music up louder. Jack found his hand had, on its own initiative, curled into a fist. He felt tempted, but he uncurled his fingers, and ran them through the blonde stubble that passed for a hairstyle, rubbing and massaging his scalp and temples, trying to soothe away the tension.

He told himself he wouldn't have to put up with it for long...that he could bear the heat and the noise and the smothering clouds of steam as far as the city centre. He had to be able to make it. He'd gone nineteen rounds with a Ukrainian fighter speckled with scars from an AK47. He could stand a little heat.

The driver opened a red silk bag. The air took on a succulent aroma, mingled with the acrid stench of burnt garlic. Jake clapped a hand over his nose and mouth, and tried not to breathe, because the sensitive passages of his nose and throat felt as if they were being massaged with soothing oils and mustard gas.

He believed that was it, the limit, but then the driver leaned back, threw him a glittering metallic grin, and waved the open bag at him. He had no way to escape the choking scent this time, just as he had no way to escape the smothering clouds of steam. He was immersed in them, drenched in them.

"Here," said the driver, waving the bag at him. "You try. It's good for your health." Jake waved a dismissive hand, but the man kept proffering the bag to him, one hand on the wheel, one eye on the road, and that sauna of a taxi grew hotter, and that stench of those spiced munchies grew more and more acrid, and the knot in Jake's gut twisted and tightened as his temples throbbed and his lungs struggled to extract oxygen from the fume laden car.

A green truck appeared around the next bend, its articulated containers fishtailing. Jake jabbed a finger at it, and shouted. "Look, truck!" The driver smiled at him, and turned a lazy glance at the oncoming truck, with all of its swinging across the highway like a mechanical whip. The driver's expression didn't change, and neither did his hand gripping the steering wheel; he kept on straight.

Jake felt sure the truck would mash the Vorkla.

"Turn, you madman," he yelled. "Turn!"

The driver turned.

He turned back to Jake.

Jake's eyes bulged out, and he lunged at the wheel, but the last of his precious seconds ran out, and the truck was on them. It rumbled past like a jet during takeoff, and those haulage containers came at them in a loose arc, like the curve in a question mark.

The Vorkla rushed headlong, nowhere to go but into the sweeping flail. He thought of Liana, and prayed she would know he'd tried. He closed his eyes, and pictured her face, her luminous skin, her bird features, the silver halo of her hair. He remembered their last kiss, her soft lips on his, her taste, her warmth.

The moment stretched, his muscles stone wrapped in steel.

The roaring truck got louder and louder, and what passed for air in the taxi got hotter and hotter, and Jake kept his eyes shut.

And the rumble dwindled.

He opened his eyes, and saw the road past the bend stretch clear and straight, and when he twisted in his seat, he saw the bend and the hill it ran around, and no sign of the deadly truck. He faced the front, and eased his muscles. His body loosened. In spite of the choking air, the horrible stink, and the murderous driving, he felt buoyant.

He leaned back, and sighed.

The driver reached out, and popped something into Jake's mouth. He bit down in surprise, and his mouth filled with the pungent taste of burnt sugared garlic.

***

The taxi driver left Jake in a broad plaza deep in the bustling city.

He was gasping for cool, dry air, and his polo neck and jeans clung to him, drenched with sweat. He looked around with staring, unfocused eyes, no idea what he needed to find, only glad to be out of that infernal motorised sauna.

The road ran a circle around a flower garden. Footpaths ran in concentric circles that formed a maze. According to a sign, it was a popular place for lovers. It made him think of Liana, how she would be delighted to wander around those twisting paths, holding his hand and pretending to be afraid of monsters.

But the monsters had turned real.

Cars whined and juddered around the circle, and the cloying perfume of the flowers seemed a cruel mockery of Liana's scent. Gathered on the hot, moist air, it pressed him, squeezed him, reduced him to a sack of meat and bones in a pressure cooker.

He leaned against the whitewashed wall of an adobe style Mexican restaurant. He slumped against it, waiting for his head to stop pounding. People walked past, some North Africans, some from Spain, and a party of Japanese businessmen. He didn't understand a word that anyone said, and he couldn't read half of the signs around him. He saw a policeman ambling through the crowd, his eyes obscured by dead black shades. Jake figured he could get help from the cop, but then he remembered that he didn't know where to go. As he puzzled on it, his brain power at low tide, he noticed that the cop had paused, was watching him, and was toying with the taser on his belt. Jake gulped, forced himself to get off the wall, and stumbled on.

But stumble where?

Past the Mexican restaurant was a French style villa offering colonial era Vietnamese food, and beyond that he saw a row of boxy Japanese restaurants, with sliding wooden doors, and windows that offered a teasing glimpse inside, and let out a delicious scent of steak and salmon. Great, but he needed to get out of the sun and the heavy, broiling air. He needed cool shade, clean water, and knowledge.

Knowledge, yes; he needed to know where to find Liana. This endless wall of insane contrasts wasn't helping him get that knowledge. But a guide might.

He'd asked his driver to take him to the city, but he hadn't thought to be more precise. This great round piazza, with its restaurants and flower maze, might be the city centre, or it might be some random corner of a vast, hot, and unsympathetic city. He should have told the driver to take him to an information centre. As he thought that, he passed an alley leading off from the piazza, and the flash of a blue signboard with a white letter 'I', stuck out from one building. It caught his attention, and he turned to look down the alley. He didn't believe in fate or intuition, or guidance by a greater power; none of that seemed important when you were in a ring or a cage, trying to stop some steroid freak from tearing your skin off. But that sign, gave him a little tattered shred of hope.

The sign stuck out of a red brick wall with a blue metal door that squealed as he pulled it open. He found himself in a small office with a wooden counter covered in leaflets and maps. No one manned the counter, but four men played poker at a table on his right. The walls still showed patches of the original paint, a soft peach that would have met with Liana's approval, but years of neglect and cigarette smoke had stained them dirty yellow. The air stank of tobacco.

"Come in, sit down," said one guy, craggy faced from the punishing climate. He wore white cotton pants and a loose white shirt that billowed in the breeze of the ceiling fan.

Jake lingered at the door. "I can't stay," he said "I'm looking for-"

The older man nodded. "You are new, you have the look. You need a guide."

"The look?"

"Hope warring with anxiety. You fear this journey was a mistake. And you are in imminent danger of heat stroke."

He motioned to one of his poker buddies, who pulled out a chair, as another guy opened a refrigerator and made clink clink noises.

"You seem to know a lot about me," said Jake, surprised. "I didn't think I was that easy to read." He stayed by the door.

"It is my business to help people, new arrivals, lost souls. I am a guide, the second best in all of Broken Penny. My name is Gorja." He surprised Jake with a tight bow, a courtly gesture he'd only ever seen in movies. He didn't mean to stare, but he hadn't believed real people did that.

Gorja's buddy set down a tall glass of foaming beer, with ice in it. He'd never seen ice in a beer before, and on any other day he would have called it sacrilege.

Gorja held open his hands. "It was hot in the taxi, yes? Humidifiers, they call them. It was supposed to be a way to cool the drive, but instead they turn the heat up, and dry you out."

Jake frowned. "No one would do that on purpose."

"They have a brother who runs a pub. The driver broils his passengers, and then drops them at 'a good place'."

Jake remembered the insane monster who'd driven him into town. Had he really been steaming him so his brother or his cousin could fill him up with overpriced drinks? He couldn't have. No one could be that nasty. Could they? His fists clenched. "That bastard!"

"Typically they drug the hapless traveller, and-"

"Rob him of everything but his skin!"

"Or worse yet," said Gorja. "Those with more imagination check him into an overpriced hotel. He wakes up in a nice bed with a hangover and a big bill. But how can he complain? What crime has been committed? He blames himself for his indulgence, and accepts the costs for fear of looking stupid."

"That's screwed!" said Jake.

That glass of beer called to him like a siren calling a sailor. He remembered what happened to those sailors, and he shivered. But Gorja wouldn't tell him all about cons and spiked drinks and then hand him a drugged beer. He took the glass. The beer tasted strong and a sweet, and it fizzed. As soon as he'd taken one sip, he felt compelled him to up-end the glass and gulp it down.

He felt he'd found an oasis in the desert.

Before he knew it, he was sitting down and chatting with Gorja and his friends. He heard how they'd come to be ashamed of the way their compatriots conned and cheated foreign visitors in their city, so they'd got together, and set up as guides. It was all voluntary; Gorja told him they all had jobs in the area, waiters, bartenders, or in Gorja's case, as the local librarian. They grinned and laughed a lot, and congratulated Jake on his ability to put away the local brew. For his part, Jake told them more about his troubles than he intended, but he couldn't make them understand. "No, you see she's here. She left me a message."

Gorja frowned. "Before she set off the bomb."

He shook his head. "No, after. Anyway, she didn't set off a bomb. She wouldn't do that. I don't think she did that..."

"So she came back already. But I thought you said-"

"No. No, no!" Jake pounded the table for emphasis, scattering poker chips all over. "She didn't come back. She came here! She told me so."

Gorja massaged his temples. "Before she set off the bomb."

"No. Yes! Wait..." Jake put his head in his hands. He felt so tired and confused, and none of this talk was helping.

"My friend, you look tired. Why don't you lie down? We have a sofa in the back that you can sleep on."

He shook his head, but he couldn't seem to lift it. He spoke through his hands. "No. No... I'd better go." He didn't know what was wrong, but his voice sounded wrong in his ears. It sounded slow and heavy, like a sleepy elephant.

"It's cheaper than a hotel, I promise."

"Gotta find... Liana. Gotta... Gotta find her." It was all he could do to force the words out, his tongue felt so thick and furry.

"You won't find anyone like that. It's jet lag," said Gorja. "I've seen it many times. You'll feel better after you sleep."

Jake didn't want to agree. He wanted get out of the poker joint masquerading as an information centre. He wanted to run into the street, and feel the bright sunshine and the warm air. He wanted to race through that flower maze, and find Liana, waiting in the centre, waiting for him. His mind's eye filled with that glittering vision, his beloved bathed in a golden light, surrounded by flowers, and none as beautiful as her.

"Liana," he whispered, as the vision faded, and he sank down into a cavernous darkness.

The last thing he heard before he gave way to sleep was Gorja's warm, urbane voice. "He's out at last. Check his..."

***

Chapter 12

"I lost her again," said Seb, stroking the radio equipment. His hands left greasy smears from the goulash he'd made for dinner. Sinker leaned in the doorway, trying to keep far away so he wouldn't have to smell that goulash. It had been particularly bad, low on the vegetables, heavy on the engine oil, and his stomach turned when he saw the glistening marks that Seb's hands made as he fiddled with the radio. "I have her, the signal, she is close," said Seb.

"Do you have it?" asked Sinker, leaning further into the room, drawn in spite of his stomach.

"I have her, I have her... No, I lost her." He looked up at Sinker, somehow contriving to look sheepish even through that mass of black curls on his face.

Sinker pressed his lips shut, and flared his nostrils. He didn't want to tell Seb that the oily stink of his cooking was doing bad things to his innards, so he tried to look wry and thoughtful, but he had the distinct, painful certainty that he looked like a baboon with gas. "Keep trying," he said, trying not to inhale as he patted Seb's shoulder.

"I always keep trying, yes." Seb bent over the radio, and messed around with the knobs and dials. Sinker nodded, gave him an encouraging smile, and headed out of the room. He got to the doorway, and was about to take in a few lungfuls of clean sea air, when Sten appeared, a racing blur, and rammed into him. The two men tumbled into the radio room, and Seb swore at them in Serbian.

Sinker shoved Sten off him, and got to his feet. He rubbed his chest where the man had hit him. And he breathed the air, that oily, salty air, gasping deep gouts of it down into his lungs. His stomach shivered. No, this would not do. "What in the devil's gall bladder are you doing, Sten?"

Sten got up off the floor and dusted off his grey combat trousers, and looked at Sinker with a neutral expression, and he didn't quite meet his eyes. He shrugged, and turned to the radio. "Did you get anything yet?" he asked Seb.

"If you don't want to swim home tonight, you'll damn well look at me, Sten."

Sten stiffened, and turned around. He couldn't meet Sinker's eyes. He had looked like a small dog, expecting to be kicked. His face was pale, and sweat gleamed on his brow. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and bowed his head, so his expression was hidden.

"You've been acting damn strange," said Sinker.

"Sir," said Sten. His voice was a little, weak sound. Sinker started to feel his anger ebb away, leaving him with a horrible sense of unease. Something was wrong here, and it wasn't just the smell of Seb's cooking... Or the fritzed-up radio, or Tub Jack's brain. When he was frank with himself, Sinker knew there wasn't much right on the Dancing Cat, but this, this felt different.

"This may be a pirate ship, but we still need discipline."

"Sir," said Sten, studying his boots.

"We don't go running around, knocking people over. This is the ocean. Spills mean kills."

When Sten spoke, his words were almost inaudible. "Yes sir."

Sinker decided it was time to let up. Sten was supposed to be one of the more reliable members of his crew. If something was wrong with the man, he needed to know sharpish. They would sail into Broken Penny waters in a day, and they'd need to work as a team. He lowered his voice. "This is dangerous work, and I'm trying to keep everyone alive. If there's something you need to tell me, now's the time."

Sten glanced at Sinker. He looked away again, and Sinker could see there was some struggle going on in. He'd never thought Sten complex enough to have inner conflict. He'd always acted so gung-ho, charging without thinking. After a few seconds had passed, Sten lifted his head, and looked Sinker in the face. "It's... It's not what you think-"

Sten didn't have a chance to finish. Seb's joyful whoop cut him off. "We have got her! Captain Sinker, we have got her!"

Sinker shot over to the radio, determined to catch the message this time. He put on the headphones, and held the mike in his right hand, the other resting on Seb's shoulder. "This is Sinker, of the Dancing Cat, over."

"Got you at last, little captain." Rastiff, ignoring radio protocols as usual.

He ignored the 'little captain' jibe. "That you have," he said. "You have news for me?"

"News, little captain? I've got your blessed campaign plan."

Sinker grinned. "I'm listening."

He leaned on the radio, Sten forgotten.

***

Liana, explained Rastiff, was an expert in the world's most illegal science: military biotech. Going by international law, she could never have held a job in that field without suffering summary arrest, but she had been smart. She'd got a criminal organisation, fronted by a semi-respectable businessman, to sponsor her work. It had given her shelter, and kept her off the law enforcement radar.

"Until a couple of days ago, when she sent a most unusual email to people of high rank in several weapons R&D firms," said Rastiff.

"Cut to the chase, will you," said Sinker.

"Patience was still a virtue when I woke up, little captain."

Seb laughed. "Patience, she was a prostitute in my town home."

Rastiff grunted. "Liana claims to have developed a new piece of biotech, something that'll give the edge to any army."

"And she told the competition? That doesn't make sense," said Sinker. "In a field as this murky, that's like inviting armed men to come to your house and torture you for your secrets."

"I said she was an expert in her field, not an expert in your field. She's holding an auction; each company can come to Broken Penny and bid on her new weapon."

"You seem to know too much about what this woman is doing. I don't want to get into a fire fight because you made a lot of bad guesses."

At the mention of a 'fire fight', Sten grimaced, and shifted away from Sinker.

Rastiff came back on the line after a brief pause. "I can't expose my sources, not even to you, little captain, but-"

"I need more than your word."

"All I can tell you is that the people this woman contacted are on our watch list, as suppliers of terror groups and rogue nations. We'd been gathering intelligence and infiltrating them long before we heard about Liana Gleicker. Satisfied?"

"Not really. I guess it'll have to do. So this auction, you want us to crash it?"

Rastiff laughed. "Very astute. Perhaps my little captain is growing up."

Seb frowned, as he did when confronted by new idioms.

"Knock it off, and tell me what you need."

"The auction will take place tomorrow at the hotel Maritropa."

Sten gasped. "Tomorrow? That's doesn't give us a lot of time!"

Sinker held up his hand. "So we just go there? That'll never work."

"I'll send you as much detail as I can about the participants of the auction. You pick one, and-"

"Knock him on the head, take his clothes..."

"Get the woman and go. We can't afford to let this weapon fall into the wrong hands. It could be organic enhancements, poison glands under the skin, even WMD. It's worth a lot of money to these weapon manufacturers. Imagine if it fell into the hands of terrorists, or a vicious junta."

"I get it, I get it, Jesus, you don't have to pound me over the head with your little 'make the world safe for demonocracy' speech."

Sten spoke up, sounding miserable. "This sounds really... Dangerous. Won't these company guys have... Guns?"

Sinker and Seb stared at Sten, and Rastiff made a sort of choking noise. After a long pause, he came back on the line. "Just get the damn thing. Get the woman, and the weapon." The line clicked once, and fell silent.

"Over and out, you bastard," said Sinker, "is it so hard to say?"

The line clicked on again, and a youthful, fresh type of voice came on. "Hi everyone," the new guy said, with an excess of good cheer. "My boss here has ordered me to tell you all about your targets for today. Won't that be fun!"

"Damn you, Rastiff," said Sinker. "Stop mocking me!"

***

Sinker shoved aside the mess of steel mugs and plates from the galley table, and laid out the map of Broken Penny. Only one of the galley lights still worked, while the other flickered on and off with no rhythm.

Sten stood opposite, leaning over the map, peering at it with surprising intensity. Seb stood to Sinker's left, wiping a black iron cauldron that looked like it belonged to Macbeth's witches. Tub Jack wasn't supposed to join planning sessions, but he got lonely, so Seb had made honey waffles, and Tub Jack sat slurping and chewing at a sticky wodge of waffles, his hands glistening with honey. Every now and again, he would look up at Sinker, and smile like a happy baby. His mouth was smeared with honey.

Sinker made a fist. "Rastiff has got us like this," he said. "I don't want to go to Broken Penny. By God, from what I've heard of it, it's a hive of poisonous wasps. They like to lure rich tourists from Europe and America, seduce them with a sexy facade, and then sting them to death."

"Sounds like my place of kind," said Seb. Sometimes Sinker wondered if the man mangled English for kicks.

"But we're not rich tourists, right," said Sten. "The locals won't bother us, I mean, if we're not rich tourists."

"I like honey," said Tub Jack. "Do wasps make honey?"

"No," said Sinker.

"It is bees who make honey," said Seb.

"Dumbass," said Sten, but he looked down when Sinker caught his eye.

"It's a damn bad place. I would never go there, but Rastiff-"

"That bastard," said Sten. "He's been riding us for ages. Sometimes I wish-" He cut himself off, his face red.

"You wish you could get free."

Sten threw his hands in the air. "What's the use? What good's talk? That son of an ulcerous pig, he'll track us with his satellite, chase us with helicopters and subs. Even if we give him everything he wants, he'll kill us in the end."

"Why should he do that?" asked Seb, stroking his beard.

"Wake up! He uses us to protect himself. When he gets the hots for some diseased whore, he lubes up and rolls us on. We're the condom of naval intelligence!"

Tub Jack gorged down the last waffle, and licked his sticky hands. Then he released a might belch. "So wasps don't make honey?"

"No!" said Sten. "No honey. No bees, no honey! No honey whatsoever!"

"Sten," said Sinker. "Go down to the armoury, pick out a pair of high quality, stainless steel balls, and strap those mothers on."

Sten glared at him, tears in his eyes. He held up one shaking fist, and waved it at Sinker. "Hard, cold captain," he said. "Don't tell me you're not afraid. Don't lie to me! You know he'll kill us. After this mission, or the next, he'll decide we've seen too much, been seen too often, and he'll blow us out of the water. You know it. Don't tell me you're not scared!"

Sinker rubbed his face. This was getting out of hand. He'd hired Sten to be the other professional on the crew, the ex-soldier who understood danger, the hazards of combat, the risks of piracy. He had begun to regret that decision after Hamburg. Every man had his limit, and it looked as though Sten had reached his. Under other circumstances, Sinker would have dropped him off, maybe in the middle of the ocean, but he would have let him go. But Rastiff had them all in a bind, and he couldn't run around trying to recruit new crew members while they were sailing under a death threat.

I have to make it work, thought Sinker. Even if I want to tie that cauldron over his head, and hang him by his toes. "I'm scared," he said, fixing Sten's eyes. "You're dead right, I'm scared. Broken Penny could kill us. These military biotech types will have professional, murderous security. And yes, I know that Rastiff, may he spontaneously combust, will, one day, decide that he's finished with us. But I know one other thing: we're still alive."

"Oh," said Sten, with heavy sarcasm. "Brilliant, just brilliant. Maybe in a moment you'll notice that we're still human, that we're still on Earth, and hey, we all enjoy sweet things!"

"I like sweet things," said Jack.

"We're still alive," said Sinker. "If we run, we die. If we fail this mission, we die. But if we succeed, we live another day. That's what I know, Sten. We're sailing through shark waters. There's no getting off this boat."

Sten slumped over the table, head in his hands.

"The captain, he is right," said Seb.

"We just gotta keep sailing," said Sinker.

Sten shivered, and then, after a long pause, and without raising his head, he nodded. Sinker thought he ought to feel relieved, to have quelled a potential mutiny with words. Then why do I feel like I've failed?

Tub Jack scratched his chest, smearing honey all over his red Hawaiian shirt, and burbled. "Wasps don't make honey? I prefer bees."

***

Chapter 13

Liana stepped out of the drug store, and felt stifled in the heat.

She wore loose white linen pants and a cream silk blouse that caressed her skin with soft, seductive brushes. She had covered up with a wide straw hat and brown sunglasses. She'd told Mann that she couldn't survive in this heat without sun cream, and indeed, she had a new tube in her handbag. She had wanted to put it on right there in the shop, but the withered old woman who ran the place had spoken zero English, and try as she might, Liana had not got her to produce a mirror.

As she walked back to the hotel Maritropa, she felt warm sweat on her face and chest. Her heart beat faster as she thought about the other thing she'd picked up at. Though illegal in the States, it was quite easy to buy certain drugs on Broken Penny.

He heart jumped as she looked up at the emerald green facade of the hotel. As she did every other time, she looked for Jake, but always her hopes were unfounded. She thought again about calling him, but it was too risky. "Jake has a hard head, but he's not stupid. He can't have missed my message. He must be on his way."

She could almost convince herself.

"Maybe I should call," she said to herself. It was painfully hot in the sun, and she longed to return to the air conditioned hotel, but once there, she'd be back with Mann again. She hated being near him, hated the feelings he stirred within her, of guilt, and anxiety that sometimes rose to helpless panic.

She stood in the sun, with the cream in her handbag, jostled together with the other things she carried, like her lipstick, and her nail polish, and the drug...

If only Jake were there, none of this would be necessary. Mann was a terror, but still a man.Jake knew how to deal with scary men. He didn't sweat and tremble when he got in the ring. He didn't get that sick feeling in his belly, stomach and bowels writhing. She hated that helpless animal feeling, and wished she could be in Jake's strong, safe arms.

"But he's not here," she told herself. "I couldn't have waited. I couldn't have let Pamik..."

Pamik would never have let her work for a competitor. She had to go through with her plan, all the way to freedom. But that knowledge did nothing to ease the fear that made her guts twist and her heart shake.

***

Mann sat in the hotel restaurant, waiting for his lunch. The room was dim, the air tasted of smoke and burned crab flesh, and the duck brown carpet and Edwardian furniture bore the largest collection of smudges and stains he'd seen since he'd lived in a frat house at university.

Every time he touched anything, he felt his skin crawl.

He peered down at the chipped blue bowl, into his murky soup. According to the menu (photocopied), it was a traditional olive dish enjoyed by the locals, but he would have sworn it was instant mix pumpkin soup, into which some so-called chef had dumped a handful of overripe olives.

He winced at the smell, and pushed the bowl away with his fork. Even that slight contact was enough to make him reach for his alcohol rub, already at a dangerous level. He should have asked Doctor Gleicker to get more from the chemist.

"Your meal, sir," said his waiter, a girl with dark hair that rolled and dance like the sea. She wore a maid's outfit. Weird, he thought. But he liked how it hugged her trim waist, and showed off her ample chest. She had an appealing smile and generous lips, and he found himself sitting up and looking interested in the food she had brought.

She put down his order, a simple chicken sandwich, and then she noticed he'd given up on his 'olive dish'. Her face fell, and she carried it away without looking at him. He felt disappointed, and annoyed with himself for being distracted. But if he didn't distract himself, he might start thinking about Seattle...

"I had no choice," he muttered. "It's Pamik's responsibility. He told me what to do, long before all of this business. He knew what he was doing, sending me an order like that!" A couple of old ladies at the next table jumped as his voice rose, and threw him a baleful look. He coughed, and looked down at his chicken sandwich. "It's not my fault," he said. "None of it's my fault." He prodded the white, square cut bread, and lifted up a corner to see underneath. He found a couple of wedges of pallid chicken, a few glistening lumps of tomato, all slathered in greenish sauce. His stomach turned.

Waiting was killing him. Mann could handle action, but he couldn't stand waiting. He'd spent that morning sitting in his hotel room, staring at the phone, and he'd tried to use the hotel's computer (they had one, a creaky old Pentium) to check his inbox, but something was up with the program; it started to load, but every time the server crashed, almost as if some hacker had left a booby trap for him.

Weird. Feds didn't snark up your inbox, they kicked in your door and cuffed your hands to your ankles.

Pamik should have contacted them. He wouldn't have sent them to Broken Penny for no reason. A haven for international gangsters, the place was a security nightmare.

"Protect the doctor," he said to himself. "Protect her until you give her back." He nodded. It was all he could do.

But if he didn't hear from Pamik tomorrow, he would make contact himself.

Mann felt his heart kick, felt himself on the edge of that valuable fury. But this was the wrong time, and he knew it. No matter how powerful or exciting it felt, he couldn't give way.

He sat still, focused on his breath, the short count in, and the long count out. The yogic technique had always been valuable. He tried to relax, to let go of his feelings and let that pattern of breath fill his consciousness. The short count in, and the long count out, letting the breath linger, idle, filling him with peace.

Someone dropped a spoon, and it clattered on a dish. It felt like a physical blow. His heart lost its calming rhythm. Sweat trickled down his face, and his armpits felt damp. He became aware that he was sitting rigid. He felt everyone holding their breath, watching him.

Insane. Paranoid. He'd spent so much time the shadow of a shadow, paranoia was a trusted friend.

He did have those special implants. He had those enhanced adrenal glands perched on top of his kidneys, plugged into his system. Worth millions, to the right people. It made him powerful, but in a place like this, it made him a target. "A place like this," he said out loud. "Was Seattle any better? Thieves crawling in the basement, feds planning raids. Safety? Ha!"

A prickling across the nape of his neck told him to turn around, and he noticed that the waitress with that sexy, foaming hair was watching him. As their eyes locked, she flinched, and looked down at the table in front of her, clearing up the mess of plates and cutlery left by some departed guests. Mann looked down as well, and swallowed. The breathing, that was it, he had to concentrate on the breathing. Scaring the staff at the hotel where they were hiding was not his idea of keeping a low profile. But where the hell did she get off staring like he was a weird animal?

He tried to do the yogic breathing, but it was hard with his jaw clenched. He forced himself to look at the food, to pick up that loathsome sandwich, and take a bite. He bit, chewed, and swallowed, and his mouth filled with the taste of roast chicken, tomatoes, and a tangy sauce he couldn't quite describe. Once he'd got past the retarded visual aesthetic, it wasn't so bad. Maybe he could sit there and enjoy his food, and the waitress wouldn't think he was a weirdo, and the other diners wouldn't whisper about him, wouldn't spy on him, and sell their knowledge to thieves and trackers. Maybe he and Doctor Gleicker could pretend they were on vacation.

He smiled at the idea, and looked at his sandwich. He saw the marks where his teeth had torn through the bread, and ripped the meat. He saw mysterious sauce ooze from the wounds in the bread. He saw a little black olive.

He watched as the olive cracked at the top, and spread out wings and six segmented legs, and crawled out of the half-eaten sandwich.

Mann leapt up from his seat, and hurled away the sandwich, coughing and spitting as he rose. The waitress rushed up to him, her face all twisted in concern.

"Is anything the matter, sir?"

"You call this funny? You think I enjoy your jokes?"

She shook her head.

He knew he was going to go too far. He felt his heart race, his stomach went cold, and the familiar surge of energy swept through his arms and legs. He pictured himself grabbing her by the throat, and crushing her neck. He could tear her apart. He could raise a storm in that cheap, smelly restaurant, a killing storm.

