Edge (41 page)

    There was a semi-pro nearby, purely a bystander, but Josh twisted and lashed out, cutting deep, pushing the whimpering guy into Mad Mick's path. A long punch travelled over the guy and rammed Josh's head back, green spots fluorescing in his vision. But his cut had hit target, the injured fighter spurting arterial blood, and as Mad Mick stepped into a scarlet puddle his balance wavered, which was all Josh needed.

    He stabbed high, kicked low, half-parried a burning thrust along his ribs, cupped blood in his left hand and scooped it into Mad Mick's eyes, because if ever there was a fair fight, this wasn't it. He punched hard, and again; then Mad Mick was on hands and knees, so Josh dodged past him and continued his advance.

    
Must keep going.

    Then the mêlée fell upon him.

    His limbs were a blur and so were theirs, the attackers, their number unknown, while time slowed down in the paradox of violence, his body flowing – a double slap, left-right against a weapon arm, a backhand slice across the cheek, a stab-and-throw designed to tangle two men together – and for a while he had no weapons save his own body but everything was useful, his chest a pivot point as he hooked a leg with his own, ducked and pushed, came up inside someone's arms, close enough to smell sick-laden breath, hooked his thumbs up along the nose and ripped outwards. For a moment his opponent's scream stopped everything as Josh flung his arms wide, an eyeball spattering to either side.

    They fell on him again, but he had a knife once more – there, a liver shot, and the man folded, unable to drop because of the fighters pushing from behind – and now Josh was double-bladed again, and the thing that happened next was strange.

    Awash with blood, he laughed.

    Again they closed but there was a difference now, a hesitation, and he hook-blocked with a blade while ramming his knee into a thigh, then groin, a downward elbow to the back of the neck, slicing backhand to spin away through a group of three men, the others falling back, and he kicked long to break another knee, cut the falling man's face, piled onward, momentum carrying him through the last few fighters, and then he realised: he had fought his way through, from one end of the promenade to the other.

    "Three seconds," sounded in his ear.

    Two fighters approached and suddenly tiredness clawed at his arms, but he would not give in to it as he flung himself forward and down, using the last-ditch technique that fighters consider a circus trick and impractical, save for the Russian Spetsnaz special forces who developed their own way for the battlefield, and that was what he used now.

    
Focus. There is only the…

    On one knee, he threw the knives–

    
…target.

    –and they spun through the air to strike home with meaty thunks in the same moment the lights went out.

Phase four was the waiting.

    Below water, he lay in coolness, staring up at the kaleidoscope of light rippling across the surface, hiding him from the world. The darkness had lasted only seconds, long enough for him to roll over the edge and slip down into the water. At the bottom, he had felt for and found the tiny breathing cylinder, the device he had tossed in earlier.

    
Breathe.

    It was about remaining calm.

    
Control.

    From the world above, the music was an attenuated, eerie thump, while the fighters and webcast crew regrouped, commentators talking with excitement about what had occurred, and the renegade who had disappeared. It would take time for them to finish up the preliminaries, and proceed to the bouts in the inner arena, with the final four fighters from each team, along with the two iconic pros, Carlsen and McGee, while all around them the dignitaries sat at their plush tables, flushed with champagne and the sick excitement of watching others face what they themselves could not.

    For some twenty minutes, until Tony gave the signal, he would remain here, submerged, hidden by the surface reflections.

    
Breathe.

And then the signal.

"Phase five. Go now."

    He rose through the water, flowed up over the brickwork edge into a crouch on the edge of the promenade. Before him, starting some twenty feet high, a wide strip of red carpet marked the way to the indoors auditorium. There were civilians standing with the semi-pros, whose part was over. None looked in Josh's direction, not at first.

    Heads began to turn as he advanced, dripping.

    The fabric of his clothes was water-repellent, living up to its name as it shed liquid, so he felt light rather than sodden, with a new mental clarity, as if a wide space had opened up behind his eyes. People stared, and then drew back, as he walked along the carpet strip.

    Four guards stood shoulder-to-shoulder across the entranceway, facing him. They had the bulk of powerlifters, the stare of snipers, and each hip bulged with a holstered firearm. These were the real deal, a barrier of determination.

    "Down on your knees," one of them said. "And put your hands on your–"

    Josh ripped his shirt open, tore his gun free, and fired eight times.

    
Always bring a gun to a knife-fight.

    It was an old dictum, sort of a joke, and he remembered it as he blasted across the row of thighs, shooting the legs, to wound and because they looked to be wearing body armour. The rounds contained neurotoxins designed to incapacitate, not kill; and the men were lying stunned, mouths working, when Josh jumped over them and stalked through the entrance.

    Phase five complete.

    
Showtime.

 

    All around, massive wallscreens replicated in realtime the pictures being webcast to the watching world. Those millions of remote viewers were five seconds behind the action; and the authorities believed that gave them the ability to cut transmission should the unexpected occur. They were yet to learn who was in control here.

    Someone grabbed Josh; he struck them down.

    "Holster the gun."

    Hiding the weapon he continued down the red-carpet ramp, among the richly-dressed diners who more and more were turning to look at him. There were bodyguards everywhere, but he was headed for Carlsen and McGee, and that made them hold back – that and the knowledge that their every action would be seen by millions.

    Someone shouted, and hands grabbed both his sleeves.

    
Shit.

