 
For 'T'

my first fan

# GunBoy

## by

## Leighton Dean

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 Leighton Dean

Edited by Gary Compton

Copy-edited by Siobhan Marshall-Jones

Cover Art by Ilustreishon
Keep up-to-date with all Leighton Dean's books.

http://www.leightondean.co.uk

"Before I thank you, I want to apologise. Something this office should have done long ago. We failed you, we thought the United Kingdom to be invincible. That we were invincible and as a result of our arrogance \- we are a kingdom, united no more."

Jonathan Reekes' Acceptance Speech 2030

British Prime Minister

# Part One

Zombie

## Chapter One

Off The Record

The sunrise banished the blackness, lighting the old satellite orbiting the earth, three hundred miles above England. A veteran of Heathrow's glory days, its archaic computer had been re-tasked by MI5 for the sole purpose of watching over Britain's greatest embarrassment: the abandoned city of London.

Each night the satellite studied the prefab buildings saturating Heathrow's crumbling runways amongst other targets. Tonight however, Pil was piggy-backing the signal, leering over the once airport, now UN Station with lustful anticipation. The feed was strong and clear, worth the money he'd paid up front. Beamed straight from the satellite into his chipset, and with some digital wizardry: projected onto his contact lenses.

It was a change of pace for him. Over the years he had succumbed to the fate of most reporters, resorting to posting inflammatory accusations and opinions in the hope of gaining a share of the internet. But his only story in recent history to receive traction was on Fray International's Human and Associated Networks Database – HAND. But aside from revealing their 'lack of privacy policy' the previous month he was still regarded as a toothless terrier.

Age had not brought wisdom, but regret instead. Sure he'd made a living, enough for a nice little cottage in the Rhondda Valley, along with a couple of failed marriages and his state of the art smart contact lenses. Oakley designed, complete with retina projected Heads-up Display, 3D imaging and recording directly attuned to his chipset. He'd made his fortune with those, alongside refining his taste for vulgarity. But now, in his later years he'd found loneliness without the company of self-respect.

December 12th 2038, today it was all going to change. He could taste it. That's why he'd packed his Sony V-Slate and had rushed to Heathrow. It was a couple of years out of date, but as computer tablets went it connected to the chipset in his skull and still held its charge. Who cared if it had scuffs along it's edges and hair line crack along the face - it did the job. He was chasing a story; a real story this time, a chance to reclaim a part of himself he'd lost. All it had taken to kindle that fire was a tip, why he currently lived at Gate 5 Departure lounge and why he'd drunk his fill of BullPhett and then drunk some more.

He'd stared at the satellite's green, vitreous image for three nights, with nothing to show for it except the dull ache in his rump. You'd think they'd have at least upgraded the moulded plastic chairs. At 07:03AM, he'd been watching for five hours, twenty two minutes and thirteen seconds without a break and was beginning to worry someone was wasting his time. He dismissed the time from his Heads Up Display and faded the Sat-feed out, bringing Gate Five's familiar surroundings into prominence. The departure lounge was empty, except for Alison the desk clerk of course, who had the habit of licking her front teeth after every sentence. At twenty-seven, she was thirty years his junior but Pil made a promise to himself that if nothing happened in the next hour - he'd ask her on a date.

The Sat-feed flashed twice; there was movement at last, and with a quick wink of his right eye he signalled the chip in his brain, bringing back the satellite's imagery. Nurses, volunteers and soldiers stampeded through the camp.

He dismissed the feed as United Nation soldiers jogged through the lounge, passing along the rows of empty seats, passing Alison before disappearing through a door, over which a sign read 'Authorised Personnel Only'.

He stood up, stamped the numbness out of his feet before slipping the V-Slate into his bag and followed the UN Soldiers, preparing his best smile.

Alison looked up from her work station. "No." "This is what I've been waiting for," Pil said.

"I can't let you in, so you may as well sit down."

"C'mon Ali, it's me," he pleaded.

"I know." Her words felt like a slap across his face.

His tongue protruded through tightly sealed lips; what was her problem? He just wanted in on the ground floor, she knew that.

"Don't." She ended the conversation before he could form a reasonable rebuttal. Freedom of the press wasn't as it used to be. He looked back at the empty rows of plastic seats and saw the end of his career.

"Fine," he said, "then I may as well go back to bed."

He'd have to find another way.

*******

Plan B took him outside amongst the doctors and nurses. His press pass still gave him some privileges. He snaked through the manic crowd; it was bedlam, more like a department store in the January Sales than an organised response station. It was so packed he had to resort to lifting his satchel over his head to save his V-Slate from a nasty collision with the scurrying personnel. It hadn't been this busy for a long time, not since the nuke threat back in 'twenty-nine'.

The first major alert in nine years and here he was, right smack in the middle. Pil couldn't help it, it was fantastic - he felt twenty-five again. He grinned from ear to ear, bouncing between people as he made his way past the light-weight barriers and flashing amber lights to the row of Red Cross-branded helicopters.

Large hulking tactical transports with the weapon systems removed they'd become common hand me downs from private firms. Soon they would be scrapped, but today were being loaded with paramedics and supplies, they were going to save lives. Earning their part in history and Pil was going to share in their glory.

Pil dismissed the long list of vehicle registrations offered to him by his Heads Up Display, already having spied the craft he needed. Second in line, with the dark skinned Spaniard lifting a crate into its belly. He lowered his satchel and called. "Tango!"

Tango squinted in the darkness and smiled in recognition. "A little early for you, old man?"

"That sounds like a brush off."

"Depends if you're trying to bum smokes or not." Tango slid the crate into the belly of his craft and brought his right hand in for a shake.

"Gave up." Pil grabbed the man's hand. "Insurance will kill you."

"Tell me about it."

"I'd rather you tell me about it," said Pil, nodding to the chaos.

"Off the record?" The question hailed back to an era before Tango had even been born. With all today's recording options it had become a disadvantage to the reporter who upheld that bygone code. Pil was one of the few reporters who did and Tango knew it from their previous dealings.

"They won't know it's from you," placated Pil.

Tango said nothing, but Pil, being a student of human behaviour, didn't need a HudAPP to pick up on his twitching eyebrow to know he was nervous. "They won't know it came from you," he repeated quietly.

"Alright," Tango broke, "an SOS came in from behind the fence. Explosion or some shit, we're taking a couple of choppers out to provide assistance."

Pil's spider-sense tingled. "SOP?"

The Special Operations Police had a string of bases on the other side of the fence, but they were privately funded and would have their own medical response teams. If they needed help...

Tango shook his head, "Don't know. Just been told to kit up and move out."

The plot thickened. An SOS from behind the fence. Someone other than the SOPs? His mind and heart raced. There'd been no negotiations with London, at least none disclosed. This was huge.

"You know what I'm going to ask," he said, hiding the desperation in his voice with a forced smile.

"You want to come with me?" Tango asked.

Pil nodded; an eight year-old's grin spread across his face. "C'mon, consider it an early Christmas present."

"The signal must be heard huh?"

Pil laughed. "I've three daughters from three wives Tango, I need the damned cash." He held Tango's eyes, silently pleading.

"Get aboard before someone sees you."

*******

Seven minutes later two Red Cross transports flew at speed into Greater London. They tailed behind their escort, an AW250 Lynx Wildcat, a remote piloted weapons platform costing more than Heathrow's entire Red Cross fleet. A state-of-the-art killing machine, relieving any concerns the paramedic team harboured about being attacked.

Tango's transport held the middle position, his co-pilot Juarez a slick fly boy. Shorter than Tango, the kid looked liked he'd overcompensated for his height by spending his downtime at the gym. Sharing the passenger hold with Pil were four paramedics. He contemplated interviewing them, but they were as green as they came and he wasn't looking for a puffed up editorial piece. He wanted something else, he wanted the fabled scoop of a lifetime.

His thoughts consumed him; an SOS was unheard of, at least publicly. London was just gangland, a violent anarchist state where no-one in their right mind would live. Murderous villainy lurked at every street corner, drug factories, people factories, kidnapping, rape, murder; everything they could squeeze into the brochure and here he was about to see it firsthand. To prove or disprove, he didn't care. He was going to be the first non-military, non-private militia to see it in fourteen years. I'd like to dedicate this Pulitzer to my children and my three ex-wives, without whom I wouldn't need to work.

He was on the top of the world; ignoring the safety instructions, letting his head hang close as he dared to the open side of the chopper, he closed his eyes and let the wind straighten his silver hair. In a world of his own, oblivious to the nervous conversations going on around the cabin and of the questions directed at him.

It wasn't until he felt the tug on his sleeve that he found all four paramedics looking at him. He tapped the soft tissue behind his ear, switching to the local channel. "Sorry?"

"You're Pil?" the closest paramedic said, blond ruffled hair and pubescent face.

"Uh huh."

"I told you!" exclaimed his friend, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

Blond nodded. "Are you going to make us famous?"

"I hope so."

"What do you think is going on?" asked Cheshire.

"No idea," Pil said, perhaps too abrupt for the crew's liking as they nodded and fell silent, "I'm sure we'll find out soon enough," he assured them.

Blond shook his head, but said nothing further so Pil returned to the fuselage's door and watched the city unfold beneath him. What remained of it anyway: grass grew where roads ran and trees climbed through buildings, disfiguring them. Nevertheless he still recognised London. No city was quite as distinct, especially for those who'd grown up there.

Eight minutes in the air and they were now over Hounslow. Roofless homes and long since abandoned vehicles scattered the derelict landscape, making the stories of a gangland city seem severely exaggerated. It was nothing more than a ghost town.

Retreating back inside the hull, Pil banged the wall behind the cockpit, switching to the pilot's channel and asked if there was any new information. "Nothing since we left," Tango replied. A sigh left his mouth; if the trip was going to be this boring, he may as well start writing. He winked the record mode on his contact lenses, pulled his V-Slate free of his bag and penned the date and time on the file. December 12th 2038, 07:32. Pil thought about his opening. He needed something dramatic, something daring to lure them in.

When the cockpit alarm system activated, he cursed at how he'd tempted fate. He gripped the handrail ignoring the fearful faces of the paramedics. "Tango?" he called, his voice lost under the thunderous roar of the helicopter's rotors. "Tango!" he posted, but still no response.

Pil leaned out the side, the streets no different from the ones he had looked out over a minute ago. "Shit!" He mouthed the word as his eye caught the jet black stream of smoke streaking toward him. Recognising it immediately he reached back and banged on the cockpit door, shouting "RPG!"

Three paramedics panicked, screaming in terror. Only Blond had the nerve to join Pil at the edge of the craft, his eyes rounding as he saw the approaching rocket, then both he and Pil were jerked back inside the craft as it banked hard.

Pil's hands scrambled for something to grab, finding the tight orange straps securing the bird's medical supplies. He locked his arm through the net as Blond, who had no such luck, screamed for his mother as he fell through the fuselage and out the opposite hatch, immediately chased by the rocket and the screams of the terrified medical crew.

Scorching black smoke spewed from the rocket's tail, filling the cabin. But with burning eyes and blackened lungs Pil felt exhilarated. Pity about blonde, but he'd remember to buy Tango a bottle of the good stuff for saving their lives. Who knows, the kid may still survive the fall.

Even above the sound of the helicopter's rotors; the distinctive high pitch whine of the Wildcat's three rotary machine guns spooling caught Pil's attention. Knowing it would be over in seconds, he had to be quick. He had to get a better view of the action.

"What are you doing?" Cheshire no longer smiled, Pil didn't hear him, he was deep in the game, more focused than his eight thousand euro contact lenses. He crawled over the crates, found footing on the deck as the transport stabilised and pulled himself into the cock pit between Juarez and his friend.

Knowing better than to distract the pilots, he took his position while watching Tango as he rotated the bird around the stationary Wildcat, still hammering the buildings to their left with its guns. It was a magnificent sight and he was catching it all on his chipset. Up close and personal with a medical team under fire.

"Another bogie!" Juarez pointed to a second smoke trail racing up from the ground, coming up behind the Wildcat.

Tango yanked back on his control stick, reversing their transport from the Wildcat. Too late, the RPG clipped the tail of the Wildcat and exploded, showering the chopper with debris.

"Brace yourselves!" said Tango, forcing Pil to slide back into the crew section. He locked his arm through the orange netting once again, but couldn't help but steal another look through the cockpit doorway, glancing long enough to realise the Wildcat was out of control and spinning toward them.

He pulled his hand free of the netting, blinked a command to his chip. He wasn't going to let a little thing like death stop him from receiving the Pulitzer. If he wasn't going to report the story, he would bloody well be it. So when Cheshire and the others tucked their heads between their knees, he jumped from the transport. Turning in mid-air he saw the flaming Wildcat crash into the helicopter and witnessed a magnificent fireball burning the morning sky. Pil smiled. He was about to live forever.

## Chapter Two

The Leadership

Under pressure from the Police, who were no longer able to effectively protect Downing Street, the British Government had evacuated Whitehall when the third riot ran for eight consecutive days. Cameron reluctantly moved his base of operations away from its two thousand year-old seat of power.

There was little debate of where they were going. With Edinburgh separated from England in 2014's referendum, it had to be York. Once it was a staging ground defending England from Scotland, it would now serve to reclaim its own South.

In 2018 the Provisional Parliamentary Building, or PPB was finished, around which York quickly became the centre of new Britannia. In a matter of years skyscrapers surrounded the city, buildings so tall they struck at the heavens. To the British Press, they were the sculptures defining England's success. To the rest of the world, they were overcompensating for a country fallen into disarray.

Even now in 2038 the international slights against England arrived in deluge; despite these the extensive building of Northern England brought an unprecedented and much desired flow of income into the country. While some economists disagree, the British consensus was the blight of the South had done wonders for the North.

The PPB was five outer buildings set out as a star, surrounding a sixth. Each structure stood twelve storeys high with interlinking bridges on the fourth and eighth floors. What it lacked in architectural finesse, it made up for with logistical and economical design. Each building was a self-sufficient system in power and water. The accommodation and commercial compound at the centre was also accessible via underground and air traffic.

Oliver Trench rarely utilised the staff accommodation, preferring instead to commute from his townhouse every day. No matter how he tried, he never relaxed in the place he worked. It may have been the knowledge that one hundred and fifty troops lived and trained in the basement, or the imminent invasion they were readying themselves for.

However, after a long, unscheduled day, he had reluctantly retired to his quarters and had, as expected, struggled to get any sleep, partly due to the ill-conceived air-conditioning and partly because he, along with the Prime Minister, had sent two men on a clandestine mission into London. One of which was his dead friend's son, Kyle.

It was a last minute decision. A plaster on a gouged wound. Evan was a brilliant strategist, but not a field agent and the Prime Minister had done him a disservice in manipulating him into volunteering. Oliver had then felt obliged to offer Kyle's assistance.

With Evan on the ground, it left the control room under Renner's charge. Oliver couldn't deny the man's technical expertise, but a strategist Renner was not. If they'd gone through official channels they'd have had options. There would have been contingencies. But the Prime Minister's paranoia had left them with but a handful of trusted names. Names which were increasingly in short supply.

At forty-seven Oliver felt the lack of sleep when his chipset buzzed him at six. Groggy and impatient he tore the sheets off his bed and staggered to the bathroom. A couple of legal pick-me-ups courtesy of his Medical App and his bloodshot eyes looked as young and vibrant as the Party's Chief Whip should.

Grabbing one of his Armani suits he kept in the wardrobe he checked his Heads Up Display for the day's itinerary already knowing the first hour consisted of breakfast with the Prime Minister. He tied his full Windsor and was ready for work in less than fifteen minutes. Once satisfied with his appearance, he pressed behind his ear. "Lloyd?"

Three seconds passed before the PM's personal secretary answered. "Morning Oliver."

"Is he in yet?"

*******

It took him a brief stroll through the commons, picking up two coffees en route before he reached the Prime Minister's office. After brief pleasantries, Oliver got stuck into expressing the concerns which had kept him restless throughout the night.

"Renner's running the show. " Jonathan said, stating the obvious. Oliver understood where the PM was coming from; they'd had long conversations ever since Dominic Fletcher had dropped off the board but there really was no better solution.

"Kyle will get him to where he needs to go," Oliver assured himself, but held back on the follow up. He still wasn't convinced dropping them both into London was the best idea. They hadn't found out why Fletcher had disappeared and he felt they were being too eager opening communications with Window when it could be a trap. "Prime Minister, the Home Secretary is here to see you," Lloyd's voice interrupted them over the intercom. "She would very much like to join the two of you." Lloyd was known for his sarcasm and Oliver had an easy time imagining Antonia pressing some urgent business on the man to push into the room sooner than he'd allow.

"Come in, Antonia," Jonathan beckoned.

Many years ago, Antonia had been the person who'd introduced Oliver to Jonathan. Oliver could tell she'd fallen head over heels for Jonathan after just one conversation. It wasn't romantic love either. They were inseparable, she'd call him her, 'little poster boy', enamoured by the juxtaposition of his rugged rugby boy looks and scholarly intellect.

"Good morning Prime Minister, Oliver." she said, unfolding a digital sheet and pressing it flat on the Prime Minister's onyx-topped desk.

Jonathan looked up from his own document, raising his eyebrows in excitement, "Good morning, Toni."

Oliver leaned toward the document for a better look, "Brought us breakfast have we?"

"Afraid not," she turned to him, "an army AW250 Wildcat was shot down." Then back to Jonathan, "Along with one Red Cross transport. Seven dead."

Jonathan sighed, taking one of the large oranges resting in the desk's fruit bowl. Oliver took the abandoned document from the desk and began reading, it didn't take him long to find the alarming snippet.

"Is this right?" he asked, hoping it was a typo.

She looked to where his finger pointed, "Yes."

"What is it?" Jonathan asked, impatiently peeling his orange.

"There was an embedded journalist with the RC." Oliver lifted the digital paper, revealing Pil's face.

"Freelance journalist," Antonia corrected,

Oliver understood the difference and was thankful of this small mercy, If the journalist had belonged to one of the moguls they'd have already learned of this from the news that morning. He checked the time stamps on the document, this was fresh. The transport and its passengers would still be burning.

Moments passed without word from anyone. Oliver finished reading the document in silence before joining Antonia in waiting. Both of them watched Jonathan's face redden in thought before finally saying, "Bury it."

"Jon," Oliver said, not believing he'd heard him correctly, Jonathan couldn't possibly think they could cover this up, could he? "I think we can use this—"

"How can you possibly use seven deaths?" Antonia asked, barely stopping her eyebrows from hitting her hair line.

"I'm sorry," Oliver lied. "But you don't know—"

"I know," said the Prime Minister.

"We need to show how desperate things are," Oliver continued.

Jonathan tore a fleshy segment from the Orange, throwing it into his mouth. "Get it off the table."

"Sir, I must object." Antonia said, "You can't expect—"

"I don't care how you do it Toni," Jonathan said. "You were the spin doctor, so spin it."

Oliver cringed at the command - Antonia hadn't been press secretary for nearly five years now. Jonathan had used her previous role to demean her and it was plain by her wavering eyes it had worked. "Sir, I'm hardly in the position to—"

She stopped when he lifted his incredibly large hand that ended all conversations.

"How many people know about this?" he asked, indicating that he wouldn't accept this task being farmed off to someone who didn't already know about it.

"The Army," Oliver answered.

"That means Rockwood, a handful of analysts." Jonathan paused in thought. "Anyone else?"

Oliver finished scanning the document and looked to Antonia, who said, "The second Red Cross helicopter and myself." She paused, "and my secretary."

Ordering Rockwood and his analysts to keep quiet would be easy. The second Red Cross chopper and its six witnesses were a problem. That's without considering the journalist who could have posted footage posthumously, if he'd survived long enough to transmit. Worse still, he could have survived.

"I want it off the table," the PM repeated, ending the argument.

"Yes, Prime Minister," she agreed.

Oliver couldn't see how she'd pull it off. Maybe a couple of days, if they were lucky. She'd definitely been given the thin end of the wedge and was thankful he'd not been chosen to make the news disappear. Still, he couldn't allow Antonia to clean up by herself, "I'll dig into this Pil character."

"Don't be stupid Oli," said Jonathan. "You're Chief Whip. Rockwood will have an analyst for that." I need you to chase down Toliver and Herman," he continued.

"Sir?" Antonia started. "Is there something I should know?"

Oliver looked up from the paper, poised to jump in. Smart girl Antonia. She'd been dealing with the Belfast bombing and had not been included in their extracurricular activities of late. She must have been wondering what had put the PM in such a wonderful mood this morning.

"Evan's on the ground," Jonathan said, "in London, as we speak."

"Evan?" she asked, "I didn't think he was qualified."

"Fletcher went dark two days ago," Oliver offered. "Evan stepped up."

"Yes, but still..." Her concern was sincere. "He won't—"

"He has company," Jonathan said, referring to Kyle. "So as you'd expect, I'd prefer not to distract myself with the crash."

"It's really happening?" she asked.

"It's a long shot," Jonathan nodded, "but we've made contact with this Window character and going in to get him. So I just need this off the table for a couple of days." He looked at Oliver. "A week at the most?"

It was a conservative estimate, but one Oliver reluctantly agreed with. "A week at the most."

"Of course," Antonia said, relieved.

Oliver wondered if Jonathan had mentioned this earlier whether Antonia would have agreed to sideline the crash straight away. He began thumbing through the document. He stopped on the Wildcat's kill cam and tapped play. He watched it in mute as it span into the Red Cross helicopter.

"Aside from this room, there are three others who know about the mission and two of them are on the ground," Jonathan said. "So get the attack off the table, understand?"

"I'll get on it right away."

Oliver watched as she left the room, waiting for the door to close behind her to ask Jonathan about his fruit intake. "A bit early for that isn't it?"

Jonathan followed his gaze to the orange peels on his desk. "Vitamin C?"

"If you say so."

"Don't you have work to get on with?"

Oliver slid the paper onto Jonathan's desk and stood. It was, after all, his cue to leave and he wanted to catch Antonia. "I'll see you later this morning?"

Jonathan picked up the document and read, but didn't look up. "Sometime after the briefings I imagine."

"I'll ask Doris to set something up with Lloyd?"

"As you see it."

Oliver sent his secretary the meeting request via his HUD and buttoned his blazer, pulling the creases out before leaving the room. Better to leave now than to say something he'd regret. "Loving your work," he said to Lloyd and sped out to the corridor, catching Antonia as she turned right toward the lift lobby.

"Hey," he said, catching her elbow with his hand.

She turned. "Oliver."

He knew straight away she was annoyed and rightly so. "I'm sorry."

"No need," she said, pressing the call button.

"We were going to tell you."

She stood her ground, not showing an iota of weakness, one of her many traits Oliver loved her for. "I'm fine, honestly."

That was that then, if he pushed any further she'd think him condescending and he'd have insulted two of his friends before nine o'clock.

"He's wrong."

"Oliver." She looked him in the eye. "What's on your mind?"

With a passive ding; the elevator door opened, revealing an empty cab. They entered and pressed for the ground. "Don't wait," he said. "You're going to listen to him but this thing is going to blow up in our faces."

"Were you in the same room?"

"He's been more erratic of late."

"If that's what you're calling it."

"He's still Jonathan," he said.

"He's still the Prime Minister."

"Which is why we need to help him. We need to give him all the information," Oliver said as the elevator doors opened to the ground floor lobby.

She touched his elbow, in the way she did whenever she wanted him to know that she trusted his judgement. "I'll ask MI5 to go over the information, see if they turn up anything that Rockwood's analyst doesn't find."

"Thank you," he answered, pressing for the third floor.

She walked out of the cab, ending the conversation over her shoulder. "But if he screams at me again, I'm telling him it was your idea."

## Chapter Three

Junction Two Eastbound

Several thick red wires, bound together with blue cable ties, ran from the main interface hub. They wandered unseen, under the flooring, reaching up through a circular access hole and scaling the spine of the control chair before fitting into a socket of the mission controller's skull.

Cable is still the most secure form of data travel is embossed on a brass plate above the identification scanner left of the door. Like everything in the room, it had been placed exactly where Renner wanted it. He was a particular person with particular requirements. The brass plaque was just one of his idiosyncrasies. His less than fashionable ginger handlebar moustache another one, but without his oddities he was no more than a stereotype.

He was a reformed black hat, a hacker who now found himself working for the government - a true child of the millennium, comprehending code better than reality. His carefree attitude passing him from pillar to post within the department with no one taking much notice, except for Evan. He'd realised his genius and enrolled him in his little project.

Presently, Renner sat in the centre of his own luminescent fantasy. His screens, keyboard and mouse were constructed from pulsing white lines. In reality; he was plugged in to the only furnishing in the room: his leather recliner. Everything else was merely a projection. One that only he, as mission controller, could see.

A total of twenty-seven screens supplied him information every second; satellites, high-altitude drones, weather drones, local communications signals and traffic reports poured their combined knowledge into his playpen.

One strand of particular interest was Window's pirate radio signal. It was the reason why Evan had sought him out. It was also the reason why Evan had chosen the call sign 'Bluebird' and elected to cross the fence. Window was the man who would be king of London and Bluebird was on his way to meet him.

Renner pulled the dialogue strand out of the mix, filtering it through a dictation program he'd borrowed from his time working at the BBC and read the raving monologue instead of listening to it, allowing him to keep his audio free and only hear the voices from both Evan and Kyle. The latter was designated 'Fallout'.

These two courageous men were in his charge. Walking into London while he still sat in York. For most of the night he'd watched them idly, but now they were nearing the off ramp and into the city. Now it was time to earn that payslip.

"Next junction fellas," said Renner.

*******

"Copy that," whispered Evan, blinking the command for his chipset to project his HUD onto his retina and reading the relevant location details.

To their right towered the shattered corpse of the GlaxoSmithKline building. The structure, like all of the edifices that stretched to the winter's horizon, had long since fallen into decay. Evan had never visited London; he held some memories of his life in Kent, but they were so distant they could be someone else's. Still, looking over the crumbling vista, he couldn't help but feel an awesome foreboding bearing down on him.

Evan rubbed his hands together under his worn leather poncho, the morning still held its chill, a crisp clear sky with the first of the winter's sun rising up on their right. It was serene, which in itself was unnerving. There were no personalised advertisements from local vendors. No shout outs from Starbucks telling him of discount offers. Instead it was deathly quiet.

"I'm running one last check on your systems," announced Renner.

"Paranoid?" asked Kyle.

"You'd be too if your boss was strolling into hell."

"He is." Kyle looked back, checking Evan was still with him.

Evan's feet were already protesting against the long walk from Heathrow. Jealous of Kyle, who he knew would not be concerned with fatigue from all of his enhancements. But for him, with but the smallest of cybernetics the mission was going to test him both in the physical sense and the mental. Evan Bell raised his fingerless gloved hand and prominent thumb. He remained quiet, taking in the surroundings and listening to Window's broadcast. Why not? There was no reason to worry. Not really - yes they were walking into hell, but he had a Secret Intelligence Service superstar with him, on loan by order of the Prime Minister himself and both of them carried enough firepower to knock out a small town.

They could at least give him a chance. Stop worrying about him for a moment and leave him be. It appeared he was the only one focusing on his job, "If you are able to help. Please contact Han on the usual channel," Window, the voice of Free London announced.

They were still in the outskirts of the city, but already they'd seen his mark. The K and the U, daubed on the remains of the billboards. K and U - Kingdom United. The name of Window's pirate radio station, "As always, our prayers are with those whose lives have been lost in the name of freedom."

There'd been an explosion. The details were sparse, but there were at least fifteen dead. Window had been on the radio all morning trying to quell the animosity between the gangs. No one had admitted to the explosion, but from what he'd gathered from Window the Triad wanted revenge.

So far all of the information Evan had gleaned was from Window. There'd been none coming from base camp and the quiet gnawed at him like a persistent horsefly. London's infighting had supposed to have stopped.

"Anything on the explosion?"

"Nothing on the channels," replied Renner.

Evan frowned. If there had been an explosion, there should be some information on it. If this was York, or Cardiff, there'd be coverage. If nothing official, it would be on someone's blog or some teenager's HAND page.

"Guys." Renner's voice pulled Evan from his thoughts. He took note of his surroundings, finding Kyle had already dropped to his knee and was sliding his assault rifle from under his scarred poncho, readying his aim.

"I've got, yes - uh – definitely," Renner continued, "game on fellas!"

"I can't see anything," Evan replied.

"Welcoming committee." Kyle said, moving into action.

"Uploading positions in five, four..."

Evan followed Kyle's actions, shouldering his own rifle, dropping to one knee and waited. He searched the landscape, seeing nothing less than a million cover positions for snipers and rocketeers. If the new arrivals occupied any of them, they'd be sitting ducks. Yet amongst his rising anxiety, he was still surprised at how quickly they'd been spotted.

"Three, two, one..." Before Renner had even finished the red tags began populating the two buildings left of their position, each flag representing a beating heart.

Evan rushed to the hard shoulder, scanning the building and counting tags. "I've got seven."

"Eight, one north from the group." Renner's voice guided his scope to the roof of the neighbouring building. On it, a sniper aiming right back at him.

The battle's first two shots echoed against the cityscape. Evan's shot replaced the sniper's skull with a wisp of pink. The sniper's shot punched into Evan's shoulder; his smart cloth undershirt tightened against the impact, stopping the bullet from piercing through. But the force of the .308 calibre knocked him from his feet, cracking his collarbone.

His rifle hit the floor hard. Evan hit it harder, expelling his lungs in one sharp breath. The pain was like nothing he'd ever felt, a searing hot explosion inside him causing him to writhe and kick against the asphalt, unable to contain his screams.

"Bluebird's down," Kyle's voice was barely audible over the automatic fire from the remaining seven tags, but Evan heard it. He latched onto it as if it were the rope to his drowning man. He wasn't about to let himself be downed, not on the first hour of the job.

"Bluebird's down," Fallout repeated.

Evan watched the tracer bullets blinking overhead. Kyle was crouched out of distance. He was far away to pull Evan into cover, leaving him sprawled across the tarmac like a rag doll. He was exposed, he needed to move but he didn't know where to or how to achieve it. "Ky..." he corrected himself. "Fallout."

"Stay down," replied Kyle, returning fire.

Evan rolled to his good side, learning quickly it was a bad idea. A string of bullets kicked up the dirt around him. "Okay." Agreeing with Kyle, he stayed down, but had no intention of not helping. He closed his eyes, pulling up his HUD against the inside of his eyelids, setting numerous commands into action which brought him a plethora of medical treatments for his wound. Once the pain dulled, he piggy-backed Kyle's live feed, watching the battle through his eyes.

Kyle was moving position, following a faint vibrating navigation arrow leading him to a better location. Amongst the conveniences of local temperature, wind speed and distances. Evan was happy to see his own medical condition amongst the clutter. Clutter being the appropriate word - Evan had difficulty sorting through the information while Kyle managed it with ease. He was a machine.

Kyle skidded into position behind an upturned Nissan, firing two quick single shots into the building and winking out one tag. He ducked before the automatic fire began perforating the edges of his cover. "Renner, I need a better position."

"Patience is a virtue."

"Stick virtue up your socket, and get me a better position!" he yelled, bullets sparking against the old car.

"Guys?" Evan groaned,

"I said stay down Goddamn it!"

Kyle clearly wasn't a people person.

A new navigation arrow began vibrating on Kyle's HUD, and with it came a line leading him to a new position, this time behind the concrete hard shoulder. On the top right of his HUD a highlight report indicated the path only provided 84% cover from enemy fire. "That's your best option," Renner told him, "you'll have optimum range and target options."

The pause in Kyle's actions suggested to Evan he wasn't happy with the report, but if there was anything learned from basic training was never argue with the controller. "Copy that," Kyle said, rushing along the line.

He kept his head low, avoiding the screaming tracers whizzing overhead. He hit the concrete hard but wasted no time in firing at their attackers. Renner re-jigged the enemy tags, switching up the reds for yellow if they had a good vantage point.

Evan dropped the connection from Kyle, finding it too confusing. Keeping his eyes closed, he lay listening to the gunfire, the burning in his shoulder forgotten. His chipset had assessed the damage, informed his biologically augmented glands to produce morphine and he was suddenly lying on the hammock in his parent's back garden. He was serene, so much so he didn't hear 'Bluebird?' until Kyle repeated it for a third time.

"He's on meds," Renner answered for him.

He couldn't understand why it was funny, but Evan laughed just the same. "I'm good," he said outloud, raising a hand off the ground and waving it above his face.

"Stay down!" Kyle ordered. "There's still six across the way."

Then the air around the junction cracked like a giant's whip,. "Fee fi, fo, thumb." Evan smirked, momentarily aware he was high.

"Jesus. Where did that come from?" Kyle asked.

"Pass, but you're down to five targets," said Renner.

"That's comforting," Kyle said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Then another air-snapping crack. "Wait. Better make that four. I think you may have someone else down there with you."

"Tell me something useful. Paint him up."

"I'm only seeing the four contacts, plus you and sickboy."

"Are they shooting each other?"

"Suicide squad?"

Evan laughed at Renner's mocking tone more than the joke itself - he understood less with each minute that passed, and the blackness was surprisingly comforting. His heart rate slowed to a melodic pulse against his eyelid and soon even that disappeared as he slipped into unconsciousness.

*******

Evan woke to find Kyle crouched over him. "You okay?"

"Fine," Evan replied, a throbbing where the searing pain once was. He brought his medical report to his HUD, the .308 had been stopped by his armour. However the impact had fractured his clavicle. None of the nerves were damaged and the swelling, as uncomfortable as it was, wasn't getting any worse. Along with the morphine, Evan's chipset had administered a dose of nano-bots which were hard at work repairing the damage.

He was lucky. If the ammo was modern spec, or if the sniper had had a better aim, Kyle would be carrying his corpse back to York.

"Popped your cherry?" Kyle asked.

Evan grinned, for the second time in his life he was no longer a virgin. He tried to move, wincing as the pain reminded him who was boss and thought better of it. At least for now. Instead, he lay staring at the sky. "Did you get them?"

"Not exactly. We had a sniper join the fight, took most of them out." Kyle edged himself against the perforated Micra, peering around the edge. "Have you determined the origin yet?"

"I can't be certain," said Renner. "I have a number of possibilities."

Renner's selection rendered themselves on Kyle's HUD which he synced with Evan's. "That's six trajectories," Kyle commented on the less than accurate assessment. At least all of them originated from the same place; the Glaxo building.

"I told you I can't see him," said Renner, "It's my best guess."

"Guesses," Kyle corrected.

Evan considered the lines individually, then as a whole. "There could be more than one."

"Now that's a scary thought," Kyle admitted.

"Guardian Angels?" Evan whispered.

"Or the Ghost of Lee Harvey-" Renner said just as Kyle stood up. "Jesus stop!"

It was too late. Kyle was already standing, stepping out from behind the car and saluting the GlaxoSmithKline building.

## Chapter Four

Cerberus

Evan watched the dog run off, their only encounter for a little over an hour but neither he nor Kyle were complaining. The surprise attack on the motorway had left an unsettled twist in his stomach. The area was supposed to be less than sparse in population.

This empty, derelict street they now walked was what he'd expected. No Man's Land was a band three miles long following the Orbital. There were reports of small pockets of people in the area. Smugglers and other deviants, or anyone stupid enough to tussle with His Majesty's Finest: the Special Operations Police force.

This was their territory, encompassing as much of London by following the M25 Orbital as best they could. London itself was deep in lost England and had been compared to Berlin during the Cold War by many scholars. All the King's land in London was supplied by the aid station at Heathrow. A foothold must be kept, on this all the political parties agreed, until a solution could be reached.

The SOP's mandate was to maintain the foothold at whatever the cost and they did precisely that. Collecting profit margins from marijuana farms and narcotics kitchens, they focused on subduing the violence. They were the front and last line holding onto London. An expensive, indefinite line. One the government could not afford. Despite their corruptions, they reported to the MOD and a blind eye would be turned in their favour. As long as the peace was kept and their indiscretions kept out of the media.

While Bluebird and Fallout remained in the SOP zone, they should be relatively safe. But eventually, they would pass into Greater London. Renner had readied false identities for the checkpoint. That had been Evan's first concern, not expecting to get attacked beforehand. His guts twisted again as he remembered the event and he did his best to push it aside. Stay focused, he told himself, remembering that it had only been five years since he'd left Cardiff University and here he was, on a James Bond mission behind the fence. He grinned. Evan Bell, twenty-eight. Codename: Bluebird.

His father, Howard Bell, was a supporter of re-unification just like he was. But allowed his son to be the person to bring it all to pass? "What the hell do you think you're doing?" His father's overprotective voice scolded him from a hundred miles away. The twist returned bringing with it the possibility that his father could be right. What the hell was he doing here? The bullet from the M4 was all too real and all too soon into the mission.

He was embarrassed. Every pinch he felt in his shoulder tightened his chest and reminded him that he had been shot before he'd entered London. Kyle, thankfully, had not mentioned it, but he could tell that he was concerned. It was Kyle's mission above all to ensure Evan reached Window. They'd briefly discussed the attack, coming to the conclusion that they were unlucky. That they'd run into local smugglers protecting their patch. It was an easier pill to swallow than the alternative: that their mission wasn't as secret as they'd hoped.

He had watched his original plan go down the toilet when Dominic Fletcher went missing. He was now running with Plan B. There wasn't a Plan C.

If their false identities failed, they would be detained. They would miss the rendezvous and their trip would be for nothing. The lack of information presently coming from control made it easier to dwell on failing. Renner was a notorious chatterbox and his silence irked Evan. He couldn't help but pull on that little cord of fear, that little annoying thread which would eventually unravel the mission.

He and Kyle could be walking into a trap. He squeezed his hands into tight fists, knuckling away the thoughts. Concentrate on the second part of the mission. Once they got past the SOP checkpoint it would be another couple of hours to Notting Hill Underground where they would meet their contact. Then, God willing, they would meet Window.

A snap-flash of green blipped on his HUD. An alert from his chip's tactical assist program, TAP. His chip passively scoured his peripheral for possible threats and found one. The alert popped up less than a second before he saw Kyle drop to his knee. He followed suit, aiming his rifle in the same direction of the warning.

"It's gone," said Kyle.

"Did you see it?" asked Evan as he replayed the visual recording but coming to no conclusion. Whatever it was, it was fast. He linked with Renner and asked him to provide several cover positions. They promptly populated his HUD with an additional tactical advantage solution from a second floor window across the road. "Thanks."

"It was a sound. No heartbeat." Kyle's words reminded Evan of the sniper - no heartbeat... "Anything else Ren?"

"Nada," came the reply.

"Checking it out," Kyle said, moving away from his position. He took the snaking path outlined on Evan's HUD as the best approach. Past the overgrown garden bush toward the derelict house, easily distinguishable from its neighbours by its crumbled facade.

Evan remained still, covering Kyle's approach with his rifle. Not until Fallout stopped at the garden fence did he take up his display's advice; following the arrow car to the car, parked on the opposite side of the road. When in position he blinked his signal to Kyle who disappeared behind the bush. His tactical assist program (TAP) offered a 2.6% threat, switched to combat mode and flagged Kyle's position.

Evan's display bounced a small thumbnail on its Dock that he blinked up to a partial view. The image expanded, taking up his right eye's field of vision, splitting his concentration between the two. His left eye continued to watch his surroundings, while his right eye watched the live feed being transmitted from Kyle's eyes.

Kyle edged through the garden; the stone and brick which had once been the front of the house was now the carpet of dust on which he trod. His rifle stock remained shouldered, his aim steady and reflexes primed. All the while, Evan observed from across the road, his own rifle trailing Kyle, his own reflexes waiting on TAP's alert system.

The street had become quiet, eerily so. His ears, aided by TAP, scanned the air for any threat he could pre-empt. While he trusted the computer when it told him there was no danger, something else, something primal, was telling him otherwise. Something or someone had been with them since the motorway, since the attack.

As Kyle closed within a metre of the house; Evan's TAP re-evaluated the situation. It offered a 2% threat warning, "You reading that?" he asked, through their personal comms system.

"I'm checking it out." Kyle wasn't convinced either it appeared but Evan wasn't sure if that was a good thing. They could have anyone following them, dealers, SOPs, Gang Bangers or some crazed lunatic. Who knows what madness breeds in the ass-end of the world.

The alert pinged again; startled, he gripped his rifle tight and searched the garden where Kyle had been standing. He found nothing.

"What," Kyle asked, "are you doing?"

Evan's shoulders sagged, his brain catching up with his actions. He'd misread the alert, it wasn't a threat. TAP had just advised to move closer, Kyle was about to move out of an effective cover range leaving him unprotected, "Moving up."

"You sure?" His sarcastic tone reminded him that Kyle probably was watching his live feed too.

"Yes." He minimised Kyle's live feed, swapping it out for TAP's suggested position, "Now." He announced his first step, moving quickly to the nook between the two parked cars outside the garden's railings. He located Kyle, crouched and ready to enter the building before bringing back the live feed. "Go!"

Evan watched through Kyle's eyes as he explored the dust-covered interior. The second floor now shared the same space as the first with no supporting front wall, with only a few paw prints disturbing the tomb-like atmosphere.

Kyle adjusted his eyes to the low light, allowing both of them to pierce the darkened room with a tinted green; empty. "Checking the next room."

"You're wasting your time," Renner piped up.

"I'm not so sure" Kyle confirmed Evan's suspicions. He was sure they were being followed, that someone was here hiding in the ruins. Yet there was nothing except for dog prints, padded into the dust. Except... "Stop..." said Evan, halting Kyle in his tracks.

Evan rewound the feed. "There." A crack in the far wall. A shadow masking a silhouette of a head. Neither Kyle nor Renner said anything, another moment passed and Evan counted the steps between Kyle and the crack in the wall. If he stepped back then the shadow would know he'd been spotted and be forced to act. He couldn't remain still either.

"I'm going through the doorway and around." Kyle's message played in Evan's ear. Kyle had appraised the situation in the same manner. The back room, while it would prevent him from checking if the shadow had moved location, also provided him with cover to approach. He blinked his exact course for Evan to read.

"There's no one there." Renner's voice came through in undertones, so quiet that Evan wasn't sure if he'd intended them hearing his comment. It didn't matter, someone was there. He was confident that this was fact. Kyle would soon flush the shadow out and he needed to be ready in a flanking position. He blinked the request to his chip, which offered him several choices. None of them of particular use if the shadow decided to duck out the rear of the house.

"Stay where you are!" Kyle ordered.

"Copy that!" he replied, watching Kyle move from the main room, under the rotted door frame and into what once had been the kitchen. The furnishings and plumbing long since torn out, but the drainage and nineties style laminate flooring remained. No sign of the shadow though, just a boarded up window and another door. Kyle presented Evan with his course of action and as the arrow snaked its way through the door; both sets of eyes watched the corners for movement. Nothing. Not even the sound of the breeze Evan felt against his face. The house was dead.

"You're wasting your time." This time Evan knew that Renner intended them to hear his voice.

And this time, Kyle replied. "Shut it."

"There's nothing here..."

"Ren." Evan chipped in. "Go grab yourself a coffee."

"He can stay, I'll just mute him." He couldn't see Kyle's face but he knew he was grinning at that one.

Kyle paused at the doorway, tilting his gun through the gap first, connecting his sight with the scope to peer around the corner. Down the dank corridor to the crack in the wall, where they expected the shadow to be.

"Nothing!" He called it.

And Renner exploded with "I fucking told you."

"Wait!" Evan spoke, expecting Kyle to turn around and head back out of the house.

"There's no way someone could have slipped past you." Said Renner, but neither of them were now listening to him. Kyle had stepped into the corridor, the scope had remained low, targeted at the same spot that Evan had called him to wait. On the floor, amongst the broken brick and red dust. A foot print, a small foot print. Kyle's display scanned and measured it.

"Is that a..." Evan couldn't believe what he was seeing, "a child's?"

"Think so," replied Kyle, his live feed shifting as he checked his corners again, "Looks fresh too."

Renner was a man who lived and breathed his instruments and didn't trust anything that couldn't be explained rationally: the thought of someone being able to beat his tech was at the furthest regions of his imaginations. The thought of that same person being a child had clearly tipped him over the edge. "Let me get this straight." Renner he said. "You're chasing after a killer... munchkin?"

"Well we're not in Kansas anymore," Evan said, feeling more comfortable now that the unclear and present danger had passed. "Come on, we need to get moving." He stood up, felt the sting in his collarbone. Instinctively he reached for it with his spare hand and rotated his shoulder until the sting left him.

"How is it?" Kyle asked as he emerged into the street.

Evan thought on the question and his HUD informed him that he was now at 42% combat efficiency. "Okay."

"You know I have access to your medicals," Kyle said.

"I'm fine," Evan insisted, indicating with an arched eyebrow that Kyle should stop bothering him about it.

Kyle ignored the look regardless. "Is that sitting behind a desk fine or—"

Evan tried another look. One meaning Kyle should stop or face the consequences.

"Because I don't want to be going through a SOP checkpoint with you at 42%." In retrospect, Evan understood that his second look had probably looked rather silly to Kyle. He also understood that the 42% wasn't the reason Kyle wanted to avoid the checkpoint, it was just an excuse.

They had already argued over the checkpoint twice. The first time was in York when he'd explained his plan to Kyle . The second was on the transport to Heathrow when Kyle brought it up again. Kyle trusted Renner as long as he was on a battlefield, tactical appraisals, up-to-date intel. In these areas mission controllers were next to Gods. Where they fell down was in the other areas. Espionage that took them away from technology. Places like Mozambique, Nicaragua, Afghanistan or London. Relying on a hacker in a low tech area never has good odds, it wasn't like the Mission Impossible series.

"This is Mission Impossible," Evan replied, more forcibly than he had intended. It had ended the argument. Or so Evan had thought, but it looked like it was about to rear its ugly face once again.

"If Renner can do it."

"I'm right here," Renner said, sounding genuinely offended.

"He can't see who's following us," Kyle continued, "you've broken your collarbone, we should avoid the checkpoint." He emphasised that part. "We should avoid." Condescending to both Evan and Renner's plan for a short term fix. "There are plenty of gaps we can take advantage of."

He was right, all three of them knew that. They could avoid the checkpoint and filter into London without the false papers. But Evan didn't want that. He needed the papers, the pass papers that would grant them access to any number of SOP safe houses and bases that they may need over the next couple of days.

"We're sticking to plan," Evan said.

Kyle didn't agree with him. "Fine, but Renner better be as good as he claims."

"And I'm still right here." He followed with some huffing and puffing. "Jesus Christ man, what's wrong with you?"

Evan looked at Kyle, remembering an earlier comment. "Do you still have Renner muted?"

Kyle's eyes rounded. "Apologies, but I've tumbled with SOPs before and you better be shit-hot, I don't want to be in the middle of a crossfire holding nothing but my stones."

"Fallout," Renner answered. "I'm better."

It was Evan's turn to grin, knowing full well that his friend was also taking full advantage to spread his arrogant feathers back in old mission control. Kyle's choice of words to describe his family jewels also clicked open a memory inside his head; he looked around the floor for what he needed and walked over to it. Kneeling at the side of the road, next to a crumbled curb stone, he reached down and grabbed a fistful of gravel, placing it in an empty cloth bag. He pulled the small tie rope tight, sealing his precious stones within and noticed the lack of conversation inside his head.

He stood, Kyle already walking toward the checkpoint. Where they would put Renner's bravado to the test.

*******

"There it is." Kyle didn't so much as point but lean his left shoulder toward the distant sniper tower, standing clear and cruel over the man-made horizon. Fifty feet of high tensile steel wrapped in concrete, with three levels of platforms complete with plate steel armour and razor wire all the way up the menacing mast. This was SOP checkpoint nineteen. Their doorway into London.

On cue, Evan's TAP program confirmed threat warnings from the tower, and dry gulped as four sniper rifles trained on him, They won't fire unless a threat is perceived, he reassured himself, but knew full well the SOPs were using TAP on them also.

What made the situation worse was the positioning of the checkpoint, standing at the end of the road, in the centre of a junction so anyone approaching would be funnelled toward it. Perfect practice for the snipers in their high tower. He felt the tingling sensation of exposure again and checked his left, making sure Kyle was still with him. They hadn't spoken since the derelict building. He wasn't sure if he was pouting; he didn't appear to be a man who would but he toyed with the idea anyway. It made him feel more masculine. Right now however, he felt like a child and on reading the updated display information he felt like he'd made a big mistake. Three of the four snipers were aiming at him.

It was too late to turn around and as his father always said 'in for a penny, in for a pound'. It was time to call in the big guns. "Renner?"

"I'm here," Renner replied.

"You ready?"

"Always."

Good, Evan thought, lightly patting the pouch of gravel through his pocket. It's going to work. It is going to work. He repeated the phrase over and over in his head and pushed the SOP rumours out of his head. The walk was too long for that. It would take them another twelve minutes according to the GPS widget on his display. Yesterday, when he had leaned over the black desk at Special Branch and went through the plan it had been easy. Just an inch on a map. Now however, walking in the shadow of the tower, it was hard not to think of anything but the rumours of abuse and torture. Two of the snipers were still aiming at him, the third now trained on Kyle. He imagined his plan failing. The SOPs laughing as they arrested them. Dragging them off the road into one of the nearby homes for a little bit of water-boarding. Becoming their pets, or perhaps Kyle wouldn't let them get that far. He didn't come across as the person who allowed himself to get caught. No, he would fight back, Evan was sure of it. He'd get them killed right there in the street. He told himself to get a grip.

'Stop being a wuss.' His father's voice spoke from the past and he remembered his first swimming lesson. Standing on the side of the pool staring at the water with terror in his eyes. He'd hated the water, hated the sharp taste of chlorine and the resistance to his every movement. The fear of drowning, not too dissimilar to the current situation. He had overcome the water. He would overcome this.

It is going to work. Renner's got this. The fake identities were bulletproof and the identities had legitimate reasons to enter the city. The plan was solid. It was going to work and yet... He made the same argument in his head four times as he closed on the checkpoint and each time he felt a little better and a little worse. He couldn't find a reason for it and didn't want to discuss it with the group. He didn't want Kyle to get the satisfaction of being right. This was going to work. The plan is solid so stop being a wimp.

The lightweight frames came first, warning cordons advising anyone approaching that they were now in range of assault rifles. He'd been in range of the snipers for over thirteen minutes already, so what were a few more guns? The frames lined the road with enough space for single-file walking only. Vehicles would have to wait until they came to be inspected.

Behind the first line were more of the cheap frames, scattered with thoughtful purpose to slow any approach. At the junction, four motor-operated barrier arms closed the end of each street and surrounded a parked mobile command centre, accompanied by two adjacent Armoured Personnel Carriers.

They were near enough now for Evan's HUD to display the troop's full details. With registered personnel, both he and Kyle or any other member of the same force for that matter, had access to their details as part of TAP's friendly fire prevention rulings, this meant the rank and number hovered over each trooper's head. It didn't work the other way, black Ops wouldn't show up unless you wanted to be seen and Evan did not want to be seen.

By the time they were nearing the gate, his display had counted and labelled all of them. The total count of troops came to twenty-two; mainly privates, a cluster of sergeants, and a corporal. "You're looking for the Post Commander," Renner advised, teaching Evan how to suck eggs.

All the SOPs were geared in sandy grey urban fatigues, a reinforced chest cocoon in a similar flavour to the rest of the outfit and a fully-encompassing helmet. Face-masks with built in gas filters and anti-flare mirror lenses. Each carried either an automatic rifle or an XP sub-machine gun and a couple of grenades apiece. They looked like Stormtroopers to Evan, all more menacing because he knew they could shoot straight.

"That's him." Renner again and Evan's HUD bleeped a second later as the Post Commander walked down the steps of the Mobile Command Post. He stood no taller than the rest of his troops, the only tip to an untrained eye of his superiority were the red and yellow stripes banded around his forearms. He swaggered toward them.

"You two look a little lost." His voice, like his face-mask, hid his humanity. You'd think twice at starting a fight with one of these guys. He raised his hand for the Commander to clasp, hoping that silence would give him a much needed air of aloofness. "You boys in a hurry?" he didn't take Evan's hand.

Instead Evan was forced to stare at his own reflection in the Commander's anti-flares. Don't be a wuss.

Behind him, Evan knew that Kyle would be observing the growing uneasiness. The Commander remained silent and was yet to take the proffered hand. Second by second, Evan became more aware of the number of guns trained on them and how stupid this gambit actually was. It's going to work.

"Straight to business huh?" The Command finally broke the silence and clasped Evan's arm. Evan in turn closed his fingers around the Commander's. Between them; the blue 'Human and Associated Networks Database' logo appeared and began to spin. It was only visible in their personal displays, a graphical interface for augmented reality and its appearance confirmed the connection of both of the Commander's and Evan's chipsets. This was the start of the plan, the rest was up to Renner and it was going to work.

Evan's chip requested the Commander's details, Lt. Commander Dillon Meyer and Dillon's chip made the same request. However, instead of Evan's details his chipset provided his new identity and the permits Renner had prepared. Both Evan and Kyle's alter-egos were bounty hunters looking for one Jonah Goldhagen who had been extracted from the Asuka Corporation three days ago. It was a good cover story - Jonah had been reported as missing by the media and many people who sought a way out from Corporation's control would leave through London. It was after all, a sprawling mass of black market connections. You could find a new identity and be transported off the island to the Continent to a fresh new life. The corporations didn't like losing their own, especially when they were being extracted by competitors and so they would always send bounty hunters after them.

The false identities and cover story, however intricate Renner had made them, were the easy bit. The hard part, the part Kyle didn't believe Renner could pull off, was going to have to be done now and fast, while Evan still held the Commander's arm. "I'm in." Meaning Renner had successfully used the HAND program as a bridge into the Commander's chipset.

Evan waited, skimming over Dillon's details. Trying to look as natural as possible and above all, not thinking about how far Renner's ghost program had gotten inside Dillon's head. Certainly not thinking about the Commander's chipset security catching Renner in the act. It is going to work. He watched Dillon's featureless face, hoping to catch some inclination of what he was thinking.

Then, after what seemed to be the longest nine seconds of Evan's life, Renner broke the silence. "That was embarrassingly easy, someone should file a complaint with the MOD." Evan relaxed instantly. He now only had to wait until Dillon finished reading their fake papers.

"It's not over yet," Kyle reminded the two of them.

"Don't jinx it," Renner jested, his confidence in his ability overshadowing Kyle's doubt.

Evan felt the Commander's grip loosen. "We won't be more than two days," Evan added, as confident as Renner in his ability.

Dillon's face-mask stared at him a moment longer, revealing nothing. Evan had expected him to release his arm but instead the Commander secured his grip and he was forced to watch his own reflection struggle to keep its composure. Seconds lingered on while the Commander continued to scrutinise their forgeries.

Kyle shuffled on his feet behind him. Monitoring the surrounding troops, still not convinced of Renner's genius. His doubt was knocking on Evan's spine. He blinked a request to his chipset and wished he hadn't when TAP came back with no solution to their predicament, should the forgeries or hack fail.

Then, without a word or warning, Commander Meyer released Evan's arm. "There's a charge for entry bounty hunter." Though his voice was muffled through the mask, Evan could hear the contempt in it.

They had known this was the case of course - it was customary for a bounty hunter to pay passage to the Post Commander; a fistful of diamonds. Evan reached into his pocket and pulled free the cloth bag which he dropped into the Commander's open palm. "That should cover it." He said, watching the Commander open the cloth to reveal nothing but a heap of dust and gravel. Only Evan and Kyle saw the truth. Inside Dillon's chip a small virus read and identified the insulting payment as a palm full of clear, uncut diamonds. The same virus worked its way through Dillon's squad via their local communication network.

"Are we good?" inquired Evan, knowing damn well they were.

"Oh we're good." All sense of contempt had gone. "But you picked one hell of day to go hunting."

"Why?" asked Kyle.

"The Triad have gone fuck-mook." He looked up from the handful of diamonds finding both 'bounty hunters' staring at him. "They're tearing the city apart, knocked out two of our stations and shot some transports out of the sky. It's all gone to pot." He laughed as he fingered his palm of diamonds and Evan couldn't help but feel that the joke was on both of them.

Moving through London was bad enough - they didn't need the largest gang tearing the place apart at the same time. All of them, all of them were supposed to be at peace. the Triad included. How could this have happened in the space of a day? Then a thought, a realisation: What had he got himself into? He smiled nonchalantly at Dillon's comment, and asked "Any reason for them going fuck-mook?" he said intending the question for the Commander and the eavesdropping Renner.

Commander Meyer refilled the cloth bag and signalled to one of his men to open the gate. "No idea."

Then a second later Renner offered his own reply. "I'll check it out."

Commander Dillon took a step back, allowing them a direct path to the gate, "Whatever it was, happened this morning." Behind him, the barrier rose silently. "Welcome to Hell boys."

## Chapter Five

Welcome To The Jungle

Hell was no different to what they'd already seen; more derelict homes and abandoned cars. It was beginning to get tiresome. Street after street of the same scenes, the only thing different was the amount of gang tags on boarded-up windows and doors. The most prevalent was the 'KU', found everywhere; sprayed over previous tags, on cars, even the damned street was tagged.

The quiet wouldn't last long. It would be foolhardy to believe otherwise, but Evan was enjoying the peace while it lasted. Renner hopped back and forth into conversation, confirming the Post Commander's warning as the truth. That didn't settle well with Evan, but he'd resigned himself to the fact that nothing was going to go right for him today. He could only trust himself and Kyle to get them to Notting Hill. Why? was such a simple question to ask about the reason behind the Triad attacks, but Renner was unable to provide an answer, only scraps - the Triad had indeed hit several SOP stations as well as a number of gangs. He had a great deal of information on the first part as he'd been clever enough to leave a portal open - a digital window inside Commander Dillon Mayer's skull that he used to gain whatever information he could.

The latter was hearsay. Conversational chatter on the airwaves, nothing more. No hard evidence, no convincing argument to say whether the Triad would cross their path or not. As Evan was already convinced everything would go wrong today, he was expecting them to turn up at any time. Every turning they took, every alley they traversed took them closer to danger. It continued peacefully for another hour, along Goldhawk Road. A wide four lane street that would lead them to a shanty town which, according to Dominic's map, their ETA put them ahead of schedule.

Of course Dominic was the one who should have been there. This was his mission. Did Evan blame himself for Dominic's disappearance or was he blaming Dominic? He didn't like his answer. If Dominic hadn't vanished, then Evan would have been back in Special Branch and not catching a tan in the Devil's garden. Not waiting on the next person to shoot him. He wasn't trained for this, unlike Dom who'd been here for months searching for Window. Maybe he was dead. It wasn't a far stretch for the imagination. He could be dead. His death would be on Evan, he was the mission leader, he'd chosen to send him here. Alone. Now that he'd witnessed it firsthand, he questioned whether he'd make the same decision.

"Heads up." Kyle had spotted her first and blinked the location onto Evan's HUD.

About forty metres up the road, on the right, sat a young woman basking on the open roof of a dilapidated home. As they approached he could see her enjoying a bottle of lager in the cold mid-day sun, watching the tourists with morbid fascination. She never said a word, not even as they passed. She just sat there, her dirty gold hair blowing carelessly across her face. Her head trailed after them as she shrunk into the background and became part of the horizon.

After her, more people appeared, small groups of threes and fives, then more. To Evan's surprise the unliveable houses turned out to be homes teeming with families. Families too large for the buildings to support them, so they'd extended them with corrugated iron and other scavenged fabricates. The buildings now stretched forward from the original structures, reducing the four lanes to two, sometimes just one. The change was drastic. It was difficult to believe this was a living, breathing community. A marvel to see, but with one overwhelming questions. Why had they crammed on top of each other with all the empty homes they'd passed?

"Bagdad hit London," Kyle said.

"With Rio," finished Evan. Neither looked at each other, but instead scanned their surroundings. They both read the reports; Evan had even submerged himself in the simulations, but nothing, he now learned, could have prepared him for the reality of the slums. People's clothes hung from their bodies, few carrying enough weight to be considered well-fed. Groups huddled around oil drum fires, others walked with purpose. All of them stared at the travellers.

Evan's HUD pinged possible threats one by one. "They seem a little edgy."

"Watch your left flank." Renner's angelic voice directed their eyes to the warning flags on five young men. The eldest possibly twenty, the youngest as low as ten. All wore tattered yellow and brown striped football jerseys, and all five watched them with a look in their eyes that Evan took an instant dislike to. Everyone else they'd passed had regarded them curiously. In some, Evan even recognised a little fear. But these boys, these teenagers had nothing but murder in their eyes.

Evan didn't need to read the scans or zoom on their faces either. He recognised the telltale signs: the incessant chewing, the twitching fingers and eyes, and the burn marks on their nostrils. You didn't see them in society, because society had the digital drug revolution. These were the Outskirters, the ones the net warned you about. The ones that still took chemicals, Raid or Crack judging by their physical deterioration. They were the poster kids for anarchy. Stick with us, or end up like this. Go back to sleep, your government is in control. It worked. No one but the freaks took chemical drugs anymore.

"The five-a-side team?" Kyle said, adding, "seriously?" in case no one had understood his sarcasm.

Evan glanced at Kyle, giving him a quick grin before looking back at the kids. This time his Tactical Assist Program highlighted their custom blades and homemade pistols. He swallowed his fear; he'd prepared for this. He'd read the reports - these kids were but a small part of the gang. They would be full of bravado, taunting, beating their chests but wouldn't attack. No matter how horrifically violent and twitchy they looked, these little freaks were not Triad.

Two of the boys stepped forward, yelling in a pseudo-language born of the streets, a mesh of immigrant Indian, Polish and English. City Speak, or one of its many dialects. Whatever it was, they were speaking too fast for Evan's chip to understand. While their articulation was poor, their yelling and threatening blades needed little translation. Evan grasped his rifle under his poncho. Just in case.

They kept walking at the same pace, not giving the kids any reason to attack. He avoided looking them in the eye. They would take that as a sign that he was up for a fight. Instead he looked at their blades and momentarily fixated on how unclean they were.

"Stay calm." Kyle pressed the palm of his hand on Evan's shoulder to reassure him. It didn't. Perhaps it was the way Evan held his rifle, finger resting on the trigger guard that prompted Kyle's comment, or the bead of sweat running down past his left brow. Either way the observation made him feel small and as young as the addicts encroaching on their personal space. It made him feel like a coward. He knew it wasn't intended. Kyle hadn't studied the area as much as Evan, but he'd been in numerous situations like this before. These weren't your civilised augmented peoples, these were a simpler and more erratic enemy, ones that couldn't be disabled by a simple brain hack.

"New threat guys." Renner, again with the good news.

He didn't need to extrapolate, because it was evident that the low rumbling of approaching engines didn't belong to an ice cream vendor. If the scene had been tense previously then the needle just hit the red. Everyone around them looked calm, simply moving a little faster. People who had been huddling around the burning barrels now disbanded and followed the crowds into the corrugated shelters.

"What now?" Evan spoke out loud and was ignored by all except the Five-a-side team who were the only ones remaining on the road. They were either unafraid or too high to notice.

"You've got nine trucks inbound from the North." Renner informed them. Kyle placed a hand on Evan's shoulder, pointing to a shanty hut to their right. Evan gave a slight nod and took his directions, keeping an eye on the taunting kids. Knowing that Kyle did the same.

"They SOP?" asked Kyle.

"They're not registered." All military equipment had transponders that ping the satellites, Renner would have picked them up as SOPs as soon as he'd seen them. These trucks had nothing.

The kids remained ignorant of the engines, now loud enough for a trained ear to pick out the four cylinder Toyota Hilux engines and the more telling, more worrying, rat-a-tatting of automatic fire. The kids weren't scared: they could have been high but they knew they were coming. There was no way they were too blasted not to know what was coming. "The rest of the gang?" Evan offered, reasoning that the trucks weren't SOP so they could be the rest of the kids' gang. Back-up to take out the two trespassers.