She wouldn't even look at him. I'm a monster to her, he thought. That's all I'll ever be. That was how they saw him, even when he wore a neat, tailored suit. They saw an aberration, gaunt and pale, careful and slow in his movements, a loner who stank of alcohol rub and soap.

People didn't like that kind of man, and made serial killer jokes just out of earshot. Never mind his field was security; the irony of it made him want to laugh and cry; his job was to protect.

"You'll never understand me," he said to the woman who stood trembling before him. He walked away, careful not to touch her in case he picked up some filthy local disease.

***

"But... Hot Radish?" asked Sten.

Sinker shrugged. "Had to call it something, I guess."

He had landed the Cat at a coastal town, and hired a truck. He'd brought Sten and Tub Jack. It wasn't a perfect arrangement, but he had to leave someone to watch the Cat while he was away, and keep the locals from nicking it. He would have preferred to keep Tub Jack out of trouble, but he didn't feel safe leaving him by himself, and besides, poor old Tubby always got so lonely.

They'd taken rooms at a hotel in Broken Penny, in the district of flowers. He didn't know why it was called that, and he hadn't bothered to pick up a guide book. He'd chosen the hotel because one of the guys who'd come to take part in the Gleicker woman's biotech auction was staying there. They'd got there all right, never mind the traffic or the useless road signs, and found themselves an overpriced room with a broken air conditioner, and then there was the name.

"I mean," said Sten, standing by the window and rubbing at his eyes, "The Regency, the Imperial, the Grand... But the Hot Radish?"

"I don't know, Sten," said Sinker, sitting at the one tiny desk, a cheap piece of fibreboard stained chestnut. He was trying to get his laptop to display a decent map of the city, and failing. "And I don't care. Maybe the manager had a girlfriend who looked like... Uh, maybe radishes are a local delicacy. Maybe the guy who named it was hungry."

Tub Jack looked up from the TV. "I'm hungry."

"We'll get you some food in a minute," said Sinker, frustrated by the abysmal connection. Maybe if I switch to wireless, he thought.

Sten slumped down on the bed, hands over his face. His eyes were red from all that rubbing. "What kind of woman," his voice indistinct through his hands. "Would get nicknamed 'Radish'?"

"I really don't know," said Sinker. The wireless wizard started up, and then it died. He fought the urge to punch his computer.

"Maybe she tasted good, like a radish," said Tub Jack.

Sten dropped his hands from his face, and glared at Tub Jack with swollen, crimson eyes. "That's just stupid. Have you ever eaten a radish?"

Tub Jack remained placid. "I like radishes."

Sinker tried one more time to get a connection, but his computer froze. He slammed his fist down on the cheap desk. "Will you morons shut up? We're here to work, not here to stuff our mouths or ramble about radishes!"

Despite his size, Tub Jack recoiled like a frightened puppy. His lips quivered, and he swallowed, and then his big sloppy face twisted up and he started to cry. Sinker froze, aghast, and then he made comforting noises, but it was too late. Tub Jack bawled.

Sten caught Sinker's eye, and shook his head. "Now look what you've done."

This is not fair, thought Sinker.

This is just not fair.

***

Jake sank deeper in a dark, dark sea. He tried to swim, to get up high enough to break the surface, but his arms and legs felt weighed down, crushed against his sides. He looked all around for a sign of the sun, the moon, any light at all, but around him he saw nothing, depth upon depth of immense, overwhelming, inescapable nothing. At times he despaired of escape, but something lingered in his mind, some splinted fragment of a need so great it survived all attempts by the darkness to squeeze it out. There was something he had to find, no, not something, but someone. That was all he had left, that need, that mission.

Jake struggled against the dark.

***

Tub Jack clambered onto the hotel bed, pawed at his pillow, and shut his eyes. Sten walked over to the air conditioner, and fiddled with the controls, still rubbing at swollen eyes like red plums. Sinker closed and locked the door behind him, and winced. "Am I the only professional here? Jack. Wake up!"

Jack blinked up at him from the bed. "'m not 'sleep," he said, with half-lidded eyes.

"Work tonight. Get thirty minutes kip, then be ready, right? Right, Jack?"

"Yurr hmm," mumbled Jack, his florid face glistening with treacle and maple syrup. Somehow, against all odds, in the Mediterranean city of Broken Penny, Tub Jack had found a cafe that sold waffles and pancakes. He'd been so excited that Sinker hadn't had the heart to say no, so they'd all dined on the sweet, sticky food. Sten hadn't eaten much, and he hadn't said much, either. All that sweet food had given Sinker a stomach ache.

"For pity's sake, wash that syrup off your face, you're getting it all over the bed."

Tub Jack brushed his face with his big, sticky hands, and muttered, "G'night, mum."

Sten snorted with laughter.

"At least I can expect some professionalism from you, right, Sten?"

Sten looked out of the window, at the street below.

Sinker opened the fridge, and poured himself a glass of water, hoping it would settle his stomach. "I had plenty of sleepless nights on naval patrols. When the Spanish threatened to 'liberate' Gibraltar, we patrolled the straits... When you're sailing on a flashpoint, only there as a trigger, for the counteroffensive, good Lord, you never sleep."

Sten rubbed his eyes.

"I suppose it was similar in the army. You were special forces, right?"

Sten grunted.

Sinker drained his water, and set down the empty glass on the cheap desk. He eyed Jack, but the kid was asleep. He turned his gaze on Sten, took in his bullet head and broad shoulders, the powerful body under that ugly brown, sweat-striped shirt.

"We've been playing this game ever since the Charon. I'm tired of it. You don't have to talk, but you can't fall apart now. Don't take this the wrong way, but what the fuck?"

Sten hunched over. He turned to Sinker, but his eyes fell to the carpet. His face shone red and sweaty. He didn't look a slick merc. He looked like a school boy caught peeking on the girls.

"Come on, damn it, we don't have time for games," said Sinker. He could see that something was gnawing on Sten with jagged teeth. Rastiff had them by the throat. He had to push. "I can't afford for you to crack. If you can't get it together, walk away."

Sten flinched, and Sinker decided he'd hit a nerve. He reached for a weapon, just in case. His fingers closed on the glass, and he grimaced. He'd seen Sten fight. That little thing wouldn't do.

Sten cleared his throat, still hiding whatever violence lurked in his swollen red eyes. "There is something..."

Sinker waited. "Go on."

"There is something that I've been meaning to... To tell you."

"Don't keep me in suspense."

"There's something you should know... About me."

What is it, Sinker asked himself. Has he been stealing from me? Has he been reporting to Rastiff? Is he some kind of filthy spy? That must be it! I knew Rastiff would never let us run free.

"I..."

"Yes?"

"I'm not..."

Sinker ground his teeth together. "Speak, man!"

Tub Jack rolled over in bed, his overloaded belly gave up a losing battle, and he let loose a tremendous blast of gas.

"Gad!" Sinker rushed to the window. He and Sten were of one mind; together they made frantic efforts to unlatch it, but even after they'd done so, it refused to open. "Stupid, broken..." he said, trying not to breath.

"No," said Sten through tight lips. "It's so people don't jump."

"Don't jump?" said Sinker. "I'd prefer to jump. It'd be quick, merciful, compared to this gas chamber!"

"You got that right," said Sten. "Hold on, I've got an idea." He opened up his kit bag, and took out a jemmy. He stuck the sharp end in the window frame, and pried it open. The window resisted, and he grunted with the effort. "Help me, captain."

With their combined strength, they popped the window out of its frame. It swung open, and they felt a night breeze on their faces; warm city air, heavy with moisture petrol fumes, scents of spice and burnt toast.

"It may not be better," said Sten. "But it's different."

"Job well done. Glad to have you here." He punched Sten on the shoulder.

Sten made a face. "Hotel's gonna moan."

"Can't be helped. Look, I like you, and I want you on my team. Won't you tell me what's chewing your guts?"

He looked away again, and Sinker worried that they were going to go all the way back to square bloody one. Then he looked up, and this time he held his gaze. "I uh, I lost my contact lenses."

"You what? I didn't know you wore... That's how come the..." He made circling motions around his eyes, and Sten nodded. "Ah. I see. Well, any idea where you left them?" Sten shook his head. "Oh. Come on, then." He started for the door.

"Where?"

"Let's get you some glasses. Can't have you waving a gun around without. Might shoot something I can't replace."

They left Tub Jack sleeping, and took the lift down to street level. Neon lights made the city bright as day, and people thronged the streets as if they'd never heard of sleep. As they walked out into the sultry night, Sinker hid his unease. Sten had revealed his vision problem, but he felt there was more to this than eye trouble.

***

Chapter 14

"You look ridiculous in those goggles," said Sinker.

Sten checked himself in the bathroom mirror. The fluorescent tube started to flicker, and in his black, paramilitary outfit, the goggles made him look like a scaly, bug eyed beast. Sten scowled.

Sinker laughed. "Now you look like a puffer fish!"

"It was your bloody idea! If it had been up to me, I'd have got disposable contact lenses, not these dumb goggles. I don't care if they do match my prescription, they pinch my eyes." He lifted them up, and rubbed his eyes.

"You already lost one pair of contacts," said Sinker. "Keep those goggles strapped on."

Sten peered at his reflection. "But I like a sea monster. What about discretion?"

Tub Jack wandered past Sinker into the bathroom. He stood in front of the lavatory, unzipped his flies, and took a piss.

Both men stared.

Jack turned to Sten, and his eyes lit up. "Oooh," he said. "Can I have a pair?"

Sinker laughed. "Approved by Jack."

They went down to the seventh floor, to room 703, where a Dutch buyer, attracted by the Gleicker auction, was staying. They wore plain black suits and white shirts over their combat gear, although considering Sten's goggles and Tub Jack's sheer girth, Sinker felt he was the only one who might pass for normal.

He checked the hallway, and took out a magnetic lock pick. Sten watched his back, and Tub Jack leaned forward, fascinated by the device. Sinker pressed it against the lock, and hit the button. The slim machine projected a pulse of electromagnetic data that penetrated the lock, fooled the magnetic sensors, and disengaged it. Then he tried the handle.

"Shit!"

"Hurry up," said Sten. "They do have cameras in this hotel."

Sinker ignored him, and tried again. Nothing happened. "The bloody thing's not working."

Sten leaned over his shoulder. "Maybe you're pressing the wrong button."

"There's only one button!"

"Maybe you need to hold it down for longer."

He did. It didn't work.

Sten cleared his throat. "Or for shorter, then."

Sinker ground his teeth, and wiped sweat from his face. "Shut up and watch my back."

Tub Jack reached out one thick, powerful hand, and pulled the device out of his hand. He tried to resist, but it was useless. "Jack, don't play with that, it's not a toy."

Tub Jack said nothing. He turned the device upside down, pressed it against the door lock, and pushed the button.

"That's not-"

The lock made an audible click.

Tub Jack smiled at him, and handed back the device.

Sinker and Sten gaped at Tub Jack. "How did you...?"

Tub Jack pointed at the black plastic case of the lock pick. Guided by his stubby finger, Sinker made out what Jack had seen: a tiny embossed arrow on the top edge, pointing at the door. Sinker began to wonder if Jack wasn't the brightest man on his crew.

"Attaboy," said Sten, with heavy sarcasm. "We got the door open. Now can we please go inside before someone posts the security video on YouTube?"

Sinker turned the handle, and moved into the dark, followed by Sten. Tub Jack came in last, and shut the door.

They crouched in darkness for a full minute, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dark. Sinker felt every muscle quiver with tension. His face and hands were damp with sweat.

When his eyes had adjusted, he saw this was a small, boxy room, walls and carpet grey in the dim light of the blinds. He signalled, and they rose and approached the bed. He saw the bulge of their target, lying wrapped in his duvet. The man had his air conditioning on high, but in sleep the chill had got to him, and he'd crawled under the covers.

Sinker reached behind his back, and Sten handed him the other gun. He took off the safety, peeled back the covers to reveal a soft, bearded, middle-aged man, who shivered in his sleep. Sinker took aim, and then he fired.

***

They went back to their room one by one, all in silence. Once they had got back and were gathered together, they stripped off their suits and their paramilitary gear, and got ready to sleep. Sinker unloaded his gun.

Sten came over. He'd taken off the goggles, and now his eyes were noticeably less swollen, but they were surrounded by red rings. "It's not so bad," he said.

"It's still a risk," said Sinker. "Some people have a bad reaction."

"Worse than a bullet?"

Sinker toyed with the tranquilizer gun. The Dutchman ought to sleep for twenty four hours, safe in his bed. But gauging drug doses was an art. He felt a fist grip his heart. He didn't like to gamble a helpless man's life.

"Better this way," said Sten.

He tried to imagine why the Dutchman had come. Maybe he wanted to build the next super soldier. Maybe he wanted to grow new kidneys for the sick.

"I hope you're right."

***

Chapter 15

Nils checked his weapons again. The Czech Skorpion machine pistol went in his shoulder holster, and the Sig-Sauer .45 semiautomatic went in the clamshell holster at his hip. The push knife slid into the narrow scabbard at the small of his back.

Andenblatt came out of the bathroom, a lavender towel draped around his hips. He scratched the thick black fuzz on his chest, and laughed at Nils. "Again?" The hotel light reflected off his shaved head, making a weird halo effect. He looked like a cross between a saint and a great ape. "You are too itsy witsy for this work, man."

They had only been able to get a two-bed room, and Andenblatt's heft had ruled out his sharing with anyone. In comparison, Piers and Nils were built along stick figure lines, one blonde and one red headed. Piers spoke from under the covers of the bed he shared with Nils. "You are not to be saying that, dumkopf!"

The men shared a love of danger and a bond forged in battle, but they did not share a common homeland. Mercenaries, they had all been recruited from northern Europe, and English served as their lingua franca. Nils didn't care, and Andenblatt had a style all of his own, but Piers often taught English to Vietnamese girls during down time, and he'd become a stickler for correctness.

Nils shut them out, and focused. Andenblatt and Piers would take out the security types, while he closed in on the target, dealt with her personal guard, cuffed her, and took her to the waiting car. Piers would run interference, and Andenblatt would cover the rear.

Once they had her, they'd drive to the airport, where their client would be waiting. They would board separate flights, and meet up in Hanoi. Andenblatt would get massively drunk, Piers would buy half a dozen whores, and Nils would wire his share of the money to his ex-wife in Sweden.

Maybe this time she would let him speak to his daughter.

The bed shook, and Piers yelped. Nils rolled off the bed, and got his back against a wall. Andenblatt, never that good at verbal sparring, had given up on trying to best Piers with his tongue. He'd reached under the covers, caught his prey by the ankle, and dragged him out. Piers hit the floor ass first. "Verdamt schwein!"

Andenblatt roared with laughter. "You are not to be saying that, dumbass!"

Nils shook his head, and checked his watch: five AM. "Get your shit together," he said. "We need to get to Maritropa."

Piers got up off the floor, massaging his bruised ass. "It's always so early with you, Nils. Why can't we sleep in this time? Surely we can kidnap later the lady."

Andenblatt sneered. "Lazy dumbass," he said. "Stupid dumbass."

"Towel monkey!"

"Tree huggling slot!"

Nils cleared his throat. "Get dressed."

"Slot? Slot? You want to put a coin in me, hey?"

"I'll put fist in you!"

Nils rubbed his face. They were all tense, and they dealt with it in different ways. His fault was in too much preparation, and he knew it. He opened a pouch at his belt, and looked at the picture of the target. Liana Gleicker, he thought. How much you are worth. Maybe enough to buy my wife's love...

He put the picture away, took out his pistol, and racked the slide. The sound brought his companions out of their roughhouse game. "We go in five minutes. This island is crawling with bad men. We need every advantage. Do you believe we're the only guns at this auction? We go early, so we don't get there late."

Piers sighed. "Just once can't you relax, man?"

"Keep up, or I'll leave you behind."

Andenblatt grinned. "He'll keep up," he said. "I will see him do it." He unwrapped his towel, leaving his powerful, hairy body quite naked, and then he dumped the damp towel on Piers' head. Piers squealed and thrashed, screaming.

"Ass juice! Ass juice!"

***

Mann sat at the foot of his bed, legs crossed, hands against his navel. The heat had driven him out of his suit, and he now wore nothing but his grey boxer shorts, and they too were moist with sweat. He tried to ignore the early morning noise; Broken Penny woke early, to get the moving and shifting done before the Mediterranean sun baked everyone.

As he'd tried to sleep, the room had got muggy, and taken on a musty odour, as if in all its years, the hotel staff had never bothered to air the room and clean it out. The thought of all those decades of dirt, of dead skin and oily secretions made his flesh itch.

The ghostly ranks were growing. Faces came before him, people he'd passed in the corridors of the clinic, or watched day after day on the glowing screens in the security office. Doctor Gleicker's lab assistants, her surgical assistants, her patients pale and sick.

Jill Fontaine, sexy lips and full, strawberry blonde hair, he'd breathed her scent until he'd smelled her in his dreams. He'd set a bomb, and blown her voluptuous body into bloody shreds.

He felt a chill his limbs, and cold sweat prickled on his forehead.

Bam! Bam!

He jumped, and wiped his face with a shaking hand. He took his gun from under his pillow, chambered a round, and thumbed off the safety.

The knock came again. He held the gun low, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Liana stood in the corridor, with a tray and a bright smile. "Cup of tea?"

Mann sighed, and sagged against the wall. "Little early for house calls, doctor," he said.

Her lips quivered.

She's changed, he thought. He saw it in the small wrinkles around her eyes, the tension in her shoulders.

Fear.

It might have been fear of the feds, gangs, global warming, or pesticides in the soil, but he didn't want to lie to himself. She's afraid of me, he thought. He tried to stay calm, but the injustice filled him with indignant, self righteous anger. As if I would hurt her, he thought, the woman who holds my life in her hands, the woman who knows my body better than I do, the woman I swore I'd protect!

He couldn't look her in the face. He turned away. He heard her soft steps on the carpet, and then the squeal and click as the door shut behind her.

"Have a cup of tea, Mann."

He couldn't turn around, for fear she'd see it in his face, that chaos of emotions. He went to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked down into the street. Lorries rocketed past the hotel, adding their share of smog to the air, and aged trash pickers hobbled along, picking up rubbish dumped at the side of the road. Machines and manual labour, the modern world and an archaic remnant of the distant past, on display all the time. The city was schizophrenic.

She set the tea tray down on his desk. "Please have a cup of tea, Mann. I'm worried about you."

Yes, he thought, worried about what I might do. Worried that you might be my next victim! Don't you know me at all? Don't you know how important you are?

"I'm not thirsty," he said.

She gave him a wry smile. "I'm your doctor, Mann. Are you going to ignore my professional advice?"

She sounded calm, but her hands trembled.

He snatched at the cup, and hot tea spilled across the tray. Liana yelped, and put her hands over her mouth, watching him with wide, fearful eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, dabbing at the spill with a tissue, cursing himself.

"It's okay," she said, chewing her lip. "There's...enough."

He poured more tea, and raised it to his lips. Her eyes followed the cup. He sniffed the tea like a wine taster. He wanted her to think that he appreciated the pleasing aroma, but it smelled like damp cardboard. Tasted like it, too.

He laughed. "You only brought one cup," he said. "We'll have to share."

She flinched. "Uh no, that's a special brew, just for you. I, uh, picked out medicinal herbs to give you extra, um, strength. And to help you relax."

"If it's good for me, I'm sure it's good for you," he said, pouring another cup. She reached out, and put her hand on his. Her skin looked pale and cool, but her hand felt warm and full of life.

He froze.

"Let's talk," she said. She led him to the bed, and he felt a strange excitement. She sat on the end of the bed, and pulled him down so they sat side by side. She kept hold of his hand, as if afraid to let him go.

Mann sat on the edge of the bed, sipping his tea and feeling uncomfortable. He was supposed to keep everything under control, and here he couldn't control himself.

He took another sip of tea. His bitter mood seemed to have soured it. He caught Liana watching him, and he drank more to please her.

"Drink more tea, Mann." Her voice quavered. She ran one hand through her hair, and he saw the morning sun catch it like golden fire. But her hand shook.

He knew why her hands shook, and why she had brought him her tea. She was scared. Scared to be near him, and scared to be apart. He wanted to take her hands and hold them, to take her in his arms, and give her the comfort she needed. He longed for it. But he was afraid. Would her need for him overcome the fear he saw in her?

I can take any man apart with my hands, he thought. But I'm afraid to touch this woman. I'm afraid to speak.

Casting about for some way to show her he cared, he poured the rest of the tea down his throat. Then, emboldened, he put the cup down, pushed the tray aside, and took her hands in his. He looked into her sweet blue eyes, shining with tears. He felt tears in his own eyes.

"Liana," he said. "I need to tell you something."

She swallowed. He felt his heart shake in sympathy, and prayed he could control himself, prevent the adrenal surge. If it triggered now, the frenzy would shatter the foundations of his world. He held his breath.

"Mann," she said. "M-Mann-"

"Shh," he said, squeezing her hands. To his surprise, he felt peace inside. "I'm here to keep you safe. This is a dangerous place, and you need me."

Was it his imagination, or did she seem to be falling under a shadow? The sun must have passed behind a cloud.

"And I will keep you safe. I..." He trailed off, lost in a moment of confusion. He took a deep breath, and shook it off. "I need..."

It was getting hard to speak. He felt dizzy, and the room had darkened. Maybe the bulb had blown. It didn't matter. He had to finish. "I need you, too."

She squeezed his hands, and looked deep into his eyes. He smiled, and found that he'd lain down on the bed before he'd realised what he was doing. He struggled to get up, but his arms and legs dragged him down. "Liana, I..."

The effort was too much. He willed the words to come, but he couldn't speak. His eyes slid shut, and he lay in darkness. The last thing he heard before he was consumed in an abyss was her voice, from a great distance.

"Goodbye, Mann."

***

Chapter 16

Liana watched Mann until she was sure he was out.

His lean, pale face had relaxed, lost its usual suspicious look. For once he looked ordinary. When she looked closer, she could see the tiny white scars dashed around his fingers and knuckles, but she would have had to turn him over to find the thick surgical scars over his kidneys, to know he'd been altered

She'd started to check his pulse, but as her hand brushed his skin, it began to tremble. She frowned. You couldn't be a surgeon if your hands shook. She tried once more, but as she felt his cool skin, she saw smashed buildings, wrecked flesh, and dead faces screaming.

Would it be so bad, she thought, if he never woke up?

She buried her face in her hands. "I'm a doctor. I make people better."By the time she got back to her room, she was dizzy, eyes streaming, stomach writhing.

She struggled with the lock, then stumbled to the bathroom. She tried to get to the toilet in time, but her gut lurched, and she doubled over, spewing vomit on the tiles, and down her blouse and skirt. She fell to her hands and knees, choking on foul yellow bile. She retched until it felt her body would tear apart.

The fit of sickness passed, she crawled to her feet, and saw her face in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen and red, and her lips and cheeks were sticky with bile. It had stained her blouse.

She washed her face, rinsed her mouth out and brushed her teeth, and then she slipped out of her clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor. She climbed into the tight little shower, and set it to the highest heat. She stood under the scalding rain, shut her eyes, and dreamed of a better life, a life in which she could be proud, where she saved them from the weakness of their flesh.

A life with no guilt.

She shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair glistened, and her face and body were flushed red. She could clean her body, but the unease remained. No amount of washing would purge it.

She wished that Jake were there. He was so good at giving her comfort. He'd put his arms around her, no matter that her skin dripped with water, and she'd feel his warmth, and how gentle his embrace would be, how tender, in spite of his strength. He'd stroke her cheek and her neck, and kiss her on that spot by her jaw that made her knees go weak, she'd kiss him back, and everything would be right.

Except it wouldn't.

Jake wasn't there. Jake hadn't come. Those thoughts tore at her, like thorns in her chest. If he did come, what would he say? What would he think? How could she explain that she was responsible for all of those deaths? The work that had paid for their home, was not about healing the sick, but about enhancing killers. Her paymaster himself was a thug in a suit. Her life had been a vast, poisonous lie.

How could he understand? How could he forgive?

She sobbed, ran from the bathroom and the bile stench, and threw open the fridge. She grabbed a handful of the bottles of spirits, lined them up on her desk, took the first one, and wrenched off the cap. "Make it go," she said. "Make it all go." She poured the drink down her throat, and choked as the fiery liquid burned her stomach. Years of precise lab work screamed at her recklessness. With a deliberate act, she tossed the empty bottle on the floor.

She felt her skin prickle, and her stomach twisted, but she gritted her teeth, and picked up the second bottle. This one had a red label, but she decided not to read the name. She tore off the cap and threw it aside.

She put the drink to her lips, slower, caught herself holding back, and upended it. This one tasted foul, and she held the bottle before her eyes, with a grimace of disbelief. "People drink this for pleasure?" She shook her head, and threw the bottle over her shoulder. Somehow it missed the bed, and smashed against the wall. That struck her as hilarious, and she giggled as she drained the third bottle, which caused her to inhale some of the bitter liquid, and threw her into a fit of hacking coughs. She staggered, and tumbled onto the bed.

As she lay on the cool, soft bed, she felt a peace descend. Her problems, her fears, and guilt remained, but muted and faint. Peace grew into springy energy. She'd just lain down, and now she wanted to leap up, to go out, and meet those dumb folks who'd come for the auction.

"Don't know what they're getting into," she muttered, as she tugged on a fresh pair of black panties and struggled to clip on her bra. "Lightning rod, that's me. Boom! Hehehehe."

She'd planned to wear a sober grey suit, to project a businesslike image, but in her new, enlightened state, she decided that it wasn't her job to impress those dumb auctioneer...bidder...auction bidding guys. They had to impress her.

She slipped on a white miniskirt and lace leggings, and a cream silk blouse, with ruffles down the front. She checked in the mirror, and grinned. Her hair was still wet, and in the right light, she could make out her bra through her blouse. On any other day, she would have been appalled, but on this day, she felt good. "Let's test your focus, you dumb auctionibbles."

She put on black leather high heels, picked up her handbag, and headed for the door. She brushed the handle, turned on the spot, and went back to the fridge. She found three unopened bottles of something. "Mustn't waste it," she said, as she stuffed them into her handbag. Then she sailed out of the room.

***

"I hate this suit," said Sinker, pulling at his jacket. "It itches."

"Try wearing goggles," said Sten, tapping his improvised eyewear.

They stood on the kerb across from the hotel Maritropa. The emerald green facade glistened under the morning sun like a seaweed covered shipwreck. The road was a noisy blur of midmorning traffic. A rag picker in a weathered brown coat toiled along the kerb.

Outside the cast iron railings of a park, a wizened old man stood in an old black suit. He read from a book in a singsong chant. He might have been reading from the Bible, but the gestures he made with his left hand made Sinker think of Aztec temples and human sacrifice.

"If I'm going to rescue someone, I want to feel good," he said, waiting for a break in the traffic."

"Better to look good," said Sten. "This is supposed to be an auction. We can't pay, so we'd better look good."

"Yeah, but-"

Sten cut in, his voice harsh. "And it's not a rescue. It's an extraction."

"I know that."

"She may not come when we ask."

"Gee, General Obvious, I-"

Sten ignored him. "She may ask her security people to kill us. Don't moan about your clothes!"

Sinker ground his teeth. Sten spotted a gap in traffic, and he went for it, leaving Sinker little choice but to run after. Tub Jack followed in his extra large suit. The only colour they'd been able to get was sea green. When he got close to the hotel, he blended right in, all except for his big sweaty face.

"Jack has the right idea," said Sten. "Camouflage. That shit might keep the boy alive. Pity he'll still be a vegetable."

Sinker made to grab Sten, but man in goggles rushed on through the revolving doors of the hotel.

"Son of a sadistic squid!"

Tub Jack beamed. "I like squid," he said. "Octopus is too chewy."

"Stick close to me, Jack. Whatever happens, stick by me."

Tub Jack gave him a happy nod. Sinker shut his eyes, and took a deep breath. He looked around one last time, and then he went inside.

***

Chapter 17

Liana sat at the head of a long walnut table in the Emerald Chamber, the hotel's signature conference room. The room had no emeralds, but the plush carpets and embossed wallpaper were dark green. A line of tall windows ran across one wall, facing east. With the blinds up, those fifth floor windows would have given a good view across the city. They had the style of church windows, without the staining, and with the blinds down, they glowed with a soft golden light. The air was clean and crisp, with a hint of pine. It hadn't been cheap, but she wasn't buying a room, she was buying a future.

