just happened to jack an unnumbered crash wagon? Some joy-rider who just happened to be cruising a motorway ramp an hour out of town? Who decided to take on an obvious corporate custom job whose proximity alarm just happened to fail? Yeah, right.
Chris wiped rain from his face, and tried to think through the adrenalin comedown and the drenching he was getting.
‘Who sent you?’
The kid set his mouth in a sullen line. Chris lost his temper again. He took a step closer and ground the muzzle of the Nemex into the boy’s temple.
‘I’m not fucking about here,’ he yelled. ‘You tell me who you’re a sicario for, I might call the cutters for you. Otherwise, I’m going to splash your fucking head all over the upholstery.’ He jabbed hard with the gun, and the kid yelped. ‘Now, who sent you?’
‘They told me—‘
‘Never mind what they told you.’ Another muzzle jab. It drew blood. ‘I need a name, son, or you’re going to die. Right here, right now.’
The kid broke. A long shudder and suddenly leaking tears. Chris eased the pressure on the gun.
‘A name. I’m listening.’
‘They call him Fucktional, but—‘
‘Fucktional? He a zoner? A gangwit?’ He jabbed the gun again, more gently. ‘Come on.’
The kid started to cry out loud. ‘He run the whole estate man, he’s going to—‘
‘Which estate?’
‘Mandela. The crags.’
Southside. It was a start.
‘Okay, now you’re going to tell me—‘
‘STAND AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE.’ The sky filled with the metal voice. ‘YOU ARE NOT AUTHORISED ON THIS STRETCH. STAND AWAY.’
The Driver Control helicopter swung down from the embankment where the Saab had wound up and danced crabwise across the air to the central reservation, ten metres up. Chris sighed and lifted his hands, Nemex held ostentatiously by the barrel.
‘STAND ASIDE AND PLACE YOUR WEAPON ON THE GROUND.’
The kid was looking confused, not sure if he was off the hook yet. He couldn’t move enough to wipe the tears off his face, but there was an ugly confidence already surfacing in his eyes.
Well, whoever said a good driver had to be smart as well.
‘I’ll be talking to you later,’ Chris snapped, wondering how the hell he was going to ensure it happened. Estate ganglords had a nasty habit of disappearing their sicarios when they became a liability, and he didn’t have much faith in the regular police’s ability to keep undervalued zone criminals alive in custody. He’d have to call a contractor, get private security onto the cutting crew and trace the kid to whatever charity clean-up shop they dumped him at. Then talk to Troy Morris about the southside gangs.
He backed off a half-dozen steps, bent and placed the Nemex on the ground, then straightened up and spread his arms at the helicopter.
‘RETURN TO YOUR VEHICLE AND AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.’
He went, arms still raised, just in case.
He was about halfway back when the gatlings cut loose.
The sound of whining, whirling steel and the shattering roar of the multiple barrels unloading. He hit the asphalt, face down, a pair of seconds before the realisation hit him, that they were not firing at him, could not be because he was still alive. He lifted his head a cautious fraction, craned it to look back.
The helicopter had sunk almost to asphalt level, and swung around, nose to nose with the wrecked car. Later, he guessed the manoeuvre was intended to keep him out of the field of fire. The zone kid must have got it head-on, the full fury of the gatling hail as it tore through the windscreen and everything behind it.
The tank went up with a dull crump. Chris clamped his hands over his head, face to the road. An insanely calm part of him knew there wouldn’t be much shrapnel off a vehicle that armoured, but you always had glass. He heard some of it hiss past.
The gatlings shut off. In their place, there was a greedy crackling as the fire took hold in the wreck. The departing throb of the helicopter. He lifted his head again, just in time to see it disappear over the embankment the way it had come. Flames curled from the strafed car, bright and cheery through the rain. Thinking about getting up, he heard a sudden ripple of explosions and flattened himself to the asphalt again. Slugs in the abandoned Nemex, he guessed, cooked to ignition point by the backwash of heat from the fire. He stayed down. The fucking Nemex. He found himself grinning.
Louise will be pleased.
Finally, he judged it safe and picked himself up. He lifted his arms wide and stared down at himself. His shirt was sodden and grimed from contact with the road, but there was no blood that he could find. No pain but the faint sting of abrasions on his palms and a couple of numb spots on hip and knee. He couldn’t tell if he’d done any serious damage to the suit trousers, but he guessed they were as soiled as the shirt. In the wreck, the rain was already beating out the flames.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The inquest was held, in stark corporate style, around a huge oval table in Notley’s penthouse conference chamber. Shorn had given the public sector three days - overly generous in my opinion, was Hewitt’s comment -and now it was smackdown time.
The conference chamber was an apt arena. The walls were full of violent commissioned art from the new brutalist school, solid blocks of primary colour dumped amidst vague scattered scrawls that might have been writing or crowds of tiny people. Obvious videoscan units gleamed beadily from the ceiling, but there was a standard forty-second delay on the recording system, and two Shorn lawyers sat in, to make sure anything potentially awkward got stopped before it was halfway said. In the run-up, Chris and Alike both got repeated briefings from the legal team until they were coached almost to a line. Louise Hewitt and Philip Hamilton joined Notley to form an operational quorum, though everybody on the corporate side of the table knew no serious decisions would be taken at this particular meeting. This was noise-making. Shorn was coiled up like a rattlesnake, signalling loud offence. Any genuine strike would come later, when no one was around to take notes.
Across the table from Chris sat the crew of the helicopter and the Driver Control duty officer from the day of the duel. They were recognisable by their suits - you could have bought any three of the outfits they wore for the price of Jack Notley’s shoes.
Between Notley and the duty officer sat the Assistant Commissioner of Traffic Enforcement and the District Police Superintendent for London South Nine. Holographically present at the opposite end of the table, the current Minister for Transport floated like an apologetic ghost.
‘What remains most disturbing about this matter,’ said Notley, as the recriminations began to run down. ‘Is not the type of response elicited from Driver Control, but the rapidity of that response. Or should I say the lack of rapidity.’
The duty officer flinched, but stoically. He’d already had a pretty rough ride and he was learning not to react. Any attempt at defence from the public sector players around the table had led to a shredding at the hands of the Shorn partners. Hewitt led, wet razor-swift and slicing, Hamilton provided soft-spoken, insolent counterpoint and Notley came in behind, picking up the points and swinging the mace of Shorn’s corporate clout. There wasn’t a person in the room, the Minister included, whose job was secure if Notley decided the time had come to slop the coffee cup hard enough.
The Assistant Commissioner, nobly, essayed a rescue. She’d been working salvage throughout the meeting. ‘I think we’re agreed that the response team would have been scrambled earlier if Mr Bryant’s original emergency call had been supported by Mr Faulkner’s responses to radio communication. The recording shows—‘
‘The recording shows an angry executive, acting unwisely,’ said Louise Hewitt, with a thin smile in Chris’s direction. ‘I think we can all understand how Chris Faulkner felt, but that does not mean he reacted correctly. He was, shall we say, overwrought. As duty officer, with the advantage of a detached view, it was your job to realise that and react accordingly.’