    He twisted, one hand rising as the other descended, both circling, his torque and body weight stronger than their arms, and two men spilled to the floor, rolling against two more who had been closing in, and if he continued like this then their weight and number would bury him, and none of this would work.

    So he sprinted, focused from beneath his lowered eyebrows only on Fireman Carlsen.

    His thighs were springs, pumping. The carpet was a blood-red blur, arrowing ahead.

    
So run fast.

    Pumping hard.

    
Faster than ever.

    More hands reached, table knives and forks stabbing in his directions – spectators getting into the spirit – while he sprinted on.

    
Yes, faster.

    And then he was paces from the dais.

    
Go.

    Fingers tried to hook him but his leap was massive, an antelope escaping from a lion, but that was he wrong because he was the hunting cat, the predator, and in that moment something changed in Fireman Carlsen's eyes, as Josh spread his arms and stopped.

    "It's a shame about the elephant," he said, "since I prefer pink gardenias–"

    "Huh?"

    Josh's movement became underwater-slow, unthreatening like a tai-chi master.

    "–since it doesn't matter whether you blink now or in a second – that's right – while the more you wonder what it's not worth wondering about and don't wonder what is worth wondering" – he gestured downward with his hand, his voice growing mild – "is no wonder you're feeling sleepy and my voice goes with you as you wander deeper… and deeper… into a state of deep… relaxation, that's right… all the way… and… soften as you…"

    Carlsen's chin dropped to his chest.

    "…sleep now."

    Success. He hoped Suzanne could see.

    "All cameras are on you, Josh."

    "Good."

    Off to one side, Ice Pick McGee was blinking. The prime minister, Billy Church, sat with his mouth beginning to open. The elder Tyndall, Zebediah, was struggling to rise from his chair; while the younger Zak was on his feet, snarling.

    
At least someone understands.

    But this was the PM, not just a couple of entrepreneurs, and his close-protection teams were élite. Four men in suits were already moving into position between Josh and his targets. All four had guns drawn; and if his own weapon had been visible, they would have gunned him down already.

    "Freeze. Do
not
move!"

    "I'm doing it," said Josh.

    "Down on the–"

    "Everyone's watching." He stared straight at Zak Tyndall. "Game over, you bastard."

    " –floor."

    Palms at the back of his head, Josh knelt, then sat back on his heels.

    "This is it," said Tony. "Smile for the cameras."

    On the giant wallscreens all around, secondary panes blossomed. In them were images of labs, children on slabs, shots of cash changing hands, displays of bank transfers, and lists of names and dates, amounts and descriptions, and overlaid diagrams of corporate structures, the false identities linking legitimate companies to crimelords. The scenes from Africa were the most harrowing.

    "Virapharm labs." Josh's face was huge on the screens, his voice echoing as the system picked it up, magnifying his words. "Children, living children, used as factories, incubators where the Tyndalls' employees force-evolve new drugs by unnatural selection. Zebediah and Zak Tyndall, supporting and supported by the great and the good… and up on the screen, isn't that our prime minister going into one of those torture labs?"

    Zak was muttering urgent questions, using a throat mike and earbead, then glancing up at the screens, teeth baring, and shouting: "That's not good enough! Cut it now!"

    "The world," said Josh, "can still see everything."

    Zebediah put a clawlike hand over his chest.

    "Relax," added Josh. "You don't have a heart. And just think of the ratings."

    In his earbead, Tony chuckled. "I got rid of the fivesecond delay. You wouldn't believe the numbers logging in. It's a microblog cascade."

    More tables and graphs flicked across the screens. Later, when people analysed their downloads in detail, these would clinch the evidence, the minutiae of unethical and outright illegal transactions, following the complicated routes of money. Everything he and Philip Broomhall's people had uncovered was here.

    All of it.

    
Let's see you whitewash this, you fuckers.

    Fat Billy Church was pale and red at the same time, blotching as though his body could not decide how to react.

    
For Sophie.

    Whatever happened now, he had done what he had to do for her.

    "You bastard," said Zak Tyndall. "You can't manufacture false data and expect–"

    "Let the people do the digging. They'll find out what's true."

    "You–"

    But Tyndall's father took hold of his arm, shushing him.

    
Wise, but too late.

    Behind Josh, something moved.

    "Hold still." A woman's voice.

    A ring of coldness on the back of his neck. Gun barrel.

    "Lower your hands. Keep them behind you."

    He did, and plastic bindings locked home.

    "Now stand–"

    And that was when the change occurred.

    "They're trying to force a cut-in," came from his earbead. "All-channel webcast."

    "Stop them."

    "I'm sorry, mate. Not this time."

    The screens blossomed with new pictures.

    Plumes of smoke.

    A ruined cityscape.

    And a voiceover relating destruction.

    
"–of the San Andreas Fault at dawn this morning, erup
tions taking place across California, spreading north. Los
Angeles is destroyed, repeat, LA is gone. In Washington State,
Mount Rainier's eruption is orders of magnitude greater than
predicted by–"

    Great clouds were covering California: a whole string of locations along the Western Seaboard. Grainy footage that might have come from someone's phone showed the moment of Mt Rainier's eruption in a single massive fireball.

    A blaze of energy that curled down as it grew.

    
No. They… couldn't have.

    Rose and curled to create an iconic image that had not been seen for so long.

    A mushroom cloud.