Her chair was padded wood, old fashioned, but comfortable. She felt like a queen. None of her guests had arrived yet, but it was only just nine in the morning. She had scheduled the meeting, the auction, at that time to test her buyers. If they wanted what she had to sell, they would make it.

The drinks had lofted her above her cares, left her heart in anaesthetic peace. She could see her new lab, in Berne or Osaka. She'd have superior animal care, and an operating theatre with the latest robotic aides. She pictured the new organs she would grow, the healthy pink flesh she would mould, the speechless gratitude of her first patient.

"Today," she said. "Today."

She swigged of firewater, and giggled. She only wished Jake were there. She sighed. "I'll-"

The doors swung open, and her words died on her lips. She fought to stay seated, to keep from jumping up in excitement. Her best Christmas was never this wonderful!

A party of Japanese businessmen in identical black suits and plastic-rimmed glasses walked into the conference room, bowed to her, and one of them came closer. "This is Mr Amagawa, of the Shinzo corporation," he said, indicating another man. She noticed the silver strands in his hair, and the lines around his eyes. Shorter than the others, his suit fit better.

"Mr Amagawa," she said, and nodded like a queen. Another test. If he bridled at her lack of courtesy now, he wouldn't throw himself into the bidding later. As it happened, he beamed as if she'd showered him with gold coins, and his party sat midway down the table, on her left.

She began to remember the dreams she'd enjoyed before she had begun this crazed affair. Amagawa wasn't just a corporate clone, he was a world class entrepreneur who specialised in novel biotech. He had experience, wealth, business acumen, and he understood her field. His competitors would have to work to beat him.

The doors opened again. This time it was a party of Germans, perspiring in their overstuffed suits. "Doctor Oberhoffer, at your service," said the lead, with a neat bow. His face was gaunt and lined, his cropped hair white, eyes watery brown. He flicked his fingers and his companions, one fat, one scrawny, and they bowed too.

"Welcome Dr Oberhoffer," she said with a lazy smile. "Please take a-"

"You are a Gleicker, yes?"

"Today I hope I'm the only Gleicker."

He gave a polite laugh, and glared at his companions until they laughed too. "In my home town of Schleswig, we have a Gleicker. Old family. Well respected. Diminished by time and entropical forces. Good for you to come, replenish the estate, burnish your shield with the honour of your work..."

Liana saw, with dawning horror, that the old man had prepared a speech. He'd written a goddamn speech just to introduce himself! What was worse, she couldn't escape; she was the host. She'd invited him... Hadn't she?

Other parties arrived, but they were put off from introducing themselves by Oberhoffer. Most took their seats, but one or two took a look at what they evidently thought was a tight knit private meeting, and slipped out of the conference room. Curse him, she thought, curse him for his longwinded babble!

Was that his plan from the start?

She got more and more irritated, smiling, nodding, praying he'd have a freak accident involving lightning and killer bees. The doctor's party, three sweaty men in bulging black suits, appeared to have replicated itself two or three times among her other guests. She began to wonder if she'd had too much liquid courage. She closed her eyes and massaged her temples. You shouldn't see that kind of weird after one minibar binge.

"...but I see you have some deep thoughts to attend to, dear Dr Gleicker," said Oberhoffer

She looked up in surprise. His voice was so even and hypnotic that she'd forgotten about him. They should find some way to extract whatever quality he had that made her want to fall asleep. They'd make a fortune.

"We will take our seats. I will to speak to you again."

"Later, sure," she said. Yeah, his droning voice was worth a million dollars in the right place. If she'd had him that morning, she wouldn't have needed to drug Mann. "How about right before bed?"

He spluttered, his face turned red, and his mouth quivered, speechless. His assistants had to help him to his seat, where he sat staring at the table, and massaging the back of his neck. The bigger one of his assistants caught her eye, and winked at her.

The room was packed. All the players she'd contacted had arrived, and some shrimp had come along for a shot. She hadn't known how valuable her knowledge was. Now she knew, and she determined not to settle. No compromises. She'd demand the best.

And I'll get it, she thought.

Jake was going to be astounded!

She stood at the head of the table, and clapped her hands together. The crowd fell silent, and she smiled. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. Please take your seats."

Everyone took their seats, and she was about to explain her rules, when she noticed one man standing.

No, three men; a hard eyed redhead halfway down the table, two others at the door, one massive and dark haired, the other narrow and blonde. The redhead held a rolled paper in his hands. She saw sweat glistening on his brow

Her mouth when dry. She swallowed. "Are you ready to begin?"

The redhead twitched. "Yeah," he said. "I'm ready."

He dropped the paper, pointed at Mr Amagawa, and someone screamed. At first she couldn't make out what was happening, and then she saw that what she'd taken to be his pointing finger was a dull black object that magnetised every eye in the room. The thought came fast and clear: he has a handgun.

Something inside her froze. She found she couldn't even move her lips.

Mr Amagawa clutched his chest, and half-rose from his chair, his face fish belly white, contorted in agony. He shuddered, and crumpled to the floor, knocking down his chair as he fell. The men who'd come with him moaned, and she could see the struggle within them, for they tensed to follow him down and give him aid, but fear held them in their seats as sure as leg irons.

She thought Mr Amagawa had been shot, but then she realised his heart had given up. That struck her as so unfair; you could die without a shot. You could lose your life without a chance to save it. Just like Seattle, she thought.

Just like Mann's victims.

Some guy swore in Russian, shattering the ice. Others screamed, or reached for their phones. One Australian entrepreneur got to his feet, flanked by a pair of burly minders, and started for the door. "Stop," said the redhead.

"If it's money you want, mate," said the Aussie, "I'll see you right, but I'm not staying for your party."

The redhead ignored his offer. He raised the gun, and shot the nearest bodyguard in the side of his shaved head.

The blast deafened Liana.

The bodyguard hit the floor hard, and his blood spattered the people nearby. The second bodyguard, pushed his client down, and drew a pistol in the same movement. He almost got off a shot, but the huge guy at the door fired a burst that tore the guard's head into a mess of jagged white bone and pinkish brain matter. He fell on top of his prone client, who struggled and whined as his dead bodyguard oozed blood and mashed brains over his face.

"No," whispered Liana. This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. She'd planned this moment, she'd worked it over and over until she'd dreamed about it.

It had been so perfect, and now her dream was being trampled in the womb, aborted.

"Stop," she said, choked by fear and fury. "Stop," she said, louder this time, and again, "stop!" But for all of her desire, and all of the breath in her lungs, she saw the redhead and his gang ignored her. God, she thought, as if raising my voice could help.

As if they'd listen if I beg.

The cold eyed redhead turned to face her. His eyes chilled her blood. She dropped her eyes, praying that he'd ignore her, praying that he'd come for someone else.

The Australian broke the silence, cursing and grunting as he tried to wriggle out from under his dead guard. The redhead looked away from Liana, leaned over the table, and glared at the man. Then he raised his gun, and fired once, punching a hole in the Australian's temple, and putting an end to his struggle.

Liana winced, but she hoped. Perhaps these men had come for him; perhaps the Australian was a criminal, a thug in a suit, and the killers a hit team who'd tracked him here. Maybe, work done, they would leave. Her heart squirmed, ashamed at her own thoughts. But although it was shameful, she needed that hope.

The redhead turned to her, and spoke in English with a Germanic accent. "You there, woman. Come here."

She couldn't look at him. If she didn't look up, if she didn't answer, perhaps he would turn out to be talking to someone else.

"I said come here, Yankee bitch!"

She swallowed, and stared at the table.

He walked to her.

Her skin felt clammy, cold sweat moistened her armpits, her guts writhed, and her heart beat so hard she thought it would burst. All her dreams fled. Her mind contracted until it had room for one last animal desire, to live.

Mann, her guardian, her devoted warrior lay unconscious on his bed. She cursed herself for drugging him. Why had she been so stupid? Jake! Jake was a champion fighter, he would help her... But she'd left Jake a thousand miles behind, abandoned in Seattle.

He was on her, the redhead. "Come."

She kept her head down, eyes on the table, on the varnished sheen of the walnut.

He grabbed her arm, yanked her away. She stumbled, fell against the gunman. He didn't yield to her weight at all, and she felt his wiry muscle under his suit. As soon as she realised what she was doing, she jerked away and stood still, head bowed, legs trembling.

"Look at me. Look at me, bitch!"

He grabbed her throat under the jaw, and drove his hand upwards. His grip felt like a steel claw. She felt blood pound in her head. The pressure hurt her eyes. She clawed at his hand, but she might as well have been scratching a tank. She stared up into his face, fighting for breath, and saw the scars on his brow, and the kink in his nose where it had been broken. She smelled his sweat stink. She looked into his eyes and knew her wishes meant nothing to him.

She would live or die at his whim, and when the end came, it would be sudden, brutal, and beyond her control.

"You're coming with us, bitch," he said. "I'm Nils. Try to run, and I'll sand the skin off your feet."

He squeezed her throat so hard she thought she would die. The room went black, and whirled.

The pressure let up, and she fell back, staggering blind until she hit the wall. She slid halfway down it, gasping for air. Hot tears stung her eyes and streamed down her face, to join the cold sweat soaking her skin.

Nils shoved her. She stumbled down the length of the room Weeping, she cast a pleading look at the guests, but no one would meet her eyes.

The huge gunman leered and made a lewd gesture. Any other day, it would have been rude, but today it felt charged with loathsome meaning. The scrawny blonde sniggered. "Hands," he said.

She stared at him in blank incomprehension. "What?"

Nils slapped her in the back of the head. "Stupid bitch," he said. "Hold out your hands."

She looked down at her feet, and slowly raised two trembling hands. The blonde pushed the cuffs over her wrists, and squeezed them until they locked, cutting into her flesh. It hurt, but worse than the physical pain was that click, as the cuffs snapped in place. That was the sound of hope dying.

***

Chapter 18

Sinker had found it easy to mingle with the genuine bidders. She'd attracted people from all over, and it had taken little effort to be accepted. Everyone had come to compete, so it wasn't like a private party. Even Tub Jack, in his awful suit, had passed without attention, and now he sat at the table with a faraway look that put Sinker in mind of a humongous baby.

Sten looked ridiculous in his suit and goggles, and he kept sweating, shooting nervous glances left and right, and flinching when anyone spoke. Sinker leaned over. "Holding up all right?"

"What if someone asks me to bid on something?" whispered Sten.

"Look thoughtful."

"How can I look thoughtful in goggles?" said Sten. "No one looks thoughtful in goggles. Albert Einstein couldn't look thoughtful in goggles!"

"Take it easy."

Sten went back to sweating and twitching. Whatever deodorant he was wearing, it wasn't strong enough.

He thought about Rastiff. Would success please him? Would he lavish them with luxuries, treasure, freedom? Not bloody likely, he thought, he'll probably have us all shot to keep us quiet. Only the sharks will know what happened to us.

Hope I give the buggers indigestion.

One moment Sinker was ruminating on a cheapass maritime funeral, the next he was watching the three Scandinavian kidnappers take control of the room.

He thought of counterattack, but their reaction to the Australian put that idea out of his mind.

Keep calm, he told himself. Keep calm, and take them on the run.

Sten leaned forward, lowering his head like a bull ready to charge. Sinker's eyes went wide, and his shoulders hunched in anticipation of a really painful future in the next few seconds.

The woman they had come to extract was huddled close to the rival team. Any gunfire, and she would be among the victims. After the way Rastiff had introduced this mission, any result which included her death would lead to them all being slathered in blood, and thrown to the sharks.

"Sten," he hissed, "not yet."

Sten, dead white and oozing sweat, eyed him through those goggles, like some deranged diver. He didn't speak, he growled.

Sinker stared at him aghast. "Just a few seconds."

"I can't take any more."

With a shaking hand, Sten aimed at the kidnappers, to a chorus of shrieks. The biggest one glanced back. His jaw dropped when he saw the gun.

Sten fired.

Sinker threw himself backwards, rolled and lay flat, facing the door. Tub Jack, never quick on the uptake, sat with a complacent expression until Sinker tugged on his trouser leg. He hunkered down beside him.

Sinker sneaked a look at the door.

The kidnappers had disappeared.

"I shot him," said Sten. "I shot him dead, and he got back up."

Sinker pulled Tub Jack up, and then he started for the door. "Come on."

"He's not human! I shot him dead, and he-"

"He's wearing armour, you fool," said Sinker, checking the hall. "Or you missed! What the hell were you thinking, starting a fire fight around these people?"

"These people...?" Sten lowered his gun, and looked around at the sea of faces watching him in silent panic. He jumped, and backed away from the table. "Stop looking at me," he said. He waved the gun as if it was a fly swatter, and Liana's guests screamed. "Stop it," he said. "Stop looking at me!"

"Come on," said Sinker. "Come here!"

He knocked his gun hand up, and slapped his pale, sweaty face. "I don't have mercy for frog brained mutineers. Get out there!" He pivoted, and used the motion to propel Sten towards the door. "Jack," he said. "Cover us from behind." He marched towards the door, shoving Sten. "As for the rest of you," he said over his shoulder. "You're all under arrest. Stay here and wait for the uniformed officers."

If they had sounded depressed before, the wail they made was suicidal.

He heard the crack of a bullet.

He and Sten hit the deck at the same time, guns up and blasting on instinct. He saw the door to the stairwell swing shut.

Tub Jack ran past, he'd melted into a doorway, and produced a stubby shotgun from the depths of his horrible suit. He raced to the door.

"Wait!" shouted Sinker.

Tub Jack paused, and looked back. "Time."

Sinker held up a finger. "Ambush."

Tub Jack shrugged.

"Flashbang," said Sinker.

Tub Jack looked as if Sinker had produced a triple layer waffle, choking with pistachio ice cream, drenched with maple syrup. He didn't grin, he glowed. He reached inside his hideous green jacket, and pulled out yellow tube. He twisted the cap, cracked the door, and tossed it down the stairwell. Then he covered his ears.

Thunder burst in the hotel Maritropa.

"Go," shouted Sinker. He shoved Sten. Tub Jack was already through the doorframe, and he heard the hacking cough of his shotgun. He joined him in the stairwell. Tub Jack crouched on the edge of an ash grey landing, aiming down between the iron railings.

"Pin them."

Tub Jack nodded.

Sinker hugged the wall, keeping his body out of sight as he went down, hoping to flank his enemy. Sten followed him, quivering and silent, steady as a car carved from soap.

They got to the spot where the kidnappers had been stunned by the flashbang, and where they had taken fire from Jack; he saw the effect of the shotgun, scratches on the concrete. But a weapon with two shots, he reflected, is better for close assault than suppression.

Tub Jack joined them, and the shotgun in his right had had teamed up with a machine pistol in his left. He eyed them, shook his head, and clucked. "You're waiting for a bus that'll never come."

He plunged down the stairs.

Sten turned to Sinker. "No matter how many times I see it..."

"Come on," said Sinker, following Tub Jack. "Or he might get really smart, and claim the whole reward."

Sten moaned. "What reward?"

They raced on down the stairs. For a guy who looked like a hippo, Tub Jack could move. Sinker heard him catch up with the rivals. The big one fired up the stairwell, then he ran while the scrawny one covered him, and all the while the redhead hustled his captive further down the stairs. Their tactics impressed Sinker. They made his crew look like stoned baboons. It wasn't that his boys had a discipline problem.

You had to have some discipline before it could be a problem.

He saw the sign for the second floor. The rivals could exit on the ground floor, or through the underground car park.

The trio burst through the ground level door, which they slammed shut just before Jack hit it. The door held. Jack stepped back to charge it again, and something fell through from the other side, a small black cylinder.

Sinker tried to leap down, but Sten barged into him, as he stumbled away from the landing, and both men fell.

Jack's gaped at the cylinder.

Sinker's eyes filled with brilliant blue stars, and a hammer smashed his head. Thunder echoed in the stairwell.

He found himself standing over Tub Jack, who lay on his face, sprawled across the steps leading down. He knelt, patted Jack, touched his face. He called his name, but he couldn't even hear his own words; a keening wail filled his ears, like the thunder's lament.

"Jack," he said, and the name was swallowed by silence. "Jack, come back to me. You have to come back to me, Jack." He felt ice in his heart, a dreadful absence, cold and desolate. "Come back to me, Jack. Come back. You're all I have left."

He sensed Sten's approach. The turned away, clutched his gut, and fell to his knees. Sinker couldn't hear it, but the acid stink told the tale. Sten was rotten and collapsing. Jack was unconscious, perhaps dying. With shaking hands, he felt his temple and confirmed it; he had a pulse, but a weak pulse. "Jack," he said, "you've always shrugged off everything else. You've taken taunts and blows and gun shots. You're tougher than I could ever be. Be tougher than this."

Jack stirred a little, and Sinker's heart fluttered. He began to feel that his words, however weak, were helping. But the boy lay back, lost on the edge of death. He needed more; he needed a reason to live. Sinker knew that no one could hear him, not Jack, not Sten, not even he himself. If there was ever a time to speak secrets, this was it. "Jack," he said, leaning close to the boy's ear. "I know you can't hear me, and I don't care. You have to come back. You have to come back to me, son."

Tub Jack trembled and lay still.

***

Chapter 19

"Where did they come from?" shouted Piers, as he led the way to the lobby. "Where did those bastards come from?"

"Groundhogging bitch of a son," roared Andenblatt. "He fat one, shot me!"

Piers grabbed Liana by the hair, and dragged her stumbling along behind him. "Shut up, both of you!"

They heard sirens in the distance, getting louder. Piers ran to halt at the end of the corridor, and peered out into the lobby. He held up a hand, and they all paused. "They've called the polizei," he said.

Nils ground his teeth together. "Tell me something original," he said. "We need to get out to the car."

Piers turned back to him, his face ashen. "Shit the car," he said. "It's flushed away. We go out the front, we gotta fight polizei."

Andenblatt sneered. "You coward," he said. "I don't care-"

Nils threw Liana down in front of him, and then he grabbed Andenblatt by the lapels. "This isn't about being big and strong," he said. "We kill these cops, they send more. We're not being paid to make war." Andenblatt pushed his hands away, but he bowed his head. "Right," said Nils. "Back exit. Piers?"

"Fire exit. Through the kitchen."

"Let's go."

***

Tub Jack trembled and then lay still. Sinker's heart lurched as he watched his boy subside into oblivion. Tub Jack's eyelids fluttered, and his chest moved with a shallow breath that pricked Sinker's heart, and held his hope to ransom. "Come on son," he said. "Come on, boy." Tub Jack shivered again, and his eyes rolled open. He looked up at Sinker with a dazed, bleary expression, yawned, and let loose a tremendous fart.

Tub Jack grinned up at Sinker, and then he screwed his eyes up, and wrinkled his nose, as he discovered the power he had unleashed. He yelped, rolled onto his hands and feet, and scrambled up the stairs, threw open the door, and ran through it, whimpering. Sinker didn't know whether he should laugh or curse.

He ran after Tub Jack, determined not to lose him again. On the way, he grabbed Sten by the shirt collar, and dragged him, also whimpering, into the hotel interior.

They ran through a short passage with dark green wallpaper and soft cream carpets, the air redolent of cigarettes, cheap cologne, and leather. He rounded the corner, ran into the lobby, and found a dozen blue-clad policemen waving guns at a bald, sweaty man in a blue suit, probably the manager.

He jerked to a halt, and backpedalled, Tub Jack and Sten at his sides. He held his gun behind his back, and hoped no one would notice them.

Jack's turbulent rear gave them away.

Sinker's hearing still was beginning to come back, and by what little he caught, it must have been a monster. Everyone in the lobby turned to look, faces twisted in disgust. The manager turned, the concierge turned, and the police turned.

"Run," he yelled. They dashed back down the corridor. Screw the car park, he thought. Where would that get them? "In here!" He threw open the only other door, and hustled his men through it.

He ran into a large working kitchen. The floor tiles had once been white, but now they were deep grey, and textured with a lifetime of grease. The walls and ceiling were the same, and the place only escaped looking like a dingy cavern by virtue of the intense light from the fluorescent tubes lining the ceiling. There were rows of ovens, gas ranges and a whole family of microwaves, all laid out in something that resembled a grid drawn by a drunkard with a pen stuck up his nose. The cooks and their assistants were crowded together off to one side, screaming at each other. On a normal day, Tub Jack would have begun to sniff around for something tasty, but maybe he'd hit his head when the grenade had gone off, because he had his guns out, aiming across the room.

Sinker heard his first clear sound since the grenade: a gun blast.

He dove behind a row of ovens, and pulled Sten after him. "Jack," he shouted. "Jack!" If the boy heard him, he didn't show it.

The door swung open, and the quickest policeman came through, a pistol in one hand, a whistle in the other. He froze as he tried to take in the scene, and that was his undoing. A fusillade of shots passed over Sinker's head. If he hadn't taken cover, they would have eviscerated him. The cop had less luck. Half a dozen rounds punched into his chest and abdomen, tore through his ribs, and ripped out the back, splashing his blood over the walls and floor. His mouth fell open, he took another step before his legs folded, then he slammed down on his back, gasping and choking as bloody froth oozed from his mouth.

Sinker winced with every shot.

I was a naval officer, he thought. I would never target civilians. Ever since Rastiff came along, he thought, I've been squeezed into a box of broken glass.

Another part of him, deep and chilling, whispered thoughts he didn't want to hear. Who brought Rastiff? Who brought Rastiff to you? Who is responsible?

He thrust it away.

A burst of gunfire tore him out of his reverie. He saw Tub Jack firing from behind a fridge, the brushed steel bodywork scraped from enemy fire. Jack turned to him, and grinned. He had to marvel. Brainy as paint, but the devil in a fight. Now Sten, on the other hand, he'd gone from baron of hell to lowly imp.

The bloodstained door opened, and he saw a metallic flash as something rolled in. He had a horrible déjà vu, as if some evil god had decided to reshoot Jack's death scene. The thing popped, and spewed out choking fumes.

He sighed, never so happy to see a gas grenade. Then the fumes stung his eyes, and nose, and scratched his throat with tiny iron claws. He moved deeper into the kitchen, staying low.

Sten clung to cover, but the gas forced him to follow.

Jack was already crawling forward.

As he rounded the corner of a huge oven, a hail of fire tore past his face. He ducked back. "They fired low," he muttered. "They're learning."

"Sten," he said, "I'll suppress them. Crawl around and flank them."

Sten, huddled against a deep fat fryer covered with decades of grime, shook his head. "No way."

Sinker grimaced in annoyance. "Fine! I'll flank them. Cover me."

"I can't," said Sten. He sank in on himself, like a deflating balloon. His face looked as pasty as the unbaked tarts on top of the oven.

"Gun jammed? Take my back up." He pulled a stubby revolver from his ankle holster. Sten didn't even look at it. "Take it, will you! For God's sake, staple your balls back on. If you want to get out of here alive, you need to-"

"I tell you, I can't!"

Sten looked at him, forlorn. He'd lost that jeering grimace and furrowed brow. He looked pale and afraid, but there was something else, the simple shock of a dreamer whose nightmare had woken with him.

He'd never liked Sten, but they'd bled together. He'd got Sten into Rastiff's trap, and no way would he leave him in this choking hell of a kitchen. He tried to reach out to the man. "Damn you, you illiterate son of a sodomistic sea snake! 'I can't do it', you say! I've seen you do it. I've watched you do it. I've paid you to do it. Don't tell me you can't do it!"

Sten shook his head. "That wasn't me, man," he said. Even the timbre of his voice had changed.

"You got a brain dysfunction? You were SAS. You've got skills so freakish unholy I thought you'd sold your soul!"

"No! Not true."

He thumped the oven. "I've seen it!"

"Alright," said Sten, with a little of his old fire. "So you've seen me wave a gun around. So you've watched me prance about in Kevlar, talking tough in front of badly trained, badly paid guards. Fine! I had you and that fat moron-"

"Watch your tongue!"

Sten subsided. "Yeah. Sorry. But you see it, don't you? You must. Even Tubby is better than me, and you're insane. I never had to work, I just had to stick by you, and keep my safety catch on."

Sinker's eyes grew round. "Keep your..."

Fire roared overhead, and Sten plunged on. "It was a game, a fantasy. I was never SAS, never a soldier."

Sinker ran fired around the corner. "If you've got a point, make it."

Sten looked down at the greasy white tiles, shaking his head. "I wanted adventure, real adventure. I answered an ad in a gun mag, lied to the agency, had two weeks training, and then I was a mercenary in Syria, armed to the teeth, talking tough. Then I ran into you, and thought being a pirate would be better than being a merc."

Sinker shook his head. "Tell me you're lying. Tell me you knocked your head."

Sten looked into his eyes, earnest, serious, terrified. "I'm a software engineer from Kingston upon Thames."

Sinker slapped his forehead. "You mean it. You damn well mean it. All this time... I've had you watch my back, and you didn't even know... Sten, for God's sake, tell me this is a bad joke. Please."

"My name's not Sten."

"Even your name...?"

Between the fumes of tear gas, the cordite stink of the guns, and the hot grease stink of the ovens and hobs, the kitchen had begun to smell like hell. Sinker felt the hotel would have fitted into the pit, a model example of how to build up a damned soul's hopes, and then crush them. What better way, he thought, could the devil torture a man, than to reveal the lies that filled his life.

Like reading a mail in your penthouse, telling you your tower's reinforced concrete...

Wasn't.

Tub Jack's shotgun brought him back. Who cared about lies and devils and torment? A bunch of guys with guns were trying to kill his son, and take away the one person who might make his future outlast his past.

"Alright Sten, or whatever -"

"Tim," he said. "Tim Buttercup."

"Wow." If anything could make a man run away to be a thief and a hit man... "Alright, Tim. I don't care about your past-"

"You don't? I thought you were gonna kill me!"

"I am."

Sten, now Tim, looked aghast. Sinker raised his gun and aimed it at his face. Tim scrambled back, trying to ooze into the deep fat fryer.

"You told me your secret," said Sinker. "So I'll tell you mine. That fat moron with the shotgun and the waffle fetish is my son."

Tim's mouth fell open. "Jesus."

"Yeah. So I'm going to get out of here, and I'm going to get that woman, because I need her to keep Rastiff from killing the only family I have. I can't do that alone. I need your help, Buttercup. If you don't give it, I'll shoot you in the brain."

"But-"

"Five."

"But I can't-"

"Three."

"Oh, shit, oh-"

"One."

Tim threw his hands up. "Okay! Okay, okay! I'm going. I'm gone. Flanking, yes? I can flank. Let me flank. I'd love to flank. Please don't shoot me!"

He didn't give Sinker time to think. He scooted off around the deep fat fryer.

Sinker lowered the gun, and ran a hand through his hair. "Buttercup," he said. He shook his head. "Why me?"

***

Tim shot around the deep fat fryer. Behind, clouds of grey tear gas filled the air. Ahead, he saw the fire exit sign, near Jack. With that shotgun, he made an exceptional doorman.

"Flanking, flanking."

He no longer faced Sinker's pistol... He could hunker down and stay. Maybe he'd fit in one of those cabinets. Sinker could have shot him out of hand. Instead he'd chosen to terrify the shit out of him, given him a life's supply of nightmare fuel.

And a chance.

"Come on Buttercup, you gutless bastard. Let's live. Let's get that damn doctor."

He could go around that row of gas ranges, catch them in the rear. "Shoot the fuckers in the back, Buttercup style."

He crawled across the greasy tiles, heart shivering and jumping. Sweat rolled down his face, and into his mouth. The goggles pinched his eyes. He closed in on the corner.

Just a little more, he thought. I'll give you a surprise.

It turned out the snatchers had the same idea. Just as Tim turned the corner, all three rushed around, right on him.

***

Tim had picked up some combat experience, so when he saw Andenblatt bearing down on him, he dropped flat, shoved his gun forwards and crushed the trigger. The gun barked, the floor smacked him in the chest, he heard screaming, and a sack of hams slammed down on his back.

He struggled for breath, and he clawed at the greasy tiles in a futile attempt to stand. A prize cow had body slammed him. He tried to twist around, but the farthest he could turn his head brought only the glimpse of a bulky shadow, and a fist.

Sometimes when you get hit, you don't feel the blow until next morning. This was not one of those blows. Tim's head smacked the tiles, and he felt a sick agony that began in his skull, and spread out through the meat of his face and neck. That was no fist, it was a chunk of the meteor that murdered the dinosaurs.

