Decoy (4 page)

Ahmed Seladin sat in the back of the British Gas van, nails chewed down to the quick, eyes gritty and tired. Another night without sleep. Another day tangled up in this nightmare, cramped and uncomfortable. Speeding along unknown roads, through unfamiliar cities. The man opposite looked at him and shook his head.

“Not used to this type of work are you my friend? You need to toughen up. Stay alert. No mistakes this time.” Another of the Chinaman's goons. A seemingly indestructible force, capable of storming through each day without stopping for something as ridiculous and unnecessary as sleep.

“You have the injection ready?” He said. The plan was a quick snatch. Grab the boy and bundle him into the van, get the sedative in as quickly as possible. The floor was covered with plastic sheeting, ready for Dr. Seladin's scalpel.

“Here,” Ahmed said, taking a loaded syringe from his flight case. “Jab it in the neck and squeeze. He'll be out in a second. Just try not to stab yourself with it in the meantime,” he added sarcastically. The man gave him a cold look.

There were two other heavies in the van. Silent, awkward in their civilian clothes. They'd assumed that strange posture veteran soldiers adopt before battle, alert but relaxed, a heightened state of readiness with a minimum amount of physical effort.

“Go! Go! Target is in the open!” The driver shouted. Movement all around, Ahmed pressed himself against the side of the van as the doors swung outwards, avoiding the flailing arms and legs of the men clambering past, sprinting down the street. He caught sight of the man emerging from the house, took in his height and build. For one brief moment Ahmed found himself hoping he might land a punch or two on the heavies, make life a little harder for them.

It all happened so quickly Ed Garner barely had time to react. He was scanning the text file he'd been sent on Amanda's family and friends. The noise of the van doors swinging outwards and three sets of feet charging down the street made him look up. He saw their intention, the speed with which they were closing down the space. No way of getting there in time.

Amanda was on the doorstep, Jack behind her. Ed needed back-up. He couldn't dive in on his own, waving his service issue revolver. Goodness knows what kit they had with them, what was in the van. He sent the emergency signal. Switched to camera mode, got the van, the number plate. Back to the attackers. They were on the boy now, one heading straight for him, two peeling off to one side.

“Come on Jack!” Amanda's voice from the doorway. “Cab's waiting outside.”

Jack saw them before he was fully out the house. Three galloping forms out the corner of his eye. It was his reaction speed that saved him. The fraction of a second to prepare, set your balance, position so you can use the speed of your attacker against him. And he knew they wouldn't suspect he could fight.

He yanked hard at Amanda's hooded top, pulling her behind him into the house, slamming the door so she was trapped inside. The first man was on him, Jack bent low, in one smooth movement the knife pulled from his sock, slammed it upwards, the weight of the man rolled him over his shoulder, the blade straight, tearing through exposed skin.

The attacker collapsed backwards, clutching his neck, an arterial spray of blood through his closed hand. Jack didn't stop, low with the knife at the second attacker, swerving to avoid something, the point of a needle veering close to his eye. Swinging the blade to his right, sending him off balance, then a crippling punch to the man's kidneys, a hard right into his neck. Enough to send him spluttering backwards. They weren't armed, Jack realised. He might actually win this.

A grip, strong as iron from behind. The third man pinning his arms to his sides. He kicked back, scraping his heel over the knee cap, hard as he could. The man grunted, the vice loosened. Jack stabbed wildly behind him, into the man's thigh—after the neck, the easiest point to hit a major artery. A thumping at the door behind them, Amanda pushing it outwards, cricket bat in her hand. He heard it crack into the man's head, not once but twice. The man released his grip, dropped to the ground.

“Come, quickly,” she said, pulling him towards the taxi waiting further down the street. They ran hard, dived into the back seat.

“Addenbrookes hospital!”

The driver didn't hear. His head bobbing up and down, tinny Turkish pop music from his headphones. Jack yanked them off the man's ears.

“Addenbrookes!” he said again.

“Sorry, my friend. Very good tune. You know?” He pulled slowly away from the kerb, oblivious to the fracas in the street behind him.

Jack looked over his shoulder. At least they were on the move. Three bodies in the street. Two of them getting awkwardly to their feet. The third immobile on the ground. A mess. As the cab turned the corner, he was surprised to see a British Gas van pull up alongside the bodies. They clambered inside, heaving the third man with them. Jack resisted the temptation to make a bad joke about Amanda not paying her gas bill.

Ed was stunned. He could not quite believe what he just witnessed. The boy had taken out three professionals. Three men floored as if they were straw-stuffed scarecrows. Well, with a little help from the blonde. He forwarded the footage to HQ. Taxi. Where was a bloody taxi? Never one when you needed it. No matter. He had the number plate and the name of the mini-cab firm Jack and the girl had used. He could find out easily enough where they were headed.

