Combustion (8 page)

Alvy looks up from his microscope as Kilroy enters the laboratory. Alvy’s surprised Bunsen isn’t personally checking how production of the Swarm is progressing, but keeps it to himself. He gestures to the line of black plastic Rhino drums on the far side of the lab. ‘We’ve made thirty batches of one hundred litres each and are testing each individually. The first twenty are good.’ Alvy turns to Jacob. ‘You have slides for the last ten?’

‘Indeed I do.’ Jacob brings them over on a metal tray and places them beside Alvy. Each slide sits in a sealed petri dish. Jacob jabs a thumb towards the door. ‘Gonna hit the John.’

‘I’ll alert the media.’

Jacob shoots Alvy a wry grin then makes an exit. As the heavy metal door hisses closed behind him, Alvy raises his head to remind him to lock it. Too late, he’s already gone. For nearly three years Jacob has forgotten to lock the door behind him. It’s the only thing Alvy finds annoying about his assistant.

The scientist turns back to his microscope, inspects the remaining slides, then looks up at Kilroy with a smile. ‘They’re all good. We’re ready to roll.’

Kilroy nods. ‘And the counteragent?’

‘All done.’ Alvy points at three canisters, each the size of a large thermos, milled from solid aluminium, which sit on a table to the right.

‘Excellent.’ Kilroy might be saying something positive but it’s not registering on his face. Alvy had taken to calling him
Killjoy
when he wasn’t around.

‘It is. It really is.’ Alvy believes the Department of Defense will be so impressed by the Swarm’s raw potential when they see it in action that it will fundamentally alter their approach to warfare and, as a happy bi-product, save countless lives. It is, far and away, the most important thing Alvy’s ever worked on, a game-changer that will, he believes, make the world a safer place. ‘So what time is the test scheduled for?’

Kilroy’s expression remains neutral. ‘There isn’t going to be a test.’

‘It’s been cancelled?’ Alvy’s clearly disappointed.

‘It was never going to happen.’

‘It - what? What are you talking about?’

‘The Swarm wasn’t created for military use.’

Alvy’s just confused. ‘I don’t - what does that mean?’

‘Exactly what I said.’

‘Then what’s it for?’

‘Urban deployment.’

Alvy thinks it’s a joke, a bad one but a joke nonetheless. He grins - then takes in Kilroy’s blank expression and realises it isn’t. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I’m dead serious.’

Alvy stands instinctively, his face grim. ‘No, no, no!’ His voice rises an octave as he says it. ‘You can
never
do that.
Ever!’

‘And yet we can and we will - today, in fact, and as you’re the only person who can synthesise the counteragent you can’t be around when it happens.’

‘“Can’t be around?” What the hell are you talking about?’

Alvy understands exactly what he’s talking about as light glints off the silenced Glock 9mm pistol Kilroy draws from inside his jacket.

‘Oh, shit-’

The weapon swings towards Alvy as he drives a hand forward and bats the metal tray off the table in front of him.

Bam.
The pistol fires and Alvy feels a sharp pain high on his left shoulder.

Clank.
The spinning tray smashes into the bridge of Kilroy’s nose. He cries out and both hands fly to his face.

This is a positive development for Alvy as the pistol now points at the ceiling. Belying his husky appearance the scientist is surprisingly nimble and springs forward, swings a foot and connects with the side of Kilroy’s left knee.

Kilroy grunts and crumples to the ground. As he falls, Alvy grabs the Glock in his hand. The big surprise is that the pistol twists out of Kilroy’s grasp with minimal effort. Alvy was expecting some resistance but the pistol’s grip is slick with blood, courtesy of the metal tray, which has, he can now see, not only stunned Kilroy but also left a deep gash across his nose.

Alvy sprints ten metres to the lab’s door, the bullet wound on his shoulder stinging like crazy. He reaches for the doorhandle. Thank God Jacob was the last person to use the door. He always forgets to lock it. Alvy wrenches on the handle -

The door is locked tight.

No! Is Jacob in on this? Is he on the other side, waiting to see if the execution has been a success, ready to act if it hasn’t? There’s only one way to find out. Alvy punches the five-digit code into the keypad, raises the pistol and pulls the door open.