"You shot a leg! You shot a leg!" The man's voice had the rich accent of Northern Europe, and the guttural force of a warthog. His words, with their tortured English, would have made him laugh if they hadn't scared him so much he thought his ass would melt.

"God. Please God."

"I send you God," said Andenblatt. He smashed a fist into Tim's back ribs. Tim tried to scream and couldn't, for the blow had shattered his ribs and stabbed his lung. His chest filled with razors, and Andenblatt's weight was suffocating.

His world dissolved into red edged shadows, darkness and pain.

Bitter, his thoughts refused to die. He could have played the merc to the end. It would have made no difference. Nothing could have saved his life. Giving way to fear had been worse than useless.

"I send you God," said Andenblatt, husky, fervid.

I should have fought. I lasted longer as Sten than Tim.

He remembered the gun.

"I...am not....going to die...Tim Buttercup!"

Andenblatt paused in mid-punch. "You mean what?"

Sten raised the pistol. It was heavy as the dead heart of a neutron star. It took a geological age to lift.

The universe held its breath.

***

Sinker's flanking plan worked until the redhead and the blonde charged him, bundling the woman along between. Only a quick leap right saved him from gaining lead weight.

The woman screamed, shrill pleading.

A Germanic curse.

He saw Tub Jack rise over the ovens, shotgun jutting from his fist. It would pulverise them...

"Jack," he yelled. "Don't shoot!"

The boy couldn't hear him over the din; the screaming woman, shouting police, echoes of gunfire.

"Tub Jack, listen! Devils wash your ears, don't shoot. You'll hit the girl!"

Tub Jack beamed with the bliss of true ignorance. He took aim, and Sinker saw that unless he acted fast, all that he would deliverto Rastiff would be a sack of bloody organs and bone fragments.

Against better judgement, and a lifetime's experience of not getting shot to shreds, he jumped on the nearest oven. The two kidnappers froze and gaped, the woman scrunched up her face in soundless terror, and then he leapt into them.

He aimed at the woman, hoping to bring her down into safety, and leaving the kidnappers to the mercy of fate and Tub Jack. But she dodged, and he cannoned into the redhead. They went down in a painful heap, full of elbows that jabbed his face, and hands that clawed at his groin.

The redhead was made of steel wire. He got a hand on Sinker's throat, and squeezed until he felt his windpipe close. He tore the hand away, and sucked air. His opponent gave him no time to rebuild his strength. He found himself rolled on his back, with the redhead kneeling on his groin, crushing his throat.

Bells rang, the strip lights grew dim.

He scratched after his gun, but it had gone. He tried to reach his backup, but Sten had it.

No, not Sten any more, he thought in a vague way. He heard the words as if they were being called across a mountain. Tim something... Buttfuck, he thought. Butterslup, Motherflup...

***

Chapter 20

Sten raised the pistol. He aimed it where he thought Andenblatt's head was, but from where he lay, sprawled across the floor with the huge man's weight crushing him into the dirt and grease of the tiles, he couldn't see. He heard a thick snorting noise, and felt the body atop him shake. Andenblatt was laughing.

"Ho ho ho, you man stupid," he said. And with a casual motion, he reached out and wrapped his hand around the gun barrel. "Nice gun. I take it."

"Thanks," muttered Sten. As soon as Andenblatt gripped the weapon, he squeezed the trigger, and felt the kick as it blasted out a round. A revolver, it didn't damage Andenblatt's hand, but he yelped and jumped, giving Sten the shard of space he needed to roll over and thrust the pistol into Andenblatt's face.

Andenblatt saw it coming.

"No!"

Sten jerked down on the trigger, and the stubby gun punched a hole through Andenblatt's eye, and tore through his brain. The small bullet didn't carry enough force to smash out of his thick skull, so instead it bounced around inside, and reduced his brain to meaty pulp. He slumped against a cabinet, legs splayed, hands in his lap. He looked as if he was taking a break, and the only sign to show otherwise was the neat hole where his right eye should have been, and the single red tear that rolled from it.

***

The tear gas saved him.

Creeping tendrils of choking fog spread through the kitchen. Heavy, it hugged the floor, and soaked the tiles. Where it touched the ovens and stoves, it added its own special quality, that would continue to add flavour and scent to the hotel fare for months after.

When it came to Sinker, it found him on the floor, mouth gaping, eyes bulging in Nils' death grip. A whiff of tear gas can make a grown man weep and run. It woke Sinker up from his fatal reverie, and instilled in him, not so much the will to live, but to share his agony with the bastard strangling him.

Sinker reached back and out, and moistened his hands in the roiling gas, to soak and saturate his skin, gloves of acid fog. His neck suffered in Nils' stranglehold, and the gas filled his eyes and nose with powdered glass. His lungs heaved in the involuntary spasms of a suffocation, fighting to get air that couldn't come, and would have burned them if it had. He could no longer see Nils, he could only feel the weight, the pressure and the pain.

He felt his way up Nils' arms to his face. Nils shied away, turning his head from side to side, but Sinker, inexorable, hunted by touch until he felt the contours of jaw and cheek, the fleshy bulge of lips. He clawed into Nils' nose and the hollows of his eyes, and when he found them, he squeezed and rubbed.

Nils betrayed no reaction, and Sinker began to believe that he would die, strangled in a hotel kitchen. Then the grip on his throat slackened, fell away, as Nils pressed his hands to his face and let out a choked scream.

Sinker coughed and gasped, choked on his own spit, and gasped again. Nils writhed, staggered to his feet, stumbled blind, trod and slipped on his own gun. He crashed on his back, clawing at his eyes, yowling.

Sinker wanted to lie down and breathe, just breathe. He wanted to rest. He wanted a doctor to check his neck, make sure it didn't swell up and choke him later. Back in the navy, he'd seen a drunken sailor take on a royal marine. The marine had choked him out, left him to sleep, but the man had never woken up. More, he wanted to get off the floor, out of the gas, away from the cops.

He rolled onto his hands and knees, and crawled over to Nils. The Scandinavian snatch artist was lying on his back, knees folded up, hands pressed to his face, rubbing his eyes.

"Won't work," said Sinker, picking up Nils' gun. "You're making it worse."

If the man could hear him, he didn't show it, lost in acid agony.

He got close to Nils, and pressed the gun against his temple. That got through where words could not. Nils, and looked at him with the reddest eyes he'd ever seen.

"It's over."

He could have sworn the man was crying, but the gas made it impossible to know. "I just wanted to be with her," he said.

He poked him with the gun. "This was the best you could come up with?"

Nils squeezed his eyes shut, and scrunched up his face, holding his breath for the end. Sinker slid the gun barrel up his temple, across his head, until it rested against the centre of his forehead. "I don't like you," he said. Then in one swift move, he swung it in an arc and smashed the barrel into Nils' jaw hinge, busting it, and knocking him out cold.

Sinker glared at the unconscious man. "Next time I won't be so bloody tender!"

***

Piers dashed between the ovens, dragging Liana by the hair. She scratched his hand. Her nails ripped his skin, leaving bloody, painful claw marks. He turned back, gun in his hand, and thrust it at her face.

"Are you fucking bulletproof, bitch? No? Then stop screwing with me."

She cowered before him.

Bleeding scratches ran wrist to knuckle. He would never have thought nails could do so much damage. She glanced up at him, and he made a punching motion with the pistol.

"Everything was fine until you. Why'd you screw everything up?" He jabbed the gun at her face. "Why'd you make everything so difficult, bitch?"

He slapped her with his free hand, and she fell against a gas range. Her flailing hands found a cast iron frying pan, and she grabbed it. He laughed.

"Are you making a joke?"

He chopped her wrist. The frying pan tumbled out of her grasp, and clanged on the floor. She sobbed.

"You like to play in the kitchen? I'm gonna cut you and cook you!"

She pressed herself against the gas range, hands white with tension, face twisted in anticipation. He grinned, savouring the moment. His gun was already loaded and cocked, but he thumbed the hammer anyway, to watch her flinch at the sound.

He felt a touch on his shoulder, soft, unthreatening. He felt mere surprise as he turned, and looked into Tub Jack's pudgy, florid face. But after a moment of looking at that big calm man, he noticed how small he himself was, how like a bundle of sticks and straws wrapped in a thin shroud of delicate skin.

He still felt no fear, only a kind of dizziness, like a hiker gets after climbing a forested trail, then coming out upon a cliff, to see vast space a footstep away. Unlike a hiker, he had a gun.

He raised it.

Tub Jack threw a backhanded slap that sent Piers' gun flying. At the same moment, with equal swiftness, Tub Jack pointed his stubby shotgun at Pier's face, level with his eyes.

It went from unreal to too real.

He felt an icy chill, and his bladder and bowels voided their contents in a hot, stinking rush. Shocked, shamed, and terrified, he froze where he stood, until Jack raised one massive fist. Piers collapsed into a filthy, sodden heap, blubbering for mercy, until Liana kicked him in the head.

***

Sinker leaned against an oven, and felt his neck and face. He'd picked up a lot of scratches and bruises he didn't remember, and his throat hurt, to the point where he had to keep touching it to be sure he wasn't wearing a noose.

The kitchen stank of tear gas, cordite and sewage. He checked the pistol he'd taken from Nils, gritted his teeth against the burning in his eyes, nose and throat, and the phantom chokehold in his neck, and went after his boys.

He found them by a man-sized fridge, Tub Jack fingering the brushed steel, hunger in his eyes. Between them he saw something that made electricity crackle through his body. There she stood, small, delicate and angry: their prize, Liana Gleicker.

"You did it," he said, not bothering to disguise his glee. "Well done Jack, Tim-"

"Sten."

He rubbed his jaw, and winced as his fingers touched off another flare of pain. "I thought it was Tim now."

Sten shook his head. Something had changed, besides the bruises and the red, tear-stained eyes. He looked harder, or more natural. "Sten."

"What are you idiots talking about?" asked Liana, in her rattling American accent, reminiscent of New York and rushing subways. "Who are you, and why did you h-help me?"

He noticed that her voice trembled on the word 'help'. She wasn't ready for the whole story. "We work for the British government, Doctor Gleicker. We're here to rescue you."

Sten stared at him.

Liana frowned, and turned her head up and down. "Well... Thanks. I'll be going now."

Sinker's jaw dropped. He recovered as fast as he could. "Okay," he said. "We're not here to rescue you."

She shrieked. "I knew it! Who sent you, you dirty batch of weasels? Was it Pamik? This business has his cheap cologne stink all over it. Let me tell you something, I-"

They never found out what she wanted to tell them, because as she drew breath to do so, a shadowy figure lunged out of the clouds, a carving knife flashing at her heart.

She fell back in terror, but the fridge blocked her, like a monstrous chopping block.

As one man, Sinker, Tub Jack and Sten whipped out guns and blasted the attacker with so much lead his head disintegrated in a wet red cloud. His headless body did a macabre dance and hit the floor with a wet smack.

Sinker decided it had been the guy he'd fought, the strangler.

"I warned him."

The police fired into the room, random blasts cracking and pinging off ovens and fridges. The three men hit the deck, but Liana, unused to combat, froze, back pressed against the fridge. Sinker yanked her down into cover. She crouched on the dirty tiles, once white, now red and slick with blood.

"Are you alright?"

She didn't answer.

"We can't stay here," said Sten. "Those cops are gonna bust in."

"What's to bust?" said Sinker. "But you're right. I'm going to suffocate if I breathe more of this poison."

"P-poison?" said Liana, her face turning green.

"They'll have the building surrounded," said Sten.

Sinker checked his watch. The battle for the kitchen had lasted minutes. He shook his head, although even that little movement sent red hot tendrils of agony deep into his eyes and skull. "No," he said. "Not yet."

"Soon!"

"If we get past these fuzzticles, before the hard heads arrive, we can get off the whole island."

"Let's hope this plan works better than the last one."

Sinker ignored him. "If they had gas masks, they'd have come in already, so..."

***

Ahmed Gropius, first class constable of the Broken Penny police, Maritropa district, clung to the wall, eyes shut as another roar of fire sounded in the kitchen. He flinched as he felt a tap on his shoulder, but it was only Andros Laskevich, his swarthy beat partner. "What?" he asked, wiping sweat out of his eyes.

The academy was never like this.

"Musa's on the radio."

"What does that gun humping prick want now?" Ahmed hated Musa Arthwaite and his special weapons boys, prancing about in flak vests, showing off their artillery like action stars. When you needed them, where were they? On a 'training exercise' on the other side of the island. "Bastard probably wants to give us 'tactical advice'...while he slurps Mai Tais on the beach!"

Andros covered the radio set, and shook his head, alarmed. "No no. He's on his way."

"He's coming here?"

"They scrambled, they're on their way." Andros gazed at him with hopeful eyes.

Ahmed sneered. "Who needs him anyway? We've got the situation under control. We've filled that bastard kitchen with so much gas, the devil himself would come out squealing. Tell him he can lube up his shotgun and fu-"

"Please, boss," said Andros, tears in his eyes.

Ahmed remembered that Andros had got engaged last week, to a beautiful girl from the southern shore, with big dark eyes and sweet, smiling lips. He wavered. If they went in, and got the foreign gangsters cuffed and carted, it would be a smack in Musa's eye, maybe a promotion.

"Get ready," he said to Andros, and the four other sweaty, nervous constables who crouched along the hall. "We're going to do this ourselves. In five-"

Something changed, and at first he didn't realise what it was, but then he caught on; a cloud of misty tear gas billowed out of the kitchen, flooding the hotel corridor. Ahmed held his ground, but his men began to edge away. "Hold fast," he said, getting his gun ready. "We're still going in."

The gas continued to flood the hall, and Ahmed felt his eyes prickle. By the dismayed moans, so did his men. "This is still our chance," he said, but he felt it slipping away.

"We don't have masks," said Andros. "We've got these stupid grenades, but we don't have masks. What can we do?"

The hall became thick with swirling murk that stung his nose and mouth, scratched his eyes, clawed deep inside his chest.

Andros coughed, and spoke through his handkerchief. "Let Musa deal with it."

Ahmed held five more seconds out of sheer pride. "Screw it. Tell Musa he's welcome to this shit."

"Thank you!"

The gratitude in Andros's voice made him sick.

***

Chapter 21

"We can breathe now," sighed Sten. He and Tub Jack steadied the fan they'd ripped off an oven, while Sinker kept an eye on Liana, who stood behind, shivering. The extraction fan was meant to suck smoke out of the kitchen. With a little ingenuity and a lot of sweat, they made it blow tear gas out into the hall.

"This is just stage one."

"I don't think stage two is necessary," said Sten. "They'll have evacuated the building already."

"You're a good man in a fight," said Sinker, "but you have no idea how long it takes to clear a building this size."

"Let's help. Tub Jack's already started in on the pies."

Tub Jack had opened a fridge, taken out a blueberry pie, and was digging into its moist, succulent depths with a wooden spoon. It added a sweet fragrance to the harsh chemical tang in the air.

"Right," said Sinker. "Now for step two." He jumped up on top of a cooker with a gas torch the dessert chef had kept next to a heap of meringues, and burned a sensor in the ceiling.

Nothing happened.

"Uh..."

"Now for step two," said Sten, sniggering.

"That's a smoke detector, idiot," said Liana.

"Oops."

"Here," said Sten, yanking the wooden spoon from Tub Jack's hands.

"Hey!" said Jack, face twisted in pathetic loss.

Sten handed the spoon to Sinker. "Scorch the bastard."

Sinker burned it with his torch. A tendril of acrid smoke wafted up, the fire alarm sounded, an electronic wail, and the sprinklers doused the room in water. Liana yiped, and tried to take cover under Tub Jack, who made doomed efforts to save his drowning pie.

"This is your idea of help?" shrieked Liana. "I wish you'd help my enemies!"

***

Ahmed had thought his day couldn't get any worse. He had taken his men back to the lobby, to enlist the hotel manager's help in arranging an orderly evacuation, to prevent any innocent people getting between the gunmen and the SWAT team. His nose burned with the lingering effect of the tear gas, and his eyes felt six times their usual size. Everything looked green. He caught Andros sneaking towards the front doors. "Hey," he shouted. "Where are you going?"

Andros flinched. "SWAT team'll be here in a minute. No point staying."

Ahmed sucked his teeth. "Do I have to stand over you and make you do your-"

The siren cut off his words, and the shower chilled him. The desk clerk, a young Castilian, hopped over the desk, and ran for the front doors. "Hey," said Ahmed. The bellboys chased after the clerk, and jammed up the revolving doors.

"Hey!"

The hotel manager, a slim, silver haired man of fifty five, in a white suit and a panama hat, came out of the back office, a glass of bourbon in his hand. Ahmed turned to him, but the manager ignored him. He dropped the glass, and vaulted across the desk.

"Wait," said Ahmed.

The manager ignored him, as did the flood of hotel guests who rushed out of the stairwell, shouting and screaming. They buffeted him, he stumbled, and lost sight of his men, and when he regained his balance against the soaked front desk, he noticed that his men had vanished, swept away by the crowd.

"Well fuck," he said. The water had washed out his eyes. He looked around the lobby, taking it in as if for the first time. He saw the faded yellow couches, sodden and dripping. He saw the thick carpet, turned black by water. He saw the green wallpaper, swollen with moisture. He decided he hated the hotel Maritropa.

"Hey," he said, running. "Wait for me!"

***

Some guy stepped on Sinker's foot and scraped his ankle. The crowd was soaked, noisy and afraid. It stank of loose bowels. Used to the ocean, to the storms and serenity of the sea, he felt suffocated in the mob. It tugged at him, jabbed his kidneys, barked in strange tongues, and frustrated every attempt to walk in a straight line, forcing him to push, shove and elbow his way.

He hated every second in that crowd, but even in the most uncomfortable moment, it couldn't overwhelm his elation.

The crowd tormented him, and he hated it.

The crowd saved him, and he loved it.

They slipped away under cover of the evacuees. When Musa Arthwaite's SWAT team arrived, all they found in the hotel were several bloody corpses, and Piers, unconscious and soaked in his own filth. They cleaned him up and locked him away, pending investigation.

They may have him still.

***

Chapter 22

There aren't many places you can go in a city, if you insist on wearing the soaked ruins of suits and body armour.

Tub Jack had even lost his pie.

Thinking of the boy brought back a flash of the chase in the hotel. Sinker would never forget the pain and shock he'd felt when he'd seen his son slumped on those stairs. He'd been hurt through Tub Jack before. New pain reawakened old pain, and he fell silent in a reverie of anguish.

Rastiff had used Jack, used love for his son to make Sinker his slave. But the worst pain was old as Jack himself, and he could never escape it. You can run from men and beasts, but you can't run from the past.

You carry it wherever you go.

"Captain," said Sten.

"Huh?" Sten never called him captain. Maybe it was the American woman; perhaps he wanted to impress her.

"Island fuzz." Sten jabbed a finger to the right, and Sinker saw, through the crowd, armed policemen in the black uniform affected by assault teams.

"What is it?" asked Liana.

"Bad news," said Sten.

"This way."

Sinker led them to a side street he'd spotted. They paused in the dingy alley, cut off from the mid-morning sun by tall apartment buildings. He tried to ignore the smells they brought with them; warm sweat mingled with acrid cordite and bitter tear gas, and the salty tang of blood.

You could tell a swimmer by the whiff of chlorine in her hair, and any stranger could mark them as bad men by that lingering battle stink.

"It's a nice day."

"Are you mad?" asked Liana. "I've been shot at, kidnapped, and almost killed! All of my plans have come to pieces, and now I've been kidnapped again-"

"Uhh," said Sten.

"Alright, 'rescued'," she said, making quote marks with her fingers. "By a gang of English lunatics, God knows why, and you have the nerve to say 'it's a nice day'. What's your definition of a bad day? Will it take nuclear goddamn Armageddon to turn that smile upside down?"

"Take your clothes off," said Sinker.

"Eeek!"

"Uh, boss?" said Sten, his face sending 'I'm disturbed by this' signals.

"All of you," said Sinker. "Me first." He slipped off the waterlogged suit jacket, and began to unbutton his shirt.

"Nobody," said Liana, "is going first. If you touch me, I'll- I'll bite!"

"I'm not hungry," said Sten. "But I agree with the girl. Captain, if you touch me, I'll bite, too!"

"I could bite a pie," said Tub Jack, dreamy longing on his face.

Sinker rolled his eyes as he undid his shirt. "You're as bad as baboons. We stink like the butcher's apprentice. It's a sunny day, the locals wear bugger all, and our clothes are ruined. Let's dump them."

Tub Jack looked thoughtful. "Can I-"

"No Jack," said Sinker. "Leave your underwear on."

Tub Jack looked crestfallen. Liana, too, looked as if he'd taken the wind out of her sails. "You mean you're not going to... You don't want to..."

Sinker gave her a look.

"Captain Sinker may be a mean, ugly bastard," said Sten. "But he's got some standards."

Sinker and Liana glared at Sten, and spoke as one. "Hey!"

***

They tossed their clothes down a storm drain, tied their weapons in a bundle, wrapped in Tub Jack's horrible suit, which Tub Jack shoved up a tree. They stole towels hanging on a line in over the street, and wore them like kilts. Or, as Liana put it, "like men in skirts." Her towel was the colour of vanilla ice cream. With her luminous hair, full lips and high breasts, Sinker could see how someone might find her attractive, but she was pale as a ghost.

A sassy, contemptuous ghost.

He mused he adjusted his own towel, navy blue of course. If he gave her to Rastiff, she would disappear like a ghost.

"Frankly, Tubby," said Sten, "I don't understand how you could prefer pink to something decently black."

He smoothed the towel around his waist.

"Ice cream," said Tub Jack.

"Yeah, of course," said Sten, rolling his eyes. "We'll get you some ice cream, buddy."

"Strawberry ice cream," insisted Jack. "That's my flavour. She's vanilla," he said, pointing at Liana.

Sinker and Sten looked at each other. "That makes sense," said Sinker.

"I'm not vanilla!" said Liana, frowning at Sinker. "Tell him I'm not vanilla!"

"And the Captain is blueberry." Tub Jack beamed.

Liana gave him a smug look.

Sten rubbed his jaw. "What about me? You left me out."

Tub Jack wrinkled his brow. "I don't know what you are." Then the clouds cleared away. "Maybe you're a new flavour."

"Be that as it may," said Sinker, "we stick out, and we're not going to make it back to...what was that village?"

"Chocochunky," said Tub Jack.

"Jack?"

"Dark chocolate crunch."

"Jack, the grownups are talking now," said Sinker. "The flavour of Sten's...towel... Doesn't matter."

Sten frowned. "It matters to me. I don't like chocolate."

"You're a minority!"

"But I don't like-"

Tub Jack mumbled, like a distant volcano. "He can't be a minority if there are three of us. We outnumber you."

"Now is not the time to get wise, Jack," said Sinker. "And besides, there are four of us. Wait, where did the girl go?"

***

They found her at a payphone in a café, a tumbledown wreck that opened onto a garden, with round wooden tables under the shade of apple and pear trees. Sparrows twittered and hopped, scrounging for crumbs that fell from the muffins the young waiter carried. The air had the tang of ripe apples, and the welcoming scent of tea and new bread.

For Sinker it felt as if he'd stepped through a magical door into the England of his youth.

He sidled up to Liana and slammed his hand down on the cradle of the phone. She jumped, and covered her face. Then she recognised him, and her tension eased a little.

"Even a condemned prisoner gets a phone call," she said.

He shook his head. "No. A suspect gets a phone call, but a condemned man gets locked in a box until they finish him off."

She turned even paler."Which one am I?"

"You're my guest. No calls until we get off this ugly rock."

"I came here to do business. I can't leave until it's over."

"Oh, it's over."

"You don't understand. Until I finish my auction... I can't go back. I don't have anywhere to go back to."

He wrinkled his brow, and ran his fingers along the branch of an apple tree. "Do you think those people want anything to do with you?" He took a twig in his hands, and twisted it. "Do you think they have good memories of you?" He twisted the twig around and around. It held onto the branch with the tenacity of a sapling. "Believe it, they curse your name, and the foul luck they had in attending your auction."

She pushed his hands off the branch, and untwisted the twig. "I have to keep trying. I have to believe it can come out right."

A sudden impulse made him slap her hands away, and grab the twig. She winced in fear, and his anger fell away. He let go of the injured twig. "I can't make your business deal work, but I can save your life. You've seen that. It's worth a little cooperation."

She tensed, as if to spring away. Instead she leaned against the tree. "My husband. I called my husband. He didn't answer."

"It's a good thing. If he doesn't know where you are, he'll be safer."

"I wonder."

***

Sten and Tub Jack sat, fighting over the shade of a pear tree, while Liana sipped cinnamon tea, and tried to look calm. Sinker decided to contact Seb. If he couldn't go to the boat, the boat would have to come to him.

Sten found a chess set, and he and Tub Jack leaned over it. Tub Jack could play draughts, and he had considerable ability at tic tac toe, but chess... Sten kept trying to teach him, and Jack kept trying to learn. Sinker encouraged it, although he suspected that Sten played at being a teacher so he could enjoy easy wins.

Nothing was finished. As long as they remained on the island they were in danger. Yet the sleepy peace of the cafe felt welcome, perhaps too welcome.

"Nice try, Jack," said Sten, trying to hide his glee. "You might do better if you don't attack with your king."

"Is that your idea of good advice?" asked Liana, watching them over the brim of her teacup.

"That's the advice of Tub Jack's official chess coach," said Sten, and his smile had a predatory quality, made worse by those bulbous goggles. "Appointed, authorised, and notarised."

"Hmm. Hey Jack," she said. "Do you like this game?"

Tub Jack nodded, a big sloppy smile sloshing over his face. "Uh-huh," he said.

"How about we play together, and give your coach a bit of a test, eh?"

"Hey," said Sten, put out, but Tub Jack looked quite happy.

"Okay then," said Liana, and sat next to him. Her hands trembled as she began to arrange the pieces, but it steadied as the game began.

Sinker turned back to the phone. He dialled a call centre in Kazakhstan, a company that converted telephone calls to radio. They rented time on regional radio stations to broadcast, a service many stations had been forced to offer once the internet ate their market. A security measure, once begun he couldn't quit

You're paranoid, he told himself.

I'm alive, he replied.

"Seb," he said. "Give me a sit rep."

There was a long pause, and then Seb coughed. "I am sorry, captain," he said. "I don't have any left."

He winced, and reflected on the wisdom of asking his Serbian friend, a master in the engine room and a monkey in the kitchen, a question in British military jargon. "Tell me what's happened on the Cat."

Seb's voice lightened. "Oh, captain," he said. "It's wonderful! The local oil, she is amazing."

He tried not to groan. "More engine oil?"

"No, no, engines no. Olives, captain, olives! The island of olives she make the amazing oil. Captain, you will die to try my fishy surprise!"

He grimaced. The world had so many kinds of pain...

"Seb, I wish I could tell you what that means to me. There's a been a change of plans. I want you to bring the Cat to the city port..."

When he got off the phone, he found that Tub Jack had ordered an apple pie, to make up for the blueberry pie he'd lost in the hotel kitchen. Sinker rolled his eyes, but he caught the fresh baked scent of the pie, the sweetness of the apples and the sugar dusting, and his stomach growled. He felt hollow.

"Won't you join us, captain?" asked Liana.

"Sinker," he said.

"What kind of a name is that?" When he didn't answer, she shrugged. Then her features took on a devious, seductive look. "The pie is fresh, I saw them take it out of the oven. It's so hot you could burn your tongue, but that's okay, because here comes ice the cream."

He knew when he was beaten. "Ha, we can tell Seb we're too full for fish!"

***

Jake crawled out of the doorway where he'd slept, aching in every joint, stiff in every muscle. The sun burned down, blinding him. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them. The events of the night were fog and blur, and his head still pounded with the after effects of the drug that had almost got him killed.

He didn't remember taking shelter in the doorway, and he didn't recognise the street. Old brick three storey houses ran up and down, each door painted a different colour, some red, some green. His was faded blue, the paint peeling with age. The windows of the house were boarded over, and covered in cheap photocopied flyers touting events he didn't understand in a language he couldn't read.

His money was gone, but he had his phone, clutched in a crushing grip; he'd squeezed it so hard that the plastic facing had cracked. It took a few minutes to relax his hand, and ease the stiffness from his fingers, and when they began to loosen up, he felt hot pain start from his wrist and burn all the way to the tips of his chipped, dirty nails.

