Revenge (13 page)

As Zafi’s hand squeezed the handle of her gun, Jimmy winced. He felt a shudder up his entire body. When he opened his eyes again, he looked through the grate to witness the carnage.

But below him, nothing had changed. The journalists were still waving their pens in the air, the lights from the TV cameras were still glaring and the security guards stood their ground. Most important of all, the President was still standing, fidgeting with the microphone in front of him, taking yet another question.

Jimmy looked back at Zafi. What had gone wrong? There had been no sound when she pulled the trigger, but Jimmy had expected that. Any gun as fancy as hers would have an inbuilt silencer.

“Did you miss?” he whispered in shock.

A flicker went across her face. “I don’t miss,” she snapped, still in that light, girly tone. “This isn’t a gun.”

Jimmy stared at her blankly.

“Does it look like a gun?” Zafi asked. She maintained her steady gaze down the black metal rod, watching, waiting. But what for? “This is MARS – the
Magnétism
Appareil Rigolo Super-Spécifique
. I invented it.” There was a proud smile across her face. “What do you think?”

Jimmy shrugged. “What does it do?” he asked meekly.

Zafi giggled softly. “The first time I pull the trigger, it locks on to the resonance of the specific metal object it’s aimed at. The second time, it attracts that object towards it with an electron-boosted magnet. It’s incredibly powerful.” She flicked her hair behind her ear again and a haughty expression came over her face. “Any object up to the size of a
pétanque
ball will be pulled towards it at nine times the speed of a machine-gun bullet.”

“What’s
pétanque
?” Jimmy asked. “Never mind,” he added quickly, shaking his head. He stared at the weapon, awed at the contraption that this girl had designed and built.

“Oh, you’re impressed,” Zafi squeaked. “I like it when you’re impressed, Jimmy Coates.” There were shadows across her face from the grate, but Jimmy was sure her eyelashes fluttered at him.

“And that’s not even the best part,” Zafi went on. “He’s wearing a metal pin on his lapel. I’ve locked on to that. Now all I have to do is wait for him to turn round.
When I pull the trigger again, it will look like he’s been shot, but from completely the opposite direction, leaving me time to get away while everybody’s running about in the wrong place.” The light had left her eyes. This was the most serious Jimmy had ever seen her. “That Union Jack badge will rip straight through his heart.”

Jimmy slowly absorbed everything she was saying. It was disgusting to hear it in such detail. He struggled harder against the metal round his wrists. The press conference would be over in a matter of minutes. Jimmy had to do something fast. But as the thoughts sunk in, Jimmy stopped dead.

“Wait,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Why is President Grogan wearing a Union Jack lapel badge?” He peered down at the President, trying to make out any kind of badge on his suit jacket. But there was nothing.

“He’s not,
mon cher
,” Zafi replied.

“But you said that was what you locked on to.”

“That’s right. But President Grogan’s not wearing it. The Prime Minister is.” She turned to Jimmy, her eyes wide. Never had someone so dangerous looked so innocent.

“So how will that kill the President?” Jimmy asked. His brain was processing steadily, trying to work out what was really going on.

“Don’t be silly, Jimmy,” Zafi urged. “It won’t kill the President. I’m not here to kill President Grogan. I’m here to kill Ian Coates.”

Jimmy’s head snapped back to the press conference. He’d been looking on the wrong man’s suit. There it was – a bright Union Jack on Ian Coates’ lapel. Jimmy’s breathing quickened. He racked his brains, but all he found was doubt.

“No,” he gasped. “The images – they were so specific. I was sure. It was definite: an assassin would be here to kill President Grogan.” His voice rose up in his panic. “I saw Grogan’s face,” he insisted. “Why has everything else come true and not this? There must be an assassin to kill the President! Tell me the truth!”

Zafi looked at him for a long time. When Jimmy saw the pity in her eyes he hated her more than he ever had.

“Maybe there
is
an assassin up here to kill Grogan,” Zafi whispered. Jimmy felt the air in his lungs freeze. He suddenly knew what she was about to suggest. “Don’t you remember, Jimmy? You’re an assassin too.”

