Dark Tomorrow (Bo Blackman Book 6) (5 page)

‘Mmmmph!’

Maria, her arms crossed and her posture stiff, eyes both of them warily. She is more relaxed around Kimchi in the sense that she doesn’t loosen her bowels in terror whenever he’s there, but she still doesn’t like him. I have the feeling that Kimchi’s merely biding his time before he begins his all-out doggy cuteness assault.

‘O’Shea!’

‘Mmmmph.’

‘Stop messing around. I need you to see this.’

With some effort he heaves Kimchi off his chest and sits up. ‘Your dog is a beast.’

Maria and my grandfather nod in fervent agreement. I’d like to give them a demonstration of Kimchi’s prowess in the art of slobbery but there are more important matters to deal with. I pass a hand across my forehead. ‘Just get over here. I need you to tell me what you can see.’

O’Shea bounds over, Kimchi trotting at his heels. I nod to Rogu3, he taps a key and the video starts playing.

O’Shea scratches his head. ‘I don’t get it. We’ve seen this. We were watching the whole time you were there.’

I keep my eyes on the screen, trying not to notice my frozen features and the terror of so many of the witches staring at me. I really do look like a thug. Scarlet steps forward and starts speaking. There’s no sound. We watch as the silent conversation plays out once more and I pretend not to see Rogu3 shudder when I stroke the boy’s cheek. Then the second man pushes forward and whispers in Scarlet’s ear, his thin lips forming the words that almost sent me over the edge.

‘There.’

‘What?’

My grandfather sucks in a breath through his teeth and turns away. The others haven’t caught it yet. I tell Rogu3 to go back and play it again. This time O’Shea’s breath quickens. ‘Oh. The slimy politician strikes again, I see.’

So I didn’t imagine it. Rogu3 stares at the screen, mouthing to himself as he works it out. His lip curls. ‘“Hale won’t like this.”’ He turns his head to me. ‘That’s what he’s saying, right?’

I keep my arms loose at my sides but my fists are tightly curled, anger bunching every sinew. ‘Yeah. I think so.’

‘So he planned with Medici to bring down all the Families. When Medici was destroyed too, he shifted gear and is making sure there are no more vampires left. I wonder what he’s offered the witches for their compliance.’

I snort. ‘They probably jumped at the chance and did it for free. And there are humans there too.’

‘Hale wants to ensure that the Families don’t regroup,’ O’Shea says. ‘He wants to exterminate every last trace of the bloodguzzlers for good.’ He glances at me. ‘And I thought you were the psycho one, Bo.’

Without turning round, my grandfather speaks up. ‘That dead guzzler is Medici. Perhaps Vincent Hale was attempting to get rid of any last witnesses who might know his role in all this.’

‘Whatever his motives,’ I say coldly, ‘we can’t let him get away with it.’

‘Bo, he’s a Member of Parliament, a democratically elected official. It’s one thing going after petty thieves or black witches but a human MP? The consequences could be devastating.’

‘MI7, yes?’ Maria asks.

I jerk. ‘Pardon?’

‘MI7.’ She waves a thin, pale hand. ‘This MI7. You tell them. They take care this … man.’

The annoying, insistent voice in my head pipes up in angry reflex. No, I want to do this myself, just like I want to find X and destroy him myself. I know I’m being a stubborn fool but that’s not going to change how I feel. I focus on the ache in the centre of my chest. I try to remind myself that this isn’t about my feelings, there’s much more at stake. I have to look at the bigger picture.

‘As much as I hate to say it,’ my grandfather says, ‘MI7 won’t involve themselves in this. Without incontrovertible proof, they can’t.’

‘We’ve got proof!’ O’Shea gesticulates wildly. ‘There! That bloody video is proof!’

‘It’s nothing more than hearsay.’

‘Bo…’ Rogu3 begins.

I hold up my hand. ‘I know, I know.’ I curse under my breath. I didn’t want it to come to this but Hale has forced my hand. ‘We’ll go to your place and get that damn software you need. That wanker needs to be stopped.’