His head felt like an ill-used football, his eyes were full of pins, and his mouth tasted like Attila the Hun's feet. He didn't even want to think about his innards; wriggling discomfort made him imagine a pregnant snake.

When his phone rang, it took painful seconds to realise it. His hands fumbled over it, and he almost cut the line. It hissed and crackled, and he had to strain to hear a word

He knew that voice. He knew the sound, the music of it. Like a dove on the wing, bearing a green twig, it felt like a promise. She was alive! Alive. The word was magical, a balm that soothed his heart even as it made his blood surge.

"Liana," he said. His mouth was dry and it hurt to speak, and he broke into a fit of coughing. He lowered the phone to hawk and spit, and when he raised it again, the line was dead.

He hit redial, but he got a busy signal. He tried again and again, willing the line to clear, but he got nothing.

That left him with the call, and the call alone. Furious with himself, he struggled to make sense of the whispers he'd heard.

He made out one word he knew, and the second had to be a name. They would lead him to her. They had to.

Just two words.

"Hotel Maritropa."

***

Chapter 23

Mann woke from darkness into intense white light. He tried to cover his eyes, but his hands refused; something held them at his sides. Eyes squeezed shut against that penetrating light, he felt his bonds; his arms were held by fabric straps. He lay on his back, arms and legs bound down.

His heart kicked, and his skin began to feel cold and clammy. He wanted to call out, but his older and more experienced self clamped down on his voice, and bade him investigate.

He eased his eyes open. At first he saw a white haze that gave him a headache, but after a few seconds he began to make out details. He was bound, naked, to a green rubber mattress on a chrome steel frame, and the straps were black nylon. Halogen lights blazed from the ceiling, gleaming off the chrome. He fought panic. He twisted his head around, and saw he was in a white room, and machines surrounded his bed.

Medical machines.

To the left, he recognised a heart rate monitor, unattached, dormant. He saw a blood pressure cuff on a wheeled table to his right, and a workbench, laden with glittering scalpels, forceps, an electric saw...

He caught the smell, that disinfectant stink, reminiscent of hospital. For Mann, the word itself, hospital, revived memories he'd tried to lose.

He remembered the rubber smell of the mask as they'd given him gas to knock him out. He remembered waking, on his face, fresh wounds in his back, and the white bandages they changed every day.

He hadn't been able to lie on his back for a month.

He remembered sneaking a look at the wounds in the bathroom mirror, and shivering when he saw those long red scars, and the eerie way the flesh had knitted around the black threads, absorbing them into his body. Much like the way his body had accepted something else alien and eerie. He remembered nervous excitement, the thrill of new power, the fear that it would go wrong, and his body would be used and cast aside, like a vivisected monkey.

Normally immune to fear, he felt cold and scared.

He glared defiance at the halogen lamps in the ceiling. He focused on his arms, on the muscles, sinews and bones. He strained, willing his hands to rise, tear those bonds, and meet above his chest. He pictured it, he wanted it, and against the implacable straps, he struggled for it. His arms and chest grew hot, and he felt his face flush. Sweat moistened his arms, and dripped down his face. The harder he tried, the stronger seemed his bonds, but that very resistance impelled him to strain harder, until his head pounded and his heart threatened to tear right out of his chest.

"It won't work," said a man, in an old, dry voice.

He saw a small figure in white robes, face hidden by a surgical mask. His eyes were cold, intense blue. He had thinning grey hair, and wrinkled skin. "Now stop that," he said with an unfamiliar cadence, as if he had learnt English by reading it. He pronounced every word whole and complete, and never varied his rhythm. "If you continue in that way, you will damage your beautiful body."

Mann's strength flagged, and he fought for breath. He made one more tremendous effort, felt every muscle in body lock tight, and that extrahuman energy surged from his enhanced glands through his blood, and deep into his arms. He lifted, harder than ever before, pressing against incredible resistance, until his body was a solid piece of steel in the blacksmith's furnace, heating, almost melting...

His eyes rolled back in his head, his vision turned black and he screamed. He collapsed, drained. He lay back, eyes closed, body drizzled with sweat, unable to move. All he could do was pant, and no matter how much air he sucked in, that furnace in his chest wanted more.

"I told you," said the surgeon. He stroked Mann's face with an almost loving touch. "There's nothing you can do. It's too late for you."

***

Mister Frot. He always insisted on the Mister. It was a hangover from his hospital days in England, where he'd gone from his native Estonia to work, to raise money for his children so that they, too, could escape the cold and the poverty.

Pavel Frot had become Mister Frot, and saved and starved and sent money home. It hadn't been long before he'd worked out that even if he performed a hundred thousand hip replacements or removed a billion minor growths, he would never earn enough to bring his family to join him. Neither had it taken him long to discover the many ways a surgeon could increase his income.

He'd started with illegal abortions, drug dealing, and cheap cosmetic surgery. After the first few steps, he'd plunged in. He'd given burglars new fingerprints, or new fingers. He'd given con artists new faces, and replaced one gunshot gangster's left lung.

Most of his patients were willing.

As for the rest, even their suffering served the wellbeing of his children.

The work grew routine, dull. He came to take delight in unusual cases. "I am looking forward to seeing these new organs you've told me about," he said over the phone.

His employer spoke in a voice much like the sound you hear if you fill a tube with rocks, and shake it. "I don't care what makes you warm and slushy. Call when you have him."

Mister Frot shrugged. Not everyone shared his enthusiasm. "Your people picked him up without a fuss."

"What?"

"Yes, he was out. He looked as if he'd taken some drug."

"Doesn't fit the profile. Are you positive you have the right man?"

"Do most people walk around with surgical scars over both kidneys?"

"Yer. You say he was munted. Can you still cut him open? If you bloody kill him before you get those glands...."

"He is strong. Too strong, I might say. He almost broke my bench!"

"Then why are you still talking?"

"I'll go to work immediately. I'll have those special little glands out and icy in thirty minutes."

"And the man? What will you do with him?"

"I understand your needs. He will never wake."

***

Chapter 24

"And make it hurt," he said, and slammed the handset down.

"Yer," he muttered, and turned to his computer. Idle through the call, the screen had gone blank, and he saw his reflection by the fluorescent strip lights in the ceiling of the cabin; his head a dome, his face heavy, ugly. He could count the days since he'd left the Royal Marines by the flab of his jowls.

As a marine, he'd been hard and fit, doing valuable work, service he could be proud of. But now? He was in intelligence now, an officer's dogsbody, and not to be trusted.

He rubbed the scar that disfigured his throat. If it hadn't been for that shrapnel... He wouldn't have spent months in the veteran's hospital, and years trying to drown his fury.

One old sergeant, Bill Jenkyns, had counselled him to keep his self respect, go into a trade, remember his service with pride. But he didn't want to live on memories. The best time of his life had been ripped away like that chunk of his neck.

Alone, without a future, the past barred to him. All of his efforts, the sacrifices he'd made, in pain, in work, in the risk of his life, were as worthwhile as a sack of sand. On the day when he'd woken to that realisation, that his very life had been wasted for the profit of others, that his pride was a cup brimming with salt water, he decided to take back what was owed. He would make the navy pay for every year, every day, every minute and second of his life. He'd share the fruits of desolation.

He smirked as he thought how far he'd come. Looked down on or ignored, he'd tunnelled under every wall, unlocked every door, and now he had not only money, but secrets. He wouldn't have the small revenge of a knife in the dark, but grand revenge.

He'd sink the navy.

The room murmured with a constant vibration from the engines. Grey walls, shivering to the touch, grey table, grey phone, and when he turned to the porthole to break the monotony, he saw a bleak vista, the grey expanse of the cloud covered ocean. It struck his poetic sentiment that they were sailing through limbo.

Damn sure they weren't sailing to heaven.

He turned back to his desk, and the list of names. Blackmail one to get the secrets of another, then out them both; an old game of warring spies. He would go further, and reveal every corpse the navy had thrown into the ocean.

The phone rang. When he saw who it was, he squeezed his eyes shut, and massaged his scalp. When he'd decided to sell his secrets, he'd needed a buyer, rich, capable, and unscrupulous. He'd needed a man who was willing to gouge profit from the bleeding wounds of a nation.

He picked up the phone. "Pamik."

"Get me back my researcher," said Pamik. That thick voice made Mochs picture Pamik, watery yellow blue eyes, brown patches on his bald dome scalp, and those square teeth, yellow with a lifetime of tobacco.

"Yer, it's in hand." As if I'd forget, he thought.

"And gut that miserable hopped up security guard!"

"Jumped up."

"Gut him! Nobody betrays me. Do you have the shadow of an idea what he's done to me? My Seattle operation is ruined! My entire North American division is hiding in storm drains and ditches, praying they don't get arrested or blown up!"

"I-"

"The cost, sailor man, the cost! Years of work, wasted."

"It's under control," he said, wishing he could tell the stinky old bastard to shut it.

"Don't give me that. 'It's under control', you say. My laboratory destroyed, my scientists dead, my tissue samples and cultures blasted into vapour, that's under control, is it?"

"You still got the data. You can-"

"The data, the data! What about the organs? Years to design, more to grow. we finally get them into a man, see them work, and what happens? What did that bitch do?"

Mochs hated the man for speaking this way. "Look, Pamik, we got a deal. You don't-"

"I do, and I do again! What did she do?"

"Fuck's sake, you old whiner. I'm gonna get her back, and I'm gonna hack the lab monkey into chunky kibble. Happy now?"

He heard Pamik suck a smoke, heard the soft hiss, and pictured the tobacco glow red. He spoke again, voice low, rich with menace. "Never forget what you are, sailor. Traitor. Turncoat. One call and your masters will shred the meat from your bones. You gave me your life when you took my money."

The line went dead.

Mochs put the phone down with great care, because if he hadn't, he would have smashed it. He got up and stared out of the window, hands curled into fists. He felt the blood surge in his limbs. He wanted to take his 'benefactor', and feed him his augmented organs, to stuff his mouth with human glands grown in pigs, to shove them, wet and greasy down that gullet, until Pamik choked or vomited to death.

The door clicked shut. The door was already shut! It was locked, for God's sake. He tensed, and his hairs stood on end.

"When were you going to tell me?" That cold voice, suggestive of wealth, privilege, torment and death.

He kept his eyes on the cold grey wastes of the ocean. He tried to force his heart to slow down. "Rastiff."

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

He painted a smile on his face, and turned around. "Practising your sneaking skills? Your lock picking has improved."

Rastiff looked at him with sympathetic eyes, and his expression suggested the best traditions of English charity. "I could have helped you," he said. "I can still help you, only there isn't much time. We have to work together, we have to share everything now, before this gets out. I can protect you, Mochs, and I want to, because I like you." He gave Mochs a warm smile.

"It's so good," he said. "To have a friend." He recognised the tricks Rastiff was using, the verbal appeals to fear and hope, the suggestions of comradeship, of unity in danger, and the nonverbal tools to stimulate affection. He had seen Rastiff use them in countless interrogations.

He knew the danger.

"It's so good," he repeated, "to have a friend. A real friend, reliable."

"I won't let you down," said Rastiff. The warmth was still there, but the power was leaving.

"Yer," he said. "Course you won't."

Rastiff changed. His face went hard, eyes cold. "Caught," he said. "Facing treason. The worst crime. Think any judge will spare you? Think any jury will let you off? They'll convict you. They'll hang you."

Mochs eyed Rastiff. He wore his dark blue officer's uniform, with a light jacket and gleaming black thigh boots. The boots were an affectation onboard ship, but they also offered a hiding place for a derringer or a blade. The jacket fit snug around Rastiff's trim body, but it could still hide a pistol. But his hands were empty, the door shut.

"You'll never prove anything in court," he said, throwing away the admission to test Rastiff.

"Who said I have to?"

Mochs saw, without any fuss, that only one of them was going to live.

"Alright mate," he said, hanging his head, and taking a step forward, his palms up in surrender. "You got me. I tried to make a square go of it, but you got me." He took another step forward, keeping his eyes on Rastiff's hands. "I'll do anything to live. I got names, I got secrets, I got more contacts than you can count, and I'll give them to you. Please," he said. One more step and Rastiff's throat would be within arm's reach. "Please let me live." One more step.

Rastiff backed up, and leaned against the door. "Show me what you have."

Mochs cursed Rastiff's crooked heart. "Will you give me your word? Your word that you won't hurt me."

"What good is that to you?"

He had to sell it. "In this festering hole of a world, the PM's signature is worth shit. But you deal face to face, and your word is all you got. Give it me."

Rastiff stroked his lips. "It means so much to you? Be it so. I give you my word that I will protect you."

Mochs turned to his desk, and bent over his laptop. He began to unlock his secure files. Rastiff hung back at the door, watching. Mochs ignored him, working hard. After minutes, Rastiff relaxed, and came over, drawn in spite of ingrained vigilance. He watched the screen over Mochs's shoulder and affected disdain until he gasped. "Lord Arbuthnot! Surely you never did work for him."

"Butterscotch Arbuthnot," said Mochs, watching Rastiff's reflection on the screen. "He bought inside info on a rare metals trade, then he had me blackmail his competition to withdraw."

" But the man's a lord, a peer of the realm. A chap in the upper house would never stoop to that sort of behaviour."

"You're used to seeing scum and lowlifes. Did you think titled men were different?"

Rastiff closed his eyes, and rubbed his brow. Mochs saw it in the computer screen. He'd been waiting. He snatched his steel coffee mug from the desk, and spun around, hand whirling in a deadly arc. He caught Rastiff on the side of the head, hard enough to spatter blood on the floor.

Rastiff staggered back, hands against his head. Mochs threw another blow, but Rastiff caught it on his forearm, he fixed blazing eyes on Mochs, and threw a punch that rocked his head and broke his nose. Mochs felt a sunburst of agony in the centre of his face. Hot blood ran down his lips, into his mouth, flooding his tongue with that salty taste.

Rastiff reached under his jacket, and Mochs spat blood at his face. Rastiff reeled back, rubbing at his eyes. Mochs threw the coffee mug at him, and it bounced off his skull. Then he grabbed his computer, raised it overhead, and smashed it down on Rastiff's head. Rastiff tumbled onto his back, moaning in pain. Mochs threw the laptop down at him, and lifted the chair, but Rastiff lashed out with those heavy black boots, and struck Mochs's ankle. He fell back against the desk, and the chair tumbled across the deck.

Rastiff came up, his patrician looks marred by blood and bruises, teeth red with blood. The blade in his hand was long and narrow and it came to a murderous point.

Mochs backed away, but the wall blocked his escape. He felt a chill in his gut.

Rastiff flicked the blade at his face, and when Mochs flinched, he grinned like a blood drinker. "I never liked you, Mochs," he said. "How'd a fat, stupid slob like you ever get into the navy?"

The words gouged his heart. "I was a royal marine, you arrogant bastard."

"You're a disgrace to every marine who ever lived. Filthy traitor. How many secrets did you sell? How many people have to suffer for your greed?"

"I never did it for the money, never! Think you can judge me 'cos you got rank, a cushy post with no shit work? You ain't been there when the ship burns, the deck turns to ash, and the devil slashes your throat with shrapnel. You take it 'cos you done your duty, you protected your mates. Then you wake up in hospital, weak, sick, and hurting, and they visit you once, and then they leave you. They leave you! I tried to go back, and they wouldn't have me. The navy was my family, the marines was my brothers, and they abandoned me!"

Rastiff kept the knife up. "The navy didn't abandon you," he said in a soft voice. "You couldn't do your old job any longer. We gave you a new place. Your family didn't give up on you. You gave up on us."

"You all gave up on me! Before I'm done, I'll see the navy broken and humiliated."

"How about Lithuania? How about the raid? You set up that bloody ambush? You sold out our boys. You sent them to burn."

Mochs winced. He'd seen the fire on the screen, and listened to the screams.

Rastiff twisted the knife. "All that time, I thought you were working on the computer, fighting, but you never wanted to restore that connection, you wanted to prolong their agony. That's the kind of sick torment you like. You wanted to watch them burn. It got you hot."

Mochs screwed up his face, and looked away, struggling with his feelings. He had felt fire, pain that seared your flesh and blackened your skin. It had sickened him. But under the anguish, and the weight of responsibility, he had felt satisfaction. Some small, ugly, angry voice inside had whispered to him. This is justice, it had said. This is how we punish our enemies.

"Why did you become a marine in the first place?" asked Rastiff. "Was it to serve your country? Or was it to break men and watch them suffer?"

Those words were weapons. Every word Rastiff said was a tool to pry him open. But if there is death in the sword, there is also life. He beheld himself as he truly was. "Yes," he said, not a voice on the wind, doomed to drown, but the voice of the wind, the voice of the storm.

"Yes!"

Rastiff's eyes widened, he stepped back, and his mouth fell open. Mochs rushed him and took the knife in his left forearm. He felt steel bite flesh, shock as it dug into bone.

He ignored it.

He took Rastiff's throat, felt the muscles bunch in his forearm, and the tendons strain as he squeezed. Rastiff made frantic efforts to pull the knife free, but it had bitten deep, lodged in the bone. Rastiff's face burned red with blood, and his eyes bulged as he fought for air.

He tore the knife free, and drew it back to stab Mochs's face. But Mochs, under the flab, had the strength of a fighting marine. He lifted Rastiff off the deck, and grinned as his enemy kicked and flailed. He relaxed his arm, Rastiff dropped, and he added his own strength to drive him down, to smash him into the deck.

Rastiff's head struck the deck with an ugly crunch. Mochs crouched over his chest, still gripping his neck, and grinning with hate. Rastiff's eyes shone up at him, and then, as blood flowed from his broken skull, they lost focus, went blank.

***

Chapter 25

Jake walked through street after street in the hot sun, wishing he had money for water. Thirst tortured his throat, and made his head hurt. The air carried the smell of cooking oil and olives, fresh bread, and the mould on last week's loaves, fresh flowers and stale perfume. Everyone ambled through life at a gentle, Mediterranean pace, and no one could tell him where the Hotel Maritropa. He began to wonder if he'd heard what he thought, or if this was all a weird game. Maybe Liana wasn't trying to bring him to her at all.

Maybe he was going mad.

If so, he was in fitting company. He was walking beside an old park, with rusty iron railings, and there was an old man in a cheap black suit, waving his arms and shouting in a strange language. Further down the road, a lot of heavily armed police milled around.

He made to walk past the old man, when he noticed a row of bottles by his feet; plastic, full of water. The man was in mid-rant, eyes raised to heaven, not even glancing at the worn book in his hands.

Jake licked dry, cracked lips. A dry whisper, like the voice of a desert snake, told him the old man had more water than he needed, and besides, what could he do? Pray to God for a lightning bolt?

"I've done worse things," he said to himself. But as soon as those words had passed his lips, he remembered what he had done. He sighed. Water would have to wait. He started to walk on. As he passed the preacher, the man tapped his chest. Jake paused. He had Asiatic features, with deep black eyes in a craggy face. His hair was short and neat, black speckled with silver. His expression was stern.

Jake shrugged. "Uh, can I help you?"

The man spoke fast as a machinegun, meaningful as a wave crashing against cliffs.

Jake shook his head. "Sorry buddy. I gotta go." He turned away, but the man caught his shoulder. Jake's fists came up by instinct, but the preacher bent down, picked up a bottle of water, and held it out to Jake.

Jake shook his head. He'd been ready to steal, but he wasn't about to take a handout.

"I don't need that."

The old man spoke words he didn't understand, in an accent he'd never heard. He still held out the bottle, and his eyes had warmth and compassion he'd rarely seen.

He took the bottle in one hand, and with the other, he squeezed the preacher's shoulder, smiling. "Thank you."

The man said nothing. He patted Jake's arm, and then, with a pointed manner, he took up his book again, and faced the road.

Jake understood. He walked on, and drank. The water was warm, and tasted odd, but it was more welcome than champagne.

The water eased the pain in his head. The breeze brought the scent of trees and fields, and life. Jake started to believe that there were good people on this island of crooks, that the penny, though broken, was not as crooked as he'd supposed.

The sun hid behind a tree overhanging the railings of the park, and then it peered out, and revealed a brilliant green banner, shining with light across the road. That swathe of green, like glimmering emeralds caught his eye and fired his heart. It raised feelings in him, of childhood's fancy, of secret places, distant land, danger and ultimate triumph.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw he was looking at two places at once; one lay in his past, on cinema screens and the pages of a book; one lay in his future, a place he had searched for without knowing what it looked like.

"Hotel Maritropa," he whispered, with a weird fear that if he said it too loud, the spell would break, and the hotel would disappear into the ground or whirl away with the wind.

It did not whirl away or disappear. It remained as solid as the dusty bricks of the pavement, green and red, where the colour had not faded, and when he looked at them, he wished they were yellow. He took another swig from his bottle, and grinned.

"Found you."

Crossing, he dodged a swerving pink minivan, that left rose petals and curses in its wake. He came to the doors of the hotel, and he noticed something else: the owner hadn't bothered to write the name, and why should he? There could be but one hotel like this.

As he came to the revolving doors, his eyes started to itch, and something tickled his throat, and made him cough. He walked into the door, expecting it to revolve, but the motor was dead, or perhaps older than automation. He pushed, but it resisted, and it made a sloshy scraping noise, as if it was dragging across a waterlogged carpet. He looked down, and saw that it was.

That itch in his eyes got worse, and his throat felt scratchy, and his nose too, like they were being stuffed with steel wool.

He saw that something weird and wrong had happened here, and his desire to get inside grew urgent. He put the water bottle down, pressed both hands on the door, and heaved on it, but the harder he pushed it, the more it resisted him, until his arms and his back felt hot and sore, and every breath he took hurt his nose and throat. At last, panting for air, his heart hammering in his chest, he backed away.

He walked out onto the street, sweating and shaking. He rubbed sweat out of his eyes, and that made the stinging worse. He tried to stop rubbing them, but his hands kept at it, impelled by instinct, even though he felt it getting more and more uncomfortable, until finally he tore his hands away, and looked up, blinking, into the deadly eclipse of a gun barrel.

He froze, trembling, and took in the scene. Half a dozen swarthy police in black armour and helmets stood around him in, stubby black guns aimed at his head.

He had an urge to laugh; after the way he'd been treated by most locals, they could make some solid arrests by picking out anyone else on the street.

He grinned at the thought, but they cursed at him in a language he didn't understand, and one put a gun against his head. When he felt that cold metal press his skin, he went still.

"American, I'm American," he said. "Can't you speak English?" One of them waved his hands, up then down, and Jake stared at him, flabbergasted. "I want to help you," he said. "Just tell me what you want."

Waving hands guy spoke slowly, and when that didn't make any impression, he muttered, and his mates laughed. The one with the gun against Jake's head lowered his weapon, but then he raised his fist. Jake shook his head, and he struggled to hold down his fighting reflexes. He knew he could take him, but the other ones would blast him to wet red rags.

The blow shook his head, blurred his vision. He felt fresh hot pain in his skull.

"I'm not your guy," he said. He tried to control his feelings, but getting this kind of treatment, from a cop, like he was some kind of thug, it made his blood burn. "I'm not your goddamn guy!"

The cop who'd punched him stepped back, and took off his helmet, revealing a handsome, nut brown face with deep brown eyes, a strong jaw and a big nose. The other cops fell silent, but they kept their guns ready. "Think our island is a playground?"

"What?"

"Think you can come to our island, sell your drugs and bury your bodies?"

"You speak English! Listen to me, I'm an American citizen, and I'm looking for-"

He didn't see the blow. A hard slap, it rocked his head, and made him see stars.

"I don't have patience for your lies. Tell me where the others went."

Jake blinked and shook his head, trying hard to stay calm. "What others?"

"That's enough." He said something to his mates, and one of them walked around Jake, and grabbed his arms. He heard the metallic click before he felt the cuffs, and then he felt that cold steel circlet bite into his wrists. "A month in the bone house, you'll give up your own mother."

The guy behind him pushed him forwards, and two more came up and grabbed his arms, hustling so he had to jog or tumble onto his face. He saw a blue van up ahead, rear doors open. "No," he said. They shoved him, and he almost fell. "This is a mistake! This is a mistake!" Then they were at the van, and he tried to pull away, but they kicked out his legs so he smacked down on the street, and they lifted him up by the body, and tossed him inside. "No," he shouted. "Liana! Liana, where are you?"

The doors slammed shut.

***

Chapter 26

First, Mochs set up a laser trip mine, so the next person in his cabin would be ripped apart. He wished he'd been berthed on a lower deck, so the blast would puncture the hull, and sink the ship. Next, he welded the door shut from the outside. In spite of his combat record, he sweated and his hands shook. Last, he commandeered a helicopter on Rastiff's authority.

As they roared up into the bright blue sky, the ship shrank to a grey splinter on a vast blue field. The helicopter stank of vulcanised rubber and burnt plastic, not the way he'd hoped that freedom would smell. "Take me to Broken Penny, capital city."

The pilot eyed his swollen, bleeding nose. "You need medical attention, sir?"

"I need to go to Broken Penny."

"Sir. They get funny about their air space, sir," said the pilot, shouting over the hum of the rotors. "You want me to radio ahead and get clearance?"

"Yer, right. Why don't you tell them to lay on the bleeding red carpet, too?"

"Sorry sir. Guess I should maybe fly low and avoid trouble."

"Yer, maybe you should do that. Muppet."

He called Mister Frot. "Put your snatch team leader on."

"Why must you interrupt my work? If you want this done right, you must-"

"Shut it, Doctor Frot."

"So you want the team leader, I get you the team leader. Maybe later, if you want some coffee I get you that too, eh?" Frot muttered something in his native tongue.

Mochs did not feel flattered.

"Go. Do."

Kurt Vent came on the line. "Yah, boss man. What's prickling your balls?" Vent was a mercenary of Kazakh descent, though born in Arizona. He'd served in the US marines, before being dishonourably discharged for drug abuse. He knew nothing about Mochs's work in naval intelligence, and thought of him only as the latest in a series of underworld employers.

"The woman doctor," said Mochs.

"Fuck man, she's got long arms," said Vent.

"She's not with me, you bloody idiot! Tell me where she is."

"Yah. Those sailor assholes shot up her hotel. They got her now. You want me to kill 'em?"

"No."

"They're stuffing their faces like they ain't seen food in a month. It'd be so easy to kill 'em."

Mochs banged his fist against the side of his head, and regretted it. It woke up all the bruises. "Don't kill anybody!" The pilot stared at him, until he gave him a dangerous look. "Listen to me, Vent. I want you to be a nice boy, and go and give them a message."

"Oh yah, I got their message all right."

"Not yet you don't." He told Vent what to do, and then he cut the line.

The pilot took that as his cue to pipe up. "Don't see why you want to go to Broken Penny, sir."

"Yer, you don't."

"Island prison during World War Two, sir."

"Right."

"They broke out and declared independence. Allies were too busy to put it down."

Mochs didn't bother to stifle a yawn.

If the pilot caught the hint, he ignored it. "Flooded by refugees after the victory. We offered it to the yanks, they offered it back. Nobody wanted that mess on his hands. Still run by a bunch of crooked-"

"Do I look like I want a history lesson?"

"Just trying to pass the time, sir. Long flight, sir."

"Close that leak in your face, or I guarantee it'll be your last." Idiots, he thought. I'm surrounded by idiots and evil bastards.

It's so unfair.

***

Sinker washed down his slice of pie with a cool glass of bubbling lemonade. A warm breeze blew through the cafe garden, rustling the leaves of the apple and pear trees, whispering and teasing his broad bare chest. His eyes gazed at the round wooden table, where Tub Jack and Liana battled Sten across the chess board, but his mind was far away, across land and sea, to great blue expanse of the ocean, and liberty.

He could smell salt water and engine oil, a pleasing bitterness. He'd soon taste engine oil in his fish stew, his pizza; once back onthe Dancing Cat, there'd be no escape from Seb's cooking. He wrinkled his lips, but a wash of nostalgia caught him by surprise. Not because he liked the taste, heavens no. He could only eat that cooking in one place, on one ship in all the world, and when he rode on that ship, he was free, he was home.

No one could give him orders, no one could tell him how to live, or judge him for straying from the rules, and, most important of all, no one could judge him for having a sweet moron like Tub Jack for a son.

Out on the sea, yes, that was the only place where he could live, where he could have a family.

He took a swig of his lemonade, and felt it fizz on his tongue, and tasted the sugary sweetness and the sour lemon aftertaste, a mix of flavours that compelled him to drink more, to exchange the sour for the sweet. But every drop increased his thirst, like sea water.