Jimmy tried to shout. But there was nothing inside to come out. He looked down at the President. The man’s face merged with the image in Jimmy’s head – the image of death itself. There was an assassin here to kill the President – but it wasn’t Mitchell and it wasn’t Zafi. It was Jimmy Coates.

Then came that searing pain in his head. Jimmy cried out, his whole body convulsing. It was the strongest attack he’d had yet. He writhed and screamed and kicked, knocking loose a panel in the floor by his feet.

At last the pain subsided. There were tears in Jimmy’s eyes. When he looked along the floor to his feet, he saw something to complete the horror – thin horizontal strips in the colours of the rainbow. It was the final image from his nightmare. The panel cover he’d accidentally kicked away revealed a highway of electronic wiring.

At first, Jimmy couldn’t look at anything else. He couldn’t even blink. Then his programming seized his muscles. With no control, he turned back to the hall below. Inside came a flash of understanding. To him the hall was instantly transformed into a complex puzzle of structural engineering, yet he knew it better than he knew his own name. It was as if he could see through the walls. He’d seen the blueprints. Without even knowing it, his programming had memorised every line, every dot and every centimetre of the Museum’s circuitry.

Now he leaned forward, closer to the grate. His eyes focused solely on Grogan.

“What’s he saying?” Jimmy whispered, fighting all the time to regain control within himself.

“Oh, I gave up trying to listen,” Zafi replied. “It’s all lies about how America is going to make sure Britain and France let the UN sort out all their problems diplomatically. Blah blah blah.” She gave a little laugh, but Jimmy was far from amused. “They’re both saying they’re best buddies and that they’ll do everything they
can to avoid a war between Britain and France. But they’re both lying. Coates scratches his nose too much and Grogan keeps fidgeting with his microphone. Look, there, he did it again.”

Jimmy saw it and it sent his mind spiralling into freefall. His eyes traced the lead of the President’s microphone to the base of the lectern. From there it went into the floor and disappeared. But Jimmy kept following it. He knew the power lines. He ran his eyes along the floor to the wall and kept going – all the way up the wall, across the ceiling and right into the intersection at his feet. One damning fact combined with another, faster and faster, until the only conclusion was that the President would die, and by Jimmy’s hand.

His programming had drawn him here. He knew that now and he knew why – to kill the President. The rainbow stripes – the wiring – that was the murder weapon. A misconnection here would send thousands of volts down the wires and into the only appliance plugged into that line – the President’s microphone. And every time the President lied, he touched the microphone.

A quiet voice in Jimmy’s head thanked his luck that Zafi had trapped his hands behind his back. He closed his eyes.
Stay like this
, he ordered himself.
Don’t move
and you won’t kill
. Inside was an urge so strong he thought he was going to throw up. His mind was a
furnace of contradictions, like a computer overheating and about to crash. The desire to kill had never been so strong. He clenched up every muscle.

“No,” he cried out, tears running down his face. “Don’t do it.”

“You can’t stop me, Jimmy,” Zafi whispered, thinking he was talking to her. She leaned forwards over her weapon, holding it steady.

Jimmy peeled his eyes open just enough to see her. What could he do? If he didn’t break free, Zafi would assassinate the Prime Minister. But if he did, he knew he would have a tougher fight – to stop himself killing the President.

It was that moment of distraction that weakened Jimmy’s resistance. While he was grappling with his dilemma, the 62 per cent of him that was raw, unfeeling assassin forced more power into his arms than there had ever been. The constant drive to kill throbbed in his muscles, tearing at the metal strut that was bent round his wrists. After two seconds, it was loose enough for Jimmy to pull his arms free.

Zafi didn’t even notice. Beneath them, the questioning was coming to an end. The press conference was nearly over. The photographers moved to the front as a journalist asked the final question.

“Come on,” Zafi urged between her teeth. “Turn round.”

Without making a sound, Jimmy bent down to the wires. An expert tug pulled them apart. Jimmy moved his hands with short, sharp movements. He was the model of efficiency. With his fingernail he stripped the plastic cover from two of the wires – one blue, one red. Nobody would notice that the President’s microphone wasn’t working until he tried to speak. As soon as he did, a single lie would kill him.

Jimmy’s human voice was frantically calling out for help – but it was stuck inside his head and rolled into a ball so small it was almost lost completely. He held the two wires a centimetre apart. The assassin in him was waiting for the perfect moment.

