The Cassandra Complex (16 page)

The MOD man was already reaching out to snatch up the gun, and the shot that had been fired at him
almost
missed—but almost wasn’t good enough. The impact wasn’t sufficiently powerful to bowl Smith over, but it made him lurch and stagger, and his extending hand failed to pick up the weapon.

Lisa hadn’t been able to see the dart flying through the air, but she saw its red fletchings as soon as it lodged in the muscle at the back of Smith’s lower leg. She registered the fact that the missile was nonlethal, but only in passing. The intention at the forefront of her mind was to get out of the way before the black-helmeted figure fired again.

Chan Kwai Keung obviously had the same idea. As soon as the gun had swung away from him, he dived to his left, determined to put the body of the Fiat between himself and the shooter.

Lisa went to her own left. There was a gray Datsun parked on that side of the elevator doors, no more than a couple of meters away, and she dived toward it, ducking down as low as she could to ensure that her whole body would be shielded the moment she was in front of the hood. It was a wise precaution, because a second shot sounded from the direction of the attendant’s booth, far louder than the first. The window of the Datsun’s passenger seat exploded into a host of tiny shards.

“Lights!” howled a distorted voice, twisted as much by anguished urgency as by the device set to disguise it.

That was a real bullet!
Lisa thought.
If it had hit me
,…

Only twelve hours had passed since the time she had been forty years in the police force without ever having had a gun pointed in her direction. Now she had been shot at twice, and although she was fairly certain that the first shooter had aimed to miss, she wasn’t at all sure about this one.

The first time, she had been curiously detached from the whole business, incapable even of participating fully in her own pain, but twelve hours had made a big difference. This time, she was abruptly consumed by a sickening wave of pure terror.

If we don’t have what we need
, the first shooter had told her,
we’ll be back, and then.
…

They didn’t have what they needed. They couldn’t have, because she hadn’t had it. So now they were back, in a mood less generous than before. It was crazy, of course—completely crazy—but that didn’t mean that the danger facing her was any less. Quite the reverse, in fact.

There was a delay of three or four seconds before the parking lot’s strip-lights went out. That left enough time for Lisa to peep over the Datsun’s hood and see Peter Grimmett Smith make a second attempt to grab Ginny’s pistol.

He succeeded, but the dart in his leg had discharged its cargo of relaxant poison and the leg was already useless. He couldn’t balance himself to fire, and his body betrayed him as he tried. By the time he had swiveled the weapon to point at the Shooter, his target was on the move, chasing after Chan Kwai Keung. Smith began to topple before he could adjust his aim.

Lisa guessed that Chan must have used the cover provided by the Fiat to roll under one of the vehicles parked on the far side of the area, because the black-helmeted figure couldn’t seem to find him.

Is that a man or a woman?
Lisa thought as she ducked down again. The figure wasn’t tall, but it was very solid, with a bodybuilder’s muscles. If it
was
a female body, it had to be the body of a Real Woman. Whoever had shot the telephone out of her hand had been every bit as solid, and every bit as aggressive, but if that had been a Real Woman too, it couldn’t possibly have been the one she knew best. Whatever else Arachne West might have said to her, she would never have addressed Lisa as “You stupid bitch.” She had never thought of the woman as a friend, but Arachne had seen things slightly differently.

The overhead lights went out before Lisa gave in to the temptation to sneak another look. With the strip-lights off too, she knew that her sense of sight would be useless for at least three minutes. Although the lot wasn’t entirely dark—there were horizontal ventilation slits set high in the walls, and some daylight filtered through, but her eyes would need time to adapt. She had to presume that the shooter had wanted the lights out because her dark helmet was equipped with some kind of infrared sensor that would make living bodies stand out like beacons.

