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The truck pulled down a side street and stopped. After the engine fell silent, there was no other noise. James called off gamma units three and four, and told them to seal the two entrances to the road. Two squads of four were more than enough for this situation. He studied the two captives in the back of the van. The man had crushed himself into the corner, watching the agents with obvious fear. His tatty jacket looked like one of the ones worn by London's inconsequential gangs. The girl was pale - no, she had a mask. Her clothes were light and low-cut, but she put her trembling hands to her breast and didn't move. On the floor a small box was on its side, lid open, spilling a watch, cufflinks and other valuables on the floor.
What are they? James fumed. Decoy? Unlikely. A bomb makes the best decoy. Which only left - but how could thieves get all Dietrich's valuables and clothes? Something was wrong here. And where was the suit? That was the signal they were following.
"Patel," he barked. "Get the driver back here." He summoned to beta unit, who climbed into the back of the truck and shut the doors behind them.
"Search the back of the van. Something doesn't fit."
The four agents pushed the passengers to one side and picked over the debris in the van. James noted hooks in the side panels, plainly for holding weapons, and one or two old bullet-marks in the floor. Maybe the driver -
"Sir," Matthews spoke up, "I found these." He held up an old black suit and a stained shirt.
"So?" James snarled. He wasn't going to return from this mission with three nobodies and a suit. He started.
"Patel?" he asked his microphone. "What's taking you so long?" No reply.
He nodded to two agents, who drew their automatic pistols and advanced to the front of the van.
"Shit," one of them mumbled, "Patel's dead. Hollow dagger; blood everywhere. No sign of the driver."
James felt the adrenaline surge. He turned to the agents behind him.
"Track the signal and bring him here. This game's gone -"
In front of him, a man's face erupted in a welter of blood. James dived for the ground as the remaining operatives returned fire.
"On top of the van!"
With a crash, the truck's interior lighting was extinguished.
"Can't get a fix," said a voice. "Not at this range."
There was more gunfire. The truck's doors flew open and figure rolled through them into the alley, before smashing through a door into a building.
Agents poured after him.
James knelt next to the wounded man.
"Foster? You still with us?"
Foster wiped gore from his mouth. "It's superficial. My armour held. He's using Patel's gun. Shit, I can't see." He pawed at his eyes.
James injected him with painkiller and pressed a cloth into his hand. He'd be on his feet again in a few minutes.
"We're being hacked, sir," operative Trump nudged him.
"Where from?" James demanded.
Trump thought for a moment, then pulled a heavy hood from his coat and forced it over the head of the girl.
"That got it, sir," he said, over the girl's muffled screams.
James ran across the alley into the building, swearing all the way.
He found his team pinned down at the bottom of some steps.
"We can't break through," agent Matthews shouted over the din of gunfire. "There's too much cover up there and not enough down here!"
"He's got Patel's gun." There was a brief lull as the man at the top of the stairs reloaded. James smirked. "Count the rounds and when he reloads again give covering fire so Green and Worth can make it to the mezzanine. He can't lay down covering fire in three directions at once."
The stranger was firing on full automatic; it was the only way to keep five people pinned down.
"Now!"
The two agents dashed up the steps, but instantly fire began at a higher pitch. Worth took a burst to his shin and tumbled awkwardly down the steps. Green had got further, and her body jerked convulsively as rounds poured into it. Her gun fell from her limp grasp.
"Find another stairway!" James bellowed at Matthews, as Tong dragged Worth to safety. Worth pulled a bullet from his leg. "DU spinner. I can still walk."
James looked at his tracer. The man was still at the top of the stairs.
He had lost two agents out of eight. The original plan had expected four casualties, total. And that assumed a full bodyguard for Dietrich.
"This is Matthews. He left the suit up here."
James wasn't surprised. "Trump. Is Foster fit?"
"Yes, sir."
"Bring the two others here."
"The boy took a bullet. He can't walk."
"Leave him with Wu and bring the girl and Foster, then."
James led Tong and Worth up to meet Matthews. He shouted down the corridor:
"We've got the girl. We'll kill her unless you come quietly."
No response. The agents split up and started searching the building.
It was an old residential block, long deserted, with the cookers dragged into the corridors and left to rust. No light, only smashed windows. The ceiling had fallen in in places, and mould was climbing the walls. Trump dragged his charge into a bedroom and threw her in a corner, groping her in the process. No sense in wasting opportunities. He snapped handcuffs around her hands, to stop her taking off the shielded hood.
"If I give the word," James told him over the comm-link, "do her."
Trump frowned. It seemed a pity to waste such a pretty one.
He looked at the door, then out of the smashed window. Someone else was trying to hack them. While he dealt with it, he didn't notice the door open. He felt a hand grab at his bandolier of grenades, and whipped around. A man was standing in his boxer shorts, one arm drawn back for a punch. Trump started to raise his gun, but was far too slow and the punch struck him in the mouth and pitched him through the window.
His bullets harmlessly riddled the ceiling, and then the sky as he started to fall. He reached for the fire escape, and even touched it with his fingertips, but couldn't get a hold and plunged downwards.
It's okay, he thought, I can survive a fall from this height. I'm a metamorph. Then he realised his mouth was full.
The explosion rocked the building, throwing James to the floor.
"What the hell?"
Wu's voice came to him: "Trump bought it."
James decided enough was enough. There was nothing to be gained here. He still didn't know what this troublesome threesome was about, but the gunman was just too fast, too quick-witted for them to pin down. If I had cut my losses earlier, James realised, there might not have been any casualties.
"Alpha and beta units, fall back to the truck. Repeat, fall back. Abort. Abort."
He was relieved to see Foster, Matthews, Tong and Worth were still alive. They watched all around, edging back towards the cab of the truck.
"We've still got the boy," James said. "Maybe he'll talk."
As they neared the door, the truck pulled away. Wu's dead body was pitched out of the window. The agents showered the back of the retreating vehicle with bullets, with no effect.
"Gamma three, gamma three, stop that truck!" he called into his microphone. "Come in!"
Tong's expression glazed over momentarily. "We've been hacked. By the girl. We can't contact them."
"Who was on counter-measures? Trump? Then who was his second?"
"Patel," Tong looked ill.
"Why did no-one think to take over? Get the airborne units to harry them."
"Can't make contact. Someone's pre-empted the channel."
"The girl?" A nod in reply. James growled. "Contact HQ and get us some transport out of here."
"Sir," Worth said, meekly. "The secure channel back to base was on the truck..."
There were sirens in the distance.
James threw back his head and screamed.
Ben Wright, 07/02/01
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