Sir Clive watched the footage Ed had sent, a large hand ruminatively rubbing his square chin. The boy had a talent for fighting, no doubt about it. And two of the moves he pulled Sir Clive remembered from his own SAS training many years before. Was that what teenagers spent their time doing these days? Learning Kung Fu and street fighting techniques? Somehow he doubted it.

“Mary, can you run a background check on the boy's immediate family? I want to know if there's any connection with the armed forces.” He said. Mary nodded, entering the information into the Service's databases.

Something about the way Jack handled himself put Sir Clive in mind of a young solider he'd known at the Herefordshire base, long time ago. A legendary figure, even amongst those for whom extraordinary feats of physical strength and endurance were the norm.

“No records for his mother. Not much for his father either. Last known address was a semi in Croydon, south London. No occupation listed, no background information and no other immediate family.”

“Thanks Mary.” He suspected there might have been a change of name somewhere along the line. An attempt to shake off an old identity. A lot of men who were ex-regiment did that. It wasn't so much for security as the need to make a clean break from the past. A new life amongst the civilians.

A knock at the door. “Sir Clive, we've pulled the records from the mini-cab firm. They're headed to Addenbrookes Hospital, research wing,” one of the Information Analysts announced. A bright lad who didn't yet look old enough to shave. Sir Clive nodded.

“Thanks. I want the chopper scrambled, I'm going there myself. Mary, keep an eye on things here. I might need you to run some further checks.”

Something about the footage he had seen made Sir Clive less inclined to trust the retrieval of Jack and the device inside of him to anyone else. This was a task that would require more than brute force. He pulled out his phone.

“Ed, I'm on my way to Cambridge, in the chopper. Target is heading to the Hospital and so am I. I need you to stay with the British Gas van. Do not let it out of your sight. I'm authorising you to use any means possible, take charge of any property you need, but make sure you don't lose sight of it.”

“Will do Sir Clive,” Ed replied. He was already behind the wheel of a stolen Ford fiesta, following the van along the ring road and out of the city. That was the problem in a student town, most of the cars were old bangers. Still, the traffic was horrendous. No need for speed at the moment.

Ahmed Seladin pulled the thread tight, neatly tying the suture and wiping the cut with disinfectant, ignoring a jolt as the van hit a bump in the road. The third set of stitches he'd put in since the debacle outside the house. He leant back to admire his work.

“You are lucky. I am a very neat surgeon.” He said, “scarring will be kept to a minimum.” Privately he was rather proud of the work. The back of a moving vehicle was not an ideal place to carry out such a precise operation, especially with the floor all wet and slippery with blood.

His patient didn't reply, too weak. Ahmed suspected he might not make it, not without a transfusion. He wasn't too concerned about that, he was more concerned about the reaction they would get from the Chinaman when he learnt of their failure.

The taxi pulled up outside Addenbrookes. Jack opened the door and climbed out, realising he had no wallet, no money on him whatsoever.

“Did you bring any cash?” He asked Amanda sheepishly. She nodded and handed a twenty-pound note to the driver, telling him to keep the change and forget he'd had them in his cab. Jack wasn't sure if that was the best tactic. The driver was far more likely to remember the passenger who left a big tip and made a point of asking to be forgotten than the countless other fares he picked up, but he didn't say anything. He'd put Amanda through enough already.

They'd sat in silence during the journey. Jack had reached out for her hand, worried at how cold it felt. She'd barely noticed his touch, eyes staring blankly ahead, a glass wall of shock between her and the outside world. Jack tried to think of something to say but he couldn't, nothing meaningful.

“You were great Amanda. Fantastic.” Her head didn't move, it was as if she hadn't heard him. The shock went deep. Shock at her own reaction to the attackers, as effective as the situation demanded. Shock at Jack's calm response. His seeming ability to shrug it off with barely a second thought. But most of all shock at his face the moment before he pulled her back into the house, before the door slammed. A hint of a smile. On his lips as he turned to face his attackers. It was the smile that bothered her the most.

He followed her through the automatic doors towards reception. These places always smelt the same. The unpleasant tang of disinfectant, synthetic citrus and bleach.

“Can you tell Dr. Anne Fitzgerald that Amanda Marshall is here please,” she said. The receptionist picked up the phone without looking up. They didn't have to wait long. Dr. Fitzgerald burst through the door to their left, curly hair extending in an uncontrolled frizz from all angles, heavy-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose and a pair of slightly too large Birkenstock sandals on her feet.

“Hey Mands. God, you look like you've seen a ghost. I thought Jack was the one that had been on the dodgy clinical trial.”

Amanda stood still, arms at her side as her friend embraced her warmly.

“You okay?” She said, hands on her shoulders, her gaze professional and assessing. Amanda nodded, but didn't speak, didn't make eye contact.