He put the glass down, and looked at it. He'd almost drained it. What would happen if he drank it all down? He saw in that glass a figure for his life. He'd loved the navy, and when Bethany had promised him a son, he'd been overjoyed. Then had come the labour, the loss, the heartbreak. She'd given her best, and if he'd had the power, he'd have given his heart to save her, but instead he'd been forced to hold her hand, feel her grip weaken, watch, beg her not to leave. She had given him a son, and he loved him with all that was left of his shattered heart, and when the boy had proved to be different, he'd accepted it without complaints or curses, because anything that Bethany left him was something precious; Jack was a life saved from a wreck at sea.

His shipmates and crew had seen the boy in a different light. They had taken Bethany's death, and Jack's idiocy as a sign of taint. The century made no difference; every sailor watched the skies and the waters, seeking portents in nature, seeing omens in everything from a malfunctioning engine to a stumble over someone's name. They'd seen Jack as one big damn ball of omens, and they'd muttered and whispered against Sinker. A house divided cannot stand, and a ship divided between crew and captain, that ship don't sail.

He ground his teeth, curled his fists. The breeze died, left the air still and quiet, as if the garden was holding its breath. He remembered how it had gone. He'd stood in an old, wood panelled office in the admiralty buildings, a stuffy chamber that stank of cigarette smoke, standing at attention before a row of fat old men with fancy uniforms that glittered with gold braid and medals. He remembered what those old men had said. "Your crew has lost confidence. They have lost faith in you as a captain. Good crew morale is essential for any naval officer. In failing to achieve this, you have been derelict in your duties."

"I should have chosen my crew over my son?"

"As a naval officer, your mission and your men take precedence over all personal interests."

He knew those words. As a cadet, he'd all but engraved them on his bones. But when you loved someone so much, it changed you. He knew he could never have the life he'd hoped for, the life he'd dreamed of as a boy. He'd seen this coming, but he'd pushed it out of his mind to avoid making that choice.

Saying no to your dreams can be harder than saying yes to your delusions.

"We are not heartless, here in the admiralty," said some fat old man with a red blob for a nose. "You are not the first promising young officer to fail in this way. We will see that you have a job, a land bound job, somewhere-"

"You're saying it's a failure to love my son."

"It's a failure to love him more than your men. And who wants a brain damaged dullard for a son, eh? What kind of man wants that?"

"My wife-"

"Yes yes, we know about that," Blob Nose had said. "But we're not living in the dark ages. You can find another wife, a healthy woman this time, I suggest. I'm on my third wife, myself."

The old men had sniggered.

"I'm on number four. Got you beat!"

"Still on number one. She's tougher than she looks!"

Sinker had searched that smoky old office for a sign of compassion, for a sliver of understanding. He'd found only callous old men. They knew their job, but the cost was high; he sensed that every man there had paid for his office with a piece of his soul.

This was not the navy he'd dreamed of. This was not the life he'd aspired to. They would take care of him, yes, they would give him a poky little office somewhere, make him an inspector of warehouses, or something. That, too, was not his dream. He'd seen that he had to make a choice.

"I resign my commission."

And that was that.

Except it wasn't. He could quit the navy, but he couldn't quit the sea. And it was more than that. Those fat old men with their power and their strings of wives, they had taken away his dream of being a naval hero, like Nelson or Drake. But he was a fighter. If I can't be a captain in the Royal navy, he'd said in his heart, I'll be a captain in my own navy.

I'll bring them hell if they cross me.

"Yes!" Liana's exultant whoop brought him back to the present, to the café garden, where the trees hung with fruit, and the air smelled of blueberry pie.

"You cheated," said Sten. "You saw it, didn't you, captain? She cheated!"

"Hmm," murmured Sinker, peering at the chess board. Wrapped in his memories, he had no idea what had happened.

"Uh uh," said Liana. "I didn't cheat you."

"But, but-"

Tub Jack leaned forward over the table, and grinned at Sten. "I cheated you."

Sten's face fell. "You? But... You?"

Tub Jack nodded.

Sten leaned back and howled. "I've been duped by a moron!"

Sinker laughed, and so did Liana. Sten sat at the table, glaring at them over the board, but as they kept laughing, he rolled his eyes, his mouth twitched, and then he, too, began to laugh. They were no family, Sinker reflected, barely a functioning crew, but just then he wouldn't have exchanged his boys for anyone.

"What is this, a convention of hippies?" That gruffling voice belonged to a man in urban camouflage trousers and a sweaty white t-shirt filled with muscle. His face was craggy as a cliff face, his eyes small, dark, too close together. His hair stuck out in white bristles around the edges of a black beret. "I thought you punks was heavy ass action types, and here you is, getting high on nitrous oxide." He smelled of sweat and gun oil.

Sinker looked at the stranger with narrow eyes, wishing he had a weapon. "Get lost," he said, trying to sound bored.

"Hey dude, you're so English! Yah, man, you got a sweet accent in there, but you look like you was totally dancing all night on your face. You all do, especially you, chess champ."

"I cheated!" said Tub Jack, showing the situational awareness of a stoned tadpole.

"I told you to get lost," said Sinker.

The newcomer sat on the edge of the table, and yawned. "Yah, you did that. It was like a minute ago, and I was totally hearing it. By the love of God, man, you got a wicked pissy sense of hospitality. I feel like I'm in Frankenstein's castle, surrounded by bloodsuckers and ghosts."

Sinker and Liana looked at each other. "Dracula was the vampire," she said. "Not Frankenstein."

"You look like snow made out of moonbeams," he said. "You're one of the ghosts. Ah shit. Listen to me, you hippies, your boss man sent me. I got a message for you."

"Rastiff better have good news," said Sten. "Bastard keeps sending us into one murderous trap after another."

The stranger raised his eyebrows. "What's a Rastiff? Yah, I was right, you're all too stoned to get this shit. Is my mouth moving in synch with my lips? No, wait-"

"Who the hell are you?" said Sinker, standing, his fists on the table. "I don't know you. I don't want to know you. Go back to whatever house of monkeys you came from, and tell Rastiff we'll give him his due when we see him. Not before!"

The stranger watched him with those narrow, sleepy eyes, and a faint tremor ran through his body. He flicked his eyes around the table, at Sten, Tub Jack, Liana, and back to Sinker. Then he bared yellow teeth in an ugly grin. "Yah dude," he said. "Like I give a flyweight fuck what you want. I'm being paid to give you assholes a message. Later, to the Lord I pray, I'll get paid to give you a lead shower!"

"Speak your words and go."

"My boss says the old king is dead, long live the new king. He will set you free, when you give him the white lady. That's you, precious," he said, winking at Liana. "He's choppering in as we chunter, says he'll meet you where your cat is at. Says his eye in the way high is watching, so you go to the cat, and he'll find you."

Sten licked his lips. "What do you mean, 'he will set you free'?"

"Shut up," said Sinker. "Tell me this. The new king you say."

"Mm-hmm."

"You know his name. Tell me his name."

"Is there one reason in sweet creation I should do that?"

"I don't trust you. Help me believe this is more than a pipe lover's nightmare."

"You don't have to like me, you don't have to love me, you don't have to lick my balls. I said what I came to say, boat man. G'bye." He slid off the table, and turned away.

Sinker stroked his jaw with a hand that insisted on curling into a fist. "You don't like men who tell you what to do. You must hate your boss, even if he is showering you with money. Tell me his name, and I'll make his life worse than it already is, and then maybe you'll get a chance to come back and give me that shower."

Sten and Liana stared at him as if he'd gone insane, but the messenger paused.

"Yah, you got personality. Two big hairy globes of personality. I can see why he hates you. I'm bursting with the desire to murder you myself."

"The name."

"Yah. Rhymes with dumb ox. Later, hippies."

***

The sun burned overhead, but for the crew of the Cat, it felt as if the once bright garden had been cast into deep shadow. Sinker and Sten got into a quiet, intense conversation, leaving Liana with Tub Jack for company, except that he wasn't any kind of comfort or help. The only company he was interested in was the wrecked mess of the blueberry pie.

Ever since they'd pulled her out of the hands of the kidnappers, Liana had been quivering with suppressed fear. She'd watched and listened to these rough men, winced in sympathy at the bruises and cuts they'd taken for her, and felt budding sympathy.

Playing with Tub Jack had been a welcome retreat from this world of threats and pain, into the cool, clear realm of order and logic. It would have been better to have had a book of logic puzzles or anagrams, so she could withdraw into a world for one. As for teaching Tub Jack, that was a joke, but she didn't fear him; he looked like a friendly, lumbering bear.

She'd been waiting all this time for a sign of Jake. She'd got a tiny message out to him, before Sinker had cut her off, and she'd been hoping and praying to see him, this minute or the next, but the next never came.

She felt as if a demon had crawled out of hell to keep her from tasting the sweet freedom she'd gambled everything to get.

As she looked around, at Jack the slobby moron, at Sten the bald, cocky killer, and Sinker, the dark and handsome leader, charming, yet filled with violence, she saw her plan had been good. She hadn't made mistakes, other people had warped and broken her plan. As if they could understand her work! It made her angry, to see these people with their tiny, animal minds, try to hold her down and shape her according to their primitive ideas. Beasts! They were nothing but greedy beasts, perverting the science that could make them into real human beings.

She nurtured her anger, welcomed the warmth as it burned away her fear, and filled her with energy, like fresh blood in her veins.

She wanted to know about Rastiff, the messenger's dead king, but she didn't need to ask. She knew by the way the men looked at one another, by the way they fell to calculating their own survival. They had said they were British sailors, and yes, they couldn't hide those accents, but the way they dressed, acted, spoke to one another; the way they dealt with their boss through weird, drug-addled messengers, and sought to avoid the Broken Penny police, it was obvious they were not in the navy. No, they were mercenaries. They hadn't rescued her from those kidnappers back at the hotel. They had killed to kidnap her themselves.

And next, they would sell her.

She knew what she had to do. Jake had to be near the hotel. She had to go back, find him, or wait. Jake was a fighter, tough as a mountain. They'd find some place to hide, and she'd work out a better plan. She'd organise a new auction, and she'd make it proof against all of these beasts, these human monsters. Yes, that was it. She'd find a better way to sell her services, and the money would come, and they'd find a new safe home, and leave this misery behind.

She eased out of her chair, went over to the tree, and toyed with the apples. They were round and green, almost ready to burst with juicy sweetness. She went to a pear tree, close to an old couple on the grass, who held hands, and talked in quiet voices. The pears were ripe. She plucked one, cool, heavy and soft, and put it before Tub Jack, who beamed, and put it in his mouth. The other two glanced at her, and then went on with their conversation.

She went back to the pear tree, and toyed with the fruit for a minute, feeling the tension grow in her gut, and the sweat break out on her back. Her breath caught in her throat, and her hands shook as they stroked the rough bark of the tree. She walked on to the next tree. A quick look told her the men were occupied. Tub Jack's hands and face dripped with pear juice.

She swallowed, and walked away.

***

Chapter 27

Mann lay panting with effort, and dripping with sweat that stung his eyes and made the room shimmer and swim. Every part of him ached, and his wrists and ankles bled where those straps had torn his skin. His muscles were empty and weak, his ligaments strained almost to snapping, even his bones ached.

A dark, red-tinged fog descended.

After an unthinkable time, the weasel of a surgeon came back. The creep wore long overalls, gloves, and a mask. He held a syringe full of clear liquid. He knew, if that needle punctured his flesh, he would sleep his way to death.

He made another effort to pull free.

The surgeon paused, and watched him with one raised eyebrow. "Save yourself the effort," he said in that east European accent. "You will never break those straps. Stronger men have tried."

Mann ignored struggled on, summoning the last dregs of strength, but more than muscles grew weak. His heart, his courage and hope faded like the sun's last light.

He was weak as an old woman's tea.

Frot shook his head. "You shouldn't waste your strength. I can't have you dying before I'm finished."

"Maybe that's what I want," said Mann, shocked at the dry, croaking whisper his voice had become.

"If you hold on to your life a little longer, you might meet your lady friend again. The young chaps have gone to get her."

"Lady friend?"

"I hope she doesn't put up a fight. Those young boys have no manners. They can be so rough." He sniggered.

Those words slithered into Mann's ears, and burrowed deep into his weary brain. They whispered dark, blood soaked ideas inside his skull, and lit a hot fire that ignited an agony of fury. It burned down his spinal cord, spread through the nerves to every fibre of his body. It scorched his heart. Raging energy surged down his back, until it reached those alien lumps of meat atop his kidneys, and it squeezed them, it crushed them, and forced them to release their precious juices.

The fire became an inferno. He screamed and writhed. He felt his skin, meat and bones char and melt until all was fire, he was fire, and agony reached such intensity that pain became delight.

It didn't matter if he kept his eyes open or shut, he saw the flames everywhere. The feeling was so incredible he forgot where he was, why he was there, his own name. He forgot almost everything, but he remembered enough.

I have to get free.

He reached down the sides of the bed, until he felt the metal frame. He took them in his hands, gripped them with his new strength, tensed his entire body until it was a burning mass of rock, and then he pulled.

Outwards.

"Marvellous," said the surgeon, from a great distance. "Such energy. I must have your organs."

Mann strained and strained, and there came a point when even the fire turned black.

But still it burned.

And the bed creaked, and the metal groaned.

The surgeon yelped. "No!" He started forwards with the needle.

Too late. Mann's final onslaught tore the bed in two, and it collapsed under him. The mattress tumbled and flipped, and he rolled off it, his arms and legs free, with lengths of metal still attached by the straps, dangling from his limbs. The surgeon rushed at him with the syringe, but he rolled away.

The surgeon sobbed, came at him again, frantic jabs with the needle. Mann dodged, but ran against the wall. The surgeon charged, but Mann lashed out, made the metal rod from the bed whip, to smack the surgeon in the head, ripping away his mask. He backed away, an old, scared man.

But he still had the syringe. It shook in his hand as he shuffled backwards, his face pinched in terror. Mann kicked away the remains of the bed frame, and got to his feet, a length of rod between his hands. His body felt lighter than air, and as his hands squeezed the rod, it buckled.

The surgeon yelped, and backed away until he bumped into the trolley with the surgical instruments. They clattered and tumbled to the floor. He grabbed a long scalpel, and turned back with a defiant look.

Mann had vanished.

He looked around in fear, and then a voice spoke from behind him, and he stiffened, afraid to turn and look. "If I let you operate on me," said Mann, "would I be normal again? Would I be the old man, and not her new Mann?"

"I'll do whatever you want," said the surgeon, afraid to turn.

"To be normal... Not to tiptoe around, washing my hands again and again because my immune system is weak, not to keep counting my breaths so I don't get too excited, not to avoid women... Time was I could touch a woman, hold her, taste her, now I don't dare look.

"I'm always afraid I'll lose control, you people are all so fragile. Can you imagine what it's like? I can't play basketball with my college friends anymore; I tried once, and I won so easily I couldn't enjoy it, couldn't do it again, they thought I was on speed. One tried to score off me. Me!

"I don't have friends, I can't have family, I can't even fuck. All I have are these damned glands, and what do they get me? You! You want to cut me open and rip them out, and when you're done, will you leave me normal again? Or will you leave me tied down, sliced open, bleeding to death?"

The surgeon swallowed. "I- I could do it. I could make you normal. I'm a good surgeon, I am. I have a family, and I work hard for them. Frot. My name's F-Frot. Mister Frot. I could take out those special glands, sew you up, and you'd be normal, all normal."

Mann listened to the words, weighed them, and knew their worth. "Liar!"

"No! I promise-"

"Just whip them out and everything will be cookies and cream, hah! I suppose you always keep a pair of replacement adrenal glands in your freezer, next to the ice cream."

"I -"

"No more!"

Frot made a last attempt to save his life. He turned, syringe in his right hand, shining scalpel in his left, stabbing.

Mann saw the shoulder twitch, and watched those glistening weapons, and leaned back just enough for both weapons to pass without touching his naked skin, and at the same time, he reached out and pushed Frot's arms below each wrist. Frot's eyes widened as his hands traced semicircles, and rushed back at him, to plunge all that shining steel into his neck.

The needle snapped against his clavicle, leaving a thin spike jutting from his neck. The scalpel parted skin without effort, passed through his carotid artery and windpipe, and only ceased to cut when it had gone so deep that the handle dug in and caught.

Frot stared up at Mann, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Every muscle tensed, his lips quivered in speechless agony. For a long moment he stood frozen, as if cold, hugging himself for warmth. Then a thin trickle of fresh red blood drooled down his old, dry lips. As if his heart could no longer hold off beating, gouts of hot blood spurted from his neck.

Frot stared at Mann in mute horror, and then, as he lost blood pressure to his brain, his eyes rolled up and he fell. His head hit the edge of the trolley on the way down, and knocked a bunch more scalpels and other surgical tools off, to rain onto the floor around his bloodstained body.

Mann watched Frot shiver in a final convulsion, and stiffen as life fled with blood.

"I didn't ask for this. You brought it on yourself," he said to the corpse, bitter. "If I had to kill you again, I would. You make me sick."

He found some rags and used them to wipe the worst of the blood from his hands, and then he looked for something to wear. He found his clothes in a neat pile, but when he unfolded them, they fell apart into ragged strips. He realised that his captors hadn't even tried to undress him the regular way. They'd cut his clothes off his body.

He eyed Frot's corpse, but the dead man was built like a mouse, slathered in blood. He picked a scalpel off the floor, and walked out.

The corridor ran a short way, then opened into a large space like a level in a multi-storey parking garage. The operating theatre was a housed in a knot of new building, and the rest of the space remained to be filled. He'd felt as if he was in some underground lab, but in fact he was high up in a tower, new, or old and abandoned.

He saw a row of green canvas camp beds, a red plastic table, and several green kit bags. He walked over, and found a computer on the table. He set down the scalpel, and rummaged in the bags. He pulled out trousers and a top, in the swirling grey of urban camouflage. They looked dirty, but they fit.

He heard a soft noise, and his skin crawled. He looked around, but he was alone.

"I was the target, so where are you?" He lifted up the laptop, set it going. It was password protected, but his time as a security chief had taught him some tricks. He went to work. He didn't know what to expect, but what he found filled his chest with ice and razors.

***

Kurt Vent tucked into a banana sundae, with lashings of pistachio ice cream and maple syrup, relishing the flavours and the feel of ice cream melting on his tongue. He forgot the ice cream when he saw Liana tiptoe into the street.

Her laser blue eyes smouldered in her sculpted face as she scanned for danger, but she didn't notice Kurt where he lurked in the deep doorway of a decrepit Greek Orthodox monastery. She wore a long cream towel like a toga. She turned, walked up the road, her hair caught the light, and went from silver to luminous platinum as she tried to pick between a tree-lined boulevard and a narrow alley.

Kurt pursed his lips, and watched.

"Hey!"

They both looked back at the garden, where Sinker stood beside a pear tree, naked but for the blue towel around his waist. He shot Liana a look, his dark eyes stern yet compassionate. Kurt dumped his ice cream and drew his Mac-10. It wasn't in the plan, but the boss wouldn't moan if he took out Sinker, as long as he produced Liana, more or less untouched.

"Leave me be!" she said.

Kurt grinned as he screwed the suppressor onto the muzzle of his machine pistol, and took aim at Sinker. Shoot at the centre of mass, his instructor had taught him. But Kurt liked to think of himself as an artist with words and bullets. He aimed at Sinker's left ankle.

Liana ran. Kurt squeezed off a single round, but Sinker had already begun to sprint after her, and the bullet struck the roots of the pear tree. He reoriented for a second shot, but Liana and Sinker both had shot into the alley. The fat guy in the pink towel chased after them. The bald guy followed him, bug-like in his goggles, but he was struggling with a towel malfunction, and had to pause every second or so to yank up his nifty black number.

Kurt ducked into cover. When he looked up, they were gone.

***

Mann's face gleamed in the sickly light of the laptop.

He'd begun with a glance, hoping to hurry on. As he'd read the Vent team's observations, he'd leant close, and his hands had gripped the edge of the folding camp table so hard the plastic had cracked. At last he'd picked up the computer, and held it in his hands, pacing back and forth in the barren grey space the tower.

Kurt Vent had been watching Liana from the moment she'd begun to breathe Broken Penny air. They had hacked her account, and read all of those invitations she'd written, invitations to bid on a select item.

Herself.

He felt sick with enlightenment. The Vent team had surmised that he had been in on the plan, had helped her destroy the Seattle lab to fake both their deaths. Kurt Vent had guessed they were lovers, fleeing a cruel boss and a loveless marriage.

That almost made him laugh.

Vent had changed his mind when he turned up a fake email purporting to be from Pamik Hessler. "She used me," he said. "She wound me up and set me going like a tin robot. And when she was finished, she betrayed me. She left me, drugged and helpless, for that sick weasel to cut open. I meant nothing to her. Nothing!"

Mann had no words for the feelings that boiled inside him. The discovery cut through his skin, his meat, his bones, sliced through every layer of his being, hurt him in places no one had ever touched.

"But I'm alive, Liana. I'm still alive. And you're never going to use me again."

***

"I blame," said Sten, puffing down the narrow alley, "myself."

"Good," said Sinker. "That makes two of us."

He tried to catch a glimpse of Liana, but the twists of that claustrophobic corridor of tumbledown brick houses had taken her out of sight.

As the alley wound left and right, the old houses now hid the sun, now made way, and light washed the alley and lit it like silver, and the houses shone like red gold.

"I think my head's getting sunburnt... Hey," said Sten, trailing behind with Tub Jack. "Do you mean you blame-"

"Shut up! I saw something."

"Hey wait," said Sten.

"I said shut up!"

"But why are we chasing her? I mean, if Rastiff's dead, hooray. Deal's off. We're free. Right?"

Sinker snorted. "Yeah, right. Which is why the new boss sent his monkeys to give us the word. We're never going to be free as long as we play their games."

"But-"

"Sten, haven't you figured this out? That girl is more than ballast. We get her back, we make our own deal."

Sten fell silent, but for the huffing of his breath as he struggled to keep up with Sinker. Sinker turned his attention forwards, certain he'd seen a flutter of cream around the bend...

"Cap," said Sten, doing to his concentration what a ship's propeller does to unlucky squid. "Who cares what the new boss says? All this girl wants is her freedom. Shouldn't we be helping her, not bargaining to trade her life for a little bloody peace? Damn it, shouldn't we be acting like free men?"

"It's not that simple."

"Why not? I thought you were all about the free life on the sea. We've just got one naval prick after another making us play fetch and f-."

"I know. I know! I don't like it either. What kind of deep blue squid fuck do you want?"

"I'm just saying," said Sten, struggling to run and argue at the same time, "what difference does it make if we're the rats in a cage or a maze? We're still rats!"

Sinker was still trying to come up with a reply as they turned the next corner and ran past a big rundown house that stood out from the rest. Several things happened at once. Gun fire erupted from the doors and windows of nearby houses, and bullets cracked and screamed as they ricocheted off the grey tarmac and the worn slabs of the pavement.

Sinker and Sten dove for cover behind the steps to the door of the outthrust house, but as they did so, Sinker saw Liana frozen in the road.

God, she's going to die in front of me, and I can't do a thing.

A merc in dirty grey urban camo dashed out of cover and rushed Liana, wrapping his arms around her.

"They're going to take her!" said Sten.

"No they're not," said Sinker, but he didn't know how to stop them.

Tub Jack, never the world's fastest sprinter, came puffing around the corner. He must have heard the shots, but he hadn't reacted. He looked down the street, and locked eyes with the merc dragging Liana. The merc raised his gun, and Sinker felt even worse than when he'd seen the girl in the kill zone.

Tub Jack reached down with his free hand, and whipped off his towel.

No one was expecting to get an eyeful of Tub Jack's prodigious manhood. The merc gaped. If his eyes had got any bigger they would have burst. Tub Jack raised his other hand, and whipped it around.

The last chunk of blueberry pie splattered the merc's face with crumbs and juice.

"Go," said Sinker, and he and Sten leapt out of cover, charged, and rammed the merc. Sten tackled his legs, and Sinker caught his head, and as one man they whirled him upside down, and smacked his skull against the tarmac.

The other mercs recovered from Tub Jack's shock tactics, and opened fire. But they stopped as one shouted, frantic, "no, fuckheads, you'll hit the girl!"

Sten edged closer to Liana. Sinker waved Tub Jack over. He grabbed the merc's submachine gun, and handed it to Sten. He searched the body, and turned up a pistol, a grenade and a knife.

That voice rang out again. "Yah, piss sticks, shoot the big one!"

"Oh shit," said Sinker. "Run, Jack!"

The poor slobbish bear of a kid huffed and panted as the bullets tore around his naked body. He was almost to the knot of people, when a round found its target, and his shoulder fountained blood and meat.

His face twisted, he moaned, but he kept going, and made it to the others. Sinker grabbed him, pulled him close, his face a mirror of Jack's. He felt the boy's pain in his own flesh. "Talk to me, boy. Where did they hit you?"

"Aww," said Jack. "It hurts. It hurts!"

"Sodomite squids!" said Sinker. "Show it to me. Show me your wound."

"No," said Liana.

"What in God's pink pyjamas-"

"I'm the surgeon," she said, white faced but defiant. "If you annoying bastards are going to rescue me from everyone on this island, you're gonna take my help, because the almighty Lord knows you need it."

"She's got a point, Cap," said Sten.

"Shut your gob, Buttercup," said Sinker. "Alright girl, do what you can."

"Hey, yah, you down there," shouted the leader of the mercs. "We got about nine thousand bullets, more than enough for target practice. Give up the girl, and we won't try to improve our aim."

"You want to practise your aim, proceed," said Sinker. He thrust his right hand up, fist closed tight around the grenade. The grenade he'd plucked the pin from.

"Adam's balls!" said the merc. "Your soul is blacker than my toenails."

"Are you fucking playing with me?" asked Liana. "Do I look like I'm a happy hostage? Do I?"

"Shoot when you're ready," shouted Sinker.

Liana glared at him. Sten squeezed his eyes shut. Tub Jack put one hand over his balls. They waited for the merc's choice.

And waited.

"You win, cock tickler."

The whole street seemed to sigh with relief, as if a thousand local people had been hiding under tables and in cupboards, terrified by the war on their quiet street.

The merc shouted again. "I hear sirens. What do yah reckon the cops of Bent Cent will make of your toy theatre?"

Liana looked up from Tub Jack's wound, and her voice shook. "The cops? For the love of- If they take me..."

"Shove it out of your head," said Sinker. "Relax. You're the hostage."

She rolled her eyes. "Of all the calming, soothing, stress-releasing words of spiritual uplift I've ever heard!"

"I've got it in hand," said Sinker. "Take care of the boy."

"Let's get off the bloody street," said Sten.

"Right. Stay with me."

Sinker motioned the others to move, and they walked to one of the terraced, red brick houses, a shamble of a home with crumbling, mossy bricks, and boarded up windows. The yellow paint on the front door was cracked and peeling, and a splintery patch marked the place where someone had torn off the doorknocker.

"Cap, I'm seeing a notable absence of alleys, manholes, or bulletproof bunkers," said Sten.

"Yah turtle humpers got nowhere to hide," shouted the merc.

"Sten, open that door," said Sinker.

"Huh?"

"The door!"

Sten slammed a kick into it. The old wood burst in a cloud of dust and splinters, and they hurried inside, to find themselves in what had once been a nice living room, now silent, dirty and desolate as a forgotten crypt. An old yellow couch lay rotting, filthy with dust. A mantelpiece held a row of old family pictures, but all their features had disappeared under a layer of grime.

Tub Jack wailed as Sinker and Liana hustled him along, and the sound clawed at Sinker's heart, the latest wound in a nightmare that filled his chest with thorns, razors, broken glass.

"I could make a firing position here," said Sten, glancing around. "Might hold them off for a bit."

"Move," said Sinker, pressing forwards. "We stop when I say we stop."

"Jack needs to rest," said Liana.

"Are you daft?" said Sinker. He heard footsteps outside, and men shouting. He hurled the grenade out of the hole where the front door had been, and everyone ducked. The blast sent chips of metal to smash the windows, and one of the mercs outside let out a series of agonised curses. It gave Sinker's little group a pause, and his swift act galvanised the rest. "All deals are off," he said. "Everything we came here for has gone to gas and ashes. Our only hope now is to get off this cursed island. We make for the docks."

