9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (28 page)

* * * * *

Without the shoulder straps hugging her to the seat, Diane was thrown about and buffeted
during the helicopter’s crazed fall from the sky. She ended up in the footwell, which
probably saved her from serious injury when the descent ended in the trees.

A little shakily, dazed and bruised, she rose to her feet once her world had grown
still. An acrid smell hit her nostrils: some sort of gasoline. She clutched the back
of the seat to avoid falling into the windscreen due to the sharp angle at which the
Sea King had come to rest. She looked at Bishop.

Apart from a cut to his head, which he didn’t seem to be aware of, Bishop appeared
unhurt. He had opened the window by his side and was leaning out as far as his shoulder
straps allowed him. Diane leaned back a little to see what he was doing. With a start,
she saw that he had somehow retrieved the Uzi and was pointing it at the small group
of people that stood outside the bronze vehicle a little way off.

Still gripping the seat, Diane crouched and felt around for the pistol. Instead, her
hands closed around the bag. She stood and threw the bag onto the seat.

Inside, amongst the jumble of spare magazines and clips, she found a small knife.
She took it and squeezed around her seat, wanting to be near the rear door behind
Bishop. As she heard an empty click and Bishop started to curse, she slid the door
open and glanced down. Through splintered branches, she could see the snowy ground,
perhaps twenty feet below her.

“Where are you, you bitch?”

Diane turned back to Bishop and stepped to the far side of the drunken craft to stay
out of his reach. She moved within his sight. He was fumbling with one hand at the
clasp of his shoulder straps, but it was clearly refusing to release. In the other
hand, he still clutched the Uzi.

As she moved into his line of sight, Bishop flung the machine gun at her. She ducked
and it clattered to the floor.

“You did something to it, didn’t you?” he spat. Using both hands, he now scrabbled
desperately at the clasp. The smell of aviation fuel had grown stronger.

“Well,” Diane said, “I told you I didn’t know anything about machine guns and Uzis
in particular. That might have been a teensy white lie. You see, I know enough about
them to know what parts to remove to prevent them from firing.”

“You’re dead,” Bishop said.

“Blame yourself,
darling
,” said Diane. “After all, you would leave me in charge of the weapons while you went
off to stuff your face.”

“Dead. Dead. Dead,” said Bishop. It sounded like a mantra.

“You have to free yourself from those straps first,” said Diane. “Someone snapped
them on too violently, methinks.” She held up the knife for Bishop to see.

Bishop stopped struggling and a sly look came over his face. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s
the deal. You cut me free and I won’t kill you. I won’t even mess you up. And, man,
if you know how much I want to slice you into little bits. . . .”

“You’re not very good at making deals, are you?” said Diane. “But. . . .” She shrugged
and stepped towards him.

Bishop’s eyes lit up and a smug sneer appeared on his lips.

Diane stopped just beyond his reach. She opened her fingers and let the knife fall
to the floor.

In your dreams, darling. In your dreams
she sent.

She turned and stepped to the open door. As she arrived at the opening, the leaking
aviation fuel, dripping onto hot engine casing from a tank pierced by a snapped tree
branch, reached its flash point. The fuel tanks, a quarter full, exploded with a dull
Hump!

Diane was flung through the doorway and into the next tree. The last thing she heard
before her world went black was the sound of Bishop screaming.

* * * * *

In the penthouse suite of the hotel a mile or so outside Heathrow Airport, Milandra
stopped talking in mid sentence and clutched at her blouse. As Grant rushed to her
side, she gave a short sigh.

“It’s Troy Bishop,” she said. “Dead.”

She allowed the man’s memories and experiences to flow through her. Some of them made
her shudder. At one point, she cried out.

Grant knelt by her side and grasped her hand, offering such support as he could. When
it was over, she sighed again, heavier this time, and patted his hand with her other
one.

“Thank you,” she said. “That wasn’t pleasant.”

“Ronstadt?” Grant asked.

She shook her head.

“Heidler?”

“Just Bishop.”

Grant looked at her closely. “Shall we send someone else after Ronstadt?”

“I think that there’s no need to waste any more of our people. Let’s not let anything
divert us from the real task. Preparing for the Great Coming.”

Grant nodded slowly. “I think you’re right. Maybe we should keep Bishop’s passing
to ourselves. For now.”

“Good idea,” said Milandra and smiled. It felt like the first genuine smile to touch
her face in days. It felt good. “We’ve a trip to make ready for. A pilgrimage of sorts.
We’re going to Salisbury.”

* * * * *

A few days later, a battered, bronze Range Rover, a large dent running down the driver’s
side, crossed the border from England into Scotland.

In the front sat two men. In the back, two women with, between them, a black, sleeping
dog.

One of the women slept, too. The cuts and bruises that had covered her face had faded
and healed to faint purple blushes and pocked scars. Within a day or two more these,
too, would fade. The broken bones had already started to knit together, even with
only the most rudimentary splints to keep them in place. Her breathing had already
become more regular, the tortured wheezing of the punctured lung a memory of the day
before. She had only woken twice, to eat painfully but extravagantly. She had not
spoken, but had expressed gratitude for the food with her eyes, before slipping back
into unconsciousness.

The young man sitting in the front passenger seat was fiddling with his wristwatch.
With a large grin that managed to appear happy and tinged with sadness, he turned
to the conscious woman behind him.

“If the date on my watch is correct,” he said, “it’s January first. Happy New Year,
Ceri!”

The woman smiled, but her face, too, managed to convey gladness and sorrow in the
same expression.

“Happy New Year, Tom,” she said.

Tom turned to the man driving. All trace of the lump on the side of the man’s head
had gone.

“Happy New Year, Peter,” said Tom.

The man smiled, but said nothing.

The Range Rover headed towards the Highlands, driving through an empty, silent land.

About the Author

W
hen not inhabiting imaginary worlds that no others can see, Sam Kates—who swears he’s
sane—lives in South Wales, UK, with a computer and a family. Sometimes he joins them
for meals. He has, on occasion, been known to talk to them. To his consternation,
they refuse to address him as “Sam.”