Night's Favour (18 page)

Val sighed.
 
He looked at the crumpled packet in his hand.
 
“Sure.”
 
He held it out.

“What can’t you remember?”

“I —”
 
Val rubbed his eyes.
 
“I don’t think you’re right.”

“You’ve been shot?”

“Yes.
 
No.
 
Fuck!”

“Why do you think you’ve been shot?”

The pistol was pointed at his face.
 
It spat its puny fire.
 
He slapped it aside, then grabbed —

“I remember… something.
 
Someone pointed a gun at me.”

“That’s not the same as being shot.”

“Oh, they shot me too.
 
I — fuck!”

Carlisle chewed for a moment.
 
“Tell you what.”

“What?”

She gestured to the vans.
 
“The assholes — whoever they are — that came out of these vans are going to be getting back in them.
 
I think we should be out of here by then.”
 
Carlisle swayed.
 
“I really need a hospital, Everard.”

“You got it.”
 
Val helped Carlisle into the nearest van.
 
“I figure we’ll just borrow one of these.”

Carlisle grinned, blood tinting her lips.
 
“Least they can do.”
 
She coughed again.
 
“Least they can do for shooting up the station, is make a donation to the car pool.”
 
Her face turned sombre.
 
“They killed my friends, Everard.”

Val nodded.
 
“Yeah.
 
Let’s get you out of here so they don’t kill you too.”
 
He shut the door for her, then made his way into the driver’s seat.
 
Val shifted the van into gear, driving them down the street and away from the station.

☽ ◇ ☾

The man stepped out from behind the phone booth he’d taken shelter in.
 
He walked slowly towards the front of the station, boots crunching on broken glass and stone chips.
 
His head tilted slightly as he sniffed the air.

He took his hands out of his pockets to pick up the fallen riot shield.
 
Holding it up to the light, he stared at the holes pierced through it.
 
He stuck a finger through one, wiggling it through the other side, then he breathed out a sigh.

“Ah, yes.
 
The one that got away.
 
Careless.”
 
His accent was thick.
 
He hefted the riot shield in one hand.
 
“Still.
 
Careless can be fixed.”
 
He let the riot shield fall to the ground.

He stood by the body of the man with the collapsed rib cage.
 
He grabbed the front of the man’s flak vest, lifting the soldier as if he weighed no more than a child.
 
He turned the body this way and that, then leaned forward and sniffed the dead man.
 
“Worthless.
 
Broken.”
 
He let the body fall.
 
“Weak.”

He seemed to notice the other soldier’s rifle for the first time.
 
He lifted it and fiddled with it until the red clip came clear.
 
He brought this up to his face, sniffing it again, then jerked it away.
 
“
Serebrom
.”
 
He spat, then let the clip fall to the ground, wiping his hands against his jacket.

“So.”
 
He squared back his shoulders.
 
“This is how we start fixing careless.”
 
He walked up the steps to the station and stepped through the shattered doors to the darkness beyond.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Elsie looked at the Ebonlake captain over her desk.
 
The rich wood was polished, clean of usual office clutter — it gave distance between her and the captain, his failure, and the wheelchair.
 
Her secretary Barnes was at her right, standing straight as the creases in his suit.
 
Men made better secretarial staff than women; they were easy to read, and free of the petty jealousies women brought to the workplace.
 
He’d been with her through the ups and downs of the company, fifteen years now — he could be trusted.
 
An old grandfather clock marked time against the wall, the quiet tick-tock sound the only noise in her office.
 
The damn thing — she glanced at the time on her desk phone — was running slow again.
 
She’d need to get Barnes to see to it.
 
It was always hard to keep up with the details.

She tapped the frame of her glasses against her desk.
 
The situation was impossible, of course.
 
She’d been in tight situations before, but the fact that she might fail — that couldn’t be allowed.
 
Too much was at stake.
 
She’d let the company collapse before she’d fail.

The captain broke the silence first.
 
“Ma’am.”
 
He coughed, the pain showing on his face.
 
He’d tried to hide it, an experienced military man.
 
Or perhaps just a typical man.
 
But she could see the pain around his eyes, the slight creasing at the edges.
 
The eyes never lied.
 
“You asked to see me?”

Elsie looked at him a few heartbeats longer, the old habits of boardroom politics as natural as breathing to her.
 
It was rare that a man didn’t want to fill the silence with his own voice.
 
This one was different though; he sat in the wheelchair waiting for her response.
 
Her respect went up a few notches — perhaps he wasn’t a complete failure.
 
Perhaps he could be used again rather than discarded.
 
The wheelchair had an IV attachment, a clear hose snaking down over his shoulder and into his arm.
 
If his doctor was competent — and it was so hard to find that necessary competence these days — the drip would have something to take the edge off.
 
Taking that edge off might have dulled the man, make him less proficient at this brand of banter.
 
“Captain..?”

“Spencer, ma’am.
 
Tim Spencer.”

“Of course.
 
Captain Spencer, I’m curious.
 
I’d like to get your personal view on today’s operation.”

This was the test.
 
Would he blame someone else?
 
It would be easy to do, given the circumstances.
 
It might even be someone else’s fault.
 