Rogu3 doesn’t call ahead. It would make life a damned sight easier if his parents knew we were coming but we can’t risk their phones being tapped. Rogu3’s association with me is well-known; anyone could be watching his house. Whether it’s hybrid witches, vulture-like journalists, Kakos daemons or Vincent bloody Hale, there are more than enough groups that we need to avoid if we want to keep everyone safe. That means sneaking in under cover of darkness and in full-blown stealth mode. In this scenario, less is more and Rogu3 and I would have managed it fairly easily. Unfortunately Maria has other ideas.

‘I come,’ she insists. She hooks her arm through Rogu3’s.

I can see the shiver of delight in his eyes at her touch. I don’t care. ‘No.’ My tone is meant to brook no argument. If only.

‘I come,’ she repeats.

‘It’s too risky. It’s bad enough the two of us going. We don’t know who’s waiting out there for us. Someone might have staked out the place.’

O’Shea sniggers. ‘Staked.’

I glare at him. He’s not helping. I look at my grandfather for suggestions but he simply appears amused; in fact, his expression is actually quite smug, as if he’s saying that now I know what it’s like to have to deal with a stubborn idiot. He’s had the monopoly on that for years with me.

I sigh. ‘You have to stay here.’

For Maria, the answer is simple. ‘No.’

‘Why?’

She shrugs. ‘I want see Alistair home.’

I glare at Rogu3. He smiles innocently as if it’s nothing to do with him. Bloody teenagers. ‘You are not coming,’ I tell her.

She releases Rogu3 and steps up to me, her long hair swinging. She flips it behind her back in a practised move and meets my eyes. There’s something vaguely degrading about having to crane my neck to look up at a teenager. Damn my height. ‘You no want me come because of danger.’ She cocks her head. ‘Who you think I am? Years I spend in danger. Years I spend as plaything of … men.’ Her voice lowers and she speaks without any inflection. ‘They hit me. They refuse me food. I am…’ she struggles for the right word ‘…slave. You think I afraid of daemons? Of witches? Of you?’

The amusement has vanished from both my grandfather’s and O’Shea’s eyes. Floored, I swallow hard. ‘Okay,’ I say eventually. What else am I supposed to do? ‘You can come. But you do everything I tell you to do.’

‘Yes, Bo,’ Maria replies serenely.

‘Like that’s going to happen,’ O’Shea mutters. ‘And if she’s going, why do I have to stay behind? You might need back up.’

‘You need to stay with Michael.’ My grandfather is strong mentally but he’s going to be no good in a fight. MI7 safe house or not, I need to know that someone is protecting the man I love. I harden my voice in case my own vulnerability is showing. ‘Don’t leave his side.’

I’m not fooling O’Shea. He reaches out and pulls me into a massive bear hug, squeezing me tightly against his chest. Tears prick my eyes. I’m not going to cry though, I won’t let myself. ‘I won’t, Bo. Besides,’ he whispers, ‘I’ve always wanted to have that hunk of gorgeousness in bed beside me.’

I manage a smile. ‘I can always count on you.’

He grins back. He knows what I mean. Sometimes I forget that I’m not the only one who’s suffering. Maria has known more pain than I could possibly imagine. O’Shea lost the love of his life only a few months ago. We all have our demons.

‘There’s an MI7 car out back,’ my grandfather says. ‘You won’t find it on any database. It’s completely secure and untrackable.’

We all turn and stare at him. ‘Does it have an ejector seat?’ O’Shea enquires. ‘Because if it does, Michael Montserrat can drown in his own blood for all I care. I’m coming.’

‘Rocket launcher?’ Rogu3 says. ‘Go on, tell me it has a rocket launcher.’

My grandfather folds his arms. ‘It has outstanding manoeuvrability.’

‘It turns into a boat when it hits water?’

He exhales in disgust. ‘I don’t know why I bother. Take the car and get out of here. You’ve only got a couple of hours before dawn.’

I glance at the others. ‘Let’s do this.’

***

As it turns out, the MI7 car is an unremarkable sedan of indeterminate age. Everything about it screams bland; I guess when discreet is your byword, it pays to have a vehicle that wouldn’t draw the attention of a gnat. I note the tinted windows approvingly then hastily get into the driver’s seat before Rogu3 can volunteer to drive. He’s still under age but that hasn’t stopped him so far.

There’s something oddly comforting about driving through the quiet streets of London at this hour. I suppose I’ve been conditioned to enjoy darkness. I was sure that as soon as I was strong enough to withstand the UV rays during daylight I’d never return to stalking the streets at night but it actually feels good. Perhaps, once all is said and done, I really am a creature of the night.

