Rat Runners (33 page)

“We’ve got a camera in the car park,” a third voice said. “The fuzz aren’t there yet.”

“I don’t
trust
stinkin’ cameras. My bloody life’s at stake ’ere. I want someone to be lookin’ out there wiv
their own eyes
.
There’s too much fiddlin’ can be done otherwise.

“Anyway, when we get out of ’ere, we’re goin’ to hunt down this squealer and string ’em up,” Move-Easy told them as the three men strode into the elevator below the three rat-runners. “I swear to God, I’m gonna cook ’em an’ eat ’em.”

In the dim lines of light from the vent, FX and Manikin glanced at Scope, but she avoided looking back. They all watched as Move-Easy took the key from the chain around his neck and fitted it into a keyhole in the control panel. Then he punched the grid of numbered buttons in a certain order, the door slid closed and the lift jolted into life.

As one, the three rat-runners lifted their heads and looked up anxiously at the metal doors blocking the shaft above them. They flinched, ducking down as the lift carried them quickly upwards, threatening to crush them against the doors, which only opened at the last second to allow the elevator car through. It glided up and up, the sound of the winch loud in the echoing shaft.

“I tell ya, lads,” Move-Easy muttered in a voice that was almost vulnerable, his orange face raised towards the ceiling of the car. “This is a
bad
blow, a bad blow. But it’ll be good to see the sun again after all these years. It’s been too long.”

The exits were welded shut on every floor they passed, until they reached a door that was still oiled and working. The three rat-runners watched the doorway slide down past them, and the lift came to a halt, then they lowered their eyes to peer through the slats of the vent.

The doors of the elevator car opened below them, and a stark white light shone through the doorway. But instead of the sunshine that Move-Easy so longed to see, it was the harsh glow of spotlights.

“Armed police!”
A warning was roared from outside. “Put your weapons down and come out with your hands up
immediately
or we will open fire!”

One of Easy’s men made to press the button to close the door, but a shot was fired and he was thrown against the back wall. As his body slumped to the floor, Easy and the other men reluctantly tossed down their guns. Raising their hands
only just
high enough, they walked out into the ring of heavily armed jump squad officers with defiant expressions set on their hard faces.

“What do we do now?” FX asked softly.

“Nothing we can do,” Manikin whispered back. “Except wait. Though I’d suggest we get off this elevator.”

And so they climbed off onto a ledge and waited, listening intently to the noises outside, as the police took London’s biggest gangster away in handcuffs. Some jump squad officers commandeered the elevator and, closing the door, took it back down into the depths of Move-Easy’s bunker to join the fire-fight that was raging below.

The rat-runners crouched on the ledge, looking at each other in the light of Scope’s torch.

“Think Nimmo made it out?” Scope asked, finally voicing her concerns.

“Like he said a while back, it’s what he does best,” FX replied. “Avoiding responsibility.”

They fell quiet again, each one lost in their own thoughts.

“So how long do we wait here?” Manikin spoke up. “How do we know when they’re all gone from out there?”

“Dunno,” FX grunted.

Manikin looked over at Scope, who shook her head and shrugged.

“Oh, brilliant.”

FX used his wireless connection to examine the files on Move-Easy’s data keys, working his way through one key after another, but there were thousands of pages of documents, as well as photos and pieces of video. It would take days to go through them properly.

The elevator shaft was dark and cold, but Manikin and Scope had still managed to fall asleep on the narrow concrete shelf beside him. Hours had passed since Move-Easy’s arrest. FX had tried to look through the stolen paper files, but they didn’t want to waste the battery on Scope’s torch, so now he was examining the digital files. This was the fourth key he had gone through, the information appearing overlaid in ‘windows’ on his normal vision. He loved this, being plugged directly into the data. It was such a buzz, but so far he had found nothing on Vapor.

Finally, he found it. A file on WatchWorld personnel. Names, positions, and the places and dates of the various illegal or immoral activities they got up to. Except instead of having just one name he could nail down as Vapor, there was a list of possible candidates.

“Who are you?” he whispered. “Where are you?”