“Turn round!” Zafi whispered, exasperated.

Jimmy looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Her hands were steady, just like Jimmy’s. They were two professionals going about their jobs as if it were the most normal thing in the world. But inside Jimmy was screaming. Was Zafi too? Jimmy looked more closely. Why were her eyes glistening? Was that a tear? Suddenly, Jimmy felt like he could see deep into Zafi’s heart. Her body might have been poised to kill, but Jimmy could see something more about her. Something that was terrified.

In that moment, Jimmy knew that Zafi had never done this before. Despite all her cocky behaviour, and all the pride in her skills and her gadgets, she was no more a killer than Jimmy was. He knew that in Zafi’s
mind was the same struggle that had been Jimmy’s constant battle since the second he had found out he was designed to kill. Until today, he had been winning – would Zafi prove as strong?

Jimmy’s fingers were moving towards each other, bringing together the two wires that would mean death. Beneath him, the President leaned towards his microphone to begin his answer. His hand reached up to grip the microphone. Another lie. He started to talk. When nobody heard him he leaned in closer and gripped the microphone tighter. This was the moment. Jimmy’s fists trembled, squeezing tight. He was moving them together and pulling them apart at the same time. Then his hands crept towards each other. He couldn’t stop them. The wires trembled, millimetres from each other, millimetres from killing the President of the USA.

Jimmy couldn’t stop his hands now. They were too strong. He looked again at Zafi. On her face was the same fear that was in Jimmy’s heart. Her expression connected directly with every contradiction that was pumping through Jimmy’s veins. They were united. For a second, it wasn’t a French girl crouching there by her weapon – in Jimmy’s eyes, he could have been looking at himself.

A surge of warmth swept through his limbs. It felt like there was a suit of ice keeping his muscles locked in battle mode, but now at last it was melting.
One finger at a time his grip dissolved. The wires dropped to the floor. They sparked, but they never connected.

Jimmy had saved the President. Now he had to save Zafi.

A hundred metres below them, on the Museum floor, the journalists were laughing. The President’s microphone had stopped working and he resorted to shouting his final answer. With a gloating smile at a job well done, Grogan nodded his thanks and waved. Then he held out his hand to the British Prime Minister, Ian Coates.

Up in the rafters, Jimmy knew that as soon as the Prime Minister’s back was turned, his Union Jack lapel pin would tear through his body. All Jimmy had to do to save him was dive across and knock Zafi away from her MARS weapon.

So why was he hesitating?

It was then that one thundering truth hit him right between the eyes. He looked down at Ian Coates. Jimmy had a chance that might never come to him again – to let the man be killed.

Didn’t Ian Coates deserve it? Didn’t he, above all people, need to pay for the blood on his hands? He’d
been a killer since long before Jimmy was born. Who knew how many innocent people he’d slaughtered to keep the tyrant Hollingdale in power? And now he was in power himself, how many more was he murdering or brutally intimidating every day just to stay there? And there would be even more massacred if Coates were allowed to take Britain and France into an unnecessary war. Maybe killing him now would save lives.

But Jimmy realised that wasn’t why he was hesitating. There was only one reason Jimmy wanted that man dead. Ian Coates had betrayed him. As a father, he’d lied day after day, with every gesture that built up the fiction that they were a family, and with every act of false love. He’d gradually destroyed Jimmy’s life. And then he had sacrificed his family for power over a nation.

It was time to pay. It was time for revenge.

The President clasped the Prime Minister’s hand. Photographers bunched together at the front of the hall, bustling for the best shot. Jimmy could hear Zafi’s breathing quicken. Ian Coates was still facing the front. As soon as the posing was over, he would turn to go and that would be the end of him.

Jimmy didn’t move.
It’s for what he’s doing to Britain
, he thought.
For what NJ7 have done on his orders
. Tears rolled down his face.
For what he did to me
.

Scores of cameras flashed like a firework display. Then they stopped. The two heads of state released
each other’s hands. Ian Coates turned to leave. Jimmy watched, his whole body shaking. He couldn’t hold back his sobs. He heard Zafi draw in a deep breath. His ears were so finely tuned, he could make out the creaking of the trigger as her finger clenched.