Kyle's hand shot forward, pushing Evan into the corrugated hut as a rock narrowly missed his head. It clanked against the iron sheet and came to rest on the ground next to him. His assailant was one of the five-a-sides. Evan and Kyle's departure from the road must have been misconstrued as a sign of weakness. The dark-haired freak with a Bowie knife made crude hand gestures, leading his friends in a chorus of laughter at Evan's tumble to the ground. He looked at the rock, a sharp fistful of pavement. It would have made for a nasty gash on the head if Kyle hadn't pushed him when he had.

Kyle had his rifle ready under his poncho, waiting for their next move. "I don't think they like me much," Evan said, staring at the five-a-side crew, watching their heartbeats quicken on his HUD. The moment for laughter was coming to an end, they were going to strike. All of them and all at once.

Kyle stood between him and the crew, stepping backward, forcing Evan deeper into the hut. Away from the freaks and the road.

"The one on the right," Kyle said, just as the little shit pulled a pistol from the back of his trousers, a cumbersome, magazine-loaded pistol that on any other day Evan would have found amusing to see the kid shoot. He imagined him flying backward off his feet. It wasn't funny now, not with the barrel aimed right at him.

"You want to get off the road." Renner again. "Now fellas!"

"We are," snapped Kyle, aiming his rifle at the little shit with the pistol.

"I can see you standing at the side of the road."

Kyle had the little shit with the pistol dead in his sights. "Renner, so help me—"

"Get off the fucking road!" Renner yelled as the convoy of trucks screeched around the corner into the street. Kyle didn't look away from the kids, just as they still looked at him. Everyone waiting for someone else to make a mistake, a distraction that would give the other the upper hand. Evan couldn't quite see the trucks now they'd made the turn, but he could hear the them racing up the road.. Automatic rifles firing in chorus with the engines. Kyle stepped backward, closer to him and inside the shack. Then, Bowie knife glanced to his left, his eyes rounding seconds before he raised his blade toward the approaching vehicle.

Evan couldn't see anyone else, as they'd all disappeared from the street. Save for the five-a-sides, three of the kids were now looking towards the vehicles. Kyle maintained his aim on the little shit, who was relentless in his taunting of them with his oversized pistol and continued to do so until the first of the five broke formation. Panic-stricken, the youngest bolted from the street.

Bowie was second to run then two more, leaving only little shit whose eyes orbed out of his head, seeing nothing but the colour red. His attention at least, now turned to the approaching vehicle. Evan watched him stand his ground and laugh as he planted his feet wide, holding his pistol toward the oncoming traffic with both hands, his yells lost under the loud roars of the four-cylinder engines.

Little shit pulled the trigger, the pistol whipped upward but despite the odds the child stood firm, committed until death to defending his turf. He aimed and fired again, recovering quicker on the recoil and snapped one final shot off before the first of the trucks hit. What didn't catch in the truck's grille was knocked back before being crushed under the wheels and spat back out for the next truck, and the next...

Evan closed his eyes, unable to watch the kid's entrails being passed back along the convoy and missed what Kyle didn't. Gang signs, painted on the trucks. "Triads," Kyle said, the Post Commander had told the truth. Better still, the convoy passed without them being noticed.

The first bullet cut down through the corrugated roof and kicked up a cloud of dust. It landed no more than half a metre from Kyle who wasted no time in grabbing Evan's shoulder, dragging him to his feet before the second bullet cut down and slapped the floor. They raced deeper into the shanty, clipping stacked boxes and leaping over bedrolls. The world raced past them, crates falling and tin walls collapsing before them as deadly hail rained down all around them.

Evan grazed an oil lamp, his eyes locked on Kyle's shoulder in front of him. His HUD flickered, a counter building from zero to eight in less than two seconds. A bullet tore down between them, scuffing Kyle's boot. Evan kept his eyes on Kyle's shoulder, the counter continuing to build. The numbers belonged to the residents stampeding behind them.

Another bullet tore through the roof, a cage of chickens exploding to feathers. Evan squinted, fanning feathers away to see Kyle ducking left to avoid a swinging basket. Evan copied his movements until he missed the baby's cot jarring out from behind the next doorway. He spread out his hands, catching the ground with his palms and preventing his fall. Smiling, he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath before hearing the stampede behind him. Their screams were getting louder but it was the deadly rain of lead that propelled Evan's thoughts into repetition. He was about to die, he was experiencing the last moments of his life and he was going to die on his knees. He closed his eyes to the world and waited for the inevitable.

It didn't happen. Instead a firm hand grasped him while another gripped his waist and he felt himself being lifted to his feet. Opening his eyes, he saw Kyle was carrying him towards a stone building like sack of potatoes. Evan managed the word, "Thanks" before Kyle flung him down. Then all he could do was scramble through the air, sailing through the front door and into safety.

He crashed onto the foot-worn stone flooring, finding himself on his hands and knees again. Evan's fear was ripe enough for him to taste the adrenaline on his lips. He ignored the data scrolls and Renner's ecstatic voice. He ignored the surrounding people and Kyle's boots closing on him. He'd had enough. The dam wall he'd built with good old British stiff upper lip and 'don't be a wuss' was smashed. He'd been kidding himself. He was a desk jockey and had no business being in London. He should be back with Renner, calculating the next step. Doing what he was good at. The realisation was an overpowering wave that pinned him to the floor. His eyes swelled with tears and he spat the flavour of iron from his mouth.

"You alright?" The voice was both familiar and alien; it was Kyle's. He'd spoken out loud. The man was crouched next to him, his hand on Evan's back. If he hadn't been petrified his cheeks would have flushed with embarrassment. He couldn't speak, his voice had left him. It had run away with his reason. He had no answer. So he asked himself that same question again. He was ready to hang his head in failure, he was ready to go home empty handed. He turned his face toward his companion and shook his head.

"Of course he's alright," Renner said, reading the bio information on his own displays. Reading Evan's increased heart rate as adrenaline and nothing more.

"No," Evan mustered. "I'm not. I'm really not."

"Take a moment, we have some time," reassured Kyle.

Evan looked around his immediate surroundings; the stairs were as good a place as any. He stood up, half expecting his feet to find nothing. He looked at Kyle, willing him to back off. It must have shown on his face, as Kyle did just that. Evan stepped cautiously towards the stairs. His feet had found the floor but his legs were unsteady. He grabbed hold of the banister, still strong despite the surface rot. Built to last, he thought ruefully. He sat, landing his rump on the third step. It creaked in objection before taking his weight.

Kyle had followed him to the foot of the stairs and now he was looking around the room, his gaze turning faces away. There were at least thirty people in the house with them and more upstairs. None of whom Evan was aware of, despite his HUD's data scroll. His thoughts were instead of his failure. The Triad would catch them; not now perhaps, but they would. They would be killed before they reached the rendezvous. He imagined himself splashed across the grille of a 4x4, mowed down by automatic fire and having his face blown off by a close range shotgun blast.

He was so engrossed in his personal death fantasies that he didn't hear Renner advising them that the Triads had long gone, and were heading towards Dillon's checkpoint. He was too busy being skewered with a spear. His body being roasted on a fire, the centrepiece of an Outskirter party. "Let's go home..." His words stopped Renner's report dead and he quickly found Kyle in his face,

"Say again?" asked Kyle.

He looked Kyle in the eye and felt the heat in his cheeks. For a moment he thought he was going to retract it. Then he thought, what the hell, "I can't do it. I thought I could, but clearly I am not cut out for this." He was smiling from nerves. Renner didn't say anything but Evan hadn't expected him to. Kyle however, just stared at him. It was a calm, cold stare that made him feel worse. "You can't disagree." He added, and for a second Evan thought, maybe, he'd only imagined saying it.

"Why are you here?" Kyle broke the silence with a textbook question.

"Because Fletch..." Evan felt Kyle's finger press against his lips. He nodded, suddenly aware of the fifty spectators sharing the building. "Because I lost Fletcher. I didn't have time to train up someone else. There was no one else. I had to come."

"Why are you here?" Kyle repeated candidly and Evan felt his brow crumple in frustration,

"I just told you."

"That's how you got here. Not why." The soldier corrected him, forcing Evan to think, to focus on something other than panic.

He thought then, not of the myriad of events that had led to this place, but the reason why. Why Jonathan Reekes had summoned him to his office and why he'd agreed without a second thought. He exhaled a sharp shot from his nose and grimaced, this time not from nerves. He felt like a child who had just screamed himself silent. He understood. He no longer wanted to retreat, to run back the way they'd come. He wanted instead, to press forward.

*******

A Special Branch guard, suited in black, opened the door to the Cabinet Room and Jonathan strolled through, Antonia a few steps behind. No one called it the Cabinet Room, albeit that was what was stamped on the triple-glazed bulletproof glass door. Instead they called it the War Room.

The space, long and boringly decorated, was dominated by a massive onyx conference table which seated the twenty committee members. Made up from Cabinet and military staff, it was he meeting that precedes the actual Cabinet meeting and specifically dealt with the border patrols and any relevant issues like the fence. All present stood as the Prime Minister entered the room.

He strode to the head of the table and sat. "Good morning."

The gathering returned his greeting, some with more fervour than others, the Foreign Secretary Percy Browne being one them. He, like the rest of the room, sat back down as the PM pulled his chair closer to the table.

Antonia found her seat opposite Percy. Two down from the Prime Minister, Harry Rockwood from the MOD positioned himself between them. Opposite him was General Pike of His Majesty's Armed Forces.

Reekes placed his hand flat on the table, activating his personal display showing the meeting's agenda. "I know," he read the first line, "that Birmingham was to be our starting point. But the Triads broke their ceasefire this morning, it's a tragic scenario and going to be a problem." He let his words settle before adding. "Antonia would you do the brief?"

"Yes, of course." She placed her hand on the table and brought up her report, sending it to every display with a flick of her wrist. She brought everyone up to speed on the attack, allowing the group to digest the material in front of them. "MI5 have just informed me a packet was transmitted from the location during the attack. We believe it was from this man, Michael Ellis, who is better known as the blogger Pil. The size of the packet suggests video capture, probably of the attack itself."

"You can't be sure of that..." General Pike said.

"No," Antonia concurred, "but we've started proceedings to acquire the packet nonetheless."

"The media exposure is covered on the last paragraph," added the PM.

"They took out two transports with an RPG," Rockwood told them. "It's an isolated attack, sir. They were just posturing."

Jonathan's face did little to hide his contempt for the statement. "You want to try that again?"

"Sir?"

"Posturing? Seven miles outside of their territory?"

"Yes, sir. They are still just a street gang," Rockwood defended.

"Yet they were skilled enough to take out not one, but two transports with a couple of thirty year-old grenade launchers. One of which was a multi-million pound attack drone."

"I believe what Harry is say—" Percy began.

"I know what he meant," Jonathan cut in. "Thank you, Percy."

Antonia felt the wave of disbelief wash over the table. There was no eye contact, not with anyone. Every man for himself, she thought. No one acknowledged it let alone stepped up in defence of Percy, poor Percy. He had only tried to help Rockwood, but not even he could look Percy in the face. But then, he did have his own problem.

And so, it was up to her. "MI5 assures me that they will be able to acquire the footage before the press."

"Not through our channels I take it?" Pike asked.

"I didn't ask, but I'd assume they'll appropriate the server it's stored on," she replied.

"That may not even be in the country," said Rockwood. "It could take them days—"

The sound was as loud and sharp, silencing the conversation in an instant. All eyes turned toward it, the PM's fist against the table. "This squabbling thing. Stop it." His eyes moved from Rockwood, to Pike and finally rested on Antonia.

She had felt that chilliness before and on more than a few occasions. None of them had been pleasant

"I need to know what," he said, still looking at her, "if any, repercussions this could have in Europe, should it come out." He didn't add the name to which the question was aimed, neither had he stopped looking at Antonia.

The room however, was looking at Percy, who, noticing the silence, looked up from the document. "You'll have full report by three," he said, "but I can tell you one thing now. Jaeger will make the most of it."

Jaeger, Antonia thought. Konrad Jaeger was the German Chancellor and unofficial King Europe. Everyone at the table already knew that he would look to exploit anything that made Reekes' administration appear weak. Britain was Europe's problem-child. Each day was a battle to keep sanctions, keep laws. No one at that table had a favourable word to say about the sauerkraut.

"Then I look forward to reading your report," Jonathan silenced the murmurs agreeing with Percy. "I also need a measured response that doesn't include massacring civilians." He pointed his remark to Rockwood and Pike, waiting for a nod from both before adding. "Good. Now, I'd prefer to deal with just this - I don't want any more attacks."

"As I said sir, this morning's attack was an isolated incident," said Rockwood.

"Posturing..." Jonathan said.

"Yes, sir."

"Okay," Jonathan gave in, "I don't want any more posturing."

*******

Since the drive-by, Renner had dropped in some intelligence. His sources had confirmed there had been an explosion inside of Triad territory, and their Dragon King, Sin Lao had been killed. Evan, having researched all the leading gangs knew that in the event of the Dragon dying, all of his lieutenants would battle for the crown. In this case, it appeared as though they were retaliating against the most likely provocateurs - the SOPs. It gave them good reason sure, but while Kyle was happy to run with it, Evan couldn't see the SOP having the inclination to make the Triad an enemy. Their mission parameters were the same as they'd been fifteen years ago. Keep the peace. Not incite battle.

As Renner guided them through the boroughs it was evident Fletcher's reports had been shallow, to the extent that Evan suspected it had to have been intentional. Many of the old department stores and hotels had been gutted for factories, producing the cheap goods for the wealthy upriver and overseas. Without the prying eye of watchdogs, underpaid workers and unsanctioned chemical trials could operate freely with all the profit feeding back through the black markets.

Everywhere he looked, the locals bore their weapons or teeth. He and Kyle were lightning rods walking through a maelstrom. Thankfully they hadn't run into more Triads and the locals, at least so far, were less inclined to attack them outright.

Evan had had time to mull things over, time to digest his moment of weakness and move on. He wasn't a field operative. He was twenty-three years of age. Tactically proficient with a knack for problem solving: that was why he was here.

"You've been shortlisted." Parker Jones didn't like Evan, but then he didn't like any of the systems analysts under his charge. He wasn't suited for office duties. He was only there because his insurance hadn't covered the cost of a replacement foot. He walked with a decided limp, blaming the basic replacement, smashing it into the floor with each step.

"For what?" he had asked.

"Just get your ass over there." Evan had done just that. they'd walked away from each other, hearing the uneven footfalls of his commanding officer for the last time.

His stomach lurched when he shook Prime Minister Reekes' hand. It was the largest hand he'd ever come across and it comfortably wrapped around Evan's. It was easy for him to assume that Jonathan Reekes' nickname in the house, Gorilla, had originated with those large ashtray palms.

"So you're the whizkid," Reekes had spoken without authority which had placed Evan at ease.

"That would probably depend on who you speak with." Evan had quipped, deflecting the compliment, while still not quite believing the situation.

Jonathan eyed him, smiling."Tell me about Project Thorax."

Thorax had been a nine-month-long mission to crack Chinese counter-intelligence programs. "Any part in particular, sir?"

"The part that got you through my door."

Evan explained his role in the process. While he didn't consider himself to be a genius like Renner. He did think practically and then, when all logical steps had been exhausted, he'd thought outside the box. The Chinese programs, at the time, had relied - to their detriment - on three large private security companies. Evan had targeted Mi Mi, the largest company, not for any other reason than the CEO's daughter was studying in Stanford, USA. Renner had worked his magic on her chipset. This had allowed him to pass the virus back across the Pacific to her father on one of their weekly chats. He then took the virus into work. Renner had called it child's play. Evan and the rest of MI5 had recognised it as brilliance. It could be counted on one hand the number of hackers who could hide a virus inside a Gen VIII chip. Once they had broken into Mi Mi, they were able to key the other two companies which led to the algorithm, resulting in the breaking of the Chinese code.

He summed it up modestly, but Reekes had heard what he'd needed to. Renner was a bottom tier recruit with two strikes against him on his file. Not one of Renner's previous COs had cited him for anything other than menial tasks. Evan had spotted his talent and had brought him onboard. He had done that with all five others of the team as well. An eye for raw talent and the ability to manage insubordinates. Evan had often wondered if Jonathan had made his decision before he had summoned him, or whether he'd made his decision based on his articulation of the events. "Evan, my boy. How would you like to help me put this country back together?" There it was - the selling point. He went on to explain, but Evan was already going to say yes. He couldn't think of anyone saying no.

To be a part of this would be to do something meaningful. He would be part of history. The thought brought a smile to his face. It was the reason he was here, walking through Hell. He was going to unite the kingdom.

Jonathan proceeded to explain the long-feuding gang bosses of London were listening to Window, a bodiless entity found on 92.2 FM. The voice asked only for the leaders to stop fighting each other and for him to remain anonymous, in return he would be a window looking at the truth. "The signal is constant, informing all of London of as many incidents and outbreaks of violence," Jonathan said. "Anyone that requires help contacts Window and their request is put out to the rest of the city.

"Sounds like tripe I know. But it's working. They haven't fought in over a month. The transmissions even warn of SOP movements, avoiding confrontation." Jonathan's voice trembled with excitement. "That's why I want you to find him. If Window has the slightest control over the gangs, if they trust his judgment, then he is the key to bringing the country back under one flag."

Evan watched the Gorilla's hands swallow his own and knew he was in for the long run. To see it to the end. He couldn't see what end that would be, but no one could. He thought then whether he would have said no if he'd been able to see into the future. He looked around at the shanty, at the poverty, the unbalanced society. He was still breathing, he had Renner looking ahead and Kyle watching his back. No, he thought. He wouldn't have changed his mind. Not now, when there was a chance. A slim chance he was the linchpin.

Three days after his meeting with Reekes, his official orders had arrived by courier. It was the first of many idiosyncrasies the Prime Minister possessed. Evan was to select five names, the Prime Minister would whittle the number down to two. One field agent, one desk agent: that was to be his task force. The first on Evan's list was Julian Renner - he was already on Reekes' radar so that had been an easy sell.

Evan wanted Lt. Dominic Fletcher. The man's file was impeccable but with one ten foot hurdle - he was Army, not Special Branch. That didn't stop Evan from scribbling the name on his pad. He had met him a couple of times socially and Fletcher had impressed him with a rare talent \- he could speak four dialects, French, Mandarin, Cantonese and Punjabi and he'd learned them old-school, so there was no need to rely on downloaded languages.

Three of those tongues were used in Greater London, a place where technology was not abundant. Dominic regularly wiped the floor at the poker table. Evan himself had left with his wallet lighter many times. The guy had the nerve, he had no tells as far as Evan could see and he had an expensive app for that. It had come as no surprise to Evan that Fletch had the military skills necessary to be dropped into the meat grinder. He was Evan's first choice to be point man on the ground.

Reekes took a little convincing, but Evan's persistence paid off. "You want Window? Then this is the guy," he'd said, stabbing Fletch's profile with his finger. "We send him into the SOP ranks and he can then slip into London."

"He'll be hated," Reekes had said,.

"He'll be disenfranchised, haunted by the actions of the SOP and in need of something new to believe in. He'll be..." only one more word came to Evan, "awesome."

The team had come together after that. Fletch took an immediate dislike to Renner and had begun his training for his cover, a time-served soldier, fresh from a tour in Pakistan. Looking to make some easy money. His name would be Daniel Blake, whose friends would call DB.

Evan and Renner worked on Window's transmission. What had seemed simple at first, wasn't. It was an old FM channel, coming in at 92.2 but triangulating it wasn't easy. Renner soon came to call it the little bastard. There had to be something else. It took a couple of days but he found it, apparently glaring him in the face all along. He'd taken the time to explain it and Evan was polite enough to pretend to understand, but he was just thankful he'd finally cracked it.

With the code broken, Renner provided a list of transmission towers. Accurate to within a mile, it was as far as he could take them. It was time for Fletcher to step up. It was time for DB to join the SOPs. Three weeks later he's at a checkpoint looking under cars and opening vans.

He had another hour before his shift ended and he couldn't wait for it. It had been a horrendous day. Too hot to be wearing full combat armour for a start. Even with its heat regulating systems it rarely did anything more for him than clear his visor. He drank as much as he could and stuck to the shade of the APC.

Two neighbouring checkpoints had been assaulted that morning. All of the insurgents had been killed, but the talk from Command was there wouldn't be any further attacks. No one in Daniel Blake's troop believed it. Especially Jordan Dale. The zeal man himself. The man who loved to rev everyone's engines, the man who hid his remorse behind his bravado. Cocking his rifle and saying, "What do we do this for, if not for King and bloody country?"

The old Transit van pulled up, flywheel screaming as it neared. One man sat behind the steering wheel. DB approached and could see from the man's averted gaze he was hiding something. But he didn't expect it to be his family. No wonder he was sweating when Jordan slapped a hand on the driver's door. "Out!"

The man did just that. His eyes were rounded, darting across the masks of the surrounding soldiers. His hands were already up but Jordan took delight in spinning the man around and planting his face against the side of the van. "What's your business?"

The man answered in Punjabi. "Visiting family." Fletcher didn't need the translation from his chip, but he was aware of the second delay from Jordan who was from him reading his.

"Where?" Jordan asked. By now he would have scanned the back of the van. His chip would have told him, like it was telling Daniel Blake, that there were four hearts, beating strong from inside it. None of the troop listened to the man's response. They were forming a firing solution around the van.

"Please, my family," the man pleaded, "my baby."

"Open it!" Jordan said, stepping back from the father, but keeping his rifle trained on his back, "Open it!" Jordan repeated.

Daniel Blake stood a couple of metres back, his rifle aimed at the side door as it slid open. Inside was the man's family huddled together, just as he had said. Every SOP breathed a little easier when the door opened. Jordan grabbed the father and slung him to one side, he stepped into the van tilting the vehicle and causing a battered leather football roll out.

Jordan yanked the youngest girl from her mother's grasp, Dangling her by her wrist in front of her father, grinning. Then higher, to show his troops. Showing them that it was all okay. And it was. Until one of the soldiers, Darrick kicked the football.

The explosion incinerated his foot instantly. The rest of his body rocketed into the air and the two SOPs standing either side of him fared no better. Their burning bodies were launched across the checkpoint. The explosion continued, throwing several others to the ground and Jordan into the van, dropping the girl. Amongst the kicked-up dust, Daniel and the other standing SOP's flicked to heat vision while bullets tore through the van. Terrified men with guns.

Sudden short-lived screams called out for help. Someone yelled. "Holy shit! Jordan is in the van." Blood dripped from the doors, pooling around the bodies of a father and daughter. Their family, along with Jordan Dale, Darrick Bevan and two others DB barely knew, were dead.

The APC's long-barrelled gun screamed. Its shot hit the van square in the bonnet and threw it back at least six metres, sending it crashing into the unsteady wall of someone's old home.

The official report had read a third checkpoint had been attacked that day. No one investigated further than that. They would shift out the team early for a couple of weeks off, some r'n'r to put the event out of their minds. To recover from having killed one of their own. Jordan and the others who'd died were decorated. The family was not. They were burned and forgotten. As for DB, he disappeared. The day's events had traumatised him and had given Dominic Fletcher the story he needed to move on.

The intel he'd provided had slowly begun to paint London's hierarchy. The smaller gangs fed into the larger gangs who ran the territory, with Window keeping the peace at the top. He provided their names, such as Sin Lao - the Dragon King of the Triads, Deep of the Tooty Nung, Carr of the Shadowkingz, or Blastarr of the Bushwackers. These were the highest-ranking individuals of the largest and most violent gangs.

Then four weeks ago, he'd met Window. Champagne bottles popped and Evan felt the slap of the Prime Minister's massive hand on his back. Dialogue with the south was within grasp. Then, three days ago, Fletcher had disappeared and in a sense, so had Jonathan Reekes.

Reekes was no longer the Prime Minister Evan had known. He'd been replaced with a volatile creature. He had reconsidered the origin of his nickname 'Gorilla' during his verbal beating. "I don't think that's a fair assessment, sir," he'd defended honestly. "There was no warning."

"This was your op, your command. Missing. Three fucking days before negotiations are supposed to start! Am I wrong?" He wasn't.

"I think—"

"Don't think, do. You won't get fuck-all done by thinking," he continued to rage.

"We received a message." That wasn't quite true, it was presumed. They'd listened to the broadcast the morning after Fletcher had gone missing. He clasped the Prime Ministers hand, connected and played the recording.

"A friend has been lost, but the party will still go ahead." It was Window's voice on the transmission. It had been followed by his usual report and then later, Window had made mention of his first meeting with DB. It was the rendezvous they were now headed toward.

"Get a team into London ASAP. Find Fletcher if you can, but the priority is Window," Reekes glared into him. "Who can you trust this with?"

"Yes," Shit, he stumbled over his thoughts, scrambling toward the only name he could trust with the task. "You can trust this with me, sir."

While Evan had inwardly cursed himself for volunteering, Reekes looked him up and down before casting an eye to Oliver. "What do you think?"

Oliver only raised an eyebrow.

Reekes turned back. "Get it done."

With clearance from the PM's office, Evan's plan was initiated after two alterations. Instead of Timothy Lawson and Craig Chalmers, two highly skilled field agents of Evan's choosing, it had been Commander Kyle Ross who was selected to accompany him into the belly of the beast. And in the belly they were, the crowds alerted TAP so often there was an almost constant threat alert. He still felt the tug of fear, but like the timing between the lightning and thunder of a passing storm, it felt further away and easier to dismiss.

He trusted Kyle, not as a person: he had met him only a day ago. He trusted his skill, and Oliver who had chosen Kyle to get them through London. Then this morning Kyle had put himself in danger to bring Evan to safety. Evan took comfort in that, but also a little guilt. Because he couldn't say for certain whether he'd be able to do the same.

The back of his tongue curled up away from the sharp taste of adrenaline, bringing Evan's focus back to the game. His HUD prompted a map of the local area and it indicated that their destination Notting Hill Gate Tube station was around the next corner.

This, the location of their rendezvous, would be the end of the first leg.

*******

Kyle stopped at the end of the alley. "How's it looking out there?" as Evan moved up snug behind.

"Area's clear," said Renner.

Whether it was out of instinct or distrust, Kyle looked into the street. Out of interest, Evan piggybacked his hardware and took a look for himself. The road tapered out creating a bottleneck for any defence of Notting Hill station, which was proudly decorated with SOP banners, hanging over the roof like tapestries.

"There." Kyle highlighted the nest on his HUD. "Machine guns." Sure enough, there were three mounted guns sitting just inside the station, their two metre barrels peeking out of the entrance.

Each gun had two SOP guards stationed alongside it. One spotter and one triggerman. "There'll be more inside," said Renner.

"No doubt," replied Kyle.

"Glad we have those papers." Evan said, knowing the heightened security at the station would make it near impossible to enter without them.

"You're most welcome," Renner said.

"We going in?" Kyle had turned away from the street and was now facing Evan.

Being inside had advantages and God knew how much Evan wanted to be off the streets. But now given the choice, he found himself hesitant. If he were back at Command he'd want the tactical advantage outside supplied them. Inside they'd be slaves to the warren of tunnels beneath the streets. "We're early," he stated, "by two hours".

Kyle smiled. "And you're not happy because...?"

Evan knew Kyle was right, but four hours was a long time to wait blind with no escape plan. "Ren, can you see inside the station?"

"Foggier than a Hammer Horror, but with the way things are going up here you're better off going in."

Evan looked to Kyle and heard his father's voice. Don't be a wuss. He nodded. "Keep an eye on our backs."

"Aye aye Captain!"

"Then let's do this." Evan tapped Kyle on the shoulder, disconnecting his HUD and stood up. He stayed a step behind Kyle moving into the street. The now familiar sound of his chip's tactical alarm flashed as it counted the weapons aiming at them. Joining the guards at the station were flanking snipers, tucked up on the higher floors and roofs of the street's parallel buildings.

Was their invisible sniper one of them? Were they still being followed? His HUD bleeped again as more guns trained on them. "This isn't your run of the mill check point," said Kyle.

"It's the main supply base for the postcode," Evan explained. "Food, livestock and weapons. Fletcher acclimatised here before being posted."

"This not a good place to meet."

Kyle's arrogance grated him. "Did you not read the mission briefing? Besides, there wasn't a war when I agreed to this place." Evan couldn't be sure if he'd annoyed Kyle in the way he'd annoyed him, but he took the man's silent response as a measure of success in his argument. Still, he didn't disagree that this was no longer the safest place to meet. Not by a long shot.

Underneath the street that they now walked was a subterranean hamlet, possibly even a small town. Numbers were difficult to quantify when people don't stand to be counted. Nevertheless, Notting Hill was one of the largest SOP stations in the region, the last bastion of neutrality and had been the optimal choice for a meeting, at least it had been yesterday. Today it was no more than a succulent temptation for the Triad.

He stepped up the mud and shit-crusted stairs to the doorway ahead of Kyle, greeting the approaching SOP. The Sergeant's credentials swiftly appeared on Evan's HUD followed closely by Renner's introduction. "Sergeant Tangeer."

Tangeer was a shorter man than Evan but far more intimidating. His face-mask was uncoupled from its helmet and his eyes showed no sign of the undercurrent of fear that ran amongst his troops. This was a man who'd seen it all and had done worse, if his attention was fully on Evan he may have greeted them as more of a nuisance but Tangeer was familiar with the streets.

"Papers," the Sergeant said, thrusting out his hand.

"Expecting anyone?" Evan asked, looking around the troops.

Tangeer didn't answer, taking Evan's nearing palm and clamped his around it. The HAND emblem promptly appeared, Tangeer's profile flashing up for Evan to read while the Sergeant read through the papers signed by Commander D Meyer. "Triads," the Sergeant finally answered, still gripping Evan's hand and reading the glowing interface between them. "They've hit nine checkpoints, including Commander Meyers."

"Did they hold them back?" Evan asked, hoping his presumption would be wrong.

Tangeer continued to read without so much as a glance away. "Everything checks out," he said, his glove slackened on Evan's wrist, the man's attention remaining entirely elsewhere. "Just staying the night?"

"Just the night," Kyle answered before Evan considered it. As bounty hunters staying one night, there would be less chance of them starting anything. If they were stalking, or here for their bounty, it would be a different story. One the SOPs would insist on preventing or intervening with, something they didn't want to add to their plate right then.

They were all strung out, waiting as if it was inevitable they were going to be dead in the next couple of hours. "You mentioned the Triad... this is still Nung territory?" Evan asked, knowing they were inside their borders.

"The Triads aren't picking a fight with no Tooty Nung today," Sergeant Tangeer spilled. "And as sure as I am that the Devil sleeps in Hell, they won't be lending us a hand."

The Tooty Nung were a resurgent gang from the last century, a violent splinter group of the Holy Smokes - Muslims who had banded together to protect their neighbourhoods from racism and violence, and who refused to let go of the power after they'd succeeded in vanquishing their enemies. They had no love for the Triad, and their battles were well recorded by the SOPs. But now, after Window?

"Is there going to be any trouble?" the guard asked.

"Not from us," Evan replied.

"Then get out of my killzone." If the guard meant it in jest, he made no indication of it.

The interior was at least clean; thankfully the SOPs didn't like working in filth but, as clean as it was, it had seen better days. Like the rest of London the new décor was slapped on top of the old. Security checkpoint scanners had been installed just inside the door, an old plastic-cased model. Evan's display identified its age. Still in use after all this time, and why not - the 'Chipless' and 'Freemen' were the majority in London. Why anyone would want to disappear to a place like this Evan failed to comprehend.

The tiled floor desperately needed replacing as the weeds were only kept in check by heavy foot traffic. A few had even managed to flower in the corners and against the wall where Evan had to stop. It had to be the largest, most elaborate piece of art Evan had seen since the Bayeux tapestry. Not nearly as big, but it was just as impressive as it was bloodthirsty.

"What's that?" Kyle asked, also noticing it.

It wasn't a crude daubing by any description. Someone, or judging by the changing styles, some people had spent a great deal of effort producing an extremely detailed story. From the left it began: The characters scrawled with oil and brush were the Chelsea FC Headhunters. "It's the station's history," Evan said, pointing at the blue football jerseys. "These were the first owners. They defended the neighbourhood against the immigrants." His finger pointed to the darker faces surrounding them, then to the heads on sticks. "These are Mafiosi, displayed at their borders as a warning." The Headhunters were depicted with large barrel chests, considerably larger than those they fought and it was easy to presume they had endorsed the mural.

Kyle ran a hand over the wall. "Monet?"

It was art, but not Monet. "He painted landscapes, you philistine." This was London. The pre-existing gangs had grown in numbers. The civilised inhabitants had turned to the football groups, the people they knew but avoided after a few pints. They had no choice after the crash - it was strength in numbers and those without numbers were swallowed up. Stories of beheadings, emasculation, and religious cleansing had saturated the headlines until the early twenties. It was these stories which had metamorphosed into the modern-day myth of how London operated.

He followed the mural to its inevitable conclusion; the artwork changed, character's eyes became larger, bodies thinned and their skin darkened. A new author continued the story, the Tooty Nung. They'd been in London since before the financial crash, but in much smaller numbers and the Headhunters had succeeded in forcing them out at first - but when the refugee lines poured in, the immigrant-founded gang found limitless support.

The Nung were a brotherhood that matched their honour code with a brutality the FC gangs hadn't been prepared for. Some of the FC's still remained today, but nowhere as prevalent as the early twenties. The Nung's attacks were bloodthirsty and precise, and the painting ended at their climax. The Nung's celebratory football match, where the gang had played with the severed heads of Chelsea FC.

Kyle whistled; he stood at the top of the escalator stairs, resting his rump on the ticket-machine and stared back at Evan, who until that moment had not heard it. "Is that music?" Evan asked, unable to decide himself whether the nightmarish drum and bass horror beating up the stairs was or wasn't.

Kyle smiled. "Could be."

Having walked to the top of the escalator and being able to distinguish a riff from the drums, Evan sadly agreed.

"After you," Kyle said, still smiling with his arm aimed downstairs.

"Give me a second." Evan called up his HUD and issued a command. A second later the adjustable dampeners located inside his inner ear cut out the music. "Okay," he smiled back at Kyle, "let's do this."

From the bottom of the escalator they had to walk single-file between stalls barely shoulder-width apart. Ramshackle vendors had planted themselves against the wall, with no uniformity or consideration of their cramped surroundings. In fact, the thin slip of a path they took had patrons coming the opposite way, and more often than not they were forced to shuffle sideways, squeezing past the locals.

Florescent strip-lamps hung from the ceiling, every other one flickering as rampant as the smell of sweat and cooking fat permeating the air. Several of the stalls sold food and their stoves amped up the heat in the tunnel, along with a sickly sweet smell that Evan wasted little time in issuing a second similar command to his nostrils.

As well as food, the stalls appeared to sell everything from scavenged machine parts and patched clothes to fresh vegetables and designer labels. This was a cosmopolitan melting pot, cramming a century's worth of London culture into a space not meant for living in. Yet, against some serious odds, Notting Hill Gate was a community and one more accommodating than the five-a-side team's.

"Newbie buyer rates," they called, "only here." Then three stalls down another vendor would say the same thing. All of them striving to make a living, just like home.

'Where are we meeting?' asked Kyle, bringing Evan back from his thoughts.

'He'll find us.'

"Hey look." Kyle tapped Evan's shoulder and pointed to the end of the tunnel where it split in two. "I can see a bar." There it was, wooden frames and some patio furniture in front of it. Hardly space for three tables but somehow they'd managed it.

"Good call." Evan agreed, squeezing past the last couple of stalls and ducking under a dangling foot. He was looking forward to sitting down and taking a load off. He didn't take note of the foot's owner sitting on the stall's roof or to the man raising an open bottle of beer to the young hand reaching down.

*******

"Save yourself the energy Paul, please. You know I'm right." Oliver was using his headmaster's voice, a tone honed over his years in politics. A punch of authority added to two pinches of panache with a spoonful of contempt. This man however, had earned himself a little more of that last ingredient. "Or would you prefer I read you these files?" he moved a finger around the document's icon waiting on his desk.

Oliver had, of course, read through the documents. Once was enough when you have a computer-maintained eidetic memory. Besides which the documents were a sickening read and he did not wish to read them again, but he would; should he have to, but he was willing to bet Paul would fold first. In Oliver's experience, ugliness always retreated when forced to stare at itself in the mirror, especially when one's family were also invited to the vanity.

He'd confronted Paul Andrews with two options. Neither of them could have been considered the proverbial carrot. The first was to do as he was told and the second was a sure way to end one's career in politics. One should never fuck children and that rule goes double when you represent a constituency.

People don't care what sex the child was at that point, they don't care how pretty the child was, or whether they were asking for it. The image of a lurid limpet like Paul pinning a slight frame to the ground while his pustule riddled tongue raped the child's innocence, overshadowed the fact it was a young boy, purposely grown for such acts in the Asian in-vitro laboratories.

Oliver had nothing but contempt for Paul and the other nameless ministers who shared his lust. Yet, they served their purpose. Indiscretion was after all, good for the party. As long as Oliver knew about it he could keep their dicks in their trousers and their votes in line with the Prime Minister. So it had been the way of the Chief Whip and so it shall always be the way of the Chief Whip.

Every little perverted secret they possessed, Oliver cherished the photo album. Every underhand deal they worked on, he filed the receipts. Every cross-party delusions they fantasised over. Every skeleton they buried, he knew the GPS coordinates. A handful of these bottom feeders would guarantee the passing or failing of a Law while a majority would guarantee a unified government. Indiscretion was good for the party, it was not good however, for Paul Anderson's wife.

Jenny was truly the salt of the earth. As Oliver's father would say, in every sense of the phrase, she deserved better. Better than what this cretin Paul provided. Oliver knew that this outing of information, this jabbing of the bee's nest would cause him the greatest pain at home. For it would not only bring Jenny to tears, but also the edge of their penthouse in Albert Dock.

"If I'd known..." The young fop trailed off, confounded by the situation that Oliver had put him in. The same situation that Oliver was thrilled to be a part of. He did so enjoy putting the screws on.

"You did know Paul," Oliver said. "You know who the party leader is, don't you? Big chap, grey hair, always impeccably dressed?"

"That's not what I meant."

No, of course not Oliver. Paul meant if he'd known there was a photographer skulking around that whore house in Jakarta he would have chosen another one. "I'm not without sympathy to your situation, Paul. You're a good man, I know that. Just as I know Jenny..." he watched as Paul squirmed in his chair, "would be devastated by this terrible, unfortunate, mistake."

Paul's eyes rounded at the sudden change in Oliver's tone, the way out he desperately wanted. "Yes it was. It was a mistake Oliver, a disgusting mistake. I am so terribly sorry."

"Let's try to imagine a world where this didn't happen." Oliver rested the flat of his hand on the file. "One where you kept your position and spilled some information about a special project the PM signed off for Harry Rockwood."

"The Prime Minister?" Paul asked, dumbfounded.

"Yes, the Prime Minister."

"I've nothing against the Prime Minister. I honestly thought he knew."

Oliver stopped his eyebrow from arching as it so wanted to; Paul wasn't the first person to mention this. That had been a backbencher by the name of Conroy Tempers, the same person who had put Paul in Oliver's sights an hour ago.

"I thought it was all above board!" he pleaded.

Two backbenchers knew of a project, a secret project, one the Prime Minister had signed. This sort of casual conversation in the barracks would not do, especially as it could be connected to the helicopter attack. If Oliver had been suspicious that someone was stirring the pot then this was confirmation. "I hear you speaking Paul," Oliver said, "but I don't understand what you're attempting to tell me."

"I thought the Prime Minister knew about it, as you just said, I thought he'd signed off on it." Again, the same words as Conroy.

"Why do you think he doesn't know about it now?" Oliver asked.

Paul floundered, his mouth gaping. "I haven't said otherwise, have I?" Oliver knew he hadn't. He had merely questioned the validity of Conroy's claim. "I..." Paul stuttered. "I just assumed that as you didn't know about it, then the Prime Minister couldn't know about it."

"Then I must apologise," said Oliver, taking the higher ground. "I've misled you. I'm not trying to dismiss the claims. I want to find out what you know, and how you found out." He smiled reassuringly, circling his fingers around the document.

"I'm on side. Wholeheartedly."

"That's good to hear Paul, one must know who to trust."

"That's exactly what I'm saying Oliver, you can trust me." It was quite uncanny, almost rehearsed. "And I won't lie to you."

Oliver fixed his gaze at the man squirming in his seat confident he would now tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God. "Good, because I understand you're the man to ask about it." Conroy had given him Paul, who supposedly had the operational name. A name Renner couldn't find any trace of in the Government database. It meant one of two things; the first, it was nothing but hogwash. The second, a far more interesting and worrying reason: it was buried so deep that not even Renner could find it.

He needed confirmation on the operational name. If Paul said it, he would pursue it despite the apparent lack of evidence. There was no need for Paul after this conversation either way, Paul was too small a fish. But he could point Oliver in the right direction, with the proper motivation.

"If I tell you," Paul said, eyeing the folder, "you'll make it disappear?"

Oliver was a fair man, "Until next time." But one wouldn't want to give the wrong impression. He sat, patiently waiting for the one word, two syllables that Conroy had delivered to him. The operation's name. "Are there other parties involved? Ones that have something on you too?"

"No," he replied and Oliver believed him.

The pause meant something else; just how deep was Mr Paul Anderson in? "Then what's stopping you Paul?"

"I don't know what it is. Well, not exactly..." he began. Not the start Oliver was hoping for, but it was a start. "Operation Lockhead." Bingo. Oliver hid his over enthusiasm by leaning into his chair. "It's foreign based, set to save us a lot of money, put our military back on the map.

"Other than that, I know it's in the testing stage and that it's the Prime Minister's baby." He couldn't be sure if that was enough. "That's all I know. Please Oliver."

Oliver studied Paul for an excruciating second; a repugnant being, begging for the return of his life and who still refused to give him a name. "Who told you, Paul?"

"I over—"

Overheard? "Don't give me that Paul. You don't get near conversations like that. Someone is recruiting and I want to know who."

Paul glanced at his file. "Yes." And Oliver knew by the man's pensive look that he didn't want to divulge anything further than he already had. "Faraday."

"Jack?" Jack Faraday was not the largest catch in the sea, but he was a rather sizeable fish in the pond. He had a lot influence in the House of Commons and, because of his sister's marital vows, a lot of influence in the House of Lords too.

Paul Anderson nodded in defeat. Good, Oliver told himself. He was finally getting somewhere and it had only taken him the effort to extort a drunkard and a kiddie fiddler for information, "Thank you Paul," he said, smiling. "I'll put this back in the drawer." He did so, eyeing the pederast as he attempted a smile. "I don't want to have to read it again."

"Thank you, Chief Whip." He leaned forward, offering his hand.

"Remember Paul, loose lips sink ships." Oliver however, had no intention of shaking it. "Now get out of my sight, there's a good chap." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and Paul's hologram, promptly vanished from his chair.

So Lockhead was an operation, or at least what two ministers believed to be one. An operation supposedly authorised by Jonathan himself. The thought troubled Oliver: Jonathan running a scheme without him didn't sit right. They'd been in politics too long, had been friends longer still. No, Jonathan couldn't be behind it. After all, his baby was finding Window. Opening negotiations with London.

Whatever was going on was aimed at undermining the Prime Minister. He wouldn't intentionally do that himself. Oliver would follow it up, speak with Faraday and find out more. He blinked a message to his PA, Doris.

"You've space this afternoon - James Revell had to leave for Berlin. I just updated your calendar," her reassuringly authoritative voice replied.

"That was at two?" he asked, remembering the meeting.

"Yes. If you want it sooner you'll have to do it over lunch. You've Francesca Blake at one and I'm not cancelling on her for you again."

Francesca represented the Whitby constituency, she was wanting support against fracking permissions. She was a good politician and Oliver somewhat enjoyed their arguments, but she was not a Paul Anderson. She was squeaky clean. That gave him no leverage on her other than political knowledge and in that area, she was too good for his liking.

Fracking however, while favoured by its shareholders, was not popular with the country. The government had decided, in its ultimate wisdom, that it needed money more than popularity. That gave Oliver the doubly difficult task of arguing against Francesca's permissions to stop fracking when he privately agreed with her.

He wanted to bump her to next week, or the week after that. Or better still, not see her at all. But this was politics, stand toe to toe and try not to spit on each other, as his father would say. "Keep Francesca, I'll catch Faraday at the Pond. Tell him I'll be there for a spot of lunch."

"Done and done," she said, as she always did once the decision had been made.

"Can you patch me in with the PM?"

"Of course."

He waited until the word 'connected' flashed on his HUD. Then before the Prime Minister's torso filled the area of Oliver's desk. "Prime Minister?" he said.

"Speak of the devil," Jonathan replied.

"Who's with you?" asked Oliver.

To Jonathan's left, Antonia faded in. "Oliver."

"Ah, Antonia. Good," Oliver nodded. "Prime Minister. How was the War Room?"

"Needing a damned good shuffle," said Jonathan, referring to a cabinet reorganisation that Oliver was not keen to pursue. Not until they knew who they could trust.

"That bad?"

"Worse. I'm getting the feeling the Forces are looking to usurp me." It was poor humour and Oliver had to stifle his smile.

"Funny you should say that. I have an avenue of interest."

"Yes?" asked Jonathan.

Oliver posted him a private message. "Lockhead?"

"What is it?" Jonathan looked appropriately oblivious, but then one doesn't become Prime Minister without first learning to hide truths. "And shouldn't we be talking in person?"

Oliver, like Antonia, didn't care much for Jonathan's paranoid fixation on the secure lines. They were after all, secure. Entrusted to Renner so that all of their conversations were protected. Where Antonia and he differed, was that Oliver enjoyed rattling Jonathan's cage once in a while. "I don't think it's worthy of a closed door conversation quite yet. It's just hearsay at the moment."

"But you just said that it's an avenue of interest. It could be something. Could be something big."

"And it may not be anything but brandy-brewed gossip," Oliver reminded him. Besides which, Oliver had gleaned what he needed from the Prime Minister already. Jonathan had denied knowledge of Lockhead point blank. That was as solid to Oliver as the world was round. There was no more point discussing the rumour until after he had spoken to Faraday.

"If you're certain," said Jonathan.

"I am."

## Chapter Six

Rendezvous

Evan peeled the label from the bottle of warm, unfinished lager in his hand. He'd been sat at the table for three hours, the fizziness had died and he no longer had a taste for it. They were now an hour past the rendezvous time. As suspected they had not been able to reach him through the walls of the subway station. To speak with him, one of them had to walk up to the gate. So Kyle had ventured up to the SOP gate to find out if there was any news. If not from Renner, then from the SOPs.

They had repeated this journey once every hour. They pinged each other every fifteen seconds and each ping had been successful. The dialogue got a bit choppy when Kyle reached the top floor, but their chipsets remained in contact with each other. They could still read each other's vitals and the locator system ran as smooth as the factory settings.

Unfortunately, each trip ended in the same result. Kyle would return from the surface and confirm the following: the SOPs weren't talking and Renner didn't have any new information. So Evan peeled away the Coors light label from the bottle and flattened it out on the table. He didn't expect this next trip of Kyle's to be different. He folded the label in half and flattened it again. In three hours he had seen a lot of faces. Any one of them could have been the contact.

He folded the label again, and flattened it. He continued until the label was too thick to fold. The contact could have seen them, could have been spooked, could have left, could have anything. He didn't like that but kept thinking about it all the same. He didn't like the notion the country's salvation could be decided on whether someone liked the look of him.

He slurped the last mouthful from the bottle, pulled the coin from his pocket and rested it on the table before calling the barman over for another two. He, like Kyle could filter the alcohol out if needed. They could look the part without being the part. The barman was a slight fellow with greasy blonde hair and a tendency to over scratch the eczema growing on the left side of his face. He tottered over with another two bottles and stole away the coin with a smile.

Evan enjoyed the first mouthful, a cold and crisp flavour to wash the last mouthful away. "Guess what?" Kyle said over the comm.

"Nothing?"

"Nada," the confirmation came back.

"I've got another round in. We can finish these and head down a level?"

"We've tried that already."

"He could be underneath us."

"You don't know he's a he..."

"I don't know anything," Evan admitted.

"Renner thought the contact could have been killed. You know, with the fighting outside."

Evan felt his eyes close, heavy and determined to shut himself away from the outside world. It was completely possible. They had taken a lot of gunfire themselves, why not the contact? Anything could have happened to him. "What do you think?" he asked.

"It's possible but I wouldn't write someone off for being a couple of hours late, especially in this climate. They could be playing it safe, moving slower. Could already have seen us and making sure that we don't mean them harm. Be right back..."

"Kyle?" Evan chased the trail-off. He was about to request a link to Kyle's eyes when the ceiling shook. His eyes snapped open, only to be filled with falling dust. He brushed his face and spat away what landed in his mouth. "Kyle?" He chased again. He had heard a loud slap when the ceiling shook.

*******

"Kyle?" He wasn't ignoring Evan's call. He wasn't registering it, dialling Evan down to single digits as the immediate danger presented itself.

Kyle ducked behind the row of ticket-machines when the first flaming car raced toward the station. The mounted guns began to sing and his chipset instantly muffled the sound. The guns split the car in two, one half toppled forward, skidding a metre before stopping. The other side careened into a tin shed and the back seat bomb exploded short of its target.

The SOPs cheered, one even taunted the unseen foes. Sergeant Tangeer wasn't celebrating with his men. He was quiet and watchful. Waiting. Kyle stood up, his rifle ready under his poncho. He skirted the mural, making his way to a better vantage point. He looked out of the gate past the SOPs who had grown quiet again. Wondering what the next move was going to be.

The car wreck had flipped in the explosion. It was right side up again and continued to burn. If there had been a driver, there was no sign of one now, only black smoke from the upholstery and what little fuel was left. He blinked and his vision altered and took in the light blues, deep reds and flaming yellows of infrared.

He was about to call it. Mark it down to an outrageous prank when he caught a glimpse of the first. He stepped back when he saw the second. Two flaming masses of red and yellow racing toward him. Then a third.

The mounted guns opened up again, aimed at the approaching vehicles. All rigged to explode. All aimed at the front gate.

"Move!" he called to Evan.

"Kyle?"

*******

"Move!" Kyle repeated his order, then again. "Move, now!"

Evan knocked over his chair as he stood. Old Chinese Guy was scurrying past him, heading down the stairs with a few others. He turned behind him and saw the Eczema man leaving his bar unattended. It was as if everyone had heard Kyle's order.. It was worse than rush hour. He reached under his poncho and found comfort in the hilt and trigger of his rifle. "I'm heading down a level. What's happening?"

"Triads." Evan's knuckles whitened around the rifle's grip at Kyle's answer. "Fucking lots of them. I'm on my way."

Evan was past the stairs. The flow of people were heading toward him and pitching down to the next level before reaching him. He only had to pull into the stream and let the current take him. He kept his trigger hand on the hilt, moving his finger to the guard and stepped away from the table. Falling in behind Eczema man.

He was pulled left, then right and pushed further along. Not quite knowing the direction he was heading. Everything looked the same and his HUD showed only static. No map, no position. "Kyle?"

"Stuck on first."

The kid blindsided him, jolting him out of the flow. He barely caught a glint of metal against the fluorescent lights. But he felt the force of the dull end pressed into his crotch. He caught his breath, jammed between two stalls.

The boy couldn't have stood taller than five feet but he had the strength of a jaguar, lean scarred muscles, cut from a life of combat. A nano-craft Raven flapped its wings on the boy's shaven head, a beautiful tattoo of Native Indian design perched on the boy's ear.

"Two plus two?" rasped the kid, his face scrunched in concentration. The current continued to rush down the tunnel.

"Is it happening?" Kyle asked.

Evan peered down, a Desert Eagle was pressed hard against his beloveds. Both the kid and his bird tattoo stared at him, waiting for an answer. The question was the code, picked by Fletcher, the Orwell fan. But the kid?

"I won't ask again." Impatient, the kid pressed his Eagle impossibly closer.

"Five," replied Evan, perplexed.

The pistol slackened. A second later it was holstered. One of a brace hanging from the child's rough leather bandolier. "Move. We'll be trapped once they start the squealers."

Evan had seen the squealers being demonstrated: Fray shares had jumped four points the following day. The kid pointed to a loose ventilation grate, knee high against the wall behind him. "Out of the way, princess," he said, hustling Evan to the side of the grate as he yanked it from its fittings.

"What's happening?" Kyle's voice again.

"Wait, we have to—"

"Move!" The kid cut in. "Have your friend meet us at platform five, south end."

"Copy that. Platform Fi-" Kyle's sentence ended in static.

The kid moved fast, producing two black plugs and put one into each ear. He dropped to his knees and crawled into the ventilation shaft. Evan followed; he was halfway through the opening when the abrasive pitch of white noise erupted. He remembered the demonstration. The anguish in the faces as they dropped. The entire crowd falling to their knees. Clutching at their bleeding ears. On the bottom right of his display, the words 'Frequency Blocked' flashed and the noise vanished.

Ahead he could see the kid racing along the vent.

*******

When he'd confirmed the meet at Platform Five, Kyle's HUD informed him comms with Evan had ceased. His chip would continue to ping until a connection was made, but until then the failing would be confirmed every fifteen seconds.

He gritted his teeth. The timing was impeccable. Two hours late and the contact decided to meet just as the Triads attack the base. He shouldn't have left him. Evan was his mission and he shouldn't have left him he reiterated to himself. It was an error. It was one he would rectify. There was no point thinking about it anymore.

Kyle had made it halfway down the escalator steps when the squealers started. A slang term for pitch orientated crowd control methods, causing anyone without ear augments or a way of muffling the sound would soon be running. Panicked from pain attuned to their ears, herded like cattle or the kids of the sadist Pied Piper, to wherever their shepherds or piper intended.

Whatever lay beneath him was going to be brutal. He counted his spare ammunition, and was thankful for his automatic pistol and six grenades of varying destructive capability, along with an assortment of toys and gadgets. Blinking, his eyes switched to survival mode. It was blacked out with an iris of chrome, strong enough to remain ignorant of the burning environment.

His feet stepped into the smoke, hovering at the lower level's ceiling. He stepped down the escalator, vanishing into the sea of thick burning fog. His air filtration system kicked in, pulling oxygen from his liquid reserves. The timer flashed up on his HUD - he had nine minutes until those reserves depleted.

His heat vision was still his primary visual. The smoke surrounding him was the only thing attempting to flee toward the entrance. There was no one running toward him. No red and yellow mass screaming for help or coughing and dying on the floor. Only smoke racing upward. He followed the tunnel to the source.

The ramshackle stalls were now improvised barricades, pitched over and stretching the tunnel's width. Every other one had been set ablaze. The Triads were still behind him, so it had to be a defensive tactic. The SOP's were fitted with breathers. The Triads were not. Simple and effective.

"Drop your weapon!" The order came from behind the stalls. He searched for the voice's origin. With all the fire it was difficult to pinpoint it, but with a little calibration to the infrared he found them.. Seven SOPs crouched behind the old Chinese man's tipped stall. Special Operations Police in front of him, Triads coming up behind him. Things were going to get ugly.

Kyle had picked up some scars in China, had lost his legs in Afghanistan and still had the tenacity to continue fighting for his country. They just patched him up each time and dropped him into another shit storm. Now, he was forty-two million quid's worth of combat machine. It was going to get ugly, but not for him.

Black eye-shields slipped down from Kyle's brow. Liquid filled his mouth from engineered glands, as thick as glue, it armoured his teeth and sealed his throat. Millions of nano-bots raced to his spine, coating and strengthening his vertebrae. More 'bots spread over his ribcage, shielding his chest and the vital organs within.

Game on.

*******

The battery chicken didn't look any more distressed than usual. It tilted its head in a curious fashion when the nearby ventilation shuddered. The caged hen below it began to cluck. The top chicken followed its lead and soon all fifty-eight cages were clucking.

The vent shot outward. In its place was a size five boot. It disappeared back into the vent, and moments later the kid crawled out onto Platform Five. Evan was right behind him and he was more than thankful to be leaving the confines of the grime-slicked tube.

With the kid already jumping down onto the tracks, Evan stood. He looked up and down the platform, noting the iron cages webbed against the walls. Keeping poultry in the closer ones, then cattle at the northern side of the tunnel. A series of welded rails were bolted along the ceiling and empty chain harnesses hung from them. It was a slaughterhouse. The animals were kept on the platform, then hung up over the tracks to bleed.

Blood was everywhere, on the platform, sprayed against the wall and pooled on the tracks. Year on year - old, dark and crusted. His nostril filters had blocked out its stagnant aroma long before he had reached the ventilation grill. A small victory.

He peered over the edge of the platform, where discarded carcases rested on red-stained tracks. Stripped bare of the unused flesh by the local rat population.

"Come on," the kid called up from the tracks.

"Wait." He wasn't leaving without Kyle. "We need to wait."

"Your friend is close, come on."

"How do you know that?"From the platform entrance, locals sprinted to the edge and jumped to the tracks. They stumbled over one another, leaving the fallen behind. The rest ran toward the darkened South Tunnel. All of them still clutched their ears. The screamers remained in full effect. Even on the deepest level.

The kid waved at him, both he and his raven tattoo looked at Evan with impatience. "Come on!"

Evan ignored him. He wasn't about to leave behind the man who had already saved his life twice. He turned his back on the kid, walked toward the entrance of the platform. More station dwellers hurried past him. He reached to his sidearm, unclasped its holster and drew it. It didn't have the stopping power of his rifle, but he was more comfortable with it close range and didn't want to hit any of the bystanders.

Kyle had said the Triads had hit the station. The SOPs must have initiated the squealers to force the local population down, out of harm's way. It was a crude and violent manoeuvre but Evan saw the necessity. He couldn't say he'd have made a different choice given Sergeant Tangeer's position. Any number of residents could be Triad. He could have been fighting the battle on two fronts. This way he'd forced the population down here, to the safety of the tunnels.

"Princess!" the kid yelled, and it dawned on Evan he'd been called princess earlier.

"Stay out of sight," he said, waving his free hand downward, indicating to the child that he should duck down on the tracks. He would be safe there. At least until Evan could check out what was happening.

More civilians pushed past him. Then gunfire. Not near him, but from above. Echoing through the tunnels. A battle waged somewhere above him and Kyle, he hoped, was already somewhere in between. "Kyle." He sent his message, knowing that it would fail. His ping hadn't been successful in eleven minutes. "Come on," he mouthed the words and brought his Browning sidearm up under his poncho. He estimated a one minute trip to the end of the corridor. He'd still be in sight of the kid, if something went wrong. From there he could check the stairs. Check if Kyle was—

"Bluebird!" Evan stopped, utterly distracted. He turned away from the oncoming traffic and found the kid back on the platform, crouched on one knee with one of his desert eagles ready for some killing.

Bluebird being his operational name, was privileged information. Only Kyle, Renner and the Prime Minister's Office new it. "How do you—"

The bump to his kidney was sharp and sudden. He felt his knees go and he stumbled forward. One of the panicked civilians had blindsided him. Crashing into him while screaming something about a 'fucking maniac'. While Evan struggled to find some grip on the blood-caked floor, the scrambler carried them off the platform.

He didn't see what followed. He only heard the gun shots. Automatic fire first, a quick three second burst. Then a single shot before silence. He pushed the scrambler off of him, using what felt like the last of his strength. Fresh shards of ceramic lay around him. He glanced around; the curved wall of the tunnel had been peppered with bullets. That accounted for the automatic fire. The kid had dropped down next to him, his smoking pistol waving uncomfortably close to Evan's face. That accounted for the single shot.

"Get up," said the kid, as if it were the simplest of things to do.

Evan tried, but he couldn't find his legs. He knew where they were. He was telling them to move, they just weren't listening. It was all he could do to keep his hands at his side and rear, propping himself up as he was. "I can't."

The kid looked anxious more than annoyed. "Are you hurt?"

Evan wasn't sure. He couldn't feel anything, except the throbbing inside his head. He called on his chip and felt his face drain of colour. His display didn't respond, it wasn't there. He had nothing. He blinked again, willing his medical documents has he had done a second ago. Nothing. He tried again, this time asking for a prescription. Something for the throbbing. Nothing. Not even an acknowledgement. Not even a fucking error message.

"Are you hurt?" The kid repeated.

Evan looked at him and—

"Stop blinking!" The kid checked the corridor for any further trouble. When satisfied he laid his DEagle on Evan's lap and used both his hands to check his shoulders, neck and head. He stopped on the back of Evan's head, pulled his hand away and paused.

"What?" Evan couldn't see what he was looking at. "What is it?"

The kid didn't answer. He picked up his pistol instead. Then he knelt next to Evan and raised the man's arm over his shoulder. "I'll help you," he said.

Evan raised his left hand to the back of his head. Amongst the hot, slick wet hair he caught his finger on something that didn't belong. Something sharp. He looked at his hand, red with his own blood.

"Come on," the kid hurried him. "You're too heavy to carry by myself."

Evan refocused on the simple task of standing up. He could see his legs. They were the two ignorant bastards in front of him. He touched his thigh with his hand. He could feel them too. They ached. So they didn't have any excuses. If he waited here any longer the Triad would turn up. His left foot twitched and he grimaced. His legs wanted to live too.

"Stop!" Kyle's voice washed over them. He stood at the edge of the platform. Kyle's eye shields were down, his skin was a dark shade of gray and splashed with blood. If he intended to look a badass, he'd succeeded. He aimed his rifle downward, dead centre on the kid's face.

Evan raised his hand to Kyle, palm first. "Don't shoot."

Kyle remained still, his rifle trained on his target.

"We don't have time for this," the kid snarled.

"He's the contact," said Evan.

Kyle's finger relaxed from the hair trigger. "Really?"

"Yes, really." Evan's words fell under the Chinese war cries from the tunnels behind them. He hadn't noticed the squealers had stopped, had they stopped? Or was his chip still blocking it out. He sniffed the putrid smell of the slaughter house floor and gagged, no longer caring whether the squealers had stopped.

Kyle lowered his aim, the kid holstered his DEagle. "I don't suggest going back up."

"This way," the kid pointed to the south end. He took Evan's weight and started for the exit.

Kyle dropped onto the tracks, ignoring what he'd landed in. "Let me." He took Evan by the arm and lifted him over his shoulder. "Comfy?"

"You have a pillow?" Evan asked.

"No."

"Then I'm comfy."

Evan watched the world bounce as Kyle started to run. He was soon in a sprint and keeping up with the kid. They had a straight uninterrupted route to the tunnel, but if they weren't quick enough, the Triad would have an easy time picking them off.

The civilians had stopped running onto the platform and the sound of gunfire had fallen into silence just as the squealers had done. Joining the dots, Evan could surmise that the Triad had either been beaten back or had run out of opposition. He didn't think his lucky streak would extend to the former, and by the speed at which Kyle ran; he knew his companion agreed.

He felt the urgency in the escape more so because of his reverse standing. He was propped over Kyle's shoulder watching their retreat, watching the platform and the dead scrambler bouncing away from him. "How much farther?"

The Triads spewed onto the platform, three, five, nine, twelve of them. Then more. They weren't so much in a rush as they were having fun. Evan patted Kyle's back. The third Triad on the platform, the leader maybe; scanned the tracks quickly and found them. He smiled and chanted something in Cantonese. Something that Evan would have been able to understand not five minutes earlier, but with his HUD refusing to co-operate he was left with nothing to do but guess.

Several of the Triads opened fire on them and proving Evan's guess was spot on. Bullets and tracers whizzed past them, "Fucking move it!" he whipped his thoroughbred. Then, from behind Evan, from the direction they were headed, automatic fire spat back at the Triads.

The Triads dropped like depth charges. Some bouncing from the platform to the tracks, others turned and ran. The rest took cover, returned fire from safer locations. He couldn't see how many were dead. Or how many had survived, because he had reached the end of the platform. They were in the tunnel, in the dark.

They passed a young Indian woman, resting on one knee and aiming a long barrelled combination rifle at the platform. The same rifle Special Forces preferred for its use as both an assault and quick-chambered sniper rifle. She continued firing until they were in the safety of the shadow, then stopped. She slung her rifle over her shoulder and walked after them.

