Combustion (18 page)

‘1138. Apartment seven.’

‘Here.’ They pull up under a eucalyptus and Judd nods at the white, three-storey apartment block opposite. ‘That’s it.’ He thinks about it. ‘Number seven should be ... on the first floor, second from the end.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘We lived around the corner, just off Wilshire. I used to ride my bike down this street.’

‘Right.’ Corey takes in the building. It has a security door at the front. At the rear is a narrow alleyway that runs the length of the block and services the ground-floor parking area. Overhanging the alleyway is a line of eight balconies, at the very end of which sits a large dumpster. The alleyway faces the blank wall of the next block so it’s relatively private.

The Aussie grins his crooked grin. ‘Think I have a way in.’

They hide the bikes behind a row of large-leaf plants in the building’s front garden then move down the driveway to the dumpster. It’s both heavy and unwieldy, but they muscle it to a position under the seventh balcony, then climb on top, grab the railing and pull themselves up. On the balcony sit two sad, rusty metal chairs and a rickety wooden table.

Corey looks over the railing and speaks in a low voice to Spike on the alleyway below: ‘I need you to be a
watch
dog, for a while, okay? Keep a look out and if you see anything, don’t be shy.’

Spike barks up at him.

‘Yes, if there’s lemon sorbet I’ll get it for you.’

Corey turns to Judd as he pulls on the handle of the balcony’s sliding glass door. It’s locked. ‘How are we going to —’

Smash.
Judd swings one of the chairs into the glass and it shatters.

‘What are you
doing?’

‘What? It’s not like the guy’s going to mind.’

‘I’m trying to keep everything low-key and quiet, whispering to the dog, and you’re smashing windows? What’s got into you?’

‘Nothing.’ Judd leans through, unlocks the door and slides it open. ‘I just want to get on with it.’

They step inside. It’s dark. The place has the dank smell of unwashed laundry. Burger King wrappers and drink containers cover the cheap, nasty furniture. It’s a classic bachelor pad, lacks both charm and even a nod to basic hygiene.

‘Looks like he’s already been robbed today.’ Judd heads straight for the small, rusty refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen. He grabs the freezer doorhandle and yanks it open. ‘Rum and raisin or cookie dough?’

Neither. It’s empty. Judd’s surprised and disappointed. ‘There isn’t even any ice-cream.’

‘Mate, I never thought that bloke was fair dinkum.’

‘Fair what?’

‘Dinkum.
It means he was full of crap.’

Judd pushes his hand into the icebox and feels around, hopes the counteragent is hidden in there, that Alvy was under the misguided notion that a few ice cubes would add a layer of impregnable security.

Corey looks around the kitchen. ‘I don’t know why you’re so surprised —’

Judd draws out two metal canisters and shows them to Corey with a wide grin. ‘I guess he was fair dinky after all.’

Corey studies the canisters in shock. ‘Dink
um
. Fair dink
um.’

They examine the canisters. They are each slightly larger than a can of Red Bull, but much heavier, milled from solid aluminium. Their flip-lid contains a small numeric keypad with an LED screen built into it. Judd reads the handwritten sticker attached to the bottom of both canisters.
‘One drop per litre.
I’ll keep one, you keep the other. Just in case.’ He passes it over.

Corey takes it. ‘What was the passcode again?’

‘274.’

He punches 274 into the keypad. With a heavy click and a swoosh of compressed air the lid unlocks. Corey flips it up and looks at the residue on the cap. It’s a bright red viscous liquid. ‘What should we do with them?’

‘Get them to the authorities.’

‘And who’s that?’

Judd thinks it out. ‘The - ahhh, the police - no, Centre for Disease Control? No - the FBI? Yeah, the FBI. The Federal Building’s not that far from here, if I remember. I had to go there during my last press tour. We should get moving.’

Corey’s sceptical. ‘Mate, we’re not even sure it works. It could be red cordial for all we know.’

‘We’ll test it when we get there —’

Spike barks in the distance.