***

Chapter 28

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, and lit up the city with a glow like spectral gold. Where it caught the parks and gardens, it made the grass shine green and lent the flowers unusual brilliance, so their yellows and purples and the vibrant red of the roses could have come from a garden of angels. Their fragrance, too, that subtle sweetness in the air, spoke of warmth and love, and happy times almost forgotten.

But the star of day was a falling star, and as it sank towards the world's edge, it cast long, thick shadows, that hated the light and the warm life of day. People scurried through the streets or stayed in. By then many had heard of the gun battles, the kidnappings and slaughter.

A city that never sleeps can crawl under the covers and hide.

"There it is," said Sinker, pointing down across the shadowy quay to the far sight of the east docks, built in the biggest natural harbour on the island. He heard the low whisper of the water, the slap and splash as it struck rock and concrete, and he caught the scent of the water, that salty smell, redolent of freedom, peace, and long balmy days far from the cares of land.

"Huh?" Liana strained her eyes to see what he meant.

"That," he said. "The Dancing Cat."

"Ah. We're going in that thing? You're dumber than I thought."

"Prefer to swim?"

Liana had no chance to answer. A cracker smash of fire and ricochets made them all hunch behind a low brick wall.

Kurt Vent's team had pursued them across the city, first on foot, and then in a pair of sky blue vans. Those pretty vans had hounded them through Broken Penny, until their relentless aggression had brought down the wrath of the police.

Sinker had managed to get his group away as the Vent team fought through a police ambush. He needed to get his people to the Cat before then. If the mercs pinned them down in the docks, if they cut them off from the Cat, they would never get off the island.

"Run," he said.

"The guns-"

"Just run!" He shoved Sten forward, and then he pushed Liana after him. He wrapped his arm around Tub Jack, and helped the kid go.

They half ran, half stumbled down a flight of stone steps, to the shadowy quay. The quay curved like a scimitar, and the cobblestones hurt their feet, threatened to twist their ankles.

"Push on," he said, and urged Tub Jack to go faster. The poor kid's face looked grey, and dripped with cold sweat. He'd lost strength every minute since he'd got shot, and though Liana had done her best to bind and patch the wound with some cloth she'd found, the makeshift bandage oozed with blood. He could barely open his eyes, and moved with the slow gait of a sleepwalker.

"We're going to get you out of here," said Sinker, trying to hustle the kid along. "We're going to get you back to the Dancing Cat. You like the Cat, right?"

"Hrmm," said Tub Jack, swaying like a tree in a storm. Sinker seemed to hear an echo of that storm, a faint roar across the city.

"Seb will cook you a stack of pancakes. Hot, moist pancakes, and sweet, sticky syrup. Doesn't that sound good?"

"Yeah," said Jack. "But... No oil."

Sinker laughed, and then he found his eyes soaking with tears. "No oil, Jack," he said. "I promise, no oil."

"We're getting close," said Sten. "We're going to make it. By God's sweet balls, we're going to bloody make it!"

Sinker felt hope rise. The gloomy quay swept a few hundred metres from high stone steps to east docks, and the Dancing Cat was almost in reach. Sten was damn fit, and Liana could shift when the guns barked and the bullets flew, but Jack, poor Tub Jack didn't have the strength. He didn't have the blood.

He heard that sound again, a rumble like thunder.

Guns blasted at their backs, and the cobbles sparked and screamed. Everyone froze.

"Bloody bastards are on the stairs," shouted Sten, and he wheeled, raised his gun, and let off a burst. The pursuers cursed as they scrambled down the exposed steps.

"Stop or go, captain?" asked Sten.

"It's so close," said Sinker, as he gazed with longing at the Dancing Cat.

"Are we saving the girl or sightseeing?"

He wanted to push on. It was a gamble, but so far that day his dice had come up sixes. They could do it. With fire and movement, and a heap of luck, they could do it. "We-"

The growing thunder swallowed his words. He pictured a storm, a typhoon come screaming out of the sea. Set low between a hill and the sea, the quay stretched out under the shade of a sweep of warehouses. Those warehouses blocked out the sun, and threw the quay into darkness broken here and there by the orange haze of sodium lamps, and they also blocked off any sight of the helicopter until it reared above Sinker's party, and caught the sun as it passed them, downdraft blowing at their faces and hair.

It shone like a golden flare, howled like a damned soul. It spoke.

That familiar English accent, given volume by a loudspeaker, hurt his hopes more than the bullets. "Stop there, yer bleeding pack of turncoats. I've got authority here. Do you know what authority means?"

They'll have guns on that thing, thought Sinker. Even if we run, they can cut us down before we reach the Cat. Sweet God, we were so close.

"This is authority," said the man in the chopper. It turned in the air, and flew north a little distance.

Sinker gasped in surprise. "Go," he said. "It's not facing us. It can't shoot us."

In the same instant that he spoke, a new light shone from the chopper's undercarriage, a sparkling flame, like a firework. He knew what it was, and wished he didn't. The fire burned through the air, and struck the upper deck. It exploded with a blast that ripped the delicate vessel into flinders.

Sinker's mouth fell open, and his eyes filled with tears. Not just a vehicle, it had been his home, his freedom. Until that second, it had been his hope. Now, touched by fire, rent in pieces, there was not enough left to recognise.

"Seb," he moaned. He'd called him there, he'd told him to come. No one could have lived through that explosion. "We're going to die," he said. They had no escape, they were outgunned, and Tub Jack stood halfway through death's doorway. "We're all going to die here."

"That's authority," boomed the killer in the chopper. "That's the word of God. I'm Mochs, and I'm in charge now. You want Rastiff? I killed Rastiff. You want the police? They're in my pocket. You want to leave this bloody island with your arms, legs, hands and eyes? Lie down on your faces, and pray."

***

Sinker let go of Tub Jack, took his pistol, and aimed at the chopper. The salt smell of sea water no longer suggested freedom; the sound of the water filled his mind with pictures, not of escape across the waves, but of drowning men, funerals at sea. His aim wavered as he imagined what would follow; the fire, the blast, seconds of pain, but then it would go blank.

He tried not to think about Tub Jack, because he knew if he looked at his son, he could never do it. He clenched his jaw, and braced the gun with both hands. Wasn't this better? A quick, fighting death.

Liana gasped.

Sten faced him. "Chief, what are you doing?"

"Shut up," said Sinker.

"No."

"It's over." He held his aim. "We've lost. This is the best way out."

Sten knocked Sinker's aim off. "That's no way out," he said. "You can't do that."

He rounded on Sten. "Since when do you give orders around here?"

"Since when do you lose hope? You've always found a way out. How can you give up?"

"I'm not giving up! I'm saying we fight."

"And die. You wanna fight, chief? Let's pick a fight we can win."

Liana gasped. "Those horrible men are getting closer," she said. "And so is that helicopter. If you want to rescue me again, now would be okay."

Sinker and Sten glared at each other, and Sinker felt tempted to pick that fight, because it was a fight he could win. But he saw how illusory that triumph would be. Just as much self deception as a glorious stand against the chopper. He lowered the gun, sighed, and sagged. He looked down at the cobbles under his feet. They might as well have been mountains. "I don't know what to do."

"I've got an idea," said Tub Jack, slurring his words, his eyes half-closed. He began to tug at the towel around his waist.

Liana patted his hand. "That won't work this time, Jack," she said. "We've run out of pie."

"Mm," he muttered. "Pie."

"I've got a real idea," said Sten. "Go that way." He pointed at the hill side of the quay, at one of the alleys that rose by steps in the dark hillside, up to the warehouse district.

"The men will follow, the chopper will cut us off," said Sinker.

"It's better than standing here! Go, for the love- Go!"

He shoved Liana towards the alley, and she had to run to keep from falling. He shoved Jack, and Sinker had to run, to keep the boy from crashing to the deck.

One moment they were standing in a fist, the next they were running into darkness, for the alley lay thick with gloomy silence.

Liana ran in front, her hands stretched out through the dark. Sinker followed, half guiding, and half carrying Tub Jack, squeezed so close the walls scraped and bruised his shoulder.

Sten brought up the rear. They made it halfway along the alley when they heard angry shouting from behind.

"They've found us," said Sinker.

"Go on," said Sten, turning to halt.

"Stay with us, Sten."

"Get your boy out of here."

Sinker felt his heart kick in his chest, and tears start in his eyes. He wanted to say something good, something uplifting, but his voice was choked with feeling. When he'd taken Sten on, he hadn't liked him, but the man had changed. When he remembered the braggart mercenary, shaved head and muscles, it was a different person.

"You earned your name," he said under his breath. "You earned your name."

***

Sten waited in the dark.

The close stone walls muffled sound. He heard his own breath, and felt the cold weight of the gun braced against his belly. He leaned forward, tense in every muscle, watching the dark.

He saw the dim light of the alley mouth, orange with the sodium lamps lining the quay. Against that light he saw shapes, shadows. He heard the thud and panting as they ran.

His hands felt sweaty, and his heart drummed.

"Come to Broken Penny," he said. He pulled off those uncomfortable goggles, and tossed them on the ground. "End of a lifetime opportunity."

His trigger finger trembled, and he adjusted his grip on the gun. He could smell them, a medley of gun oil and shoe polish, the hint of deodorant, and over it all, human sweat.

One of them muttered, and then they all shouted.

They had spotted him.

"Let's be having you then." He crushed the trigger. The compact weapon rumbled, and kicked his belly. He sprayed fire up the alley. One guy screamed, crashed to the cobbles, and thrashed in agony. A second guy had a quick trigger finger, and he blasted back at Sten, but his shots flew wide, spanged off the stone walls, scraped sparks. Sten saw his muzzle flash, aimed, raked fire across it.

The quick shot hit the cobbles.

Sten, caught up in fierce joy, grinned like a demon before a red feast of the damned.

He heard boots on cobbles, as one man tried a desperate rush. He focused on the sound, fired another burst, and heard a short, sickening scream as the bullets tore up the merc's legs and pitched him onto his skull, which shattered with a crunch. Sten grimaced, but he felt exhilarated to live, to stand off his enemies. His fantasies of hazard and chance and heroism had come true.

The surviving mercs dropped to the ground. Bullets whined past his head, and one ripped by his ear. He flinched, fired into darkness, and saw flashes where his bullets struck stone. He fired again, tension rising as he realised he couldn't find a target.

His enemies blasted back. He felt a searing pain in his left cheek, an electric shock that burned through meat to the bone.

He gasped, bent over, put a hand on the wound. He felt hot, wet meat, and the left side of his head seemed to have caught fire. He wanted to scream, but he dared not give away his location.

Exhilaration had burned itself out, left him with ragged, bleeding fury. He fired in a low zigzag. He heard a choked gasp, and felt grim satisfaction. Then his gun felt silent. He furrowed his brow, and squeezed the trigger a few times before his reason worked through the fog of anger and pain.

"Empty. How can I run out now?"

The fired at him again, and this time he dropped into a crouch, covering his head with his hands. The useless gun fell from his grasp and clattered onto the cobbles.

Even with no weapons and no hope, his rage wouldn't let him give up.

All I need is a gun.

He knew what he had to do. He sprang forward. The advancing mercs kept firing, but without his muzzle flash, it was too dark to pick him out. He tripped, and hit the ground. Lying on his chest, cold cobbles digging into his body, he reached out for the fallen merc. He felt fabric, a leg, a torso, and then a slippery wet wound, filled with tacky heat and the jagged edges of jutting bones.

He felt all over that cooling mass of flesh with shaking hands, and heard the mercs close in. His hand brushed the dead man's palm, and he froze on that contact, it felt so eerie. In a few more moments, he could be like that, another blood drenched body, lying twisted and still on the cold stones. The thought brought a wave of fear, ice to fill his chest and stop his breath.

He remembered how he'd struggled with that murderous giant in the hotel kitchen, how he'd almost died because of fear. He remembered the fear had paralysed him, until Sinker had pushed him to fight. He remembered what could have been his last words.

"I am not going to die Tim Buttercup."

The words carried their own magic. Reaching past the dead man's hand, he felt the barrel of a pistol. That would do.

The mercs were no longer content to crawl on their bellies across the cobbles. They had begun to walk; he heard their boots on the stones. They had even begun to run.

This was it.

He waited until the running got close, until he heard the boots pounding beside his head, and felt the cool air as one guy bounded over him. He lay in the middle of them now, and at that range, he couldn't miss. One guy even trod on his leg. That was enough of a signal. He sprang up, shoved the gun against the guy who'd stepped on him, and fired.

"I'm Sten Gunn, you toothless pack of wolves."

He fired left, right, up and down the alley. Caught by surprise, the mercs made a very human blunder. They opened fire from all sides.

The dark night lit up like an electrical storm, with all the thunder of chain lightning as men blasted on full auto. Sten heard his enemies hit one another, howl in agony, and fire back, hurling more lightning against their own. The excitement returned, and more, exhilaration multiplied a thousand times. And then, the inevitable, as bullets from all sides punched into his body, ripped out chunks of rib and skull, pulped his heart and brain, and tore him to pieces.

Even as the bullets demolished his body, Sten laughed.

***

Chapter 29

Sinker found the stone staircase by barking his shin. He and Liana helped Tub Jack hobble up the steps in the dark. They had got halfway up when the firing began. He felt a weird urge to pause, to wait and find out what would happen, this was not a day to hang around.

Day, yes, still day, and this darkness a shadow of the coming night. He took pleasure in knowing that somewhere across the island, even now, the sun still shone.

They tried to run up the stairs, but Jack's strength was all but exhausted. It had seeped out with his blood. Unless they got him to a safe place, better yet a hospital with blood to spare, he wouldn't live out the night.

The sounds of the battle died, then rose again to a crescendo of thunder and screams, and an insane bellow of laughter, cut short in a final volley of fire.

"God give you rest, Sten," he said. "I thought I knew you."

They crested the stairs, found themselves in a short street behind a row of warehouses. On their side of the street, they saw, at well-spaced intervals, the heads of staircases, running down to the quay. The other side ran along the backs of the warehouses, and he saw cigarette butts scattered outside the nearest back door. To the right, the street ended in a cul-de-sac, to the left it swept in a gentle curve, it offering no cover or hiding place, and Jack couldn't run.

"What do we do?" said Liana, her hands shaking.

"We -"

"I can hear them!"

He could too, and he heard the throbbing hum of the helicopter. While his men hounded them from behind, Mochs was moving ahead, coming to catch them in the open.

Tub Jack pulled away, and stumbled towards the door of the nearest warehouse, a metal door in a concrete wall, with cigarette butts and ash littered around it.

"Jack," said Sinker, "don't waste your strength."

Tub Jack didn't waste any strength on words. He tried the door handle with his right hand, the left limp at his side, and when the door refused to open, he ripped it out of its frame. He leaned in the doorway, panting.

Sinker dashed over. "Are you trying to kill yourself? But by God, you're the strongest man I know."

Liana pushed past, and ran inside. He followed, supporting Jack in his arms. Of course, he reflected, the ruined door made it unthinkable that their pursuers would lose their trail.

Sinker supported Tub Jack as Liana led them into the building. Even muffled by walls, he heard the mechanical roar of the helicopter. They walked up a corridor with blue brick walls, marked by a white line at waist height. The ceiling was white polystyrene tiles, the floor Spartan grey concrete, marked with black smudges, as if an overloaded cart had scraped its tires. The air had an acrid chemical smell, spray paint and burnt plastic.

They hurried on and came to a choice, stairs up, or straight through red double doors. Liana hesitated, and Sinker pointed at the doors. "They have to lead out," he said. "We find a road, a car. Jack doesn't have time to play hide and seek."

They came into a large work room, where two dozen men and women worked at an assembly line, putting together plastic dolls. It began with a vat of molten plastic, injected into a series of moulds; fast setting, it came out as a series of parts, which were rolled along to the assemblers. One put on an arm, one a leg, and one popped the head in place. They worked to the beat of a radio that played reggae. Some of the workers were young, some old and careworn. Most wore cheap jeans and sweat-stained t-shirts. Once the dolls were complete, girls with hair tied back or bobbed, used tiny brushes to paint on green eyes, a tiny nose, a happy smile.

Sinker stared, surprised to see normal people oblivious to the drama around and among them. He sensed a change in the atmosphere; the music died, and the factory fell silent. Every worker had stopped. He felt twenty or thirty pairs of eyes on him. What a sight they made, three renegade beach bums, bruised, bleeding.

"What do we do?" hissed Liana.

If there was a fire fight, these people would suffer. "Get out!" he shouted. "Get out of here now."

Nobody moved, but he heard some whispers, and a word that sounded like "police."

He raised his pistol, and aimed at the silent radio. He squeezed off one round, and the radio exploded into plastic fragments. Someone screamed, everyone screamed, and they ran to the doors. It took less than a minute to clear the room.

He heard more cries outside, and knew Mochs had landed. "They're in front and behind," he said. "We're trapped." They didn't have time to worry; he heard footsteps and harsh whispers in the corridor, back through the red doors. "They've found us."

Liana curled in on herself, head down, hands over her face, quivering. Tub Jack shuffled up to a concrete pillar, and sagged against it.

Sinker looked at the pistol in his hand. With luck, he'd get a couple of them. But in that large, exposed room, enemies front and back, one man couldn't last.

He focused on the gun, felt its weight, and the warmth the metal had taken from his hand. It had an inviting quality, like a warm fire on a cold night. Fire could burn wood and paper; it could burn flesh. Fire could solve a lot of problems. He narrowed his eyes. Yes, fire could take of everything...

A soft noise made him look up, and he saw Tub Jack, leaning against the pillar, watching him with half-lidded eyes. He couldn't leave the boy, he knew that. He'd chosen life as a renegade, even as a crook, in preference to giving up on the kid, or taking flak over his weak mind. He'd turned his back on the navy, on the hopes he'd lived on, the plans he'd made. And then, with death on all sides and right in his hand, he saw it all in a different light. He'd quit the navy, yes, and then the navy had come and snatched him back. And why? Why had Rastiff set his trap? Why had he hunted Sinker and turned him into an asset?

He saw the answer as clear as the dawn sun.

"I made him."

Rastiff would never have chased him if he hadn't been a troublemaker, a naval troublemaker. He wouldn't have bothered to employ him, even as a 'disposable asset', if he hadn't shown his skills, time and again.

"I never left," he said, and felt ease in his heart, as he let go of the secret he'd gripped for so long.

In spite of all of his talk about freedom and independence, he had never given up on the navy. He had chosen to serve in a highly unusual manner. He felt weird pride in having been loyal, in a roundabout way. It also meant he was responsible for every incident that had led them to Broken Penny. He was responsible for the deaths of Sten and Seb. He had destroyed the Dancing Cat, as surely as if he'd fired that rocket. He had got Tub Jack shot.

He walked over to the boy. "I put you here, Jack. Take this, and help me get us out." He handed Jack the pistol, and the kid straightened, in spite of the pain. "Fire when I tell you."

He heard slow footsteps in the corridor. The mercs had learned caution. Sten had given them a hard lesson. Sinker moved fast, trusting the instincts he'd developed as a modern pirate. He dashed to the assembly line, found a box of spray paint. He picked it, and ran to the double doors.

"Jack," he said. "Get ready!"

His heart hammered. He felt sweat trickle under his armpits, and down his chest. He closed his eyes and willed his breath to slow, as he waited for the mercs to get close. When he judged he had no time left, he hit the door with his shoulder, swung it wide open. He saw six men in urban camo, with black Kevlar helmets and compact assault rifles, bunched up in the corridor. They raised their weapons, and he leapt back just in time to escape a withering hail of bullets.

"Now, Jack!"

He hadn't just looked in on the corridor; he'd dumped the box of paint cans. Tub Jack raised the pistol in his good right hand, and aimed at the doors, right where Sinker had dropped the box. He fired.

Nothing happened.

Jack fired again, again, and one more time.

The doors were thrown open by a tremendous wave of fire, as first one can blew up, and then all the others burst, and fed the flames.

Sinker stumbled away from that furnace heat, choking on the outwash of chemical smog. As the propellant went up in flames, it burned the paint, and threw out foul, stinking smoke that scorched the eyes, nose, and throat, and thickened the air into a dark cloud of filth. Agonised screams sounded and then cut short as the fire sucked the air out of the dying mercs' lungs. The fire made the men's ammunition cook off, a noise like a dozen machineguns firing all at once.

The noise deafened Sinker, drove every thought out of his head, and it seemed to go on pounding long after it had ended.

He came back to himself, bent over and coughing, an acrid stench in his nose, a sickening taste in his mouth. He leaned against the cold wall, and struggled to breathe. He felt a hand on his back. He looked up, eyes sore from the heat, vision blurry with tears, and saw Liana, face twisted between fear and awe. She pulled his arm, and led him down into the middle of the room, inside the sweep of the assembly line. He saw Tub Jack, sitting against the edge of a workbench, head slumped as in sleep.

***

He fiddled with the chin strap, and tried to get the helmet to sit right, but no matter what he did, it weighed his head down and made his neck ache. On top of that, the mirror shades he wore hid his face very well, but everything looked blurry and twisted. The uniform was too loose, and he'd had to cinch it up with the belt, but that didn't stop the tough cotton from scratching his skin, the worst discomfort in those sensitive places along the inner thigh.

He ached to get into real clothes.

"Stop fiddling with your helmet, Benny," said Vuine, the team leader. "It'll fall off, and your head with it." Vuine had a stubby frame and a bullet head, and he affected Elvis sideburns, which poked out under the sides of his helmet and made him look furry.

He let go of his helmet, and straightened up. He rested his hands on the cold metal body of his assault rifle, felt the weight, and the faint slickness of the oil that lent it that metallic stink. He didn't like it. Just touching the thing made the skin of his hands crawl, as if he could feel dirt, germs and bacteria creeping up his fingers.

They stood by the helicopter, in a square in the manufacturing district. The streets were empty, blocked off upstream by the police. The square had a muddy orange haze from the sodium lamps. They'd flown up from the quay, to cut off their quarry as the other team, headed by Kurt Vent, had chased them up the hill. Now he watched as the commander, an Englishman called Mochs, kept a tense monitor on Vent's progress.

"I don't care how much blood there is, Vent," he said. "Don't be such a baby. I'll take you to a navy clinic after we're done. They'll patch you up better than new. No, don't wait, we're already here. Team two is covering the bleeding building. Yer, just go in slow, and scare them out. We'll do the rest." He put his thick hand over the mike, and leered at Vuine. "He's like a bloody child, whimpering over a scraped knee. Do you want a promotion?"

"Sir." Vuine's shades hid his expression.

Mochs smirked. "Yer, right. Don't you bleeding forget it."

They heard a firecracker, followed by a massive explosion, and a storm of frantic fire. Mochs, Vuine, and the others fell into instinctive crouches, and aimed their weapons at the warehouse.

"Vent," said Mochs. "Vent, what in God's good monkey house is going on?" He waited. "Vent?" He turned to Vuine. "Something's wrong with my mike. Vent's on frequency six. Tell him to stop daydreaming; I'm paying for bleeding results."

Vuine adjusted his frequency, but he got no response either. He turned to Mochs, and shook his head. "It's not happening."

"What are you babbling about? They were running. They were wearing towels!" He tried the radio one more time. "Vent! Come in, Vent! Kurt, switch on your radio. If yours is bust, take one from your men. For raggy suck's sake!"

Mochs looked around with wild eyes, and clawed at the air as if he wanted to tear Vent apart, and punch what was left. Then an abrupt change came over him. He let his hands fall to his sides, and he pursed his lips. "Vuine!"

"Yessir," said Vuine, standing to attention.

"You got what, six men?"

"Five, sir. Wilder went with Vent."

"Hmm. They've got heavy weapons in there, or something. Maybe it's a gun factory. Can you winkle them out?"

Vuine stroked his sideburns. "Sir, the Broken Penny police have been very accommodating. We could borrow some bodies and-"

Mochs sneered. "When I want strategic advice from you, Vuine, it'll be time to check into rehab. I used all my pull to get this much cooperation, and I can't afford more. All right, get our trump out of the whirly bird. Well, get on!"

Vuine directed his men to open up the helicopter, and they pulled out their captive, a tall American with a huge upper body that stretched out his white polo neck. His hair was blonde stubble, his face big boned and bruised. He stank of sweat, and his top and jeans had salt stains. He struggled as they hustled him out of the helicopter, and then he stood, arms cuffed behind his back, and scanned the square with hard, angry eyes. "What the fuck kinda cops are you? This is no goddamn precinct house. Take me to the American embassy! I'm an American citizen, damn you, and you can't-"

Vuine slapped him in the face, and he shut his mouth, but his eyes blazed.

"Give it me, Vuine."

Vuine reached into the chopper, pulled something out of his kitbag, and handed it to Mochs.

Mochs grinned. "See this?" He waved it in front of the prisoner. "The white cylinder is filled with plastic explosive. The orange box on top is a radio transceiver. I twist off the top, like this, it goes active. Bomb gets more than a hundred metres away, boom. I push this button, boom."

The prisoner acted nonchalant. "I give a fuck why?" The sweat dripping down his face gave him away.

"Why indeed? Vuine, I've had my fun. You do the next part."

Vuine sucked his teeth. "I'm not the disaster expert. Benny, be a good fellow and tie that there bomb to that there gentleman. There's a good lad."

"This bomb?" he said.

"You're a sharp boy," said Mochs.

"Look, I'm sorry, Mr Mochs," said Vuine. "Benny hasn't been feeling so good today. Get on to it."

He stepped closer to Jake. The man pulled back, and bared his teeth. "Get that outta my space."

"Are you having fun?" asked Mochs, with heavy sarcasm. "Do we have to wait until bonfire night? Stick the bleeding bomb on him, so we can get off this stupid island."

"This bomb?" he asked, moving towards the helicopter.

Mochs looked at Vuine. "Is he daft?"

"Benny," said Vuine, angry and embarrassed. "You can jerk off later. Do what the man says, or I'll stuff the bomb down your throat and cuff you to the gentleman."

He was close now, close enough to touch the helicopter. The door was open, and he could smell it, a heavy mix of oil, petrol, and vulcanised rubber. He held the bomb in one hand, and the detonator in the other. "You keep calling me Benny," he said.

Mochs stiffened, and Vuine shouldered his rifle, but the sight of the bomb kept him from shooting.

"You really shouldn't."

He tossed the bomb into the helicopter. He held the detonator up, so Mochs and all of his goons could see it, and then he tugged off that uncomfortable helmet, and dumped it on the tarmac. He took off the shades, and dropped them beside it. "Been having a bad day? It's about to get much, much worse."

Mochs glared at him, his eyes seething with hate. "I don't care who you are or where you came from. I'm going to tie you down and have a gorilla rape you to death."

"I'm the new man," he said. "Please, uncuff Mr Gleicker. You can go in and join your wife."

Jake's jaw dropped. "I- Do I know you, man?"

"Time for that later."

Mochs shook his head. "I won't do a thing you say, you son of a transsexual camel. Your threat is empty. You blow that bomb, you die."

Mann tried to fight the smile, but it broke out all the same. He couldn't help but laugh. "You really don't know, do you?"

"I know that you're in a world of-"

Mann grew bored of listening to Mochs. He willed his body into action. One heartbeat, that was all it took, and then he accelerated. For him, the world slowed down. Mochs's mouth twisted and flapped, and his words ground out. Mann had plenty of time to imagine how he looked: first a stationary figure, and then a blur of raw speed that took him from lingering beside the helicopter, to standing behind Mochs with a knife at his throat. "Now," he said. "Let's try again."

***

Chapter 30

Sinker paced up and down while he waited for Liana to finish. He'd raced until he'd found a first aid kit, and Liana had applied fresh bandages and a tourniquet to Tub Jack's wounded shoulder. Already the white cotton had soaked red with blood. Jack's face was a sickly off-white, his breath fast and shallow, and his eyes fluttered as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Liana looked up from his side, and her eyes had dark shadows and deep sorrow. "I've done all I can."

"Is he-" he choked on the words. As a leader of men, he'd seen all kinds of injuries, from combat and accident. It had never felt easy, but he'd been able to keep a necessary distance between himself and the wounded. But now, as Jack lay on the cold floor of the factory, his blood seeping out, Sinker was overwhelmed. It felt like a live thing, lodged in his chest, chewing on his heart.

He'd felt this way before, when he'd lost Bethany. He'd watched her slip away in that delivery room, her fragile body exhausted beyond the utter extremity of endurance, leaving him with two things: a son, and a sadness that had settled in his heart and never left him.