"Put me down." Kyle obliged him and Evan tapped him on the shoulder in appreciation. Thankful that his legs were holding him he nearly missed the chance to offer his hand toward their guardian angel. When she walked past with not so much as a glance he bit his bottom lip and frowned. That was rude, he thought.

The kid was ahead of Kyle, too far ahead for Evan to see. Out of habit he blinked. "Shit."

"What's up?" Kyle had stopped and was facing him. Evan closed the distance between them.

"I've got a problem."

They walked in silence for a number of steps before Kyle stopped. His eye-shields glinting against the dim shaft of light from the platform. "You can't hear me?"

Evan shook his head.

"Your HUD?"

"I took a hit to the head." He put his finger to it but Kyle stopped him. He moved around and checked the wound. He knew that Kyle would be able to assess the damage through his display. He had taken technology for granted. It is what his generation was known for, and there hadn't been a point in Evan's life where he'd been without computers. Until now.

If he concentrated, he could remember the waiting room full of parents and their eight year-old children waiting for their chips to be implanted. That was before the law had been changed. Before the chips were surgically installed into the foetus during the second trimester. All in to help with the pregnancy. Watch this space, the lobbyists are already pushing for first trimester.

Kyle took him by the shoulders and spun him around. He grabbed his arm and read H.A.N.D. display. The display that was now invisible to Evan. He looked around to pass the time, but it was too dark. He could have done with his night-vision augments, but they too were unavailable. He was scared. Not the panic he'd felt. This was concern that he'd done some serious damage to himself. All because of a scrambling idiot and a train track.

The only light that he could see was behind them and the route they were taking was pitch black. He'd had to walk with his hand on Kyle's shoulder the entire time.

Kyle continued to read. Letting Evan stew in his insecurities. He looked back over his shoulder to see what the Triads were doing. Nothing. They were still standing on the platform. They hadn't scavenged their dead or attended to their wounded as far as he could see. Why? Why were they holding back?

"The connection between your chip and user interface is damaged, but your chip is still active and its housing is intact." Kyle's words gave him some hope the chip was a self-repairing device, it was completely possible that the issue could right itself. "Give it some repair time," he reassured him. "It's already started healing the wound on your head. It won't get infected."

"Thanks."

"You're not having a good day," Kyle grinned, "are you?"

"Not my finest, no..." At least they were in good humour, he thought.

"Come on." Kyle placed his hand on Evan's shoulder and guided him into the darkness. He appreciated that.

"So. We finally got to meet the Triads. Can't say I liked them much."

"They've gotten bold."

"They kicked the SOP's arse."

"How many made it?" Evan asked.

Kyle looked at him. "To the tunnel?"

Evan nodded. He waited while Kyle scanned the blackness around him. "Sixty-three," was his answer.

His reply was a calm rendition of the facts and Evan found himself envying him; "From how many?" He couldn't hide behind the stats. He felt like a raw nerve.

Kyle looked up at the ceiling. He read the invisible information and replied. "Too many."

"The Triads really live up to their reputation."

"It wasn't just them."

"What?"

"The Triads pushed through the SOP's, but the SOPs were already retreating down here. They cut down just as many to save themselves." The truth hurt worse than the throbbing in his head. There would be no detachment for him there. No more hiding behind his HUD. He was going to be exposed to everything and he was going to have to deal with it.

He needed to know what was next. What the plan was and how to move on. "What about the boy?"

"Harry Potter?"

"You going to call him that to his face?"

Evan waited a moment for Kyle to remember that he could not see whatever face he was pulling. "He's with his mother, six metres ahead."

"Good. We need some intel."

"Okay, let's swap over." Kyle dropped his hand from Evan's shoulder and placed Evan's on his. "Keep hold of my shoulder. I don't want to have to come back for you." He needn't remind him. Evan's hand was planted firmly in place. Kyle picked up the pace and closed the gap to their contact. The kid and his presumed mother.

Evan squinted in the darkness. His eyes attempted to adapt to their environment on their own.

With each step forward the more black he could see. It called him, inviting him into the gloom. Soon he would have to accept its invitation. Soon, there would not be any light to help him. "Hey," Kyle called, "wait up."

They didn't. "Can't, they're only waiting for the flamethrowers." The kid spoke with so much certainty that it was impossible to dismiss.

Evan didn't like his odds running through the dark. Blind and useless. "How far will they come in?" he asked.

"As far as the claymores."

# Part Two

Drove Through

Ghosts To Get Here

## Chapter Seven

The Pond

Jack Faraday was a Minister who had earned the uninspired nickname Teflon as he'd clawed his way up the ranks of politics. He was smart enough to avoid sharp objects, keeping his back against the wall while snaking his way into the pockets of all the right people and scaring the shit out of everyone else.

If there was one thing they told you when joining the party, it was 'watch out for Oli Trench'. If there was a second, it would be 'don't turn your back on Jack Faraday'. If Oliver wasn't Chief Whip, Jack would have been. They weren't friends. People like Jack, people like Oliver rarely have friends. They only know people who can do things for them. They shared a mutual respect for the game and how the other played it. A shark recognises its own ilk, if nothing else.

Oliver had heard a rumour that Jack was sleeping with another minister's wife. But it was just that, a rumour, and on the scale of indiscretions within the party it was a misdemeanour. Besides which, Oliver wasn't porcelain white himself. What mattered was no one ever discovered your indiscretions. If they did, you damned well make sure you have something on them or ready a proxy in place to take your fall.

That was how Jack had earned his nickname, because when you rise up the ranks quickly in this business you make more enemies than you do 'friends'. It's indicative of the position he held that other ministers would try to throw shit at him, but everyone knows that shit doesn't stick to 'Teflon'.

Oliver hoped today's meeting would reveal the opposite to what he was being led to believe. Faraday was not your average 'bencher, as he had popularity at the back. He would be far more agreeable as an ally than an enemy. Faraday was a peacock, always keen to show his colours and Oliver need only give him enough rope. So when Oliver walked into the lounge, knowing that Faraday was sitting at his usual table with Bartlett and Morgan, he didn't approach him.

Instead, he walked across the room, signalling the barman with his HUD, ensuring the tulip-shaped glass of scotch would be waiting for him by the time he settled onto his stool. "Thanks Charlie."

The Pond was one of twenty-seven licensed establishments in the Provisional Government buildings. 'Four more than the last digs' was a line from one of the more jovial drinking songs. It was dubbed the Pond, due to it overlooking a duck pond in the garden below. Classy and large enough to be dominated by the Leadership, but filled with many backbenchers.

Yes, there were plenty of fish in the pond and the biggest was Jack Faraday. This was his lounge, not officially, but he had the best table and the best deals always went through him. That was why Oliver had chosen to meet him there and why he put his back to the room. It gave everyone a chance to watch Faraday approach him.

He supped from his glass, watching Jack padding up behind him in the mirrored wall behind the bar. He was a tall, unsightly creature. Red blotched cheeks and greying sideburns, his lipless mouth clutching a smoking cigar as he sat beside Oliver. "You look like I need another drink."

Oliver allowed his lip to curl slightly. "Faraday."

Charlie the barman returned to their position, sliding a glass of Disaronno on the rocks over to his regular. "Charlie." Jack gave him a wink before tapping the ash tip into the provided tray. Then he wrapped his fingers around the crystal tumbler and slurped on the sweet taste of distilled almonds. "You know," he said, looking at Oliver's reflection ahead of him. "I don't recall you ever visiting us down here."

"I've drunk the Glenlivet dry everywhere else." Oliver sipped his scotch, watching Faraday snort a laugh.

"It's good to see you Oliver," he said, sucking on his Davidoff and exhaling a blue cloud around them. "I've missed your humour."

"It can't be helped, you are after all human." Oliver's HUD enabled the filter systems in his body, instantly removing the discomfort of breathing the ghastly smell and taste of both Faraday and his cigar.

"Are you going to the Tate party this evening?" asked Jack.

Oliver recalled seeing the invitation to the Tate's engagement party, black envelope, black card, gold embossed type face. Couldn't for the life of him remember the date, but he did remember asking himself why he had received it.

After all, Michael Tate was the First Person Shooter World Champion. Hardcore free for all his specialty, his wife-to-be was another hardcore specialist. The ever-alluring adult fiction starlet Madison Fry. It was to be the biggest wedding since Kate and William.

While he had never met Madison, he had met Michael once, at a tech conference in Berlin three years ago. He had thought he'd made less of an impression on the boy, than the boy had made on Oliver. Which was hardly anything, "I wasn't planning to," he answered.

"Don't say that. It won't be a party without the whip." Faraday mockingly punched Oliver's arm in a gesture of friendship, one that overstepped their relationship. Oliver, ignoring the punch more than the humour, circled the glass in his hand and said nothing, forcing Faraday to continue. "Bad day at the office sweets?"

"It's becoming a bit of a motif," he admitted.

Then it was Jack's turn to remain silent, observing the man sharing his immediate space. Oliver had nurtured an aloofness, a distance between him and the ministers. Faraday was smart yes, but he doubted he would be able to ascertain the exact reason for Oliver's intrusion at the Pond. Jack sucked on his Davidoff again, regarding Oliver with curious eyes. "How's the old man?" he finally asked, resting his cigar in the ashtray.

"He's..." Oliver paused. It was an intentional tactic, knowing that one of Faraday's key flaws was his lack of patience and incredulous lust for gossip. He only needed to give the impression he wasn't sure how to answer the question. Or provide the allure of an internal debate of whether to be honest with an answer. Anything to get Faraday interested. "Persistent."

"Foolish more like," he barked. "Your entire office reeks of death."

It was a terrible joke; one Oliver loathed to acknowledge. "You're the funniest man on that stool." It was true and Jack snorted again.

"Seriously Oli," Jack leaned in, "wolves are circling."

Oliver's ear lifted, his eyes slanted toward Faraday's reflection behind the bar. This wasn't a casual complaint against the Prime Minister, this was a warning. A threat against Jonathan and possibly Oliver too. "Care to clarify that?" you repugnant ass!

Jack shook his head, his hands flat against the bar and split apart."Tut tut, Oli." He shook his head again. "You know better than that. Besides, that's the least of your worries."

"Why? Are you flirting with me?"

Jack smiled. "I don't like the idea of being on the opposite side to you." It was a friendly, heartfelt warning, using a well-practiced tone of disarmament. Still, Oliver didn't like the idea of Jack being his enemy either. Not until he knew who was on his side.

"Jack, if you touch my leg I will have to hurt you." Oliver smiled back at him.

"Now who's flirting?"

"I'm serious. I don't enjoy being teased." He dropped the smile. "I don't particularly want to go toe to toe with you either. But unless you're putting something down for me..."

"Okay, but only because we're friends," Jack winked, leaning in closer. "I'll give you this for free. Reekes isn't entirely blameless for this morning's incident," he whispered into the Whip's ear.

Oliver contained his sigh. He was here again, the titillation of Lockhead. "I'm glad I didn't have to pay for that," he said.

"Droll, Oli." Faraday leaned back, reclaiming his cigar and inhaling deeply. Oliver watched the smouldering end flare red, then closed his eyes as he saw the smoke coming his way. "If I elaborate, you'll come to the party tonight?"

Oliver broke the offer down. One on hand, he had the information he wanted. Which, to Oliver's best guess, was going to be Project Lockhead. Faraday wasn't going to give up what it was, if indeed he knew what it was in the first place. Of course, there was the off-chance that Faraday already knew what information Oliver had gleaned from Paul Anderson. Either way, Oliver was hooked on Jack's fishing line and not the reverse.

He'd attend the party that Faraday had mentioned twice in conversation. He didn't know anything about the Tates other than what he had absorbed from the press and he would never consider that quality research. Maybe Michael Tate was retiring from the gaming crowd, looking to run for Prime Minister. Stranger things had happened and he could muse all day. But that, he reminded himself, would not give him answers. "It better be good."

Faraday smiled his broad, lipless smile and threw back the remains of his Disaronno, "I take it you've heard of Lockhead?"

Oliver restrained himself from looking surprised at Faraday's knowledge. "I have."

"That little operation was what kicked off the Triads this morning. And Old Johnny boy signed off on it." He brought his cigar to his lips again and stopped just short. "You may want to consider how close you stand next to him during the next opinion polls."

He would be right to warn, if he was speaking the truth. If Jonathan had signed off on an operation that had cost civilian lives; but Jonathan had said he didn't know anything about it. "Is there proof?"

Faraday grinned, knowing he had Oliver on his hook. "You don't want much do you? For nothing."

"Can you tell me who brought it to him?" A name then, something to investigate.

"Who do you think?" Jack's grin through the smoky haze reminded Oliver of Alice's encounter with the Chesire Cat. He'd given Oliver a silly answer, because he had asked a silly question.

All military operations would come from the military, through the MOD. "Harry Rockwood." He was also the only other person Oliver was aware of, that knew Jonathan as well as he did. Harry spent a lot of time with the Prime Minister, time that Oliver was not always privy to because of his role. Oliver suddenly felt the stool on which he sat was awfully precarious. "Who's pulling his strings?"

"Bring me something sweet and I'll consider it." If Oliver were honest with himself, he'd admit that he'd not expected Jack to divulge as much as he had without a snippet in return, but the arrogant manor in which he'd just spoken had Oliver wanting to smash the man's face into the bar. He didn't, if only to save Charlie from cleaning up his blood, so he accepted it, stiff upper lip and all that and opted to finish his Glenlivet instead. "Then I guess I'll be seeing you tonight."

"Excellent news!" Jack grinned, tilting his tumbler. "Another for the road?" He was looking a little too triumphant for Oliver's tastes - no one likes a gloater.

"I think I'll save myself for this evening," he replied, slipping off the stool and pulling the creases out of his jacket while ignoring the faces of everyone in the pond who just witnessed their Chief Whip defeated.

"Suit yourself," Faraday said, before bidding Charlie closer for a top up.

*******

Renner did not turn around when Oliver entered his den. He was deep in mission control, literally wired to the communications supporting Bluebird and Fallout. But Oliver was not surprised when the man said. "You're doing the rounds today."

Oliver stepped closer to the chair. Renner had still not turned to face him. It was his way, too much of a techy to talk direct to who he considered his superiors. So Oliver decided to play along. "The rounds?"

"First the Pond, now here." Renner's right hand came up above his chair, his index wagged in the air. "People will talk."

"People _are_ talking," Oliver said. "That's why I'm here."

Renner swivelled in his chair like a Captain of a flagship, finally granting Oliver his audience. He held an expression of a man with a burden, one that Oliver had not seen on Renner's face often. He was after all, at least in Oliver's consideration, touched. "I was about to call you anyway."

"Yes?" Oliver inquired.

Renner crossed his legs, pulling the trailing wires onto his lap and smoothing them out like a pet cat. "Uh huh. You can go first if you like."

"That's awfully kind of you."

"That's the kind of guy I am."

"Okay." Oliver shut the door behind him. "It's a bit sensitive."

"Things normally are."

"Shall I get to it then?" Oliver asked, sensing the impatience between them.

Renner held out his hands, palm up gesturing be my guest. One of the many reasons why Oliver avoided discussions with Renner, he respected the man's intelligence. His skills with a computer were vastly superior to anyone he had previously met, but he was an annoying tit of a man. A flapping breast that liked nothing more to do than tease everyone around him. "I need to know everything you have on Jack Faraday."

The first sound that came from Renner's mouth was not a word, but a musical 'woo' tone. One that cast an eerie light on the conversation."Spying on the party are we?"

"He has something on the Prime Minister." Oliver had expected this line of questioning. "I want to level the playing field."

Renner's eyebrows arched as his bottom lip protruded, it was an over exaggerated expression of interest. "Interesting. Very Interesting. How did you come by it?"

"You have your ways Renner. I have mine."

"Got a smoke?" asked Renner, with an unreasoning urgency that caught Oliver off guard.

"I don't smoke," he finally said.

"Neither do I," admitted Renner, swivelling his chair back around. "I've been thinking about starting, though."

Just one of Renner's many idiosyncrasies. "You really are odd."

"So everyone tells me."

Oliver allowed the silence to become uncomfortable. "Can you do it?"

"Doing it now. Do you want Faraday's personal files too?"

"Nothing illegal. Please." _At least, not yet_.

"You're the boss."

"What did you want to tell me?"

"I've lost connection to the ground team."

Oliver restrained himself. "When?"

"Not long before you arrived. I had Kyle on and off for a bit, but now nothing."

"You don't sound worried."

"They got to the rendezvous, there was some static. They went underground."

"Nothing serious then?"

"The Triads attacked the station, but the majority of them didn't make it past the front gate. I don't think enough of them got in to concern Kyle." Oliver silently raged over Renner's prioritisation methods, long enough for the man to swivel the chair around to face Oliver."What?"

The door chimed behind Oliver before he could unleash his thoughts on him, so Renner took advantage of the situation. "Come in."

"Can you make lunch?"

Oliver recognised the voice and looked round to see Antonia standing in the doorway. He was about to answer her when he stopped himself. Antonia had not asked if Oliver had wanted to go for lunch, as she wouldn't have expected to see him there. She was visiting Renner, a goofy, wired man half her age who he doubted had anything in common with her. "Antonia?" He couldn't help himself.

"Oliver." The blush came as much of a surprise to her as it did to both the men in the room. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm following up on something," he said casually. "You?"

"I was hoping to pick up Renner for a spot of lunch," her eyes left Oliver for the man in the chair, "but he's probably too busy again?"

Renner held his hands up. "Sorry. I've got a stack on."

"It's okay." Her eyes moved back to Oliver. "How about you? Got time for some food?"

Oliver blinked up his schedule. "I have a meeting with Francesca Blake at one."

Antonia scrunched her face up. "From Whitby?"

"The one and only."

"Lucky you. Guess I'll be dining alone then." She gave him a wink then waved to Renner. "I'll see you tonight."

"Yes you will," he said, watching her intensely as she turned around and left the room.

"Wait!" Oliver said, calling after her. "I'll walk with you." He shot Renner a glare. "I want a report on the ground team."

"Before or after Faraday?"

"Before."

"You're the boss." Renner said, swivelling his chair back to his station.

Oliver stepped out of the room, catching Antonia as she waited in the corridor. He'd known her a long time, had dated her sister back when his hair still grew dark and he could get up the morning after an all-night bender without a mark on his soul. He had danced like a fool with her, applauded her on graduation day. He had stood at her wedding, held her at her husband's funeral. But he had never regarded her in a sexual way, not until now. "How long has this been going on?"

She smiled, her cheeks were still flushed but not in a manner of embarrassment. She was happy and Oliver could see it. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do." He elbowed her. "You cougar."

She giggled then laughed. Unable to contain herself she held her hand over her mouth for a moment.

"I knew it!" Oliver continued, "sauntering in all doe-eyed asking for a lunch date."

"Stop it," she pleaded, tapping him on the back and continuing to walk. "Please, no one knows."

"And they shouldn't. Who would have thought it... Renner?" he jested. "Whatever do you talk about?"

She gave him a look that could have been a gun shot in its former life. "Three months, and he's fun to be around."

"Well, well," Oliver said, knowing when to back down. "I guess he must be."

"He is," she said again, but not to Oliver. She said it to herself, and she smiled in agreement.

"It's good," Oliver admitted. "It's good to see you happy." Politics had not been the romantic fantasy they had shared as students. Sure there had been moments in their lives where they had been happy, but Oliver increasingly believed the majority of his happiness had already passed him by. It was nice to see his friends still enjoying theirs.

"I am!" she exclaimed.

"Does he know?" Like himself, he knew Jonathan would be more than happy to discover this news.

"No," she said. "And please don't tell him. Not yet."

In that moment, she reminded Oliver of his first meeting with her. All teenaged and hopeful. "Of course. As you wish."

"Have you seen him yet?" she asked.

"Jonathan?"

"Yes, since you called him earlier?"

"No, why?" he asked, suddenly all ears.

She paused, pondering whether she should continue or not. "He wanted to speak to you in person. Not over the link." She waited for Oliver to nod. "It's about Pilger." She paused again, this time Oliver brought his brow together in irritation but caught her reason in the corner of his eye.

Walter Channing was walking toward them. "Oliver, Toni," he said with a broad smile that everyone knew but did not like.

"Walter," they said back in unison, waiting for him to pass before she continued.

"Pilger," she said again, "had a tip-off that something was going down. He was sat at Heathrow all night, been there a couple of days actually, linked to the orbital satellites."

"Someone had prior knowledge?" Oliver asked. "Someone knew what was going to happen?"

She nodded. "Maybe not exactly what was going to happen, but someone knew something was going to." She emphasised the something as a likely target for concern. Conspiracy theories were common in politics. Hell, most of them made more sense than the truth.

He would have preferred this news had come from Jonathan. They could then discuss the next steps, the following stages and how it affected them. If someone knew the Red Cross would be going into London, then they also knew an explosion was imminent or had a hand in planning it. But the explosion had happened in Triad territory, which begged the question who did the Triad know in government?

Oliver pulled up Jonathan's schedule. Right now he was in his office, the original meeting with the French Ambassador had been cancelled and replaced with an impromptu one that sent a chill down his back. "He has a meeting with Harry?"

"Yes."

It began falling into place; some details were still obscured but Harry was a big piece. Once Oliver removed himself from the equation, replaced by Harry Rockwood - a pattern revealed itself. A pattern of military conquest. A back up plan? Perhaps. Something to keep the right-wing war enthusiasts off the leadership's back while they continued their peaceful stratagem?

But how far had Jonathan gone? To what had he agreed to keep his throne? Oliver needed one more piece, one more thread before he understood the pattern and confront Jonathan. "Thank you, Antonia," he said, "but I have to head back to your younger half."

"I thought you were meeting Francesca?"

He smiled, knowing that he had the pleasure of cancelling on her yet again.

*******

Oliver blinked away his link as he strode into Lloyd's domain. Confident with the knowledge Renner had provided, he ignored the Prime Minister's Private Secretary, waving his hands in objection. Oliver was not about to be stopped. Not after he had confirmed his suspicions, not after he had made his first steps in distancing himself. He told himself it was for the best. He was done playing to other people's timelines; the sooner it was out in the open, the better it would be. For all of them.

He pushed open the door into Jonathan's office before Lloyd, the PM's secretary had reached the end of his desk, blurting. "No Oliver—"

Jonathan sat behind his desk, had seen the door opening and was already looking at Oliver as he entered the room with Lloyd calling to him from the atrium. "No Oliver-" appeared to reverberate around the room. Oliver was angry. He was damned livid over being cut out. Jonathan was Prime Minister yes, but Oliver was the brains of the operation.

Oliver was going to come in and give them both a piece of his mind, he had his question chambered before storming into the room and ready to fire at his friend. Were you going to tell me? but he didn't. Maybe it was Lloyd calling him that gave him pause, or Jonathan's glaring red face that made him stop. Or perhaps the time Oliver took to reach the PM was sufficient to burn away his anger, realising that attack was not only a foolhardy approach but a terrible idea.

"Yes?" asked Jonathan.

The question hung in the room like a damp, mouldy sock. If he answered truthfully, his colours would be revealed. Rockwood, who sat opposite the Prime Minister would know Oliver'd been digging on his own account and without Jonathan's consent. Or with it? How long had these two masters of the free world been conspiring? How strong was their bond? He knew Rockwood had brought project Lockhead to Jonathan last year, that Jonathan had signed it. He didn't know why, or whether he had signed it unwittingly. "Apologies, sir," he said. "I have urgent business that needs your attention."

Rockwood finally moved, leaning over his left shoulder to look at the invading Oliver. With a calm voice he said. "I should be going anyway."

Lloyd, purple-cheeked and flustered, squeezed into the room behind Oliver and waited patiently for the Prime Minister to instruct him.

Oliver's attention however, remained on Harry Rockwood. Just as his remained on Oliver. It seemed he'd made the correct decision. Harry's eyes weren't those of the ill-informed, Oliver could plainly see he was one of the orchestrators, if not the orchestrator, and Oliver had just broken up a very sensitive conversation. "If you're sure. I had no intention of intruding."

"But you did," Rockwood said, still sitting. "And we're done." Harry had resumed focus on the Prime Minister. Who had also lost interest in Oliver's arrival.

"Harry..." began Jonathan.

"It's fine," said Rockwood. "But you may want to reign in your whip. He's overstepping his duties." Did he know? Harry didn't turn around again, he was done addressing Oliver directly. "I'll post you when I know more."

"Thank you," said Jonathan.

"Prime Minister." Rockwood flickered, disappearing from the room.

Oliver stayed at the door with Lloyd, waiting for Jonathan to make the first move. To say something other than stewing in silence. "Lloyd," he said, not looking away from Rockwood's empty chair, "get out."

When he did so, Oliver felt he were a corpse as the mausoleum door closed on it and he was about to be judged on the sins he'd made during life. He remained by the door, just as Jonathan remained staring at the space that Rockwood had occupied.

Oliver reminded himself it could be worse; he could've confronted them both. Could've called them liars and conspirators and secured himself a seat reserved for the likes of Fawkes, Fraser, or Paine. Hell even Edward Snowden. Deported, marked for rendition and water-boarded at His Majesty's Pleasure.

"What was that?" asked Jonathan, finally looking at him.

"That was me, changing my mind," Oliver said.

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Fact."

"One that you're going to explain?"

Oliver indicated to the empty chair in front of the Prime Minister's desk. "May I?"

"You may not."

"Very well." Oliver sat regardless, taking the time to think of his next move. The time to yell! What the hell are you playing at? had past. Now he was on the back foot, with a rabid Gorilla staring right at hi., "I just bumped into Antonia."

"She told you I was dying?"

"No."

"Shame, I'd hope you'd disturb a confidential meeting for that."

"Quite," Oliver said, watching as Jonathan reached forward for the first of his oranges. Oliver was quick, his arm snapping forward and took hold of the bowl. "Enough with the damned oranges," he growled, sliding the bowl from the PM's reach.

Jonathan's eyes thinned, and Oliver prepared himself for a child's response. But when none came, Oliver thought perhaps, he was getting through to him. "She told me someone tipped Pilger off. That someone knew the Red Cross were being called into London this morning."

"Oh?" Jonathan said. "She told me some time ago."

"She told me that too," said Oliver, carefully, "so I did a little checking. Following up on some leads, you know the ones. On Lockhead."

"What of it?"

"Well it appears that one Harold Rockwood put it on your desk a little over a year ago," Oliver continued, "It also appears that you signed off on it. That you agreed on three tests. All of which were to be outside of the country."

"How did you get this information?" asked Jonathan.

"Does it matter?"

"Renner," the Prime Minister answered his own question.

"Is it correct?" asked Oliver, the PM didn't answer. "Jon. Lockhead is connected to this morning's explosion. It's a military balls-up, a plan that has your signature." Their eyes locked as the words passed between them, "and Pilger was foretold it would happen."

In Oliver's mind it was clear. The plan was set up to fail. To set the Prime Minister up to fail. He hoped his counsel did not fall on deaf ears, that his friend could see what he saw.

"You think I don't know? That I don't understand? This is the last nail in my coffin?"

Oliver brought his left foot to rest on his right knee, rested his hand on his ankle. A more comfortable position, ready for the long argument. The PM was in one of his moods. "You need to tell me everything."

A second orange was devoured without reprieve. "Jon please," Oliver said. "I can't help you if you don't tell me anything."

"I can't," Jonathan said. "That is to say, you already know most of what I know. Three operational tests, signed off over a year ago. None of the tests were to be run inside British borders. The volunteers selected from searches out of China and Korea."

"What is it?" Oliver asked, Renner had confirmed all the rumours but the secured military files which outlined the operation. "What is Lockhead?"

"I..." Jonathan trailed off, staring at his bowl of fruit.

"Damn it Jon!" Oliver shot forward, grabbing an orange and pelting it against the wall with all of his might. The skin burst, its juices sprayed over the white dado rail. He sat back down, expecting a nuclear explosion from across the desk. But nothing came. Not even a whimper. "You need to tell me. Because whoever tipped off the journalist put him in harm's way. It's not outside the realms of possibility they could have arranged for the Red Cross to be attacked."

Oliver continued. "We've heard nothing from the MOD. Not through official channels, they haven't spoken to Antonia. All the information we've had is from Special Branch and our friends. Of which, you don't have many. Rockwood, on the other hand, has been visiting you regularly and for reasons you've not divulged. On one hand you bark and shout about paranoid theories and on the other you appear clueless.

"Well this, Jon, is real. Because if someone did tip off the journalist and it looks very much like they did, then that person knew about Lockhead, what it is, and when it was to be used. Someone is working against you and they are doing an excellent job." Oliver stopped, realising he'd been the nuclear bomb waiting to go off.

Jonathan remained silent, breathing through his nose, his eyes staring dead into Oliver's throat.

"Say something," insisted the Chief Whip, not willing for his rant to go answered.

"No us?" Jonathan asked. "Someone is working against you." He thumbed his lapel in clarification. "Me. You said someone was working against me."

Oliver could have scanned back through the conversation, but he didn't need to. He knew what he had said and Jonathan was correct. "You're choosing that?" he deflected, "Out of everything I just said? You're going to sit there and choose to get worked up over that?"

The door swung open and the draught from the outer room cooled the back of Oliver's neck, turning his head. It was Antonia, now standing in the same spot where he had paused during his own interruption. Behind her, the sheepish pitiful Lloyd stood. He looked over her delicate shoulder line, directing his eyes to the Prime Minister who simply glowered at both of their appearance, "Prime Minister," Antonia said. "Oliver. There's something—"

Jonathan held his hand up to stop her. "Lloyd," he said, "take the rest of the afternoon off before I have to sack you, there's a good chap."

"Yes, sir," Lloyd said, skulking out of the door. "Thanks."

Antonia shut the door behind him and was at Jonathan's desk in a matter of breaths. She swiped her hand across the polished Onyx and activated the keyboard controls, punching in the command without explanation.

Behind her; the holographic fireplace flickered and disappeared, revealing a massive wall-mounted screen displaying the news. Nadia Black, the BBC's most vicious political correspondent, stood centre stage in front of images of Red Cross volunteers helping in the Sudan.

Oliver stared at her. She brushed a wayward strand of raven black hair back behind her ear, looked dead into the camera. "No, Richard. This is an investigation." She spoke in deep authoritative tones, tones that matched her tall warrior looks and had given her the nickname 'Amazon'.

"Either way," Richard Billington's voice replied, the unseen anchor from her studio. "This can't be good for the government."

Jonathan closed his eyes, missing Billington's silver-haired visage appearing on the screen next to Nadia. Antonia pressed the mute button, leaving Oliver watching the Amazonian in silence. "They have the reporter's details. The number dead, the chopper designations, and they're saying that they were lured into London by a fake SOS."

"Is that true?" Oliver asked, tearing his eye from Nadia.

"The SOS being fake?" Antonia asked, Oliver nodded. "I don't know."

## Chapter Eight

Ghosts And Boogie-Men

Two hours of darkness had passed. Two hours of slow, silent movement, Save for the occasional Claymore call out. At the start Evan thought he would crumble like he had at the shanty after the drive by. He hadn't. The environment was so different, so alien to him, that he had to focus all of his attention on surviving.

One misstep and he'd trip a laser wire. A Claymore would pop, showering them with high velocity metal balls. The affect was not too unlike a shotgun blast, except that the balls were propelled by two pounds of plastic explosives. So no, concerning himself with whether or not he was up to the task ahead came a far second to listening for the call-outs. His chipset had not yet recovered, and it showed no sign of doing so. That left him without his computer assistant, TAP. Not a single blip in his eye-line. He couldn't see a God damned thing. They hadn't brought flashlights. There'd been no need for them, they were extra weight and more relevant things to carry. The woman and the little one wore night-vision goggles. That was nice. They hadn't offered to share. He hadn't asked either. Was it stubbornness or embarrassment? Probably both, he admitted. It was an oversight, combat augments are shielded - Evan's chipset wasn't military but commercial and someone, namely he, had failed. He could have brought night-vis or a torch, a candle for fuck's sake. Could-ah, should-ah, would-ah.

Now he'd no other option than to put himself under Kyle's complete control. Something he'd never done with anyone. Sure he'd let the chip govern the majority of his actions, doesn't everyone? But with a chip there was always a level of control, always a way out. There wasn't one here. Not in the dark. If he dropped his hand from Kyle's shoulder he'd be alone.

Over the course of the first half an hour he'd adapted, accepting each step could be his last. The Claymores had been placed by the SOPs as a cost-saving action. There's no need to guard a track entrance littered with landmines. No one would be idiotic enough to attack through a minefield and if the SOPs had to retreat, they held locations of each mine on their chips. No sense planting mines if there was a chance you'd step on one.

It became a little easier after they'd cleared the Claymores, speeding up as much as leading the blind allowed. The kid was impatient and wanted to move ahead but the woman brought him back, calmed him down. It was easy to mistake them for mother and son especially now, when Evan could only hear them and not see their physical differences. Not that he could understand everything they said; they spoke in an Indian dialect, one that Kyle translated when he was sure they weren't listening.

Evan didn't know which way they were travelling either. He had no map to refer to. Kyle and his unlimited patience updated him as much as he could, but even he wasn't entirely sure. Since they'd left Notting Hill his chipset had acted strangely too. His display and internal commands worked fine, he could scan the immediate area but his connection to Renner and the outside world was gone.

"Since when?" Evan asked.

"The station, thought it was the SOPs blocking comms."

"Then we're too deep?"

"Possibly."

Evan was sure that Kyle was keeping something from him. But he'd refused to continue the conversation when the kid closed on them informing the group it was time to take a break. That was about an hour in, since then the underground tunnels had weaved, climbed and sank without giving any indication to Evan of direction.

"Stop," said the woman.

Evan waited and waited some more. "What's happening?"

"The kid's checking the wall," replied Kyle, and Evan waited some more.

"What..." he started to ask when the sound of metal grating against concrete pierced his ears, "the fuck is that?"

"A door."

"This way," the woman ordered.

The door led to stairs, which in turn led to a couple of metres walking flat before a spiral staircase. Every stagnant pool they disturbed stank of rotten eggs, every step echoed like a drum roll. All black, all led by Kyle with the odd, "watch your step..." and, "we're going up..." A tedious, blind task which pushed his senses to the edge.

Evan tripped on more than one occasion, steadied by Kyle's stubborn frame. A saving grace came in the form of a metal mesh on the inside of the spiral stairs, there Evan was able to weave his fingers between the mesh, kicking out the location of the next step.

At the top of the stairs, a faint light shone a short distance away and Evan exploded inside. He was a raging effervescent tablet trapped inside a hot-water bottle. Despite himself, Evan clung to composure, denying Kyle the man-kiss he deserved. They'd made it. He'd bloody made it.

They walked at an easy pace along a dusty concrete path to another set of stairs, the light growing brighter as they neared its top. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the light, his other senses began to dull, the putrid smells became more bearable. And as the realisation that soon he would reach the surface, Evan's hands began to tremble.

"Where are we?" Evan asked.

"Hell if I know," Kyle replied.

"But we're nearing the surface, that is daylight?"

Kyle turned his head enough for Evan to see his unimpressed frown. The light was breaking through cobwebbed slats above them. "Yes, yes it is."

"Of course." Evan felt stupid, but he was excited. No more black. They'd be out in the open. "Renner?" he asked tentatively.

"Nothing yet. Could be something in the structure."

They continued walking the rest of the stair well in silence, waiting briefly at the top for the kid to push open a metal grilled door which led out to a small tarmac apron, walled in with mix of stone and rotten wood panels. Behind it stood a church. "How about now?" He asked, closing his eyes, allowing the winter sun to warm his face.

"Nothing."

"But we're out."

"I know." Kyle said with a tone tinged with concern.

Evan looked at the two walking in front of him. Neither of them were paying any attention. Or at least, they weren't showing it if they were. "Where are we?" he asked ahead, wanting to start a dialogue. They'd been silent long enough. He walked another five steps without a response before he turned around, pulling a face at Kyle. Who are these guys?

The woman flattened herself against a black iron gate and pulled the latch, causing a satisfying clunk as it slid open. The boy clambered up the wall and perched cat like on top of it as she pushed the gate open, revealing the street behind.

He dropped down behind her, following the woman out of the weedy yard and taking in the large arched window-fronted church directly ahead of him. Next to it a tarnished yellow sign, with words hand and wash barely legible under the thick ivy growing everywhere.

"Clapham." Kyle blurted.

"No way! I remember Clapham, it's huge," Evan said.

"That's Clapham Junction. This is North," Kyle pointed to their left. "There's the subway entrance."

Evan looked back toward the small brick shed they'd exited. "Then what's that?"

"Air raid tunnel."

"If we're south of the Thames," Evan said to himself, knowing most of Fletcher's time was between Kensington and Notting Hill. "Then we've no reports of the area."

He turned back to the wall, finding the kid had moved on, joining the woman who was walking towards a bridge to their right. "We need some intel."

"Hold up!" Kyle called to the front, they didn't take any notice. "Hey!"

The woman was the first to turn, but it was the kid that spoke. "Keep moving."

"We need to stop," Kyle pushed. "I need to check his chipset."

The kid looked at him then at the woman before saying something in that Indian dialect.. She looked at Evans, nodded and pulled her rifle off her shoulder. It wasn't long before she scaled her way to the top of the bridge, scoping the area for anyone approaching.

The kid followed her. Evan couldn't see him being afraid around strangers so marked it down to his dislike for them. He didn't care, it would give him time to catch up with Kyle. "Sit," Kyle said. Evan found a wooden bench in the courtyard of a public house, stealing a glimpse at the pink-framed menu, a sore thumb in the winter landscape.

The bench looked haggard, held together by the ivy which ran through it. He tapped it with his foot, pressing a hand on the seat before sitting down. It creaked under his weight. "Best not join me," he joked.

"Shush," said mother hen.

He winced. Kyle was all thumbs. "Watch it!" he said, glad of the banter. The tunnels had been too quiet.

"It's healing nicely." Kyle's voice was assuring. "Anything resembling a display?"

"Nothing."

"Well don't worry too much. I'm sure it will work itself out and if not, Haines hasn't killed anyone in more than five years."

Evan sniggered, it was common knowledge the head surgeon at Special Branch was taken to court in a malpractice suit. The Doctor was cleared of the charges, but the field staff possessed an abrasive kind of humour. When they returned to York, it would more than likely be Doctor 'Hatchett' Haines who would be fixing him up. He closed his eyes and breathed in the cold fresh air. "It's quiet around here."

"Nice and quiet," Kyle agreed.

"Any ideas why you can't get hold of Ren?" Evan asked in a low voice.

"One," Kyle answered. "You won't like it."

"Try me."

Kyle eyed the two guides. "I've got full functionality, other than sending and receiving."

"You don't trust them?"

"You do?"

"So, what? They're blocking us?"

Kyle nodded.

Evan considered it, wanting to give Kyle's appraisal the attention it needed. It was entirely possible they were blocking them. Window had equipment that confounded Special Branch and MI5. Either one of them could be carrying a hand-held device or something sub-dermal. The question wasn't how, it was why. "Maybe they're being cautious?"

"I'd appreciate being told. Not being dragged along without so much as a name."

A wood pigeon hooted. Evan turned, not seeing one since childhood. He'd been fooled - it was the kid, resting his knee at the edge of the bridge. Disappointed. "He makes animal noises too."

"Maybe I'll call him Mowgli, instead of Potter," Kyle offered.

"Both will go over his head." He doubted the kid had ever seen a film, or read a book. What kind of life did he have? He couldn't be more than twelve. He had ink and he had guns. Guns he knew how to use. He was a twelve year-old man.

The kid stepped off the bridge, dropping to the road with the grace of an acrobat, landing effortlessly on his toes before padding over. "All good?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks," Evan answered.

"Then let's get moving." The kid looked up at Kyle. "We've got a lot of distance to cover." He reversed, meeting the woman as she climbed back down to their level.

Kyle helped Evan to his feet. "Of course, the other reason why Renner's so quiet," Kyle said, "is that York could've been nuked." He gave Evan a firm pat on the back, ensuring that he knew he was jesting.

"I'm more concerned about present company." Evan looked at their two companions walking away from them.

"Let me do the worrying."

"How far do you think we'll have to go?"

"We've gone a fair way in the tunnels and we passed a number of alternate exits. My guess? They want to keep us out of harm's way as long as possible. She especially doesn't like us all being out in the open." Evan raised an eyebrow, Kyle took the hint. "Not far."

It was a good assessment, one that under different circumstances he may have taken under advisement and left as is, but there were still too many variables for Evan. "Guesswork isn't really doing anything for me."

"Do you want me to do it?"

Thinking about it, Evan really did.

"Okay." Kyle said, then whistled. Not too loudly, just enough to pique their companion's interest but short enough for any neighbours to suspect the wind. The kid turned around instantly. His face was livid. The woman turned slower; she checked the junction for movement before looking in their direction.

Kyle walked up to them. "We have some questions," Evan stepped up behind him. There was no answer before they arrived and still no answer while they waited.

"Names would be a good place to start," Kyle added.

"You're Bluebird," the kid informed Evan, "and you're you're Fallout," he said, turning to Kyle.

The kid was funny, if not annoying thought Evan. Window had been informed of their operational names before they'd set out, a little piece of information he'd forgotten during the shoot out in the subway.

"I meant your names," Kyle said, sounding annoyed.

The kid looked up to the woman, he wasn't looking at her like a child looks to their mother for approval. He was looking as a soldier to a superior. She didn't reciprocate, instead she stared at Kyle. Her eyes stoney and unwavering. She wanted him to know that she was not afraid of him. The kid looked down from her. The decision had been made. "Later. We need to keep moving."

"Now. " Kyle insisted.

The woman stepped forward, she was a lot older than Evan had first appraised. Out of the tunnels, in the sunlight, he guessed her to be nearing fifty. Regardless of age her body remained lithe and her muscle tone put him to shame. Not an ounce of fat on her. Just like the kid, he connected. Neither of their companions sat around watching television.

She reminded Evan of Native American photos, skin leathered under the sun, eyes scared from a pain he couldn't begin to understand, could hold her own, wasn't afraid of Kyle and didn't perceive himself as a threat, but maybe she would listen to him. "We just want this to be friendly - presuming that we all want the same thing."

Her dark brown eyes lingered on Kyle's for a couple of moments more, then curiosity got the better of her. She looked at Evan.

"We all want this relationship to work out," he continued, "don't we?"

"Nikki," she said, her voice was surprisingly native to London, almost Cockney. She pointed to the kid. "Bo." She dragged the 'O' out to form an 'oh' sound. She, Nikki, looked pensive and on edge. Bo, on the other hand still looked like he wanted to slit their throats for whistling.

Evan smiled, "Nice to meet you."

"We need to keep moving," she reiterated.

*******

They travelled along the streets for hours, keeping close to the buildings, close to cover. They ducked inside at the first sign of Triad or SOP patrols, keeping their distance as best they could. Kyle appeared to be right, Nikki wanted to keep them from harm's way and she was doing a good job of it. He didn't see the enemy. He only heard the sporadic, hideous cackle of machine gun fire echoing over the streets. Evan was happy with that.

The street resembled a Picasso painting, buildings all rotted and twisted. Nikki kept them moving through the devastation that, for the first time, Evan was seeing through unfiltered eyes. No pop-ups, no heartbeats, no display features of any kind to distract him. He only saw what remained of London. Just as the sun began to set, Nikki stopped at a door. It was no different to any of the other thousand entrances they'd passed. She checked the street, surveying the length of road and the crossroads ahead, then back to the roundabout behind them. She beckoned to Bo with a swift tilt of the head. He nodded and entered.

Evan glanced at Kyle, wondering and full of expectation. "This it?" he asked her.

She looked at him. "Comfort stop."

Evan felt Kyle tap him on the back before following Bo into the building. Nikki waited, the impatience growing on her face. He followed Kyle through the doorway and up an uncarpeted staircase to the first floor. Whatever the building was, he knew it wasn't a house. From the narrow passage and stairway it opened up onto a large open plan floor. It would easily hold a football game.

Bo had taken a spot on the floor under a window. It overlooked the street they'd just left. Kyle walked towards the opposite side of the building and Evan decided to follow. Outside he could still hear the sound of gunfire echoing. He slowed his footsteps and turned, walking backward in Kyle's direction. He watched Nikki as she entered the floor; she looked his way but didn't say anything.

It was evident she didn't like him, or Kyle for that matter. She could have been professional, kept quiet for a number of reasons. But the way she purposely refused to look at them, and avoided their questions was agitating him. If she didn't open up soon, he thought, the feeling would be mutual. Bo at least seemed curious - towards Kyle more than Evan. He had caught him looking at Kyle more than once, glancing back when he thought no one was watching.

Seeing Evan looking in her direction, Nikki turned away, looked at Bo and spoke something in what he now guessed was Punjabi. Then she was gone, through the fire exit at the east side of the floor.

"Anything?" he asked Kyle, stepping up behind him.

Kyle looked away from the window. "Nothing you'll want to see."

He looked anyway. Whatever had been happening, it was now nearly over. Seven SOPs ambled along the empty street in an almost elliptical formation. Between them, crawled an unfortunate. Evan could just about hear them mocking the person; occasionally one of their laughs would be heard clearly, but only when the nearby gunfire had ceased. Kyle had been right. It was nothing that he wanted to see.

Yet, he found it hard to pull his eyes away from the image. One of the SOPs kicked the man in the side. The unfortunate flipped over, flailing like a turtle on its back. His soft underbelly exposed. Another SOP slung his rifle over his shoulder and unzipped his other weapon. He urinated on the man as he brought his hands up in a futile gesture, begging them to stop. From the first floor, Evan couldn't see his ethnicity. He was covered in mud and blood from his beating. He could hear his sobs, however, and recognised the dialect as Cantonese, even if he no longer could understand it.

"Triad?" he asked.

"Probably not." Kyle was still watching too. His face stone, like he'd seen this far too many times before.

"Then..." Evan started, but stopped. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"Why?" Kyle continued for him. "They're used to being in control. Today they realised they aren't."

Evan turned from the window, knowing if he continued to look, he'd have to intervene, and Kyle would refuse that order. It would compromise his safety and endanger the mission and he didn't have the strength for another fight anyway, inside or outside their little group. Instead, he looked back into the room, wishing he could block the Cantonese voice, pleading from outside. "Anything from Renner?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

It didn't come. Kyle still watched the SOPs from the window. He wondered if he himself wanted to stop it, or whether he would join in given the chance. He liked the question about as much as being held here with no information. So he decided to deal with the easiest one.

"Hey, Bo?" Evan stepped away from the window, walking toward the kid. "Are you blocking us? We've had no signal since Notting Hill."

But Bo didn't acknowledge him. He was busy stripping down one of his shiny, DEagles, pristine Desert Eagles.

"Hey kid, stop playing with that!" Evan said, standing next to Bo.

"We're changing out travel plans." Nikki pulled Evan's attention away from the ignorant child.

"We have a travel plan?" Kyle was being sarcastic, but Evan agreed in principle.

"We wait here until nightfall and keep to the roofs as much as possible." She was talking to Bo.

The kid looked up from his pistol, its parts laid out in front of him in a semi-circle. "Deep?" he asked her.

She nodded.

"Okay," he said. The conversation was over as quick as it had started and Evan still didn't know what was going on. It was as if Nikki had chosen to speak in English, for them to hear, but not to understand.

"Deep?" he enquired, "The Tooty Nung?" presuming invitation.

Neither Bo nor Nikki took notice of his question and he could feel his anger redden his face.

"Okay, this is fun and all." Kyle had walked over to the group, "but you guys need to start bringing us up to speed."

They both took notice of Kyle. "I just did." It was Nikki who replied, "and that's all the information you need."

"That's not enough."

"Too bad," she ended her sentence in Punjabi.

So Kyle replied to her in Punjabi. She wasn't surprised, she was disappointed. Disappointed, that her secret conversations were not secret, not anymore and had never been.

"In case you haven't noticed," Nikki switched back to English, "London is burning."

"About that," Evan chipped in. "What exactly happened? We know that the Triads are out for blood. That their Dragon King was killed last night?"

"You don't know?" Nikki's eyes were wide, full of spite.

"You're blocking our communications." Kyle said, "aren't you?"

She stole a glimpse at him, but her focus was on Evan. She really doesn't like me, he thought.

"From the top?" she finally asked.

"Please," Kyle said.

She removed her rifle's shoulder strap, leaning it against the wall and placed her hands firmly on her hips. "The Triad believe that the SOPs killed Sin Lao. They've announced their vendetta and everyone else is just trying to stay out of their way. You boys may as well be dressed in SOP uniforms with your weapons and boots, you're more likely to get Bo and I killed transporting you than you are getting shopped by Curb Bills."

Evan waited patiently for her to finish. She was too angsty and wanted them to get how angry she was at babysitting them across for him to interject. He knew his question from her first sentence, however: the SOPs were believed to have assassinated Sin Lao. She knew it wasn't them, and possibly knew who had. "Who did kill Sin Lao?"

Nikki didn't answer right away. She was thinking, thinking whether she should tell them. Or maybe, wait until they got to Window? Let the boss tell them. Kyle could see how angry she was, she had been seething ever since they'd left the tunnel. Probably since before they'd met her and Evan had taken her hostility personally.

Now that she was faced with his question, he thought it perhaps wasn't him. "You know who did? Don't you?" he pushed.

She shared the name. "Fletcher."

Evan missed the subtle inflection in her voice, concerned only with the revelation of the name. Fletcher. Dominic Fletcher? Not his fake identity, Dominic Blake. "How do you know that name?"

"This is bullshit!" Kyle interrupted.

Nikki paused, knowing she'd made a mistake. "Window will tell you everything you need to know."

While Evan wondered how Window would decide what he needed to know. Kyle stepped forward, raising his finger at Nikki. "Spill it!" he snarled. "You can't name drop without explanation, tell me what the hell you did with him."

"You think I owe you something?" she spat back.

"I think your house is no longer in order and Window may not be speaking for the whole south east."

"Not in order? My house is smashed because of you and yours. And you need Window far more than we need you."

"Bitch," he barked. "The next thing out of your mouth..." he lowered his eye to the gun. Neither of them had seen him finish it. Neither of them heard or saw him move, but Bo was there, standing close. Too close. The mouth of his DEagle pressed against Kyle's crotch.

Evan hadn't paid attention. There had been something else, something that hadn't sat right with him when she'd said his name. The way she'd said Fletcher. The pitch change in her voice, it had been subtle but it was there. She was angry, not with him, but with Fletch. Right now it didn't matter if he'd killed Sin Lao or not. What mattered was that she believed that he did, that she blamed him for Sin Lao's death.

But there was more to it than that, believing he'd killed Sin Lao was one thing but this woman wasn't just angry, she was scorned. Fletcher had betrayed her. He wasn't sure, but he was willing to bet on it. "He told you?" he asked, diffusing the situation with a resounding breath of confusion from the group. "Fletch told you his name, didn't he?"

The moment stretched on longer than Kyle was comfortable with. The pistol was still pressed firm against his inside leg and Bo hadn't moved since planting it there. He was a sentinel, waiting on Nikki's order. It could end, there and then. They had said it; Evan needed them more than they needed him. Whatever that meant, they believed it. As true as they believed Fletcher had toppled the Triad hierarchy and thrown London into anarchy.

Her eyes wavered, her hands slid from her hips. "Yes."

*******

Nikki led the way in silence, speaking only to Bo and infrequently at that. She would walk ahead of the group, dropping to one knee every half hour or so and conferring with someone on the other end of her comms device. Evan couldn't get a good look at it, but Kyle had told him that it was similar to an old-style Bluetooth device clasped to her ear. Sometimes she would summon Bo to confer, but mostly she took the calls alone.

When she did, Bo was never with her for more than a couple of seconds. He was her perfect little soldier, doing precisely what she asked of him and when she asked. Evan never saw him question her authority, never saw a flinch of concern in her judgement. They had waited on one roof-top for twenty minutes while he scouted ahead. Another ten when she scouted behind. He kept them moving and knew precisely when they could speak in lowered tones or not at all.

Surprisingly, Bo had begun to speak with them and not at them. He didn't mind them as much as Nikki did. When Evan had asked him about it, Bo had replied with "She wants it too much." She was anxious and wanted them out of harm's way as much as he did.

They travelled across the rooftops, just as they'd planned. The path took them across loose slate and past crumbled chimney stacks. When they reached the end of a terrace they would find a workman's plank stretching to the next building. If they were lucky there would be a scaffold-built bridge or, rarely, a zip-line. Both Bo and Nikki had carabiners and cords tied to their harnesses. Evan had to choose the kit quickly before they'd left and hadn't deemed it necessary to bring any climbing gear. Thankfully, Nikki had brought two spare.

Evan hadn't zip-lined since basic training. He peered over the edge of the building, the alley below eight storeys down. He'd never had much problem with heights and the assault course was his favourite part of training. One that he hadn't realised he'd missed. He tied the clip to his harness, threw the front of his poncho over his shoulder and clipped onto the line. He smiled and turned to Kyle. "I'm Batman!" and zipped across to the next building.

The wind had picked up and the night's sky had filled with dark clouds. Evan didn't need his display to tell him there was a storm coming - he could taste it in the air. He didn't like the prospect of moving across the rooftops in bad weather, but he liked the idea of walking the streets even less. He could still hear the cackling of rifles. Besides which, the rooftop journey was enjoyable. He and Kyle broke the silence with some small talk, Bo joining in more frequently as the night continued. The view was ironically beautiful. It had none of the gardens and upmarket residences that Fletcher had reported. "That's north of the river and some south; this area is in dispute. No one lives here," Bo explained.

"Disputed by whom?" Evan asked.

"Reapers, Kingz and Tooty."

"I haven't heard of the Reapers."

Evan took Bo's pause as consideration on whether or not he should answer, but he answered in Punjabi. It was the first time that Evan realised English wasn't the kid's first language.

"Monsters," Kyle translated.

"Monsters?" Evan didn't like the way Bo was suddenly looking at them. It was like he was reading a menu.

"Yes," continued Bo. "They harvest tech. For the markets. They could," he paused, "retire on Fallout. He's worth a lot of cred."

Evan didn't want to know how much cred either of them were worth. "How powerful are they?" Unsure as to whether Bo meant figurative Monsters or actual ones.

Bo's eyes slanted, giving the impression he'd had personal experience against these Reapers. "Hardcore."

"And they're claiming this territory?"

Bo nodded, his eyes betraying something else. Loss.

"Where are they based?"

"The Dome."

The O2, the Millennium Dome. "No worries. We stay well away."

That was good news. Except that Evan had a nagging feeling, a knot twisting in his stomach. Fletch hadn't put this in his report. There was no mention of the Reapers or of the O2. The gangs had stopped fighting for a year, but from Bo's tone there was evidently something more to these Reapers, and that something had changed Bo's demeanour. Something which made Evan believe that this particular gang, these monsters, were more than just street thugs. If that was the case then why had it been left out of Fletcher's report? If he'd been close enough to Nikki to divulge his real identity, surely he would have learned about them.

Nikki's pigeon call from ahead stopped his thought process. In an instant Bo left their company and scampered up to her at the edge of next roof.

"Boogie men," Kyle said. "They have them in Afghanistan. They scare the locals into avoiding augmentation. Keeping them au naturel so it's easier to subdue any revolts."

Evan looked to the next roof, to Nikki on her knee. Sheltered from the wind by an air-conditioning vent with Bo crouched next to her. "I'm not so sure," he said, noticing Bo looking back at them while nodding at something that Nikki was saying. "I think he's met them."

"Trust me on this," Kyle assured him. "Ghost stories and nothing but."

It crossed Evan's mind Kyle was attempting to dissuade him from panic. Was he such a wuss that Kyle felt the need to mother him? And why was he believing the word of a young teenager over a veteran serviceman anyway?

"We have to drop," Evan hadn't noticed Bo return.

The steel mast was bolted into the floor and wrapped in leather. It was sturdy, but if it was anything like the previous masts then it shot down into the floor below them and was bolted into that also. No, there was nothing wrong with the mast itself. Only that the zip line had been severed. Instead of a quick and safe route twelve storeys above the road, they would have to use the fire escape at the side of the building. Come out of the alley, cross the four-lane street to the opposite side and then climb up to the neighbouring roof.

"Do they break often?" he found himself asking.

"No," Nikki replied, "they get cut." She walked away from the pole with Bo in pursuit. The natural question would be, 'by whom', followed by, 'why'. Given they were being forced to the ground, Evan didn't care for the intuitive answers his previous conversation provided.

He was the last to reach the metal steps: Nikki was leading. Kyle was just climbing onto them using the railing, and Bo was waiting for him. The boy stood right at the edge of the building and Evan was struck by a parental instinct to tell him to step back from the ledge. The wind was picking up and could topple the kid's slight frame right off the roof. Before he said anything, he reminded himself that the boy grew up here. This was his playground and so he settled for. "It's a long drop," instead.

Bo didn't reply instantly. His concentration was on Nikki and on Kyle who were now onto the next platform of the escape. Nikki was stepping on to the next set of stairs. "Don't fall," he finally said, followed by clicking his fingers and a pointed finger toward the escape.

Evan took another look dark clouds and the shy moon before complying. The escape was rickety, shaking and creaking as the wind blew through the alley and it felt all a bit too unsafe for the four of them to be travelling on at the same time. Eight storeys seemed an impossible task to Evan, seven would have been a little better. By the time he'd reached four, Nikki had dropped from the final platform to the ground. Kyle was about to follow her and Bo was waiting on Evan to start down to third. Then Bo said, "Stop." Evan complied, feeling the first of the rain fall on the back of his hand clasping the railing.

"What is it?" he asked,

"Shhh."

"I was until you said to stop..." he muttered.

Bo whistled his pigeon call to Nikki on the ground, alerting her to the sound. She waved back to him and indicated to Kyle to take cover. He did so, crouching against the wall. She ran to the mouth of the alley, looking up the street at the approaching thrum. Evan settled himself against the ladder, flattening his body as best he could, his thoughts reaching toward the threat. A sound so apparent now, he couldn't believe he hadn't heard it. Engines. Small, and in some numbers. Motorbikes.

His thoughts raced to one thing. "Reapers?"

"Stay here," Bo said before he stepped up onto the rail and head-first monkey-climbed his way down the side of the escape. This really was his playground.

Evan watched him in the rain, from his fourth-floor view as Bo joined Nikki at the mouth of the alley. They shared a few words and he ran into the street and out of Evan's view. The sound of the bikes was louder now, so close he could swear he could taste the petrol in their engines. A patrol of some sort. A convoy of bikes, a number that he could not count without his chipset. He knew Kyle already had the information; but Kyle was on the ground, in the alley and Evan became very aware of his precarious position.

On the roof, Bo had told them the area was disputed. No bastard lived here. It would have to be one of the gangs, either Tooty Nung, the Shadowkingz, or the Reapers. While they did not want to brush with any of them it was the latter, despite Kyle's assurance they were nothing more than boogie men, that Evan wanted to avoid most. At this point, he thought he could handle a straight-up fight. Even being captured or killed. But having his body cut apart in a half-arsed autopsy and his tech sold on the black market like dolphin kidneys turned his guts sour.

Nikki whistled. Not a pigeon sound this time, nor any covert signal. It was a loud piercing whistle that cut through the ripening wind and rain. She stepped out onto the road, her hand up in the air halting the approaching vehicles. She had not indicated for them to move. Their last instruction was to wait, to remain hidden. He looked down through the grills of the platform and to Kyle. He was still against the wall, still waiting. Evan would wait too.

The first bike was a racer, sprayed with urban greys and red tags; the tags of the Tooty Nung. Its rider was dressed in dark leathers, his helmet adorned with red streaks and patterns too small for Evan to read. Damn he missed his chip. When the Nung removed the helmet, his long braided locks dropped heavy on to his shoulders. His brown skin was speckled with white nano-craft tattoos that washed over his cheeks. Behind him, nine more bikes stopped.

Nikki approached the lead rider. Her stance was casual, she wasn't afraid. Neither was the rider, not one of the bikers had trained their weapons on her. Not one looked suspicious, at least not from where Evan was placed. None of them had looked his way, or down the alley. "They know you," he muttered to himself, "don't they?"

His suspicions were confirmed when Bo joined them in the middle of the street. He appeared on the far side, had probably found a good vantage point to catch them in a cross fire should they have needed it. He fist bumped a number of the riders and chatted casually with one at the back of the convoy while Nikki conversed with the leader. He breathed easy in the assumption they were friendly. The conversation lasted about five minutes, maybe ten. Evan was unsure of the time. It seemed longer, growing more impatient the wetter he got from the rain.

Finally, the ones who'd removed their helmets replaced them. Nikki and Bo stood aside as the bikes continued down the street. Both of them waited in the middle of the road, presumably until the bikes turned the corner before returning to the alley. They signalled and Evan rushed down the escape as fast at the wet steps would allow him. By the time he jumped the last storey to the ground, the rest of the gang had taken shelter across the road.

It was a department store, or used to be. The front windows long gone, the interior sacked for all that was useful, leaving a dusty and windy space but at least it was dry.

"They were Nung," Nikki said, confirming Evan's observation. "They're patrolling in case anyone makes use of the distracted SOPs."

"Any news?" Evan asked her.

"The Triad groups are competing," she answered.

Evan nodded, remembering his studies on Triad hierarchy.

"For what?" Kyle asked.

"Their leader is gone. It's a show of power. All of his commanders will compete for dominance over the collective," Evan said, receiving a nod of agreement from Nikki.

"This morning they were only attacking the SOPs. It was revenge." She stopped, pausing enough to suggest to Evan it was not the good news he was hoping for. "This afternoon they started attacking everyone. Those who bring the most to the table have the most leverage at becoming the next Dragon King."

"Who's been hit?" Kyle asked,

"The Nung, north of the river. The south haven't been attacked as yet, but they expect to be hit before tomorrow morning." She glanced at Bo. "Butcher is taking his troops to reinforce the Kingz."

Bo didn't say anything in return. If he knew anything of Butcher besides his name he didn't show it. True little soldier boy.

"He also said," Nikki began again, "we have a clear route to the boathouse. They left there at sun set. Deep has the place secure and we'll have a place to crash tonight."

"We staying on the ground?" Kyle asked.

"No, we head back to the roofs," she replied. "Just in case."

## Chapter Nine

Party Crasher

Reekes' voice resonated inside Oliver's skull as he relaxed in the back seat of his Mercedes Maybach. "Renner hasn't heard anything, has he?"

"Nothing since Notting Hill," he replied, checking his sterling silver Tag Heuer watch.

"How long has it been?"

Oliver thought about challenging him there and then, telling him it was needless to be concerned with the safety of the boys that he himself put in danger through his reckless signature signings. Instead he settled on, "All afternoon. That's both Renner and Rockwood unable to give us anything to go on."

"How much longer are we prepared to wait?"

"How long is a piece of string?" Longer than Oliver's patience, that was certain. "Jonathan, I've arrived," he stated, Maybach turning onto the gravel drive and winding through the tall moonlit evergreen trees leading to the mansion.

"How long?" Jonathan repeated his question.

This time, Oliver knew he couldn't be flippant. "I don't think we have much of a choice, do you?"

Through the window, Oliver could see the guiding peg lamps and the three storey house looming. "Short of sending in a strike force?" the Prime Minister said. "No, we don't."

The car came to a halt. The door opened; a tantalisingly young concierge stood just behind it. Oliver slipped out of the car, pulling the creases out of his delicate silver suit and couldn't help but take in the awesomeness of the Tate stately home. While Oliver came from money, his town house could have fitted inside it six times over. Not bad for a child, playing computer games.

"I'll call you later," Oliver said, stepping up to the main doors and nodding at the security guard.

"Call me in the morning," Jonathan replied. "I'm going to bed."

Oliver smiled. Not at the gold-plated decor, or at the marble checkerboard flooring of the atrium. He smiled at his Jonathan. "Don't lie to me." He knew his friend the Prime Minister had an unrelenting itch, one that no matter how hard he scratched, it would not subside. And he wasn't the only one who knew. Faraday had alluded to it and if he knew, then it was a good bet that whoever he was working for also knew.