In Elsie’s view, that was never important — blame was parcelled out, given and traded like any commodity.
 
But the person who could accept blame was a rare individual.
 
Despite their flaws, people who owned failure could be made into trustworthy tools.

“Ma’am.”
 
Spencer shifted in the chair.
 
Either the edge hadn’t been taken off, or his injuries were more severe than was apparent.
 
Something internal?
 
“For the record, I’ve accepted full responsibility for the mission.
 
They were my men, acting under my command.”

So.
 
Flawed, but with future potential.
 
She nodded at the captain.
 
“Noted.
 
But I’m not interested in blame right now.
 
I want to know what happened.”
 
She shifted her chair slightly towards Barnes, leaning back a little, then made a small gesture with her glasses.
 
“Continue.”

Spencer looked at her for a few moments.
 
“Our man Christian —”

“Please.
 
It’s better if I don’t know too many…”
 
Deniability was important, especially now.
 
“…details.”

“As you say.
 
Our, ah, operative, reached the objective.
 
He made the signal.
 
The team went in to extract Volk.”
 
The captain cleared his throat.
 
“It wasn’t him.”

“Your man got it wrong.”

Spencer nodded.
 
“It seemed that way to us too, ma’am.
 
Then we lost the team.”

Elsie glanced at Barnes, then back at Spencer.
 
“The police were prepared for you?”

“No ma’am.
 
Our man made sure of that.
 
Their comms were down.
 
They had no idea we were coming.
 
As per your instructions, no officers who saw our team were left alive.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Spencer.
 
I’m not following you.
 
You said your operative gave the signal, but Volk wasn’t there..?
 
How did you lose the team?”

“We followed the likely profile.
 
Long odds reports on the usual channels, police or ambulance.
 
We got a hit.
 
Single male involved in an altercation in the downtown area.
 
As I said, long odds — four on one.”

“Four men against one?
 
He had no help?”

“Ma’am.”
 
The captain nodded.
 
“Police chatter suggests two women were also involved.
 
We don’t find it credible that they had a hand in what happened.”

Elsie snorted.
 
“Because they were women?”

“Because three of the men were hospitalised with injuries severe enough to suggest they’d been involved in a car accident.”

“I see.”
 
Elsie watched Spencer for a few heartbeats.
 
It never hurt to nurture a silence.
 
“You took precautions this time?”

“Yes ma’am.
 
We inserted Chri— excuse me.
 
We inserted our operative according to the parameters that suggested highest success.
 
He was posing as a police interrogations specialist.
 
We think he felt that the contact was good.
 
We believe he thought Volk was there.”

“You think?
 
If you lost the team — again — he may have been right.”

“We’re not sure, ma’am.
 
Our operative was killed before he was able to effect the extraction.
 
Looks like he was shot by the police.”
 
Spencer reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, wincing as he pulled out two photographs.
 
He offered these to Barnes, who placed them on the desk in front of Elsie.
 
“Ma’am.
 
The colour picture is a still from the interrogation video at the station.
 
The police knew him as Valentine Everard.
 
The second picture — the black and white — is a still from another CCTV in the station.
 
Looks like Volk.”

The first photo had a red smudge where the captain’s thumb had touched it.
 
Elsie looked at the shot, then tossed the photo back down onto the desk.
 
The man in that photo wasn’t who she wanted.
 
But the black and white photo — yes.
 
She’d know that face anywhere, despite the grainy image.
 
It was Volk — no question.

“I want to make sure I’ve got this clear, Captain.”
 
Elsie tapped the first photo.
 
“This was the man whom you thought you were extracting.
 
Your operative went to get him.
 
But Volk,”
 
and here she tapped the second photo, “Is who we’re actually after.
 
And they were both at the police station.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“That seems a little far fetched, Captain.
 
What are the odds?”

Spencer coughed — he didn’t try to hide the pain this time.
 
He caught his breath, then started again.
 
“We believe we have a new opportunity.
 
Ma’am.”

“How so?”

“Ma’am, if your intelligence is correct —”

“My money should be good even if the intelligence is not.
 
Humour me.”

“Of course, ma’am.
 
We believe that the man in the first photo — Mr. Everard — should now be considered a person of interest in your inquiries.”

Elsie put her glasses on again, and picked up the first photo.
 
She looked back at the captain.
 
“Are you sure?”

“No ma’am.
 
But I do know that my team encountered resistance from within the station, and outside on the street.
 
Hard resistance, ma’am, but no use of firearms.
 
Despite the lack of firearms, I believe that I’m the sole survivor of the mission.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Smithson is in intensive care, ma’am.
 
He’s not expected to make it.”

“Please, no names.”
 
Elsie winced.
 
The death benefit payments in the contract would be significant.
 
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you make it out, Captain?”

“I lost consciousness.
 
I believe I was thrown out the first floor window.”

Elsie looked at the wheelchair, then nodded.
 
“Very well.
 
I suggest you get together a new team.”

“Ma’am?”

“Captain Spencer, you’ve shown an acceptance of the situation I find refreshing.
 
Your familiarity with the — with both possibilities — will be an asset in the further acquisition of one of these … contacts.”