Suddenly, Jimmy dived to the side. He barged into Zafi, leading with his shoulder, and reached out with both hands to push her weapon off target. He landed on top of Zafi. They turned together to watch her specially designed and custom-built magnetic traction gun crash into the grating. The weight of the weapon forced a panel loose. Light from the hall streamed into their hiding place. The MARS weapon teetered for a second, then toppled over the precipice.

Jimmy jumped forwards quickly enough to watch the weapon and the grating swirling through the air. They seemed to be falling forever.

“
Non!
” cried Zafi.

Then, at last, with every face in the hall watching, the metal smashed into the floor. Tiny parts bounced up several metres. Some hit journalists, who held up their arms to protect themselves, shouting in panic. But one piece was strong enough to withstand the impact – the trigger. It clicked into place. The remains of the weapon gave an almost inaudible buzz. Then the Prime Minister’s shoulder exploded in a shower of blood. The painting behind him was spattered with even more abstract red shapes. He fell to the floor.

“He’s hit!” somebody shouted, before the rest of the room erupted into screams. The President was whisked away to safety.

“The angle was wrong,” Zafi whispered in a fluster.

“What?” cried Jimmy, wiping the sweat and tears from his face with the back of his sleeve.

“It was meant to be activated up here, not down there.” The words rushed out of Zafi’s mouth. Her eyes darted from side to side as she tried to work out the geometry of what had just happened. “It was a hundred metres off. It pulled the pin in the wrong direction. Look, it’s barely a scratch.”

Journalists were rushing for the exits, while the security team drew their weapons and took up new positions. They were completely calm, as if they’d rehearsed this drill a million times. Several of them stared up at the ceiling, straight at the point where Jimmy and Zafi were hiding.

Jimmy watched the Prime Minister. The man was surrounded by Secret Service agents, but already Ian Coates was waving them away. Jimmy read his lips:

“I’m fine, I’m fine – it’s just my shoulder.”

Paduk was holding the Prime Minister’s head. Then he peered upwards, looking for where the weapon had fallen from. For less than a second, he and Jimmy locked eyes. Paduk cracked his jaw and helped Ian Coates out of the room.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jimmy declared. He looked round. Zafi was already gone.

Jimmy crashed through a vent in the ceiling and crawled out on to the roof. Steam floated around him. The Manhattan wind buffeted his body. This was the only way out. He knew that the CIA would believe that he’d had nothing to do with trying to kill the Prime Minister, but if he’d gone back down to the stairwell there was too much chance that he’d be met by NJ7. Paduk had seen him and that meant Jimmy had to get away as quickly as possible. He could meet up with Viggo and the CIA later.

He staggered to his feet, but before he could run, or even work out which direction to go, he was knocked sideways by a piercing squeal. He clasped his ears, but it did no good. The noise was inside his head. It sounded like feedback. He rocked from side to side, trying to shake out the horrific sound. He wanted to tear at his own skull and physically remove whatever this was.

He reached out to steady himself and found a metal structure in the middle of the roof. It was a system of aerials, with five long, slim rectangles pointing in every different direction. Jimmy waited for relief, but the closer he got to this metal structure, the worse the screech in his head became. He tottered backwards,
barely able to keep his balance. It was then that he realised this must be the cellphone mast Zafi had mentioned. Was it causing some kind of interference inside his head?

Jimmy should have run. He knew that. Any second there might be helicopters shooting at him, or Paduk’s muscly grin charging through the vent on to the Museum roof. Instead, Jimmy launched an attack on the mast. His hands stayed firmly around his ears, but he kicked at the metal poles until they were bent out of recognition. Now there were sirens mixing with the already deafening noise. Jimmy was wasting time, but he didn’t care.

“Get out of my head!” he screamed. “Get out! It’s my head! It’s my life!” Now he went at the phone mast with his fists, tearing at every corner of metal, twisting each element of the mast and ripping it off where he could. “You stole my life!” he screamed. “You deserve to die!”

At last, the din that was drilling into his brain subsided. A couple of sparks fizzled and died. However many millions of messages the phone mast had been beaming across New York City, the conversations were silent now.

Jimmy wiped his face. His tears were blown away in the wind. His screams had gone with them, lost in the air. It felt like every emotion he was capable of had flown away too, leaving only the thought of his father.