"Good night Oliver," the Prime Minister terminated the call.

It wasn't entirely Jonathan's fault of course. Oliver knew that. That was why he had stood by him all these years. When they were both young, caught up in the romanticism of politics, he was a stallion. Now he was just like Boxer, waiting to be taken to the glue factory. That would make Oliver Benjamin, he smirked.

Back then they were going to fix the country. The country that had been called Great was now a bad joke, just like them. All it had taken were some ill-conceived asylum laws, a recession and some greedy bankers. Past governments had sought to turn the country around, make it a land to stand tall amongst all of Europe.

Instead their legacy was a broken one, one that the manner of fixing was out of grasp. Unless you considered massacring hundreds of thousands of people a manner of fixing things. He was sure Jonathan had thought about it secretly, in the small hours of the morning, long after he had denied such ideas to Oliver.

But Britain was not his itch.

Except for appearances sake, Jonathan's family were all but estranged from him. As far as Oliver could tell, Jonathan not seen or spoken to his wife, Maggie, for at least seven weeks. She remained in Scotland with the children who, Oliver hadn't set eyes on any of them for at least 18 months and would have to check their social network pages to recall their faces. Truth be told, he missed Jonathan's family as much as the man they held Jonathan to be; a Prime Minister one could respect. Without them he was less..

Jonathan had confided in Oliver that Maggie had asked him to quit. "Canada," he had said, sitting on the floor of his bedroom. "Just like William. Run away because it's too difficult, too hard to fix. Run away like some small child." While Oliver was a royalist at heart, he couldn't deny the public opinion the King had abandoned his duty to the country by leaving.

"You'd be with Kylie and Zoe," Oliver offered Jonathan's children, not knowing what else to say. He didn't want him to move away, not before they had finished what they'd started. This was just after the family had left York and already the cracks in his friend's resolve were beginning to show. But he needed to give him an out. If only because he knew he didn't have one. He was in it to the end, no matter what that end was going to be.

But even before Jonathan answered, he knew what the man was going to say. He was also in it to the end, and so his family was not his itch either.

"Who would keep you company?" Jonathan had asked. "When all the king's horses and all the king's men can't put the country back together again. Who will you have standing at your side?" He had smiled and reached for the bottle that he kept under his bed.

"You," Oliver said reluctantly. "You damned fool."

On nights like this, when the Prime Minister sat alone in his office, he would fill his next morning's oranges with the Stoli he kept locked in his desk. All under the watchful eye of Winston Churchill's portrait, that old bastard still dominated the party long after his death. And that was his itch. No matter how much he drank, it would never slake his thirst.

"Sir?" A teenage princess thrust the tray of champagne flutes under Oliver's nose.

He took one. Smiled politely and watched as she moved onto the next guest, wishing he were twenty years younger.

The atrium was filled with arrivals such as himself, all swapping their winter coats for drinks and canapés. Friends greeting each other as happily as strangers meeting for the first time. The room was awash with fake smiles and expensive watches. Opulence was the word of the evening, everyone adorned with Beckham, Sies Marjan, Jay Z or the more classical Coco Chanel.

Through a short passage made of mirrors, podium set games consoles and false idols, Oliver found himself in the main hall. Blue and gold-framed glass tables, mirrors and paintings. Floating lamps hovered over the black-stained marble flooring that seemed to stretch the entire house. It was magnificent, so much so that he allowed himself a personal apology for not noticing sooner the deep thrum of Blu3 Cr33p's music as he performed live from the corner of the room.

This is what billions of pounds can buy, he thought as he drank the crisp bubbles so kindly provided. This is what Michael Tate, the undisputed FPS World Champion, the eldest in the International League and on the verge of retiring at the ripe old age of twenty two had bought with his winnings and franchised marketing deals. Soccer players of the noughties couldn't have dreamed of such luxury.

He could have had any person in the world. That statement, like his title, is undisputed. Classy, slightly geeky, and with a working class background, the ultimate working man's dream: play games, get everything. Including the love of one Madison Fry, the twenty one year-old adult simulation starlet with the finest bronzed hard body and the most sought after HUDSkyn in the business.

It wasn't something Oliver went for. Downloading another's appearance to overlap your own loved one was still considered as cheating for him and his generation. Hell, he still remembered pornography being top shelf. But the youngsters these days, they just couldn't get enough of it. Still, the tax kept the lights on for the NHS so who could knock it.

Another waiter squeezed through the crowd, this one carrying a tray of canapés. Oliver took one as the tray passed, popping a salmon-filled puff into his mouth in the same instant that he locked his eyes on the familiar face of Jack Faraday. Dressed in his tailored Armani suit, just as sharp as any other multibillionaire in the room.

He flirted with a beautiful green-haired woman, dressed in blue silk that showed off her long legs and tremendous fake breasts. "Faraday, you dog," Oliver said, slapping Jack on the shoulder. "How's the wife." Knowing this incredible beast was definitely not Mrs. Faraday.

Jack held up his left hand, eagerly showing off his naked ring finger. "Dorothy, this is Oliver Trench," he said. "Oliver, this is Dorothy Fairfax."

"Of Fairfax holdings?" Oliver displayed his most suave of smiles. "A pleasure." Bringing her hand to his lips, knowing better than to be uncouth he only almost kissed it.

"You're the chief whip," she said, her smile as phony as her breasts.

"Indeed I am, Mrs Fairfax."

"It's Ms," she said, closing in on her prey. "I hear you keep a strict house."

"Okay, charmer," interrupted Faraday.

"I'll have him back in a minute," Oliver agreed. "I promise." Grabbing Jack's arm, he pulled him away from her and into the crowd.

"Hold on a second," Jack said, pulling back on Oliver's grip.

"Only a minute, I promise," Oliver repeated.

"Have you been drinking?"

Oliver looked at his champagne flute and wondered when he had finished it. "Yes, but that's hardly the point. We're at a party."

"That's exactly the point." Faraday said. "What's with the rush?"

"You promised me names." They stopped amongst the crowd. "I've come to collect."

Faraday shifted from foot to foot, this was not the Oliver he had beaten in the Pond earlier today. "This isn't how we play the game Oliver."

"Oh, I've brought you something." Courtesy of Renner, you repugnant ass.

Jack smirked, but Oliver saw right through it. Jack clearly wasn't enjoying this version of Oliver. The version that enjoyed the squirming politicians that flapped about on the deck like dying fish "Something sweet, I trust?" he asked, still playing the game.

"Insider trading," said Oliver.

"Always a crowd pleaser."

"Last year, a group of benchers bought a bundle of stocks in Asuka Corps." The memory flashed across Faraday's eyes, "a week before the legislation deemed that their augmentations were safe by EU standards." Blood drained from Jack's face. "They used aliases of course, offshore bank accounts, the usual. But Special Branch does wonders, don't you agree Jack?"

"I..." he stuttered. "I wasn't part of the legislation." Faraday wasn't lying, but Oliver was far from finished.

"Wonders, Jack." Oliver grabbed the man's forearm, producing the blue H.A.N.D. Logo and connecting their chips. He dumped a Gigs-worth of files on him. "You see, Minister Bartlett was part of the legislation." Jack's HUD lit up with photograph after photograph, "And you're still fucking his wife."

Jack stared at the photos in silence, then the documents. The nice little paper trail that Oliver had found connecting him to fraudulent share manipulation. His cheery dispossessed smile slumped, it was over. Oliver had found the skeleton in his closet and he knew it,

"It's your turn," the whip added.

Jack massed all of his surviving wit about him and fired. "You're a cunt."

"So mother is fond of telling," Oliver stole Faraday's champagne from his hand triumphantly. "Now, out with it."

Jack looked at him a second longer, watching Oliver drink what was previously his before opening his mouth in defeat. "You already know about Harry Rockwood."

"Indeed I do."

"Percy..."

"...Browne?" Oliver's eyes rounded, he had presumed Percy to be nothing more than a whelp. "You're serious?"

Jack nodded. "He and Harry are the ringleaders."

"How many in total?"

"Oliver, some of these guys—"

"I don't care. They've made their choices." He twisted Jack's forearm, shimmering the H.A.N.D. Logo. "I want them all." He had to have them all, Percy was popular. Very popular in the benches, but he didn't have the balls for something like this.

Jack finally conceded, dropping the list of names over to Oliver. "Why'd you rush me like that?"

"Both you and my mother have covered that."

"We were going to offer you a slice of the pie." Jack was borderline sulking, but even in defeat he managed to pique Oliver's interest further.

"Were we?" The invitation made sense to him now; they wanted him here to make him a deal. A deal that by the look of Faraday's eyes could well be taken off the table. Faraday, Percy and Rockwood all with their hats in the ring but none of whom Oliver would consider a puppeteer.

Jack nodded, his eyes drifting from Oliver.

"They're both here then?"

"Percy is."

Oliver followed his eye line to the grand piano, currently being used as a discarded flute table. Percy was resting an elbow on it, standing and chatting with a group of men. All of whom were focused on another pair. A brutally suave man with shockingly white hair as well as the host of the party, Michael Tate.

"Who is he with?" Oliver asked, looking at Mr. Suave.

"Private Sector." He turned back to Faraday, wanting more. "No one you want to tangle with."

Oliver recognised the tone in Faraday's voice and called it. "You're scared."

"Leave off Oli, it's just a piece of advice."

"Am I likely to find myself out-matched?" asked Oliver, looking back at Mr. Suave.

Then came a different tone from Faraday, one that Oliver also recognised. Not one of fear or the casual political misdirect, this was pure, simple and truthful: "You're likely to find yourself dead."

The sentence stopped Oliver from pursuing. He had the back of the man's head in his sights, but his HUD couldn't identify him. Still, even without the information splashed all over his display, Oliver had the distinct feeling he knew the person. Jack's warning was as clear as they came. Of that much Oliver was certain, but Percy and Rockwood would have to have a backer. Someone outside of the party, someone with money.

The fear in which Faraday spoke of this man lent Oliver with the idea that he was that backer. So his interest persisted, he needed to know. "Does Private Sector have a name?" while waiting for his chipset to provide him with facial recognition.

As soon as Faraday uttered the first name "Felix," Oliver knew.

"Fray." Felix Fray, "Heir to Fray International?" The question was out there, but he did not need it answered. He didn't need to see Faraday nodding to know he was right. Fray International built everything from small arms to computers, from robots to cuddly toys. It produced the platform that H.A.N.D. still used. But out of everything Fray International did, Oliver would bet his soul it was the private security army that was being sold here tonight.

"Well," Oliver returned his attention to Faraday, "introduce me."

Oliver watched Felix listening intently at the conversation as he followed Jack to the piano. He was exactly as he would imagine someone like him to be - beautiful platinum hair, crystal blue eyes and a suit Oliver guessed cost more than he earned in a year.

As he closed in on the group he could feel his stomach knotting. Faraday's words were ringing loud in his ears. "Likely to find yourself dead". Jack Faraday hadn't used the words lightly, his warning was sincere, and Oliver didn't relish the thought of being dead.

"Faraday," said Felix, making room in the group for the two newcomers.

"Mr. Fray," Faraday said, but Felix was already ignoring him as he turned to the Chief Whip,

"And you must be Oliver Trench."

"Mr. Fray," Oliver accepted his hand, shaking it.

"Call me Felix," the man practically oozed charisma, "please." Oliver could have mistaken him for one of his own.

"Michael," the Tate boy held his hand out next.

"I know," said Oliver, "I saw you at last year's FPS Championship." Oliver followed the games as much as he filled the gap between football premierships. He knew some of the names, enough to carry himself in polite conversation. "An inspired final."

Michael was taken aback by the interest. "You follow FPS?"

"Avidly. Congratulations on the engagement, you've upset a lot of men. Oliver smiled, shook the young boy's hand and he introduced to the others in the group, one by one. All of them private sector, all of them hangers-on. Looking to be seen with the host and increase their share margins with the popular culture kids.

The conversation was attuned to this, as Michael was reluctantly nearing his retirement. Sponsorships were now moving abroad, winging their way to the Korean and Japanese teams. "Perhaps a funding grant?" one of the suits suggested. The group laughed and Oliver remembered why he disliked attending these events.

He didn't, however, give them any idea other than he was enjoying their company. He laughed with them, pandering to the incredulous nagging of tax cuts that happened wherever he appeared socially. This was not to be polite. Felix, like Faraday was switched on. Oliver couldn't tell for sure, not without further conversation, but he could sense that Faraday's warning was justified.

Felix nursed his drink, never leading the conversation but always listening. Always bringing someone else's view out into the open without sharing his own views. The game was afoot before Oliver had joined them, he and Percy shifting the group as if they were playing shuffleboard. They guided the group to topics such as China, lazy politics or lack of funding, all meaty discussions that put Oliver on the back foot. He deflected, ducked and countered all with ease but his patience, as with all things came to an end. "So what are my options?" he asked, directing his question to Felix,

The man smiled. "Somewhere you'd rather be?"

"I warned you," said Percy, supping his drink.

There was a nod of agreement between them. "You did." Then for the first time since Oliver had met him, Felix's attention drifted away from the conversation across the room.

Oliver followed his eye-line until they were both looking at her. When he did see her, he had to question himself how he had not seen her before now. Madison was as gorgeous as her HUDSkyn sales proved; he would be hard-pressed not to believe every man at this party would be downloading her that evening. Those who didn't do so, probably already had. Either way, she worked the room in a slinky blood-red dress, her face framed by her perfectly long, brown, tumbling curls.

"Mike, your fiancée beckons you," said Felix.

"Then I best not keep her waiting." Michael turned to look over his shoulder. He saw and raised his glass to her before turning to say his farewells. "Gentlemen."

"Great to finally meet you, Michael," Oliver said.

"A pleasure, Mr. Trench." He nodded to the others and left the group, finding his alluring counterpart.

"Fantastic manners, from one so young," said Felix. "Don't you agree?" Somehow he had a fresh flute of champagne. "Now, gentlemen, I'm sure you'll find the titillating conversations at the buffet table more suitable to your tastes."

The group, including Percy and Faraday, removed themselves and Oliver was left looking at his own empty champagne flute. "Top, up Oliver?" asked Felix, beckoning the nearest waiter. "You don't mind me calling you Oliver?"

Oliver couldn't think of a reason why not, so shook his head respectfully. "Knock yourself out." He exchanged his empty flute for a full one.

"Excellent," Felix beamed. "And as we're being ever so intimate, I hope you don't mind me being candid?"

"I'd prefer it," Oliver said.

"Good." Felix took a moment, taking Oliver in like he was a freshly delivered meal at a banquet. "Then you won't mind if I say Reekes is out of control. Secret meetings... the man is paranoid with but two friends. You and that voluptuous cougar you have running the Home Office," he said, pausing for a second. "He's past his sell-by date and the opposition is laughing at all three of you."

Oliver had to admit Felix did have an exceptional grasp of the situation. "But you already know this. That is why, Oliver, you tipped off the press."

Oliver remained silent, it was the second time in one day he'd found himself looking at his adversary who had him exactly where he wanted him. He had tipped off the press, he'd needed to wake Jonathan up and distance himself from the PM's office in case his investigations proved correct. However, now standing in front of the puppet-master he wasn't about to admit that he himself had been pulling strings. "I'm quite sure that I have no idea of what you're suggesting." The lie slipped as easily through his lips, as the champagne he drank.

"Oliver," said Felix, "please don't embarrass yourself."

## Chapter Ten

The Boathouse

Evan leaned against a broken wall, peering out from their building, a derelict on the corner. He didn't know the street name; he hadn't seen a sign for miles and hadn't attempted to hit his chip for any information in just as long. The back of his head still throbbed, and all he wanted in that moment was to bed down for the night and start afresh tomorrow.

Nikki leaned against the same wall. They were three metres apart and between them, the wall had a man-sized hole punched through it. The rain poured through, just enough to stop them getting comfortable, but at least the wall shielded them from the wind. She watched the street with a monocular. It had a number of dials and buttons on it, and Evan presumed it was geared for more than just night use. He'd seen similar ocular devices in museums. He flirted with the idea to mention how she'd not offered him her night-vision tool back in the tunnels but thought better of it.

"They're taking too long," she said, not looking up from the device.

"How long have they been?"

She checked her watch. "Twelve minutes."

They were taking too long. The boathouse was run by Nikki's friend Deep, he'd been told to supply them with a boat to cross the Thames. That would be in the morning after some promised hospitality - some food, fresh water and beds. Evan thought about those beds again. How soft the mattress was, and how plump the pillow would be. How much of a good night sleep he was going to get.

Twelve minutes was definitely too long. Too long because they would have been called over if their friends were still there.

"Wait." She was looking through the scope again. "I can see them. They're alone." She sounded more defeated with each word, like she was being beaten with a stick between each one.

Evan peeked over the top of the wall. it was horrendous outside. The rain slapped the ground so hard it would be difficult to hear a car engine drive past. It took him a while to notice them. Visibility was minimal, meaning he could barely make out shapes in the dark. He saw them as lightning flashed in the sky above., Kyle sticking close to a building across the way while Bo was jogging across the road toward them.

He skipped through the hole in the wall and shook the rain from his frame. "You're right," his voice grim and looking at Nikki.

She cursed under her breath and kicked the ground. "Triad?" she asked.

"SOP," Kyle said, ducking through the hole. Kyle took his poncho from Evan and rubbed the night from his face and hair. "Nine of them."

"Any sign of Deep?" she asked Bo.

"Just the SOPs. The boats are still tied."

Kyle crouched next to Evan. "They've not fortified the building. I think they're lying low, hiding from the Triads. I saw a burned out APC further down the road and some bodies around it. No sign of the Triads though."

Evan wanted to smile, that was supposed to be the good news. It was too, for Kyle. Not for Nikki who'd fallen silent. She hadn't mentioned how close she was to the people living there. How close she was to Deep and by her actions she no longer needed to. She stood up, walked away from the three, disappearing into the blackness and further into the building.

"This isn't Triad territory," said Bo, "it's ours."

"I thought this was Tooty Nung—" Evan started.

"It is. It's also ours."

"But I thought you were part of Window's clan?" asked Evan, puzzled.

"We are."

"So Window is Nung?"

Bo rolled his eyes. "No." He shook his head and walked after Nikki.

Evan wanted to ask further, but he knew he wouldn't get anywhere. The conversation was over.

"They still don't like me," he said to Kyle.

"You are kind of a dick."

"Fuck you."

"Exactly." Kyle sat down next to him. "Cut them some slack, they've just lost their friends and we look exactly like the enemy right now." Kyle was right, he had boiled down the situation to a simple reasoning.

"They're not——?"

"Going to kill us? No," Kyle grinned, "not me anyway. I'm not so sure about you."

Evan stifled a laugh just as the wind kicked around. It blew a wash of water through the hole, nearly soaking him. "Shitting hell!" he complained, moving further inside.

"Complaining you're wet now?"

Evan was about to retort when he saw that Kyle was still sodden himself. "No. I was about to say so much for an easy ferry."

"It still could be."

It only took Evan a few seconds to catch up. "We have papers." They'd need to connect with mission control but they would be able to get onto a boat without going toe to toe with the SOPs. If they weren't too shot up to check before shooting at them and if they believed that Bo and Nikki were their guides or captives. "There's a lot of ifs."

"But it can work."

Evan could feel the idea rooting in his mind. "If we can hack them, then Renner can alter the papers and we can procure a boat from them." He turned to the blackness behind him. "Nikki!" he called, then back to Kyle. "This can work. You're a genius."

"What?" she asked, standing next to Evan.

"We can hack the SOP commander, hack all of them, and they'll let us take a boat. No questions asked."

"No."

Kyle understood where her objection was coming from and countered it, "You can block me again once the hack is done."

Nikki spouted something back at him in Punjabi that Evan couldn't follow. "English," he said; silencing her. "Please?"

Her eyes orbed into her far too familiar glare. "I was just saying to your friend here, how convenient the one way across river has been taken by your guys. And your magic solution is calling for backup."

"You think the SOPs took this base because of us?"

"Why not?"

"Because if they knew enough to block our path, you think they need us linked up with base?" Evan glowered. "Besides which, you think I want the SOPs in my way? You think I'm happy with all the killing? I'm trying to meet your boss. I'm here because I want to stop the killing." He breathed. "Jesus - we have to start trusting each other at some point."

"I'm not starting that trust by betraying Window."

He tongued the inside of his teeth, defeated. She wasn't going to budge, he wasn't going to ruin what little they had by pushing it further. "Okay then," he changed course. "We can still try it. We still have legal papers, we can bluff you through as guides or prisoners."

He heard Bo laugh at 'prisoners'. "Are they likely to fall for that?" he asked. "Given that they're hiding out, the rest of their squad dead on the road outside?"

"What happens when they don't fall for it?" Nikki added.

Evan didn't want to answer.

"They start shooting." Kyle answered for him. "Then we shoot back."

It was the answer Evan had avoided. He didn't want SOP blood on his hands. They were just doing their job. There had to be another way. "How far until the next crossing?

"I already said this is the only way across." Bo.

"It can't be," Evan pressed, looking at Nikki.

"Why?" she replied. "Why can't it be? You blew most of the fucking bridges up in twenty-one and your SOP pals control what's left."

"They're not our pals." Evan knew he'd been baited as the words left his mouth.

"So let's kill them and take a boat," Bo said with piercing callousness.

"You're not serious," he stated, looking at Nikki. Meaning not that Bo was kidding, but that Nikki couldn't take the child seriously.

"This is the only way across," she pointed to Kyle. "You heard what he said. They've not fortified and most of them are asleep."

He looked at Kyle, wanting some support but found him staring out the hole. Silent partner. "What if we steal a boat?"

"They'll be all over us when we start the engine," Bo said.

Evan squinted. "In this storm?"

"They have diesel engines, we'll be lucky if the storm would suppress the sound enough to avoid alerting everyone in the postcode." Kyle said. He could see their argument, could see the urgency of the mission. The longer they stayed in one place the more in danger they were. The longer they moved through London openly, there was more chance of ending up dead. They needed to get to Window on the quickest and safest route possible. The mission was above them all, but Evan refused to give up his humanity in the process. "We're not killing them."

"He doesn't have a problem killing," indicated Kyle.

The kid didn't understand. "That was different, we were under fire," he said, hoping that would be enough.

"But he ploughed through them," Bo continued. "How many SOPs you kill?"

Evan was about to correct him but felt his mouth dry up. SOPs. They'd been following them ever since the M4, they'd continued to follow them until they'd met at Notting Hill, the SOP station. They'd been separated. Kyle had shot someone, someone who was about to kill Evan as he tumbled from the platform. Someone that Evan hadn't seen. He'd hit his head, not thought about the attack. He'd presumed Kyle would have had to kill some Triads, after all they were the ones chasing them into the tunnel.

Had Kyle said something, mentioned that the SOPs were defending stairways? Stairways Bo had circumvented by means of the ducts. It was Evan's mission to speak with Window, to deliver the Prime Minister's message. It was Kyle's mission to make sure Evan got there in once piece. How many SOPs had Kyle murdered to get back to Evan?

Evan looked at his silent partner, turned devil's advocate, back looking out through the rain with his augmented eyes. His killer eyes.

"You're running out of time," Nikki returned Evan to the conversation. "This is the way across."

Evan was backed into a corner, running out of ideas and clutching at straws. He needed a way to keep the body count down. "Can we at least keep the sleepers out of it? Drop gas in or something to keep them sleeping?"

"If we had gas we'd knock the entire building out." She was right, of course.

"I can kill all of them before they wake up." Bo's detached reasoning terrified Evan, in his eyes the kid was worse than Kyle's thought process. At least Kyle's actions could be explained by duty. The kid however, was missing something fundamental. He wanted to kill these men.

He looked around the group and saw himself outnumbered. "We're not killing anyone," he said to Nikki.

"I'm right here." It seemed Bo didn't like being excluded as much as Evan disliked discussing a plan of action with a murderous child.

He needed an idea, an idea that would keep them as far from danger as possible and get them across the river. If he could formulate an idea like that, then they would go for it. He was sure of it. The boathouse could have smaller boats, ones with oars. They'd have to wait out the storm but it was an option Providing they had them, of course.

Six of them were asleep. He turned to Kyle. "Where are the sleepers?"

"Top floor," Bo answered.

Evan waited for Kyle's response. "What he said," he confirmed.

Bo glared at him but he ignored it. "The drones have gas." Both Kyle and Evan carried one FRP drone each. A lightweight disc, with two vector thrust propellers. When inactive they were small enough to fit in your hand, or clasped to your belt. They were remotely operated, but would require an active link connection that they did not have. They were also programmable, that is the user could input the plan into it and the on-board AI would work around the obstacles to reach the desired result.

"Not in this weather," Kyle stated. "If we set them off inside the building, maybe. But they're small, enough to knock out one man a piece."

The lightweight frames would be useless in this storm, but they could release them inside the boathouse. That was doable. His plan could work, they could save two lives, but the group had already moved on.

"We could draw them out, catch them in crossfire," Nikki suggested, calculating the risk to the group, looking at the quickest way through the building. Like Bo, she had no problem killing the SOPs. They were in their way and had to be removed. Unless Evan could think of something, every soldier in the boathouse would die.

"I got this," Kyle said, "if you can get the boat ready." He was looking at Nikki. She nodded.

"Got what, exactly?" Evan found himself asking.

"I'll break into the top floor, make sure the sleepers aren't in a position to interrupt anything. Then knockout the three on the ground floor."

He tried to work out Kyle's stony face but failed. "Lethal?"

"No."

"You're risking us all by leaving them alive," Bo said. "They can alert another group, or come after us."

"They're not in any shape to come after us," Kyle argued with the kid. "And if they could alert another group, they wouldn't be hiding in your boathouse."

"And you're sure you can take them all out without alerting the rest of them?" Nikki asked.

Kyle just smiled. He flexed his muscles and switched into combat mode. His systems were limited to local commands and sensor information, but this made him no less lethal in close quarters than if he'd been connected. His eye shields slipped down from his brow, his skin tinting an urban camouflage grey and Bo's eyes lit up as bright as the sun, he blurted something wondrous in Punjabi calling Kyle's attention to him. "Damn right," he said with a confident smirk.

*******

Fifty metres of road passed beneath his feet in twenty-one seconds. He didn't break a sweat. His limbs could do more, but he wanted to remain invisible. The boathouse was a stout building composed of three floors and a bottomless sub-level that held the awnings. It had its own weed-ridden car park and a perimeter wall. Not a fence - a sixteen foot-tall, stone wall. Kyle was at the top of it with one kick off.

He gripped the top and pulled himself into a squat position that overlooked the lot. It hadn't changed in the time he had left it. One APC, riddled with bullets, was parked against the wall, and hidden from the road. There was no one patrolling the grounds. No lights from inside the building. The SOPs were definitely hiding.

A second APC had been hit further up the road. The crew murdered and left on the roadside. Confirmation to all that they'd been killed, no point looking for dead men.

Bo had scouted the boats, leaving Kyle the perimeter. He hadn't told Bo what he'd seen and he hadn't mentioned it to the group. Not when Deep was supposed to be their friend. They were looking forward to the rest and the company. If Kyle had told them what he'd seen, that the slipway was piled with Tooty Nung bodies. Well, he'd have had a hard time convincing everyone not to run in guns blazing. Kyle knew he had to earn their trust, he just wished there was another way to do it than to lie to Evan.

The way he saw it, the SOPs had driven in, asking for help. Perhaps requesting one of the other buildings to hide in when the Tooty Nung turned them away. They'd been scared, didn't have anywhere else to go. They couldn't face being thrown back into the preserve when it was open season on SOPs. He didn't think they took that news lightly.

There had been more of them then. Not all of the bodies on the slipway belonged to the Tooty Nung. He had counted another six SOPs. There had been twenty-six Nungs. Not good odds, but they had little other choice. Their APC had taken a hit to the fuel tank. It wasn't going to go much further. They would have had to walk through unfriendly territory with limited ammunition, without the option of an airlift. Not in this weather.

The survivors had dropped the bodies next to the river. It would claim the corpses as the tide was due in soon. There was nothing else to do but get some rest. Nine men, it would make sense to split the group into three. One group on watch, stagger the sleep rotation. Three hour watch, six hours sleep, right through until morning. If Kyle required rest, which thanks to his augments, he did not, that was what he would have done.

Kyle figured the group on the ground floor were on the first watch. He could see their hearts beating through the boathouse walls. All three in one location, in the front of the house with a window to watch the entrance of the building and the grounds. Not what Kyle would have done - it left them open to people like him.

He dropped to the tarmac, silent under the sound of the storm, and ran to the house. There were three entrances on the ground floor - one double door at the front and one large gate at the back, which opened onto a gangway and what could be called a pier. The third was a single door, located on the side of the house and positioned next to the fire escape that led upward, stopping at each floor.

Kyle took the fire escape. It was old steel, creaking and scraping against its joints but no more than with the wind. Satisfied it would not compromise his position, he continued to the second floor and stopped. He could see out over the street, he could see the flashing whites of his team's heartbeats as they moved toward him. In his plan, it wasn't necessary for them to turn up until after he had finished. He couldn't see any hearts beating in any of the nearby buildings. There was no further threat that in this house.

He headed along the escape to the next set of stairs, pausing at the window. It's glass was conveniently replaced with tarpaulin. Kyle pulled his knife from his boot sheath and sliced a way in. The storm followed him into the boathouse as best it could. His feet rested in rainwater, more ran down his brow and dripped off his nose. There were only three things outside of his unit that he missed about Afghanistan. First was Kabuli Pulao, simple and spicy. Second were the women. Third was the weather. Most soldiers found it too hot, but to Kyle it was small tax to pay for not having to suffer the rain of home.

He crouched in the shadow under the window, smelling the stale gunpowder and spilt blood from the day's earlier events. Above him were six men, asleep. Below him there was supposed to be three, now only two hearts beat. His head snapped to the end of the hall, the third was coming up the stairs.

When the guard stepped onto the corridor, Kyle was gone, ducking into an unlatched door. He had vanished but had left the tarpaulin flapping in the wind. Leaving his wet footprints on the vinyl flooring, breadcrumbs to his hiding place.

He watched the heartbeat continue its route, hearing the footsteps moving quickly up the corridor, towards the window, towards him. He still held his knife in his fist. His thumb rested on the foot of the hilt, the blade extending along his forearm. In silence he stepped to the side of the door and waited for the guard to reach the window, to see the footprints and to find him.

He wouldn't be able to see him through the wall. Kyle's body camouflaged him from curious eyes, even if they were augmented. The guard would have to come through that door. He would push it with the muzzle of his pistol, check the corner if he had any sense or walk straight in if not. Either way it didn't matter. Kyle would grab the guard's wrist and pull him forward, unbalancing him, and bring the knife across his throat.

It didn't happen. Instead, he watched the beating heart rush into the room next to his. He breathed a little easier and stepped back into the corridor, thankful these guys were sloppy. He checked the door to the next room. A slight silver sign was screwed into its surface at eye level. Straight in the middle of the door was a stick-man, the universal symbol for the male toilet.

He considered entering, interrupting the SOP in his moment of weakness. It would be the easiest thing to do and that was why he was here. It was the easiest thing to do. He couldn't. That man didn't deserve Kyle's interruption. Instead, he pulled a small device from his harness. It was round and charcoal in colour, no bigger than a bottle cap. Knock-knocks were simple devices with a long and tedious official name. They are one of Kyle's favourite little toys to come out of R&D. Simple and effective in a variety of situations, such as this one.

He pressed the knock-knock against the door. His thumb flattened against its surface until the rim flashed twice. He removed his thumb, the knock-knock remained fixed to the sign, on the stick-man's head. One down, eight to go.

He stepped backward, checked the guard was still using the facilities. Satisfied, he looked down through the floor and to the two hearts beating below him. Still there. He looked up and counted all six hearts, averaging at 64 beats per minute. All asleep. He un-slung his rifle and walked to the stair well.

Four metres of straight staircase, little rubber pads on the edge to stop anyone from slipping and a good old-fashioned hand rail fixed to the wall. Just what he wanted. He slotted his rifle through the gap, jamming it at an angle pointing towards the top of the stairs. His network feed wasn't working so he held the grip, checking the scope's view for accuracy. Clean and precise to the top. He blinked a command to the rifle and the rifle acknowledged with the reply 'Sentry Activated'. It flashed once on his HUD and disappeared. Seven down.

He blinked his timer up: he was on schedule despite hiding out in the cupboard. The rest of the team should be over the wall now. A quick look through the boathouse walls revealed them in the courtyard. All according to plan. He released his Browning sidearm and rested his aim across his knife-hand, it was time to take down the last two.

The hearts were still together. Close, just over a metre apart. Both of them were sitting, or were a little short to be real troopers. He flipped his visual to heat signature. They were sat opposite each other at a table, playing cards in the dark. He'd take them inside the room.

He closed on the door, stopping outside. Behind it he heard a gruff, defeated voice. "Go fucking fish." The rest of the room was bathed in reds and blues. It looked to him like a kitchen, and he was pretty sure the blue mass on the right was a sink. He waited some more. He waited for the distraction. It would be one of three. Either one would give Kyle the advantage he needed.

He looked to his feet, the awning underneath. In the basement three heat signatures were busy preparing the boat. He looked upward, one heat signature had stood up and walked to the sink and was washing its hands. Further up, the remaining six heat signatures were still in dreamland. One of two then. He looked through the door at the card players; he could hear one complaining to the other. He'd give him something to complain about in three. Two. One.

The floor shook beneath him as the sound of the engine filled the boathouse. He kicked open the door and fired. The first shot entered the throat of the man on the right. It was a clean and practised shot that sprayed and disorientated his friend with blood. Kyle snapped his aim to the left, the second bullet piercing the eye socket of the second man before tearing out the back of his skull. Kyle snapped his aim back to the right. The man on the right clutched his throat, trying to stem the flow of blood. The third bullet entered his chest, piercing his heart and killing him.

He looked upwards; the SOP rushed to the door and opened it. In their simple design, knock-knocks flash twice on arming. They record the distance around them. Then when the distance changes, say when a door is opened, they explode. There was a flash of brilliant white on his infrared field. Three of the nine were dead. Soon, those nine would be dead too.

Kyle checked the bodies for spare ammunition. He couldn't use their weapons, but could use the bullets if they were the same calibre. He tapped the cargo pants pocket and struck lucky. Forty calibre softs. He placed them in his own pocket as the sound of his rifle started. One short burst. He looked up through the ceiling, and found it a mess of red and yellow. The gent's toilet was on fire. He blinked back to heart sensor just in time to see one die.

The other five were waiting. Manoeuvring, expecting to find someone waiting at the foot of the stairs. He could hear them return fire. One by one his rifle would take them out, if it ran dry or if one of them had a lucky shot then they'd get one last surprise. They were all dead if they insisted on coming down that way and he'd put money on it they would. He holstered his Browning and knife. Then he left the kitchen, leaving the two dead SOPs bleeding over their card game.

Kyle walked at a pace, following the narrow corridor to its end where he met a hardwood door painted black with iron fixings. It was locked. He shouldered it once, it shuddered at the force but held. The resistance came from the mid-section, an iron bar perhaps. He pulled back his fist and fired a punch at the door. His arm travelled through it to his shoulder. Behind it he heard the splintered wood rattle to the ground. Above him his rifle rattled at the next poor SOP to attempt the descent.

He looked up, there were three remaining. Out of habit he blinked a request to his rifle, only remembering the block in his comms when the bullet count failed to pop up on his display. He wasn't concerned about the three, but he had expected to be on the boat by the time the rifle exhausted its ammo. It was an old building and there was no guarantee that his surprise wouldn't bring the house down.

He reached around on the far side of the door, finding the bar right where he had expected it. He lifted it from its fixings and dropped it, hearing it slide down the stairs on the other side. He quickly followed the iron bar and when his feet touched the basement floor, he breathed a little easier. Another level between him and the surprise.

He stepped up the pace, almost jogging to the boat. The rifle would switch to its undercarriage grenade launcher once the standard ammunition depleted. Without a communication link to the weapon, Kyle had no way of knowing if or when that was going to happen. He wasn't about to take any chances.

He jogged along the jetty and jumped onto the tug boat. The explosion came from above them. Kyle's surprise had been triggered and all six undercarriage grenades ignited. The building shook, dusted concrete powdered down from the ceiling producing a thick grey haze, but to Kyle's relief, the house still stood.

Evan was waiting for him on the port-side, leaning against the side rail. Looking at him. Kyle could see he wanted to scold him, reprimand him for disobeying his order not to kill them. He didn't. Evan would have to consider everything before postulating a response to Kyle's actions. That was his nature, Kyle knew the man was struggling with all other considerations. Had the engine come on too early, had something gone wrong? Or had Kyle planned this all along?

Kyle hoped his silence was because deep down Evan knew it had to be done. He just didn't want to make that call. He didn't want to sacrifice nine lives for the mission, because he knew Kyle would. But it was a trade-off Kyle was prepared to stand by, he had done so to gain the trust of the two who were leading them, the two who were close to Window. The ones who would tell him they didn't place SOP lives any higher than the lives of those who lived in London. Oliver wouldn't have chosen him to accompany Evan if he'd wanted it any other way. This wasn't the place for people like Evan, Kyle would get him to where he belonged; but they had to get through this first and this was a place for killers.

## Chapter Eleven

How To Make Friends And Influence People

Oliver left the Tate mansion a little after three in the morning. He wasn't one for staying out late anymore and the party had worn him thin. His meeting with Felix had caused him more concern than he had thought possible. He was unsettled. He had presumed that Faraday would name a number of political rivals, all of whom he would have no problem or hesitation in cracking the whip over. He had not considered outside interests, especially from one so calculating.

The private sector has always caused politicians bother. Capitalist society cannot function without business and the interests of business only follow constituent interests as long as they keep spending. Lobbyists are by nature whining little shits, the nagging housewives that Oliver chose to avoid.

Felix however, well he was rare breed. He was dangerous, a kingmaker.

A kingmaker with bad taste, though. Oliver couldn't see Percy Browne as Prime Minister. He was a fool. The pairing was pure juxtaposition in his mind and the oxymoron continued to baffle Oliver into the early hours of the morning. On paper, he could see the appeal. He was, after all, the Foreign Secretary. But off paper, he was nothing but a self-serving idiot.

Still, Felix had provided him with knowledge he dearly needed. He was up against a serious card player, one who had a far better hand than Oliver possessed. If he bluffed, Felix would discover the truth. His knowledge of Oliver's tip-off to the press had proved that. He had to dump his hand and gamble on a fresh one, and as he waited for his car outside the Tate Mansion, Oliver pinged a couple of messages to two unsuspecting and probably sleeping individuals.

The sleek, black Maybach grumbled over the loose gravel drive coming to stop in front of him. Noticing the absence of the concierge, he opened the door himself and climbed into the back seat. "Market Street please, Joe." The man raised his gloved thumb as he always did and started the engine without speaking a word.

"Jonathan," thought Oliver, and waited for a response.

"Oliver?" The reply was distant, half asleep. But it was Reekes.

"Sorry to disturb you."

"Who is it then?"

"Percy, Rockwood and Felix Fray."

There was a long pause, one that Oliver took advantage of by confirming his next meeting and sending Reekes and the most recent publications on Felix. "You sure?"

"I just met with Percy and Felix."

"They said Harry was involved?"

"Yes." He spared a thought to whether he should add. "They invited me to join them."

This was followed by another long pause, one that allowed Oliver time to analyse his earlier conversation, then just as he reasoned his decision. "Have you?" Jonathan asked.

"I'm considering my options," said Oliver. "Jon," then he paused, uncertainty hanging on him like lead bricks, "they intend to kill you."

*******

Market Street was empty at three fifteen a.m. The street lamps glowed dim, brightening as the Maybach drove near them and fading once past. "Here is fine," Oliver said, waiting for Joe to pull to the side before opening the door. "I shan't be long," he advised, before climbing out of the parked vehicle.

He pulled the creases out of his suit, ignored the cold biting his skin as it goose-fleshed under his shirt. He hadn't far to walk, just enough time to run through the plan in his head one last time.

He had to play it carefully; if he came across too eager they would become greedy and would decline his offer. He couldn't let them know how much he needed them, how desperate he was to build a strong enough hand to play against Felix. Percy was well liked in the party; without him and without Faraday it left him with slim pickings from those so called allies. He had no other option than to look across the aisles to the opposition. He needed a coalition.

They were waiting for him, as he knew they would be. Sitting right at the back of the coffee shop, already nursing two steaming mugs. He noted they were alone but didn't acknowledge them. Instead, he ordered his espresso. Watched as the robotic servant, painted in the green and black branding, prepared his drink, and only then did Oliver join the two patrons. The woman was Julia Greaves, shadow treasury and confidante of the second; Justin Fox - the shadow Prime Minister.

"Oliver," said Justin, waiting impatiently as Oliver removed his blazer and hung it on the back of his chair.

"Ministers," he finally acknowledged, sitting down and unfastening his collar and tie. "I hope you don't mind, but as neither of you dressed for the occasion..."

Fox scoffed at the comment, his rough red hair and unshaven face unimpressed with Oliver's gallantry. Julia however, had taken some time and effort in her appearance. "It's gone three in the morning," she said.

Oliver smiled. "Indeed it has."

"Well?" Julia wasn't known for her patience.

"Good party was it?" Fox jumped in.

Oliver replied with a nod, wondering if it were a slight as he'd not been invited and blew the steam from the surface of his espresso. "I have an offer for you." It was an obvious answer, he'd dragged them out at three in the morning to meet at a Starbucks of all places. He wasn't about to discuss the Swans smashing Liverpool earlier that evening. Still, he needed to let them know who was doing them a favour.

"Why the cloak and dagger?" Fox asked, clearly the smarter of the two.

Oliver checked the mirror on the back wall, which was large enough to see the front door while covering the serving area, including the robotic servant. He blinked a command to his chip; should his peripheral see something he should not, his HUD would alert him. "We have some..." How should he put it? "In-party issues."

"So you've come to the opposition for advice?" Julia had the distinct sound of gloating in her words.

"If it's that sorry excuse for a health—" Fox began to wade in, "we're not meeting over legislation," said Oliver.

"Then why are we here?" Julia said, as blunt as they come.

Oliver chewed over her words; he wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. She needed her beauty sleep after all. But no more than he needed her help. If he had been given the choice he would have met with Justin alone, but he didn't have the luxury of choice. Like Laurel and Hardy, they came as a pair.

Both of these ministers had been giving Jonathan the thin end of the wedge on more than five pieces of legislation in the past year, not to mention catching the PM with his trousers wrapped around his ankles on the foreign aid to Africa last month. He expected more from them. If they were smart enough to cause him problems in the house then they should be switched on at three twenty-three in the morning.

He began to wonder if he was wasting his time when Fox blurted "You're moving on Reekes. That's it isn't it? You're going after the seat." Still, there was some hope after all.

"I'm not moving on him," Oliver clarified. "Percy is."

"Does he know?" asked Julia, presumably meaning Jonathan...

"He's up to speed on things," said Oliver.

"What about us? Does he know we're meeting?"

Oliver looked her in the eye, finally appreciating her thought process. "That's between us. For now."

"Percy has a lot of support, he won't leave you with much of a leadership if he calls Reekes out," she said, blunt, astute and altogether incorrect. Percy had no intention of calling him out.

# Part Three

Imagine

## Chapter Twelve

Percy Browne

When Percy had graduated third from top of his class in Corporate Law and Political Science. His best friend Carl had grabbed him around the shoulder and told him it didn't matter if he bested the record or had just scraped by, a solicitor he would become. His father, always dissatisfied with Percy's achievements had punched him in the stomach so hard, that he'd stopped breathing.

When he woke on the tiled kitchen floor, he wiped the vomit from his own lips and lifted his shirt to discover the early blooming of a bruise. His father sat watching the television, in the next room. Clearly he'd said his piece, so Percy stood in the doorway for an uncomfortable minute in a vain attempt to gain his mother's absent affection. After the minute he retreated to his bedroom. Alone with the knowledge; it would have been less painful if he'd come second and not at all if he'd been first. He may have even received a smile.

Percy, along with all his immediate family, had been a party member as far back as he could remember; and still recalled vivid memories of suiting up with the rest of the Browne clan, attending the club and watching his father knock back shot after shot of whiskey while he and his brothers drank carbonated syrup and ate a plethora of flavoured crisps prescribed by Walkers.

He had suffered through school, college and university without so much of a drink in fear of repeating his father's persona. The drool-filled maw, flared nostrils and red eyes; everything about his father that he despised was mirrored in Jonathan Reekes.

"You're a cad, Percy!" Even the Prime Minister's vocabulary reminded him of his father. "God only knows what decrepit, vomitous hovel spat you out." His cheeks burned and his sunken eyes glowered in a fury he had yet to experience this close, "You swore an allegiance to the king - to me!"

"If the Prime Minister would hear me out," he blurted. giving himself a second in pause. The old man was tired and rabid, so feral did Reekes look that Percy was afraid he may take a bite out of him if he got any closer. Yet behind the explosion of condescending wit, the fact that this dressing down came so close after Oliver had learned of his recent extra-curricular scheming was not missed.

Percy could not fathom how this thing was still Prime Minster? The PM was no longer a he, but an it. An awful drunken cretin steering the government into jagged rocks, and that creature now sat poised to leap at him, engorged on bad food and alcohol, glaring at Percy as if he were some common street punk that had offended him in some way.

Long since had the time passed when Percy had liked the man, when he had voted for him. And looking at him now, Percy had difficulty reasoning why he had done so. He meant the beast no ill-will, but as it had stopped listening to anyone other than itself he had seen no other way than to put his plan into effect.

Jonathan Reekes was consumed by a lust, an obsession for fixing the country with all the king's horses and all the king's men... He was a damned fool. He ignored the European PM's warnings - Jaeger was a reasonable man but his lack of tolerance for Jonathan's idiosyncrasies were well documented. Jonathan, who also ignored France, frequently stuck his fingers up at Spain and was seemingly satisfied to simply suckle on the American teat, but even the Yanks were beginning to show their concern.

Reekes was oblivious, unable or unwilling to comprehend that the planet was at a tipping point. In less than twenty months, the world would run out of oil. "With the U.S. and China distracted on the remaining oil supplies, Europe—"

But Reekes cut him off. "Please tell me you're not going to hide behind one of your think tank's tales?"

Percy shrank, he was shouting again. As he guessed he would. Jonathan never liked that particular projection date. He refused to listen, for him to hear the mere suggestion that America's preoccupation with China would feed interest into Europe. For him, the idea of the rest of the world turning to coal when the largest countries fought over the remaining oil was ludicrous. And thanks to Thatcher, Britain had vast coal supplies. "MI6—" he tried again.

"Would tell you Hitler had crawled up from hell and was raining Nazi Zombies on us if it meant getting them a bigger budget." Reekes lifted his bulk from his chair, lumbering toward Percy like an ogre.

For a second, Percy thought of how that statement would play out if he had said it in the House. In front of the entire party and its opposition. "If one would allow me to finish a sentence, perhaps one could use all of the facts to scold me?"

There was a break. No retort, not even a snort of distain from the Prime Minister as he closed in on Percy enough so he could smell the sweet citrus on his breath. Percy's lips quivered, his nostrils flaring at the revolting creature that cemented itself in front of him. Still, at least it had let him finish his sentence.

The PM creature squinted, uncertain in its next action. "Then skip to the end," it said.

"The world is collapsing," Percy continued, "you're ignoring your duties to the state. There is more to the Kingdom than London."

"There is no Kingdom without London!"

Percy lifted his hand, shielding himself from the spittle. It was obvious the chosen approach was not going to work, so he chose another. "Prime Minister, my strategy—"

"Murders millions of British citizens."

Percy didn't argue the semantics; the majority of people living past the fence were not British. A new generation of squatters lived there now. No, Percy was more interested in Jonathan's knowledge of the strategy, his new strategy. Another thing to thank dear Oliver Trench for passing on.

"Both London and the South East are irreparably barbarous," he said. "Every study done in the last ten years has said the same thing. They will not submit to conventional, civilised law. They will not allow themselves to be implanted with chipsets and even if they agreed, we cannot afford it."

He had never shouted at the Prime Minister before, but this was something that he believed in. Jonathan Reekes needed to see his folly or the country would succumb to the greedy eyes of Europe. The knives were already being sharpened; they had to move now. He had to move now, and no one, not even this ogre, would stand in his way.

Without chipsets, the populace of London would be unemployable. Unable to access bank accounts, they would not be able to purchase anything. Not even bread or water. They could not assimilate into the consumer market and were therefore undesirable to society.

If they could turn the south into a profit, then the corporations would come to their aid. To ensure this they had to cull the herd, efficiently police the borders and take the land back inch by inch, selling it off to private firms, restoring the treasury and start paying some of the country's loans back before anyone came to collect. "We bleed soldiers and lose public support daily, putting a private security force—"

Percy's head snapped to the right. His father's face blurred in his eyes and his jaw warmed to the skin before he realised the loud cracking sound was Reekes' back hand across his face. Blood flooded his mouth, coating his throat and teeth. He pressed his palms into fists, readying to lash back but he didn't. This was not the time.

"You went behind my back." Reekes was yelling again. "My back! And for what? To destabilise an already tenuous peace—" He raised his hand to Percy's unflinching face and closed his index finger to thumb. "I am this close to fixing it."

Percy had heard of this argument again and again. The same chorus, repeated like a bad dance track for eight years: ever since Reekes had taken power. If Jonathan could fix it, he would have. There would have been some traction on something. There hadn't been. And for him to wash his hands clean of blame when it was he who had signed the authorisation for Lockhead in the first place, he was nothing but a hypocrite.

Instead, Reekes only had himself to show for his efforts. A drunken, violent fool who Percy had no intention of allowing to bleed this country any longer. "There is a chance of a peaceful resolution and I'm taking it," said the creature, leaning back onto his desk. "I will not join the ranks of Hitler and Stalin. I will not be remembered for being a butcher."

Percy tongued the loose incisor before looking the PM in the eye. "You won't be."

## Chapter Thirteen

A Kingdom United

Since the boathouse; the crew of the tug had not spoken with Evan and that's how he liked it, giving him time to mull recent events over in his head. His three companions had shown their colours and he'd found himself alone. They were killers, he was not. He sat on an upturned lobster cage, holding onto the aft wall while the boat cut through rough water. Nikki remained in the cabin, driving the vessel. Kyle rested against the port side with Bo moving back and forth between the two of them.

In the silence, Evan repeated one question to himself. Had he known? Had he known Kyle was going to kill the SOPs? No. He hadn't thought Kyle would or could ignore his order, but had he ordered him not to? He bit his lower lip instead of replaying the previous conversation on his HUD. It was unsettling not being sure, having to rely on memory instead of a backup.

His gut told him he'd ordered it so. He'd made it abundantly clear the SOPs were not to be killed. Yet they were all dead. All killed by the one person that he needed to trust. Doubt was breeding, like a rising damp crawling through his veins. He watched Bo, who since the boathouse had become drawn toward Kyle. They sat close, laughing at each other's jokes and Kyle was more than happy to show off his many augmentations.

Even Nikki showed him some respect. Why not? He'd done what she'd wanted. He'd given them the revenge she sought and in doing so he'd earned their trust. There was a cold logic to that thought, one that tasted bitter in Evan's mouth. For it still left him with an amorally priced ticket to ride the Thames.

The rain had stopped by the time the morning's sun showed its brilliance. It rose over London with such an awesome radiance that Evan almost forgot the danger the city still held for him. It was only when he saw the reflection of the net-covered dome, The Millennium Dome, that he recalled Bo's stories. The Reapers lived there.

He looked down the length of the boat; Bo was showing Kyle his brace of pistols.. His most magnificent and deadly toys. It was easy to think the country was too far gone, too past caring about itself to be fixed. Now the Triad had upset the delicate balance. Was Window able to deliver on what he preached? Looking around it seemed an insurmountable task. The infrastructure of London itself would take years to rebuild. Then there would be the neighbours, Reading, Dover without tagging on places like Cornwall or the rest of England to the list.

Bo dived into the cabin and momentarily reappeared at the door beckoning Kyle with one of his DEagles. Evan almost stood up and followed, but remained seated and watched as Kyle entered the cabin and spoke with Nikki. They looked so damned cosy to Evan, such good friends now. No doubt laughing about those men who wouldn't return to their families.

When the boat lurched, Evan's grip was slack but maintained his position on the lobster cage. He only took a mouthful of ice cold Thames water as the wave crashed over him and the deck. "Jesus!" he called out, fighting the urge to let go of the rail stand out of shock. The breeze burned the cold across his face forcing him to close his eyes. He was lucky, the second wave slapped against him, almost knocking him from his seat.

He stood that time, his body screaming and he stamped the pain out onto the deck through his boots, "Bastards that's cold"" he said, feeling the first of the shivers taking hold. He couldn't remember ever being that cold. Then the Thames calmed and the boat returned to its usual bounce. The waves splashed against the sides but didn't flood over. He grasped the rail and stole a glance back towards the cabin.

All three still stood inside, Bo and Kyle looking back at him from the comfort of the cabin. Fuckers. He looked back at the passing Dome and the small group of people watching them go by from the dock. From this distance he wasn't able to make them out too well, dark ominous shapes which conjured up the images of scarecrows in his mind. Unable to count them, something about the way they stood together... They weren't so much individuals but a whole dark entity, foreboding and malevolent. These were the Reapers, of that Evan had no uncertainty. Luckily for him; they made no motion to intervene in their journey.

"Spray is pretty heavy." He'd been too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice Kyle settle in next to him.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"You're wet."

"No shit."

"You know why I did it."

Evan knew, but didn't reply, he was too interested in their spectators.

"I had to gain their trust."

"Then you must be happy with yourself, all warm and cosy in the cabin," Evan sniped.

"Jesus Christ you're a child. I got us on the boat. I kept you safe and I got us points with the team. "

" Are we going bowling or something?"

"Something."

Evan couldn't keep his eyes off him. "Something?"

"I reported in to base, they know we're good. Renner says hi by the way."

Evan smiled before he could stop himself, the news was good and for a second he forgot its cost. "Anything else?"

"He confirmed Sin Lao, and that the Triad have hit almost every SOP base in London."

Evan nodded. "Any instructions?"

"Get it done ASAP." Kyle smiled.

"Yeah right."

"I get the feeling we're not the only ones in the middle of a shit-storm." A wave crashed up against the side of the boat, spraying the two of them.

"Yeah, well at least their showers are hot," Evan said through chattering teeth. "Did you see a coat or anything in the cabin?"

"I'll check with Bo."

"Not Mowgli?"

"I said it worked," Kyle's attention slipped from the conversation to behind Evan's back. "Wow."

When Evan turned, he was greeted by the silhouette of Westminster spreading out on the embankment and instantly recalled Sky NEWS reporting the attack in glorious 1080i across the world, two days after the British Government had fled London. It took only one mob of faceless thugs armed with Molotov cocktails and pipe bombs nine hours over a single night. To destroy what had taken 34 years to build.

At its apex, the clock tower still stood. Two and a half sides anyway, the rest was crushed under the bell they'd named Ben. Cut free, it had been left to crash down and out of the west facing wall. "I never thought I'd see it," stated Evan.

"You still haven't, but you and I are the first steps to fixing that."

"I get the feeling we're too late."

Bo strutted along the deck toward them, looking a little too cocky in his one-sided smile, a little too confident in his stride. He'd been in the cabin with Nikki since Kyle had moved aft, no doubt discussing the next steps.

"Put these on." He threw a couple of burlap sacks to their feet.

"Seriously?" Kyle looked as surprised as Evan felt. They'd travelled half of London with them. "Why now?"

"I thought we were all best buds?" asked Evan.

"Just put them on." He was not happy having to repeat himself, or maybe he was unsure about himself. He'd shown Kyle nothing but admiration since the boathouse.

Now he was telling him what to do. Maybe he realised by getting closer to Kyle he'd removed some barriers. Barriers that he could no longer hide behind. He'd found himself ordering someone about he'd shown weakness to and wasn't so sure of himself, in his awkward stance He looked less than a man then, with the sun rising behind him. He looked like a young teenage boy giving an order to an adult and Evan thankfully, managed to stifle his laugh.

He reached down and picked up the bundle, passing one to Kyle and placing the other over his head. There was no point arguing at this point.

"You two Fallout," Bo added.

"You're not tying our hands?" Kyle said as he placed his own sack over his face.

"That would be pointless," Bo replied.

"And this isn't?"

Bo did not reply, instead he fastened the sacks with their pull ties.

"I can see you Bo," Kyle said.

But Bo had left them. He had walked back toward the front of the boat.

"I can see him, I can see him in Goddamn infrared walking to the cabin."

*******

While Evan rested a hand on Kyle's shoulder and shuffled along the small plank, he found himself remembering the first tentative steps back in the tunnels under Notting Hill. He followed each of Kyle's steps until he reached the jetty. Both of them could see the burlap webbed across his eyes but he could still make out shapes, could still see the light shining through.

"Keep straight." An unfamiliar voice came from ahead of them, "There's no lifeguards stationed 'ere and I ain't jumpin' in after you."

"Dunstun," Nikki's voice came from behind Evan followed by the unstable floor bobbing as she bounced past.

"You didn't 'ave favourable odds."

"I expect half of what you won."

"What makes you think I put down for you to make it?"

"You better had," they chuckled.

Evan tried to count how many friends they'd just made. Dunstun stood close enough to him that he blocked some of the morning light and Nikki now stood ahead of him. He couldn't hear Bo, but he guessed the kid was close by. There was a sense of more people but any shapes he could make out through the sack were too alien, too obscure for him to identify.

He kept his hand on Kyle's shoulder, walking and stopping, and there were frequent orders to do one or the other, sometimes from Dunstun, other times from Nikki and once from a voice up high. When they were told to stop, they would wait. They heard a mechanical noise; a winch of sorts perhaps, definitely a wheel that needed oiling. He counted the time between the order to stop and to move, it was always between fifteen and twenty-seven seconds.

While he couldn't see anything other than black shapes through the material of the sack, it was easy to sense they were being herded. Shepherded through a series of gates. He had counted his steps from the jetty, intent on knowing the distance back to the river should the shit hit the fan. After the third gate he realised that running for the river may not be the best escape. When he heard Dunstun say "Get in," followed by the familiar sound of fist banging on a car door. He knew the river was a no-go.

He climbed into the vehicle. It had a foot step and he had to reach up to the roof before climbing in. He imagined a 4x4, something similar to a Range Rover perhaps. The seat was less than comfy. He felt the harsh fabric of an old folded blanket which had been thrown over the seats.

"You okay?" Kyle asked.

He paused before answering, as he waited for the door to be closed after him "Yes." He could barely hear Nikki and Dunstun talking outside the vehicle. "You?"

"Could you see any of that?"

"Some shapes, gathered we moved through some gates?"

"And then some. They have guard towers, snipers, machine gun nests. I'm pretty sure I saw an X4 parked up in the distance."

That was some serious guns. The X4 was an American designed, Australian manufactured anti-riot robot. A couple of tons of armoured steel, a tank sized spider. They were generally deployed with water cannons, but could be fitted with any number of armaments. "How did they get their hands on that?" It was rhetorical, but the question needed to be out there.

The front doors of the vehicle opened and some people jumped in. "Not much further," said Bo.

"Thanks," replied Evan.

"That's cute." Another voice, a woman's, spoke a second before the engine started.

It was an old fuel engine, the vibration in the seats unmistakable. Evan remembered his father taking him to school in one, before they'd swapped up to electric. "This petrol?" he asked.

The vehicle pulled away but he received no answer. He imagined Bo wouldn't know, possibly. Or perhaps he was that child again, the one he saw telling Kyle to put on the burlap. Either way it was the driver who was preventing the flow of information in the car.

"It feels like a petrol," Evan continued speaking.

"Could be diesel..." It was Kyle, filling the dead air that followed Evan's statement.

"Where do you get the fuel from?" America and China were about to go to war on the last oil reserves and they were driving along in a combustion engine in a Third World state. No answer. Fine, Evan thought. He had enough to the think about. These people were better equipped than he'd expected.

Everything had surprised him. First they'd hidden Window's message in an archaic radio signal. Secondly, they'd blocked contact with base and had been invisible to their own sensor equipment. They'd held the boathouse, until the SOPs had taken it from them. They had an impressive defence system in place from the river, including an expensive piece of military hardware, the X4. Who were these people and why, with all that tech were they travelling in an old Range Rover?

He thought more and more on these apparent questions. Questions that, in his eyes, should have been in the forefront of Fletcher's reports. Dominic Fletcher wouldn't have made these mistakes. That left two options: they'd hidden it from Fletcher, in which case - why were they so matter of fact right now? Or that he'd deliberately excluded them from his reports. While he did not like it, the latter was the more believable. So the next question was, had he been coerced or had he chosen to do it himself?

*******

The rover had travelled for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Evan pre-occupied himself with his thoughts and lost track of time. He wasn't concerned as he knew that Kyle was counting every second with his chipset.

When it stopped, the driver and Bo left first. Their doors slammed shut and he could hear the driver speaking with someone through the door before it opened. "Out," she said. He swung his legs over to his side and held the lipped roof to steady himself, stepping down from the vehicle and waited for his next instruction.

The ground was soft, not sinking soft but still soft. Cold morning mud perhaps. No one was talking. It was an altogether hostile and untrusting scene he found himself in. The light had dimmed somewhat, the shapes through his burlap sack were darker here. He couldn't distinguish either person or building.

"This way," a man's voice said, followed by a small hand resting on his shoulder and nudging him to the left.

It was a similar procedure to that of the jetty. They walked for a time, then stopped for a short while. People talked at each other, but not with each other. He knew Kyle could see him, the red blob in his heat vision would vibrate with each pulse his tracker sent out. But, he couldn't see him. "Fallout?"

"Yeah?" Kyle's voice was behind him and close.

"Just checking."

No one else spoke. No one told them not to speak. They didn't care. Evan and Kyle could have spoken amongst themselves the entire route, he guessed. They just didn't have anything to say to each other. Not when both of them knew the other was alright. They wanted it to be over. They wanted to be there. To reach the end of the rabbit hole; to meet the illusive Window.

"Wait." A woman's voice, Nikki. She must have been with them the whole time. Evan didn't think she'd ridden in the car with them, so there must have been a convoy.

Evan moved his weight from foot to foot, feeling out the now hardened and uneven floor. Uneven cobbles.

"Okay, bring them up." It was Nikki again.

The cobbles soon disappeared to be replaced by a concrete step followed by a carpeted floor. They continued on, for a surprisingly long time. He had expected them to reach their destination as soon as they were inside. But wherever they were, wherever it was they'd been brought to, was huge. Corridor after corridor, door after door. So much so, that Evan contemplated the chances they were being moved around in circles.

"Wait," Nikki ordered again. This time Evan heard her close a door. It was a change in pace, a change in procedure that brought him to the conclusion that they had reached their destination.

He was wrong. "Okay," she said, returning.

Evan felt the slight hand on his shoulder push gently, and he was gratified they were at least being treated fairly if not overly hospitably. He was herded further forward. "Mind your step," the woman behind him warned. Evan recognised her voice, it was the driver of his Rover. He felt around him with the tip of his boot, hitting a raised border.

"Thanks," he said, then stepped over it. The carpet had ended. He walked now on a metal grid. Possibly a gangway, he thought. His next thought was where in the hell are we? Deepest darkest crap. That's where it felt like. The floor was sloped. It was subtle, but it was there. His senses were reduced but what he had left could tell. He was heading down.

That wasn't all. The air was thinner, processed through air-conditioning. He added up the clues, and knew he was inside a large building with many rooms. There had been no stairs, no elevators, and yet he was walking downwards into an air-conditioned area. There was a faint hum in the air. Not the air conditioning, this was a new sound. Electric. The sound of strip lamps. The clues provided fruitless theories.