We whip through the city centre. Even those areas with nightclubs and twenty-four-hour drinking establishments are almost completely dead. I spot a few homeless people shuffling along, the orange hue from the street lights lighting them up in such a way that anyone who didn’t know better would view them as almost romantic figures. Some prostitutes are out and about but their bored expressions tell of a night with little passing trade. I’m tempted to stop the car and pay one for a drink to make sure I keep my strength up but, with the kids in tow, I feel uneasy about being so transparent. Although, as Maria has already pointed out, to view either her or Rogu3 as children is to ignore what they really are and what they’ve already experienced.

The things we do to innocents.

The car pulls almost silently into Rogu3’s leafy street. It might look like your typical family cruiser but a lot of money has gone into making it as stealthy as possible. I kill the lights to aid our approach. Apart from a cat sauntering along a wall, everything is still. We roll to a stop and wait.

The house looks the same as ever. So does the street. ‘It’s fine, Bo,’ Rogu3 insists quietly.

‘It’s not paranoia if they’re really after you,’ I tell him in return.

He leans forward. ‘That car belongs to the Goodsons at number twenty-three. That ancient Rover is the old bloke’s who shouts at passers-by. The one next to it is the Lairds’ pride and joy.’ I flick him a look. He shrugs expansively. ‘What? I engaged in criminal activity too. You don’t think I didn’t know how to cover my tracks and pay attention?’

I don’t answer. Instead I step out and activate the child-lock, securing both Rogu3 and Maria inside. Ignoring his yelp of protest, I stroll across the road. I’m not letting either of them out until I’m sure we’re safe.

I circle, keeping every sense alert. He’s right about the cars: no one is hunkered down in any of them. None of the houses display flickering shadows or twitchy curtains. So far so good. Next, I move up to his parents’ house.

The garage door is firmly closed. I wonder idly whether they’ve turned it into a typical suburban depository for lawnmowers and wheelie bins now that Rogu3’s equipment has been turfed out. I inch towards it and listen. Nothing. Satisfied that it’s empty – of people at least – I walk over to the house. The curtains are closed but there’s a gap at the side of the living-room window which I peer through. The room looks the same as ever.

I skirt round the back way and check the garden. There’s a scrap of lawn edged with newly turned earth and a spinning clothes dryer. I crouch down and count to a hundred in my head. Nothing changes. Nothing moves. There is, however, a single footprint in the earth to my right.

I stare at it. The toe is pointing away from the house towards the fence that divides this house from its neighbour. Someone was here very recently and, judging by the imprint, it was a woman. A stiletto-heeled woman. Hope flares briefly inside me but I quash it. There’s no time for this right now. I gnaw my bottom lip. Whoever she was, she’s not here now. It’s time to get on with the matter in hand.

I release Maria and Rogu3 from the confines of the car. Both of them scowl at me. Maria opens her mouth but I gesture at her to keep quiet. ‘Do you have a key?’ I whisper.

Rogu3 nods. We steal back to the front door and, with the merest clank as it turns in the lock, he opens up. Before he can step into the porch, I bar his way with my arm. ‘Bo,’ he hisses. ‘It’s fine. No one’s here. No one’s after me.’

I don’t remind him that the last time I was here it was because X himself was hanging around in the street outside. Or that there might be any number of surviving Tov V’ra members who realise Rogu3 double-crossed them and have come looking for vengeance. I just wait, cocking my ear and listening. There’s the faint rumble of a snore from upstairs. I exhale silently and pad forward, gesturing to Maria and Rogu3 to follow.

The interior of the house is as I remember it. I’ve never been up to Rogu3’s room before but I have a good idea where it is. I place a foot on the first step, then the second. A heartbeat later, Rogu3 grabs my arm and squeezes it hard. I glance back at him in alarm. He points down at the third step and I understand: squeaky floorboards. I nod and skip up to the fourth step. The snoring continues.

At the top of the staircase, it’s obvious which way to turn. To the right, there’s a closed door emblazoned with a huge sign written in binary. Underneath are the words: ‘This means keep out!!!’ I throw Rogu3 a look and he shrugs, the tips of his ears turning pink.

Maria is enchanted. She beams at him. ‘Very cute,’ she mouths.