Judd turns to Corey. ‘What?’

Corey’s expression is grim. ‘Ponytail.’

~ * ~

Kilroy followed the two guys until he hit the gridlocked carnage on Santa Monica Boulevard, then lost them. He then surmised - he preferred that word to guessed - they were heading to Alvy’s apartment and took a back street route to get here. The dog in the alleyway, which seems to have run off now, and the dumpster in position below the balcony and the smashed glass door seem to indicate they are inside. But why?

The counteragent.

It’s the only thing that makes sense. Alvy must have kept some offsite, in case of an emergency, or as insurance, then told these guys about it before he died. He must have been pretty damn convincing to prompt two complete strangers to come down here and get it.

He checks that his Glock 9mm’s magazine is full then looks out from his parked Prius and takes in both the front and rear exits of the building. No one will be able to leave that building without him seeing them.

~ * ~

Flat to the floor, Judd and Corey crawl towards the balcony window and look left. They scan the far end of the alleyway and South Carmelina beyond it - and can’t see any sign of Ponytail or his Prius.

Judd’s confused. ‘Where is it?’

‘He said he’s sitting in the car but I don’t - wait, there it is. Reflected in the car opposite.’

Judd looks closer, sees the outline of the Prius reflected in the white paint of a van parked on the opposite side of the road. ‘Yep. Got it. I’m pretty sure he can see both the front and rear exits from there.’

‘Jesuschweppes.’

‘You know it’s Jesus
wept,
right? As in, “boo-hoo, I’m having a tear”, not
Schweppes
as in, “Thank you, Stephan, I’ll have another gin and tonic”.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘One hundred per cent.’

Corey’s not at all convinced. ‘Anyway, you have any ideas?’

‘I should never have come back to LA? There’s one.’ They crawl away from the balcony window and find their feet. Immediately Judd’s hands go Rubik. ‘There’s got to be a way out of here.’ He needs a plan. Unfortunately he can’t think of a damn thing. ‘Christ.’

Corey turns to him. ‘I got an idea.’

Judd squints. ‘Hmmm?’

‘What’s that sound?’

‘Well, you know, sometimes —’

‘What?’

‘— your ideas aren’t always, you know —’

‘No, I don’t know.’

‘Fantastic.’

‘Excuse me? That’s not true. At all.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Would you stop making that sound. It’s a good plan.’

‘What is it?’

‘Well, now you’ve made me self-conscious. But it is good.’

‘You keep saying that but I haven’t heard anything yet.’

‘I can tell you it’s better than standing around twisting your hands in the air hoping for the best.’ Corey mimics Judd’s hands when they go Rubik, then heads for the front door. ‘Come on. I’ll tell you on the way.’

‘On the way where?’

‘To where we’re going to carry out the plan!’

Judd takes a moment, then follows Corey out.

On the open walkway outside the apartment the Australian looks around, finds a stairwell that leads to the ground floor and moves down it. He glances back at Judd. ‘What’s going on with you?’

‘What?’

‘You don’t have any ideas, then you criticise me when I do?’

‘Sorry, my bad.’

‘Should bloody hope so.’

Corey has every right to be annoyed. There
is
something going on with him. Yes, Judd wants to prove that he’s deserving of the world’s adulation, but he can’t do that if he can’t come up with a goddamn plan and that pisses him off, especially if Corey has one. That’s part of the reason why Judd desperately wants the counteragent to be genuine. If he can bring it to the world’s attention and somehow stop what’s going on, he might feel like less of a fraud. He doesn’t want to tell Corey this for a number of reasons: the first being that it’s embarrassing, which is also the second and third reasons. It always amazes him what he’ll do
not
to be embarrassed.

They reach the ground floor. Corey moves fast, searches, finds a door, opens it. It’s the communal laundry. He moves on, opens another door - and grins when he sees what’s inside. He gestures for Judd to look in. ‘That’s my plan.’