"I prayed for you." It was a woman's voice. An older woman: he'd put his money on that. Someone who did a lot of talking, her words were strong and carried weight. He could see her standing on a stage. "For you all," she added.

He felt the driver's hand pull gently on his shoulder. It was time to stop again. He wondered whether the woman meant to include him in her prayers. "How are you my boy?" she asked, but it was clearly not meant for Evan or Kyle.

"Clean," Bo replied. He was standing just in front.

Four words repeated inside Evan's skull like a comedy reel from an old cartoon. Are. We. There. Yet? Around him he could hear the group shuffle about, their boots distinctive on the metal flooring. They moved around them and then behind. Back the way they had come. They had stopped previously, but they'd not been left alone. He. He had not been left alone. "Fallout?"

"Just us," Kyle said.

"Can you see anything?"

"I could see the whole trip." He sounded exasperated. "We're underneath Whitehall. Well, I'm pretty sure we are. Six people walked us down here, all armed. There were four people waiting in here. They locked the door behind us."

Evan grabbed the top of the sack and pulled it off his head. The room was unimpressive. About ten metres square, all steel plate. A bulkhead door in the wall ahead of them, and the same behind. One oval, red rug lay in the centre of the room.

"Could you see who they were?" Evan asked. "The new ones. I could hear Bo and Nikki, our driver was here too."

"Just heat signatures."

"Seems a bit strange." Leaving them here alone, without instruction or explanation. "Eerie."

Kyle stepped into the centre of the room and rubbed his foot on the rug, "There's no red curtains. That's a plus in my book."

Evan thought about that for a moment, then a childhood memory of being freaked and terrified at the same time came running back to him. "I didn't take you for a Lynch fan."

Kyle crouched down and was running his hand through the rug. "I'm full of surprises."

The door on the far side, opposite the one they'd entered through, squeaked. The circular handle began to spin. Slow at first and growing in speed until the loud clunk filled the small room. The door opened and a man walked through. His head was shaved, his face needed to be. He was dressed in plain green cargo pants and a black t-shirt with a white fist printed on the front; it's middle finger extended into a birdie..

He glanced at them quickly, then turned and closed the door behind him. "Which one of you is Bluebird," he said, his voice overtly familiar.

"I am," replied Evan.

The man looked from Evan to Kyle. "You his caddy?" but Kyle was too busy appraising him to react to the man's question. It appeared to upset him. "You shy boy?"

The man's voice was devoid of any accent - a trained voice. It was so familiar and yet Evan couldn't place it. Or rather, didn't want to. The man who shared this small metal room with them was someone who spoke publicly on the radio. Evan was sure of it. "Window?"

The man who he presumed to be Window was face to face with Kyle. His jaw was bouncing up and down, chewing on gum like it was out of fashion. He didn't react to Evan's observation. Not at first. He was too busy attempting to rile Kyle up. "You shy, boy?" Evan added, candidly.

The man looked him straight in the eye and stepped up to him. Close enough for Evan to smell the spearmint on his breath and the cheap soap he'd used to shower, that got his attention. "Do I come across shy?"

"You come across a bit of a dick."

The man stood back but didn't drop his gaze. He was wired to explode. His eyes were dry and shaky, he needed to blink. He didn't. "Fallout," he clicked his fingers and pointed at Kyle. "That's you."

"Are you Window?" Evan repeated.

The man stared back at him, then looked again at Kyle. He looked for a long assed second, anticipation dripped from his brow. Then he looked back at Evan, smiled and held out his hand for him to shake. "Yes."

Evan accepted Window's hand in grave disappointment. This gangly retard was the leader of Free London. The man that had the impossible challenge of putting London back together again now the Triads had torn down all of his work.

"Follow me, please," he said, turning to the door he entered through. He swung it open and stepped out of the room.

Evan looked at Kyle, who grinned, extended his arm and bowed. "After you."

"Fuck off."

They followed Window along a tight corridor of steel. Strip lighting hung above them and Evan patted himself on the back for recognising the sound of their neon buzz. They passed a cross section, a junction in the corridor, and carried on straight. They turned left at the next intersection before reaching another bulk head. Window opened it and stepped through.

Inside was another room, similar in style but far larger than the previous one, at least twice the height and length. The floor was carpeted and the room was fully furnished with mismatched leather sofas and chairs. A knot of tables huddled around the centre of the room creating one large conference table. It was surrounded by twenty chairs.

Other than Window, Evan could see both Bo and Nikki in the room. As well as nine others, sitting in clumps around the room and all dressed in similar attire. Brown leather and khaki. Whatever conversations had been going on, stopped as soon as they entered the room.

Evan felt like he'd stepped into the OK Corral.

Window broke the silence with a loud booming question, "Who's making the coffee?"

One of the young men pointed to the central table. On it stood several jugs and a collection of cups and mugs. "Right there D."

"You expect me to make them?" asked Window. "After what I just did?"

Evan beat down the need to challenge his insult - the man was beyond obnoxious. After he had just introduced himself to them? If he could call that an introduction.

"I'll do it," one of the other men offered, in a voice that Evan recognised from earlier. Dunstun.

"Good man," said Window. He spun on his feet and faced Evan. "You like coffee?"

Evan nodded, so did Kyle. Neither of them looked or felt impressed by the man in front of them. "You are Window?" Evan asked again in disbelief.

He stopped waving his hands about. "Yes. I'm fucking Window. Are you simple or what?" The man turned his back on them and walked toward the cobbled-together table. "Get simples and his silent partner a coffee too. They can add their own milk and sugar. The Hilton, this is not."

He leaned himself up against the table while people busied themselves behind him. "You have it?" the question was directed at Evan. He carried on his person, a message from Jonathan Reekes for Window's eyes only. The same message that Dominic Fletcher had arranged to be delivered.

Evan nodded and reached around his back. Attached to his belt line was a small cylinder. It unclasped with a simple clip-slide. He threw it forward, Window catching it easily. He looked at it, ran his finger along the length and thumbed the end, looking for an entrance. When he found the screw cap he paused. "This isn't going to explode in my face. Is it?"

Evan wanted it to. "It's quite safe," he reassured Window, staring back at him and not wanting to give him any satisfaction. Any mode of diplomacy had been left in the small room down the hall.

Window span the tube in his hand, scrutinising Evan's expression while he thought it over, "Do me the honour." He said, stopping the cylinder and throwing it back to Evan. He caught it, unscrewed the cap and tapped out its contents. A single piece of rolled paper.

Evan placed the tube on the table, holding the paper out in Window's direction. "As I said, it's safe."

"Can't be too careful." Window grimaced, stepping forward and snatching the paper from Evan's hand. He unrolled it and began reading.

They waited while Window grunted and snorted his way over the document. They graciously accepted their mugs of coffee, Evan especially. The last drink of anything was the bottles of beer at Knotting Hill.

"You know what's on this?" Evan found Window looking at him impatiently. "Have you read this?"

He hadn't. "No."

"But you know what's on this?"

"Yes."

"Then Bluebird, I must ask this: are you taking the piss?"

## Chapter Fourteen

Politics and Sausages

The new House of Commons in York, while far from the historic Houses of Parliament, was as much like it was, but lacking the heritage of the previous location. The purpose-built room was no more than an assembly. The two largest parties sat from left to middle with the smaller parties on the right and all facing the speaker of the house at the front.

Gone was the dark wood and green leather, replaced with sheet glass and stage lamps. All designed around putting the government on television; so the country could watch them in vivid high definition hologram, fixing things, righting wrongs, and making their lives better. In fact, one could very well say its architectural design was stolen from the Bundestag in Berlin.

There had been a lot of discussion on issues and legislation, despite the hot and easy topic of the rumour mill that was pulling threads out of Reekes' administrative trouser leg. The Opposition, more than happy to throw mud at the Prime Minister whenever there was a chance, had decided for whatever reason not do so that morning.

From his seat, Oliver had the opportunity to watch Percy as he absorbed the morning's session. Checking over his shoulder now and again to see if anyone of his confidants had similar quizzical expressions to the one the Foreign Secretary was wearing. The session in hand had run for an hour already when the Liberals decided to pipe up. Notably, it was Fox who baited the Prime Minister into discussing the National Health Service.

Of course, this was the outward perception of the argument.

The backspins, the flats, the chips, forehands and follow-throughs, all the entertainment of Wimbledon for the pontificating intellectual. But today's farce was more akin to World Wrestling Entertainment. The result had already been agreed before they'd entered the house. The script had been handed out to the parties involved. Oliver only had to sit back and enjoy his handiwork.

The icing on the cake was that Oliver sat but nine chairs away from the Foreign Secretary and that he could feel Percy's rage warming the chilly room and that writhing contempt brought a smile so large and noticeable, that Oliver had to cover his mouth with his hand as he enjoyed the scheduled entertainment, not to draw any attention. Percy had annoyed Oliver, not because he had conspired against him or the Prime Minister. It was because Oliver had believed him to be so inept he hadn't thought to give him any attention and that lack of attention had given the whelp opportunity to surprise him.

Fray may have been an adversary that Oliver would step up to do battle with; Percy was no more a tiresome obstacle he would walk over. This morning's bitch-slap, provided by the Prime Minister was just the beginning of the humiliation that was intended for him. He chuckled at the thought, keeping his well placed hand over his mouth. One does not want to find oneself on the six o'clock news sneering at the words "A dire need to save our NHS," echoed from the Speaker of the House.

Percy must be inwardly cursing, completely bewildered how the NHS ended back on the table without even so much as a one page to read in the morning's cabinet meeting. He would suspect Oliver, of course. He wasn't completely useless, despite outward appearances. He was no doubt, preparing his rebuttal for a confrontation with him outside in the hall.

So, after the session ended. Oliver left the room through the eighteen foot tall double doors with everyone else, but placed himself at the opposite wall and waited. He waved to Jonathan, who was heading straight back to his office as usual. No doubt to get his fill of well-deserved vitamin c.

"What the fuck are you playing at?" He had missed Percy's approach.

It didn't however break his cool: this was his domain. The corridors of Parliament were the Whip's kingdom and Percy was just another inflated ego prodding his finger into Oliver's chest. "Language Percy. We're in the house," he said. "Besides which, I don't know what you're talking about." He offered a disarming smile, hoping to rile things up a bit further.

It worked, "This farce," Percy jabbed again, targeting the soft tissue under Oliver's collar bone, "with Fox."

"Are you referring to the NHS?"

"Of course I am!" Oliver swore he saw a blood vessel pop in Percy's left eye. "We've not mentioned the NHS in the Cabinet for months, why in the hell is he doing it now?" He was certain he could see the mark left on his lip from Jonathan's ring.

"Contrary to popular myth, I'm not privy to all of his dealings," said Oliver.

"Yet he seems privy to yours." The speculation was expected but didn't put Oliver off his stride.

"You're fond of speaking in riddles, aren't you?" Oliver stated.

"Don't give me that. Don't give me your nonchalant superiority!" Careful Percy, that's a lot of syllables for a novice. "You know he summoned me." Then, when Oliver didn't say anything. "You expect me to believe he reprimanded me for no reason other than being me?"

"You think he needs more?"

"You told him where you were last night, that's why he—" Oliver grabbed Percy by the arm before he finished the sentence, pulling him along the corridor like the spoiled brat he was.

Oliver hadn't expected this, he had prepared for a confrontation. Some flavour of suspicion, but a blatant accusation? No, he hadn't expected Percy to have the balls do that. Especially in the house, in front of people. He must have more support than he thought or more riding on his deal with Fray than he cared to play with.

Oliver made a mental note to run a fresh Whip count of their supporters this afternoon – better to be overcautious than to find yourself drowning with no friends to throw you a rope.

He led Percy through the fire exit on the right, which led them into a stark unpainted brick stairwell used frequently by MPs for conversations just like this one. "Percy," he said releasing him. "Jonathan is a cantankerous bastard who believes you are nothing but a vapid grin, wedged into his cabinet by your excessively wealthy family." He wanted to continue, but he needed to end this conversation. "He doesn't need any other reason to put you down.

"Now, if you're pissed at him, woo hoo - so is most of the bloody country. But if you come at me again like some rabid dog, I will put you down." Oliver stopped, inhaled calmness into his lungs while staring at Percy with malicious intent, half wanting him to retort.

He didn't. Instead he stared back at him, the frustration seeping into his eyes. But he didn't say anything.

Oliver smirked, a cheap but well-deserved gloat.

"Fuck you!" Percy barked, spinning on his heels like a cast member off Days of our Lives and stormed back into the corridor, away from the Chief Whip.

Oliver caught the fire door before it slammed shut again, pressed it open and followed Percy into the corridor. He amused himself with the sight of his defeated opponent, who was now back in his place.

"What was that about?" Oliver recognised her voice, but didn't look her way.

"I was heading to the lounge," he said, watching Percy race past Fox and his friends at the door to the House. "If you don't mind hearing about it over a drink?"

"What is it?"

This time, he faced Antonia. Noticing her deep brown eyes in a manner that he'd not done before. "Come on." He raised his elbow, allowing her to slip her arm through its crook. "He thinks I'm playing both sides," was all he said.

"Are you?"

He was going to laugh it off and change the subject. His usual deflective tactics, but for some reason he found himself confiding in her, answering "Absolutely."

*******

The argument was not going well. Window, Danny or Dee as most of his group called him, was a pompous arrogant ass. Whenever he spoke, his hands waved as if he were conducting his argument like a concerto. The piece of paper Evan had brought with him was the man's point of contention. Not just one area of the paper: the whole thing.

He mocked the Prime Minister's polite opening, soured his sentiments for peace and damn right refused the offer to open negotiations.

"He's a fucking idiot!" he opined. "He's either ignoring what I've been saying or has completely missed the point." In the half hour of his rant, several of his people had been excused or had left. Evan guessed those remaining were his core group, some of whom hung on his every word. Others, like the old woman Craven, would offer a suggestion here and there. He would listen to no one and only allowed Nikki to finish a sentence.

Bo was splayed over the couch, his hands resting under his head. The boy couldn't look any more bored. Kyle looked as though he was about to put a bullet between Window's eyes and Evan couldn't believe he'd risked his life to meet this fool. He attempted a number of times to explain the Prime Minister's position, but whatever he said, Window knew better.

From Evan's point of view, Fletcher had met some of the outer echelons of Window's group and that negotiations were going well and that the next step was for Dominic to be where Evan was now. Providing Window the opportunity to meet with Jonathan Reekes and negotiate terms for a peaceful reintegration of Southern and Northern England.

Evan couldn't understand how Danny expected any different: after all, Fletcher had been negotiating this on the lower levels before he'd vanished. He was tired, worn thin by Window's incessant rant and finally snapped, "What were you expecting?"

It broke Window's stride, he stumbled over the rest of his sentence and hung his head in defeat. Then he looked up at the ceiling. "Jesus suffering fuck, give me strength."

The blasphemous remark caught Craven's attention. "Daniel, please," she said, her eyes matching his scowl.

He didn't reply to her, he nodded an apology then focused on Evan.. "Who did Fletcher report to?"

Evan eyed him carefully, noting Window's past tense in referring to Dominic. "What?"

"Do you report to the same person?" A follow up question, again to Evan, assuming he was more an equal to Fletcher than anything else, but then he'd given him no indication otherwise.

"He reports to me."

"You're shitting me."

"That's funny coming from the guy who's spent the last half hour bullshitting to the choir." Evan heard Kyle snigger at his remark. "And why are you referring to him in the past tense? What do you know that I don't?"

Window watched him from over the rim of his coffee mug. "Because he's dead."

Evan glared at the man, not liking what he heard, but he was not shocked to discover Fletcher's fate. Nikki's attitude around their conversations of Fletcher had sowed many seeds.

"And for you to tell me he reported to you, when you know nothing about this operation. Know nothing about Fletcher, is fucking lud—"

"Daniel!" said Nikki.

He didn't look at her, but he did stopped talking for a moment. "I didn't believe you, I'm sorry." He pointed his mug at her apologetically.

"They should know," she said.

"Know what?" Evan.

It was now Window's turn to look disappointed, "He really reported to you?"

"Yes," Evan knew that something had gone on that he'd not been privy to. Fletcher had not filed any reports on Bo or Nikki and both claimed to have known him personally. The way Window was barking on, it seemed to Evan there was alot more missing from Fletcher's reports. There was a reason why Window did not want to deal with them. "So, for the tenth time, Fletcher reported to me. Now please, for the love of God, start some explaining and maybe we can work something out instead of wasting each other's time."

They stared at each other for three excruciating seconds, then just as Window looked to be turning his back on Evan, he placed his mug on the table instead. "Window isn't one person," he started, "it's several. The broadcasts are a result of, not the reason for the gangs working together."

"You have a working government?" Evan asked.

"Yes," Window smiled. "Of sorts." He was excited, the energy from his belligerent filibuster was being refocused. "It was your fault you know, well, your SOPs. They kept us fighting each other for years, not that it took much, not at first. But then we got wise. When we started sharing information, we learned."

"When you say we?"

"What you call gangs, all of us. The Tooty Nung and the Shadow Kingz were the first; they'd been formed to protect their neighbourhoods. It was the next step in protecting each other, so the other groups followed and once it was evident that the majority of our problems came from the SOPs. The Triad were the last to join." He stopped, remembered something. "Sin Lao was a good man, he didn't deserve..."

Window paused again. Whatever had been happening, he was close to it. It was etched into his heavy brow. It was the most information that Evan had received in a while, parts of it resembling the information Fletcher had provided but he knew there was a lot more to be had. He had to coax more out of him. "And you're the voice of the gangs?"

Window blinked. He didn't say anything, just stared at Evan. Did he know what Evan was doing? was it obvious Evan was pumping him for information? Or was there more to him than Evan had first judged him? He was wired, he was passionate and he was arrogant, but a dullard, he was not.

"You could say that," Window said finally, his gaze moving onto Kyle.

"So the message isn't for you." Evan brought Window's eyes back to his.

"I am Window."

"But we were on the understanding that Window was in charge down here." He looked around the patchwork table, at the majority of empty seats. He could see the small amount of tolerance slide from Window's face; he was at the edge now. But Evan needed to know more - everything he'd known before deciding to come to London was being pulled apart by this one man. If he wasn't Window then he needed to speak to whoever it was, no matter how many of them there were. "Where's everyone else?"

"This is everyone else," Nikki said, "everyone who was prepared to meet with you."

Evan's heart beat in his ears - what in the hell was that supposed to mean? Kyle grabbed his wrist, but he couldn't help himself. "Sorry?"

"This is what you're getting," Window answered.

"That's it? I've been shot, hit on the head, I've walked through Hell to get here, to meet with the leader of this shithole in the hope of fixing this fucking country and all I get is an audience with a crazy bastard who hides behind the curtain?"

Silence followed. No one seemed to know what to do, Evan least of all. He had vented his thoughts. All he had left was the time between his words and the reaction of the room.

At his side, Kyle released his wrist and readied himself. For what, Evan wasn't sure. But he could feel it, too. Someone was going to kick back. The only question was who. Window was already primed, Nikki looked as if she could hop over the table and strangle him. Bo was sat upright, ready to jump into action. Dunstun and the others were less likely, but he had the feeling they would join in once someone else started something.

"This shithole." It was Window who smashed the tension. "This hell, as you put it lovely boy, just happens to be my home." He jabbed Evan's shoulder with his wrought iron index finger, "and you're only here because Dominic Fletcher launched himself and Lao into space. He started a fucking war! That's why no one came to meet you."

"This is a waste of time." Kyle's voice caught Danny off guard and he looked at the soldier.

"That, we can agree on."

Evan agreed too, but remained silent. He felt like a raw nerve whenever Window spoke. He needed time to digest the information, time away from the crazy so he could absorb everything. Instead of wanting to rip off a table leg and beat the caffeine addict to death.

Round and round they went. Fletcher was an assassin, an assassin sent to kill Sin Lao and start a war. Sin Lao had been killed, which was unfortunate and devastating to the harmony of London. The Triad was the largest gang and its backlash over the death of their leader had come swiftly and it had come hard. Like a tsunami of violence, they'd destroyed everything in their path.

But Evan couldn't believe Fletcher had started it. It made no sense. Sin Lao's death was as detrimental to Jonathan Reekes' plans as it was to London. Why couldn't Window see that? Why couldn't he see that by killing Lao, it meant Fletcher would not be able to complete his mission. A mission that he stood by resolutely.

"Fletch could have killed all of us," Bo spoke. He had not been as bored as Evan had thought. "Easily." Window looked back over his shoulder.

"Bo," Nikki said, "take them to the mess."

He was standing before Evan could think; good little soldier.

"Wait," said Evan, "what will you be doing?"

"Talking about you." She stared at him until he gave up.

Bo stopped next to Kyle and waited for them both to stand up before saying "This way."

*******

The room remained silent until the door closed behind them.

Then the only sound was of Window slurping from his mug. Nikki knew he could tell her eyes were on him, waiting for him to make eye contact. He didn't. "Don't look at me like that."

"You're taking it out on them."

"They don't know anything."

"Exactly."

"That's no reason not to take it out on them."

Dunstun leaned into the table. "They're not here for us."

"That's right." Window waved his hand. "Bluebird was all about meeting everyone else. Just because they weren't here for me, doesn't mean they weren't here for anyone else."

Nikki fumed silently for a moment. "We expected this, before Bo and I left to meet them."

"Not to this extent," Window clarified.

"They blew up Lao," Dunstun added. "Years of work has gone straight to Hell."

Nikki shuffled in her seat and brushed her hair back. "I don't think they're responsible."

"What's stopping us?" the old crone Craven asked. Putting quiet around the table as easily as flicking off a light switch.

"Baiser!" Window screamed the French obscenity, launching his coffee mug across the table, it twisted in midair, spilling its contents before smashing into the wall. Its ceramic shards sprayed outward and clattered over the floor. His head dropped, too heavy for him to bother holding any further and his arms splayed outward over the table top.

Nikki reached toward Window and put her hands over his shoulder. "The Triad will have a new King soon, then we can—"

"That new King will be Grekko," Dunstun stopped her. His nominated leader caused a stir in the remaining members of the room. "You all know it will be. Then watch this city burn - the Triad under his leadership will not bow to the rule of the Kingdom."

Nikki watched on as Dunstun roused the room against her. Grekko was a vile psychopath, a wild dog who'd been leashed by Sin Lao. He'd then turned into a savage lieutenant who had escaped the blast that killed his master. If he took control of the Triad, then Dunstun was right. "Then all more reason to go."

"That's madness!" Dunstun argued.

"Is it?" Nikki asked. "If what you say is right and Grekko takes control of the Triad, we would lose a large portion of the city. But we could win if we had help from the other groups and—"

"The SOPs?" Window finished her sentence. He had lifted his head slowly during Nikki's argument and was staring right at her with his lopsided smile.

"They'll never go for that," said Dunstun. "The other groups would not go for that. They'll offer nothing more than martial law."

"He has a point," Window said to Nikki.

"This is the first time we've had any kind of cooperation between the gangs," she replied. "And the first time a Prime Minister has wanted to talk."

"You saw their faces, just as I did." He twisted his arms and took hold of both her wrists. "You've spent more time with them. More time with Fletcher. He was here for months, he knew you, me, Dunstun, Craven, even Bo by name. They didn't know anything. If Fletcher wasn't reporting to Bluebird, then who was he reporting back to? Reekes? I don't think so. Someone is pulling the strings out there and it isn't the government."

It was Nikki's turn to see the truth, to see the fear in Window's eyes. What he said was the reason why he hadn't snapped up the chance to meet with the Prime Minister as she would have expected him to do last week. Fletcher had turned on them and their friendships, for reasons they couldn't comprehend. If the Prime Minister they wanted to speak with was not in control then it would be a waste of time for Window, and a dangerous one at that. They had an unseen enemy out there, one who was nothing like they'd been used to - an insidious mind playing a very serious and deadly game.

A game that, if won, would unite the country like it had been before. It would end the poverty, the violence and the life they all shared. It was their dream, why they were here.. If they ever wanted to live in a United Kingdom again, she could see no alternative. They had to take this chance, even if it meant dying. Which is what she could see in Window's eyes, a reluctance that she mistook for fear: Danny was afraid of dying. "You can take me with you."

"No," he smiled. "Not with Lao gone. Dunstun is right, Grekko will become the next Dragon King and when that happens we're going to need all of you here."

*******

Evan chewed on his turkey. He enjoyed watching his companions eat but felt alienated, to a point. He'd been so preoccupied with his food that he'd not paid attention to the conversation. Bo and Kyle were speaking Punjabi, he couldn't understand them. As he neared his fill of lunch, he became more aware of not being included.

"I'm right here," he reminded them, immediately feeling like a sourpuss.

Kyle had sauce on his lip when he smiled. "Bo says I'm badass."

"Cute," said Evan. "You may want to wipe your mouth and try saying that again."

Bo pointed and laughed at the red juice escaping down Kyle's mouth. It was a nice picture, a normal picture. They were getting along and even the nanocraft Raven on Bo's head was pacified.

Kyle said something to Bo in Punjabi and Bo nearly coughed up a mouthful of food when he laughed.

"What?" Evan slapped a grin over his insecurity, "what's so funny?"

They were both looking at him from across the table. Bo was biting his lip, trying not to laugh any further. Kyle was looking altogether like he was about to apologise. "I asked Bo," he said, "whether he thought you were badass too."

That was it. Bo was laughing tears. Kyle was chuckling. So was Evan.

"You're a pair of bastards," he said, failing to stop his laugh, his stomach clenching and his chest bouncing, "but you're not wrong."

They laughed some more and Evan felt the remaining stress fall from his body. When they stopped laughing, he caught his breath and slaked his thirst with a glass of iced water. It was the best water he'd ever tasted. Then Bo asked Evan a question that caught him off guard. "Do you think we're worth the trouble?"

"Coming here?"

Bo nodded.

It was a simple and honest question, one with an expansive answer and Evan would have been more than happy to discuss it over the course of an entire evening. But the kid wasn't looking for that, he was looking for resolution. He could see the anticipation foaming at the boy's mouth. "More than anything."

Bo washed a mouthful of turkey down with his glass of water. "Danny does too."

The sound of his name raised every hair on Evan's neck. "Is he, always so—" he searched for a diplomatic word, "charming?"

"We think it's the coffee," came the reply. He caught himself before he could snigger, it wasn't meant as a joke. He was grateful he caught himself, because Bo's follow up arrived on a more serious note. "He has a point."

It had been a long-assed rant, so Evan quizzically asked, "Which one?" not knowing which of Window's points Bo referred to.

"Fletcher was here a long time before Danny trusted him. He worked the streets, got to know Nikki first. That's the only reason Danny took any notice of him - Nikki doesn't trust anyone." Evan believed him. "Fletcher was the first person outside of the groups to find out about us. The first person any of them believed in. Now he's dead and our home is in flames."

Evan had noticed that Bo was talking about everyone but himself. "What about you? What do you think?"

The kid avoided his eyes, the table being far more interesting. Perhaps. "It's different for the others," he said, not looking higher than Evan's chin. "They didn't grow up here. They want something that used to be. Something that I don't understand..." he trailed off.

"It doesn't have to be," Kyle said.

"That's what Nikki says," Bo continued. "People shouldn't have to die except for old age. That's her favourite." He played with his turkey, forking the meat robotically without paying much attention. "She wanted it too much and now she's sad. Now all of them are sad. They're dreaming. Dreams are for children."

Evan felt disgusted. Not at Bo directly but that the kid was able to say it. "I'm a dreamer." Evan said, hoping he wasn't the only one left.

"Everyone," Craven startled all three of them by the silent approach and loud voice. "I have some good news."

## Chapter Fifteen

Extraction

Dunstun piped up. "Give it a moment," he said but he couldn't understand. He'd never been chipped, had never been connected. Evan had been on both counts, and could taste the anticipation of returning.

Dunstun crouched under the unit. For some strange reason, the designer of the communications systems had placed the keyboard on the floor. There was a small monitor there too. "This was here when you found it?" Evan asked impatiently.

"All of it," came Dunstun's reply from under the desk. "We've brought in some other stuff, but there's only so much you can do without ripping it out and it was only supposed to operate for twelve months."

Just like the kitchen. This had to be one of the fallout bunkers under Whitehall. It explained how they had the technology to hide the transmissions. But it was an explanation up to a point. There was the matter of certain upgrades, but it was no longer in the realms of impossibility. There was no longer any mysticism attached to Window's work, or Window himself for that matter.

"Okay, you've got your link." Dunstun stood up and pulled the creases out of his tunic. "Make your call, Mr. Bluebird."

Evan leaned into the table, pressed the circular button with the microphone pictured next to it. "Renner?"

Nothing. Not a peep. He tried again. Still. He tried another three times, and one more for luck. Again, nothing.

"Maybe they've given up on you?" Dunstun's snide remark wasn't helping.

Evan didn't give him the satisfaction of reacting. He had been considering calling for Kyle: they had opted against using his personal communications in favour of their shielded one. But that was before he found this piece of crap wasn't working. He pressed the button again. "Renner?" Nothing. He tried another six times before he closed his eyes and prayed for Renner not to be sleeping. Or worse.

Then; distantly he heard his familiar voice. "Bluebird?"

"Copy that," Evan said, smiling. "It's good to hear your voice old buddy."

"You too, Bluebird. Where in hell are you?"

"I don't know for certain," Evan bleated, tapping his fingers against the table top in excitement. "I need to speak with Dickens."

"Copy that."

He disappeared for a few moments then returned. "Patching in."

"Bluebird, this is Dickens." It was the Gorilla's voice, Jonathan Reekes using his designated codename.

"Good to hear your voice, sir."

"Yours too my boy. Good news," he paused for a few seconds. "I hope?"

"I am requesting an airlift for myself, Fallout and VIPs. At your earliest convenience." Evan didn't have to imagine the Prime Minister's beaming smile on the other end of the radio, he heard it in his voice.

"Consider it done."

"There's a pulse package attached to this transmission, it's coded for Renner to access." There was a pause while they checked and conferred.

"Yes, we have it. Coordinates?" Reekes asked.

"That's it. We're heading there directly, so as soon as you can."

"We have a Lex on standby, it will be in the air within five minutes."

"Thank you, sir."

"No. The thanks belong to you. We know what's been going on down there, I'm glad you're alright."

*******

On the other end of the transmission line; Oliver was sitting on Jonathan's desk, pulling on his cuffs and watching the Prime Minister. He was elated, rubbing his hands together and scratching the back of his head feverishly. Why not? Oliver thought to himself, this was what they were working toward. He deserved it. They all deserved it.

It could even change things. All their dreams could soon be answered. Jonathan Reekes would be remembered as the Prime Minister who put the country together again, when all the King's horses and all the King's men, could not.

"Amazing news!" Reekes span around and yelled as the transmission ended. Christmas had come early to the Prime Minister's office.

"I'll alert the Cabinet." Antonia announced. To business then: always to business. Oliver grinned, she was so much like himself.

Jonathan raised his hand at Antonia, stopping her in her tracks. "Wait until it's absolutely necessary," he said. "I don't want to give anyone enough time to mess this up."

*******

In London, they didn't wait long. The transport was ready and waiting at Heathrow. The coordinates were for King James' Park. The grounds used to be a tourist attraction with acres of lush green grass and plump tree foliage. Presently, it was a frozen wasteland made of broken mud and sod framed by a bare tree line.

"What's that?" Evan pointed to the large white coloured bubble tents behind the trees.

"Weed." Nikki pinched her thumb and index together and made the universal gesture for smoking.

"Yours?"

She grinned, but didn't answer. She was looking up at the sky. The design of the Lexington GT6 is one that enables stealth engines; that's not to say they run silently, as that is next to impossible. Only the Japanese are rumoured to have created such an engine. Instead, the Vertical Take Off and Landing aircraft redirects its sound, flipping it directly above or directly below depending on altitude and the pilot's tactical preference.

They had not heard its arrival because the engine sound could only be heard in a 26 metre diameter right above the craft. Its visual camouflage allowed a similar invisibility, a technology known as shifting. It was developed by a combined research project between Britain and the United States in 2025. You could only see the craft when it fired its weapons or by proximity, but its appearance was transparent once it was more than forty metres away.

"They're here," Evan confirmed, marvelling at the VTOL as it settled quietly just north of his position and precisely on the coordinates provided by Dunstun.

It measured twenty-six metres from nose to tail, had six vector-thrust engines, a craning neck and enough firepower to give a Chinese Juggernaut pause. The British government afforded five of them - the yanks had kept another thirty-two for themselves.

Kyle led Window and Bo towards it as soon as the landing struts touched ground. It left Evan standing next to Nikki, Dunstun and Craven, all of whom had come with them to say goodbye. It had been a tense farewell. Dunstun especially voiced his discontent of the decision for Window and Bo to go. Evan could understand it as this had never been done before. Window and Bo were doing just the thing that he and Kyle had done: leaving their home to enter a hostile environment. All they could do was hope it was going to work out.

Nikki caught his eye before he stepped away: his intention had been to leave without any further conversation. They had said their goodbyes earlier, before the transport had arrived. But now, he saw the worry in her face. She was losing them: Window was old enough to understand the consequences of the action. He wondered if she thought, like he did, that Bo didn't. "He doesn't have to come."

"Daniel needs him." She had stopped looking at Evan, instead looking at Bo entering the Lexington.

"Is he?" realising he'd not asked before.

She smiled. "Yes." She paused. "No," eyes dropping to the floor. "I found him in Covent Garden when he was about six." She smiled at the memory. "Eating fresh dog, he'd made the shiv himself."

Evan failed to see the happiness in the memory but it was clear to him she regarded that meeting highly. "He'll be fine."

She nodded plainly. " He knows how to survive." There was a sadness in her eyes.

"I should thank you," he said, not knowing what else to say.

She blinked away a tear before it fully formed. "Take this." She handed him a small glass like tube, no bigger than a cigarette filter.

He rolled it in the palm of his hand. It was possibly a quantum drive, but a design he'd never seen before. "This a pen drive?"

"Trust has to start somewhere," she reminded him of his own statement. "Right?"

He looked her in the eye quizzically and nodded. "Thanks," he said, pocketing the device; evidence that would help the cause, for that he was certain. "For everything," he continued, smiling, then turned toward the Lexington.

"Bring them back to me," she said simply.

He stopped instantly, and at seven minutes past one in the afternoon on December seventh in King James' Park, he made his promise. "On my life," he smiled, saluted Nikki, and ran to the transport.

## Chapter Sixteen

There's No Place Like Home

Kyle looked out of the side of the transport. "We're back," he announced.

Evan peered out and smiled. "For a moment there, I wasn't sure we were going to make it."

Kyle stared at him."For a moment?"

Evan punched him in the shoulder. "Thanks. For everything."

"Don't mention it."

The landing pad, one of nine, had been reserved, flanked by military personnel. Evan counted thirteen in total, including the standard ground staff.

"They've brought a welcoming committee," noted Window.

"You're almost royalty," Evan conceded.

Bo peered out of the side, looking on with an intense scrutiny reserved for snipers. When the Lexington banked to its left, only Bo remained glued to the side.

Once landed, Bo and Danny separated instantly. Officers with wide shoulders taking their guests objections in stride. "We're to take you directly to your quarters, the Prime Minister is preparing cabinet to receive you. If you would like refreshments, I can take your order." Evan and Kyle however, found themselves standing on the landing pad, with nothing to do but smell the engine fuel. "Don't think I've ever enjoyed this smell before," Kyle said.

"It does smell particularly of roses today."

"Sir." The faceless officer appeared from nowhere. "Mr. Trench would like to meet with you."

"Okay," Evan said.

"Sorry, sir. I was addressing Agent Ross."

"Oh," Evan blushed, "That's you I guess."

"That's me," Kyle said.

"Sir, he's waiting for you in the House."

"The House?" Kyle asked, following the officer from the landing pad, wondering if he'd misheard. The House was not where he'd expected to be debriefed. "Of Commons?"

"Yes, sir."

Kyle didn't move.

"Sir, he's expecting you."

"I'm sure he'll understand me making sure a friend gets to Doctor Haines."

*******

"Good to see you back in one piece," Oliver said. The remark was sincere. He'd been friends with Desmond, Kyle's father until he'd died of lung cancer six years ago and still invited Kyle and his mother to his family barbecue each summer. As was tradition.

Seeing Kyle walking toward him, filtering between the rows of seating it was hard not to see his father's likeness in him. The broad shoulders, the confident stride. "Evan took a few knocks." He even sounded like him.

"I know," Oliver replied. "Haines already has him?"

"He's probably sharpening his scalpel right about now."

"The Hatchet?" Oliver smirked. "He's been sharpening them all morning." Noticing that Kyle did not share his humour. "How are you?" he added.

Kyle sat before he answered. "It's done."

"I didn't ask that."

"I'm fine." He was exactly like his father.

"Your father would be proud," Oliver said, knowing it to be true. His son had made a crucial first step in putting their country back together again. Desmond himself had spent much of his own life rebuilding Sierra Leone during and after the nineteen-nineties.

That had been where he had met Kyle's mother. Olayinka, from Freetown. She had accused him of being an arrogant, greedy western opportunist. He admitted to being arrogant and insisted that they argue the rest over dinner that evening. It was a story he loved to tell. Much of it, Oliver suspected, was liberal with facts and fancies, but he missed his old friend's retelling of it."You brought back the elusive Window," said Oliver.

"It's done," he repeated, his eyes looking at the floor.

"What happened down there?"

"I kept him alive." The syllables cracked against Oliver's skull like a gavel, letting him know Kyle did not care to continue the conversation, that he had completed his mission and made decisions he'd not fully reconciled himself with. Kyle wasn't normally one for reflection, and his silence was as surprising as it was disturbing.

"Hey." Oliver put a hand on Kyle's shoulder. "It's only London," he said, instantly regretting the words. It wasn't the look Kyle gave him. It was the callousness on how he had said it. It was only London, he who had grown up in Kent. How easy it had come to those who lived in the North to discard the South.

"What about the Prime Minister?" Kyle asked. Oliver released Kyle's shoulder. It was a question worthy of a debate, but that he wasn't sure he could answer. How does one tell a friend he was plotting against another friend? "He's flirting with the good old days." Kyle's face remained quizzical. "Not good," Oliver offered.

"He better step up quick. This Window guy has caffeine for blood."

Oliver thought of the oranges on Jonathan's desk. "Jon has a similar disposition."

Kyle's head tilted slightly. "Yup." He didn't ask for any expansion. He was the man charged with jumping in front of a bullet for Reekes. He knew every subtle failing that Jonathan had, just like Oliver, which made his concerns even more pertinent.

"Look," Oliver said, blinking a command message to the Prime Minister, "take a couple of days off. Get some rest."

"I don't need rest."

"Not yet. But another forty hours you'll be needing a good day's recharge."

"I'll take it then."

"You've done us a great service, you'll get a medal for sure. Evan too, for that matter, and one you'll be able to wear. Take the night off, come back to mine if you don't want to bunk here. The spare room is always there should you want it." Oliver's HUD blinked a return message from the Prime Minister. He read it. "The Prime Minister insists you take time off. He's asked Gillespie to continue managing his protection."

Kyle didn't look at him, just nodded in agreement. "I could do with a couple of drinks."

"Good!" Oliver's teeth shone shiny and white "File your report and I'll meet you at the barracks. I have a few items to deal with before leaving."

*******

"No one knows who they are." As always, Nadia Black captured her audience with her trademarked sultry voice, "but a source close to the Prime Minister is saying that today, after twenty years of hostile rejection, peace negotiations with London have been going on for most of the afternoon.

"This comes as fortunate news after yesterday, when it was announced that an investigation into—"

Bo waved his hand, changing the channel. Nadia Black vanished, to be replaced with another picture, this time a tropical landscape with salt white beaches and hotels standing in crystal waters. Yours for just ten thousand pounds a week. He waved the image away, bored of the pictures and yet entertained by the seemingly magical gestures.

After the trip, he and Danny had been escorted to this room. The door was locked and guards posted outside. They had argued over that.. Danny, condescending to Bo. Telling him it was fine, nothing to worry about. It was temporary, just like they had kept Bluebird and Fallout restrained and hooded. Bo understood, he just didn't like being controlled.

For a little while, they had some fun. Bo had not felt a fully-downed bed before and he had discovered the joy of bed jumping. Laughing until his stomach hurt. But it wasn't long before the man with the suit turned up. "Come with me," he had said. "Not you," he indicated when Bo started walking towards the door.

"It's okay," reassured Danny, clicking his fingers and activating the wall. "Watch some TV until I get back."

Left with nothing but the tube, he had waved his way through four hours of inane imagery before Danny returned. Opening the door, slamming it shut and spat. "Merde!" He grabbed the nearest thing to him; a statue of King Henry riding a horse in full armour and threw it.

It smashed over the faces of Michael and Madison Tate.

"Good meeting?" asked Bo, looking at the fresh dent in the wall behind the image. The ranting tirade ran for fifteen minutes straight. Round and round the insults went, so much so that Bo, counted twenty three 'idiots', fifteen 'ignorants', and he couldn't have counted how many times he'd heard the word deaf. He laughed when he heard "bulbous ass" but for the rest he remained silent.

"—and the smugness!" Danny continued. "How can they think we'd want to go back to that?" Bo knew what was coming. It was the impossible wall, the Jerusalem factor as Danny explained it. Jews and Palestinians would never agree on anything until they came to an agreement on Jerusalem, and neither of them would ever agree to relinquish or share it.

Jonathan Reekes wanted to repopulate Southern England and to re-instate the pre-existing laws. His laws. Enforced by his forces. But to Danny, this was an impossibility. London and the South, had moved on from that: it was an emerging country. They weren't squatters, and they weren't about to subjugate themselves to the same laws and banking institutions that had got them into this mess.

Bo waved through the channels as Danny started to repeat his arguments. It was always best to let Danny rant. Like a dog chasing his own tail he would eventually lie back down.

"Every time I'm getting somewhere, one of his ankle biters pipes up, 'but sir'." Bo supposed that Danny's impression of the politicians was more funny than accurate, unless the man sounded like Terry the Gun Merchant, who only spoke with half his mouth because he'd had a stroke.

Bo didn't laugh that time. The next channel had caught his attention, though. He'd never seen a naked woman before, not like this one. Surrounded by measurements and information that told Bo she was perfectly designed, she stood at five feet and nine inches. A thirty-six inch chest, eighteen inches on the waist, and twenty two inches on the hips. Had twenty percent body fat and weighed 110 pounds. She never needed eat, would never talk back and would do whatever Bo told her to do. She was the perfect companion. The perfect trophy and Bo deserved her.

"She's a doll," Daniel said, off of his subject at last.

Bo's cheeks flared red. "She's beautiful."

"She's not real. You won't find a woman who looks remotely like that unless it's come off a production line." Bo sometimes forgot that Danny hadn't been born in London. He knew things about the outside world.

He considered him wise without fully understanding the concept of the word and trusted whatever he said. But looking at the unblemished skin and inviting eyes, Bo couldn't believe what he said - she looked too real.

The image changed as Danny waved to the next channel. A gardening show, one that Bo had waved on hours ago. He tilted his head to object. "You can't afford her," Danny said.

Bo returned to the gardening un-interested, insulted and red-faced.

"You know what my dad called democracy?" Danny asked.

Bo continued to watch the gardening with disinterest. He'd heard it before, but Danny must have mistaken his silence for invitation. "It's two wolves and a sheep deciding what's for dinner."

Bo knew the quote wasn't Danny's dad's - he was a parking attendant. The quote belonged to Ben something, but he didn't care. Normally he'd switch off at this point. Danny would turn his attention to Craven or Nikki, or Jonas to speak with when Bo didn't listen. But they weren't here, and there was no avoiding it. There was nothing left but to play along. "So what about the people?"

"People?" The ruse worked. "They're apathetic at best. That's why they voted Johnny Reekes in."

Danny had not been voted in, not by traditional methods anyway. Danny had fallen into the right group at the right time. He was a natural leader who had stumbled onto the bunker network. This had elevated him above the norm, more so when he offered similar bunkers to the group leaders.

Craven was fond of telling Danny "I would vote for you." Bo liked the sentiment more than he understood it. He also knew when the fighting had stopped, when it properly stopped, there was promised to be a vote and Danny would win.

"Besides—" Bo usually hated this bit. Danny believed it so vividly, he'd die to protect it. Today however, Bo enjoyed listening. "What's the point of using your freedom of speech? If you're only reminded you're lucky to live in a country where you can speak up. 'Hey buddy, this country is awesome, shut up! You could be stoned for what you're saying in Iraq!' What's the point in saying you're not happy with something if you're just ignored, what's the point? Unless someone listens?"

The warrior in Bo would never let that end in such a defeatist approach. He would stick a knife in the person until they listened. "That's the people's fault."

"You know what happens when they stand up?" Danny said, reminding Bo of the history of New London. How the people had stood up, they'd shouted their beliefs to their leaders. And here they were, twenty-two years later.

"I need," Danny stared at the garden on the wall, "I need Reekes to understand that we've evolved. That we want and can build our own future."

Bo thought over Danny's rant. Smirked at bulbous ass again, and came to a simple, yet effective solution. "Could you speak to Reekes alone?"

## Chapter Seventeen

For King And Bloody Country

Fixing Evan's chip was a simple procedure. Or so Dr. Haines explained to him before putting him under. "Ah yes," he'd said, "a common fault with commercial chips, especially in the sports." Evan was the proud owner of a commercial chip. Only field agents were given military grade chips, the rest of the Branch had to make do with software upgrades and a pat on the back. "We'll just swap this out and harden the interface. Two hours tops."

Two hours under the knife and not just anyone's knife - Dr Hatchet Haines' knife. A small price to pay for a sharp knock to the head it was not. It had shorted out the wiring connecting his retina projectors. Evan's current chip had repaired itself but the wiring between the systems had gone unattended. He didn't have to have a new chip, but the upgrade was free so why not?

He woke up three hours later. His head felt as if it had been opened up and someone played with his brain. Through the plexi-glass window of the operation theatre he could see Dr. Haines, reading one of nine holographic panels, the important one, the one that told him whether the operation had been successful. "All good doc?" his palate was dry and the words grated his throat on the way out.

Haines gave him the thumbs up from behind the window. "The new chipset is nesting favourably." He swiped a hand over the report. "Try a command."

Evan blinked, his HUD appearing in a prompt fashion. Glowing red and blue lines depicted his medical report, specifically his brain and the nested chipset deep inside the fleshy tissue. He summoned messages, emails, missed call data and news feeds. Anything he could get his hands on, he'd read them all at the same time - be damned if he couldn't.

"You may want to take it easy for the next hour or so," said Haines. "This chip is faster than your previous one. It will take your brain some time to adapt to the processing speed."

He wasn't wrong. Evan was pulling information to his HUD faster than he could think. Documents, images, video feeds, audio files all piled on top of each other. It was incredible. He checked his official report once more; it had been passed out to the relevant people, the Prime Minister being one of them. He hadn't opened the file, but he checked the time. It flashed on the bottom left of his HUD. The default setting, he moved it across to the bottom right and saved it.

It had been almost four hours since the Lexington had landed. "They know I'm up Doc?"

"Uhuh."

"Any visitors?"

"Only the one you asked for."

Evan left the gurney in search of his clothes. "How long ago?"

The reply didn't come right away. Doctor Hatchet Haines was checking his HUD. "An hour ago. They're behind you."

Evan looked to the window. Haines was pointing over to the other side of the room. On a side cupboard, neatly folded was a Government-branded sweat suit: joggers, hoodie and trainers. "Thanks Doc."

He dressed in a hurry, leaving the room after planting an open palm against the plexi-glass wall. "Thanks again." He replaced the empty infirmary for a silent corridor and rushed as fast as decorum would allow in the halls of the Parliament building.

An hour, he told himself, was long enough.

*******

"I hear you came to visit," Evan said barging into the Control Room.

"You should knock," Renner span his chair around. "I could have been watching porn."

"You needed to watch porn after seeing me in a surgical gown?" He raised his arms wide for his approaching friend, hugging and breaking apart, laughing.

"Your humour didn't survive the procedure then?"

"I asked Hatchet to put it in a jar for me."

"Best place for it, it never worked properly." Renner punched Evan in the arm. "Glad to have you back man."

"Careful, or I'll have to tell your wife that you have a man crush on me."

"She's not the wife."

"She is though," Evan winked.

"Not at all my friend, we like to keep it mysterious."

"That's funny, I heard it was kinky." It was a practised routine of two friends blowing off the stress gained over the last couple of days. It was good to be home. "I heard you dress up as Winnie the Pooh and chase after her honey pot."

"Sweetest honey in the building."

"It must be if it has you crawling back to her every night."

Renner hooked Evan's arm and pulled him back in giving him a big bear hug. "Good to have you back, you petulant little shit!" He released him and pointed to the only chair in the room, his control chair. "Take a pew. You want a drink or something?"

"Some water, or something fizzy if you have it." Evan relaxed in the leather recliner. "Did you get it?"

Renner passed him an empty glass as he crouched down beside the chair. There was a mini fridge built into its base. He passed up a can of lager.

"Do you have anything soft?"

The look Renner produced was a cross between dismay and devastating concern. "You were shot on your first field mission. Hit your head with enough force to smash a water melon apart and you don't want a drink?" He proceeded to check the door to the control room and lock it. "Don't listen to that little cricket on your shoulder, listen to your old friend Renner and drink." He clicked his finger and the room was pitched into a red hue. "I guarantee you'll be needing something harder soon enough."

The red hue signified that the room was locked down. In one simple gesture it no longer appeared on the building's security recordings, so no eyes or ears could pry into what was happening between these four walls. Evan had been here more times than he could recall, but not once had Renner locked it down. It had to be something to do with the small glass tube. "Something up?"

Renner nodded. "It's a quantum drive."

"I thought it might have been, but I didn't recognise the model."

"I'm not surprised." Renner stood behind him now, connecting the hardwire to the port in Evan's wrist like a UV.

"Why?"

"It's DGSE."

He flinched as the hardwire's tip clamped around his port and injected the inner cable into his arm. "It's French?"

"Oui, oui!" The DGSE or Directorate-General for External Security, was France's outside intelligence agency. What in hell was Nikki doing with it? "It was also holding something so sensitive that you, my fine friend, are about to be the second person in the building to find out what's on it. As long as you didn't show it to anyone else before me?"

Evan was too stunned to answer, how in hell did they have French intelligence technology?

"Shall I take your silence as a no?"

"Sorry, yes... I mean no. No one else knows about it. Not even Kyle."

"Well in that case, I feel quite privileged."

Evan could tell he was more nervous than he was letting on. "What's on it?"

"Fletcher."

"Come again?"

"It's a recording of his chipset." Renner held up the glass tube. "At least the last three months of it. I don't think it could fit any more on here. It's not that big. We designed one last year that can hold three times-"

"Ren..." Evan glared at him, willing him to get to the point.

"Yes. Three months of raw footage, recorded from a transmitted feed, sent from Dominic Fletcher's chipset." Renner slipped the drive into his chair and stepped back, "The last recording is dated two days ago."

"He stopped transmitting a week ago." He knew Renner also knew this; he was mission controller and had been responsible for catching all of Fletcher's transmissions. "You told me. You were the one who told me we'd lost him a week ago."

"We did. I did," he corrected himself. "However, he was still transmitting. It wasn't to us, but he was transmitting to the MOD. To MI5 and your savage friends. They were piggy backing the signal. They saw everything too."

"So what?" Evan was doubled up with confusion. Dominic had transferred from MI5 to Special Branch under instruction from the Prime Minister. He knew him, or at least, thought he had known him. "Are you saying Fletcher was a double agent?"

"I don't want to make assumptions on our late friend, I've only had the data for just over an hour. I'll need a couple of days at least to run it through my systems before I can make that kind of a judgement." His eyes were off to his right, no doubt searching his brain for some way of speeding up the timeframe. Then he flicked back to Evan. "At least a couple of days, okay maybe a week, did I say there was three months on here?

"I checked the data streams - if the savages hacked the transmission then they're better than I am. I'd be more inclined to say he gave them the codes to piggy back."

"He allowed them to watch?"

"Maybe he was lonely, or maybe he went Colonel Kurtz out there. I don't know. I might never know. I don't want to promise anything. What I will say is that we may be in luck. Whether they hacked it or not, if it's in the last three months I'll be able to find it."

"Because the data is raw." It was unabridged. Whatever Fletcher saw, said, heard or felt they would learn.

"Yes my young Padawan, that is correct." He bit his bottom lip, forming a grimace. "And there's something else."

Evan hardly believed there was more to come, but then he remembered the thing that Nikki and Window had told him. "He killed Sin Lao."

Renner's shoulders slouched. Evan could see him working it out in his head. "They told you?"

"I didn't believe them at the time."

"They tell you about Lockhead?"

"Lockheed?"

"No. Lock and Head together, Lockhead."

Evan shook his head. "What is it?"

"It's an operational codename, one that's been about the corridors over the last couple of days. Oliver asked me to check into it for him. He's been like a ferret after a snake - you probably had it easier down London than some of the guys that happened to be in his way." Renner recognised the face of impatience in Evan. "Well strap in. I think I found it."

Renner moved to a holographical interface at the rear of the chair. "Tap twice when you've had enough and try not to puke over the chair," he said as Evan's vision diluted into the fade. A dead-zone waiting to be filled with Dominic Fletcher's raw data file,

"Boot me."

*******

His left eyelid tore open and sleep's fresh scab rolled down his cheek, into the pit. The pitch darkness was as expansive as it was cold, cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey his father would say. No, not his father Evan corrected himself. Dominic's father. This was Dominic's experience. Evan was reliving his thoughts, his entire digital being and Dominic was exhausted. He stuck his tongue out of his mouth and licked his dry, cracked lips. He had no memory of recently drinking, no memory of arriving at this shared present.

"Where am I?" he asked with his own mouth, not Dominic's.

"Shall I just tell you how it ends?" Renner's voice sounded off. It wasn't in the same place as Dominic. It was elsewhere, bodiless.

"No." He wanted to see it for himself. He needed to see how it had ended, what Nikki had intended him to watch. How Dominic had taken out Sin Lao. "It's disorientating."

"That's the mix of you watching the raw feed and Dominic's anxiety levels. I'll plug you with a mild sedative - that should counter the effects."

He tried to move his arms but found them locked tight at the wrists. He looked up and saw why. Iron manacles held them in place above his head and he could feel the strain in Dominic's shoulders. The pain was numbed. He must have been hanging there for some time. Whoever had him, had held him for days like this and, whatever their purpose, Dominic had grown to love these chains, this archaic feat of engineering that bound him in place. They were both his keeper and his saviour.

Without them he'd fall into the pit, where they waited for him. The chattering demons. He didn't know how many there were. Dominic had never counted them. But he feared them. They were to Dominic a precise depiction of a masochist's wet dream and his own nightmare. He loved his chains for keeping him from them.

Evan still felt the tug of reality, a notion not unlike the fourth beer of the night. Everyone at some time or other has tried it raw. There are plenty of people who deny it, who say things like "I've watched it on a screen." But it's all just a way of saying they didn't inhale. It's the taboo. It's the dirty little secret like the sex tapes of the thirties. Why wouldn't you want to see what it was like being someone else? It's not watching what they saw; it's experiencing every sense they experienced. Touch, excitement, smell, euphoria, taste, ecstasy, sound, despair, sight - everything.

Porn starlets like Madison Fry make millions of sterling every year from allowing her fans to experience her. These experiences are not raw. They are edited, to convey the good, the positive Government approved feelings. Everyone has tried it, in some fashion or other. Evan had done so, he had more than one purchased experience saved on his server and plenty of his own memories he could and would relive. Less popular, but still available; were the bad ones. The illegal ones. The ones that deal with the other side of life, the drug taking, the rape, the murder and the snuff. All the ones good people pretended weren't out there.

The problem with them is you can lose yourself, get stuck in the past, or in someone else's past. It's easy to believe one reality over the other when you want to. When the one you're choosing to experience is, for lack of a better description, better than the one you live. That's why they're banned. That's why Evan couldn't be sure whether he was the one controlling Dominic's motion now, as he swayed back and forth, or whether he was just along for the ride. It was all too real.

Evan had taken the training; all Government personnel underwent the training. All political figures undergo that particular training too. Ever since Didenko, the Russian Ambassador to Korea had been kidnapped and broken. Torturers had found a new toy in breaking a person by means of destroying their reality, he remembered that. The first lesson in hardening oneself against such methods – "Do not rely on your technology, for that will be the first thing they turn against you." Professor Hendrickson of the Foundation had a flair for the dramatic, but Evan remembered his lessons well.

He knew he could no more manipulate his surroundings as a brick could control the weather. However, his mind was alone in understanding the experience's simple truth. Every sense of his being denied him that truth, to all intents and purposes he was, in that moment, Dominic Fletcher. He could smell the rancid damp from the wooden beams above him and the cold draught running across his back. Most of all, he desperately wanted to scratch the itch on his left ankle.

In the room above he heard the creaking of the door followed by shards of light shooting down between the floorboards. They were back; Evan didn't know who. Not yet, but Dominic did. It must be time for breakfast, Dominic mused. Or supper. Or torture. Whatever it was, they were back and in numbers. Both Evan and Dominic counted at least five sets of feet walking above him.

The light split his jail into crazy malformed shapes, a nightmare of horrors that Dominic blinked furiously to defend himself against. Each one brought more focus to his dungeon. He couldn't tell how far from the floor he hung, only that it was high enough. The smell of rotting flesh and faeces was too close for comfort, and the same went for the chattering demon dogs. He was high enough. The fear Evan felt in this matter led him to believe this had not always been the case.

Voices drew his attention upward. Mandarin. Triad. They were loud enough, coarse enough for him to hear. They cared little if he were asleep. This was their way, Evan knew. They would speak above him, letting Dominic know they were preparing for him. They moved about, their shadows blocking out the beams of light from his ceiling like a cheap disco system.

The group that held him captive had decided on calling him Dingo. The name was as good as any. He wouldn't be giving them any other name for them to use. They assured him if he didn't give them anything then they would take everything. He hadn't been keeping score but he was pretty sure they were winning.

The footsteps steps above him were just the grunts. They weren't his footsteps. He wasn't here yet. They weren't ready to bring him up. Evan was fixed on the ceiling regardless. It was going to happen soon. In a slash of light across his arms, he could see the caked blood on his flesh. What had they done to him? What had they done to Fletcher? Then he felt the pang, a frozen fist crushing his innards. A memory so powerful Evan felt the tear run down his own cheek as well as Dominic's.

Patricia and Michael - Dominic's wife and son. Patricia was a jewel, the ash blonde-haired dancer who had introduced him to ballet as well as her life. But then ballet was her life, when they'd first met. He smiled and caught the tear with his cracked lips. Michael was three. His life was just beginning. He'd already started walking, he had padded from his cot and into his arms the day he'd left for London. He had that memory and others locked away in his chipset. Inaccessible – they'd seen to that. But the memory was also in his head, where they couldn't touch it and it was more powerful than any rendered digital reconstruction.

He clenched his fists and in relief, felt his fingertips reached his palms. They felt strong, stronger than the rest of him. It was time to give it another go he thought. Got to keep strong. Got to keep trim. He grasped the manacles and pulled with what he had left. His arteries protruded from his skin, gorging his muscles on oxygen and raised his body upward. He held the manacles behind his head for one, two, he thought of Patricia, three, he thought of Michael, four full seconds before his strength abandoned him.

When he dropped, he dropped hard. His shoulders yanked from their sockets blasting him with pain. What remnant of composure he clung to shattered with a child-like yelp escaping his mouth. Beneath him; barks and snarls of anticipation cheered on his efforts. He breathed deeply, once, twice, focusing on Michael, counted upward to ten, breathing a little easier as he progressed. He had to escape this hell. Had to keep fit, to keep trim, it was all worth the pain. His family would see him through this and when he succeeded, he would see his family. The pain ebbed away, allowing him a slight reprieve.

That was until a white flashing oblong appeared at the bottom right of his vision. Small, no more than fifty millimetres in height. Instantly, he was drawn to the flasher. Blink, blink. It moved to the right. Further away. Like a speck of dust on his eye. Blink, blink. Evan and Dominic were in sync, recognising it at the same time: the little flashing sprite, a simple cursor.

The cursor flashed, skipped to its left, leaving letters in its wake. It read; 'Rebooting system'. It disappeared, replaced with a blinking '0%'. The '0' became a '1' and began climbing. In less than fifteen seconds it hit '100%'. Dominic's chip had completed the booting count and his HUD activated.

In a glorious pale blue hue, his display flickered to life. It framed his alien horror with a bearable familiarity. He smiled. He could satisfy his curiosity by recalling the length of his torture. He'd been hanging for six days, but it felt more like a month. Evan pulled up Dominic's medical report, or felt like he had; it was instinctive and was on Dominic's mind too. The display began drawing and outlining a three dimensional representation of his body. His chipset delivered his status report and Dominic's smile faded with each sadistic bullet point.

His medical system had stopped the bleeding in his right eye-socket. The optic nerve was sealed but required proper medical attention. The eye itself was no longer present. He almost recalled the moment when they had pushed the rusted spoon into the soft flesh and felt the eye pop. The good, or at least better than bad news, was his relatively intact skull. There was a fracture on the rear side and grazing around his sink hole from gouging his eye out.

Both arms had multiple lacerations and bruising but the muscles and bones were fine. Dominic thought it likely his kidnappers intended on him hanging for a long period. Evan agreed; the rest of Dom's body had not fared so well. Three cracked ribs, nine separate fractures. Countless lacerations and punctures decorated his upper torso. All the damage had been treated passively, by his chipset.

Dominic knew he was in bad shape but his chip had dealt with the major problems and because of that he could hope. There was still a chance he would see little Michael again; he could crouch down and open his arms for the toddler to run to him as he'd done the day he'd left. That Michael's unsteady feet would trot toward him excitedly until he could pick up him and hold him.

The display moved swiftly down, past his groin to the itch at the back of his knee. The itch that had attempted to warn him of a memory. One he'd pushed away, one he was not ready to face. Dom's three dimensional image had no knees. They stopped midway down the thigh. Evan felt the bile rise from Dominic's stomach and tasted the foulness at the back of his mouth. He hadn't died of blood loss as the medical system had cauterised the wounds and no infection had set in. But Dominic Fletcher would never again walk on his own two feet.

The barking taunted him then and he remembered being lowered into the pit amongst the pack of dogs that dwelled there. Another tear escaped his eye, one for his son Michael, who in that instant he did not think he would see again.

Unless... He blinked his command and waited. He waited an eternity. Somewhere deep down he knew what the answer would be. But he had hope now. He had his display, his medical report proved that he could be saved. That with proper care he would live a normal life, a life he intended to live as a father and a husband. Fuck the army. All he needed was for his chip to connect. For him to call Renner and get the cavalry sent in.

He watched the cursor flash and like a kettle he started to wonder if it would ever boil, or in this case tell him what his chip was attempting to do. Then it gave him the disheartening message he expected: "Unable to connect." Computer, says no.

The demon dogs below him stirred again; they were all awake now. Alert. He raised his phantom feet away from their maws before remembering. He blocked their barks and yelps out. He wanted to hear what had caused them to stir. Above him, the distinctive footfalls had arrived. He had arrived. One foot fell lightly, the other was like an elephant. He had entered the room and was walking across to Dominic's position.

Dominic had called him Igor. A name tag would appear around his neck whenever Dom looked at him. It gave him little comfort when he stabbed or punched him, but little was enough to allow him to carry on. He had labelled all of his kidnappers this way. He had thought it entertaining, until they tore his eyeball out and shorted out his chipset.

He followed Igor's steps to a point directly above him. After a brief pause, a smouldering amber floated down through the chain hole and bounced off Dom's cheek. It was hot, but not enough to burn him or make him flinch. It was a cigarette cherry. It continued its descent to the dogs below. Instead of their barks, Dominic listened to the footfalls of another. Someone new. Not a soldier like the hard-wearing boots of the first men who walked in. Or a monster like Igor. These were softer, with a swagger that conveyed confidence and power.

