Down: Trilogy Box Set (138 page)

“I ran.”

“You won’t be able to get an unconscious girl here on foot,” the nurse said.

“I’ll steal a car.”

The nurse fished some keys from her smock. “The red Vauxhall parked in front of casualty in one of the ambulance spaces. That’s mine.”

Woodbourne seemed surprised at the unfamiliar sensation of a tear running down his face. He wiped it and looked at the moisture on his fingers before taking the keys.

“Thank you.”

The camera on the Predator drone picked up the large man exiting the hospital.

“There he is again,” Major Garabedian announced over the speaker.

“I see him,” Ben replied.

Ben watched the man approach a car.

“He’s breaking into a car,” Garabedian said.

“Is he?” Ben asked. “It appears he’s just used a key.”

The red car sped off down Homerton Grove and made a left, the wrong way down one-way Fenn Street, the camera tracking along.

“In any event, it is our opinion that he is a Heller and he has taken command of a vehicle. Do we have your permission to fire?”

Ben remained quiet, intently watching the car work its way westbound through Hackney.

“Do we have permission?”

“Something’s off here,” he said, too softly for Garabedian to hear.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Ben looked down from the monitor and glowered at the Polycom speaker as if it were animate.

“You do not, repeat, you do
not
have permission to fire. You will continue to track the car. I want to see where he’s going.”

A testy “Affirmative” came down the line.

Ben returned to the monitor. The car was being maneuvered on a seemingly decisive course through the borough. On the straight stretch of Richmond Road it opened up to a speed that Ben estimated to be at least sixty miles per hour.

“Looks like he’s heading over to Kingsland,” Kip, the analyst, said.

“Maybe,” Ben replied.

The car crossed over the railway bridge and made a left onto Glebe Road but instead of making a quick right to Kingsland carried on straight down Glebe and pulled over to the curb. The man jumped out and entered a building.

“Jesus,” Ben said. “Jesus Christ.”

“What is it?” Kip asked.

“I know that building. I’ve been there before. A Polish woman lives there with her daughter. Two months ago a Heller held her hostage there. We captured him and sent him back. This man we’ve been tracking. I know his name. It’s Brandon Woodbourne.”

Garabedian’s voice came over the speaker, “Then we’ve missed our chance to kill the scum.”

Ben didn’t answer him. “He’s just been to the hospital and back. I think he’s just done something all together decent. Kip, get into my files and find that Polish woman’s phone number. I need to ring her straight away.”

“So how many bullets you got?” Willie asked Del, arriving back at Willie’s flat.

“Just the five in the gun,” Del said.

“That’s pathetic. I thought you were a gangster and all.”

“Who told you I was a gangster?”

“It’s what everyone says,” Willie said, pouring a fresh pot of tea. “Is it poppycock?”

“Well, maybe I was one. It’s just I don’t like it when people talk about me behind my back.”

“What do you expect? What else do people have to do in an old-age home?”

“Well, it’s all I got. Five slugs.”

“Can’t do much damage with that, can we?”

Del admired the tea and asked what brand it was. “PG Tips? Lovely cuppa. So, Willie, what did you used to do?”

“Different things. When I was a young pup, right after the war I was in a bomb disposal unit in London. Used to get ten, twenty calls a day to defuse unexploded German bombs. Hairy work but I got out with all me fingers and toes. After that I got my master electrician qualifications and went to work for …”

“I don’t give a toss about the electricals trade,” Del said, suddenly interested. “Tell me more about the bomb trade.”

“What’s to tell? A bomb got found. We lads removed the fuse. Full stop.”

“Yeah, but can you build ’em?”

“Build a bomb? Me?”

“No, not you. The queen of England.”

“I never built one but I know how they’re built. Why?”

“To blow up the bloody Hellers in our cafeteria, of course. What are you, thick?”

“You want me to build a bomb?”

“Yeah, why not? What would we need to blow them back to Hell?”

Willie looked around his one-bedroom flat. “Oh, let’s see. I’ve got black powder in my wardrobe, lengths of iron pipe in my socks drawer, det-cord in the loo.”

“Don’t be snarky with me,” Del said. “I never liked snarky blokes.”

“Look, Del, I don’t know what to say. I’m an old man with old-man possessions, none of them deadly save my dirty underwear. Even MacGyver wouldn’t have anything to work with.”