There’s no one there. The walkway is empty. Maybe Jacob isn’t in on it after all -

Thud.
A bullet rips into the wall in front of Alvy. He turns. Behind him a groggy Kilroy aims a smaller pistol at him and fires again.

Alvy pivots clear and runs backwards along the walkway, pistol raised and aimed at the door he just exited. Kilroy pokes his head out from behind it and Alvy fires, too low to be anything but a warning shot. Alvy’s never consciously hurt anyone in his life so the idea of actually
shooting
Kilroy doesn’t cross his mind, in spite of everything that just happened. Kilroy pulls back into the room and disappears from view.

Alvy’s back thumps into the door that leads outside. He turns, taps five numbers into the keypad and it unlocks. Gun raised, he yanks the door open and steps into dazzling sunlight -

Bam. A
gunshot rings out. Alvy feels hot pain in his hip as he swings the pistol around, fires in the direction he thinks the bullet came from.

It is silent.

Alvy blinks through the sunlight, looks down, sees he’s been shot in his left thigh. Stunned, he turns and sees Jacob, slumped on the ground in front of him, a pistol in his hand, a bullet wound to the chest. Dead.

‘No.’ Alvy feels sick to his stomach. He just shot and killed a man he thought was a good friend - a man he has eaten lunch with
every day
for almost three years. Unfortunately, he’s also a man who just tried to end Alvy’s life with the bullet now lodged in his hip. Just thinking about it is doing the scientist’s head in. Everything Alvy thought was true is a lie.

‘Gotta move.’ That’s what he must do if he wants to live. He needs to get away from here as fast as possible, before Kilroy reappears. He takes a step - and instantly feels lightheaded, wants to lie down.

‘No!’ He pulls in a deep breath, grits his teeth, looks right, to the car park. His old blue Toyota Corolla is fifty metres away. He moves towards it as fast as he can, which isn’t very fast as a bolt of pain shoots down his left leg with every step. He ignores it, keeps going.

~ * ~

Kilroy likes Alvy, couldn’t help but be impressed by his outsized intellect, knew that Bunsen’s plan was not possible without it. Unfortunately for Alvy, that outsized intellect is also the reason he must now be put down.

Grey ponytail swishing behind him, blood on his face from his still-throbbing nose, Kilroy reaches the end of the walkway, works the keypad and shoulders the door open, weapon raised, finger tight around the trigger of the .38 he kept strapped to his calf in case of emergency.

There’s no sign of Alvy but Jacob is down. Jacob wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier but he’s still surprised Alvy managed to get the better of him. Kilroy scans the area, hears an engine running in the car park, focuses on the exhaust that puffs from the tail pipe of Alvy’s old blue Corolla.

Clearly the scientist planned to make a decidedly unstylish getaway in the sun-faded rust bucket. Kilroy’s best guess, and he tended to guess right, is that he, or Jacob, had hit Alvy with at least one bullet and the guy had collapsed in the driver’s seat before he could clunk the transmission into reverse.

Of course, it’s only a guess so Kilroy approaches the car cautiously, pistol raised. He has privacy. The compound is boarded on all sides by a dense, tightly packed line of two-metre-tall shrubs in front of a high chain-link fence. Bunsen had them installed to protect the compound from unwanted guests and prying eyes when it was built.

Kilroy creeps forward, just five metres away from the Corolla. He glances down, scans the asphalt below his feet. A drip of red blood glistens in the sun. Then another. Alvy
is
hit. The next step is simple. Line him up and pull the trigger. Kilroy crouches low and moves on. Two metres from the Corolla he peers in through the left rear window. The tint is so dark and blistered he can’t make out a goddamn thing inside. His finger tight on the pistol’s trigger, he glides onward, reaches the open passenger window.

There’s no one inside.

~ * ~

Alvy’s plan has worked beautifully, leading Kilroy right to where he wants him. Now he must finish the job. Camouflaged within the tree line that rings the compound, he stands just five metres from Kilroy. Through the foliage Alvy aims the weapon at Kilroy’s chest and squeezes the trigger.

He can’t do it.