“We had a bit of a difficult journey. I'll explain all about it once we get somewhere more private.” Jack said, aware the receptionist was beginning to register their presence.

“Ok sure, follow me,” Anne replied, swiping her card and leaning into the door. She placed a protective arm around Amanda, throwing a less-than-trusting glance over her shoulder at Jack.

They walked along innumerable corridors, through heavy swing doors, past lifts and trolleys and doctors engaged in ominously quiet conversations. Anne Fitzgerald's lab was behind the in-patient department. An area with no public access. It was a good-sized room. Well lit. Functional and neat. Two work benches down the middle, two more at the side, microscopes at various intervals, trays of petri dishes racked up on the shelves. There was a separate room closed off at one end; Jack could see a great hulking piece of machinery through the door. The old x-ray machine.

“Nice lab” Jack said.

“Thanks, I share the place with two other research fellows. They don't tend to come in on Sundays.”

“Um, I'm pretty sure it's a Saturday.” Jack said, aware his own grasp on the day of the week was not entirely cast in iron. Anne frowned and scratched at her curls.

“Really? If you say so.” Jack noticed a small, foldable camp bed at one end of the room. An unmade blanket on top of it. Anne saw the direction of his gaze.

“Sometimes I lose track of time if I'm working late, so I crash over there. Let me see if I can get something for Amanda.” She opened a cupboard, nimbly catching the rolls of plaster and packets of aspirin that fell out.

“Here,” she said, handing Jack a bottle of brandy. “Pour her a sensible measure.” He looked around for a glass but there weren't any.

“Just use a measuring beaker,” Anne said.

Amanda swallowed. Down in one, gasping as the heat of the liquor hit the back of her throat, the colour coming back to her cheeks.

“Now Amanda dear, what exactly has this brute been doing to you?” Anne pointed at Jack, only half joking. Amanda shook her head.

“I'm not sure if they wanted to kill us, kidnap us, or just frighten the hell out of us, but about half an hour ago I had the first fight I've ever had in my adult life with three men who looked like they were considerably more used to fighting than me.” Anne's eyes bulged. “Shit. Where were you in all this Jacko?”

Amanda replied before he had the chance. “Oh, Jack got stuck in alright. I suspect he has a little more experience of fighting than I do. Possibly even more than they do. Than they did.” She corrected herself.

“Now you're just being silly,” Jack said, relieved to see the more feisty Amanda coming back. “And it was definitely kidnap. Not kill. You should've seen how she handled a cricket bat. They literally did not know what had hit them.”

Amanda shook her head, pouring herself another measure of brandy, smaller this time.

“Anyway Anne, not to be rude, but may I suggest you power up the x-ray machine and we see if we can get this thing out of me,” he pointed at his belly.

“Very bossy isn't he?” Anne said, leaning close to Amanda. She trotted over to the small room at the far end of the lab. “Come along then. Mands said she suspected the thing was somewhere between your stomach and your small intestine. Top off please. If we don't find it first go I'm afraid that's just too bad. I'm not going to blast you with two doses of radiation. We'll have to cut you open and feel about till we've found it. Here, take this.” She handed him a lead lined jacket, open at the front, and put one on herself.

“Stand there.” She pointed to the middle of the floor, manoeuvred the wide grey tube so it was pointing at his belly and stepped out of the room. “Stay perfectly still”, she said. A whooshing sound. Picture taken.

Jack felt something inside of him give way. A moment of uncertainty. The sky before fireworks. He doubled over, crippled by an explosion of pain, a searing light before his eyes. Amanda burst through the door “Quick, onto one of the tables.” She said, dragging him by the arm. Jack was speechless, mouth open dumbly, stumbling after her. He heaved himself onto the work surface.

“The radiation must have done something to the device. Where's the pain Jack? I need you to focus. Where's the pain?” she asked, pushing him onto his back. Anne swabbed his stomach with disinfecting alcohol. From the corner of his eye he caught the surgical flash of a scalpel. He tried to reply but couldn't. Something was stretching, pulling at his guts like a baker kneading dough.

Anne and Amanda stopped, staring at his stomach, a balloon inflating.

“Jack, I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt. Anne will pump some local anaesthetic into you but it isn't going to work in time and I need to start cutting.” Amanda said. Her turn to be cool and efficient. Any other time he'd have been impressed. Right now he just wanted the agony to stop. Eyes wide, he gripped onto the sides of the bench,
focus on the ceiling, focus on the ceiling
. A needle stabbed into his side. A scalpel blade, hot and cold at the same time, a strange release of tension in his abdomen, tissue pulled from tissue. Anne clamped a pencil between his teeth. Crunched to pieces, something leathery instead, a belt?
Breathe Jack, keep breathing
. He clenched his teeth, looked up at the flames, the neon lights of the ceiling transformed into strips of fire. Then nothing. A welcome darkness. His body numbing the pain the only way it could.