English. Faith’s internal clock informed her they had
spent nearly twelve hours on this process. Twelve hours during which their targets must
be putting a healthy distance between them.
She picked up the motherboard of a yet
unchecked computer and prepared to hand it to Abel to jury-rig a connection to the
monitor when her eyes settled on a pad of lined writing paper half buried beneath the
mess on the desk. She reached out and picked it up. The last used sheet had been torn
away roughly, leaving a few tattered paper shreds attached to the glue binding at the
top, the tops of several letters in biro. That’s all.
But that wasn’t what Faith was
focusing on.
It was the shallow indentations on the page
that had been directly beneath the torn-away page. She held the pad close toher face, tilting it so that light from the desk lamp fell obliquely
across the paper. She could make out the faintest lines of indentation … the
hard tip of a biro pressed too heavily, too quickly on the page above. The scrawl of
someone in a hurry. Perhaps someone thinking, making a desperate decision. Writing
lists, pros and cons.
She could make out a word, very faint and
not entirely complete. But her mind quickly produced a very brief shortlist of possible
word variables. Only one of them had any relevance to the data she’d been uploaded
with for the mission.
She put the pad down. ‘The team
leader, Madelaine Carter, is taking the team to her childhood home.’
Abel looked up from the soldering iron in
his hand and a curl of blue smoke twisted in the harsh light of the desktop lamp as he
put down the motherboard he was working on. ‘Why do you conclude that?’
Faith handed him the pad of paper. He
squinted at it. And, just as she had, his eyes picked out the faintest markings of
writing.
‘Boston,’ he said.
Faith nodded. ‘She is going
home.’
They emerged from the archway. As they
paced swiftly towards the intersection between Wythe Avenue and South 6th Street, a
Bluetooth conversation passed quickly between them. They needed a vehicle. They needed a
vehicle now. They needed to make up for the lost twelve hours.
Abel stood at the entrance to the alleyway.
It was dark now, an hour after midnight. Street lights bathed the Brooklyn intersection
opposite with sickly neon, punctuated by the regular circular blue flicker of police
lights.
An NYPD squad car was parked diagonally
across theintersection, impeding the flow of traffic in both
directions. Cones placed out to help make the point. No traffic was being allowed on to
the slip road and up the ramp on to the Williamsburg Bridge. No traffic, that is, except
emergency vehicles: fire engines, mobile cranes and diggers heading over into Manhattan,
the occasional solitary ambulance heading slowly back out. No sirens. No horn. No
rush.
Even now, at this late hour, there were
still a few pedestrians out, craning their necks to get a look past the towering
supports of the bridge at the apocalyptic haze on the far side. Manhattan glowed with a
million office lights as usual, but tonight the light pollution was enhanced by powerful
halogen floodlights towards the south end of the island that leaked an unstinting glare
into the night sky like an unnaturally early dawn.
Faith stood beside Abel, both of them now
evaluating the situation. Both of them staring covetously at the NYPD squad car, parked
across South 6th Street. Two policemen stood guard ready to wave back any non-emergency
traffic trying to pick through the cones to cross the bridge. Not that anybody was
trying to get across.
The support units exchanged a cursory
glance.
Perfect.
Abel led the way towards the nearest of the
two policemen.
The policeman noticed Abel’s strident
steps approaching him. ‘Sir, you need to step back!’
Abel drew up a few steps short of the cop.
‘Why?’
‘We’re keeping this access-way
spent nearly twelve hours on this process. Twelve hours during which their targets must
be putting a healthy distance between them.
She picked up the motherboard of a yet
unchecked computer and prepared to hand it to Abel to jury-rig a connection to the
monitor when her eyes settled on a pad of lined writing paper half buried beneath the
mess on the desk. She reached out and picked it up. The last used sheet had been torn
away roughly, leaving a few tattered paper shreds attached to the glue binding at the
top, the tops of several letters in biro. That’s all.
But that wasn’t what Faith was
focusing on.
It was the shallow indentations on the page
that had been directly beneath the torn-away page. She held the pad close toher face, tilting it so that light from the desk lamp fell obliquely
across the paper. She could make out the faintest lines of indentation … the
hard tip of a biro pressed too heavily, too quickly on the page above. The scrawl of
someone in a hurry. Perhaps someone thinking, making a desperate decision. Writing
lists, pros and cons.
She could make out a word, very faint and
not entirely complete. But her mind quickly produced a very brief shortlist of possible
word variables. Only one of them had any relevance to the data she’d been uploaded
with for the mission.
She put the pad down. ‘The team
leader, Madelaine Carter, is taking the team to her childhood home.’
Abel looked up from the soldering iron in
his hand and a curl of blue smoke twisted in the harsh light of the desktop lamp as he
put down the motherboard he was working on. ‘Why do you conclude that?’
Faith handed him the pad of paper. He
squinted at it. And, just as she had, his eyes picked out the faintest markings of
writing.
‘Boston,’ he said.
Faith nodded. ‘She is going
home.’
They emerged from the archway. As they
paced swiftly towards the intersection between Wythe Avenue and South 6th Street, a
Bluetooth conversation passed quickly between them. They needed a vehicle. They needed a
vehicle now. They needed to make up for the lost twelve hours.
Abel stood at the entrance to the alleyway.
It was dark now, an hour after midnight. Street lights bathed the Brooklyn intersection
opposite with sickly neon, punctuated by the regular circular blue flicker of police
lights.
An NYPD squad car was parked diagonally
across theintersection, impeding the flow of traffic in both
directions. Cones placed out to help make the point. No traffic was being allowed on to
the slip road and up the ramp on to the Williamsburg Bridge. No traffic, that is, except
emergency vehicles: fire engines, mobile cranes and diggers heading over into Manhattan,
the occasional solitary ambulance heading slowly back out. No sirens. No horn. No
rush.
Even now, at this late hour, there were
still a few pedestrians out, craning their necks to get a look past the towering
supports of the bridge at the apocalyptic haze on the far side. Manhattan glowed with a
million office lights as usual, but tonight the light pollution was enhanced by powerful
halogen floodlights towards the south end of the island that leaked an unstinting glare
into the night sky like an unnaturally early dawn.
Faith stood beside Abel, both of them now
evaluating the situation. Both of them staring covetously at the NYPD squad car, parked
across South 6th Street. Two policemen stood guard ready to wave back any non-emergency
traffic trying to pick through the cones to cross the bridge. Not that anybody was
trying to get across.
The support units exchanged a cursory
glance.
Perfect.
Abel led the way towards the nearest of the
two policemen.
The policeman noticed Abel’s strident
steps approaching him. ‘Sir, you need to step back!’
Abel drew up a few steps short of the cop.
‘Why?’
‘We’re keeping this access-way
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