Lisa knew that if the second shooter had the same equipment, as well as a gun that fired real bullets, she and Chan were in real trouble. She reminded herself that although the shooter in her apartment had made some ugly threats, all the bullets fired had been directed at inanimate targets. When Ed Burdillon had walked in on the Mouseworld bombers, they had only used their heavy artillery to cover him while they knocked him out and then dragged him to safety. So far, these lunatics had tried hard to avoid killing anyone—but they’d never have come back for a second bite at the cherry, especially in broad daylight, if they weren’t desperate. Their carefully laid plan must have gone wrong. They hadn’t found what they wanted at Lisa’s apartment, or on the equipment they’d stolen from Morgan’s house, and Morgan himself presumably hadn’t told them what they wanted to know. They were not as scrupulous today as they had been the night before—and the shot fired at her as she dived for cover behind the Datsun had been far too close for comfort.

Lisa cursed herself for the weakness of her body and spirit alike. She was too old, at sixty-one, for playing cat-and-mouse with killers. Her bones were too fragile, and the shock of fear that had gripped her made her feel utterly helpless.

She scrambled along the body of the Datsun and huddled behind the rear wheel. She guessed that whoever had shot at her must have fired from the attendant’s booth, and would probably have left it as soon as the lights went out, intending to edge along the wall against which the cars were parked. She had noted that the car beyond the Datsun was a Renault with an overgenerous wheelbase, and she rolled beneath it. That placed her in deep shadow, from which she could see nothing—but in which she could not easily be seen, even by someone with a body-heat sensor. Unfortunately, she knew, the advantage would probably be temporary. Whoever was inching along the wall would soon start peering beneath the vehicles, knowing that they provided the only available hiding place.

Lisa shut her eyes and concentrated her attention on listening; if their assailants had boots as smart as their black clothing, they wouldn’t be making a lot of noise, but they couldn’t move silently. She tried to summon up a picture in her mind’s eye of the exact spot in which Peter Grimmett Smith had fallen, and the probable disposition of his limbs. Had she a chance of getting to the gun that had fallen from his hand before the enemy could get a clear shot at her? If so, could she judge the position of either shooter well enough by sound alone to get off a good shot of her own? It might not be necessary to hit anyone—the mere fact that she had a gun and was capable of using it would surely make them cautious, and should make them seek cover.

Her right arm was alight with pain from wrist to elbow. When she had rolled over, she had pressed the cuts between her body and the concrete floor, and the sealant hadn’t been laid on thick enough to provide a protective cushion.

She swore at herself, commanding herself to focus, and to stop complaining.

She decided, having given due consideration to the plan, that if she tried to go for Smith’s gun, she would make an absurdly easy target. The sensible thing to do was to try to put more distance between herself and the elevator door. If the person who was coming after her was moving slowly enough, she might actually be able to reach the exit gate at the far end of the lot. If she could only raise the screen …

It was not to be. As she rolled across the gap separating the protective chassis of one vehicle from its neighbor, she finally heard the give-away scrape of cloth against brick, and the gun that was firing real bullets sounded again, close enough this time to leave her ears ringing.

The adaptation of her eyes was set back too, by the sight of the muzzle flash and the vivid spark that soared from the concrete not five centimeters from her face as the bullet struck the ground and ricocheted away.

“Cool it!” screeched a distorted voice, which must have originated from the far side of the lot, although it blended with the gunshot echoes rebounding eerily from the walls.

“Have you got him?” was the only response—a totally unnecessary one, given that the shooter with the dart gun hadn’t fired, as he or she surely would have if Chan had presented a target.

Despite the aftereffects of the echoing shot, Lisa heard her own pursuer drop awkwardly to the ground, presumably using the butt of the gun for temporary support as he or she fell into a prone position no more than a couple of meters away. Lisa knew that she had to get out of the confined space beneath the car if she were to avoid a shot that could hardly miss, so she scrambled forward desperately, not caring about the fact that she would expose herself fully to the shooter with the dart gun. If she had to be taken out, she figured it was far better that it should be done by a dart than by a bullet.

As soon as she pulled herself to her feet, she set herself to run across the open space between the lanes, hoping she could see well enough to throw herself into the space between two cars and obtain a measure of cover. She could see a little better now, but the world was full of shadows.

