Edge (17 page)
Authors: Thomas Blackthorne
Tags: #fight, #Murder, #tv, #Meaney, #near, #future, #John, #hopolophobia, #reality, #corporate, #knife, #manslaughter
"That's what quartermasters are for."
"Yeah." At the door, Lofty gave a half grin. "I'll be a few minutes. Too bad it's so hard to keep the inventory straight."
After he had gone, Josh had stared at the desktop.
Message received, boss.
The shoulder holster felt snug, the phone and memory flakes disappeared into his pockets, and the desk was clear. When Lofty returned he nodded, talked about nothing in particular for several minutes, then shook Josh's hand, and that was that.
Now he used his phone – not the same handset, but containing the same firmware and covert-ops enhancements – and accessed GPSID via the "unofficial" portal whose URI was known only to retired operatives like Josh. Deep beneath the Chilterns, the MetaWatch team kept track of the portal's use. While Richard Broomhall's father was on a persons-of-interest list, using the portal to track Richard directly would flag up warnings; but there would be no reason to notice Josh tracking down an ordinary language teacher called Maxwell, however unusual the poor bastard's first name might be.
Having made the request, he had to wait while the verify-and-authorise procedures did their thing. Meanwhile, there were two messages waiting, and he played Maria's first.
"Hey, Josh. I know you're working, but I want us to meet. Not alone. There's– Make it the Highbury Arms, would you? Leave me a message about which day, what time, and I'll confirm."
And the second, from Mr Hammond, the hospital consultant who had delivered so much bad news already: "I'm afraid there's something not so pleasant that we need to talk about. We have some notion of your intent, but in the case of a long-term patient it would be best for explicit permission from a parent, both if possible. While stem-cell regen is the opti mum choice, every week there are injured children whose organs need immediate replacement in order to–"
He wiped the message.
You fucking bastard.
So many battlefield injuries, his friends' liquefied flesh hot and sticky on his skin, and the time he pulled the trigger that blew away the, the –
don't think of it
– with the spraying red and
God he was so young,
scarcely more than Sophie's age. Not just firefights, but the desperate tragedy of men killed while hauling gear across mountains, driving or climbing far from hospitals. The reality of pain and imminent death, the necessity of triage, saving those who can survive, and there had been too many rifle salutes fired into the Herefordshire sky above Union Jack-draped coffins, the pomp and strength of military ceremony when it mattered most, keeping the survivors strong, but none of that would allow him to think of them splitting Sophie open for the organs inside her.
don't think of it
– with the spraying red and
God he was so young,
scarcely more than Sophie's age. Not just firefights, but the desperate tragedy of men killed while hauling gear across mountains, driving or climbing far from hospitals. The reality of pain and imminent death, the necessity of triage, saving those who can survive, and there had been too many rifle salutes fired into the Herefordshire sky above Union Jack-draped coffins, the pomp and strength of military ceremony when it mattered most, keeping the survivors strong, but none of that would allow him to think of them splitting Sophie open for the organs inside her.
Something molten was roiling inside him, desperate for the blaze of violence and blood, and when the map appeared on his phone display with Maxwell's coordinates marked in red, the address in Gladwell Court, he hoped that this man had something to do with the boy's disappearance, knew information that needed to be beaten out of him, or would panic and fight so that the only option was to kill him.
No. Control.
Punch to the throat and leave him gagging as he–
There's a missing boy, and he's the objective.
Then his feelings were tight inside him once more, and he was on the move.
• • •
Bursting open the front door, Josh stalked straight into the living room. On the couch, a small man raised his hands, shrinking back and squeaking: "Who are you? Please don't–Don't."
"Tarquin Maxwell, three nights ago you met this boy." Josh flashed a still from the surveillance log. "What for? What were you up to, you bastard?"
"He, um, brought me. Something." Globules of sweat spread on Maxwell's forehead. He flicked his purplish tongue across his lips. "For the stress. Medicinal. It's, er…"
"Virapharm, and you know the penalty for possession, and what I want to know is where is the boy?"
"It was the first time I–Wait, no. He's from Mr Khan, but for God's sake don't use my name because they'll take my kneecaps" – tears flowed – "so don't say I told you, please."
"Tell about Khan."
