until she found the pistol-grip pepper spray she always kept there. It was a military-issue Wildfire – illegal in the UK, but not nearly so illegal as an unlicensed gun.
She went for speed rather than stealth, taking the stairs three at a time. On the first floor, then the second, she paused and looked around. After the second, there was nowhere else to go – except the roof, presumably, and the stairs didn’t go up that far.
She stepped aside into a patch of shadow. Light from the street lamp outside, which was level with the windows of these upstairs rooms, turned the scene in front of her into a black and white mosaic.
She’d just about decided that she was wasting her time when something moved. It moved to the left of her, where there was nothing except the wall of the stairwell. It was a shadow: whatever had cast it was outside, on the top-most level of scaffolding. A window frame rattled and then creaked as it was opened from outside.
Kennedy waited until the man was halfway over the sill before she rushed him. She gave him a shot of the pepper spray right in the eyes, but a black mask covered his entire face and he didn’t even react. He just dropped and twisted, turning the movement into a surprisingly graceful roll, and then he was inside the room with her.
She aimed a blow at his stomach as he scrambled to his feet, but the punch didn’t connect. He leaned away from it with incredible speed, catching Kennedy’s arm above and below the elbow, pulling her forward right off her balance and throwing her. She came down hard on the floorboards, stunned.
Through blurred, tearing eyes, she saw the man standing over her. He took something from his belt and she knew from the way it flashed in the yellow-white glow from the street lamp – dull-bright-dull, inside of a second – that it was a knife. She raised a clumsy block, but she couldn’t protect her whole body, and stretched out on the floor as she was, she made an unmissable target. She was dead.
But the knife didn’t come down. The man was staggering, clawing at his mask. The pepper spray had soaked through at last. It was burning his eyes and cutting off his breath, and because it was in the fabric of the mask there was no way for him to get away from it.
Kennedy got her feet under her and stood, but even blinded and hurting, he heard her step back. He advanced in a step-shuffle gait into the space she vacated, pressing her hard until the wall was right up against her shoulder blades.
Then he kicked her through it.
His foot connected with Kennedy’s chest, with so much force behind it that it would probably have staved in her ribs if she’d been leaning against brick. But she was leaning against thin, stale, crumbly plaster pasted over wafer-thin laths. She went staggering and sprawling through into the next room, fell on her back and rolled aside, expecting him to follow through.
Nothing came through the wall. She got to her feet and staggered to the ragged-edged hole, cradling her chest and trying to suck in some air.
The man was gone. Kennedy pushed and stumbled her way back through to the room where they’d fought. Something lay on the floor, a dark and shapeless mass. Kennedy went to it and picked it up, then winced and held it far away from her face. Sodden, limp, sour with the stench of oleorosin, it was the man’s face-mask, and he’d torn it half to ribbons in his haste to get it off.
On the street, the innocent bystanders had mostly dispersed like ghosts at cock-crow, their civic duty done and their curiosity satisfied, but the small group of students who Kennedy had summarily deputised stood in a slightly sheepish defensive ring around Izzy, who was still unconscious. Kennedy thanked them and released them back into civilian life. Then there was nothing else to do but wait until the ambulance arrived.
Izzy revived before the ambulance got to them. After a few seconds of not knowing where she was or what the hell was going on,
She went for speed rather than stealth, taking the stairs three at a time. On the first floor, then the second, she paused and looked around. After the second, there was nowhere else to go – except the roof, presumably, and the stairs didn’t go up that far.
She stepped aside into a patch of shadow. Light from the street lamp outside, which was level with the windows of these upstairs rooms, turned the scene in front of her into a black and white mosaic.
She’d just about decided that she was wasting her time when something moved. It moved to the left of her, where there was nothing except the wall of the stairwell. It was a shadow: whatever had cast it was outside, on the top-most level of scaffolding. A window frame rattled and then creaked as it was opened from outside.
Kennedy waited until the man was halfway over the sill before she rushed him. She gave him a shot of the pepper spray right in the eyes, but a black mask covered his entire face and he didn’t even react. He just dropped and twisted, turning the movement into a surprisingly graceful roll, and then he was inside the room with her.
She aimed a blow at his stomach as he scrambled to his feet, but the punch didn’t connect. He leaned away from it with incredible speed, catching Kennedy’s arm above and below the elbow, pulling her forward right off her balance and throwing her. She came down hard on the floorboards, stunned.
Through blurred, tearing eyes, she saw the man standing over her. He took something from his belt and she knew from the way it flashed in the yellow-white glow from the street lamp – dull-bright-dull, inside of a second – that it was a knife. She raised a clumsy block, but she couldn’t protect her whole body, and stretched out on the floor as she was, she made an unmissable target. She was dead.
But the knife didn’t come down. The man was staggering, clawing at his mask. The pepper spray had soaked through at last. It was burning his eyes and cutting off his breath, and because it was in the fabric of the mask there was no way for him to get away from it.
Kennedy got her feet under her and stood, but even blinded and hurting, he heard her step back. He advanced in a step-shuffle gait into the space she vacated, pressing her hard until the wall was right up against her shoulder blades.
Then he kicked her through it.
His foot connected with Kennedy’s chest, with so much force behind it that it would probably have staved in her ribs if she’d been leaning against brick. But she was leaning against thin, stale, crumbly plaster pasted over wafer-thin laths. She went staggering and sprawling through into the next room, fell on her back and rolled aside, expecting him to follow through.
Nothing came through the wall. She got to her feet and staggered to the ragged-edged hole, cradling her chest and trying to suck in some air.
The man was gone. Kennedy pushed and stumbled her way back through to the room where they’d fought. Something lay on the floor, a dark and shapeless mass. Kennedy went to it and picked it up, then winced and held it far away from her face. Sodden, limp, sour with the stench of oleorosin, it was the man’s face-mask, and he’d torn it half to ribbons in his haste to get it off.
On the street, the innocent bystanders had mostly dispersed like ghosts at cock-crow, their civic duty done and their curiosity satisfied, but the small group of students who Kennedy had summarily deputised stood in a slightly sheepish defensive ring around Izzy, who was still unconscious. Kennedy thanked them and released them back into civilian life. Then there was nothing else to do but wait until the ambulance arrived.
Izzy revived before the ambulance got to them. After a few seconds of not knowing where she was or what the hell was going on,
Similar Books