~ * ~

Kilroy keeps one eye on the apartment and one on his iPhone as he swipes his way through the main news sites. There’s breaking news about the explosions in LA, but no sign of the video he created, not even on YouTube. Strange. Bunsen said he’d post it once Phase Three began. Of course, he is undermanned, which is partially Kilroy’s fault, but still it should be up by now. The old man quickly taps out a text message to Bunsen, tells him Alvy has been dealt with but there is one other issue to resolve before they can meet, then reminds him to post the video. He’d do it himself, but the file is on Bunsen’s MacBook Air and needs to be posted with the relevant software filters so the IP address is untraceable.

He places the iPhone on the passenger seat beside him and turns back to the apartment. ‘Come on.’ This is taking too long. His impulse is to rush in there, gun blazing, and deal with the problem head on, with deadly force. He doesn’t. They could slip away if he isn’t pinpoint accurate. No, softly, softly is the best approach. He just needs to wait for them to emerge then take them out, unawares.

Clunk.
The roller door to the parking area shudders and slowly rises. He turns to it, pistol on his lap, and waits, ready for whatever the afternoon may bring.

Clank.
The roller door shudders to a stop to reveal a white, two-door Buick LeSabre, a big old heavy tank from the early eighties.

The Buick’s engine revs and its rear tyres light up at it lunges out of the garage and swerves towards the Prius.

‘What the hell?’ Kilroy realises he is not, in fact, ready for whatever the afternoon may bring - especially when it’s two tons of hurtling Detroit iron. He presses the Prius’s start button, slams the vehicle into reverse and hits the accelerator. The car lurches backwards, but it’s not fast enough -

Crunch.
The Buick spears into the front quarter of the vehicle and knocks it a metre sideways, pops a front tyre. The side airbag triggers and slams into Kilroy’s head and shoulder. Dazed, he looks into the other car and locks eyes with the driver.

It’s the Australian guy from the
Atlantis
4, the one with the sheep dog. Kilroy saw him on Jon Stewart once. The guy slides out of the car and sprints towards the garage.

Kilroy grabs the Glock from his lap, pushes open the door, steps out and aims the pistol at him: ‘If you’re going to kill me you better make sure I’m dead.’

~ * ~

Corey sprints towards the garage and the safety of a wide cement pylon, where Judd takes cover. He steals a look back and sees Ponytail swing a pistol towards him.

Damn. Corey realises he’s not going to make it to the pylon in time. Maybe Judd was right. Maybe his ideas aren’t that fantastic after all. That car should have exploded by now. Why in hell hasn’t it exploded? His eyes flick to the Buick’s exhaust.

It’s pitch black -

Ka-boom.
The vehicle detonates - and rocks the world. The car rises a metre off the ground as the blast wave hits Corey and drives him into the floor of the parking garage’s entry.

Ears ringing, the Australian forces his eyes open and sees Ponytail lying on the driveway ten metres away, his left shoulder on
fire.
He
must
be dead. Surely he couldn’t have survived that blast -

Ponytail twitches. His right hand rises - and tamps out the flames on his shoulder, then reaches for the pistol that lies on the ground in front of him.

‘Oh, come on!’ Corey drags himself to his feet, but he’s groggy and isn’t moving as fast as he should.

Ponytail picks up the weapon and aims it at the Australian, pulls the trigger -

Bam.
Judd yanks Corey behind the pylon as the bullet pings off the cement and ricochets into the parking garage.

Corey turns to the astronaut. ‘Thanks, mate.’

‘This way.’ Judd pulls him into the parking garage.

~ * ~

Kilroy finds his feet and swings around the pylon, pistol raised, finger tight on the trigger -

No one there. They can’t have gone far. He keeps the pistol raised and enters the parking garage, scans the dimly lit space. It’s large, takes up the whole ground floor of the apartment block. It must have forty car spaces though half are empty.

~ * ~

Judd and Corey crouch by the passenger door of an old Ford Mustang. Corey rubs his temples, tries to wake himself up.