She heard the dart gun go off as the other shooter fired at her, but she felt no impact. As soon as the body of another vehicle offered her protection against another shot from that direction, she concentrated on putting something solid between her body and the enemy who was firing real bullets.

This time, there was no pursuing shot. Was that because the advice to cool it had been heard and heeded? Or was it just that the shooter with the real gun knew exactly where she was and was moving in for the kill?

For the kill.
The unspoken words echoed in Lisa’s skull, sending forth new ripples of panic—but no shot came.

Lisa dared to think that she might make it after all if she resumed her stealthy flight toward the exit door—and the distinction between deep and light shadow was becoming a little clearer now. She couldn’t
see
, exactly, but she wasn’t blind either. She began to move once more—but then the dart gun went off yet again, and this time she did feel an impact.

The strike was in the upper part of her left arm, and it didn’t feel like a prick or a stab. It was as if some mildly boisterous acquaintance had struck her lightly with his fist, in a perfectly friendly fashion—but that was an illusion. Lisa knew immediately that the glancing nature of the blow wasn’t good news. The muscle relaxant with which the dart was tipped had to be powerful if it had felled a man of Peter Grimmett Smith’s mass within seconds. Although it might take as much as a minute for her veins to carry the less than full dose far enough to immobilize her, and a further two minutes for enough of it to reach her brain to render her unconscious, she was finished—and with two searchers to evade, Chan Kwai Keung’s chances of getting away would be minimal.

Then she heard an almighty crash, far louder than the gunshots that had preceded it.

Startled, she turned and lifted her head. The movement made her dizzy, but she was still conscious, and true sight was abruptly returned to her.

The plastic doors closing off the entrance to the parking area had imploded. A black van, somewhat larger than the Daf that had rear-ended Chan’s Fiat, was hurtling through them, its headlights ablaze. A voice was already blaring from an invisible loudspeaker: “Put down your weapons
now\”

It wasn’t a cityplex police van. Cityplex police vans were white. It could be Special Branch, Lisa thought, or even more spooks from the MOD. Whoever it was, though, they had to be on her side, not the side of the black-clad assassins.

As she began to feel faint, the first retaliatory shot rang out. She saw the black van’s windshield respond to the impact; it was crazed, but not shattered. The result of the shot became irrelevant in any case when the new arrival cannoned into the back of the Daf, whose forward lurch sent Chan’s yellow Fiat spinning. The noise was appalling.

The Fiat’s windows weren’t as resilient as the big van’s. Shards of plastic seemed to fly everywhere. The shooter with the dart gun was briefly silhouetted against the glare of the headlights, running but seemingly going nowhere.

Lisa just had time to think “Wow!” before the dizziness blurred her vision irrevocably. Even then, she didn’t lose consciousness. She tried with all her might to stand up, but her body wouldn’t obey, and the only result of her determination was that she stumbled sideways. The concrete rose up to smash itself into her shoulder, but she was hardly aware of the fact of the pain, let alone the intensity of the feeling.

Hey!
she thought.
This stuff has its advantages. I could get used to this state of mind, if only …

It seemed, somehow, to be terribly unfair that she never got the chance to finish the sentence. Her pain had disappeared. Her fear had disappeared. Even the burden of her years seemed to have disappeared, but she didn’t have time to savor her immunity from all harm. She finally fell, precipitously, into unconsciousness.

ELEVEN

T
he first thing Lisa remembered after waking up was that the last time she had awakened, she had had been unable to remember where she was, because she had been forced to check into the Renaissance Hotel instead of going home. For a moment or two, therefore, she assumed that because the bed on which she was lying was definitely not her own, she was back in the hotel. This conviction lent moral support to her reluctance to open her eyes, but her attention was soon claimed by the awkward awareness that her mouth was
very
dry. That seemed odd—she couldn’t remember drinking any alcohol. What on earth could have happened to render her so thirsty?