The plate cover above him is lifted and Dom ripped upward with the sound of a helicopter turbine. He closed his eye until his chipset compensated for the contrast in lighting. He stopped as suddenly as he always did. His manacles slapped against the loop, throwing his naked body from side to side until one of the Triads grabbed the back of his thigh and held him steady.

The room was large and unfurnished, Evan observing for the first time. Sixty metres in length, wooden planks with metal joinery, most likely an old warehouse. There were six men present, five of them Dominic had seen before: they all wore his assigned dog tags.

Hubert, a lanky African with dancing nanocraft tattoos counting his victims. He's already shown Dominic where he will end up. "Right here pretty boy." He had grabbed the end of his cock from beneath his jeans. "Right at the tip where you belong."

George was a Chinese mercenary: he'd been the one who'd cracked Dom's first and third ribs.

Bill and Ben; both were Chinese and didn't tend to move from the stack of ceramic flower pots stored at the far end of the room. They liked to watch, but rarely commented and never participated in the torture.

Igor was again Chinese in origin. Dominic had called him Igor because of the way he looked and walked, but Evan needed no fake name or introduction. He had seen files on this man before. His actual name is Grekko, Sin Lao's Chief psychopath. Known to Interpol as a vicious foot soldier of the Lao family and wanted for human trafficking, drugs, executions to name but only a few of his favourites. No despicable job was beneath him, it appeared. There was also a file, sitting on a hard drive in Brussels, that suggested that Grekko was responsible for the assassination of Thomas George last year, Britain's Ambassador to Germany.

His artificial black eyes would give any soldier pause, but it was his left arm that those who shared the misfortune of meeting him remembered him by. A replacement of steel, spot welds and pistons, crafted from the very tank that crushed the arm he'd been born with. It was rumour of course, but looked ugly enough to be true.

Grekko shuffled across the floor like a cave dweller, his armoured limb pulling his left shoulder down. Pistons and wheels whirred as its fingers walked the arm along with each of his clumsy steps. Evan took just one second to agree with Dominic: Grekko's four-fingered claw could pop his head like a water balloon.

The Newbie, the one with the confident shoes, was dressed in a pinstripe suit and stood behind Grekko. His hair was slicked with oil and his face could have been also. He stopped Grekko part way across the floor, speaking in low tones of Mandarin. Dom strained his ears to listen as his HUD failed to translate the discussion.

Newbie's face contracted, squinting his eyes into slits as he spat out his words. He wasn't happy, something about the situation aggravated him and he expressed his dissatisfaction by barking his orders. Grekko nodded, his head tilted in submissive fashion. He answered once again in a soft tone, one that Evan found oddly juxtaposed against the man's massively violent frame. This time his chip managed to pick up the mandarin and translated it. "It is safe. Watch."

Dominic tensed at the words, knowing what was going to follow was going to hurt, a lot. He expected Grekko to step up, to wield his armoured fist and pound it against him like he had so many times before. He didn't. Instead the Newbie held his hand up. "No," he said in English, stepping up to the plate instead. He was too clean to get his own hands dirty, Evan thought. Too clean, but not too cocky to get into Dominic's face.

A wire mesh frame flashed over Newbie's face. If either Dominic or Evan had blinked, they would have missed it. Neither of them had. No further information appeared. Nothing at all. "What was that?" Evan asked. "Did Dom just scan someone?"

He felt Renner's hand on his shoulder. "Clever boy - just keep watching," resonated in his ear.

"Can he hear me?" Newbie asked in perfect English, complete with Oxford accent. He had been schooled there.

"There's nothing wrong with his ears," Grekko replied, so both of them moved closer.

Newbie nodded, but his eyes never left Dominic's face, studying him with a surgeon's focus. "Why are you here?" Dominic smelled the onions on his breath.

"He brought me." Dominic looked at Grekko, indicating his capture and tensed his stomach ready for the blow. He expected Newbie to throw the punch himself, the little man's shoulder slipping backward with his fist clenched but Grekko's human hand clasped Newbie's wrist at the last moment. Grekko's other hand and Dom's old friend pain smashed into his gut. He swung like a piece of meat, clenching his teeth but refusing to scream.

More hands grabbed Dominic from behind, grabbing his back first then his thigh to steady him. Newbie smiled, licking his lips, every bit the sadist enjoying the show. Dominic closed his eye, as he knew Greko's second punch was always harder. The iron ram crunched against his rib cage. His HUD flashed with fresh updates. To Evan's surprise, Dominic still held firm, his jaw shut tight and refusing them satisfaction.

"He thinks he's a tough guy," Newbie speculated, "maybe Bruce Willis eh?"

Dominic didn't agree, no dead actor was a patch on him. He pooled the blood in his mouth, and launched the crimson spit at his target, splashing Newbie across the face and collar, allowing a short but deserved smile of accomplishment.

Grekko's punishment came quick and hard, backhanding Dominic's face with his fierce mechanical arm. Tissue and muscle tore apart making Evan scream aloud. The right side of his jaw fell free of his skull, sinew and saliva spilling out. It took Dominic longer to calm his breathing than it did Newbie to take a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe himself down.

Dominic's breathing was short and fast, blood gathering in the recess of his throat and bubbling with each exhale as he struggled to swallow. Instead of a gag reflex all he managed was a painful wince. His eye orbed at his torturer, the Hobgoblin who was relishing the horror he'd just unleashed.

Newbie however, did not look as pleased. "You fucking idiot!" he yelled. "How can he tell us anything now?" He looked again at Dominic's shattered face. "Get the car ready. Tell Lao I'll be down directly."

Grekko stared at the Newbie with contempt, before submitting to his will. "Understood."

Newbie remained. Evan thought he'd say something, but he didn't. He didn't acknowledge anyone in the room. He just slinked away, following Grekko to the door.

Hubert, who until then had been waiting on the sideline, stepped forward into view. He watched the Newbie reach the door before stepping close to Dominic. He brought his oil-stained finger to his crotch. "Soon my boy," he spoke in English and a grin followed. The disgusting half-cocked grin of a madman, Evan couldn't help but shudder.

His oily hand moved from his prick to Dominic's, the fingers split and he grasped a fistful of junk. Dominic's nostrils flared, his eye focusing on Hubert's. The lanky African squeezed his fist tight and pain leapt from his crotch. His arms and stomach tensed and he shook in his manacles, unable to do anything else. Blood poured from his jaw, splashing his chest and covering Hubert's fingers as they snaked upward toward his throat, "Maybe it safe now?" he asked. "To fuck your mouth, no?"

Dominic's eye flared at the words; he tried to retort, needing to counter with something witty, to dissuade the lunatic. He couldn't, his jaw just flapped around like a bird with a clipped wing.

"What's that baby?" Hubert mocked. "Not quite safe?" His hand wrapped around the remains of Dominic's jaw.

No.

The sound of Dominic's jaw muscle tearing was very quickly replaced by his scream; blotting out Hubert's laugh. The room, like Dom's head, spun out of control. Lights were simply lines, everything else was a blur. He couldn't see Hubert toss the jaw through the hole in the floor like a discarded sweet wrapper. He didn't hear the dogs go wild beneath him.

The room continued to spin, he felt sick. Bile spewed and coughed from his throat like scum escaping a pustule. Evan was not immune - he could feel his own stomach churning. If Hubert hadn't caught Dominic's thigh, he would have very likely spewed over himself. Just how much footage was left?

At the doorway, a second well-dressed Chinese man entered the room. Newbie and the rest turned and bowed at his entrance. Another flash, another mesh webbing appeared over his face. Dominic was too far gone and was no longer paying attention. His neck had succumbed to the weight of his head and dropped. Evan however, saw and recognised him. He'd seen many pictures of him and knew the end was close. Whatever was going to happen, it would happen soon because Sin Lao, the Dragon King, had just arrived.

It was then that Evan connected the dots. The familiar faced Newbie shared the same oily contours in his face as his father. Newbie was Kaedyn. But why had Sin Lao come to see Dominic? Why was Dominic held with such high importance?

'Requesting go order...' appeared on Dom's HUD. Had he been immersed in his thoughts and memories that he'd not noticed that his chip was transmitting? Or had it purposely hidden that fact from Dom? Right there Dominic began accessing his files, searching transmissions and confirming his feed had been sent to York all along. To someone other than Evan. The piggy back he'd placed had kicked in the moment his systems rebooted. He was now feeding to London too, to the savages, as Renner had said.

Whoever was watching had left him hanging in the hands of these torturers for six days. Making him believe he was alone and without hope. Evan had been excluded from the information, prevented from mounting a rescue mission. They'd taken extraordinary measures for Dominic to believe he was alone. So his capturers, the Triad, would also believe.

The Triad would believe they'd have the upper hand. If they couldn't get Dominic to talk, then they could rip out his chip. That they hadn't done it already was of some concern. It would have been more efficient to do so, but then they may not have had the facility to do it. Window possibly did. Had Window handed Dominic to the Triad? Why hadn't he attempted a rescue if not? He knew where he was being kept.

Sin Lau closed on him. His eyes never dropped from Dominic, even when his son Kaedyn, spoke to him. As the mandarin flowed, Evan read the subtitles that underlined their obvious dislike for Fletcher. "He is an assassin. You should have stayed in the car."

The Dragon King ignored the warning, even when Fletcher's remaining iris flickered white; Lao approached him.

'Primary target confirmed' flashed Dom's HUD. Evan's belly twisted, knowing Dominic had been betrayed.

'Proceed.' Dom read his HUD's second message. Proceed with what? How could he proceed? There was nothing left of him?! Dom's chip executed the order in one second. The Save Our Souls message was transmitted on all signals as per protocol. Dominic swallowed drying blood. His one eye was large, terrified. Fixed solely on Lao.

His chip reconfirmed Sin Lau as the target, sending 'Go Command' to Dominic's internal explosive device. In three seconds, counted down by his flashing iris – Dom's head would explode, becoming a fireball that would engulf the building. He wanted more time, more time to curse the fuckers who put him here. Who had placed a bomb in his head and allowed this to happen to him.

But he didn't have time. So he closed his eye, thought of Michael. Thought of Patricia and wished he had his jaw to spit his regiment's words, "For King, and bloody country."

Evan jumped from the chair. His feet slid on the floor and his legs slackened. He crumpled in a heap, sweat pouring off him. He gasped for breath. "What the fuck Ren! You could have fucking warned me."

"No way, if I had to sit through that then you did too." Renner was crouched waiting, holding a glass of whiskey.

Evan took it, drinking greedily from the glass. "Suicide bomb?"

"Well, I wouldn't go as far as suicide. But the result is much the same."

"That's Lockhead?"

"It appears so." Renner took the glass from him and placed it back on the side table.

Fletcher was an unwitting assassin - he hadn't known. "They put hoods on us." It made sense now. "On Kyle and me, it didn't make sense to us at the time but they wanted to make sure we weren't walking bombs too." Nikki and Window had been right to do so, it all made sense. The Prime Minister was not the one in control, his own government, and his own Military was working against him. Or worse, the Prime Minister was in on it. This could have been an entire façade, but he dismissed it as soon as he'd thought of it. By killing Sin Lao then it made it more difficult to bring Window in and they'd had tabs on Fletcher the entire time. More importantly, Bo had nailed it when he had said that Fletcher could have killed Window at any time.

And he had brought them here, he had brought Bo and Daniel to the viper's nest. "Where are they?"

# Part Four

Burn It Down

## Chapter Eighteen

Coup D'état

Evan rushed along the corridor, unchanged from his Special Branch issue track suit. His meeting with Renner still burning fresh in his head. He had thought it was all over. Bring back Window - job done. Negotiations yes, but nothing to do with Evan. He could sit back and watch the country being knitted back together again. He may have some public duties to attend, possibly get a call from Balmoral telling him a knighthood was on its way. No such luck. Or maybe, just his luck. He hadn't had it easy since leaving for London after all.

"Kyle." He sent the message, but received no answer. "Kyle, call me as soon as you get this."

He didn't have time to chase after him. Actually, it may be better not to involve Kyle. He followed orders and not his gut: if whoever planned this clusterfuck was above them, Kyle may fall on the other side of this. He pushed the thought aside, no point worrying about a thing until it became a thing. Besides which, Kyle was the least of his worries. He didn't know how many people were working against the Prime Minister - any one of them could find him out if he played this wrong.

He was strolling then. It had been a mistake to rush, he knew that now. Too many cameras on him, too many eyes watching and ears listening: this was the PPB after all. He was no longer in London, everything here was monitored and evaluated. All except the personal quarters, well some of them.

Up ahead two suits walked toward him, he knew one of them. Mark from IT, the other one he'd never seen before. She had auburn hair and cute freckles powdered over her cheeks, he would have noticed her. "Ah, Evan." Mark stepped out into the middle of the corridor, blocking Evan's route. It was typical of him, he was six and a half feet tall and enjoyed using his size. If he wanted to speak with you, you spoke with him,

"Sorry Mark, I've something that can't wait."

"I just wanted to introduce you to Jodie here."

Great, be polite or look like an ass. He exchanged greetings, shook hands with Jodie and wished he could stay longer - he enjoyed her green eyes, he felt like she enjoyed his. If life were simpler, maybe.

"I'm really sorry, but I do have to go."

Martin didn't move from his spot. "That Cat 12 you asked for—"

Evan didn't hear the rest, he slipped past. Even though Martin slid his foot further to block him, Evan just stepped over and rubbed against him. Martin retracted straight away, unprepared for actual contact, especially by Evan and with enough force to push him over, "I'll catch you for a drink," he said, leaving them in his dust.

The remainder of his journey was uneventful, he was so happy that he gave the guard a smile and a wave before knocking on Danny's door.

"Come," Danny said, from inside.

He opened it and stepped though, Danny was sat on the bed. His back against the board, his legs crossed. He was engrossed by the Tate engagement displayed on the news. He nursed a bottle of Coors in his hand and paid little attention to Evan as he closed the door behind him. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to apologise." At first he didn't think Danny was going to reply, he supped on his beer and looked at him but didn't say anything straight away. He was trying to figure Evan out.

"I love the personal touch." Danny winked at him. It sent Evan straight back to the moment he'd met him, that arrogant shit that knew just how to push his buttons. Well my hands aren't tied now, so just try pushing. An image of his hands squeezing Danny's throat flashed in front of him and he looked toward the news. Madison Fry, dressed in a figure-hugging green sequin dress, looking fabulous and alluring.

"What are you watching?" he asked, eyes never leaving her.

"Some rich kids are getting married.

When did porn become acceptable?" Danny asked, genuinely interested.

"It's always been acceptable," Evan answered, his eyes still locked on Madison's curves.

"No it hasn't," Danny disturbed his thought process. "I wasn't born in London and it wasn't acceptable when I was growing up."

He was being sidetracked, he had come here to see Danny. To discuss what he had seen on the memory stick that Nikki had given him. To tell him that he believed him, that he thought he was in danger. That Bo was in danger. Three words occurred to him as his eyes swept over the room: where was Bo? He wasn't in the room. Other than Danny on the bed and empty bottles collected on the side table there wasn't much in the room at all. Then the curtain moved, drawing his eyes in to the window. The open window. "Where's Bo?" His eyes continued to scan the room, the bathroom door was closed. He motioned toward it.

"He's taking a bath," Danny said, but the door was already open and the bathroom was empty.

"He's not." Evan felt the sickness in his stomach again, the same one he'd shared with Fletcher as they spun, dangling on the chain. Now this room was spinning, he grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. "Where is he?" he asked again, his brain racing through all the possibilities..

Danny looked at him from his bed as chilled as he had when Evan had first opened the door, his eyebrows raised slightly, but other than that he just slurped on his beer. Evan was on him within three steps, grabbing Danny's shoulders and lifted him from his perch, the bottle bouncing of the bed as Evan pounded him against the wall. "Don't fuck me about!"

Danny's cool facade dropped, his jaw slackened and his eyes were large. He was shocked, and surprised but didn't speak. Evan tightened his grip on his shoulders and rammed him against the wall again. "Where-" and again, "is-" and again, "he?"

"Okay, okay," Danny spoke, clearly not used to physical abuse. "He's gone to arrange a meeting."

Evan knew who it was with before he said the name. Dumb bastards. When Bo gets caught they'd both be under arrest, or shot. Probably shot. He blinked up his HUD, but stopped himself; if he sent a message to the Prime Minister through his chip it would be read by his body man outside the door first. That would alert them to Bo's approach and put him in the crosshairs of every armed guard in the building.

The PM's residence was on the other side of the building. He had to move fast. He rammed Danny into the wall one last time before leaving the room. There was no point in restraining himself, things were already in motion. He'd have to move fast if he wanted to get to Reekes before Bo. He sprinted down the corridor. He had to stop this before it got out of hand. He was already sitting on a powder keg, so why did things insist on getting worse? If Bo got to Reekes first, if he triggered an alarm or got caught before Evan could get there... then he would fail in his promise to Nikki. There would be no chance in bringing back Bo or Danny alive and the hopes of a free London would die with them.

In his rush he almost didn't see him. The slim suit with the shaven head who was walking toward him. Their shoulders collided. Evan raised his hand in apology and continued down the corridor.

*******

Slim continued too, strolling as confident and as smooth as a fifty-thousand an hour solicitor. "Jimmy," he said stopping at the door.

"I didn't think you were going to turn up," Jimmy, the guard, replied.

"I had some additional orders for this evening. They haven't caused you any bother?"

"None, and you just met their only visitor."

Slim looked back over his shoulder. "Yes, he was in a hurry."

"Well, if you don't mind." Jimmy said, moving away from the door. "I really need to take a leak."

"Knock yourself out." Slim watched him until he turned the corner before rapping his knuckles against the door.

"Fuck off!" came Danny's reply.

Slim opened it regardless, he had his silenced Walther aimed at Window. Danny's expression showed the realisation that he understood what was happening. He scrambled to his feet just in time to catch two bullets in his chest, throwing him clear off the bed. He hit the wall with force enough to crack his neck and then he slid down, leaving a trail of crimson on the curtain.

Slim walked around the bed with casual grace, his focus remained on Danny. He was a professional, he wasn't about to make a quick judgement and even when he could plainly see the saviour of Free London was dead, he shot him in his face. Just to be sure.

*******

Against better judgement, Oliver decided to give Jonathan another chance. He had read the transcript of the meeting with Window and had met with several of the attendees, including Antonia. All of whom had said it was no more than a fool's errand to pursue. If he could persuade Jonathan to drop this, he could achieve the impossible. He could stand at the shores of the Red Sea and part the water, and God willing, save Jonathan's life.

When Oliver found Reekes, the man was slumped against his desk on the floor of his private residence. His collar was undone, tie askew and he was stinking of vodka. Oliver snatched the bottle from him and dropped it into the paper bin near the window, filled and switched on the kettle before the Prime Minister stirred.

"Who's there?" Jonathan slurred, his eyes unfocused, scanning the room. Finding nothing.

"It's me," Oliver replied, realising how stuffy the room was. The fireplace roared unbearably, so hot it was a hard bet on whether the heat was responsible for knocking the PM out or the alcohol. He walked to the window and opened it,

"What are you doing?" Reekes called from his chair. "It's fucking December!" The window opened with an electronic hiss and Oliver breathed the brisk air from outside.

"You said you'd given up," Oliver said over his shoulder. Then, when Jonathan didn't reply, Oliver walked back around his desk to check if he was awake. "What?" he said, dropping to his haunches. "No retort?"

Reekes looked at him through yellow-stained eyes, unblinking and gormless. "Come on you lump." Oliver hooked his arms under Reekes' pits and lifted him back onto his chair, remembering that at University Jonathan had been a tad lighter than he was now.

He dropped him into his chair, attempted to fix his collar but Reekes slapped his hands out of the way. Oliver stood there, for a moment, looking at him. "I spoke with Antonia," Oliver finally said.

"It will work." Whatever dullness holding his wit was quickly banished, replaced with the madness of the obsessive.

"She didn't seem to share your optimism."

"It will!" Oliver tried to remember the fresh-faced Jonathan Reekes, full of genuine optimism. But Oliver could only see the desperate features of this Mr. Hyde to the long since lost since dead, Dr. Jekyll.

"You're a disgrace," Oliver said, hoping his words would penetrate that thick hide of his.

"Thank you, mother," Jonathan's reply came, as he wiped his mouth and brow.

Oliver turned his attention to the click from the kettle. "I mean it Jon." He walked over to the kettle and prepared a mug of coffee. "You have to sort yourself out. Go and see Percy and tell him you've changed your mind. If you're on the same side as him, you can put the wheels in motion, step down and go to Edinburgh with some dignity."

"It's because he's not from here." Jonathan had ignored him completely. "I think he may be foreign. German, maybe French. It's as if he's purposely making requests that he knows I cannot grant."

"I doubt that's the case Jon." He handed him the mug, "Everyone else seems to think he's a raving lunatic."

"I will make the fucking deal. I must. I can't, I won't be used anymore."

"Drink it," Oliver said, pointing to the mug in Jonathan's hands, "or I'll have Haines' flush that shit out of you." He considered doing it anyway, Haines was still in the building. "Jon," he said, "I want you to tell Percy that you're on board."

But the Prime Minister was ignoring him, drinking his coffee.

"Even if it's to delay him." Oliver snapped his fingers in front of Jonathan's face. "Please Jon. I need more time."

"Oli," Jonathan said, "I forgive you."

"For what?"

"For leaking the helicopter story." Oliver knew he couldn't deny it, Jonathan had caught his tell before he could gloss it over. "I know you had an affair with her. That Nadia girl and it made good politics. You distanced yourself from me, positioned yourself well to get offered a seat in the new regime." He set the mug on his desk. "You should accept it."

Oliver was stunned. He couldn't believe what Jonathan was asking of him, and of himself.

"It's alright," said Jonathan. "Honestly Oliver, I know it's my fault. I'll do what I can to help—"

"Don't!" Oliver cut in. "You're a fucking idiot if you think I'll accept this."

"TTFF," he said, and Oliver smiled, he hadn't heard Tough Titty Fish Fish in a long, long time.

"What about Maggie? The kids?" Oliver asked.

"She's gone, for good this time. Months ago, we kept up the pretence to avoid any scandal but..." A tear toppled over his eyelid and ran down his face.

"You can still fight," Oliver said.

"I have nothing left." And with that, Oliver knew that he also, had nothing left to do here.

*******

The hunter had unlimited patience, lying flat against the roof. He watched Reekes waving his hands, face getting redder. He waited, motionless in the dark as the other man opened the window and he waited for his moment.

Waited for the man to leave.

He stood, judging his trajectory. In three steps he'd reach the end of the roof, one jump he'd be on the roof above the Prime Minister's window. One step backward and he'd slip down onto the balcony. From there he would enter the residence. He wove his fingers together and cracked his knuckles, took his breath and ran.

He executed the manoeuvre perfectly.

Moving on all fours, Bo crawled into the residence. As a cat, he kept to the dancing shadows cast by the fireplace, pausing only when Reekes' stray eyes looked in his direction. He shrank, allowing the darkness to envelop him. The drunken eyes moved away, searching the room for the cup that sat on the desk, in front of him.

Jonathan grabbed his coffee and brought it to his lips and blew into it. He didn't drink. He didn't move, the mug resting on his stomach as it gently rose and fell. Bo put a hand out of the shadow, and another.

He reached the desk without alerting the drunken dozer and climbed on top of it. Squatting in front of him, Bo cleared his throat.

Reekes replied with a snort, the beginnings of an almighty snore that failed when the coffee mug slipped from his grasp, spilling its contents onto him. "Jesus!" he cursed. He flung the mug away, eyes still shut and still not seeing the child warrior.

Bo coughed again.

This time, the Prime Minister opened an eye. Peering through his drunken veil, then blinking his second eye open and focusing on Bo. He didn't look surprised, nor did he look scared. Just old. Half way to the scrap heap. He wondered how one such as this drunkard could wield such power as to command a country."He wants to talk to you." He delivered Danny's message. "Alone."

"I can't," Reekes answered.

The answer came too fast for consideration. "You want peace?" Bo countered.

Reekes nodded. He may not have said it, but Bo recognised the need for peace in the man's eyes. He saw it every day. "That is how you get it."

"I can't-" Bo raised his hand up, silencing the Prime Minister. He had heard it. It was quiet, as he was sure it was meant to be. You can silence a bullet, even three in quick succession as he was sure he'd just heard. But you couldn't silence the unmistakable sound of the victim dropping to the floor.

With the guard outside the room, Bo weighed up his options. The window was still open, he could escape before they opened the door. He could turn himself in, but then if they knew where he was then why wasn't there an alarm? Why had someone taken out the Prime Minister's guard? Looking at the door, he realised that whoever was about to come through wasn't coming for him. He glanced the room and chose his weapon.

"What?" Reekes asked, but Bo had gone. Had disappeared from the desk, back into the shadows.

The door opened, not slow enough to warrant suspicion or fast to instil panic, just right. A suit, one of the PPB's security staff entered. His hair blond and cropped, nothing about him was distinguishable. "Can I help you?" Reekes asked as the man shut the door behind him, not seeing Blond's silenced Walther in his hand.

"Just making the rounds," Blond said.

"Sir," Reekes corrected.

Blond smirked, he stepped in and raised his pistol.

Bo saw his future burning with the death of the Prime Minister. If he escaped now, through the window he would return to Danny a failure. Possibly worse; witnesses, from his experience, didn't survive long and Reekes was the only man willing to negotiate. Holding the vodka bottle by its neck, he smashed it's body against the fire place and yelled as loud as his lungs would let him.

Too late. Blond fired his shots, two into the Prime Minister's chest. Danny was right, the Prime Minister was weak. But this was supposed to be a civilised society, not like home. Nothing like his home. He glanced at Jonathan's understanding face, knowing there was no difference between his world or this one. Kill or be killed was the only true law of man.

Blond spun around to his direction, eyes rounding as the small frame bounded toward him. He fired, his aim too high, the bullets hitting the shadows. A fatal error that all too many had made in the child's past. Bo slashed at Blond's gun arm, causing him to step back and forcing the Walther to the floor.

Bo disappeared into shadow again, leaving the agitated Blond standing confused in the centre of the room, blood dripping from his torn forearm. The man did not whimper, did not show any sign of weakness. Instead he scanned the dark corners of the room. For that he earned Bo's respect.

Crouched at the side of a dark wood cabinet he watched Blond as the man scoured the room with this eyes slowly turning around on his feet. Then with his back toward him, he raised his hands and clapped once, a loud solid clap that bounced off the walls. Bo's heart sank as the room's dim lighting flared up around him, leaving him no place left to hide.

He ran, bottle ready. The broken and bloodied glass spat outward, aiming for Blond's kidney, but the man turned. It seemed that surprise was no longer a weapon either. Blond brought his arm down hard, blocking the kid's attack and punching Bo's unguarded face.

The counter hurled Bo backwards, across the carpet from where he'd come. He crashed into the cabinet, crockery smashing all around him. He shook his head, the pain throbbing in his jaw and fresh cuts on his back, which he ignored in favour of cutting Blond's arrogant grin from his face.

With his glass weapon lost to the fireplace, he chose another. He kicked the teapot at his feet, watched it rise up toward Blond's skull and bolted forward.

Blond raised his arm, knocking the teapot clear. But the realisation he'd been distracted came too late. Bo's foot connected with the side of Blond's knee, and then the kid spun, bringing his second foot into Blond's throat. He staggered backward, fighting for breath, unable to prevent Bo's relentless tirade of punch after kick after punch, fast and savage. Kidneys, throat and groin. Screaming, howling at the man like a crazed savage until Blond's vice like grip caught his leg, he span around, flinging the child at the fireplace.

He cracked against the mantle before hitting the floor, winded. Bo was lucky - the throw was one of necessity and panic. Not calculated, not aimed. If Blond had planned it, Bo knew he'd have broken his back. Instead he was allowed a couple of breaths, but he refused them. He wasn't about to allow Blond an advantage - if he did, he would be dead.

Blond staggered toward his Walther. Bo reached for his bottle and was up on his feet before Blond crouched for his pistol. He ran, keeping low and the bottle neck tight in his hand, "Yo!" he called, turning Blond around to face him before he dropped to his knees and skidded between Blonde's legs and jabbing upward as he did. The unearthly scream signified his bulls-eye.

Blond staggered. He gripped the bottle neck and pulled it free of his groin, spilling blood to the carpet. "I'm going to fucking kill you!"

But Bo was not concerned, he'd already won. In his hand was Blond's Walther already aimed. "Good fight," he admitted and pulled the trigger. Nothing. He pulled it again, nothing. And again, nothing, he checked the safety.

Blond, still holding the blooded bottle waved it toward Bo. "Peasant."

He pulled the trigger again. Nothing, he pulled back on the slide, checking the pistol.

Blond charged at him, swiping the bottle at Bo's face—

Bo released the pistol from his grasp, spinning it with his finger on the trigger guard and caught it on the muzzle - all the while bringing his arm back, up, and down in time to whip Blond across the head. BANG! The man dropped in the instant before the pistol made contact.

"Not the boy!" Reekes shouted, causing Bo to step back from Blond's impotent swing and turn around to see Evan holding a smoking pistol...

*******

Evan was up to his neck in it, standing over the body of a Parliament Security Officer, with nothing but a pistol from the guard outside, a child terrorist, and a shot to shit Prime Minister. In times like this there was nothing else to do but go with it. "You okay sir?" he asked, kneeling next to the Prime Minister.

"Fine," replied Reekes, not convincing anyone.

"How about you?"

Bo looked fine, physically, just annoyed that he had just been saved more than anything. "Good," he chirped, fiddling with the discarded, non-functioning pistol.

The room was smashed, for lack of a better description. Bo had put up a hell of a fight against the PSO, one that could have gone either way if not for the Walther. "Not bad."

"The gun jammed." This was the sticking point, Evan thought. Bo was a man who took care of himself, never asked for help and never needed any. Tonight his expectations were that the pistol would work. The kid had engineered the entire battle to win possession of the Walther, probably. The pistol hadn't jammed of course, but Bo wasn't to know all parliamentary weapons and equipment were coded to government officials.

"I hit the panic button." Reekes propped himself against the desk, his face was drained to a shade of ash and his shirt slick with crimson.

"That you did," Evan said. "Now sit down, sir." He was reading the Prime Minister's medical feed. "You're in shock." He helped Jonathan back into his chair. "I'm surprised you're talking." He caught nostril full of Reekes' breath. "The drink is probably helping."

"The building is on silent alert," said Jonathan, he was grasping at something in front of him. Presumably something he could see in his HUD, but Evan had the feeling the blood loss was more likely to blame. He was right, however: the building was on silent alert. Evan could read the same feed on his display, except the details were wrong.

According to building security, the Prime Minister was dead. Murdered by the London delegation. Evan tongued the backs of his teeth, the Prime Minister was alive. That was glaringly obvious, but despite this the security feed showed him flat-lining more than five minutes ago.

"It's that cretin Percy," Jonathan said.

"He's killed you?"

Jonathan nodded, his hand resting on Evan's arm. His grip was weak, but firmed up for a brief moment. "Don't rebuke it. They don't know what's happened yet, they don't know you are here."

That wasn't true, every person with clearance to the building could be tracked by the security department. "They know I'm here."

Jonathan huffed. "Trust me."

He couldn't see how they wouldn't be able to see he was there, but then no one had charged through the door yet. Neither had the medical team for that matter. "The medical team will be here soon."

Jonathan smiled. "It doesn't matter. Percy will delay any medical attention as long as he can, and he's got Rockwood. My old friend, Harry the bastard Rockwood. I'm pretty sure Percy's got Oliver too, but he may yet surprise me." He spluttered a laugh, coughing up red.

Evan searched for the truth in Reekes' eyes; he didn't want to believe it. He couldn't, not any of it. It was all wrong, it had all gone tits up. He didn't know Percy, well he knew his name, his reputation.. Rockwood made more sense in that he had a thread that connected this all to Fletcher. Oliver was different however; he had got to know him more than Jonathan over the last year. He was the person he reported to, he wouldn't have called him a friend, but he respected him, he was the one who had... had assigned Kyle. "Oliver couldn't betray you."

This made Jonathan laugh again, but he managed to cover his mouth in time to guard the splatter. When he stopped laughing he said. "You don't know him."

Evan disagreed and wanted to argue the point, but the highlights on his peripheral scroll showed security heading their way. Percy had given the command to lock Parliament down and every guard was converging on this building. If Reekes was correct in his assessment, none of them would be asking questions when they arrived.

"I know. I don't understand how an amoeba like Percy has done it either," Reekes blurted.

He was right - he couldn't do it by himself. "Just how many enemies do you have, sir?" Evan asked him, already preparing to leave. He had his pistol while Bo was still fiddling with another.

"He saved my life."

"Mine too," Evan agreed. Jonathan's hands enveloped his own. "They'll be after him, him and the crazy one. You have to get them out of here. Back to London."

Easier said than done. There was an army massing to meet them. They were on the sixth floor of the most fortified public funded building in England. "Piece of cake," he murmured, but there was little time to formulate a plan. He would do what he had to - he'd already made one promise to get them home. It was easy to make another. He'd have to wing it, but still he couldn't leave quite yet. This was the last time he'd speak with Jonathan Reekes no matter how the dice fell this evening. "You need to tell me about Fletcher."

"Get them back to London," Jonathan repeated. For a second Evan thought that was going to be it, that he was going to dismiss it out of hand. No time you see old boy, truck along, wink wink. Maybe it was because he saw something in Evan's eyes, or maybe it was being close to death. Whatever the reason, Jonathan Reekes decided to answer him. "I didn't know. They were randomly selected, three of them. Test subjects. But they were supposed to be used outside the Kingdom.

"Fletcher was to be sent to China, you changed his orders. I guess Rockwood changed his orders also. I didn't know, I couldn't..." His eyes were no longer focused, he was elsewhere, rambling his monologue of guilt.

"So what now?" asked Bo.

"We get the hell out of Dodge." His chip unlocked his pistol for free use and he handed to the kid. "Swap."

"It don't work."

Evan snatched his Walther, replacing it with the Browning, he'd lifted from the dead door guard. "It will for me."

"Find Oliver, he'll help you," Reekes suggested, but Evan was no longer listening to the man's contradictions.

"What in the hell are you standing around holding your dick for?" Renner cut into his head.

It was a welcome interruption. "We're just leaving."

"Don't just, leave! They're on your floor."

The peripheral scroll indicated that security forces were indeed sharing his level and heading his way. There was nothing on the floor but private quarters, a lift lobby and a fire escape. If they left through the door they would be forced to shoot it out with them in the corridor, if they stayed here they could bottleneck the attack but it would leave them with nowhere to run.

Evan nodded at Bo. "How did you get in here?"

*******

Evan was second through the window. Bo was already crouched next to Danny, still lying dead on the floor. His feet rested up on the bed in an entirely comedic pose, a scene from the morning after. If the carpet wasn't flooded with his blood Evan could have mistaken him for being comatose.

"Window is dead." Renner was watching, but Evan advised him anyway. It wasn't a surprise as much as it was a disappointment. "Don't put the kettle on, I'm masking you, but they're running door to door."

While Bo said goodbye to his friend, Evan counted the holes. Two were neatly grouped in the chest, the third was close range to the face. Small calibre rounds, probably the same issue Walther that he now carried, the one that Bo had stolen from the Prime Minister's assassin. It would have happened after he'd left, about the same time then. They'd attacked both rooms at the same time, coordinated. They'd meant for Bo and Danny to be in this room. If he had been, it would have been a neat end, they'd blame the assassination of the Prime Minister on the both of them. Say they'd been killed whilst trying to escape.

They hadn't counted on Bo being elsewhere, he wasn't chipped like staff – they couldn't see him. An oversight Gillespie would no doubt pay for in the morning. Small miracles were at work and Evan intended to capitalise on them. He left Bo at Window's side and switched his vision to thermal. The guard posted outside was gone, by design. The corridor was empty too, the question was for how long?

"Where is everyone?" he asked Renner,

"Gathered around the PM's quarters and fanning out. They haven't explored the exterior and you've got only two stationed at the scanners, get past them and you've a clear route to the elevator or stairs."

"If we hurry?"

"If you hurry."

"Bo," he spoke in a loud whisper. "We have to go."

The kid acknowledged him, raising his hand and requesting a minute with his index finger. His raven flapped its wings and silently squawked at Evan. He looked through the door again but there was no sign of movement. That was not going to last. "Bo, we have to go." The kid cocked his head, enough to show the rage that glowered beneath his grimace.

He turned and looked back to Window and placed his hand on the man's face.

"Eh... Evan..."

That didn't sound too good. "What is it Ren?"

"I've been pulled into help security find you."

"That's a good thing surely?" That was an amazing thing, he could send them in the wrong direction. This was perfect.

"Yes and no, I can't keep flipping comms. Gillespie's no fool, he'll suspect I'm speaking with you. I'll have to go silent, but I'll do what I can. I can't see the kid on the systems so keep a hold of him."

"Understood."

He checked for Bo and found him in the same place. His hand on Window's face, his head bowed as if in prayer. He gave him another five seconds before calling his name again. This time Bo ignored him. He ran his hand down from Window's face and planted it on the wet carpet. After wiping the man's blood on his own face he stood. The raven's wings extended fully, casting his face in black ink, contouring his features into a mask worthy of the devil himself.

*******

Outside the Parliamentary grounds, the air was biting. The winter's night had been allowed to settle, and Oliver wrapped his neck scarf as he walked behind Kyle.

The alarm was silent, appearing by means of their HUDs, on every PPB staffer's HUD wherever they were in the world. Only ringing loud inside the building; outside, for all intents and purposes, was business as usual. Go back to sleep, your government is in control.

They walked in silence too, albeit for different reasons. The last words spoken were from Kyle. "You're the boss," he'd said, not agreeing with Oliver's decision to leave.

Oliver didn't mind the silence. Quite the reverse, he needed time to compartmentalise. His decisions in the past twenty-four hours would bear a substantial weight over the coming months and years. Of that he was certain. They were the best choices on offer. Of that he was also certain. Whether he could live with his decisions, was altogether uncertain.

They walked along the hedge-framed road, passing the give way sign that warned them of the impending intersection and then continued walking for quarter of a mile. There, in a village train station car park, Oliver had left his Maybach. When he had left it there that morning, he'd told himself it was because he needed the air. He had, after all, given himself a slight hangover from the previous evening's festivities.

But now, as he walked towards the vehicle, he wasn't sure whether he hadn't already made the decision to let Jonathan go when he'd driven in this morning. He beeped the alarm and the doors unlocked. Kyle opened the driver's side and climbed into the seat. Oliver, happy to continue the evening in silence, slipped into the back seat and ignored the flashing message pending on his HUD.

"Am I taking you home?" it was the second time Kyle asked him.

"No." His house wouldn't be safe, not tonight. "Into town we go."

Kyle started the car and pulled out of the car park, taking the most direct route to the town centre as indicated by his own GPS system. He didn't further the conversation, leaving Oliver no option other than to look out of the window and consciously avoid his pending message.

He knew it would be from Jon. He knew exactly what it would be. Jonathan may have given up, but he wouldn't miss a chance to stick it to Percy. To help Oliver, and that was where Oliver felt the most guilt. He'd allowed the circling wolves to take his friend and that was something Jonathan would never have done to him.

In his message, Oliver would discover the means to win this thing. This thing he'd not started, but he'd manoeuvred himself away from Jonathan with the full intention of surviving. Like the old joke, two men camping in Africa are woken by the growling of a lion. One of the men is quick to put his trainers on and the other says 'You can't outrun a lion!'

"No, but I can out run you," said Oliver, staring at his own reflection in the car window.

"What's that?" asked Kyle, not taking his eyes from the road.

"Nothing," replied Oliver, blinking the command to open the video message. The vitreous image leapt from the inbox and grew until it filled Oliver's eyes, replacing his immediate surroundings to those of Jonathan's private study. A skewed angle; presumably where he'd left the Prime Minister, in his chair. Doctor Haines' face was intimately close, a quick look at Jonathan's vitals revealed the bullet wounds the good Doctor worked on. Behind him, two suits were standing at the door.

Oliver's guilt twisted his guts and he urged himself to send a message in return, but this wasn't a live broadcast. It was a recording, time-stamped forty minutes previous. Whatever the Prime Minister intended him to see had already happened.

One of the suits moved into the room, allowing three newcomers to enter. Another two suits, presumably Special Branch - ones Oliver failed to recognise and the third was Percy. His foppish strut gave him away before Oliver saw his vapid expression. "Dear God!" he said. "Are you alright?" He stood on the other side of Jonathan's desk, wearing a rehearsed look of concern.

"Disappointed?" asked Reekes.

"Concerned," he corrected. "When I heard, I feared the worst."

"That I'm still breathing?"

"What?" The pretence was agonising. "I thank God you are."

"Christ Percy!" Jonathan barked. "Your assassin is right there!" He pointed to the Blond-haired corpse on his floor.

"I don't—" Percy started.

"Don't you insult me, I've two bastard bullets in my gut!"

Percy's demeanour changed. His charade fell, discarded to the floor, like a cheap coat. He waved a hand, a signal to his accompanying guards. They took out the two suits guarding the PM's door first. Hatchet Haines fell next. As Percy leaned into the desk, "Then," he said, "perhaps you should take the hint."

His guards turned their pistols on the Prime Minister, their bullets ending Jonathan's recording along with his life.

Oliver wiped the tear from his cheek as easy as he'd wiped his friend from his life. There was no time for sentiment, no time for regret or indecision. The course was set, there was nothing to do but proceed.

*******

Whatever Renner was doing, it was working. With his guidance Evan had led them down two floors with no resistance and if their luck held out they would escape the building. Everything was going better than expected, except Bo. The little one was sour. Sour at every change of course, every detour. Evan hadn't broached the subject, but the boy's irritation built with each manoeuvre that led them away from confrontation.

Currently, Evan was leaning against the turn in the corridor waiting for Bo to catch up to him. They were on the Government administrative floor, just a turn and a skip away from the main office in which, according to Renner's security scrawl, there were five armed individuals searching the office and the surrounding rooms. Once past them, they'd have the option of taking the elevator or the stairs. Both had CCTV that could be seen by the security force. Renner's magic masked Evan's signature and heart making him invisible to local scanners, just like Bo. Tricking CCTV into ignoring someone was almost as hard as fooling the cybernetic eye. 'It can be done, but I'll need a couple of hours' Renner had said, so Evan's plan was to avoid both by prying open the elevator shaft and heading straight to the first floor. From there they could exit through the kitchens with minimal casualties.

He hadn't explained any of his plan to Bo, because Bo wanted to fight. He was coiled up too tight. He wanted to tear the building down, and Evan didn't blame him, but wanting to smash the PPB into pulp with everyone wasn't going to help and what was worse, Evan wasn't sure he could stop him.

"What's the hold up?" the kid asked on cue, almost slavering with anticipation of a possible problem.

"Just checking the security systems." Evan tapped his finger against his head, hoping it would satisfy the kid's curiosity. He searched the map for a route around the office, avoiding the five men completely. Get out fast and get out neat. The longer they're looking for you inside the building, the more time you have to put space between the building and yourself. Leaving a trail of bodies was only going to make it harder.

"We're wasting time."

"This way." Evan nodded, moving along the wall - shoulders loose, his pistol gripped tight. The open-plan office was coming up on his right; he could see the corridor branching off toward it and he slowed. He raised a finger to his lips and passed the corridor, counting the red blips on his HUD. All small arms, some semi-automatics registered on his display. His look must have lingered long enough for Bo to notice,

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are we avoiding it?"

"It's just offices and not the way we want to go."

"You're lying," Bo said.

"We don't need to make contact with the security forces," Evan admitted. "If we can get out without being noticed then we've a better chance of escaping the city and this way circles around them."

"The longer we stay in the building, the more chance we have of being discovered," Bo countered.

Was he really arguing with a teenager? "Blasting our way through guards will only alert them to us."

"Leave no prisoners then."

"They share data kid." He saw Bo's nostrils flare at the word, he couldn't help saying it. He was being lectured on combat by a prepubescent and so he continued. "They're all linked," he said, pointing to his eye. "They can share what they see between themselves."

"Bollocks."

"If one sees us, they all do and there are five of them down that corridor. In that office, it's a group of desks with rooms around the perimeter. We won't be able to take one or two out, if we go in then we'd have to take all five of them and without any of them noticing. It's too risky."

"This is just like the bridge," Bo said. "You don't have the stomach to kill."

"That's not a bad thing Bo, but you're right. I don't want to kill, not anyone unless I have to and right now we don't. We have a way around." He pointed along the passage, but Bo continued to look toward the office. "Bo, they're just patrolling."

"They have orders to kill me on sight?"

"Don't get smart."

"If you're not smart, you're dead. And don't think you're exempt from these orders. If you're helping me, I'm sure you're going to be killed on sight too." In all likelihood, the kid was correct. His Raven paused, sharing Bo's expression. They were thinking hard, then just before Bo spoke again, the Raven leant toward his ear and opened its beak. "How many guards are there downstairs?"

Evan checked his map. Presently, there were over thirty guards at the front entrance, with pockets of tens and twelves around the other doors.

"If we take out these five." Bo's face lit up, his eyes were as big as golf balls. "How will the other guards respond - will they come up here or wait downstairs?"

He was playing a numbers game with a pathological logic. "They'd most likely split." It was the best he could offer. It made sense if there was a positive sighting on an upper floor the guards would converge on the location. "They'd have to leave some at the entrances in case we slipped through."

"Then we take these out. We keep the deaths low, happy?"

"I'd prefer no deaths at all."

"You counted over seventy guards down stairs. I'm not that good."

"We don't have to kill anyone."

"You just said that if one sees us, then all of them see us. We should turn that to our advantage."

Evan was on the back foot again, the kid was ruthless. "I promised Nikki I'd get you home," he pleaded, putting a hand on Bo's shoulder.

"Then stick close to me." Bo winked and slipped from Evan's hand, heading down the corridor toward the office.

Evan wanted to say 'wait', but the kid was already out of whisper distance. Instead he mouthed the word "Dammit," then chambered a round in his pistol before following.

They closed on their target, reaching the end of the corridor and a door with a glass slit on its right side. Behind it, five guards were checking the place and surrounding offices. Evan's thermal vision saw two of them sitting on one of the desks, chatting amongst themselves and not paying attention to their surroundings. The other three were in checking adjoining rooms, two walking together and one by himself.

Evan relayed their positions as best he could; the two that sat on the desk carried automatics, standard issue Glocks. The others, thankfully, only carried Browning pistols. The pistols had both range and stopping power, but if they utilised their surprise swiftly they could take them. The Glocks however, he wasn't so sure about. They fired a couple of dozen rounds a second and they'd spray those puppies over the room once the killing started.

Bo pressed himself against the door and peered through the slit. "Can they see us?" he asked. "Like you can see them?"

"Can they see us?"

"No." It was an educated guess - these guys were wearing vision enhancer goggles. All five of them had them resting on their heads, because augmentations are expensive and the government was... well it was the government. Plus, as they hadn't reacted to their presence so far, it was very likely they couldn't see them.

"I'll take the automatics." Bo's hand clutched the door handle.

"Wait." Evan stopped him. "No deaths." Bo opened the door and slid inside. Evan didn't follow, not immediately. He stopped the door latch from striking closed, held his hand in place as he readied himself. Bo could and, more importantly, would take out the automatics in the centre of the room. That left him with a two and a one. The two were checking the officers to the right of the door, the remaining one was checking rooms to the left.

He crouched, opened the door as wide as he could without drawing attention to himself and slid through, while keeping his hand in place to catch the latch as it settled back into a closed position. Bo was on his belly, crawling under the desks toward the centre of the room. The two men with the automatics were still sitting on the table. Evan could stay against the wall he presently leant against but needed to get to the room before the two PSOs inside finished their checks.

He remained low and silent, slinking his way across the floor and pausing only at the gap in the desks that led into the main space. There was no chatter from the guards, at least not verbally. Their conversations were happening inside their heads. The cardinal rule Kyle had scolded him for breaking the previous morning.

He rolled across the open area, settled up against the next row of desks. He remained low, remained silent. From his new position, he could see Bo nearing his quarry. The kid had decided to snake around them, take a concealed route under the desks and come at them from behind.

Evan turned to the sound of a faint paper-like slap, a potted plant leaf hitting the window to an office. One of the PSOs must have knocked the pot. He continued towards the room, the two red splotches were still inside. One of them heading back out, towards the door. He needed to take them in the room. The others could pick it up on their feeds, but he was willing to chance that neutralising them in the room, would provide him with a handful of vital seconds to play with.

He had no such luck; the first PSO exited the meeting room and hung by the door. Looking into the office, and looking in his direction. Shit. Evan pressed himself lower, sank underneath the pod of desks and crawled toward his target. If they both entered the next room then this could still be neat. He looked for Bo, but couldn't see him. Time was running out.

Evan had reached the edge of the desk, the furthest point he could travel without being seen. The PSO still stood in the doorway. His second target was still in the room. Too far apart. If he took one out, then the other would have time to respond. If he saw the first go down he reminded himself but if he waited any longer Bo would make his move and all hell would break loose.

He moved to his right, wanting a better aim, one that would put his target down without killing him, it also needed to set him up to take out the second searcher through the partitioned wall. That isn't too much to ask for...

Still on his knees, Evan slid his pistol up the carpet, willing every muscle to silence as he flattened prone under the desk With the pistol firmly in his grip and rolled up on his right shoulder; he closed one eye and let his TAP guide his aim. He breathed in, checking the second heartbeat in the room. He didn't have the shots he wanted. Exhaling slow, Evan tapped the trigger guard, and came to his decision. He would wait until Bo made his move - it wouldn't be neat but he could take the two of them out with as many shots.

His arm began to shake, Bo was taking too long. Bringing his other hand to support his elbow, Evan slid his finger from the guard, slipping it front of the trigger. Come on. His target stepped forward, bringing his left foot up and tapping his toes against the floor. Come on. The target took another step and stopped, he now stood less than a metre from Evan's position.

Holding his breath, Evan followed TAPs realignment. Then the boots shifted, turning around and heading back into the room to join his companion. Evan rolled from under the desk, crouched and followed him as far as the doorway. He leant against the frame, keeping track of the heartbeat.

"Shit," a voice called out loud, quickly followed by grunts and yelps.

Evan rounded the doorframe, standing as he stepped into the room. The heartbeats inside had already stalled, their owners alerted to Bo's attack. The first PSO, was turning. His face betraying his shock at seeing Evan so close. "Sorry," Evan said, whipping his pistol across the man's head.

The soft crack of metal against skull signalled his body to drop and Evan moved past him. The second PSO had more time and was raising his pistol in defence. Evan's pistol was still high, faster in targeting his opponent than he was to Evan. He fired, the shot knocking the searcher's shoulder back. His hand limped out, dropping his pistol.

Evan careened toward him, refusing to break his pace. The PSO had time to regain balance just as Evan crashed into him. They fell to the floor, as two successive shots fired in the main office. Evan grabbed the PSO's head, bouncing it against the floor. His assailants knee came up between his legs, tears washed over Evan's eyes and his hands slipped to the carpet.

The PSO grabbed Evan's collar, bringing his knee up under Evan's stomach and rolled over, throwing Evan off of him and flat onto his back. Air expelled from his lungs, forcing Evan to drag as much back in as he could. The clicking of a hammer cocking told him he'd taken to long.

Standing over him, the PSO smirked. "Sorry."

The gunshot pounded in Evan's ears, the PSOs throat exploding outward, showering him with blood before the body staggered away and finally dropped, revealing Bo standing behind him. "How did you get so old?"

Evan grimaced, he was clenching his teeth. Adrenaline flowing through him. Chest tight, nostrils flared and couldn't understand the remark. "What?"

"Unlock these," Bo said, holding up two recovered sub-machine guns up for Evan, as he climbed to his knees.

"I can do that," he agreed, finding a table to help him to his feet.

He unlocked them on the move, multi-tasking as he also read his security scroll confirming Bo's plan had worked. There was a substantial force heading their way and fast. He acknowledged this, letting Bo know and regretted doing so as soon as the kid opened his mouth. "I told you," he said.

They sprinted hard, smashing through doors on their way to the lift lobby. According to the scroll, troops were converging on them from above and below their position. The stairwells and fire escapes were flooded with weapons. The elevators too, were filled with security. "Hurry," Evan said, they had to get to the lobby before the lifts arrived.

He ran too fast, slamming into the elevator door with this shoulder. His HUD flashed the blips surrounding his position; they were out of time. Slipping his hands between the smooth metal, he forced the right panel open enough to wedge his boot between the doors. Moving his body between the doors he pushed hard, his muscles screaming in acid before the doors opened.

"Move!" He shouted, hearing the elevator racing down toward them. Bo grunted, slipping through the gap and jumping to the wire at the centre of the shaft, and grabbed it. If he noticed the cab above him, he said nothing, simply sliding down into the black.

Evan reached across, the sound of the approaching elevator cab buzzing all around him. His fingers touched the wire, stroked and clasped it. Holding tight, he half pulled, half jumped to the cable. The door slid shut behind him and above him, the cab's brakes screeched. Evan was gone, sliding fast down the cable. Heat burned between his thighs, skin reddened, splitting his palms.

His feet slapped the concrete bottom of the shaft, followed by his arse a second later. He splayed out on the cold flooring, breathing hard but thankful to be doing so. Bo waited for him at his side. "Are you okay?" the kid asked.

Evan chuckled, his hands bloodied, his flesh burned black from the wire. . His legs would ache tomorrow. "Good thanks. You?"

"Good." The kid really felt no pain nor fear. "Did it work?"

Evan switched to thermal imaging to find the answer. It had. There were dozens of men and women scouring the upper floor for them. He tapped the scroll for more information, 'targets located on floor five, administration'. And not to make it too easy, there were still a sufficient number of guards on the ground floor to make it difficult for them to leave. "It worked."

"Then let's go." The kid was anxious to move forward with something beyond courage. Something Evan feared was uncontrollable.

There were six men in the kitchen and fifteen in the foyer at the front of the house, plus another five, maybe, his thermal sight couldn't quite make out the exterior of the building. . "What are we waiting for?"

"I'm thinking."

"About what?"

The kid's eyes were yellow smudges, his head a blurred red in Evan's thermal sight. If he offered him the choice, they would go through the front. Fifteen people to slaughter and his ledger would still have room for more, of that Evan was sure. But if Evan argued to go through the kitchen and the six men that stood in their way. Then when they ran outside to the wall, they would have twenty men chasing them instead of eleven. Bo may be young, Evan thought, but he was also a warrior. He was reckless, but not suicidal. Reluctantly, Evan brought the kid into the fold. "Numbers."

"Tell me."

He did. All of it. His reservations and all of the information on the outside of the building. Where the aircraft were kept, how they couldn't risk stealing one. They wouldn't get as far as York's walls before getting shot down. They'd have to run into the city, and find a place to recoup. He kept it as brief as he could, they didn't have time for him to cover the tourist information. When he was done he asked, "What do you think?"

He stared at the kid's yellow smudges, unblinking hellish eyes in the darkness of the elevator shaft, and waited while Bo mulled it over. "The front of the house aims east? To the wall?"

It did not come to a surprise. "Yes."

"Then we take the fifteen. We'll have surprise on our side. If we go through the kitchen, then we still have to make our way around and we'll probably run straight into them anyway. Better to kill them first."

"I..." He was going to fight him again, tell him not to kill these men but he knew it was useless. They couldn't avoid killing them as much as they couldn't give themselves up. Percy had locked down the building and was exterminating all his opposition. They had to do this Bo's way or they would end up dead.

"Stop it," Bo said. "I'm not a child."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

Evan shook the remark off. "The foyer is two floors. It's a straight run from the elevator to the door. Don't go through the door until you hear the shooting start."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to head up to the first, get onto the mezzanine and get everyone to look up so you can get in the middle of them." He couldn't see the red blob of a head smiling but he knew it was.

"Plan!" he said holding his fist out for a bump. Evan, reluctantly bumped.

*******

The foyer was styled after French architecture which could have been found in any château. The stairs arched down from either side of the mezzanine, hugging both walls until curving in on themselves until they faced each other and reached the ground floor. Paintings of former prime ministers and royals of note daubed the walls. The double doors, or the front public doors to the Parliament building, were three inches of iron, clad in carved mahogany. Designed and built to withstand a siege. They were, in one word, magnificent.

Evan lay flat on the ground, shuffling towards the banisters on his elbows. Below him, fifteen men and women, people he worked with, said good morning to and goodnight to. Men he'd sent Christmas emails. For some of them, he even knew their children's names. Tonight, they stood in his way. Stood in the way of values he couldn't allow to be trodden on.

He wondered if it were possible for Renner to overload their chipsets and knock them all out before the bullets started flying. It had been done before, he'd read a paper on it at some point or another. Renner would save their lives, but he would also put himself smack in the middle of Gillespie's crosshairs. His heart beat with the rhythm of the devil's blacksmith, hammering the chains of guilt which would forever burden his soul. But there was no other option, not tonight.

He looked through the banister. Bo was waiting, as he said he would. Six men stood by the doors, three either side, with the rest mingling in the middle. Restless and waiting for orders. There had been nothing on the scroll since they'd lost them in the lift shaft. No. Evan went cold. It was him. He hadn't received anything from the scroll since the lift shaft. He was cut off. He looked behind him, half expecting a mass of returning guards. Easy boy, he told himself, just get this done.

He rolled back onto his belly, extended his Walther and his recently claimed Browning, it was time to put his new and improved chipset to work. He picked his targets and fired. They dropped, two clean throat shots. He fired again, another two shots. The third bullet sank into another throat. The fourth embedded itself into the mahogany cladding. He pulled his hands from the rails and rolled clear of the responding hail of bullets.

He watched Bo dispatch the larger group with gruesome ease, rolling up close and firing kill shots into chests or maiming them with a shot to the crotch, then finishing them with a second to the face as they dropped. Clearly these were his favourite moves; tried, practised and perfected. Bo flipped backwards and forwards, rebounding off the floor as easy as he did the walls and his attackers. He danced among the fevered group, ducking and weaving from their attacks like a psychotic ballerina.

Evan braved further vantage on the chaos. No one was firing at him, not when this demon child was amongst them. They scrambled around, looking for cover, looking for the perfect shot. They didn't get it. He knew where all of them were, knew where to draw one in close to prevent another from firing, taking both out in quick succession. He wasn't so much as killing them, but teaching them a lesson in chess.

Evan picked another off from the perimeter, alerting no one to his position. The bullet struck the guard in the heart, sucker punching him to the ground. He moved to his next target and dropped him too. Soon, the last shot was fired from Bo's pistol. His automatics already empty, slung to the ground several deaths previously. The guard clutched at his throat as his heart pumped thick red jets out from between his fingers.

Bo stopped still, listening to the man's life pour from him and for the sound of any retaliation. When there was none, he looked up, straight into Evan's eyes and smiled. Evan doubted he'd ever looked so happy and the image turned Evan's blood to ice, the devil's hammer struck the anvil.

He joined Bo at the bottom of the stairs. The kid was already searching for a way through the door, of which he could find none. "How do we get out?"

Evan put his hand against the onyx plate at the side of the double doors, allowed it read his hand. He hoped the door to open. It didn't. "Shit..."

Evan looked around the room, the two doors they'd entered through were the only ones. If they got caught in here by the force undoubtedly heading towards them... "I need a bigger gun," Bo said, searching the closest bodies.

It had happened, and being cut from the security scroll was the start of it. Evan was locked out: they must have identified him back upstairs. "Shit..." he repeated.

"I passed the toilets on the way from the elevator." Bo smiled, holding an assault rifle in his hands, one with an undercarriage.

"Yes."

"I was joking."

"No," Evan waved Bo's words away with his hand as he approached him. "The undercarriage - these doors are designed against an external attack." The grenade launcher should do nicely. "Are there any more of these?"

Bo was beaming. "Three."

"We only need one each."

"Oh," he said, deflated.

He ran the numbers in his head again. "Okay, let's give all four a go."

"Boom!" The kid's reaction was accurate if nothing else,

Evan unlocked the guns, passed them along and took a rifle in each hand. Four launchers aimed toward the door. "Aim for the centre." He smiled with Bo. "On my mark... fire!"

## Chapter Nineteen

Hiding Out

Oliver spoke first, "You dumped the car?"

"Far enough away," Kyle replied, closing the door.

The hallway was decorated with photos of celebrities. Famous faces in famous places, all sharing the same constant. Nadia Black. She stood shoulder to shoulder with world leaders, shook hands with businessmen and embraced Oscar winners. This was her house. A place where they would not be found, not right away. Not tonight.

"I'll put the kettle on," Oliver said, leading Kyle into the kitchen. He kicked at the Yorkshire Terrier that circled his legs, it fizzled and faded but remained persistent in bothering him as he walked the length of the room. Damned holographic pets. He grabbed a cup, poured a tea and slid the china to Kyle while reaching for a glass of cognac.

On the wall screen, Nadia took centre stage. Behind her, was a clear photo of Bo, standing outside the PPB and aiming an automatic rifle at the camera. "The Assassin, 'Gunboy', has murdered approximately twenty persons inside the Parliament Building. He would have killed us too, if his rifle hadn't jammed before he ran into the night," she said.

"Is that true?" asked Kyle.

"It's the news. What do you think?" answered Oliver, supping on his cognac.

Percy appeared behind Nadia, walking up to an exterior podium flanked by spotlights, "Here comes the Foreign Secretary," from around Nadia, dozens of reporters rushed to their spots in front of the podium.

"This should be good," said Oliver.

"Good morning," said Percy. "Thank you for coming at such short notice. Jonathan Reekes, our Prime Minister..." he paused, looking over all of the lenses aimed at him, "was murdered by the London delegation.

"Both terrorists have escaped into the city on foot."

Kyle pulled a chair out from under the table and sat with Oliver. Percy continued. "For public safety, martial law has been authorised with immediate effect. Thank you. That is all I have to say at the moment." Percy turned and stepped away from the podium amongst a torrent of camera flashes and questions.

"That was poetic," Kyle said.

"He's always had a way with words," agreed Oliver.

He then mouthed the words in sync with Nadia. "Will there be a retaliation?" she asked.

Percy stopped. He'd said no questions, but Oliver knew he'd not resist, so he'd asked one through Nadia, messaging her moments before the press conference began.

Percy took a deep breath, "An emergency cabinet meeting is gathering as I speak." He took the bait, opening himself up for an onslaught.

"Is this an act of war?" Another question, from another reporter, then another and another. His shoulders slumped under the bombardment, his face honest and confused, not knowing which question to answer. Oliver felt the muscles in his face contract, the beginnings of something he wasn't quite ready to do.

"Thank you," Percy said. "That is all." The focus slid from the Foreign Secretary as he stepped away from the podium, positioning Nadia centre of the frame once again. Oliver tapped the kitchen table once, muting her before she could put her thoughts to the world. He need not hear any more, he already knew what she was going to say.

"What's going on?" Kyle asked, forcing Oliver to consider and to realise that it wasn't just a smile that he wasn't quite ready to do. He also wasn't ready to say the truth.

"Percy just made a buffoon of himself," he said, his eye remaining on the beautiful and silent Nadia Black.

"What's going on," Kyle repeated, "with you?"

He considered telling him, that Jonathan Reekes was a hero over anything he'd ever done. That act alone had elevated the Prime Minister from drunkard to a pedestal, while dropping Oliver to the dung heap. Their colours revealed. Jon had met his fate with defiance, while Oliver received a thick strip up his back, as bright and yellow as the sun. "We need to destabilise any standing that little shit has on claiming the party."

"You're dodging the question."

He eyed Kyle. "Maybe it's because I don't understand your question?"

"Tell me what went on tonight. What happened with Jonathan, what you know about it? Why you're not concerned about someone kicking the fucking door down?"

