Rebel Fire by Andrew Lane Page A

experiment of his life.
    Another man stepped around the corner of the roof, a burly man with pale hair and broken veins in his nose and cheeks. He grabbed the madman in a neck lock with his left arm while his right hand jabbed the needle of a syringe into the man’s shoulder. He pressed the plunger, sending whatever drug was in the syringe coursing into the madman’s bloodstream.
    The madman sagged in his arms, the gun clattering onto the ledge. He was still trying to talk, but his words were slurred. His eyes fluttered for a few moments, and then he was still.
    The newcomer pulled the syringe from the lunatic’s shoulder. Clear fluid dripped out and the man slumped to the ledge. Straightening up, he gazed levelly at Sherlock.
    â€œWhat’re you doing here, boy?”
    â€œI was just looking for my ball in the garden,” Sherlock replied, trying to sound younger and more vulnerable than he was, “when this bloke grabbed me and pulled me into the house.” He couldn’t help noticing that when the man had straightened up, he had brought the revolver up with him and was keeping it held with the barrel along his leg.
    â€œAnd what did this gentleman want to do to you, once he got you inside the house?”
    â€œI don’t know. I swear I don’t.”
    The newcomer was silent for a few moments, thinking. The long barrel of the revolver tapped against his trousers.
    â€œGet in the house,” he said eventually. The barrel of the gun swung casually up to cover Sherlock. “And take him with you,” he added, nodding towards the unconscious madman. “Drag him round the corner. There’s an open window there. Just slide him inside.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œDon’t argue, boy. Just do what your betters tell you.”
    Sherlock glanced from his face to the gun and back again. This man wasn’t twitchy, or edgy, or mad. He was perfectly sane, but just as likely to shoot.
    Sherlock moved forward and took the madman by his shoulders. The newcomer stepped back to give him space. Sherlock dragged the unconscious body around the corner and along to the open window, aware all the time of the nearness of the edge of the ledge. One misstep and he would fall.
    The man’s body was heavy and difficult to manoeuvre, and Sherlock felt sweat springing out across his entire body as he wrestled with it. Eventually he managed to get it halfway in the bedroom window. Climbing over it with difficulty, he pulled it in after him.
    And all the time, the man with the gun watched.
    A pair of arms suddenly appeared over Sherlock’s shoulder and took hold of the unconscious body.
    â€œI’ll take him from here,” said a high-pitched voice.
    Sherlock turned his head, surprised. A fourth man was standing close to him. This man was short and portly and bald. He was also missing part of his right ear.
    Sherlock stepped back and let the newcomer pull the body along the floor, out into the corridor and along to a different bedroom. This one had a key sticking out of the lock. Inside, while the newcomer was hoisting the unconscious body onto the bed, Sherlock noticed that this room did actually have bars on the windows. This was the madman’s room.
    The third man—the burly one with the blond hair—was standing in the doorway. He still had the gun.
    â€œHow’s Gilfillan?” he asked.
    â€œNasty head wound,” the small, bald man replied, still arranging the madman on the bed. “He’ll have one hell of a headache when he wakes up, but I think he’ll be okay.” He sniggered. “He’s got a thick skull. You’d have to hit him a lot harder to cause any significant damage.”
    â€œI might just do that,” the burly man snarled. “Damn fool, letting Booth get the drop on him like that. He could’ve derailed the entire plan. The last thing we need is Booth running wild across the countryside, especially in his