“No, I’m serious. Yours ain’t the only flat in the building. What would you need to build a bomb that ordinary folks might have lying about?”

Willie got up and paced around the sofa.

He began to mumble to himself and Del heard things like “won’t find any gunpowder, will we?” and “won’t find fertilizer around here” and “might find a propane tank” and “we’d need something bloody efficient in a small package” then, more brightly, “iron oxide’s no problem, vinegar, check, got plenty of nuts and bolts, but, there’s that, isn’t it?”

Del couldn’t stand it any longer. “There’s what? What have you figured?”

“If we could get at a toy store, I reckon I could build something that would wipe out a roomful of those buggers.”

Del picked his gun off the kitchen table and grabbed Willie’s sleeve.

“Come back to my place. I’ve got a whole chest full of toys.”

Willie stared into a large wooden chest crammed with puppets, plastic musical instruments, building sets, videos, and board games.

“What the hell are you doing with all this gear?” he asked.

“Grandkids, of course. They leave them off with me on weekends and go off for a curry and a few pints. If I didn't have the magic chest I’d go absolutely bonkers.”

“Mind if I rummage?”

“To your heart’s content.”

“Give me a pillow, then.”

“What for? You need a kip?”

“For my bloody knees.”

Willie got down on his knees and began poking through the box, pulling things out to see what was beneath. He showed interest in a plastic car with rubber wheels.

“You got the remote control for this?”

“If it’s in the chest I’ve got it. If it ain’t I don’t.”

Willie found it, stuffed inside a hand puppet.

“Could be useful,” he mumbled, plunging further into the depths. Then, with the wooden bottom beginning to show he reached down and said, “Jackpot.”

He held it up triumphantly. A red Etch-a-Sketch.

“What do you plan to do with that?” Del said. “Draw a picture of a bomb?”

“Ye of little faith,” Willie said. “Come on, back to my flat. Chop chop.”

They worked into the night, Willie using the kitchen table as his workbench, Del on guard duty making forays with his pistol into the hall and the stairwell, checking the windows for signs of the Hellers.

Willie had a small assortment of tools spread out before him with a smashed Etch-a-Sketch and remote-control bits off to one side and his kitchen fire extinguisher, unscrewed and emptied. With his reading glasses low on his nose and his gnarled hands drilling holes and stripping wires, the years seemed to fall away. He even took to humming as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Every so often he added to his running commentary about the qualities of thermite.

“You see, the aluminum powder in the Etch-a-Sketch, that’s the key, my son. Now you need to add iron oxide, which is where the steel-wool pads and vinegar comes in, but when it’s all nice and mixed together you’ve got thermite. Generates a hell of a lot of heat and energy when it’s ignited, say with a nice little spark of electricity from a battery.”

“I really wish you’d put a sock in it, mate,” Del said, having a bit more whiskey. “I’m sick of listening to you prattle on. As long as it goes bang, I’ll be happy as a clam.”

After a while, Willie looked up from his work to rest his eyes. “So you were a gangster then?”

“I said I was, didn’t I?” Del said. “What’s it to you?”

“I was just wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“If you ever, you know, did someone in.”

Del shook his head. “Just because I got a gun don’t mean I ever killed no one. It was just a tool of the trade.”

“A screwdriver was a tool of my trade and I used one all the time.”

“Look, we did a lot of thieving in my day and I used to bring a piece with me just in case but I never used it. You see all this rot on TV and you think all us old-timers used to go around like Dillinger. It wasn’t like that. Sometimes we’d rob a jewelry store or a bank and give ’em cigarettes to calm themselves while we went about our business.”

“So you were a humanitarian,” Willie said with a laugh.

Del sneered back. “Yeah, exactly.”

At 4 a.m. Willie declared victory and woke up a napping and disoriented Del to show him the finished product.

The fire extinguisher was screwed back together. Inside was the home-made thermite, packed tight with cotton strips from a pair of undershorts and all the nuts, bolts, screws, and nails that both men had in their flats. An electrical wire plunged through the small hole drilled into the fire extinguisher. The wire was connected to the toy car remote-control receiver and battery pack that were strapped to the extinguisher tube with black electrical tape.