"No, I–"
"Tarquin, tell me or I'll rip the information from you, so choose."
"They'll use iron bars on my kn-kneecaps. They're like that. I didn't know, before. Before I dealt with him."
"Tell me."
"Businesses, he's got businesses."
"Where? What kind?"
"Shops, a taxi service, garages. He's–"
"Where will he be?"
"I was about to… Oh, Jesus. To tell you."
"Where?"
"Corner store called, um… I can show you on a map." Fingers trembling, he tried to pull out his phone. "Sorry, I…"
"This one." Josh thumbed his own phone, and presented it face-first to Maxwell. "Tap on the places you know."
"Here's the store." Maxwell's teeth were cutting into his lower lip as he scrolled the display. "And he's got places there and… there. Don't know about the cabs."
Josh slapped the side of Maxwell's jaw, the torque producing shock. Maxwell had been starting to relax, getting the idea that he had some control in this situation.
"Describe Khan."
"He's – oh, God – dark, got a scar on his cheek here" – he pointed – "and a moustache."
"Height? Tall or short?"
"Same as you. Thin."
Asked to estimate Josh's height, Maxwell would exaggerate from the effect of fear; but then he was also scared of Khan.
"Will he have people with him?"
"Always." Maxwell's larynx worked as he nodded. "Big buggers."
"Once I've gone, don't think we won't be monitoring every word, Tarquin. You understand, right?"
"I–Right. Yes."
"Stay here, keep silent."
There was a kicked-in door that needed to be repaired, and the fear would not keep him here forever; but an hour or two was enough.
"Remember," added Josh.
A corner store, very traditional, if you didn't notice the armoured glass, the profusion of spycams. There was a possible route in through a back yard; or else through the shop like an ordinary customer. Scanning from his phone, Josh found the spycams shielded, impossible to redfang. But some part of the network would connect to the Web, and that would be his entry point, if he needed one. For now, he wanted to physically scout the shop, and see if Khan was inside.
Loading up subversion ware in case of opportunity, he crossed the street and went into the shop, accompanied by an overhead beep: a detector registering his knife. His image would be in the system; but his phone was already polling for available devices, seeking interfaces. Meanwhile, he extracted a bottle of hypercaffeinated Run! and a foil pack of Japanese chocolate. Behind the counter, a woman took his cash without comment, clearly used to doing phoneless business. Porno mags, little more than a folded poster with an embedded thirty-second movie, plus a malleable plastic attachment for that little kinaesthetic extra, were on the shelves above the cat food. Josh delayed, as though fighting an embarrassed urge to browse, until his phone vibrated silently three times. He shook his head, as if pretending disgust – a pretence of a pretence – and left the store.
There was a pub across the street. Even though it was early, when he entered the dark lounge there were fifteen, sixteen drinkers inside. Hard looks followed him as he carried his Coke to a corner and sat at a small sticky table. He got to work on his phone, following his subversion ware's progress as it mapped the network's topology. The system architecture was big, and so was the hardware net it ran on, far too extensive for a simple corner shop. Got it.
The shop was an end of terrace, a converted house, and one of four houses in a row that were conjoined: a single building inside, while from the street you could not tell.
They're watching me.
Shit. This was attention he did not need, as two of the men on barstools were staring at him. Pressing a bead into his left ear, he tapped the phone then leaned back against the wall, eyes almost shut as though listening to music. Then, with an idle motion, he sipped from his Coke. In his phone, a surveillance image moved, overlaid with a transcript pane, showing their conversation as text, in time with the audio in his earbead.
unknown#1:
"So who's this?"
"So who's this?"
unknown#2:
" This is Richie, Mr Khan."
" This is Richie, Mr Khan."
/** <>unknown#3="R" **/
/** <>unknown#1="K" **/
K:
"You're not local, are you, Richie?"
"You're not local, are you, Richie?"
R:
"Er, no, sir."
"Er, no, sir."
K:
"You know your way around?"
"You know your way around?"
unknown#2:
"I could help him, Mr Khan."
"I could help him, Mr Khan."
K:
"Why would you do that, Jayce?"
"Why would you do that, Jayce?"
unknown#2:
"Look after a mate, like."
"Look after a mate, like."