Jesus H!
He can’t pull the trigger!
This bastard is trying to kill him and Alvy’s hesitating.
Hesitating!
He’s about to hesitate himself into an early grave. He must make the most of this moment because he knows Kilroy will keep coming after him.

Alvy pulls the trigger. The gunshot rings out - and Kilroy slumps to the ground beside the passenger door. Alvy moves fast, pulls open the driver’s door, slides inside, doesn’t look at Kilroy, just wants to get out of there as fast as possible.

Alvy doesn’t feel any better sitting down. He actually feels worse. His arm and leg scream in pain and his head goes light. ‘Wake up!’ He shouts it, widens his eyes, wills himself to stay conscious. He thumps the Corolla into reverse and hits the accelerator. The car jerks backwards and he points it towards the main gate. He clunks the transmission into drive, floors it and presses the button on his gate remote.

Thud, thud, thud.
Bullets thunk into the Corolla. Alvy instinctively ducks but has no idea where the fire is coming from so doesn’t know if it will do any good.

Smash.
The back window explodes, showers the interior with glass. Alvy looks in the rear-view mirror. Kilroy sit up from his position on the ground, shirt open to reveal the bulletproof vest he wears. He turns and aims his pistol at the Corolla again.

Thud, thud, thud.
Three more bullets pepper the car’s boot as it speeds through the gate. Alvy steers onto the empty street and accelerates away, tyres screeching as they scramble for grip.

‘Christ almighty.’ He takes a breath, tries to process what just happened. It’s inconceivable and yet here he is, on the run with two gunshot wounds. He needs medical attention but first he must tell a cop, or someone in authority, about the Swarm and what is planned for today.

He wonders if anyone will believe him.

~ * ~

9

Bunsen paces the heliport, iPhone in hand. He doesn’t feel good about ending Alvy’s life, but there was no choice. Alvy is one of maybe three people on the planet who understands this nanotechnology well enough to create the Swarm, and is the only man who can disable it.

Bunsen’s iPhone rings.

He sees it’s Kilroy calling and knows it can’t be good news. If everything had gone to plan he would have received a short text from the old man such as: ‘it’s done’ or ‘it’s over’ or something equally pithy. But Bunsen just heard gunshots from the opposite side of the compound and now the phone is ringing. He fears the worst.

He answers with a short ‘Yes?’ then listens. The update from his 2IC takes less than thirty seconds and is worse than Bunsen could have imagined. Jacob is dead and Alvy has escaped. It’s a screw-up of epic proportions.

Bunsen keeps it simple. ‘We continue Phase Two as planned. Find him. Deal with it. If he talks to anyone, deal with them too. Call me when it’s done. Be quick.’ He waits for a ‘yes’ then hangs up. This is not the time for recriminations or Monday morning quarterbacking, and it’s not like there’s anything else that can be done. Bunsen can’t replace either Jacob or Kilroy. His crew is small for a good reason - it’s extremely difficult to find people who are dedicated to such a cause, have the correct skill set and are trustworthy.

This is the first time Bunsen can remember Kilroy screwing up. The old man has been completely reliable over the years, not only for Bunsen but before that, as his father’s general ‘fixer’, doing everything that needed to be done to keep his myriad productions running smoothly. Kilroy persuaded whoever needed to be persuaded, made sure the actors and directors were on time and in good health (that is, not high), and quietly and efficiently cleaned up any mess they made along the way. Though Bunsen’s father wrote and produced light and fluffy sitcoms for a living, it took a surprising amount of strong-arming, bribery, wire-tapping and, yes, even the occasional ‘accidental’ death, to keep the shows on track and profitable. It never occurred to Bunsen that Kilroy would have trouble dealing with
Alvy.
Granted, he is getting older but, still, he’s only sixty-four and he’s been dealing with these kinds of issues since his twenties.

He can’t dwell on it. Whatever the reason for Kilroy’s slip-up it doesn’t change what Bunsen does next. He gestures for Enrico to follow him and they enter the main building through the locked heavy steel door, move along the well-lit walkway and enter the laboratory. Bunsen directs his pilot to use the large trolley to move the black rhino drums containing the Swarm to the helipad while he deals with Jacob’s body.