cold, but thankfully dry at last, although the mud beneath our boots squelched with every step. In the distance a fox screamed. I’d always hated that noise. When I was a kid I’d stayed entire summers with my Gran, staying in the attic of her cottage. You wouldn’t believe the horrors I’d imagined when one of those bastards started up in the middle of the night.
“It’s okay, pet. Just a vixen.” Show no weakness, soldier. You’ve nothing to fear.
“Yes, Gran.” Sir, yes, sir. Nothing to fear but fear itself.
And the bullets, and the mines, and the gas, and—
I had the feeling there would be more screams before the night was out.
We kept moving on, everyone heeding my words and shutting the fuck up. Even Fenton. Brennan was on my heels, leading the rest of her pack; Beck keeping some distance between her and Fenton, and behind him, the two goons who had grabbed me that morning. The man-mountain to the left was called Garret, and his hulk of a partner Curtis. Neither were what you’d call chatty, but they weren’t here for conversation. Garret had a fireman’s axe strapped between his monstrous shoulders, while Curtis was lugging a portable battering ram on his back. The thing must have weighed twenty kilos. Say this for Brennan, the armoury she’d salvaged and jury-rigged was impressive, and her people weren’t the idiots I’d written off this morning. Inexperienced, yes, but they would come good, given the right orders.
I almost believed we had half a chance of surviving the night, if everyone—I’m looking at you, Fenton—if everyone did what they were told.
B ECK, G ARRET AND Curtis were packing automatic rifles, Fenton a pump-action shotgun and Brennan a handgun, with another at her waist.
I was happy to stick to my handguns, the P99 in my hand and the Colt in a belt holster along with the Bowie knife. The remote grenades were hanging from a strap slung across my chest, a quarter of the plastic explosives stowed safely in my pack.
Just another day, ready to cause merry hell.
I was counting my paces, leading the group to what I had found the day before. I slowed, raising my gun hand so the others did likewise.
“Is it here?” Brennan asked.
I stepped onto the concrete rim of the grate.
“What do you think?”
It was round, about six feet in diameter, the metal bars old and rusted, although, as I’d found out yesterday, they were still strong enough.
Slipping my Walther back into its holster, I crouched down as Brennan and the others formed a semi-circle around me. I shone the light into the shaft, my beam of light picking out a floor covered in bird-shit and clods of mud some twenty feet beneath us.
Fenton lit his torch, mirroring my action. “That’s a long way down,” he sneered, before hawking loudly and spitting a ball of phlegm through the grate. It dropped, illuminated by his beam before landing wetly on the floor below.
“It’s not far,” insisted Beck. “No more than six metres at most.”
Brennan reached forward and grabbed hold of the grate with a gloved hand, testing its resistance. “So, how do we get down?”
Getting to my feet, I stepped three quarters of the way around the grating and flashed my torch down again, tracing the bars.
Brennan dropped down onto her haunches, running her hands along the metal. “They’ve been cut!”
I nodded. “If Beck had searched my bag yesterday, she would have found a hacksaw.”
Brennan looked up into the light. “You did this?”
“Last night, just before the sun went down,” I confirmed.
“You were lucky no one saw.”
To say the least. In daylight there had been a direct line of sight to the top floor of Neighbourhood Four. It was a calculated risk.
Brennan slipped her fingers through the grating, grabbing hold and pulling sharply. There was movement, but not enough. I shone the beam around the semi-circle I’d managed to cut. The torchlight found solid metal.
“You didn’t finish the job?”
“It’s okay, pet. Just a vixen.” Show no weakness, soldier. You’ve nothing to fear.
“Yes, Gran.” Sir, yes, sir. Nothing to fear but fear itself.
And the bullets, and the mines, and the gas, and—
I had the feeling there would be more screams before the night was out.
We kept moving on, everyone heeding my words and shutting the fuck up. Even Fenton. Brennan was on my heels, leading the rest of her pack; Beck keeping some distance between her and Fenton, and behind him, the two goons who had grabbed me that morning. The man-mountain to the left was called Garret, and his hulk of a partner Curtis. Neither were what you’d call chatty, but they weren’t here for conversation. Garret had a fireman’s axe strapped between his monstrous shoulders, while Curtis was lugging a portable battering ram on his back. The thing must have weighed twenty kilos. Say this for Brennan, the armoury she’d salvaged and jury-rigged was impressive, and her people weren’t the idiots I’d written off this morning. Inexperienced, yes, but they would come good, given the right orders.
I almost believed we had half a chance of surviving the night, if everyone—I’m looking at you, Fenton—if everyone did what they were told.
B ECK, G ARRET AND Curtis were packing automatic rifles, Fenton a pump-action shotgun and Brennan a handgun, with another at her waist.
I was happy to stick to my handguns, the P99 in my hand and the Colt in a belt holster along with the Bowie knife. The remote grenades were hanging from a strap slung across my chest, a quarter of the plastic explosives stowed safely in my pack.
Just another day, ready to cause merry hell.
I was counting my paces, leading the group to what I had found the day before. I slowed, raising my gun hand so the others did likewise.
“Is it here?” Brennan asked.
I stepped onto the concrete rim of the grate.
“What do you think?”
It was round, about six feet in diameter, the metal bars old and rusted, although, as I’d found out yesterday, they were still strong enough.
Slipping my Walther back into its holster, I crouched down as Brennan and the others formed a semi-circle around me. I shone the light into the shaft, my beam of light picking out a floor covered in bird-shit and clods of mud some twenty feet beneath us.
Fenton lit his torch, mirroring my action. “That’s a long way down,” he sneered, before hawking loudly and spitting a ball of phlegm through the grate. It dropped, illuminated by his beam before landing wetly on the floor below.
“It’s not far,” insisted Beck. “No more than six metres at most.”
Brennan reached forward and grabbed hold of the grate with a gloved hand, testing its resistance. “So, how do we get down?”
Getting to my feet, I stepped three quarters of the way around the grating and flashed my torch down again, tracing the bars.
Brennan dropped down onto her haunches, running her hands along the metal. “They’ve been cut!”
I nodded. “If Beck had searched my bag yesterday, she would have found a hacksaw.”
Brennan looked up into the light. “You did this?”
“Last night, just before the sun went down,” I confirmed.
“You were lucky no one saw.”
To say the least. In daylight there had been a direct line of sight to the top floor of Neighbourhood Four. It was a calculated risk.
Brennan slipped her fingers through the grating, grabbing hold and pulling sharply. There was movement, but not enough. I shone the beam around the semi-circle I’d managed to cut. The torchlight found solid metal.
“You didn’t finish the job?”
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