Back then, his pain had come mixed with joy, because Bethany had left him a gift of her flesh, and through all the disappointment and heartbreak that had followed, he'd never lost that simple joy in Jack's life.

But if he lost the boy...

He felt a hand on his arm, startling him out of his reverie. Liana's words, though soft and soothing, did little to ease his anxiety. "You need a hospital. With a blood transfusion, proper wound care... He's strong. But he needs hospital care."

"Tell that to the squidbrains outside-"

An explosion rocked the building, and drowned his words.

***

"Undo those cuffs, Vuine," said Mann, as he pressed the knifepoint into the hollow of Mochs's throat.

"You're making a bleeding bad mistake," said Mochs, his face red and wet as ketchup.

"No. This is a bleeding bad mistake," he said, and twisted the knife. It hooked up a little skin on the tip, stretched it, sliced it, left a tiny wound that dribbled blood. Mochs shuddered, but he said nothing. "The cuffs, Vuine," said Mann.

Vuine brushed his sideburns with a shaking hand. He looked like a child who's afraid he's about to get into terrible trouble, but he went up to Jake, and undid the cuffs. Jake sighed, and rubbed his wrists, wincing as he felt the sore red marks where they'd bitten him. "I don't know why you're doing this," he said, "but th-"

"Just get inside."

Jake pressed his lips together, his face a knot of emotions, then he turned, and headed into the factory.

"Now what?" said Mochs, his voice hoarser than usual. "So the boxing boy can go play unhappy families, so what? There's still six of us, and my boys have guns. What're you gonna do?"

"Oh, that's right," said Mann, his voice soft, with an edge of sarcasm. "You there, all of you, toss your guns in the- What did you call it? Whirlybird."

Vuine shook his head. "No way. We can't give up our guns. Look, Mr Mochs, I'm sorry, but-"

Mochs trembled in Mann's arms. "Don't you 'I'm sorry' me, Vuine!" he said. "D'you want to see this nightmare freak carve me up? I'm bloody bleeding here!"

"You can't stop me, Vuine," said Mann. "Toss your guns, or you'll be next to bleed."

Vuine stood shaking, tugging at his sideburns over and over. "I- I-"

"Go," said Mann.

Vuine jumped, and then he all but ran to the helicopter, and threw his rifle inside.

"All of them," said Mann, but he needn't have bothered. Vuine hurried so much to get rid of his weapons, he looked pathetic.

"And the rest of you. The pilot, too."

The other mercs trudged over to the helicopter, sullen and defeated, the pilot coming out to stand with them. As a team, they were capable, ruthless killers, but now that they'd lost their leaders, they were shaken and fearful. One by one, they dumped their rifles, pistols, grenades, even their combat knives. They had to pull Vuine back, because once he'd started to toss his kit, he couldn't stop at the weapons, and had begun to strip off his uniform. They couldn't keep him from dumping his helmet, and when they did make him stand still, his face looked so grey and clammy that Mann knew he was in shock.

"That's very good," said Mann.

"You got what you wanted," said Mochs. "Now what?" His voice shook.

"Now what? I want more. I want you all to run, because in five seconds, I'm gonna blow that bird into feathers and ash."

"No," said Mochs. "No, no, no!"

Vuine trembled even more, shaken by some inner struggle, and then he straightened up, and looked Mann in the face. "What about Benny?" he said.

"Benny's dead, Vuine. Four seconds."

Vuine sagged. He faced his men. "What're you waiting for, a green light? Go!" They looked at one another, their faces a mix of misery and impotent rage, and then they ran, Vuine trailing behind. Mann watched them until they got out of sight, and then he shoved Mochs towards the doors of the factory.

"I'm gonna fucking have you, yer I am," said Mochs, blood red and raging. "I'm gonna hang you up by those feet, cut your veins open, and drown you in a bucket of your own blood!"

Mochs said nothing, he just took cuffs from his belt, and locked Mochs's hands behind his back. He pressed the knife into his neck, using it to push Mochs against the helicopter, and then he raised the detonator and put it against Mochs's forehead. The fat crook glared at him, blood and violence in his eyes, but he couldn't keep from shaking as he felt the tiny button against his skin. Mann slid the tip of the knife in between his lips, and pried his mouth open. Then, using the knife like a lever, he popped the detonator into his mouth. Mochs went very still, and didn't resist at all as Mann pushed him back, back, until he had to take a shaky step inside the helicopter.

"You're a handy animal," said Mann. "I expect there's a key somewhere in all that junk. Can you find it before your slobber short circuits that detonator?"

Mochs stared at him, his mouth distended and oozing saliva, his eyes alive with hatred.

Mann put a good thick wall between his body and the street as fast as he could. Once in cover, he had an insane urge to go back and watch. He hated those men so much, the thought of seeing their leader struggle in his trap made his skin tingle.

An instant later, the stick of explosive in the helicopter released its energy in an elemental blast, and ripped the helicopter to flinders and smoke.

***

Chapter 31

Liana ran a hand through her hair, and felt greasy stiffness that told her she needed a shower. She massaged her scalp and the back of her neck, but it did little to ease the tension at the top of her spine, like a tangle of rusty wires. The cold factory floor hurt her knees, but she knelt beside Tub Jack, watching his thick face get paler, and his bandages grow damp with blood.

She tried to concentrate on him, as she would on any patient, because of the fear she felt when she let her mind drift, or let her senses register the choking smoke stink, or the rolling factory line that kept moving with no one to tend it, dumping plastic arms and legs, dismembered plastic bodies, featureless plastic heads, to clatter in a heap on the floor.

The explosion was another painful reminder of the death or slavery that lurked outside to claim her.

Between the fumes of the fire, and the shattering noise out front, her head felt muzzy and confused, all manner of buzzing clamour in her ears. She thought she heard a voice call her name, but it sounded wrong, familiar and yet strange. She massaged her brow. Then she heard Sinker bark a challenge, and someone did say her name.

Not just someone...

Her head snapped up, and mouth fell open as she saw him stroll into the factory like the shop on the corner. His jeans were filthy and his polo neck, once white, was streaked with blood and dirt. His cheeks were coated with yellow fuzz, bristly as his scalp, and he had more bruises and scrapes than she'd ever seen. She didn't care a bit, because he was there, he had come, after all the chaos and the fear and the pain, he had come for her. She wanted to leap into his arms, but her body had taken too many shocks, and her legs wobbled.

He ran towards her, and she to him, but then Sinker was between them, a knife in his hand. "Who sent you?" he said.

"Liana," said Jake, his eyes full of her.

She marched up to Sinker, and shoved him aside. "Get that thing away from my husband, you saltwater fink."

"Huh?" Sinker stepped back, more surprised than cowed.

"Jake," she said, and then she wrapped her arms around him.

"Liana," he said, squeezing her, tears shining in his eyes.

She broke their embrace, and swatted him on the shoulder. "What you took you so long, you slob?"

"I-"

"Never mind." She hugged him again, revelling in his warmth. "I forgive you, Jake."

It came his turn to break their embrace. "You forgive me? Who played Marco Polo off around the world, leaving cryptic hints in books? Who called me to give bizarre clues? Who left Seattle burning? I thought you were dead!"

"I'm sorry Jake, but I had to do all that of those things."

"I was so worried."

"Oh, let's put the past behind us."

Jake's face twisted in extreme distress, but as he looked at Liana, his expression softened, and he took her hand. "We stay together now."

She hesitated, and then she jumped up and kissed him. "Deal."

"Just one more thing... Why are you wearing a towel? Why is he wearing a towel?"

From somewhere towards the entrance, she heard footsteps, slow, like a dancer walking onstage, calm and confident. Who else could be out there? She started to think of all the questions she should be asking Jake, but before she could begin, the doors swung open, and Mann stepped into the factory hall.

He looked the same, and yet different; strange and threatening in his stolen uniform. His features had always been cold and austere, like a Roman stoic, but now his face writhed with feeling. He held his jaw and lips clamped shut, as if fighting to the urge to scream. His eyes shone like mirrors over an inferno.

He held a combat knife, and the steel ran with blood.

Jake caught her expression, and turned. "Oh hey, I want you to meet this guy," he said. "He's this like incredible special forces type. I swear, when the cops arrested me it was bad, but when they handed me over to those nutball terrorists, I thought I was gonna die. Then this guy shows up, and bam! Saved my ass."

"Mann," she said.

Jake and Sinker spoke at once. "You know him?"

"Doctor Gleicker," he said, his voice so soft, she almost couldn't hear him.

"I didn't think I'd-" she stopped herself, afraid that she'd say too much. "I mean, you really helped Jake? Thank you."

"Wait a minute," said Jake. "What is this? How do you two know each other?"

"More to the point," said Sinker, "did you really finish off Mochs and his hyenas?"

Mann allowed himself a grim smile. "You don't have to worry about them anymore."

Sinker sighed. "I don't know who you are, but I'm buying you a pint, once we get Jack to a hospital."

"Why leave?" asked Mann. "We've got an amazing doctor, right here."

"This is a damn bad time for jokes," said Sinker, forcing a smile. "Come on, help me get the boy up."

"Leave him," said Mann, his voice hard as forged steel. "He's not going anywhere. No one is."

"I don't care for your sense of humour. If you've torpedoed Mochs, I'm taking my son to the hospital. Don't get in my way." He walked towards Tub Jack.

"Don't leave us," said Liana.

Mann cocked his head, and then he flipped the knife in his hand, so the hilt stuck out from the top of his fist. "It's time to wake you sleepwalkers up."

Liana tried to catch his eyes. She held her palms up and shook her head, pleading, but Mann ignored her. One moment he was metres away, the next he became a blur. The blur stretched across the room, and struck Sinker with a crack. He cried out, folded over, and fell in a heap on the floor, his hands pressed to his chest, as Mann stood over him, the knife raised, his face alive with fury. Liana sobbed, and started towards Sinker, but Jake caught her around the waist. She struggled, but he held her back.

Mann turned to face her. "Just a demonstration," he said. "Just a warning. If you run..."

Liana fought to get out of Jake's hold, tears streaming down her face. Her guts squirmed in sick fear.

"Your husband is right," said Mann.

Jake gasped, but he kept hold of her. "You know me?" he said.

"Once I knew nothing. Today I know everything. I know what it's like to be lied to, used, betrayed. Once I looked at you with hope, awe, gratitude. I came to you, I gave you my body, and in return I protected you from thieves and killers. You crafted your new flesh, you gave it to meI accepted the pain. I accepted the sickness, the uncertainty, the fear your glands would rot inside me, seep poison into my body."

He stalked towards her, clawing at the air. "All the time I was afraid of getting close to anyone, afraid of my body, what it would do. I don't need guns or knives." He let the blade slip from his hand, to clatter on the floor. "You people are so weak, all I have to do is touch you and you break."

He came closer, and Jake backed away, pulling Liana with him.

Liana's breath came in fearful gasps. "You came to me," she said through the tears. "You asked for this."

"Did I ask you to betray me?"

"I-"

"Did I ask you to drug me and leave me for thieves to strap me down and cut me open? Everything I've done, I've done to keep you safe. Is that how you thank me?"

Liana tensed, and threw herself out of Jake's arms. She advanced on Mann, but when she got close enough to lock eyes, she flinched, and backed away. "I didn't know, I didn't know about that. And you, you were keeping me safe? You blew up our building! You killed all of the people we knew. If that's your idea of safety, I want none of it." Surprised by her own outburst, she stood facing him, shaking, but standing. "I was always afraid of you. I never felt safe. You, skulking around with your scarred hands and your disinfectant stench. I never liked you. All I wanted was somewhere I could work without having you creeping me out or Pamik bossing me around."

He eyed her, and then he took a step forwards, and she jumped a little. He sneered. "You wanted to work. Cut him up. Sew him back together, with a little extra. I was on a cutting board today, and another doctor wanted to cut me open and fish for secrets. Do you know how that feels?"

She had a flash of him, ripping open her belly, and reaching inside, his arms soaking with blood. Her blood. Her guts knotted up, and she felt she would be sick.

"You should never have made me."

Jake shoved Liana aside. "Finally you got something right," he said, standing up close to Mann, and his brawny body out-massed him. "I don't know what the good hell went on between you two, but you're only standing because you saved my life. My gratitude is the only thing that's keeping your jaw from meeting my fist."

"Jake, don't."

"No," he said. "It's gone way too far. Walk away, and we'll all go live our lives."

"Just walk away," echoed Mann, a nasty curl on his lips. "You're good at just walking away, aren't you, Jake?"

"Huh?"

"I was Doctor Gleicker's security chief. I vetted everyone in contact with her. I opened every closet. I catalogued every skeleton. Did you ever tell your wife where all that money came from?"

"Just shut your mouth," said Jake, his face brick red.

"Don't listen to him, Jake."

"Do you still think you married a fighter, Doctor Gleicker? And you, the protective husband, do you still tell yourself that as you teach those kids down at your overpriced gym? How do you live with yourself? I bet they'd love to hear the true story. How you worked and trained so hard for a shot at the UFC title, but when some thugs in suits offered you a truckload of cash to throw the fight, what did you do?"

Jake stiffened, his lips squeezed together, and Liana saw tears creep from the corners of his eyes. "Jake don't listen to him," she said. "Don't let him in. It's just words."

He shook his head. "It's true. I- I took money." He hung his head, unable to look in her eyes.

Liana felt something tear inside her, as if those words had done some physical damage. Fresh tears blossomed in her eyes, as she felt a new flood of despair, so thick, so hurtful, she thought she would drown.

Mann smirked. "Bit by painful bit, I'll take everything from you," he said.

"No you goddamn won't. I- I don't care what anyone knows. I don't care what anyone says. This is my wife, and I won't let you touch her!"

Liana gasped and threw herself on Jake, squeezing her arms around him. "Be careful!"

He pulled away, faced Mann, and lowered his head so eyes glittering under his brow. The two men stood still for a moment, and Liana bit her knuckles, afraid to watch, unable to look away.

Jake tensed, lowered his body, and sprang forwards with a left jab like a bolt of lightning.

It would have crushed Mann's nose, if it had landed.

Mann wasn't there anymore. He became a leaping shadow, and appeared at Jake's back. Jake twisted and threw a right hook, but Mann danced under it. Again Jake found Mann at his back, close enough to kiss his neck. Jake, breathing hard, spat on the floor. "Stand still, you-"

Mann didn't give him time to finish. He shot in and lashed out with both hands. One struck Jake's jaw, and the other snaked around the back, and chopped him in the kidney. Either blow would have hurt, but together they hit him with whiplash force.

His head flew up and back, with a grackle crack that made Liana fear a broken neck, his legs lost their strength, he toppled onto his back, and as he fell, Mann's hand clutched his jaw, and thrust down, driving his head against the hard floor with a second, excruciating crack.

He lay so still she couldn't tell if he was breathing.

Liana felt sympathetic pains in her neck and head. She felt a spike of pain through her heart, and every beat of her heart made the pain sharper. It spread out from the centre of her chest, snaking out tendrils of agony through her lungs, and deep into her back. Her legs lost their strength, and she fell to her knees. Her breath came in ragged, choking sobs, and hot tears stung her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.

A nearby pillar blocked out all the light but that from above Mann, which flared around him, his features in shadow. He looked all bones with no flesh, and his curled fingers became long, ripping claws. He looked up at her, and somehow she saw a spark in his eyes, as if evil burned with its own light. "He's almost gone," he said. "I thought he would last longer."

Liana spoke through her tears. "He never hurt you."

"You hurt me," he said. "I loved you, and you betrayed me."

She felt squirming, oily disgust. "There is no love in you."

"And there's so much in you," he said, seething with bitter fury. "I'll open you up. Show me what's in you. Love, or blood and filth?"

He stalked towards her, Jake forgotten.

His face had lost all warmth, all human expression. His lips peeled back, his nostrils flared, and his teeth bit at the air in a rictus of hate. His skin had gone white as a fish belly and slick with sweat, his eyes very wide.

Though most of her mind was overwhelmed with terror, a small part, trained and nurtured through thousands of hours in the operating theatre, saw a new pattern: he hadn't just activated his artificial glands, he had abused them, tortured them into pumping out as much synthetic battle juice as they could. By pushing himself to the extreme, he could outperform any normal human, but only at the risk of catastrophic injury.

An ordinary man under those conditions would be likely to die of a heart attack or stroke, but there was nothing ordinary about Mann.

It gave her a splinter of hope. Perhaps the unnatural effort would burn out his nerves, burst his heart, before he could finish his bloody work.

He saw it in her face, or sensed her thoughts, because he chose that moment to lunge forward and grab her by the throat, and lifting her until she was balancing on her toes, choking in the agony.

She clawed at his wrist, but it was like scratching steel cable. Her face swelled with hot blood, her heart felt it would rip apart in bloody gobbets.

"Every pioneer must suffer," he said with brutal sarcasm. "The price of genius is sorrow. But what of creation, little goddess? What is the price of creation?"

His voice rose to a shriek. "What will you pay for the new man?"

She reached a limit. Something broke, in her chest, in her mind. Her eyes rolled back, and her vision soaked with inky darkness. Her body burned with intolerable pain, then went numb, as if her nerves had overloaded. Her head lolled as she lost consciousness.

***

Something cold pressed her face. A circlet of pain bit into her neck. Awareness returned, and with it, all the other pains, in her head, in a knot at the centre of her chest, in her lungs when she breathed, and, new, a throb in her left ankle, as if she'd fallen down stairs, and twisted it.

"I know you're awake," said Mann. He sounded calmer, but she remembered his grip, his rage. "I know you're awake," he said. "I can hear the change in your breathing. Get up. Get up or I'll make you get up."

Liana opened her eyes, and winced at the stabbing light. Her neck felt swollen, hard to move. She looked around, and saw Jake, lying on his side, unmoving, his white top stained dark red. She moaned, closed her eyes.

For the first time in her life, she wished to be dead.

"Not so easy," said Mann.

He walked over and slapped her head.

She moaned louder, and curled up, covering her head with her arms.

Mann took her arm, and twisted it behind her back, overcoming her resistance as if she had no more strength than a child. "You will pay again and again." He took her arm in both hands.

"No," she said her guts twisted. She feared she would vomit or worse, and Mann would take pleasure in her humiliation. What hurt most was that she could do nothing.

"Did they tell Van Gogh not to paint? Did they tell Einstein not to calculate? I am your art, Doctor Gleicker. Revel in me!" He jerked her arm up and back, and she heard a sickening crackle as it snapped in several places.

She screamed.

He let go of her arm, and it flopped down against her body, broken and useless. She screamed again and again, and writhed to escape, but every movement hurt more, yet to lie still was agony.

Mind obliterated by the pain, she screamed.

***

Chapter 32

Sinker woke to a noise a cat would make, if squashed by a tank. It into his brain, heart, guts. It touched him where no words could reach. It reminded him of Bethany in her last minutes, struggling to give birth to Jack.

She'd fought, she'd endured. He'd promised to love her, cherish her, give her heaven if she'd hold on. When the doctor had shaken his head, her sweet face had lost colour, and the light in her eyes faded, he'd sworn instead, by all that he had, on all that he could give, that he would love Jack and keep him safe, no matter the cost.

"No matter what," he said, before he knew he was awake.

He opened his eyes, and looked for the source of that hellish sound, but first he saw Tub Jack, unconscious, on his back, soft flesh crusted with drying blood.

He saw the newcomer, Jake, huddled on the floor, maybe dead.

He saw the woman, Liana, the reason he'd come to this diabolical island. From her screams, she was conscious of her pain, and little else.

Standing over her, he saw the other one. He stood tall, and the grey and white uniform hung loose on his frame, making him look bony and starved. He stood watching the woman, hateful satisfaction on his face.

Sinker hated to see Liana suffer that way. He'd mulled over using her to bargain for freedom, but he'd never wished her harm. She'd been damnably annoying, but she'd helped him.

She'd helped Jack.

He had to get medical care for Jack, and that meant going through Mann. But that wasn't the only reason. If Liana and Mann had been complete strangers, seeing them as they were, he would still have intervened. The screams compelled him. That's how he was, and to his chagrin, he knew it.

He shifted onto hands and knees, getting ready to go, but the movement cost him jagged pains in his chest. He probed, felt tender, swollen flesh, and something sharp.

"Squidtickler broke my ribs," he muttered.

He's too fast, he thought, and he hits like a falling star. I need an equaliser.

He looked around. He saw the knife.

When ready, he clambered to his feet, striving to throw off the pain, and started walking. Liana wouldn't survive Mann's attention for long. Each step cost him. His chest hurt where Mann had hit him, and he felt a spur of bone jutting from his cracked ribs, and scraping his lung. Rapid movement would plunge it into the lung, and then he'd die, drown in his own blood.The assembly line rolled on, the motors whining, doll parts dropping on, tumbling off, to scatter on the floor. The air smelled of scorched plastic and chemical smoke, and under that stink, a coppery tang with a hint of salt.

So much blood had poured on the cold concrete floor, he could taste it. He leaned against a pillar, blue like the walls, cold to touch.

"Mann."

Mann didn't look up. He gazed down at Liana with the fascination of a torturer. "I thought I killed you already."

Sinker laughed, and winced, trying to ignore that tiny bone dagger. "I once commanded a battleship. Hundreds of men served me. My skin was steel, my eyes radar, my fists cannon. Foes I defied and defeated."

Mann looked up, brow furrowed.

"I lost that ship, but I took a new one, small, yes, weak, yes, but mine. I took new crew, a rabble, a mob on the waves. Untrained, ill-equipped, still we beat everyone we ran against."

Mann stepped towards him, Liana forgotten.

"Now I'm alone. My crew, my friends, all cut down or blown apart. Even my son lies dying. I've been beaten and cut, gassed and shot, chased from the edge of the world to the last rotten corner of empire, and I'm still standing. And when I lay you broken at my feet, I'll still be standing!"

He raised the knife, and flipped it in his hand, so he held it by the tip. He had the fleeting pleasure of seeing Mann's jaw drop, and then he hurled it right at Mann's heart. The blade flew through the air, whirring as it spun, straight at his target.

For a moment he believed he had done it.

Mann became a blur; one moment he stood facing the onrushing blade, the next he'd slipped aside, he reached out, and plucked the knife from the air.

Sinker gasped, his mouth fell open, and he blinked several times. Then he turned his face to the pillar, and huddled against it, moaning.

"You should have been an actor," said Mann, laughing. He toyed with the knife. "Shall I return your gift? Can you do what I do?"

Sinker said nothing. He pressed his face against the chilly brick pillar, and sobbed.

"Perhaps not." Mann let the knife slip from his hand, to fall and clang on the floor. "That would be too quick," he said. He ambled towards Sinker, taking his time. "Imagine what I am going to do to you," he said. "Think of all of those small, delicate bones in your hands. Think of those soft, sensitive eyes. Can you imagine how it would feel if I ripped open your flesh, and tore out your sinews?"

He came closer. Sinker held on, fighting the urge to run.

I could still escape, he thought.

Tub Jack spoke a silent reproach, lying in his own blood, and Liana's screams were a plea.

Mann was close. "You'd be a useless mass of flesh, burning with pain in every part, from your shattered toes to your bleeding eyes, and no matter how bad the pain, you could only lie in a folded heap, crying for death."

He stopped right next to Sinker, and stroked his cheek. "But I won't let you die so soon."

"That's what I hoped."

He grabbed Mann with his left hand, whipped out the second knife, from behind his back, and in one convulsive move, he drove it into Mann's chest, through skin, flesh, lung and deep into his heart.

Dark red blood spilled from the wound, soaking though the grey patterns of his shirt. He stared at Sinker with round, horrified eyes, and the lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace of shock. He gasped, choked, blood welling up in his mouth, drooling down his lips and jaw.

"I can't even feel it," said Mann, voice thick with blood.

He grabbed Sinker's neck in both hands, and squeezed with inhuman force.

Sinker choked, fought to get a whisper of air. His head pounded and his vision grew dark. Through the devouring darkness, he held on to hope, though it seemed utterly forlorn.

Then he remembered the knife.

His hands had gone numb, he couldn't feel it, but it had to be there, he had to be holding it still. He summoned the very last shreds of strength, and commanded his fingers to close. With a titanic effort, he pulled it back and drove it in, and thrust the blade deeper into Mann's heart.

Mann writhed but he held the choke. Black shadows gathered, but Sinker held the knife, gripped it like a lifeline, and he kept working it in Mann's chest. An age passed, Olympian forces worked on him and through him, he knew couldn't survive.

Still he held the knife.

At last, after an eternity, Mann's eyes rolled back in his head, his hands fell away, and he crashed down on his back, soaked with blood from his chest to his boots.

Sinker slumped back against the pillar, gasping for air.

***

Chapter 33

The morning sun rose over Tarurua lagoon and flecked the pristine water with shimmering gold. As it rose higher in the sky, the water took on a blue sheen, and schools of brilliant angel fish darted about.

The trees in the green forest of Toranorara island rustled in a gentle breeze, carrying the sweet perfume of tropical flowers, as macaques hooted, and here and there a bird of paradise flew like a dancing rainbow.

Between the forest and the lagoon nestled a narrow strip of land, with a row of palm wood huts, bleached white by the sun. On a normal day, the beach would be full of children running and playing, and the islanders would sail in the lagoon, spear fishing on wooden skiffs, or go further out, seeking better fare in the waters of the Pacific. Today the children did not play, and the skiffs sat idle by the huts. A soft moaning could be heard from the huts, but no one came out.

A small red motorboat chugged into the lagoon. It curved around once, and then it roared up to the beach. A balding man in a white coat, with tired grey eyes and steel framed glasses, came out of one of the huts, and walked down to meet the boat. "Doctor Hastings," he said. "I'm so glad you could join me. The people of Toranorara need more help than they get."

The woman moved with unsteady feet, as if she had spent little time at sea. She hesitated, and the breeze caught her silvery blonde hair, framing her delicate face with a luminous halo.

She jumped down onto the golden beach, and took the man's hand. "Doctor Murgens," she said. "I'm just glad to see you in the flesh. I've been studying the local language, and I'm afraid I've got a lot to learn. All this is so new." Unlike Murgens, she wore simple blue jeans and a white blouse, with a red silk scarf around her neck. She had a straw boater in her hand, which she put on, and pulled down, shading her face.

"Please come up to my clinic," he said, gesturing at one of the huts. "Well, I say clinic... After a few months here, you'll begin to think of these huts almost as a real hospital."

She bit her lip. "Months..."

He frowned, and then he smiled, revealing rounded yellowing teeth. "First time volunteer, eh? By your accent, I'd say you're a city girl. Buck up, you'll get used to it. God knows these people need help. Well, come on, I'll show you around."

He started to walk up the beach, but she paused. "I'll join you in a moment," she said. "I want to say goodbye to some friends."

"Oh... When you're ready." He hurried up the beach.

She turned around, and stood close by the side of the little red boat, facing the handsome, dark haired man at the prow.

"I... If he wakes up."

"When."

She sobbed, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She turned away, and wiped her face. "Of course, you're right. When he wakes up. You will..."

"You don't have to leave him," he said. "You could stay with us. Calcutta's not such a bad place to hide. I believe Jack is actually learning to speak Thai."

She shot him a hard look. "They don't speak Thai in Calcutta."

"He's not very focused."

She tried not to laugh, but it was a losing battle.

"You're doing something good, Liana."

"Shh! What's the point of hiding if you're going to shout my name? Anyway, it doesn't feel... I had such dreams."

He narrowed his eyes. "Some dreams... You're better off waking up."

She gave him a noncommittal smile, and turned away, walking up the beach. After a few steps, she paused, and turned back. "Come back for me," she said. "When he wakes up."

Sinker watched her walk up the beach, and join Dr Murgens. His gut told him she would be safe here, but he waited until his paranoia had gone to sleep, and then he fired the motor into life, and turned the boat around.

He raced towards the ship back to Calcutta, to his son, and something like home. On the way, he looked out over the rolling ocean, and up into the borderless sky. They stirred his heart. Somewhere, far away, his son waited for him, and the start of a new life. But for once, he didn't have to run.

He killed the engine, and let the boat drift, as he lay back, and basked in the clear, bright sunshine. He closed his eyes, breathed the salt air, and smiled as he floated on the sea of freedom.

About the Author

Jacob Magnus lives in South Korea with his girlfriend's dog. He enjoys travel, and practises the Korean sword art of Gumdo. His favourite game is Deus Ex.
