“Justice will prevail, Demetrios.”

Mr. Demetrios chuckled and shook his head sadly. "‘Justice will prevail.’ Where do you policemen get your clichés? I am the director-general of the country’s national security service. ‘Justice’ is a purely relative term in the boardroom where I work. Bisky-Batt will take the rap for the Ginja, and you’ll take the rap for Bisky-Batt. Without you around I have complete deniability—and I have the Alpha-Pickle and McGuffin. As soon as the dust has settled, QuangTech will begin experiments in thermocuclear power. I may use it for domestic energy purposes or as a weapons system. I haven’t yet decided. Maybe both. The sunbeams locked inside cucumbers will lead Britain’s economy into the third millennium and beyond, and at the head of the power revolution will be… myself. This isn’t just a technology, Jack, it’s the savior of the planet. They will raise statues to me in years to come as ‘The Bear Who Changed the World.’ The name Demetrios will forever be associated with clean air and an optimistic future. And one thing is for certain: I will make an obscenely large pile of cash. They’ll have to invent a new word for it—‘rich’ just won’t do it justice.”

“The technology belongs to all mankind,” replied Jack, wincing in pain from the Gingerbreadman’s overzealous grip, “not to QuangTech and certainly not to—ah!—you.”

“Do you know,” said Mr. Demetrios slowly, “that’s exactly what Goldilocks and McGuffin said. Personally, I don’t see it that way. But don’t worry, I’ll use the cash to help bears. Or at least one bear in particular—me. The rest can go screw themselves.”

“Can I kill him now?” asked the Gingerbreadman, who was getting bored and fast becoming a cookie of action rather than words.

“Why not?” replied the small bear.

“Do you think he’ll merely let you go?” said Jack to the Gingerbreadman, hoping to drive a wedge between them. “You’ll be disposed of just like all the others.”

“A Ginja fears nothing except the failure to do his duty,” said the assassin simply. “Demetrios is my master; I do his bidding. All other factors are secondary.”

“Didn’t I tell you he was the best thing ever?” repeated Demetrios. “He’s the cub I never had.”

He clapped his paws together.

“Well, that’s us done here, Spratt. I’ve got some unfinished business with a colleague of yours. Without anyone left in the NCD to explain the complexities of this case firsthand, I rather think my future is assured—wouldn’t you agree?”

“You won’t get away with this.”

“There you go with your clichés again. And you’re wrong—I rather think I just have.” Demetrios looked at his watch and patted the Gingerbreadman on the arm. “I’m off now, my faithful Ginja. Make sure no one discovers so much as an atom of his body. Are you going to kill him now or are you going to play with him for a while?”

The Gingerbreadman raised an eyebrow and looked at Jack thoughtfully. “Since he has survived an unprecedented three encounters with me,” began the assassin thoughtfully, “I should like to test him ‘to destruction’ so to speak.”

“Of course,” replied the small bear gleefully. “And to make the fiction complete, be sure he leaves some prints on this, would you?”

He handed his revolver to the the Gingerbreadman and, without another word, departed.

Jack’s thoughts turned to escape, but on reflection things didn’t look terrific. The facility was locked down tight, and even if he did get away, he wasn’t sure where he could go with a killer on the loose who could run four times faster than he and was eight times as strong. It was a bit like being handcuffed to a hungry and demented rottweiler, smeared with a steak and then locked in a wardrobe.

The Gingerbreadman released Jack, who took a welcome step back, rubbing his arm. The Ginja smiled again and showed Jack the place where his thumb had been.

“This was the closest I’ve ever been to death, and you know what?”

“What?”

“I felt so liberated. As if I had finally met my match. You and the delightful Sergeant Mary were a formidable team.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

The smile dropped from the Gingerbreadman’s licorice lips. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Jack. You and I are going to play a little game. Ever seen a cat playing with a mouse?”

“Ye-e-es.”

“Ever wanted to know what the mouse felt like?”

“No, never—not at all. Not once. Nope.”

“Too bad. Here’s what we’ll do: To tip my inevitable triumph a few millimeters into your favor we’ll do this as gentlemen. Back to back, ten paces, turn and fire. Any questions?”

“Yes,” replied Jack. “Are you a cake or a cookie?”

The Gingerbreadman glared at him. “Don’t make this any worse for yourself, Spratt. Insult me again and I’ll ensure that the agony of your demise is stretched out so long that you will beg me for death.”

He smiled a disquieting smile, the edges of his licorice mouth almost reaching his large glacé cherry eyes.

“Right, here we go, then,” he said cheerfully, handing over Demetrios’s revolver. Jack’s prints were now on the weapon that had killed Bisky-Batt, but armed was better than not armed—he hoped.

“Five shots left. Make them count.” He drew his sawed-off shotgun at the same time and flicked off the safety. “And since you’ve been such a tremendous sport over the past few days, I’m willing to give you the first shot. Am I not the most magnanimous of murderers?”

“To a fault.”

“There’s that sarcasm again! Jack, you disappoint me sometimes. We’ll do this out in the corridor where there’s more room. You stand there. Ready?”

Jack nodded, and they stood back to back. Jack thought of turning and plugging him there and then, but he had seen the speed at which the Ginja assassin could move.

“Eight paces, then,” said the Gingerbreadman, enjoying himself tremendously.

“You said ten earlier.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s not be small about it. Ten it is.”

They both started to walk, the Gingerbreadman glancing over his shoulder now and again to make sure Jack was playing by the rules. Jack was walking back toward the stairs and the rest of the visitors’ center. He looked at the revolver. He’d used one only three times before; he didn’t like them, and NCD work generally called for brains, not firepower. He reached his tenth pace, stopped and turned. The Gingerbreadman’s paces were longer than his and he was a lot farther down the corridor than Jack had thought, while Jack was only about two strides from the top of the stairs. He had planned to aim for the Ginja’s head, but given the distance a chest shot seemed like a better option.

“Your go, then, Jack!” called out the Gingerbreadman cheerfully. “Take careful aim, now.”

Jack lifted the gun, aimed and fired. The shot struck the Gingerbreadman in the area of where his heart might have been if he’d had one, but to no effect—the slug went straight through and embedded itself into a doorframe at the other end of the corridor with a resounding thunk.

The Gingerbreadman smiled at him and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I should have said: Bullets have no real effect on me. My turn.”

He raised the shotgun and fired in a single swift motion. Jack dived to one side as the blast struck the wall behind where he’d been standing. Without pausing for a second, he dashed down the stairs four at a time and ran back into the darkened atrium to take refuge behind the tank.

“Cheat!” he heard the Gingerbreadman yell. “I stayed still for you!”

Jack looked around desperately as he heard the assassin walk noisily down the staircase. The tank was a battle-scarred example and was peppered with shell holes. He peered through one hole and saw the Ginja padding across the area outside the entrance to what would one day become The Phosgene Experience. Jack waited until he was opposite the turnstiles, then jumped out and fired. The shot blew a small patch of ginger off the assassin’s shoulder, and the Gingerbreadman bounded with surprising dexterity into the entrance of the Scents of the Battle Odorama™ exhibit. Jack took the opportunity to make a move and dashed across the atrium to the Virtual Trenchfoot attraction, shut the door behind him and then swiftly jammed a chair under the door handle.