Oliver gave the front a glance out through the kitchen door, he was right. He had earned his answers. "What Percy said is only half-truth. Jonathan was murdered, but not by the kid. It was Percy who gave the order and Jonathan..." Oliver stopped, remembering his hero, "was expecting it."

"He sent me his own snuff file," he continued. "I'm not saying it's the reason why I'm confident no one is looking for us. In all honesty, I'm not sure they know it exists. They'll probably suspect something...

"And in answer to your last question, Renner activated our Level Four Protocols." They were concealed from the normal searches: level four was created to be implemented on hostile takeover, intended to protect government officials fleeing the city. To all intents and purposes they were invisible.

There was a point within the growing silence when Oliver considered whether he'd muted the kitchen as well as the wall. It was almost ten seconds since his confession when Kyle next spoke. "I'm going to check the house."

Oliver shook his head, he hadn't expected a hug or a pat on the back.

"You'll be wanting to back that file up," added Kyle, standing.

"Yes," Oliver agreed. Yes he would.

*******

It was four in the morning by the time Nadia slid the key into her front door. Exhausted, she failed to notice the shadow just inside and as her reward, received the evening's second weapon aimed at her face, "Jesus Kyle!" she said, slipping past him.

"Sorry," he said, scanning the road behind her before closing the door.

"Where is he?" she asked, hanging her bag on the banister.

"Kitchen."

She nodded, walking down the hall in the dark and opened the door. Sure enough, Oliver was sat at the kitchen table. The lights were dimmed, with a candle from her emergency stash placed centre of the table. Around it were the night's conquests: a near empty bottle of cognac, a glass and two mugs. "Made yourself at home, then?" she said, nearly jesting.

Oliver stood, his smile disarming. "I didn't have time to shower," he said.

She surprised herself when she slapped him, standing there in silence watching his cheek redden.

"I'm sure I deserved that?" he said.

"I was standing outside the front when that Gunboy blew the door open, it missed me by this much." She pressed her thumb and index together. "Then the kid nearly shot me, thank God he'd run out of bullets. And if that wasn't enough, Special Branch confiscated the fucking footage." She'd not admit it, but that was the point which hurt the most. "What in hell is happening? Why did you send me into that mess?"

"Nad..." he said, settling his hands on her hips as he did when he wanted to dance. "We're in a bit of a bind."

"A bit..." She couldn't believe his words. "...Of a bind? Are you crazy?"

His hands found her neck and cheeks, "I'm sorry." Damn him. His finger traced the contour of her lips, "But I need you." He curled his hand beneath her chin and brought his lips to hers. It had been too long since they'd shared any intimacy and she welcomed it as the knowledge she was safe in his arms.

"Jesus Nad," he said and she realised for the second time she'd slapped him.

"Shot at!" she said. "And had a fucking door explode in my face." She turned, remembering Kyle. "I appreciate the tip, you know I love being first at the scene but some warning would be nice."

"The kid is Bo, the one we brought from London," said Kyle.

"Well he's a celebrity now, got his own stage name and everything. He came running out of the Parliament building, just after blowing open the front doors, aimed a gun at Clive and I then threw the damned thing at us when he realised he was out of ammo."

"Was he alone?" Kyle asked.

"No. He was with someone, a guy."

"Can you show me?"

"No," she only had her memory. "As I said, Special Branch confiscated the footage, ripped the data from my chip, Clive's too - all we got was the kid's photo, the one they issued to the press." She looked at Oliver. "It was my scoop."

"I'm sorry." Damn him twice. "I didn't know what was going to happen." She almost believed him, if not for Kyle looking away. She could have fought him more and she wanted to, wanted to trade in the slaps for a good sucker punch to the gut and watch him fold over in pain, but she couldn't do that anymore than she could accept him back into her life. He was the one, the one that would ruin her. "I need a drink," she said. noticing the absence of a special little Terrier. "Where's Tikka?"

"I'll put the kettle on," said Kyle.

"I'll have a scotch," she said, staring at Oliver.

"I switched her off," Oliver admitted, "she's annoying."

"You know she doesn't like that."

"She's a hologram."

"Ice in the Scotch?" interrupted Kyle, holding the bottle and a glass.

"Two fingers scotch, one finger water," Oliver replied.

"At least you get that right," Nadia said slipping off her shoes. "I take it you're both staying the night? Sorry, morning?" The night was almost over.

"If you don't mind," Oliver said.

She wondered what he'd say if she declined. "It's rude to leave a woman in the middle of the night."

"Thanks," Oliver said, reaching for his empty glass.

"Well I have to say, you both seem remarkably calm," Nadia said, "considering."

"I have some leverage," Oliver offered.

"Is it about that kid?" she asked, accepting the glass of Scotch from Kyle.

"Maybe."

"Shot at remember," she sipped her drink.

"I have Percy executing Jonathan."

"Shut the front door."

"Seriously," Oliver added, sipping his empty glass. "Kyle, would you mind?"

"Well I just thought of a way you can make tonight up to me," she said.

"I'm sure you have, but..."

She grabbed Kyle's arm as he reached for Oliver's glass. "Kyle, you shouldn't do everything he asks of you."

"I don't like being idle," he said, "and I don't have the stomach for politics."

"Few do," she replied, "but in this instance I think Oli needs to remember to do things himself once and a while."

"I've missed you," said Oliver.

"Yet you find it easy to stay away," Nadia said through an insincere smile. "You're giving me an exclusive on the footage. Don't think you're leaving here before that." She knew he wouldn't, he'd pretend to. Say it would make sense to leave a copy behind should the worst happen. "How deep does this go?" she asked, before he started lying.

"Truthfully," Oliver said. "I'm not sure. Percy, the military and some corporate interests." He walked toward the bottle stood next to the sink, poured himself a drink. "The footage is toxic. They'll come for you, even if it's aired."

He was warning her. "That's sweet, but I'm a big girl."

"The guy," Kyle asked, "with the kid?"

"Yes?"

"Was he a scruffy, wired looking man in his thirties?"

"No," she replied, "he was younger, twenties maybe? Wearing those awful jogging suits you all have."

"Evan?" suggested Kyle,

"What does it matter?" Oliver asked.

"If they're together then maybe—" Kyle started.

"They're not worth the risk." Oliver cut him dead.

"There's only three of us." Nadia had also been counting.

Oliver raised his hand. "I understand where you're both coming from. Evan, I agree could be of some use. Possibly. But the boy is a cooked hand grenade. You've branded him as what? Gunboy? The London Assassin? We can't associate with him now."

"I can retract it," Nadia lied."Tell the people the truth, maybe?"

Oliver's face flushed crimson. "Are you schooling me?"

"I'm offering a suggestion," she said.

Oliver stared at her with rounded, fierce eyes. "No," he said. "Any move we make will greaten our chances of being found." He looked at Kyle. "We can't afford that. We can't reach out to anyone. Not our friends, not Renner, not Evan and certainly not Gunboy."

She'd seen him concerned before, seen him angry but this was new. She'd never seen him scared before. Yet she was always impressed how he kept his composure. Oliver's hands never trembled, and neither did his words. "We're on our own."

## Chapter Twenty

A Bridge Too Far

They'd been running for hours, chased by dogs, men and searchlights touching the ground from the clouds above. He'd led them into the city, hoping to lose their pursuers in the alleys, the streets and the non-land-mined Underground. They kept away from the main streets, away from the cameras. They had to get to the residential areas, where there was no surveillance. Be smart, don't be dead. Stay away from the commercial zones.

Currently they were hiding in an alley way behind a Chinese restaurant, the evening's cooking stinking from the black garbage bags. Bo watched the street, leaving Evan slumped against a dumpster. "Come on Renner. Get back in the game," he said, talking to himself, too tired and needing his bed.

As Evan was unable to reproduce the sound of a wood pigeon, Bo whistled the sharp, short whistle they'd decided to be their correspondence, one for trouble, two for clear. He hesitated on his pistol as he waited for the repeat. When it came he relaxed long enough for his body to realise it was time to move on. They were nearly at the park. An unlit field of trees with no CCTV, somewhere they could recuperate.

He nestled in on the opposite corner to Bo, looking at the next stage of their escape; a newly cleaned street, well lit by glaring white LEDs hanging over the roads and pavements, acting as protectors from the night. The bus stop was a little distance away but the advertising panel was unmissable. They'd seen more than a couple during their run through the city and not just on bus stops. Shop windows, taxis, buses, even the junction screens above the road and very likely on every household screen in York all shared the same image.

It had taken Evan by surprise - God knows what it had done to Bo. He didn't look happy, but then he didn't look angry either. He couldn't understand it, the kid's first taste of the modern media machine and it was pitted against him. Some of his animated pictures were cascading down sides of buildings for Christ's sake and all of them the same angry, confused image. Bo, the child warrior, Gunboy.

Aiming his rifle at whoever looked at the image. His face distorted, painted with blood and smothered by the wings of a raven. All contained the same repeated message. 'Gunboy. Armed and extremely dangerous. Stay at home. Call this number.' Introduced to the world as a brand image. He'd be a household name by breakfast - The boy who killed a nation.

Evan caught Bo staring at his own image. In any other circumstance a thirteen year-old becoming a celebrity would cause a celebration, but not for Bo and he didn't know how to comfort him. "We'll be out of the city by sunrise." They had to, because when the city woke up Bo would have millions of unwitting chipsets searching for him as York's commuter population went to work. MI5 would be using everyone and anyone to locate him, without their knowledge or consent. Both of them, Evan mentally correct himself.

Percy must know he was involved too. Bo's face was plastered out there for all to see. To strike fear into the city; Watch out, the bogeyman is about! He could only guess, but it was probable he was left out of the media as they already had enough scandal going on without bringing in inside help. Percy would want to avoid an investigation as much as Bo was avoiding any conversation.

"How much ammo do you have?" Evan asked.

"Full mag on the pistol, ten left in the SMG," said Bo, not needing to check.

Evan wasn't carrying much more; slung around his back was the rifle and undercarriage, one grenade and a handful of rounds. His pistol was half-full.

"After the park, we'll cross the bridge - we'll take the engineer's platform under the main road."

"What's the plan?"

"After the road?"

"No, the plan. The big plan."

Evan scratched the tip of his nose. "I'm taking you home. You know that."

"You said that," he said, sounding tired and flippant. "So what's the fucking plan?"

"I'm not sure what you're looking for Bo, but that's it. I'm taking you home."

He didn't know what the kid wanted from him, they'd been over it. Get out of the commercial zone, steal a car and get out of the city. There wasn't much past that. In the two hours of escape he hadn't even considered how he would come back, or even if that was a possibility. Would he ever see his family again? His course of action was to get to London where he would most probably stay. Until, that is, Percy brought war upon them.

He would. That was what Jonathan Reekes had wanted to avoid at all costs and what Percy wanted to move ahead with. Cull the population of London and move back in. Take control of the land once again and make it profitable for the country. Cut out the black markets and the illegal offshore interests.

He was taking the boy home to Nikki but there wouldn't be a home. Of course he'd have to get public support first, but he'd have it in spades after Reekes' supposed assassination. It could take months, maybe a year but it would happen. Tanks, walkers, drones, throw in a few mechs for good measure. Be damned all who stand in our way. This here is our land.

"We have to get out of the city," he repeated, hoping that would be it.

"What about the guys who killed Danny?"

Evan was talking to the cold killer and revenge was all this killer insisted on. "Bo, we can't go back."

Bo lifted up his SMG and chambered a bullet.

"They have too many men, too many guns. By now they'll have tactical squads, artillery and combat droids swarming over the estate. We'd need an army, or a great fucking bomb." Evan split his palms to emphasise his statement, but Bo was un-impressed and muttered something under his breath. "Come again?"

Contempt seared through the boy's pupils. "Coward."

He had heard it the first time of course. Well, he'd read it. It was too low for his ears so his chipset had processed the word and had displayed it on his HUD. He'd never been called it before, but he'd felt like one. He'd felt like one not long ago, on his knees in a shanty town being rained on by bullets. But he'd never believed he was one. "Do you know what they'll have waiting for us?"

"Nothing I can't cut through."

"You haven't the faintest idea. They'll have X4's patrolling the perimeter. Portable pill-boxes bolted into the ground. One hundred and fifty soldiers from the military base will be on patrol. Not because they're expecting you to come back, they're there to make everyone think you're coming back. They want everyone to believe you're a threat. But the reality is that if you go, you'll be a smudge on the tarmac in seconds. "I should have been rescued by Fallout." Bo's remark cut him worse than the first.

"He'd tell you the same thing. We cannot get back into that building."

"You can't, maybe."

Evan watched Bo's raven arched its neck and stare at him with the same mocking expression as Bo. "Neither can you."

Evan reached for his arm but Bo snaked away from his grasp. It was a mistake and he didn't see it coming. The jab struck him in the kidney and in that shattering surge of pain, he thought it had exploded. He planted one hand on the ground to balance himself, the other to hold his gut while Bo bolted.

The kid ran back the way they'd come, towards the search pattern that was in full force, looking for them. Evan mouthed the word, "Stop!" but he had no breath to speak. He put his efforts into standing next: this worked out a little better for him. Aside from a little stagger he was on his feet. He took a lungful through his nose and began running after Bo. He worked off the partial stitch across his gullet before putting in the speed.

He ran hard, but even with all the money spent on his muscles and cardio - it wasn't enough. Bo was making ground with each step. "Wait!" he called, but Bo raced out into the street, crossing it without checking his lefts or rights. Evan couldn't help but think how stupid it was, how in four hours' time he would have been hit by commuter traffic.

Evan scanned the road as he left the alley. He didn't slow, he had to keep up. He scarpered across the road and into the next alley, skipping over the bin lids thrown in his way. Ahead of him, Bo ran to his left and kicked off the wall, careening across the alley to the opposite wall just to kick off that one as well. He repeated the process from right to left, and right to left. Each time he moved forward and up, up until he was able to sail over the top of the right-hand side wall.

"You got to be kidding me," Evan blurted into the night. There was no way he was going to do that. He clambered over the wall, his trainers scratching the stone and concrete until he toppled over to the other side. Panting, he looked across the back garden only to see Bo dropping from the top of the next wall and into the next yard. He rolled his eyes and continued his pursuit.

Bo slowed enough to taunt him, but never sufficiently for Evan to reach him. He wanted him to follow; he was leading them back to the PPB. He knew he couldn't do it himself, perhaps. He knew he couldn't convince Evan to join him, perhaps. But he knew Evan would keep his word to Nikki. Of that Evan was sure. The kid may not favour his prowess in combat, but he trusted his loyalty. He'd come back for him when no one else would.

They travelled along the same route back, albeit more on Bo's terms than Evan's. But they were definitely on track to the PPB. Bo didn't know the city's layout, meaning he would take the exact route they'd used previously. He may have been faster, more dextrous than Evan but the older man had the advantage now. He knew the city. So when Bo turned left, Evan continued straight ahead. Bo's path would intersect with the boy's and would take him longer to get there. Evan had a straight run. It was out in the open, but it was the only way he could see him catching Bo before reaching his destination.

He ran the streets, cursed the cameras. He passed an empty bus stop, Bo's face distracting him from the Black SUV, parked at the end of the street. He turned right into the downward stairs, leaping four, five steps at a time before reaching the bottom.

He looked up, forgetting for a moment he'd not be able to see Bo's heartbeat. He followed the department store's windows to the next street and felt the acid in his muscles burning, His breath tightening. His HUD responded and his mouth flooded with the metallic taste of adrenaline.

Bo shot out of the alley ahead of him. "Jesus!" It hadn't worked. The kid was too fast.

Evan gave chase again – there would be more chances ahead. Not many, as he was sure they'd run into the search patrol soon enough. The headlights in front of them appeared in time to confirm his prediction. He needed more time.

Bo skidded to a halt, throwing Evan off by a second. He couldn't see what was ahead, what Bo saw. The kid aimed his pistol and fired at the approaching SUV. The bullets tinged off the surface, black armour and bullet-proofed glass. The grille snarled as it raced toward him.

Evan slid into him, catching his arm and yanking him out the way. "This way!" He tapped him on the shoulder and turned them off the main road and into the adjoining one.

A second SUV came around the corner, skidding to a halt in time for Evan to slam into its grille. He spun against the front before continuing to run while Bo vaulted the bonnet and met him on the other side. "There!" he pointed Bo toward the shopping arcade. They'd have to follow them on foot.

Behind them, the first SUV stopped, bumper to bumper with its companion. In a violent hiss, the roof panel retracted, peeling away to reveal four open top cylinders that pointed to the sky. In unison, they popped. Loud enough for Evan to glance behind him, thinking a cannon had been fired. But what he saw was far worse.

From each cylinder a combat drone took flight. Silver footballs wrapped in a flat disk weapons platform that gave it its propulsion method as well as its official name: the Saturn. The disc whirred clockwise around the ball giving it a distinct screaming noise and its unofficial name. A name which still haunts the survivors of the '30 Paris riots: the Screaming Saturn.

Evan recognised them immediately. "Don't stop!" he yelled over the approaching turbines, "not for anything." They entered the arcade and ran the cobbled stones between the sheet glass storefronts. Four Saturns. Why couldn't there have been only two? Don't be a wuss, you coward.

Behind him the first drone entered the arcade and held its distance from them. Evan caught its reflection in the glass signage overhanging the corridor and realised there was no cover for them. They had another twenty metres to run before exiting onto the next street. Unless...

"Left!" he yelled, aimed his pistol and fired into the plate glass of a shop front. The window spider webbed into shards of cracked glass. He fired again and the window crashed downward, spraying the arcade in shards while the shop's alarm began singing. As if pre-empting their escape, the drone opened fire. Its bullets tore up the ground, throwing broken glass back up into the air and blocking their exit.

The Saturn was hot on their trail, easily keeping their pace but not exceeding it. "What's it waiting for?" Bo asked.

"Shit!" Evan knew. It had cut them off from turning into the shop, while continuing to chase them. This one drone, one of four, was herding them.

They were nearing the exit into the next street. "Watch your sky!" Evan shouted. He pointed his pistol behind him and fired aimlessly at the drone knowing well enough that his bullets would do nothing, should any of them connect. It may however, distract it. Flashing its sensors long enough to...

Bo exited the arcade, skating under the waiting drones and firing the last of his SMG's ammunition as he did so. Evan ramped up behind him, crushing a discarded glass vial under his foot and slamming through the first man he'd seen.

He glanced at his nondescript black suit, the kind you don't want to see when you're wanted by the government. But it didn't fit. This didn't smell like government. The SUVs maybe, the Saturns certainly not. No time to deliberate.

Still following Bo, Evan recognised the street. "Turn right!" he directed, but Bo had already turned left, towards the bridge.

Evan looked up and then behind him, the drones were gone - save for the one following them. It was too quick to shoot down, not with his amateur aim, but it did have a weakness. It didn't fare well in high winds...

He reached around his back, grabbed the stock of his rifle, dropped to his knees and skidded on the road. He threw himself into a forward roll and pulled the rifle around himself. In a matter of seconds he was planted firmly on the ground aiming at the approaching Saturn.

His finger rested on the trigger, concern washing over him. The idea that sounded solid was now ringing crazy between his ears. The drone wasn't some online deal, it was a military grade armoured jet engine. And it was racing right at him. His shoulder pinched, another dart to add to his collection. He pulled the trigger.

The grenade fired, pitching over the Saturn, sailing down behind it and exploding. The Saturn wobbled in midair but remained on course, racing towards Evan. The force of the grenade propelling it forward, its disc angled down, managing to slow its approach, but not enough. It gave Evan time enough to stand, grip the stock and count. Three, two, and then swung the rifle as a bat.

It clipped the drone's disc and it hurtled into a storefront, bringing more glass into the street and setting off another alarm. Rifle clattering on the ground, busted. Evan's arms shot into the air, fists punching at the stars. He grinned, half believing in what he'd accomplished while searching for his missing audience. Shaking his head, he skipped, turning back into pursuit of Bo.

Around the corner the tall masts of the suspension bridge rose up. His HUD split the road into sections. They had three options: left, would take them back in a circle and head into the park. Its cover would be useless with the Saturns on their tail. Right took them toward the city centre, or straight ahead to the bridge. Earlier it was his escape plan, now it was certain death.

Evan pelted down the road, calling after Bo and willing him to turn right into the city centre, into the waking populace. If they could find somewhere to lie low, survive until tomorrow night - the kid glanced behind him, then turned to his right and away from the bridge. Come on you beauty, Evan said to himself and followed.

Bo's turn was taking him to the dead centre of the turn off and into the path of the first missing drone. He saw it, ducked under it... It spun on its axis and have chase. Following as Bo closed on the front of a department store.

Evan stumbled for his pistol, but he was too far away to attempt anything else. Aiming, he saw Bo run up against the glass front of the shop and kick off like he had in the alley. The kid back flipped over the drone, reaching down and grabbed the spinning disc. His weight and gravity battled with the drone's engines until inertia sided with him, upending the drone. With the thrusters help, he pile-drove the Saturn into the pavement.

He rolled away from it as it hissed sparks out of its carcass and for a moment he rested, allowing Evan to catch up. "Did you see that?" Bo asked, basking in his victory.

Evan grinned again, catching his breath and glancing at his HUD. "That's two down." They were both smiling, "There are two more to go and the SUV will be close too." Evan clapped. "Let's hustle."

"Bluebird," Bo climbed to his feet. "You know I didn't... you're alright."

It was adorable. "Don't worry about it little britches."

"Little britches?"

"Jungle-" He'd been right, Bo didn't know it. "Never mind. We need to go."

"Which way?"

Evan smiled again. "I'm not convinced the bridge is the best idea anymore."

"Standing in the street is?"

"Come on," Evan said, tapping him on the shoulder and starting off towards the city centre. "There's a car park a couple of streets over." There should be a couple of cars left over night — it they were lucky.

They hadn't made it around the corner when his HUD blipped at the approaching SUV, turning onto the street just ahead of them and bleaching their surroundings with its main beams.

Above the SUV he could just make out the glint of metal, fragmented and reflecting off the streetlamps but it was clear enough to make out: another drone. No doubt it had them in its sights too. There was too much ground to gain in safety – they'd be shot before they could get close enough to do any damage.

"The bridge," Bo suggested, staring at the headlights watching them patiently from ten metres away.

"If they're supported on the other side we'll be cut off, and I think that's the plan. They're herding us toward it."

Bo scanned the junction and then the bridge. "Then whatever happens, it ends on the bridge."

Evan marvelled at the ease he was able to say it. "If it gets too hairy, jump into the river."

Bo's face scrunched in disgust. "Seriously?"

"It's not like the Thames."

The SUV revved its engine. "They're impatient," stated Bo.

"They're wondering what we're doing." Evan scanned the junction for the remaining drone and SUV. "I don't think they have that much support. They'd have cut us off from all angles by now. They want us on the bridge before they make their move."

Bo heard the screaming engine first."You're wrong." He pointed toward the Saturn before bolting straight toward the bridge. Evan saw the glass vial smash against pavement, just passed where Bo had been standing. Then felt a sting in his neck. He began running, pulling the needle free as he did so.

On the left hand side of his display his chip advised the toxin was diluting and wouldn't affect him. They wanted them alive and were herding them to capture. They also didn't know who Evan was as they'd underestimated his augmentation. They didn't know he had blood cleaners. They definitely weren't Gillespie's men. If they had been they'd have extrapolated a different tactic, a different toxin.

They reached the bridge with unexpected ease. Once past the threshold however, once they were over the river Ouse it became a different story. Evan heard Saturn's screaming in stereo, racing up behind him, while further back he could hear the engines and tyre screeches of the SUV rounding the final corner boarding the bridge.

Another dart smashed between him and Bo, shattering without Bo's notice. Another, followed by yet another, shattered ahead of Evan, all getting closer and closer to Bo. He snaked from left to right, catching one in his back, right between his shoulders. His HUD pacified the toxin and he continued as if nothing happened. Bo wouldn't have that luxury.

A new sound loomed overhead, one so immense it drowned out everything else. The spotlight came next, blanketing the bridge's dual carriageway and blinding him. Evan blinked, reducing the glare in an instant. Ahead of him, Bo raised his hand above his brow but refused to slow down.

The VTOL was tracking them directly above their position. Evan wasn't going to be able to keep the drones from hitting Bo for much longer. The VTOL and SUV also had drivers and passengers who, he presumed, would carry similar ammunition. They'd run out of options. "Jump!" he shouted.

The call was futile. They ran beneath four engines generating over 160 decibels and Bo was too far ahead. He was on full sprint and distancing himself every second. Evan checked his six, overlaying his HUD to lock on the drones if he didn't see them in his snapshot glance. He needn't have bothered.

The Saturn curled under him, its stabilising ring tearing through the fabric of his jogging bottoms, cutting into his left leg before ascending at a sharp angle. It cannon balled him just above his pelvis, in the soft area surrounding his bruised kidney. The underside of the ball flared yellow, thrusters kicking in. The wind escaped from his lungs, the drone nestled in and lifted him off the ground. His fingers scrambled over the orb for a grip, something tenuous to hold onto but the surface slid under his sweating palms.

The ring slowed against Evan's abdomen, burning across his stomach after cutting through the hoodie. He wanted to scream again, to shout 'jump' again but even if the VTOLs engines weren't drowning him out, he had no breath to do so. The bridge moved under him, the drone moving him away. Leaving Bo alone to fend for himself. The iron railing clipped the back of his heel, and the Saturn took him over the edge of the bridge.

Then, when he was over water. The Saturn shook, the yellow burn spluttering under him as the drone's engine buckled. They dropped, Evan's stomach jumping upward, desperately clawing its way up his throat and then; the engine flared once more. They slowed, hanging in the air for an impossible second. The inevitable drop to the Ouse beckoned him. He wanted to pound the machine into scrap, but there was no point. It had already sacrificed itself, whoever 'they' were, they'd won and he had broken his promise. The Saturn's engine failed for the last time, and they fell.

*******

On the bridge; at the moment he fell from sight, Bo glanced around. Evan was nowhere to be seen. He was, as he had somehow always expected to be, alone. He didn't stop. He didn't ponder. He continued. Damn them all he thought and ran.

The VTOL sped up, passed overhead before banking and putting its nose to the left of the bridge. As it lowered, the side door opened and three riflemen hooked themselves onto the safety rail. Then three laser dots appeared on Bo's chest as he ran straight toward them.

He aimed his pistol at the middle one and continued running. When he fired, a needle struck him in the back of the neck. He watched his target founder and fall forward, his neighbour grabbing him and holding fast. The VTOL pitched to the right.

No. It didn't. The bridge did. Or so Bo thought. He was on the ground. He didn't feel the ground hitting his face, he wasn't in pain and he wasn't scared. His breathing slowed and he wanted to crawl up into a ball. He wanted to sleep and the tarmac was oh so warm and cosy.

He closed his eyes and didn't hear the woman's voice. "Call it in," she said.

## Chapter Twenty-One

The Morning After The Night Before

Nadia's eyes snapped open at the faint ringing from her phone. She reached out from under her duvet to the cradle at the side of her bed only to find it empty. It stopped ringing and there was a faint memory that she had house guests. Her HUD read 05:30, she'd been asleep half an hour. She pulled on her dressing down and slid into her still-warm slippers, stumbling her way into her en-suite bathroom.

Kyle poured fresh coffee into two mugs as she reached the kitchen, he must have heard me moving around upstairs she thought.

"Cuppa?" he asked with his perfectly sexy voice out of his perfectly formed mouth. If only she'd met him first...

"What time?" Oliver spoke on the telephone.

"I should keep you around," she said, half meaning it.

Kyle smiled. "Did you sleep well?"

She stifled her laugh, not considering half an hour as real sleep. "As well as." Nadia noticed again how perfect Kyle looked, his eyes bright and alert, his skin rich with colour. She was jealous. "Tell me your secret," she said.

"Huh?"

"You've not slept a wink all night and you look ready for the catwalk."

"I don't need to sleep." He smiled again. "Perks of the job." As if it would answer all her follow up questions.

"Okay, I'll be ready." Oliver's conversation continued at the kitchen table. When she glanced over at him she noticed Kyle watching her. Not in the way she hoped he might. It was then she noticed he stood between them; was that on purpose? He wasn't obstructing her route but his left shoulder was turned into her path, slightly facing her. Was he protecting Oliver? And if so, was she a threat?

Oliver disconnected the call, his hand flattened against the kitchen table copying and uploading the conversation to his server. Then wiping it from hers, of that she was quite certain. She hadn't been a successful reporter for this long by missing a trick. "Don't forget my exclusive," Nadia said under her breath, knowing Kyle had heard her.

He didn't look so cute at that moment. She'd not thought he was anything like Oliver and oh, how Oliver loved his paranoid games. She allowed it of course and not because Kyle would enforce it; but because she didn't expect any of them to make it to brunch alive. So she played along. "Who was that?"

Oliver didn't turn around immediately, even though she knew he'd heard her that time. It was often his way, to delay his responses for dramatic effect or to control the conversation. She watched him lift his palm from the table and stand "The Anti-Christ," he said and she grinned inwardly at his dramatic effect.

He took his coffee from Kyle and blew on the surface. "We have to get ready." He was speaking to Kyle. "There's a car on the way." He drank from his mug.

"Where to?" asked Kyle. She knew that Oliver wouldn't say, he wouldn't want her to know. No matter how much she wanted to know. He would guard the information, he would tell her it was for her own protection. That knowing too much would put her in harm's way further than she already was.

What a steaming pile of shit that would be to hear, so she wouldn't ask. The truth was he didn't trust her. She was a reporter and he would use her to report what he wanted reported just as he had last night, but he would never confide in her. It wasn't personal towards her either. He'd never trusted anyone, except maybe Kyle.

So when he said, "I'll fill you in on the way." She didn't look surprised, or upset. She didn't question. She'd remember the times he'd done the same and said the contrary and knew this would be the last time she'd think of him as a lover.

He was just a great man, but obsessed with winning. She wouldn't show her momentary weakness for he didn't deserve it. She would simply let go. She would not let his paranoid games take their toll on her any longer.

They made small talk in the twenty minutes they waited for the car to arrive. She walked them to the door and kissed him on the cheek before they opened it. He would need that, she thought. He'd need it when he met with the Anti-Christ, when he needed to remind himself that he was still a good man.

She didn't stand in the open doorway, as there may be cameras out there looking for glimpse of her. She told herself this as she stood behind the door and said her goodbye. But in the mirror next to the door, the tears welling in her eyes revealed the truth. When she closed the door, she closed it for good.

"Goodbye you incredible bastard," she said to her reflection.

*******

It was ten minutes past six when Renner found him. He nearly missed him too, that's what all-nighters do to a person. Kills their attention. But his previous incarnation, the alert version of Renner that made the adjustments to Evan's chipset made it impossible for this exhausted version of Renner to mess it up.

Antonia had fallen asleep on Renner's living room couch a couple of hours earlier. In excitement he yelped and called but when she didn't respond he did the only thing he could. He threw an empty can of BullPhett at her head. It was her turn to yelp, but not from excitement. "What the hell Joe?" she said sitting up.

"I've got Evan."

"You threw a can at me?"

"I didn't have anything else."

"You could have walked over to the couch."

"Yeah... sorry 'bout that." The thought hadn't crossed his mind. "If you're making a cuppa, I'll have a coffee."

"Where is he?" No coffee then...

"Bank of the Ouse." He'd found both Evan and Bo on the city cameras, hours before now. Running in the streets from SUVs and a bunch of drones. He'd watched Bo being taken in an unmarked VTOL but lost Evan when he'd taken a nosedive into the river. He'd checked the embankments up and down twice, and now thankfully he'd washed up on the mud a couple of miles downriver.

Being the man who'd set up Evan's firmware, it took him little time to hack the man's system. He then provided Evan with a gentle electrical jolt that bolted him upright. "Sorry for the slap buddy, but we've wasted all the time we had looking for you."

Evan's own view floated on Renner's left while an image from the re-configured CCTV camera feed, watching him from across the road, floated on the right. "Where am I?" he asked, looking around the river bank.

"About three clicks from where you fell."

"I jumped."

"And I was going to give you a seven." Renner grinned. "Listen. I need you back in play. You ready for a pick up?"

"Good to go."

"I'm sending some trusted peeps to you, and by trusted, I mean me. Don't move from your location. I've scrubbed you from every system known to man. It was hard enough finding you before, now it will be next to impossible."

"Say again?"

Renner brought him up to speed on the information he'd gathered while searching for Evan; how Gillespie had supplied a fake recording of Bo, now the assassin at large, murdering the Prime Minister. Evan, his plucky sidekick helping him escape the Parliament Building, was being kept in house. But as Evan had guessed, it hadn't stopped them from looking for him. Renner continued to explained he'd removed Evan from every database in the world. "No facial recognition system in the world will know it's you."

"Is Kyle with you?"

"No," said Renner. "There's been some... developments."

"Commander," Antonia cut him off. "This is Antonia Fairchild."

"Ma'am."

"So far we've only found you," she continued. "We'll debrief you fully once you come in, the channel is encrypted but I don't want this conversation continuing over the net. I trust you understand?"

"I understand," Evan concurred. "One more thing?"

Antonia looked at Renner, her eyebrow lifting in the way she did when she wanted his approval on something. He couldn't see any problem with them continuing the conversation to its conclusion; after all it was his encryption algorithm. He nodded in the affirmative.

"Go ahead," she said.

"Do you know where the kid is?"

Now it was Renner's turn to look at Antonia for approval. She made him wait a moment, considering before complying. "We lost him in the back of an SUV."

"They were contractors."

"Are you sure?" Antonia asked, but Renner had already guessed.

"Public Service doesn't pay for the kind of tech they were carrying, Ma'am."

## Chapter Twenty-Two

Mount Olympus

When the driver closed the door, Oliver had been awake for forty seven hours. His chip advised the best remedy was actual sleep, but with lack of opportunity he ordered another caffeine booster. That, along with the real coffee he had just drunk, would keep him going for another couple of hours.

The majority of the cognac had left his system, what trace amounts still lingered would be out of him by the time they landed. He had to be at the top of his game and he knew he wasn't anywhere near it. All he had was a pair of twos and maybe an ace with Jonathan's recording. He was going up against Fray with nothing but vanity and wit.

The limo lifted within seconds of the driver seating himself. Oliver watched Nadia's home grow smaller and smaller as they rose into the clouds and for a singular moment he was glad she would be safer without him.

Once the limo hit the required altitude, Oliver felt the g-force push him into his seat as it accelerated along its route. It was as quiet as it was peaceful in the sky. If he didn't know better, he'd allow himself to fantasise everything was as it was supposed to be and that when he got to work Jonathan would be there to abuse him.

He didn't explain things in the car as he said he would, neither did he post a silent, secret message to Kyle informing him of the plan or their destination. He suspected they were being monitored, as he knew Kyle also suspected. He proved this by not asking for the information. Still, he could have been sulking.

After twenty minutes, the limo banked to their left. Oliver instinctively checked out of the window and was rewarded by the sight of the colossal steel and glass cigar that was the home of Fray International Headquarters. He'd seen it before, as it was always visible from the PPB's third building. It stood tall enough to be seen from much of York on a clear day. As it was today.

He recalled the promo films, running on most channels during its seven year construction. A building large enough to be considered a city in itself. An exaggeration, but it wasn't far off. The sky scraper was self-sufficient and housed all its employees, as well as its more elaborate expenses, such as its rainforest.

And why not? The Fray family had made its fortune in Britain. HAND was their brain child, the Honour Thy Enemy FPS series was also theirs. From those platforms they had secured a legacy lasting thirty years. Why couldn't they show off a little? Arrogant arseholes, Oliver conceded.

Francis, Felix's father, had made it his business to predict the future and made it extremely lucrative. His company was based in York, but had offices in both Dubai and Nevada. Having to move to Nevada after the Californian construction was destroyed in the quake of 'twenty-four of course. Digital Communication and Fantasy were the tools in which he'd made his fortune. Only in later years, when the world grew jealous of his triumphs, did he turn his head toward weapons and munitions.

Felix senior dined with Rockefeller and sat in on the Bilderberg meetings. He was one of the world's most revered and feared men, and Oliver was about to explain to his son why he didn't follow the plan. Oliver, who was nothing more than an ant compared to the political power that was the Fray family. This was the closest Oliver had ever felt to making a bad decision.

The limo touched down on one of the many petal-shaped landing pads midway up the cigar and soon after, Oliver's door opened. "This way please," the driver said, standing outside. Oliver stepped out, feeling the cold fresh air slap his unshielded face.

"How far up are we?" he asked the driver while Kyle joined him on the platform.

"You don't want to be jumping off," the driver pointed toward a railed gangway. "Follow that to the main reception."

"Thank you."

The driver paused, unfamiliar with the polite comment? "Any time, sir."

Oliver pulled his jacket closed tight around his neck. The wind was bracing and fast. They moved swift along the connecting platform to the circular portal in the side of the cigar.

He glimpsed upward, but failed to see its top. It was, as they say, a large stack. They passed through the portal and were greeted with air-conditioned warmth. The atrium was vast and impressive, its floor paved in marble, appearing to dance under the mottled light from the ceiling \- which was the bottom of giant fish tank.

Oliver watched the tropical species and then their shadows as he followed the pulsing red line, floating ahead of him in his HUD, directed to one of several reception desks. The young man sat pleasantly behind it. "Welcome to Fray International."

"I have an appointment with Mr Fray," Oliver said, still admiring the atrium's beauty.

"Which one?" the young man replied, catching Oliver off-guard. He hadn't considered both of them would be available or that his arrival hadn't been expected.

"Felix," he answered, trying not to notice the armed guards blending into the walls. He trusted Kyle had already accounted for all of them and so focused, waiting for the beautiful young man to finish blinking at his invisible display. When he did, he looked to his left and Oliver followed his eye-line to the rust-haired man approaching.

Kyle remained statuesque while the newcomer smiled and offered his hand. "Oliver Trench?"

"Yes." It was a good strong shake and Oliver knew in that instant he was not one of the grunts filling the building's corridors.

"I'm Greg Fielding, Chief of Security," the man said with a friendly sincerity. "I'm afraid your colleague won't be able to join you."

Oliver nodded at Kyle, who reciprocated. "I'll wait here."

"I'm afraid that's not acceptable either," said Fielding. "We don't allow weapons in the building and while you're not carrying any... per se... it's quite evident that you're augmented." He paused, reading the information from his HUD's scan of Kyle. "And quite heavily."

"I won't send him away," said Oliver.

"You won't have to, we have a lounge area. I'd just prefer he wasn't in reception."

"Scaring away the friendly folk?" messaged Kyle. "I'm sure that will be fine Mr Fielding."

"Very good," said Fielding, lifting his hand high to beckon one of the unobtrusive guards over. "James here will look after you."

Oliver watched James lead Kyle away, feeling suddenly naked and alone. He settled his feet flat on the floor, took a breath and turned his attention to his chaperone.

"This way if you please, Mr. Trench." Greg led him the other way, almost the opposite direction to the way James was taking Kyle. Oliver stopped dwelling on it, he had to put it out of his mind before he met with Fray or it would be all over. Fear did nothing but dull one's wits. If he intended to succeed, he'd need to be better than this.

He followed Greg and his forced casual stride to the nest of elevators along the east wall. Once inside the Chief of Security blinked a command and the door closed with a rolling hiss. Oliver felt a tug in his knees as the cab ripped upward. He followed the display on his left, racing up the floors of the building in bright holographic numbers.

There were several floors for administrative offices, several for earth and ground to support the rainforest above it, and then through the canopy into the commercial zone. Adverts for many restaurants appeared in his peripheral, bouncing on the spot all fighting for Oliver's attention. He blinked them away as they raced through the domiciles where the cab started to slow.

When it stopped, it had travelled over three hundred floors. He had been in the elevator for less than a minute. The doors opened into a long white corridor that instantly looked familiar to Oliver. "Mr. Fray is waiting for you on the veranda." Greg pointed to the corridor's end where a glass door stood.

"Thank you," Oliver replied, stepping out of the elevator.

The door slid shut behind him and he was alone in the opulent surroundings. He walked towards the glass door, without rush but not without intent. Each step brought further familiarity to him. Doorways led to stunning rooms littered with gold-flecked chairs and oil paintings of seventeenth century France, but it was the hallway that gave it away. A classical beauty, one that he distinctly remembered walking through before.

Mirrors. From floor to ceiling the corridor was encased in mirror. Oliver's reflections walked either side of him the length of the corridor, his face tired, his stride broken. This was not the image he needed to present. He'd left his friend to die. Coerced his brother into helping him, kept Nadia at arm's length, and refused to help those who needed him most.

But it was all for the country. The country needed strong leadership, - Jonathan was no longer that strength and Percy was no replacement. Felix claimed to be the potency, albeit a non-elected power and he would need to be kept in check and Percy was no wrangler either. Is this what has become of you? Are you really only here because Percy isn't right for the job? Or is Felix right, have you wanted this all along?

He found himself standing still in the corridor, his reflection staring back at him with distain. "I'm sorry," he said, tightening his Windsor knot and pulling on his cuff links. He ran his hand through his hair and saw his old self smiling back at him. Giving himself a wink, he continued down the corridor becoming more than impressed with the detail and enhancements. The lights responded to his presence by illuminating him as he walked. No doubt the building would offer more invisible technology to its guests, should they require it.

When he reached the end of the corridor a seven foot, sterling silver robot opened the door for him. It didn't quite have a face, but beneath its transparent head casing it displayed an expression by means of dancing blue lights. On its chest, it proudly bore the Mercedes Benz logo. "Welcome Mr. Trench," it said with a disarming tone. "I am Vernon."

"Hello," Oliver replied, continuing to be impressed.

"Please, follow me."

Once out on the veranda he took in the lush gardens surrounding him. Rows of tulips and shrubs extended out to the building's edge and, while he was a further three hundred floors higher than the gangway he had crossed, he felt none of the cold or the wind he had suffered along his walk from the limo.

The edge of the building had to be fitted with air cannons. Firing directly up, creating an invisible wall, shielding those on the rooftop paradise from the winds and keeping in the heat produced by the disguised heaters in the trees. "Thanks for coming," Felix called from his thatched patio chair.

Oliver waved to him, not judging the man for enjoying the sun in his shades and casual lounge wear. "Felix," Oliver said, walking over.

"Have you had breakfast?" asked Felix. "I can recommend the eggs. Vernon is an excellent chef."

"Please, sir. You'll make me blush." The disarming voice commented from behind Oliver.

"Just a coffee, please," Oliver replied.

"Excellent Mr. Trench," said Vernon. "Would you prefer: Affogato, Antoccino, Black Eye, Black Tie, Breve, Cafe Americano—"

Oliver was sure Vernon was about to list every type of coffee under the sun. "Just a latte, please."

The blue lights curled into a large smile, "As you wish Mr. Trench. Mr. Fray, would you care for anything else?"

"Nothing, thank you Vernon."

Oliver sat on the available straw chair and waited. He thought Felix would start the conversation promptly, but instead he seemed more intent on finishing reading whatever was on his data paper. Waiting, he looked at the gardens again and then around the building when it fell into place. "The Procelain Trianon." Oliver smiled triumphantly.

"Almost, it's a replica but I had it decorated with my favourite parts of Versailles." Felix lowered his paper.

"Where did you get the marble?" Oliver asked. "Or is that fake too?"

"Feeling guilty?" Changing the subject, Felix seemed intent on toying with him.

"I'm surprised by how well you think you know me," Oliver countered.

"I know," Felix flashed his perfect teeth and Oliver hesitated. He didn't want to fight with this man. This man was the key to beating Percy.

"Jonathan died years ago," Oliver said. "All I did was stand aside while Percy buried him."

Felix placed his paper on the table, sinking back into his chair. "I couldn't have put it better myself. You did stand aside."

"My being there wouldn't have changed anything."

"True," Felix conceded. "But it also would have proved you to be a team player. I know that your friend's death isn't an easy pill to swallow and I discussed my concerns the other night."

Oliver was reminded of the conversation at the Tate party, how Felix had sweet-talked him, explaining where he saw Oliver in the new world order. "I didn't like where the plan led."

"You could have just said." Felix held his hands open. "You could have called, said hey Felix. I'm not quite right on the particulars. Could we discuss them further?"

"Quite," Oliver said. "But pardon me for saying, I don't trust you."

"Of that, Oliver, you've made yourself abundantly clear." Felix leaned forward in his chair. "You have a recording?"

Oliver was not surprised. "Of Jonathan's death."

"I'm interested in knowing what you intend to do with it."

Oliver relaxed a millimetre; they both wanted to deal. "That depends."

"You have questions?" Felix exhaled. "New ones? Or are you looking for different answers to the ones you've already asked?"

Oliver ran his tongue against between his teeth, he had so many questions, he barely knew where to start. He could understand why Fletcher had been used, destabilising the Southerner's hierarchy made Fray's deal for security look all the more promising.

He'd jumped into bed with Percy to lock down that deal. Promised Percy the job of Prime Minister, but what he couldn't understand was "Why kill Window?"

"Opportunity," Felix offered.

"Not good enough." Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Sorry."

"He was DGSE."

"Bollocks," Oliver scoffed. "That lunatic was not French Intelligence."

"Would you prefer me to say that he was an idealist; a man who wanted a free state, a free London?"

"It would be more believable."

Felix offered his hand. "See for yourself."

He didn't want to. He didn't want to believe this radical notion was possible, let alone the truth. The French? He was on good terms with most of their cabinet, had shared gifts with Adreanna, played squash with Ninon. It couldn't be true. It wouldn't be true. What would this mean for him if it were? Felix would be right. Everything that he and Jonathan had worked for was nothing but a precarious house of cards.

"Oliver." Felix beckoned, furthering his reach.

He relented, accepting Felix's hand. The blue Fray-designed hologram appeared between them. In it, a stack of digital files, all pertaining to Daniel Payne, aka WINDOW. Oliver scanned the first couple of pages as Vernon returned with his beverage. The machine waited patiently until Felix waved him away. Oliver hadn't noticed, he had bitten hard on the bait and found Fray's hook. "He's not DSGE anymore?" he finally asked, minimising the document on his HUD.

"Not for a number of years," Felix said. "My intelligence points toward a corporate employer, I've suspicions but not been able to ascertain for certain."

"You appear to have a substantial account on him. More than Special Branch could find on him."

"It's all authentic."

"Then you appear to have the advantage."

"I always do," Felix pointed to the garden table, on which sat Oliver's drink.

He claimed the tall glass cup and stirred, blending the coffee with the milk while craning his neck around until he found Vernon. "Thank you."

"You are quite welcome, Mr Trench."

"He was trying to argue for a free south," Felix continued with their previous conversation. "No doubt a staging ground for European conglomerates."

Oliver drank from his cup and found it amusing how Felix's plan to profit from the South was no different from his competitors'. "He wouldn't have got it," he said.

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does." Oliver bit hard, it had to matter.

Felix dropped his facade. His entire body tightening. "I'm not going ten rounds with you Oliver," he snarled. "I won't pretend to be your father, you know how this works. So, you can either stand against me or listen to my offer."

Oliver had worked in the business long enough to know that Felix believed himself to be right. Saddam Hussein had been an idealist, one they'd tried to control and failed. Through Felix's eyes, Oliver could see Window would only stand in his way. Felix didn't want a free south. Felix wasn't looking to fix the problem, he was looking to profit from its perpetuation.

Oliver needed to convince Felix that uniting the Kingdom could also be profitable. He had to convince him he and Jonathan were right. "There is another way."

"There really isn't." Felix was quick to dismiss him. "Europe wants our oil and coal reserves." Oliver felt his lip tighten, he'd heard this before. Fictions aimed at increasing the annual budget spending and consultation fees, the fear tactic. "Sceptical Oliver? Take it from someone whose business is international. I sit with these people. I know what France has been doing to force Germany's hand. Trust me when I say the world has not forgotten the British Empire and has no love for it.

"While you've been playing the small game, Europe has been deciding on how best to divide up our little island. They're just waiting for an excuse. We've been an embarrassment for over fifty years. The Second World War bankrupted us and we've been living on a name ever since, that and living in the shadow of our big brother the U S of A.

"But that is all changing Oliver, big brother is looking elsewhere. China is going to make its move soon and the entire global political stage is going to shift."

Oliver had heard this too, but the news from the European Union had not shown any indication it was true and no British spy had confirmed it. It was always from the think tanks, the privately backed think tanks. This wasn't a political takeover, this was a business one. The corporations were taking over. "For the good of the country?" Oliver asked.

"And a substantial fortune I must admit, one that I'm prepared to share." Felix winked at him, confident in his sales pitch.

"Not if it means going to war with London." Oliver stood his ground.

Felix didn't reply. Not right away; Oliver wondered if he was surprised or just indignant over his latest remark. "I already have a Prime Minister willing to work with me on those terms."

"Not if I release the footage," Oliver reminded him.

"Yes." Felix admitted. "There is that."

"I also have a majority in the house—"

"No, you have a coalition with the Democrats," Felix corrected him. "Percy has the majority."

Now it was Oliver's turn pause. He hadn't expected Felix to know about the coalition. "None of that matters if Percy goes to jail."

"Then I'll put Rockwood on the throne," Felix said, grinning. "Or Faraday. It really doesn't matter who."

Oliver's blood boiled in his veins. Felix had found his breaking point, the thought of Faraday as Prime Minister was enough to send him over the edge. "I..."

"Work with me Oliver," Felix told him. "I'd be lying to you if I said that I prefer to have any of those imbeciles in your stead. Rockwood, yes I can work with him. But he's Military, I'd have to groom him, spend time gaining political allies; I'll be happier with him running the security side of things. You're a perfect candidate – you've outsmarted everyone you've competed against."

Oliver gritted his teeth. Competed against - as if this were some interview to be Felix Fray's caddy.

"I want you to be my Prime Minister," Felix continued. "If we don't show we can make a profit from the South in eighteen months, France is going to invade and you can kiss your United Kingdom goodbye. Not because France is superior in every which way, but because our country is nothing except for a name alluding to some distant past."

"How do you know I won't publish this conversation to the courts?" Oliver asked.

"Oliver," Felix replied, "don't embarrass yourself."

## Chapter Twenty-Three

Strange Bedfellows

Renner spoke. "Okay, I don't want to brag." he said knowing he was going to anyway. "But with no small effort," Renner continued and Evan smiled. "I've cracked the national network. You're now invisible to everything except the naked eye. That's including everyone with augmented eyes or wearing display glasses."

"That's everyone then," Evan replied, sitting outside a quaint coffee shop. Nothing special, just one of a hundred million located in York. This one happened to be close to where he needed to be and the coffee was good. His glass cup was nearing the end and he tapped his index against its side as if counting down the remaining seconds he would be sat there.

No longer in his government-issue sweat suit, he was freshly washed, shaven and dressed in a plain pale blue working man's shirt. Some sturdy denim jeans and Caterpillar boots finished the new look. They were Renner's clothes - he couldn't go back home and they'd had too little time to go shopping. "Antonia checked in?" she'd been there most of the night, leaving to find out more on Oliver's whereabouts.

"Nope."

"Do you want to check on her?""Listen Ev, if there's one thing I know about Toni is that you never rush the girl."

"But she should have checked in by now?"

"She's gone to work, she can't drop a message to us without bringing Gillespie down on top of her."

"I thought you said you were in the clear."

"Having no evidence against me is different from not knowing I was involved. Gillespie may be a company boy, but a fool he is not."

That was true, but if Gillespie knew Renner was involved then it stood to reason that anyone in his circle of friends would be under suspicion. "They know you two are an item?"

"Best kept secret in government."

Evan smiled at the remark and sipped at his latte. "You hope so."

"I know so."

Evan finished his drink in silence, his eyes now on the street and more importantly the bus stop on the corner. It was pleasant, sitting there in the morning sun. It was cold, but it was fresh and he didn't have guns firing at him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine none of this had happened. But he couldn't give in entirely, Bo never being too far from his thoughts.

The fly landed on his hand, scrambled across his knuckles and took flight again as his flicked his wrists.

"Don't swat it," Renner warned,

"Like I would."

He watched Renner's robotic fly land on his table and patter close to his hand as the bus turned the corner onto his street. "That the one?"

"Indeed it is."

Evan left the table. Tapped his pocket, making sure his new toy was still there before heading toward the bus stop. The fly followed him. He read the bus route displayed above the front window; it was the one he'd been waiting for. He stepped up the pace as the bus approached, but it wasn't slowing.

He hadn't seen the old lady with her wheeled bag sitting there. When she stood and waved the bus down it allowed him to slow down. He could have made it if he ran but he didn't want to draw attention to himself, while being technically invisible, it really only meant that peoples chipsets wouldn't resister him unless they looked directly at him, set off any alarms or remember seeing anything but a blur. Besides, if he missed this bus, there was always another.

The bus, like all others in York, was a dull blue colour. It seated a maximum of fifty people and this one looked full. Evan could see a number of passengers standing behind the driver; still a human driver. One of the few cities left in the world that still had them. He wondered for a moment why the taxi service had swapped to AI, until the vehicle stopped a second later.

The door slid open with a hiss and grandma stood patiently as three passengers disembarked. Evan strolled past, close enough that his arm rubbed against the side of the bus. In his head he counted; one, two, sliding a palm-sized magnet down his sleeve, three, four, he pressed it against the side of the bus, five and six.

Behind him, the fly inspected his handy work. "Looking good," Renner said. The fly landed on the device. "Activating in three, two, one." The fly abandoned the magnet as the bus pulled away. It continued to hover near the device, now a metallic blister on the side of the bus.

"Come on little fella, don't be scared," Renner continued.

The blister vibrated, splitting open for six legs which clinked against the side of the vehicle. "There we go," Renner again. "Get a move on little guy." The small robotic spider scurried beneath the transport.

"You do realise it doesn't understand you," Evan said, paying too much attention to Renner's idiocy and not on where he was going. He bumped into a man in his forties, a bulging gullet in a pin striped suit. "Woowah!" the man exclaimed, staring at Evan in disbelief.

"Sorry," said Evan. The gullet turned tail and ran, taking Evan a second longer to realise that the man had been staring through him, his augmented reality lenses refusing to acknowledge Evan, just some crazy featureless apparition. He had to be a little more careful.

"If you spent more time listening to me instead of trying to get one up on me..."

"Shut up Ren."

He cut across the road and through the park, the one that he and Bo had headed to last night before it had all gone to hell. I'm doing something about it, he reminded himself while avoiding the dog walkers on the grass. On the other side of the park was a multi-storey car park. He entered through the pedestrian stairway and climbed the seven flights until he reached the roof.

The roof was almost empty. Four consumer VTOLs were parked there but it was the buzzard, Renner's mobile command post, which he walked directly to. He climbed the metal rungs at the side of its belly and entered through the hatch in the roof. The main bay was cramped, with just enough room for Renner and his kit plus Evan. "Where is it?" He hit the flat red door release and closed the hatch behind him.

Renner pointed to the largest of his projected screens hovering around him in a semi-circle. "Nearly there," he said, sounding almost ecstatic.

Evan sat himself on a pull-down shelf bolted to the side of the craft. The camera feed, which Renner had just pointed to, was snaking through the streets of York. The physical lens and recording apparatus was imbedded inside the small fly which Renner was controlling through his panel. It observed the bus as it neared its location. Then, once York's public transport had done its duty, the fly would begin phase two. "Looking good," Evan commented on the mission.

"This is what I do, young Padawan." Renner's toothy grin reflected the orange glare of the holograms. "Now be a darling and pass us a BullPhet." He gestured with his hand, mimicking Alec Guiness's rendition of Obi Wan Kenobi who was a favourite of his.

He grabbed two cans from the fridge near the cockpit hatch and returned to his shelf. "Catch."

Renner caught the can and cracked it open without uttering a word. His concentration was on the screens, on the minute fluctuations in air speed and direction. Controlling a fly didn't appear easy. "Here we go." He gulped from his can. "Let's mix this up a bit." He swiped his hand across his panel of screens causing them to ripple and change. The smaller views minimised, dropping to his lap and making room for the 'Fly Cam'.

The bus, now in full view of the fly, coughed and spluttered like an old stage horse. Smoke billowed from its engine and exhaust. It struggled for a few more metres before stopping, exactly where Renner had intended. "Perfect," Evan said.

"I know, I really am." Renner moved the fly around the bus, revealing to the camera what their GPS had already confirmed. The bus had run down on its mark, outside Fray International and blocking both ramps in and out of its underground parking lot. The screen wobbled. "Bloody wind. Hang on, let's try this." He landed the 'Fly Cam' on the roof of the bus, facing the security box at the entrance to the Fray building.

"They don't wait long do they?" said Evan, seeing that the security door had opened and one of its robotic guards was storming toward the bus waving his hand.

"That's not good."

"Not the droid you were looking for?" Evan sniped.

Renner sniffed. "I need a human smart ass."

They watched the entertainment unfold. The droid, manufactured by Mercedes, was polished black with chrome highlights. "Do you have sound?"

"Of course."

Evan continued to wait while Renner watched. "Can I hear it too?"

Renner pulled an ugly face usually reserved for mocking the mentally challenged. "Sorry, he said." Then the sound feed accompanied the video feed through the buzzard's systems.

"I can't," said the pot-bellied bus driver, "she ain't moving."

"You cannot leave your vehicle here," replied the guard with its tinny manufactured voice.

"You offering a push buddy?"

The droid remained silent amongst the honking of the cars now queuing up behind the bus.

"He's calling for a supervisor." Renner was merely underlining the obvious. Droids never made decisions, never thought for themselves.

The bus driver raised his middle finger to the droid and walked back to the cab door and proceeded inside. The guard moved to the rear of the bus and began signalling traffic past the vehicle.

"Here we go." Renner pointed to the security door, opening again. This time a short, well-groomed gentleman in a sharp security uniform walked out. He rushed down the four steps dividing the security box from the pavement and stopped next to his guard. His immediate reaction to the problem was to run his hand over his short cropped hair and purse his lips.

The 'Fly Cam' lifted from the bus roof and pitched to its left causing Renner to curse in frustration. "Damn this wind." He levelled the camera out and flew it around the scene, watching the bus driver coming back out of his cab.

"There's an engineering team on its way," he explained to the human security guard.

"How long will they be?"

"Not long."

The fly moved in on the security officer, landing on the back of his collar and climbed up to his neck. It immediately fired a microscopic dart into the man's skin. The guard flinched and brought his hand hard across the back of his neck, killing the fly and destroying the camera.

They both stared in silence at the blank screen. "Did you get it?" asked Evan,

Renner didn't answer. He was still looking at the blank screen, his top lip curled up and flashing his whites but that was about it. He sat in silence looking at nothing but the dead projection. Evan didn't know if this was normal, or if there would be a delay or whether Renner was putting together an apology. "Renner?" he nudged his shoulder.

"Shush!" came the reply. Renner wasn't waiting, he was working. He was working through his HUD, images that Evan couldn't see. The display screens were all minimised, except the dead 'Fly Cam'. In the blink of an eye, the displays changed. His dock fired the screens upward and they took precedence on the larger image. One by one the internal security network for Fray International's UK Headquarters filled the work station. "We're good," he continued. "I need a minute."

*******

Forty minutes passed while Renner worked indefatigably to break the necessary code barriers of Fray International. If he were successful, he'd have what the law enforcement industry called 'an orgy of evidence'. He'd also have the bragging rights of hacking a fortune one hundred company.

During this time; Evan had moved the buzzard. On the chance Renner wasn't as good as he said he was, he didn't fancy hanging close by the building should they run a tracer program on him. Renner would pop like a metal sandwich box in a microwave and Evan would have several security squads on him quicker than he could say. "Jesus suffering Christ..."

The words came from Renner, not what he had expected or wanted after forty minutes of silence. The buzzard was parked in Nottingham Forest. It seemed poignant to Evan when he was looking for opportunities. He released himself from the cockpit chair and crawled back through the hatch into the belly of the vehicle.

Renner was still in his seat. Apart from the saliva drooling from his mouth and down his chin, his head was still in one piece. It was a good sign. He was still in the system. "What have you got?"

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!" It was like he was making sweet love. "I'm in!"

He was and he was in deep. Within the next minute he had confirmed that Oliver and Kyle had checked in at the front desk earlier that morning. "I'm not sure where they are now." He had one foot in the conversation and the other in the matrix. "They're still there." Commenting in small concise bites as and when he discovered them. "Oliver's had lunch.

"With the big Bossman."

"Fray?" asked Evan.

"Felix," he said pausing. "Kyle went to R and D. Can't see him anywhere. Either of them."

"Anything on Bo?"

Silence fell again. Seconds stretched to minutes while Renner searched Fray's computer systems, sifting through emails and digital memos for anything with Bo's name or which could be related to Bo."I think..." He paused again, five agonising seconds passed. "Yes. Fray had a swarm of Special Operatives out last night looking for two people matching descriptions of you and Bo.

"Nothing's been officially filed. Unless I knew what I was looking for, I'm not sure I'd have found it." He sniggered. "You're dead amigo."

"At the bridge?"

"Indeedy. If it makes you feel any better, they would have preferred to have taken you alive too but the kid was the primary target." He held his hand out open. "Can please."

"You're lucky I need you."

"Just get me the can and stop your whining."

Evan obliged him while Renner continued to discover more information. When he returned and dropped the can in his hand, Renner was no longer smiling.

"Look at this," he pointed at the nearest screen to Evan. It was a straightforward list of code-named files. "It's his Tech Lab menu. And it's enormous."

"Feeling a little insecure Ren?"

"Yeah right, but seriously..." Renner entered one of the files, a mass of blueprints and three dimensional images appeared for a long barrelled assault rifle. "Fifty rounds a second."

"Ouch."

"I know, right?" Renner was salivating even more now. "I knew they had some military contracts, but they're branded as cutting edge in social media and computer processing."

"They're adapting," said Evan.

"For what?"

It was no secret that oil was running out, that American's negotiations with China had stagnated. "The end of the world."

The designs vanished, and the screen had returned to the list. He scrolled down, another file, another weapon. This time a two-legged weapons platform, a crowd control robot the size of a transit van on stilt legs.

"Are any of these in production?" asked Evan.

"Just prototypes."

"No sales references?"

"Why would that mat..." Renner trailed off as he understood what Evan was asking. "Clever... clever." He fell silent, looking for sales references, or any references to sales inquiries. There were none. "If he is intent on selling them then it's not in his database. Not here anyway, I can try some of the other areas later on. But... for now, I'd say you're right. He's making them for himself."

Evan didn't like being right. Fray was notorious in the business industry; he had made extremely lucrative deals over the years and was the foundation of the modern day communications network webbing across the world. A world which was on the brink of collapse and here Fray was designing and building weapons for himself.

What was even more sinister was the involvement of Kyle and Oliver. Kyle was a weapon in himself, Oliver's strong arm it now seemed. Oliver on the other hand was now in a good position to step up to the plate, he could be Prime Minister, a governmental leader in Fray's pocket. "We need something concrete."

"Already on it," said Renner.

Evan nodded and returned his attention to the cockpit. He'd only taken a step when he remembered his friend. "And find Bo."

"I've not forgotten."

"I'll update Antonia." He climbed back through the hatch into the confined, cramped space of the cockpit and powered up the Buzzard's communication systems, synchronising it with his own HUD, "Angel this is Bluebird, please come in."

A moment or two passed before Antonia's ghostly face appeared in the cockpit's view port. "Bluebird, this is Angel. The line is secure, please report."

For a politician, Evan thought, Antonia was adept at military protocol. "All parties are where we presumed," he said.

When she didn't reply, he knew she was contemplating their next move. That or she was attempting to work out what Renner was doing, as he was making some strange noises, mainly sniggers, whoops and 'woo hoos' with some obscenities thrown in for colour.

"Can we ascertain his allegiance?" She referred to Oliver. Evan thought.

"No confirmation either way. Just some dinner arrangements." She was thinking again \- he added. "All parties are still at the location."

He knew she would want more, more than they were in a position to provide her. She was a politician after all, no matter what she sounded like. She would want all angles covered, every planned eventuality thought out and assessed before execution. It was the smart way of looking at it, one Evan would have considered in his earlier life. Now however, he had only one thing on his mind. Keeping his promise. "Private has a catalogue of weapons, an arsenal ready for production." Private being code for Fray.