“That’s not going to go off in here, is it?” Del asked.

Willie held up the remote-control box. “Not unless I push this button.”

“Well don’t.”

“You ready?” Willie asked.

“Yeah, let’s send them cunts back to Hell.”

They were afraid to use a torch lest they attract a Heller on walkabout so they gingerly made their way in the dark around the retirement-home buildings until they were back at the cafeteria. Their plan was simple. They’d both sneak inside just far enough for Del to toss the bomb inside. Then Willie would push the button, a large explosion would ensue, splattering the Hellers, and they’d go back to bed.

Del pulled himself up from the flowerbed until he was high enough to look through the cafeteria windows. An open refrigerator door in the kitchen cast some light into the dining area.

He lowered himself.

“Well?” Willie whispered.

“The bastards are lying all over the floor.”

“Are they asleep?”

“Well, they’re not dead, are they?”

“Ready?” Willie asked.

“I was born ready,” Del growled, raising his revolver.

They went around to the side door of the cafeteria and tried the knob. It turned and with a few shuffling steps they were inside.

Monk was sleeping beside Heath.

He was a light sleeper even while drunk, a survival skill honed by two centuries of roving. He heard something and poked Heath.

Heath was lying with his face in the crook of his elbow and produced a muffled something.

“Wake up, Heath. There’s someone coming.”

Heath groggily lifted his head. “Is there now?” he said. “I’m never too tired to rip someone apart.”

Trevor’s horse was scrawny and incapable of sustaining much of a pace. As he rode along the rutted westbound road toward Devon he remembered that the first time he rode a horse was only two months ago. He busied himself thinking about the training he’d gone through with Brian Kilmeade. Now that Brian was out of the picture, maybe he’d apply to the BBC for Brian’s old TV job as a medieval weapons presenter. If he ever made it back.

When those thoughts played out he turned to Arabel, wondering where she was, how she was doing, how the children were coping with the traumatic memories. They were sweet kids. He hoped they weren’t scarred for life. If he survived this he’d make a play to be a permanent part of Arabel’s life. He’d be a good dad to those kids. Maybe they’d get some new brothers and sisters along the way.

He was so deep in thought and hypnotized by the rhythm of the trot that he didn’t see the threat coming as early as he would have liked. But the Cornish soldiers at the head of the pack saw Trevor coming, a speck at first, then a man on horseback. They were riding eastbound, lured by stories of magical channels at Leatherhead and Sevenoaks that could transport a Heller back to Earth.

By the time Trevor saw them the lead soldiers had already quickened to a gallop. Trevor swore and dismounted, tying the horse’s reins to a roadside bush. He shouldered his AK-47, crouched into a firing position, and opened his satchel to get access to more ammo if needed. It was hard to tell how many riders were approaching because they were kicking up a cloud of dust. He hoped thirty rounds fired from a long distance would be more than enough to turn the threat. He didn’t try to take cover. His effective range was over ten times farther than the blackpowder muskets he might be facing.

He controlled his breathing and looked down the iron sights. The lead rider was about two hundred yards away. Trevor was an expert marksman but the sights were fixed and couldn’t be calibrated. He didn’t fault Kyle for that. It was a miracle he’d been able to forge the rifles at all. If he took the man out it would be a lucky shot but it was worth a try to convince the others to turn tail.

He held his breath at full exhale and squeezed the trigger. The rider kept coming. He didn’t see any dirt kick up to the sides and the horse hadn’t been hit so he figured he was high. He lowered his aim point and fired another round.

The rider fell, his foot caught in a stirrup. The horse veered off into the woods. From this distance he couldn’t see the startled expressions of the other soldiers who couldn’t understand how their captain had been felled from so far away.

They kept coming.

Trevor kept firing, hitting two men or a horse with every three shots.

Despite the rising casualties the other riders weren’t deterred.

“How many are there?” Trevor said out loud.

They were a hundred yards away when he emptied his magazine, ejected it, and reached into the satchel for the loaded one. From this distance it didn’t look like there was more than six to eight soldiers left so the spare mag was probably going to do it. But he didn’t want to take a chance; he wanted to quickly reload some rounds into the spent mag before seating the spare. But as his hand explored the satchel, he didn’t feel the spare mag. He didn’t feel loose ammo. He felt rocks.