His eyebrows snap together in a glower. He sniffs and pushes past, opening the door and beckoning us inside.

If I expect the room to smell like teenage boy, I’m sorely mistaken. Rogu3’s mum obviously takes cleaning seriously. There’s been a considerable amount of air freshener dispensed within these four walls. There’s a bunk bed, with neatly laundered sheets, a desk stacked high with computer manuals, school books and a few photos, and a large wardrobe. There’s also a life-size poster of some Z-list celebrity wearing very little clothing. Rogu3’s ears go from pink to flaming red.

‘She very cold,’ Maria remarks, with a raised eyebrow. ‘Her … nipples? They…’

Rogu3 coughs. I press my lips together hard.

‘Let’s just get what we came here for,’ he says furiously.

He opens the wardrobe, heaving out a pile of clothing to reveal an expensive-looking safe. Even Dire Straits didn’t boast a model as up-to-date as this one. I knew that Rogu3 made a lot of money out of his hacking ventures, but enough to need this security? Maria and I watch as he bends down and presses the pad of his thumb to open it. It’s not quite as secure as the MI7 warehouse but it’s not far off; no wonder MI7 offered him a damn job. He reaches inside, pulls out some manila envelopes and stuffs them into an empty bag. Then he carefully closes the safe and stands up.

‘Done?’ I ask. He nods. ‘Do you want to see your parents?’ It’s a serious question. Now that he’s with me and my world has exploded into the mess it’s in, there’s no telling when he’ll get a chance to see them again. We could wake them up. Quietly.

‘My mum will only freak and try to get me to stay. And my dad…’ His voice trails off. Yeah, his dad will probably try to punch my nose for landing his son in such shit yet again. ‘I’ll leave them a note.’

He opens a drawer and scrabbles for a pen and a scrap of paper. As he starts to scribble a few words, Maria gasps. I turn to her. Her face is almost pure white and her eyes are fixed on one of Rogu3’s photos.

‘Maria?’ I ask.

She doesn’t answer. I follow her frozen gaze to an old photo in a small wooden frame. I scoop it up, my blood chilling as I examine it. ‘This?’ I ask.

Maria doesn’t move. Her eyes dart to Rogu3 who, sensing that something is amiss, slowly turns. He looks from her to the photo and back again. I can hear my heart thudding against my ribcage. Rogu3’s a lot younger in this photo. I know for a fact that it was taken long before I met him because his arm is hanging loosely round a young girl’s shoulders and they’re grinning at each other. I’ve never met the girl before but I know who she is. The entire country knows who she is. She’s also the reason Rogu3 and I met in the first place.

‘Alice,’ Maria whispers. ‘That is Alice.’ She stares at Rogu3, the teen infatuation fading from her eyes to be replaced by an unmistakable look of fear.

***

Maria doesn’t say a word on the journey back. She curls up in the back seat and, when Rogu3 attempts to sit next to her, she shrinks away and points at the front. He throws me a quick, confused look, as if he’s looking for guidance. I shake my head in warning. We need to get back to the relative safety of the warehouse first.

Alice Goldman was exactly seven years and five months old when she was abducted from the street in broad daylight. She was cycling home from a friend’s house after an afternoon of playing hide and seek, a journey that should have taken less than ten minutes. Alice was a sensible girl and it was supposed to be a safe neighbourhood. Tell that to her grieving parents – or to the many others who were affected by her disappearance. Her pink bike, with streamers tied on the handlebars, was left discarded and dented by the side of the road. You don’t need much of an imagination to shudder with horror at what must have happened to her.

A missing child, especially one with cute, curly blonde hair and huge blue eyes, galvanises even the most apathetic into joining search parties. People searched in their thousands, tracking through nearby woodland, stopping cars, putting up posters. None of it did any good. Her parents were questioned time and time again. Police patrolled the streets, knocked on doors and glared at anyone who looked even remotely suspicious. There was appeal after appeal. Her innocent face was plastered across every newspaper in the country and repeatedly emblazoned on the rolling news channels. But we all know how these stories usually end and Alice had, to all intents and purposes, vanished into thin air. After two weeks of fruitless searching, her bloodstained clothes were found dumped in a bin. And there was a lot of blood. There may not have been a body but it was clear that little Alice would not be returning home.