His software had identified Richard Broomhall and Khan, conditionally rather than absolutely, but Josh had no doubts: this was who he was looking for. He noted the other youth's use of
Richie
rather than Richard. Plus, the image of Khan was clear – there would be no mistaking him.
Richie
rather than Richard. Plus, the image of Khan was clear – there would be no mistaking him.
Now the guys at the bar were returning their attention to him. This was not good. He checked the other drinkers. Most remained focused on their drinks or their inner thoughts, whatever they were, while at a small table like his, a heavy woman was pushing two empty glasses away from her. Her makeup formed strata, emphasising, not hiding, the fault lines and general crumbling.
When she realised Josh was staring at her, she raised her eyebrows.
"Don't tell me" – Josh pointed at the two empty glasses – "you drank two at once."
"Nah. My mate Sylvia was with me."
"Well, do you need another?"
"Got a cake in the oven, going to burn. Need to get home."
Good. He had thought she was about to leave.
"I shouldn't either," he said. "Have another, I mean."
"Mind, I went to the offie last night, brought back some lagers, need finishing off."
"That sounds tempting."
Flakes of mascara moved when she batted her eyes.
"Wouldn't want to drink alone." She wiggled her soft mass. "Don't seem right."
"Damn straight. I'm Joe."
"I'm Azure."
"Nice name."
"Well. Come on then."
They left, shoulder pressed to shoulder, while the guys at the bar watched. This close to Azure, Josh kept his breathing shallow. In the Regiment, he had been through desensitisation training, able to function in heavier and heavier concentrations of tear gas; it served him well now, coping with the thickness of Azure's perfume. No doubt made from the finest ingredients in a bathtub just down the road, and flogged off a market stall.
As she made a joke and laughed, he turned to smile, checking back. In the pub doorway, both men were watching. Josh slipped an arm around Azure's massive waist.
"Up here," she said. "This door, see?"
They went into a small entrance hall. A former townhouse, now flats, and she clearly lived upstairs. Her buttocks heaved as she started the climb, starting to puff; then Josh helped push her up. By the time they reached the top, they were both laughing. They almost fell inside, then Azure lumbered into the kitchen, looking for her lagers.
From the sitting room, a window opened out back, almost without sound. Josh swung through in one motion, pushed the thing shut – it would remain unlocked, but she might not notice for a while – then crimped his fingertips into the gap between bricks, made a shuffling traverse above a twenty-foot drop, then caught hold of a drainpipe, tested it with a tug, and descended most of the way. Overstuffed, split rubbish bags littered the ground, but from the wall he leaped over them and landed, crouching. Then he went over the back wall, and into a lane running behind the houses.
Poor Azure.
But another disappointment in her life might save a fourteen year-old boy, and that was the only consolation Josh could find for acting like a bastard, using sneaky avoidance in a way that would make his old instructors proud.
An hour and twenty minutes later, he was about to resume his sneakiness. From another back lane, he had watched the row of houses until all was quiet, while his phone displayed diagrams and images of the interior. The terrace was eight houses long – clearly, buying the whole row was too much even for Khan – and Josh's chosen entrance point was the fifth house along, owned by a law-abiding widower (according to a quick scan on the Web) who had nothing to do with any of Khan's enterprises, and had on occasion complained to police and council services about the noise from next door.
The house in question was number 39, and there was no sign of the owner moving about. In an ideal penetration exercise, Josh would prepare for longer, take additional equipment, and if possible three of his highly trained mates. But sometimes you had to act quickly or not bother, so he crossed the alley, jumped up, and clamped his hands onto brick. Then he was in a kind of vertical sprinter's crouch, pushing off with one foot, swinging out then jerking in with his arms, making full use of the myotatic reflex for fast power; and he was over. Tumbling sideways, he dropped like a cat, and remained on all fours at the rear of a tidy lawn.
A check of his phone revealed his subversion ware at work, altering the logged images from four different spycams over the last few seconds. Then he slipped across the lawn, just as his phone cracked the house system, and the back door's lock clicked open. He listened, then entered, taking in controlled large breaths, knowing that the reptile brain inside every human can respond to subliminal airborne molecules, communicating with the civilised mind in the form of intuition.
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