Antonia's face scrunched. "Private is on the shortlist for the southern security contract."

"That makes sense, he could be grooming our friend for King, then gets himself the security contract." Evan was convinced he was right. "By making it look like it was the south who assassinated Dickens he'll have public support to go in strong and replace the current regime." The silence was horrid, but he had no option to wait for her reply.

"Find out more," she said, calm and resolute.

"Wait." He stopped her before she vanished. "I'm going to get him out of there."

"No, that's out of the question. All we have now are suppositions, we need evidence."

"You have the catalogue of weapons and I know where he is - I can do this."

"It's not enough. The child's public enemy number one. You'll need an army to breach Private's fortress and even if you could rescue him, can you imagine the headlines?"

She didn't get it. Bo was his responsibility; he was here, in York, because of him. He'd made a promise. "I have to get him back."

"And I will help you do so, but we will do this the right way. The only way. Lawfully." She paused, making sure that Evan was still listening. "Our first mandate is to find out if our friend is compromised."

So what if Oliver was compromised? Bo was being held captive and he needed to get him back. When had he become the soldier? The role reversal being oddly satisfying and in many ways empowered him. But she was right, charging into Fray's fortress would only get him killed; he was glad to be reined in. "We'll do some more digging."

"Good," Antonia replied, half smiling, seemingly satisfied by his obedience.

"And if an opportunity presents itself?"

"Call me back. We're not playing Yahtzee, we're playing chess." She vanished before he could retort.

He saw she was playing the long game, something he hadn't since waking up in the mud. He hadn't thought about the why factor, he'd been too busy wanting to know who and where. He'd let Bo get under his skin; he'd never asked why they wanted him.

It took a loud whoop from Renner to pull him back to reality. A whoop was good, he reminded himself. A whoop meant more information. More information they could use against their enemies. If it took days, even weeks then they would have everything they needed. Everything Antonia could use to bring down Oliver and sit herself as Party Leader. Not since May he grinned. She would make a good one.

He moved back through the hatch, finding Renner still busily working through files and data packets. He was better now they had a plan. It may take longer than he'd expected but he knew it would work. Bo would be back home and his conscience would be clean. He would take that holiday to New Zealand he'd promised himself.

He stepped up behind Renner, looking at his screens. Hoping to find something other than code, something he understood. He couldn't, the screens dazzling him with information but did nothing other than confuse him.

"I have him!" Renner shouted loud enough for Evan to jump.

"I'm right here you idiot."

He looked at him, eyebrows almost touching his hair line. "It's Bo."

"What?" He didn't like the cut of Renner's face. "What about him?"

"They've upgraded him. They're going to use him to assassinate Percy tonight, at the PPB—" He was lost in the system, information overload. "Holy shit, they've put a freaking bomb in his head."

*******

Felix Fray never, ever stopped selling himself. He constantly spouted information that must come directly from his Heads Up Display. Oliver had after all been with him all day and they hadn't spoken to anyone else. Other than Vernon, who followed them around like a well-trained dog. Felix must have been running his business through his HUD, while giving Oliver the nickel tour of the building.

While that impressed Oliver, he still didn't trust him and that it seemed, worked both ways. Even with Oliver agreeing to be part of the grand scheme, he'd been kept at arm's length. Felix was smart, smarter than Oliver wanted to credit him for. Not unlike an abusive lover, Felix had begun separating him from his support networks. Keeping him from Antonia, away from Renner. "Only for now," was his favourite restraint for Oliver. "They'll only get in the way. There's nothing for them to do. Can't have you running off again, can we?" were some of his others.

He was sure Felix would begin to divulge more, just not today.

To cement his position in Parliament, he'd agreed to Percy's execution. Felix was not one for loose ends, he liked precise, surgical cuts. There was no love lost between Oliver and Percy, but the context in which Felix wanted Oliver's commitment was a tad hard to swallow. In Felix's eyes, by leaving the PPB prematurely, Oliver had sealed Percy's fate and the fop's ephemeral position as party leader.

"You scattered the game pieces all over the place," Felix had said. "It took me all night to acquire them again."

Felix wasn't crude enough to put a gun in Oliver's hand and have him pull the trigger. He at least had some respect for him, above Percy anyhow. "The best way to deal with a loose rope is to bring all the parts back together and burn them into one again."

Oliver could have argued it would only work with nylon rope, but it was a metaphor and he'd already learned Felix did not enjoy having his monologues broken. "Not only will it keep it clean, but it will be believable. The media will lap it up." Felix had said. "I'm sure you could put a good word in for us too."

He's referring to Nadia, Oliver thought and remembered how she had said goodbye and her warm lips on his cheek, but he remained focused on her and on the country. Even if it cost him everything, he would still be able to have influence in policy. He would be the country's voice. If Felix was right. "How do you know he'll go for it?"

"The kid?" asked Felix.

Oliver nodded yes. Who else?

"We'll tell him Percy killed Window." Felix was fond of looking out over the city from his high-rise windows, and this conversation was no different. "That should be enough. If not, there are ways and means to ensure he goes through with it."

Not only would the plan keep it clean, keep it believable, it would fortify Parliament's new stance on Southern England. London would be regarded as a clear and present threat to the country. It would need reminding of its place.

The child had come to York to protect Window and had unintentionally become the linchpin now holding the country's peace in the balance. If he succeeded in killing Percy, Oliver would become Prime Minister. Felix would win the security contract and move his business to the south. Using the Chinese capitalist model, away from regulation controls Felix would turn a great profit, enough to pay off their wanton neighbours and prevent an invasion.

"Think of it as a new Dubai," Felix had said, "except instead of burying a potential workforce under the car parks we'll put them to good use."

"Slave labour?" Oliver asked.

"I'm not a monster, they'll have a liveable wage."

As well as business, Felix personally gave Oliver a tour of his Headquarters, moving down the building at a far more leisurely pace than his ride up the elevator that morning. They discussed the processes of the building, how the rainforest was open to all staff as a relaxation hub as well as producing the oxygen for the building and the waterfall that generated some of the building's electrical capacity, with the wind turbines fitted to the exterior doing the rest.

"All three of the Fray towers follow the same basic design and each has a number of improvements on the last," he explained. "Dubai draws energy from heat pockets beneath the earth and we're supplying thirty percent of the city's power at no charge."

By the time they'd reached the tech labs, Oliver had come to the decision that Felix Fray was not the Anti-Christ. He was just a man who understood the world, knew his limited options and wasn't afraid to make hard choices. His disassociation to human empathy was quite shocking, however once you looked past his cold logic you could come to understand his reasoning.

"The kid should be ready soon." Felix shook his head. "We had to introduce a lot of physical architecture as he didn't have any tech in him. Save for that tattoo of course, now that is some beautiful nano-craft." Felix continued to talk but Oliver couldn't hear him, all he heard was the incessant ringing as if a loud bang had clapped next to his ears.

He didn't even notice the thin pale lady until she handed Felix a small metal briefcase that made Felix smile broader than Oliver thought possible. "Is that what I think it is?" asked Felix. She nodded and bowed out. "He's going to love these."

Oliver knew he hadn't meant Kyle, but the boy. The one he couldn't bring himself to call by his name and here was Felix getting him a present..

"Oliver." He turned to see Kyle walking towards them and his heart sank to his boots. "You look whiter than usual," Kyle said.

"I'm good," replied Oliver, unsure what else to say.

They both looked as awkward as Oliver felt. "Would you two like a moment?" Felix was not one for leaving dead air. "Bo has a couple more minutes before we can see him. I don't mind if you want to catch-up or compare notes." Oliver caught the subtle wink from Felix and wanted to punch him for it.

"Thanks," Oliver said, leading Kyle to the nearest window. They were high up, a couple of floors above the landing pads. "You okay?"

"Never better." He watched the entire floor while speaking. "You?"

"I've made a deal."

"That's what you came here for," Kyle, intuitive as ever. "No surprises?"

Oliver considered the question a moment longer than he should have, resolving to say. "It's not the deal I wanted."

"We're not dead," Kyle offered. "That's a good thing."

Oliver found replying to that particular phrase harder than anything he'd ever done. "Indeed, very good."

"Fallout!" Both turned at the sound of the kid's voice, there he was sprinting from the glass door, surgical gown floating behind like a superhero's cape. He latched onto Kyle's midsection, hugging his friend, even his raven flapped its wings excitedly.

"Hey kiddo, how you doing?" Kyle asked, crouching down to meet him eye to eye.

Bo stepped back, grinning. With a quick blink, his body whirred with electronics. Gum guards spilled into his mouth, muscles contorted under his skin as the nano-armour worked itself into place, then finally his eye-shields slid into place. When he answered he did so in Russian. "Badass."

His fist is raised and Kyle bumped it with his own, both chuckling. "You are a badass mother fucker," Kyle said before throwing the first of many punches in their mock fight.

"He'll be combat ready in ninety minutes," Felix whispered into Oliver's ear. It startled him; he hadn't heard the man return, but he refused to reveal his surprise.

"He looks ready now," Oliver said.

"There are some operating programs downloading."

Oliver watched Bo and Kyle play in front of them. It was the first time he'd seen the boy and it brought the plan to a whole new level of real. "Will it work?"

"Please," Felix sounded insulted.

Oliver didn't care, he wasn't asking out of curiosity. "How many will go with him?"

"Just him," Felix answered.

No more witnesses than absolutely needed. "You think that's a good idea?" Oliver pushed.

"It needs to be authentic. Percy has security. If anyone clocks anyone other than Bo they'll know he had help from the outside."

"You can scrub the footage," Oliver said, knowing well enough they'd already scrubbed Jonathan's footage.

"True," said Felix, "but this is cleaner, authentic, and not just for now, but a hundred years in the future. It won't do us any good to have a British Zapruder film. Having one altered piece of footage is going to be difficult enough. We'll have to alter it periodically as technology gets better. Having the real McCoy, that's priceless."

Oliver wasn't sure it had been Felix's point, but he backed down. It was an agreeable argument. The later, unaltered footage would support the first by default.

"At least send Kyle, as backup." Oliver suggested.

"I'll think on it." Felix must have taken Oliver's silence as an end to their conversation because he sauntered over to Bo and Kyle. "Hi there," he said to the child who turned and stuck out his chest.

"Hi." His Raven shuffled uncomfortably on his head, eyeing Felix with suspicious black eyes.

Neither the child nor the raven gave Felix pause. He remained the charmer, taking a knee at Bo's feet and offered his hand. "I'm Felix." Bo tentatively accepted. The silver briefcase appeared between them, Felix unclasping it. "A little bird tells me these are your favourite brand."

Oliver looked out the window, repulsed at how easy Felix found being charming to those he used, how Oliver himself was allowing this to happen and how, unlike this child, he would endure.

"Sweet!" Bo lifted both Dessert Eagles from the case. "DEagles!"

"They're yours," Felix said, as a doting father would.

"Mine?" Bo's mirrored eyes looked on Felix's sincerity for a flash-fire moment before they returned to the sharp, elegant contours of his new weapons. These gorgeous creations were unlike anything he could have salvaged back home, as each one had been specifically crafted for him. Gleaming reflections instead of scratched imperfections, etched Ravens cut into ivory grips. They were perfect and he grinned so.

Oliver seethed, party to a repugnant plan, one that not hours before he'd judged Jonathan for. He'd not seen how it could be allowed, how it could be justified. Now he'd allowed the same thing to happen again and in some sick and twisted manner, Oliver's signing on to it was worse.

"How would you like to kill the guy who murdered Danny?" Felix asked.

Bo spun the pistols on his fingers like a miniature cyborg cowboy. "Hell yes."

# Part Five

Profit In Peace

## Chapter Twenty-Four

Talingworth Road

Renner proclaimed over the rim of his steaming mug of coffee. "Well you guessed it folks - this will not be easy but it is the end." He paused for dramatic tension. "One way or another."

"Does she know?" Evan asked, keeping his mind away from the imminent future.

"Toni?"

"How many other women do you know?"

Renner's middle finger extended for the fourth time that hour. Of course she knew. Renner didn't keep secrets from his woman. Evan knew that, he was just thankful he didn't need to go another round with her on the reasons why they had to do this his way. Renner had stayed out of the conversation, that was expected. "She knows."

"Did she say anything?"

"Lots of things. None you'd find useful or polite."

"You in the dog house?"

Renner paused, his mouth stuck on the rim of his mug. "If we could do it her way, we would. You know that."

"I know. I just want you to know I appreciate you taking the flak over me."

"Don't you worry buddy boy, she doesn't blame either of us. This is out of our hands and she knows it. She just wants more time."

Evan looked at his bootlace, untied and curled up on his toes. Don't we all, he thought. They'd decided to move on Bo when Renner had discovered the bomb. A similar device to what Fletcher had had installed in his cranium: an unwitting suicide bomber.

He'd said as much to Antonia, arguing over the political fallout should they 'rescue' him. She couldn't afford to take sides, waiting until the music stopped before picking her chair. Both Evan and Renner however were already in the grey; Renner already under suspicion when he'd allowed them to escape the PPB and Evan was dead.

So reluctantly, Antonia said to hell with it. But she wasn't taking part. Renner spent an hour asleep, then powered through several hours inside Fray International's computer systems, sifting through anything and everything relating to Lockhead, Oliver, Percy, government contracts, London and Bo. To their knowledge, he had succeeded in both gathering the information and remaining anonymous.

Everything was in the green until Renner woke him up an hour ago. "Change of plan."

Evan thought it was a change to their plan. Have him climb over the east wall instead of the west one. "Yeah?"

"Percy's not going to be at the PBB."

"Does Fray know?" If he didn't then Bo would be sent into Parliament regardless.

"That's how I know."

"It's not a red herring?"

"Seriously Evan, I'm getting a little more than pissed off when you belittle my skills."

"It was just a question."

"A question would be along the lines of, how does this change things?"

"Have I done something wrong?"

"Yeah, you belittled my skills. I was quite clear on that."

Evan closed his eyes, rubbing the sleep away with his index and thumb. He'd worked long hours with Renner before, but not under so much stress and he'd also had the benefit of being able to call it a night. No such luck now. He gave himself a couple of seconds before asking, "How does this change things?"

"I'm glad you asked." Renner was grinning again.

"Just tell me."

"Percy is staying at home tonight." There was a pause. "Don't worry," Renner said, reading Evan's expression. "His family won't be. The plan is to drop Bo into the street and have him work his way to Percy before exploding all over Talingworth Road."

"Talingworth?"

"Percy's address. I thought you were smart?" He winked at him. "All residential, four storey brownstones complete with middle-class tenants. Both sides of the road have facing buildings, three steps leading up to the front door and five front facing windows. Terraced with pitched roofs. Slim paved front yards with iron railings and gates."

Evan held up his hand. "Can't you show me a picture or something?"

"My description not good enough for you cowboy?"

"Wouldn't it be faster?"

"It would be, if there were pictures. There's not even a Google Map of this place. It's fenced at each end. A lot of political figures live there and value their privacy."

Defeated, Evan nodded. "Pray, continue."

"Why thank you. Percy has replaced his family with SB."

Evan's heart sank like a pair of concrete boots. Percy was using Special Branch to protect him from Bo.

"Thought you'd like that," Renner said. "Twenty of them and, FYI, Carl and Louise are heading up the teams."

He knew both of them, both good people. Good commanders and good friends. Carl played a mean game of rugby and could eat his weight in burgers without gaining any weight. Louise had let Evan use her father's timeshare apartment in Portugal last year. Now they'd be standing between Percy and Bo. They didn't stand a chance. "Can we get them out? Tell them to stand down?"

"Gillespie's locked me out. I'm pretty sure I'm out of a job." If he was upset, Renner didn't show it. He could quadruple his wage in the private sector anyhow. "That leads me onto the downside to our venture. The street is tight, there's no CCTV so I'm going to be relying on comm chatter. As I can't listen to SB chatter, it leaves me with the cops. Of which, there will be at least ten stationed outside the house." After he stopped talking, his face turned ashen and his eyes dulled.

Evan had seen that face before, in the mirror on the night he'd left for London.

"I'm not sure we can pull this off," Renner admitted.

Evan placed his hand on his friend's shoulder and told him. "Don't be a wuss." Renner's eyes lightened a tad, enough for Evan to continue. "What's next?" His friend smiled. It was a fake one, but Evan appreciated the fact he tried.

"We're going to have to be fluid," said Renner. "If we go in rigid, with one plan of attack, the second something goes wrong we'll be in the crapper. We need to approach this like water, find the cracks."

He had hoped his face would explain his reaction to Renner's new and enthused contribution. It didn't. "You've lost me."

Renner arched an eyebrow. "We don't know how Bo will attack the house. We don't know if Kyle will be there." He paused, grimacing. "Kyle will kick your ass."

"Not if you're quick about things."

"If you get close enough to touch him then, maybe, it depends on whether Fray has played with him as well as Bo."

"Let's cross that bridge if we come to it," said Evan.

"Yup," replied Renner. His eye twitched and a thought blurted out. "We'll fit your Exo with optical camouflage and non-lethal rounds."

"I thought optics were useless against personnel."

"You're nervous and not thinking straight. Of course the ground crew will see you, but just a blurr and only if they look directly at you, but if the cops decide to pay some overtime to a chopper pilot then at least you won't have to worry about being picked off from the air. Consider all eventualities."

Evan's head hurt. They'd been at this all afternoon and they were going nowhere. After an hour considering all eventualities they were still nowhere, except Renner had made himself a hot chocolate and Evan had suited up.

All black, standard issue Special Operations clothing: 'check'. Combat harness: 'check'. One Browning high-powered, semi-automatic pistol, non-lethal with spare magazines: 'check'. One army standard Exo frame: 'check'. When he had fastened his bootlaces he grabbed a black beanie and pulled it onto his head: 'check'.

"You look gorgeous," opined Renner. "You sure you don't want the camouflage?"

"Cops haven't said they're using a chopper." He had enough to concern himself with, without having an optical camouflage cloak flapping around him. He was going to zip-line down from the buzzard. Battle his way through the police, as Renner had put it and then a house load of SB to save not only Bo, but Percy too. That is if he got that far - there was still a good chance he would be there and if Evan was ever scared of the Bo, he was terrified of going toe to toe with Kyle.

This time, Renner managed to read his face. "I'd come down with you if I thought I could help."

He smiled in return. "You will be."

"Just remember, the Exo will put you pretty much on par with his strength but he's going to have speed on you and he's trained so you're better off letting your HUD and suit do the macho stuff."

"This supposed to be a pep talk?"

"Just remember to trust in the suit."

"I've had basic training."

"You'll do fine," Renner smirked. "Want to go over it again?"

"There's nothing to go over. I'll just have to be fluid."

"Be the water," Renner added, holding his fist ready for a pump that didn't come.

"You know there's something wrong with you, don't you?"

Renner's smile split his face in half. "I'm a freak on a leash baby."

*******

High above Talingworth Road, Evan counted his breaths at the open hatch of the Buzzard. Ten seconds away from readying his zip-line, ready to begin his descent when Renner blurted out an obscenity. "What is it?" he posted, voice lost between the wind and turbines.

"Every light in a six mile radius just went out."

The national grid was next to impossible to hack into, let alone control. You'd have a better chance of cutting into Wall Street. Six unlit miles in which to hide the true target. No power to Percy's house and no power to his security systems.

There was no point in guessing who had turned the lights off. Fray International had the balls and means to do it. But they wouldn't waste it; they would time it precisely. Renner hadn't spoken above his personal rumblings while he climbed and he hadn't wanted the distraction either.

"I can use this," Evan said. Steadying himself on the edge of the ramp he blinked up the dwindling red blips of the police force. "They're not wasting any time."

"Neither should you."

Evan peered over the edge, noting it was a long way down to the road. So far, he didn't want to guess the distance. He pulled a hook from the spool of high tensile wire and clasped it to his suit. If he thought about it, he'd be there all night. So he didn't.

The air rushed against him as he fell, headfirst into battle. The street, too dark to make out in the blackout, was painted with light blue contours depicting the town houses, the road and cars parked along it, several of which had been placed as barricades to either side of Percy's house. Presuming they were police Evan painted an additional yellow star on their bonnets.

The red blips darted amongst the cars in uncoordinated discord. "Bo's on the street."

"Chatter has something attacking them but they haven't been able to ID it." No surprise, they're running like a bunch of idiots. "There's a sniper too."

"Kyle?"

"Don't know, somewhere on the roofs."

The road raced toward him, another thirty seconds and he'd be unfastening the cord, "Slowing descent." He made a final count of the red blips, there were only four left. Too late for most of them, and by the time he reached the ground there may not be a police force left. Then crazy hit him; he would let his HUD and Exo suit do the macho stuff.

Evan reached behind him and pulled his Browning free, aimed at the nearest red blip and fired. The shot went wide, and the force from the shot swung him backwards. He aimed again, firing the pistol and this time clipping the target in the shoulder. "What in hell are you doing?"

"Being the water." He pitched forward, feet held high with the ground racing towards him. "Shit!" Shielding his head with his hands and arms he hit the ground spraying sparks as the metal of his Exo scraped against tarmac.

The following seconds slowed to a crawl as he blinked the command, vaporising the zip wire in a flash of white. He staggered to his feet with his suit's assisted hydraulics and, licking blood from his gums, he aimed for his next target and fired. The shot hit the red blip dead centre, knocking it to the floor - better to stun them then let Bo kill them.

The kick came from nowhere. Staggering backwards he stumbled, feet slipping on red-slicked tarmac. He steadied himself, simultaneously scanning the blue cars. Nothing. "I think you just found Bo," said Renner.

"Or he found me," Evan corrected, waiting for the gunshot. Nothing. "Bo?"

The patter of feet was heard too late, the swipe connecting too fast at the back of his ankles and Evan was down on the ground - Bo on top of him, black mirrored devil eyes reflecting Evan's dazed expression. "Bo, wait!" Two pistol muzzles stared down at him.

"Grab him," Renner called in Evan's ear and Evan complied, he reached for the kid's ankle but found only air. Bo was gone and Evan was alone on the road. He clambered to his knees, searching the blue outlines for a heartbeat.

Bo must have recognised him. He hadn't said anything but there was no way he had mistaken him for someone else. Unless Fray had replaced his brain with a computer

Evan stood, chambered his next round while keeping his eyes on the road. Then to the roofs, was he out there? "Kyle!?"

"You've movement on your six," warned Renner.

Evan spun round, left hand supporting his right's aim. "I don't see anything." Or did he? "Wait." Standing on top of a police car, a foot either side of its strip lights was Kyle aiming an assault rifle straight at him. "Kyle?"

"You're dead," came his heart-stopping reply.

"Kyle wait." But he was waiting, his words weren't a threat - they were a statement.

"I can't do anything unless you touch him," said Renner.

"Hey, I'm working here."

Kyle remained silent, continuing to aim his rifle at Evan's heart. "You don't have to do this." He stepped forward, Kyle's aim dropped and fired, the bullet ricocheting an inch away from Evan's foot.

"Don't move."

Two words that told Evan one thing; Kyle didn't want to kill him. He counted the half second for Kyle to aim the rifle back at his heart and waited another two seconds. "You're being lied to," he said stepping forward, Kyle's aim dropped and they both fired. Trusting in the suit, Evan's first shot hit the rifle, jarring Kyle's aim further south and exposing his chest where he planted his second and third shots.

As Kyle fell backward from the car roof, Evan sped towards him, leaping over the car with ease and skidded to stop astride his target and grabbing his reaching arm. "Got him," he said as Kyle slipped from his grasp and punched him in his gut with his other fist.

"Didn't get him," Renner said. "Need a couple of seconds."

Amongst a flurry of belly punches, Evan held his ground, dropping his knees onto Kyle's shoulders and pinning him. He reached down and pressed his open palm against Kyle's face, counted to two. "Now?" Three, Kyle's head tried to pull away, four, his legs kicked up. "Renner?"

With a whirring hiss Kyle's legs came up behind Evan, wrapping around his head and locking. Evan's suit-enhanced spine strained against the force of Kyle's legs, five, six. "Renner!" The legs won, flipping Evan backwards sending him crashing into the police car he'd cleared only moments early.

"I'm in."

"Great..." Evan mustered, rolling out of his indent and finding his feet.

Kyle's knee hit under his jaw so hard it smashed three of his teeth, the pain shooting around his face in an instant. He found himself, once again, on the floor. Looking up, he could see Kyle standing off and rubbing the dust off his sleeves. "Ren?"

"A couple of seconds."

"One, two," Evan said, standing up, never taking an eye off Kyle. "Can we..."

Kyle's gut punch came in impossibly fast, hitting Evan as hard as a train and robbed him of his breath. Evan fell for the third time, coughing red phlegm from his stained lips. He'd known he wasn't likely to have won a toe to toe fight with Kyle, but he'd hoped to have lasted longer than this. He raised his hands, a last minute plea. He didn't see Kyle's foot go up, but he felt it come down, crashing into the back of his Exo Suit, flattening him like road-kill. "You think a time out is going to help you?" Kyle asked.

"What..." He spat the blood free from his mouth. "What's it like?" looking up at Kyle, "being Fray's bitch?" his smile caught Kyle's boot and the ground disappeared from under him, his head finding the squad car.

Kyle grabbed Evan's throat, lifting him off the car. "What's it like being mine?"

Any prevailing thoughts Evan had of success were throttled from him by Kyle's grasp. He closed his eyes and watched his HUD fizzle away. He didn't need it. "Renner."

He heard nothing and was feeling less by the second. It was getting dark. In a matter of seconds he would pass out, game over, man. Game over. Then, in the recesses of his mind came five words that meant more to him than any words had done so before: It can't end like this.

Evan gathered his fleeing strength and kicked. Jerking his boot into Kyle's crotch, hard. The grip loosened for a moment, and it was all he needed. He sucked in a deep, life giving lungful of air. His eyes rounded, focusing on Kyle's distracted expression. He fired a punch at his throat.

It fell short, glancing off Kyle's cheek. His advantage squandered on a punch his own grandmother could have bettered. Kyle squeezed again and harder. "Look at yourself!" he taunted, his arm holding steadily in place as if Evan weighed little more than a pound of sugar. "Give up."

Evan struggled to maintain focus between breaths, five seconds my ass. If he got out of this, he was going to pound Renner into the ground. "Hurry up." The words escaped his mouth before he knew he'd said them.

"Hurry up?" Kyle questioned, casually aiming his pistol at Evan's head. Then, in a less confident tone. "You in here Renner?" Kyle's eye shields retracted, revealing his black eyes and silver pupils staring into Evan's. "I can't let you go after him. You don't know the full story."

Evan didn't care what the full story was; it would never justify placing a bomb inside a child. Have him murder an entire police squad and who knows how many people inside the house. "Leave the kid to finish his mission. " Kyle said, slowly lowering Evan back down to his feet. He couldn't be sure, but it felt like a gesture of peace. Like he expected Evan to agree with him. "When he's done..." Kyle's hand released his throat, Evan found the floor, gulping the air as if it were the last. "We'll go for pizza, my treat."

Evan rubbed his throat, thankful for the release. Kyle's words taking longer to register over the relief in being able to fill his lungs freely again. 'Leave the kid finish'. When he's done, we'll go for pizza, my treat.' He found himself staring at Kyle, his mouth agape in astonishment. Was it possible? He tried to speak, desperately wanting to ask him. "You don't know?" but the words refused to leave his mouth.

"He doesn't know." Renner answered his question for him.

"Know what?" asked Kyle. "What don't I know Renner?"

Evan raised a slow hand to Kyle's shoulder and patted it. He forced the words. "Going in," out of his mouth in a rough sandpaper tone and stepped past him only to get Kyle's vice-like grip on his wrist.

"Stay," said Kyle.

"The kid has a bomb in him," Renner said.

"The hell he has."

"It's true man, look," Renner showed him. "He's rigged to explode when he sees Percy."

Evan caught the moment of belief in Kyle's face. A subtle exhalation of one thought, a fresh breath with another, then his eyes found Evan's again. Searching for a reason to disbelieve. "I'm sorry," Evan said and put his other hand on Kyle's, easily releasing the grip and walked away from him.

Kyle didn't move, he just stared at the spot where Evan had been standing.

"I can disarm it," offered Renner.

Evan continued to walk, heading to Percy's front door.

"Wait."

Evan slowed. Good, he thought.

"I'm coming with you." Kyle joined him at the steps and they both entered the house together.

*******

The front door pushed back as Evan forced it open. Propped up behind it like a Halloween draught-excluder was the first of the Special Branch bodies. The tiled floor, indeed the entire hallway, was splashed with crimson patterns, freshly painted by Bo and his DEagles. The door at the end of the hall was the final resting place of another SB agent, one who had come rushing out of the kitchen. Too late, he hadn't had time to pull his sidearm out of its holster. "How lethal did you guys make him?" Evan asked a second before the gun shots tore through the halls above them.

Kyle slid past and grabbed the banister. "Eagles, he's upstairs."

Dead men three and four, they found on the stairs, lying precariously enough that when Kyle brushed past the first it slid down forcing Evan to side step. Evan paid little attention, realising his Browning was somewhere outside the house. He picked up the standard dropped by the SB, and unlocked it. "Where is he?"

"Hurry," was Renner's only reply.

"Can you patch me in to him?" asked Kyle.

"He's heading to the third floor, move it!"

"Bo!" Evan called, reaching the next landing and finding yet more carnage. Agents doubled over the banisters, piled up on top of each other. Gaping holes in torsos and missing faces. The kid was using high calibre bullets. "Bo!" he yelled again, hoping to catch the kid's attention. His HUD counted the bodies around him; this had been the main stand, the last line of defence. Above him, there wouldn't be many left to slow him down. They were running out of time."Bo!"

A second, or maybe less, was all it would take for his chip to identify such a well-documented face: Percy. A signal from Bo's new and augmented eyes to his chip would send a confirmation request to base and an affirmation would follow by return, and then an almighty kaboom. He pushed the thought away as quickly as he did the body at his feet. "You grab him," said Kyle. "I'll take..."

The gunshots came from the floor above him. "Bo!" he yelled, but still no reply. The shots were unmistakable, twin reports from Bo's weapons of choice reverberated through the hallways. He was on the next floor up and, according to the schematic, as well as the small huddle of heartbeats - so was Percy. The conclusion was close, he could taste it. Soon, God's judgement would be cast.

"No killing." Evan warned, hand sliding up the rail.

"Hurry!" urged Renner.

The muzzle flash was as loud as the gunshot, whitening the floor before drowning it in blood and black. Evan reached the top of the stairs first and saw him standing at the end of the corridor, a fresh kill falling to the ground, joining several others.

Behind Bo, a large floor to ceiling window allowed the moon to highlight the carnage surrounding him. The kid was firing his pistol through a doorway, flashing the landing in white and revealing the arterial sprays on the dull magnolia wallpaper.

The boy was almost unrecognisable to Evan. His body was encased in an unbranded armour, absorbing the light from his muzzle flashes and keeping him black, a shadow even in the brightest of lights. His body seemed completely alien, but his face was all the confirmation Evan required. It was the bird, the crazy devil raven with wings flapping hysterically as the kid emptied his magazine that sealed it.

"Bo!" Kyle shouted, turning the kid's head to look. He swung one of the DEagles towards Evan, who didn't wait for the pull of the trigger before moving. He pushed away from the banister and found himself against the magnolia wall, running alongside it toward Bo.

"Stand down!" Kyle shouted from behind him, giving the kid a moment of pause. Enough for Evan to gain an advantage - he dropped his shoulder and crashed into the boy raising him off the ground and curling around him, putting his back to the large window, and hitting it with the full force of his Exo-enhanced leap.

The window made an unsatisfying thud before throwing them back to the floor. I've been to Percy's house and all I have is this lousy t-shirt. Epic fail Evan, well done. But it wasn't over, he rolled on top of the kid. "Stand down!" he yelled at Bo and to the agent peering through the doorway.

"Get off me!" said Bo, who Evan had no illusion of containing for much longer.

"Mr Wizard, do your thing fast," Evan prayed. Then, to Bo. "He tricked you."

"Get off me! He's a dead man!" the boy snarled.

"Don't make me break my promise kid..." Evan said.

Kyle double tapped the agent in the chest with his pistol just as a second appeared in the doorway. "I said stand down Goddamn it!" Evan shouted at Kyle.

Bo, using the distraction, found Evan's elbow gimbal in his Exo and pulled. His new robotic limbs made short work of the hardware and Evan soon felt his left arm go limp. Bo was out from under him shortly after, stopping short of Kyle. "Fallout?"

"Hey kid," Kyle fired a couple of shots into the doorframe to scare off the agent and took Evan's place as the kid's container.

"What the fu..." Bo's struggling was futile."Let me go!" he said, dropping his DEagles in favour of escape, which proved also futile.

"Finish it."

Evan heard Kyle's voice in his head as the two agents snaked through the door, both their side-arms trained on Bo and Kyle. Neither of them concerned with Evan. He wasn't the threat. "We're leaving," he said.

The nearest guard, a tall, powerful figure with a freshly torn nostril and cheek sniggered. "I don't think so." Evan recognised the voice, then the disfigured face: Carl. Poker player extraordinaire.

He knew him, knew he would have Percy's safety in mind above all else. He would wait, appraise the situation further. After all, Evan and Kyle were unexpected piece on the chessboard. "Please?" asked Evan.

"Shut it!" the other suit said, one that Evan didn't know.

"Sir, we have them," Carl said.

"Carl, it's me - Evan."

"He said, shut it!" Carl affirmed his colleague's earlier order, aiming at Kyle. "Kiss the floor."

"Get him out of there!" Renner said.

"You think?" replied Evan, needing a delay tactic. "Percy! Fray's crossed you. The boy is a bomb."

"I said, kiss the fucking floor!" Carl's voice fell on top of another's. Someone else had said something, something small but concise. Evan split the second voice from the first in his display and replayed it. It was there, someone had said. 'Wait'.

"Guys, Bo's chip just went crazy. It's linked to Percy's voice, too." Renner, the doombringer, had returned.

"I won't ask again..." Carl said, stepping closer to Kyle. "On the floor. Now!"

Kyle dropped to his knees, firing his pistol from his hip and capping Carl in his knees. The agent screamed his way to the floor, managing to clip Bo's back and Kyle's arm with return fire on his way down. Kyle spun around, presenting his back intent on shielding the kid but losing his grip and setting Bo free.

It was over. Evan saw the future unfolding, Bo collecting his twin DEagles, shooting Carl in his back as he leapt over him and murdering the last agent before entering the room and seeing Percy. This would be it, for all of them.

Evan moved before his train of thought ended. Scrambling forward he retrieved his fallen pistol. To his left, Bo was aiming his DEagle, its muzzle lined up too close for Evan's comfort and when it fired the warmth from the flash washed his cheek, but the bullet was not meant for him. Instead it found its mark in the agent standing inside the room, knocking him to the floor with an explosion of red.

Neck and neck with Bo, Evan extended his right leg pushing him into the kid hoping to knock him off balance or at very least give him a moment to question his surroundings and give Evan the upper hand. Not counting Carl, wriggling around the floor behind them, there was only Percy left and Evan began to scream. A powerful, barbaric yawp, laced with anger and the will to live.

There was no more time to converse, letting Percy off with a warning. He needed to get to him first before Bo killed them all - he fired into the black room, revealing Percy in the muzzle flash before firing twice more. The first hit his chest, the second his face - but not before he called out. "Please, no!"

Evan had halted a metre into the room, taken his shots and stopped dead waiting for the explosion. "That was close," Renner said. "You don't want to know how close."

Evan turned around, expecting Bo to be right behind him, aiming his gun at him for stealing his kill. He was nowhere near; Kyle must have grabbed him shortly after he'd taken out the agent because he was struggling under his arms out in the corridor. Lowering his pistol, Evan saluted him in thanks.

It was then he saw Carl and remembered the gunshot just before he shot Percy. The man's head was spilling out on the landing, a tragic witness to the crime of the millennium, but he needn't have died. All of them, none of Percy's bodyguards and even Percy himself could have survived this night. Fuck them and their politics.

"What now?" asked Kyle.

"I don't know about you," Evan said, "but I intend to keep my promise."

## Chapter Twenty-Five

Frayed Relations

Oliver played with his meal. Monkfish, splayed on a bed of spinach with some cheese and wine sauce. Crushed nuts sprinkled over the top. It had some fancy name and had been cooked in some fancy way. But Oliver couldn't remember what Vernon had said when he'd placed the food in front of him and he didn't care to scrub his recent memory files to find out. It was just an edible mass he couldn't bring himself to enjoy.

Felix, however, had a ferocious appetite. He sat across the marble banquet table and had nearly finished. He had chewed his way through the food with a constant smile and commentary. He took great pride in explaining the cooking process, even though he had not cooked it himself. "You have to make sure the pan is hot and don't leave it in there more than four minutes or you may as well throw it out."

Oliver nodded, smiling politely and ran his fork through the sauce. "Oliver," Felix said. "You've hardly touched it."

"Yes," Oliver admitted.

"You're not one of those people are you?" Felix stabbed his fork into the soft fleshy fish and held it up between them. "That thinks this is the poor man's lobster?" He moved the fish close to his mouth but stopped. "You're not a snob are you Oliver?" He popped the fish in his mouth, sniggering as he chewed.

Oliver wanted to tell him the truth. He wanted to raise his middle finger and blow Felix a kiss. "What's wrong with being a snob?" he asked instead.

"Everything – they're worse than the plebs. They're the posh plebs." He stabbed at his spinach and curled it around his fork. "They're the posh sheep," he sniggered, "following popular opinion and buying whatever is fashionable. Still, I wouldn't be here without them."

"Quite," said Oliver, seeing Jonathan's face in his dish.

"Don't look so dour."

Oliver looked up from his plate and reached for his wine glass. Unlike his food, his appetite for the Sancerre grape had not diminished. "It's happening right now," he said, bringing the glass to his lips. "People are dying right now."

Felix swallowed. "It's happened. Percy and the boy are dead." He grabbed his own glass and raised it. "To victory."

Oliver settled his wine to the table. "I won't toast to murder."

"Spoilsport!" Felix drank a mouthful and settled his own glass before picking his fork back up. "It's over, Oliver. You may not like it, but it needed to be done. I admire that you feel the need to be guilty about it, but when you're Prime Minister, you'll soon understand that guilt is but a distraction. You'll still be required to function, the sooner you make peace with your decisions the faster you can move on."

Oliver stared at his wine glass.

"Oliver?" Felix asked, lifting Oliver's gaze. "You've done the right thing. And if you disagree, consider this - Jonathan had to go." He had Oliver's attention now. "We could have worked something out for Percy, but I wanted him gone to prove a point." Oliver swallowed the rising bile in his throat. "Do I need to explain further?" Oliver couldn't be sure how long he stared at Felix before he shook his head, a signal for Felix to smile and continue eating with a satisfied glow about him.

Oliver resigned to his guilt, allowed it to wrap around him, feeling somewhat secure and human in its embrace. Tomorrow he would stand in front of the world and take the first public step towards power. He would sign the Fray Security deal, keeping Britain out of the hands of the foreigners a little longer. "All the King's soldiers and all the King's men..."

"Will put the kingdom back together again," Felix finished the rhyme before Oliver realised he'd started it. "We two will be remembered as the men who returned the sovereignty to Buckingham Palace."

Oliver drank the remains of his Sancerre and found Vernon stood next to him as he placed the glass back to the table. He was a perfect butler - silent, ever vigilant. He'd remained in the background all night, approaching the table to serve and clear their plates, filling their glasses when empty. His silver-coated mechanics tipped the bottle and fed the wine into Oliver's glass.

The blue tint was apparent right away. Oliver was not a connoisseur by any means, but he knew that wine came in red, in pink or in white. It never came in blue. His eyes flittered to the curtain, brightened by the exterior blue as it switched to red. Then back to blue. "Are you expecting anyone?"

"No," Felix said. "Vernon. Tell them to come back in business hours, would you please?"

"Of course, Sir." Vernon replaced the bottle in the ice bucket on his way out of the room.

"Sit back down, please," Felix said, but Oliver had already crossed the room and was peering into the gardens.

He saw it right away, hovering over the building's edge. Its siren was silent, but its beams and light-strip flashed away, red then blue, then red again. It wasn't out of the ordinary for the police to fly direct to the a penthouse, in an emergency it would dispense with any unwanted red tape. That said, it was strange of them to be hanging there with no communication. "Have they pinged you?"

Oliver hadn't noticed Felix approach. "No," he answered, standing next to him.

Vernon walked out into the garden, waving at the intruder.

"I don't like this," Oliver said.

"It is a tad concerning," Felix admitted, supping from his glass.

"Percy?" Oliver suggested.

"Everyone's dead," said Felix. "I had the report back. All dead." He then looked over to Vernon. "Anything?"

From the window; Oliver watched as Vernon's head swivelled to an angle impossible for any human counterpart to perform.

"Nothing," Felix answered Oliver's unspoken question.

The police car then tilted. Its right headlight dipped, its back end straightened up. "What's it doing?" Oliver asked.

The car's front end dipped as the engines hurtled it forward. It followed its trajectory and like a dart striking the bulls-eye, it crashed its grille into Vernon. Both car and robot disappeared from sight.

Oliver stepped back, the window vibrating. "Jesus!"

"Has nothing to do with this." Felix dropped his glass and walked away from the window, the lights around the building flickering and fading, while Oliver's nose caught the first faint smells of burning fuel. "He's hit the Goddamned house!" Felix yelled, storming out of the room.

Oliver followed him out of the dining room and into the hallway. To his right, smoke billowed through the open veranda doors. Flames licked at the glass, turning the white paint black.

Felix stood still in the middle of the hall and it took but a second for Oliver to realise why. Amongst the smoke, a dark shadow stood. A recognisable shadow Oliver could never mistake.

"Kyle?" Felix asked.

Kyle answered with force, raising his pistol - the bullet punched through Felix's stomach, dropping him to his knees. Fray held onto his dignity, refusing to squeal. "Wait!" he said, planting his palm flat on the marble floor to steady himself.

Two more bullets struck him, the first on his raised knee, the second clipping his raised thigh. He squealed that time, squirming in the blood pooling around him. Oliver remained fixed to the spot, unable to act or even speak, watching as Felix writhe in his own red mess.

Kyle holstered his sidearm, but kept something in his right hand as he walked towards his prey.

"Wait," said Felix.

Then, "Wait." Oliver repeated. He didn't believe he'd spoken, but the word had indeed, left his mouth.

Kyle obeyed, appearing more from curiosity than submission. He stopped close enough for Felix's blood to wash against his feet and waited. But Oliver didn't know what to say next. He'd not expected to call out, let alone for Kyle to stop. His throat was dry and empty.

Felix coughed up a mouthful of deep red fluid and with it, any sense of decorum he still clung to. Retching and writhing on the floor, not wanting to die he began to spout incoherent nonsense with the occasional, "Please."

It was strange for Oliver, seeing Felix stripped of his eloquence and the display of impotence provided him with the answer to his question. Am I like Felix? "Don't kill him," he said.

"Why?" Kyle snapped back.

Oliver could tell his friend he didn't want to be a killer, that there was already too much blood on his hands. But Kyle wouldn't understand. He'd made his bed and should be prepared to lie in it, that's what he would tell him.

"Why?" He hadn't seen Kyle take out his pistol again, but it didn't make it less than terrifying to look down its barrel as he aimed it at him.

"I need him," Oliver said, unable to meet Kyle's gaze. It was partly the truth, he'd try to fix the country without Felix Fray, but he'd fail. He needed him more than Felix needed him.

"Him?" Kyle pointed the gun at Felix once more. "You need this piece of shit?"

"I do," Oliver looked at Felix, bleeding out on to the floor. "God help me Kyle, I need him."

Oliver and Felix's eyes met under the fire of Kyle's next question. "You know what he did?" Oliver tracked the pistol's aim, trained on Felix. "What this cunt did? He killed the kid. He killed Evan."

"Evan?" Oliver hadn't expected to hear his name. The man was already dead.

Oliver avoided Felix's face, found the elevator instead and the dial on its frame - saw the numbers racing toward them.

"I did..." Felix screamed, "what was needed—"

"Don't talk." Kyle snarled.

Oliver stepped out of the door, his hands raised in front of him. "I knew about the boy." Kyle's attention slid back to him. "Kyle, I knew." He stepped around, moving himself between the two men. "I didn't know Evan would be there. We all thought he was dead, but what Felix says is true, he deserves to die and so do I, but right now we're the only thing standing in the way of invasion." He stepped closer, spoke quieter. "Security are on their way."

"They won't save you."

Oliver wasn't sure which one of them he meant, or even if he meant both. "If you kill him, you won't be able to hide anywhere. His father will use all of his resources to find you."

"And you need him," Kyle added.

"And I need him."

Oliver didn't feel any pain, not straight away - just a whimsical sense of warning set off by the sound of Kyle's pistol firing. Breathing became harder, as if someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room, the same room that began spinning. He didn't hear Felix's hysterical laugh any more than he'd heard the elevator pinging behind him. He was focusing on his next breath.

Kyle stepped back, the grenade he'd held in his hand had been primed and thrown over Oliver's shoulder. Oliver thought he heard distant screams - agonising prayers drowning in a fiery tsunami that stole his footing. When his knees cracked against the marble he felt the tightness in his gut. He looked down, finding his hands nursing the reddened silk shirt and the hole that bored into his belly.

Staring at the wound he still wasn't aware he'd been shot. Being in the line of fire had been far from imagination, being shot further still. Oliver's medical report bounced on his HUD - calling to him 'Read me.' I can't die like this.

Kyle crouched in front of him, pressing his pistol against Oliver's cheek. He looked into his Kyle's armoured eyes and saw his own reflection, white and ethereal as if already a ghost. "Oliver." He watched Kyle's lips move, failing to hear his words. "I won't kill you, but you're doing this on your own."

He stood, pulling Oliver's head against his thigh and holding him in place - a perfect view of the carnage left down the corridor, an elevator ablaze, blistering mirrored walls and Felix, saturated in his own blood, crawling toward the dining room door. Kyle fired twice, both shots hitting him around the shoulder blades and forbidding his escape. The third and final shot broke the man's skull.

The support from Kyle's leg disappeared and Oliver, powerless to control his limbs any longer slumped to the floor, his blood mixing with Felix's and there he rested, until the blackness found him.

## Chapter Twenty-Six

New Year's Resolutions

He lay on the bed, reading his medical progress reports displayed on the back of his eyelids. The bullet had travelled through his stomach, missing his spine by less than an inch. The surgery had been performed at Fray International, but he had been moved to Clifton Park for recovery and was expected to return to office within another three days.

But that hadn't stopped the office coming to him.

"Bartlett and Morgan have jumped the fence on the test ban treaty," Antonia said, strolling through the door with a punnet of strawberries in her hand.

Oliver opened his eyes. "Is it two already?"

"Nearly three," returned Antonia, finding the chair next to Oliver's bed. "I see you're still enjoying the drugs."

He smiled. "Quite."

"I liked your old room better."

Oliver hadn't. It had been shared with another, while this one had enough room for his bed. One, maybe two chairs at a push, and his monitoring equipment, which didn't take up much room at all. Just a small bedside table with a flat touch screen surface. Plus, it had a window overlooking the car park. "The view is better."

"Strawberry?" she held the punnet close to his face. "They're good."

Oliver picked a plump one by its stalk. "Already been at them?"

"Two for one - I've got an empty tub in the car."

He grinned as he devoured the fruit. His taste was returning slowly, but it would be some time before he could fully appreciate delectable tastes such as strawberries. "That makes five?" returning to her first statement.

"Six. I still think Gardner is holding out on us."

"It will pass." Oliver grabbed another strawberry. It was at least succulent.

"If Faraday stays on course," she said.

"He will."

"You sound sure."

"I am," Oliver replied. "Anything on the thing?"

She snatched a strawberry just as his fingers reached the tub. "We'll be naming you when you're released."

"No challengers?"

"I considered it, but the mortality rate for the job isn't appealing in the least."

"So it appears," he replied.

"Besides. You're a hero now. Who dares go after the man who survived the Gunboy."

He smiled, knowing well enough it wasn't the kid who'd shot him. That honour had gone to Kyle and he'd done so to save his life. By shooting him, he had cast doubt on his relationship with the traitor. He'd made his point, and he'd reminded the Gods they were mortal.

"I know you don't want to talk about it. But you are getting the job, so you do need to start filling vacancies," said Antonia, pinching another strawberry.

"Who do you think?"

"Well, given your new found faith in Faraday, I think he'd make a good Whip."

"So do I."

"As for the Foreign Secretary position, I'm not sure."

"I know who I want for Foreign," Oliver said, touching her hand. "I need suggestions for Home Secretary."

She blushed. Not a full crimson face blush, but a subtle pink rush to her cheeks that only a close friend would recognise. "You don't want to keep it open for one of Fox's lot?"

Oliver shook his head. "I want someone I can trust."

She nodded, snatched another strawberry. "About that..." in that way that could only mean a question was about to follow.

"Go on," said Oliver.

"What happened? I mean, I've read the report but it all seems a bit out there."

"Have you not seen my footage?"

"The Branch locked it down."

"Don't tell me Renner allowed Gillespie to stop him," he said, noticing her flush replaced by a look of sadness. "What is it?"

"He's gone," she said. "The same night you were shot."

"I didn't know," he blurted. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be stupid." She looked down at his hand, still holding hers.

So Renner had disappeared too: he must have been working with Evan. And had then helped Kyle, or vice versa. Either way, two confidantes were now gone. He swallowed at his error. How quickly he had forgotten him. "When is Jonathan's funeral?"

"Wednesday."

He nodded; he would be out of hospital by then. "And Percy's?"

"Possibly Friday. There was talk of Wednesday, for expediency but they were afraid of elevating him above his station."

Oliver had to laugh. "He was almost Prime Minister."

"I'm sure they'll decide soon enough." She pinched another strawberry. "Last one, I promise."

He laughed again. "Take as many as you want."

"The Fray funeral won't be until next week. They're waiting until his sister arrives."

There it was. The name he'd tried not to think of: Felix. The man he'd stood in front of a gun for. It sickened Oliver to think he did that when he'd chosen to step aside when a gun had been pointed at his friend. The cold touch of guilt reached up at him from under the bed, and like a chain he could feel it wrapping around his neck. Until he remembered what Felix had said to him.

He touched Antonia's elbow. "What's next?"

*******

The fresh morning sun beat down on Evan's night-chilled face, his fingers grazing the surface of the Thames. His arm hung over the side of the canoe, drifting in silence. His legs rested on the bow's seat, elevated while he lay flat on the boat's bottom.

Bo crouched over the bow deck, in his now familiar predatory manner. They had travelled mainly in silence, spending some moments to discuss strategy, some small talk here and there. Not wanting to draw attention was the excuse they gave themselves. Not having anything to say to each other was the real reason.

Evan didn't blame him. He had been wronged in a manner that he could only try to empathise with. Being raped was the closest comparison Evan could muster. Fray had manipulated him for a purpose far beyond Bo's comprehension and if that wasn't enough, Evan had robbed him of his revenge. Maybe Evan was imposing his own guilt into the situation with that last part, or maybe not. But Bo's coldness, his distant persona, left Evan with no one but his own demons to mull things over.

Or maybe it was his reluctance to consider his own decisions that had led him to ponder Bo. He had murdered Percy Browne, an unarmed man, in cold blood. An action he'd thought himself impossible of performing. After one night of restless sleep, he knew it would take a long time to come to terms with that particular decision, one that placed him on the wrong side of the law and ultimately on the wrong side of the fence. He couldn't say if he'd see his father again, or whether he would want to. He didn't want to think about what his mother would say of him, when his death was broadcast around the world accompanying that word. What would she think lying awake in the dark of the night? He didn't like the idea of his entire existence being reduced to a single word - that evil, fear-provoking word: terrorist.

All because he'd chosen to put an innocent life above corruption. Because of that he'd live as an outcast from everything he knew. His friends and family would think him a dead terrorist. But no matter how much he'd lost, the gain was far greater. Because of his decisions, Bo would live and would soon be returned to his family. To Nikki, the woman to whom he had made his promise.

Bo leaned back, taking one of the paddles, dipping it into the waters and steered the canoe a fraction to port. Evan lifted his head up above the gunwale; they were finally there. When Bo told him where their destination was, Evan had thought it appropriate. Now, seeing the entrance approaching he couldn't help but think how life had a tendency to mock itself. The place was the Tower. The entrance of choice, Traitor's Gate.

He didn't know if he'd stay with them, whether he'd be even welcome. His future, for the first time in his life was uncertain. 'Don't be a wuss', his father told him and he smiled.

The End.

# Acknowledgments

There are many people I would like to thank for nurturing this book. Siobhan Marshal-Jones and Gary Compton at Tickety Boo Press who picked it up from an editing commission and first published it. Nanowrimo, this book would never have been finished without you guys and most especially my wife, Tereza. Without whom this story would have forever been an unpublished screenplay sat on my shelf. Thanks for kicking my ass.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Leighton Dean is an indie writer of Science Fiction. He lives with his in South Wales, United Kingdom. As a self published author, reviews are incredibly important for visibility in a hugely competitive market. So please find a minute to review the book, a couple of lines on how it made you feel is enough.

Find out more about Leighton Dean and his other novels by registering for the free newsletter at www.leightondean.co.uk
If you enjoyed GUNBOY

Look out for

SAVE OUR SOULS

By Leighton Dean

Excerpt from Save Our Souls – Chapter One

Ford grabbed the nearest seat available and let the system identify him, a klaxon screech later and the terminal's touch screen arranged itself to his personal configuration.

"No I haven't seen anything." Mason answered the unasked question,

Ford snapped, "Can we kill the damn klaxon?" while attempting to study the telemetry in front of him.

"I don't have anything either." Becca announced as Mason silenced the alarm. The sound of which was instantly replaced by a high pitched whistle inside Ford's ears.

"Readings suggest something is definitely out there." Ford commented. He couldn't visually see anything and the readings on his screen made little sense but he wasn't willing to dismiss it. The Seng knew something was out there, it just couldn't tell him what or, "Where are you?" He mouthed the words, tapping against his screen, oblivious of the conversation continuing between the other two.

"There's nothing on the lanes." Mason offered, "I ran an invasive scan but everything came up blank."

"Well something tripped the alarm." Becca said, before starting to relay their route and speed via comms to whomever or whatever might be out there. "This is the commercial transport, Jian Seng..." she continued to relay their route and speed, all by the book procedures that Ford had little concern for. The persistent ringing in his ears whistled higher in pitch until he could hear nothing else.

"Anything?" Mason asked,

"Ford? You got anything?" Becca asked, loud enough to attract Ford's attention.

"What?" He snapped, trying his best to ignore the tinnitus.

"Have you got anything?"

"No." His screen was a mess of contradictions. He doubted he'd make sense of it without the ringing.

Ford took a breath and trawled thought the event log, right back to the initial alert. There it was, lasting just over a second but it was there, out in the black and coming right at them. He adjusted the ping against their own velocity and trajectory, "Check bearing three-three-zero, mark one-five." he said, putting the data into his own scanner and following the line.

"Still nothing." said Mason, Becca agreed.

"Same here..." Ford mouthed. He stared into his screen, willing the object to reveal itself.

"Maybe it's a sensor ghost?" Becca asked,

"I think I nearly had a heart attack." Mason replied, hand on his chest for comic effect. As ship's First Officer, Mason wasn't all that bad, too casual at times, especially with Becca. They'd all grown up together on this tin can, so a level of familiarity was to be expected. But his casual nature was a fault for one in command and it was all too eager to reassert itself when they hadn't confirmed an all clear.

Ford licked his lips, sucking at the inside of his cheek. He'd re-calibrated the sensors not two days ago. Addressing Mason he asked, "Have you changed any of the sensor settings?"

"What?" Mason asked, "No, of course not." a little more insulted at Ford's question than he could hide, "Running a diagnostic on them now." he spat, tapping his terminal.

"Bridge, what's going on?" Crudge's voice called over the intercom.

"Stand down Chief." Mason said, "I'll update you when we know more."

"Where is Jo?" Becca asked,

"Running manifest audits."

"Pull her back." said Ford,

Mason pondered on the statement a moment, pensively rubbing the six week old beard he'd cultivated during his duty shift, "Mason to Jo, I need you to drop what you're doing and get back here."

Her reply was immediate, "I'm already on my way, still in pod twelve."

"This isn't right." Ford was speaking to himself now, the world outside his screen a hazy dream.

"Guys..." Becca started to say in urgency. She had no need to finish as Ford saw it too - right along the trajectory he'd calculated.

One solitary object, heading right at them, "Got it." He said, his fingers raced over the screen but too slow to gain a lock on it before it vanished, "What in the hell?"

"Could there be something wrong with the sensors?" Becca asked,

"Diagnostic is running." Mason reminded her,

Without looking up from his screen, Ford replied, "I don't think so. If there was something wrong with the sensors the contact wouldn't be this precise. Sensors have found it, whatever _it is_ , twice already, and both times travelling along the same path." He brought the two points up, lining them up in correlation to their location and sent the image to their stations, "See, it's coming in - and fast."

"So, what you're saying is, it's cloaked?" Mason asked,

"Don't say that." Becca snapped,

Not one for superstitions, Ford answered "If it's pirates we'll know soon enough."

"Ford!" His sister's tone was one he'd heard many times down the years. Scathing and scolding.

Ford was too busy recalibrating the scanners to acknowledge his sister's objection. Saying to himself, _If I tweak them back a bit..._ PING, "Got it." It was big. Too big for the Seng's sensors to have let it get so close, but then, as quick as it had appeared, it was gone - _something that big just can't disappear._ "Gone."

"Ford..." Becca said, "What do you mean, gone?"

"Yeah, it's not like it has anything to hide behind." Quipped Mason,

"Funny." Ford complained, just as his sensors pinged, _back again old friend_. Ford's fingers, ready this time, locked onto the object, "Dammit." He yelled as it vanished, "I can't get a lock."

"Can we dodge it?" asked Becca,

"Crudge, give us some more engines." Mason called to engineering,

"You already have everything I've got." Crudge replied,

"What's going on?" asked Jo from her current position.

Being two miles long, the Jian Seng was too big a target to miss and the object would hit them in just over one minute. Ford jabbed his controls, running several simulations while running the math in his head. He wasn't judging the scenario of avoiding the collision, which Mason was hoping for. To Ford, that way of thinking was a waste of precious time. The object was too close to avoid and instead he looked to reduce the incoming damage.

"We're about to be hit, where are you?" Mason replied to Joanne,

"Outside cargo pod twelve."

Ford's best possible outcome was to barrel roll the ship. Force the UFO to the underside of the bow, avoiding the antenna stacks along the top of the ship and let it hit the cargo pods. In Ford's head, the cylindrical warehouses would cushion the blow and break away from the ship; hopefully taking the object with them. Better to lose the payload than the ship... "Wait, where?"

"Outside Pod Twelve." Mason repeated Jo's position.

"She's still in the spine?" replied Ford, the anxiety in his voice clear.

"Yes... I am. Why?" Jo picked up on it,

Crudge was secure in the engineering section at the stern. The bridge along with the crew in stasis, were secure at the ship's bow. Joanne was now stood right in the middle of the spinal corridor, just one tube surrounded by cargo. Ford closed his eyes, cursing under his breath, "Jo, get the hell out of there, quick." He said urgently, while plotting the ship's rotation. He craned his neck around, and spoke to Mason. "The best I can do is angle the ship for a glancing blow. It will hit the underside of the bow and the first row of pods." _Hopefully, then it will bounce off._

His plan was as solid as he could make it. The belly of the front section was shielded by a maze of corridors and domestic quarters, Ford didn't mind writing off someone's bed as collateral damage. Especially, as no one used them unless they were on shift or in dock. Best case scenario, it would glance off the hull plating and head off into space. Worst case scenario the object wouldn't bounce. But hit the pods at such an angle it would sever the spine. Admittedly, both the engineering section and the front section could act as life boats for up to six months. But, as they were at least nine months away from the nearest rescue, realistically the result of the action would be somewhere in between. Either way, it was still the best possible solution for survival, for everyone except Jo. Ford held his head back, watching as Mason made the same calculations in his head.

"Jo, this is Mason, get out of that corridor now. That's a direct order. Get to control. Don't hang about." Then he said, "Ford, get it done."

"It's going to hit section one or two as she gets here." Ford said, swinging back around to his terminal.

Mason, rethinking his last command to Jo said, "Jo, belay my last order - get to engineering."

"Are you sure?" She snarled, fear hidden beneath her anger. It was going to be a long run but she could make it. _She had to_.

"Ford?" Mason asked,

"Stern."

"Jo, head to Crudge."

Ford keyed in the commands necessary to barrel roll the ship, nearly smashing the panel when he jabbed the execute button. The information went directly to the engines. A copy also to Crudge's terminal in the engine room so he could monitor the progression and ensure the thrusters completed their tasks. Once executed there was nothing to do but wait as hundreds of manoeuvre thrusters ignited in unison across the ship, rolling her anti-clockwise at an achingly slow pace. It was the first time Ford noticed his hands shaking.

"Is this going to work?" Becca attempted to calm the situation.

"I hope so." Ford admitted under his breath, following the data running up his screen. Hope was all they had now. No ifs or buts, this was worst case scenario.

"Where are you now Jo?" Becca asked,

"Coming... up on... twenty-two." She sounded stressed and exhausted; Ford couldn't begin to imagine how scared she must be.

"Keep going, you'll make it." Mason said encouragingly, drawing Ford's eyes off the clock. Jo wasn't making good time. Ford guessed she'd only make it as far as twenty eight before the thing hit. Mason must have known this; meaning his officer training was in full swing. Out of the five of them Mason arguably took this job the least serious. But when he put his mind to it he always got the job done. Even if the fool leaned on _the Trinity_ too much. But now, Mason's voice brought Ford as much comfort as his misguided religion.

"Engineering's secure." Crudge's voice came over the comm, sounding as stalwart as ever. Ford would be hard pressed to find anything that shook the Chief's mettle. "Manoeuvre is exacting as requested."

"Strap yourself in old man." Mason cracked, clicking in his own seatbelt and reminding Ford he'd not yet fastened his own. He pulled the strap across his chest and missed the socket on the first attempt; cursing they'd not upgraded to automatic belts. He used his second hand to stave the first from shaking. Ford's trembling brought with the memory of a cold breeze and he instantly recalled the frozen wastes of Otzu. He crouched alongside his squad, rubbing the chill from his gloved hands before Becca shouted, "Ford, strap in." He snapped back into the pilot's chair, dismissing the flashback and clicked his belt into place. He'd escaped death on Otzu, he wasn't about to get swatted like a bug on his first outing.

"Ten seconds, hold on to your butts. This is it!" Mason called out his readings, lighting the bridge's terminals with views from exterior sensors - covering almost every angle. They had front seats to the disaster of the century.

"What is that thing?" asked Becca,

It took Ford a full second to find the object; a foreboding doom lashing out at them from the black. It didn't look like so much as a ship, but a large frozen spear spinning toward them. It shimmered against their flood lights. Stars rippled behind its icy transparency. Ford tapped the terminal's frame, knee jerking up and down. The whistling in his ears had faded. It was a small but significant favour from the 'verse. But in their place came a whisper of words, spoken in rhyme from behind Ford. A poem begging for forgiveness, Mason had taken refuge in the Trinity's prayer.

Ford envied Mason in his belief that the Trinity were watching over them. But to Ford, the thought of three living Gods sitting in their Cathedral of Glass orbiting Earth gave little relief to their looming horror. So he looked to himself instead, steadying his knee and stalling his fingers. One eye on the approaching spear, the other on the clock and when it came in range: he fired the deflector turrets.

Becca shouted, "Grab hold of something Jo."

Ford closed his eyes, willing Jo to reach her goal - no matter how impossible it was. But in his heart he knew it was too late and despite hope's best wishes the object was on them.
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