“Why did I save you?” he whispered.

The battered mast couldn’t answer. Nor could the wind. But there wasn’t time to wait. At last, the voice of sanity took control. Jimmy powered his limbs into a sprint. He dashed across the roof of the Museum, hardly even conscious of what he was doing any more. His survival instinct kept him moving.

In seconds, he was at the end of the block. He looked over the edge of the building and immediately had to pull back. He’d never been afraid of heights, but the distance to the ground made his head swirl. There was a mist clinging to the buildings that made it almost impossible to see the street.
There’s no way I’m
jumping
, he thought, yet at the same time he could feel his brain turning it over as a possibility, calculating the force of the impact, working out how he would land. He looked over the edge again. A rush of wind swept up into his face and took his breath away.
No way
, Jimmy commanded himself.

He wiped his hands on his trousers and crouched, ready to start his climb down. But then, in the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a shadow hurtling towards him. A grey shape loomed out of the fog. Jimmy dropped flat on his face, just in time. It swooped over him, without making a sound.

Jimmy flipped over to get a glimpse of it as it disappeared again. He instantly recognised the fragile outline of a twelve-year-old girl – Zafi. Was she flying, he wondered, aghast. Then he spotted it – emerging out of
the mist was a huge crane. There were no construction workers in the area today – it had been evacuated as a security measure for the press conference. So there was nobody to stop Zafi swinging on the end of the crane’s line like a fish caught by an angler. But Zafi was as deadly as a shark.

Jimmy bounced to his feet. Before he could move away, Zafi was back at him. She was holding on to the metal claw with one hand, twirling in the air like an acrobat. Jimmy recognised the moves of a master of Capoeira – a lethal brand of Brazilian martial arts. She landed a kick hard in the base of Jimmy’s back. He stumbled forwards. The pain shooting up from his kidneys told him this was no play-fight.

Now Jimmy had a chance to move. He forced himself to ignore the sharp sting from Zafi’s attack and climbed over the side of the building. Digging his fingers into the brickwork, he clambered downwards as fast as he could. He had to heave in every breath. Then she hit him again.

With the force of a missile, Zafi launched herself off the crane and landed right on Jimmy’s back. She clamped her arm round his neck and squeezed. Jimmy twisted, but couldn’t shake her off. He let go of the brickwork with one hand to try to prise her grip loose. His fingers were already white from holding the entire weight of both him and Zafi. Now they were numb, but still able to lock into the tiniest irregularities in the surface of the wall.

Below him, the earth seemed to loom upwards, making him dizzy. Then he glimpsed Zafi’s other arm raised above her head. Any second she would deliver a vicious chop to the back of his neck. Jimmy knew that would be fatal for any normal human. He didn’t care to find out how much damage it would do to him. He let go of the wall.

He felt Zafi gasp. She clung on to him even tighter. Jimmy’s face was red – only a tiny amount of air was seeping through Zafi’s stranglehold. They fell together for less than a second. Zafi kicked her legs forwards and caught a window ledge with her ankles, but she couldn’t keep hold of Jimmy. As they fell, he sent a jab into her midriff to loosen her grip and grabbed hold of her arm. They hung there – Zafi upside-down, Jimmy beneath her, staring up, his rock-hard fingers now locked in position round Zafi’s wrist, instead of digging into the wall.

“What are you doing?” he yelled.

“Feels like yoga,” Zafi giggled. Jimmy wasn’t in the mood.

“I’m not your enemy, remember?”

“You’re NJ7,” Zafi announced. “And you saved your Prime Minister.”

“I might have saved the Prime Minister, but I was saving you too.”

“Saving me?” Zafi scoffed.

“Yes – from being a killer.” Jimmy was seething. “You don’t have to be one.”

Zafi tried to shake him loose, but his fingers were like bolts, drilling into Zafi’s skin. However much she stretched and twisted her hand, she couldn’t get rid of him.

“I saw you trying to kill the President,” Zafi snapped. “That’s the work of NJ7.”

“You’ve got it wrong,” Jimmy hollered. “That wasn’t really me!”

“I don’t blame you, Jimmy, but I’m going to have to kill you.”