“Up here, looking down at you,” an echoey voice called softly from above him, giving him such a start that he nearly fell off the ledge.

FX looked up to see Nimmo’s face peering through a small hatch further up the wall of the shaft.

“Git,” FX snapped at him, but smiling as he said it. “You do that on purpose.”

“You lot ever going to come out of there?” Nimmo asked.

“We were waiting for the right moment,” FX replied, as Manikin and Scope woke up beside him.

Nimmo held up his hands.

“This is it. Help from on high.”

“What about the police?” Manikin asked him, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to get the circulation going. “You sure no one’s watching?”

“Someone’s always watching,” Nimmo replied, as he dropped a rope down to them. “But there’s plenty they don’t see.”

PUNKIN COULDN’T BELIEVE his luck. After Manikin had tied him to the pipe in the corridor—having rescued her brother—Punkin had been freed by one of Easy’s other guys, so he could help make a stand against the army of police who had stormed the Void. Punkin had decided fighting a bunch of gun-happy coppers trained by the SAS wasn’t such a good idea. So he’d run to the guest rooms, and locked himself into one of the cells.

The police had found him there, and held him for questioning. His story was that he’d owed money to Move-Easy, and that they’d imprisoned him there, underground, while they decided if they were going to kill him or not. After three days of questioning, the bill remained unconvinced by the story. But they still had nothing solid on him, except that he’d been in the Void. Charged with that relatively minor offense, he’d been released on bail.

Now he was back in Bunny’s arms, as they lounged on a massive beanbag in the small tenement flat he shared with his parents, laughing at the wazzocks on WatchWorld TV and planning how they were going to nail Manikin and FX good and proper.

“We could tell Move-Easy it was them who grassed ’im up to the police,” Bunny suggested.

“Nah, Tubby Reach is saying
he
did it,” Punkin said sourly. “Besides, Easy’s got no power on the street now. Every copper and judge in London has it in for him—most of the villains too. Word got out he’s lost his stash. He’ll be inside for the rest of his natural. An’ ’is natural may not be too long, with all the enemies he’s got.”

“Maybe we should grass
Manikin an’ FX
up to the police?”

“Don’t be stupid, luv—they’ve got as much dirt on us as we have on them. More probably, seein’ how devious they are. No, we’re lucky we got free of the law so easy. We got to play this one smart, so they don’t see us comin’.”

There was a knock at the front door. Punkin and Bunny looked anxiously at one another. With all this talk of the law, neither was eager for visitors. Punkin struggled out of the beanbag and went out into the hall. He took a breath and opened the door.

It was Coda. He was as well-dressed as ever in a gray silk suit, light blue shirt and cravat. But his hair had not been combed, and he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. He didn’t say anything, but Punkin stepped aside to let him in. As the hit man strolled into the living room, Bunny gave Punkin an alarmed glance, which he returned with a fearful shrug, not knowing what else to do. Coda sat down in the only armchair and crossed his legs.

“Have a seat,” Coda said, as if it was his home, and not Punkin’s.

Punkin sat down on the arm of the sofa, which was as far down as his trembling legs would allow him to sink without collapsing.

“It’s interesting that you got free of the police so easily,” Coda began, gazing coldly at Punkin. “I managed to get out of the Void without being seen. I gather they just let you go.”

“They … they … eh … I … I … I was able to—” Punkin stuttered.

“That’s not why I’m here,” Coda interrupted him. “At least, not directly.”

Punkin shut up. Bunny tried to sink deeper into the dark brown beanbag.

“Can I ask you, Punkin,” Coda asked in a smooth, velvet voice that sounded horribly dangerous, “where you were last night?”

“Here,” Punkin said quietly. “Here all night.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“He was!” Bunny blurted out. “He was here with me the whole time!”

Coda smiled at her; a slightly sad but approving smile.

“So loyal, my dear. So loyal!” the hit man continued. “You see, my apartment was burgled last night. Quite a feat in itself, given that the security in the building—which I outfitted myself—is tighter than a duck’s arse. The thieves didn’t take anything. They just cracked the encryption on my laptop and dumped the entire contents of the hard drive onto the web. I am now wanted by WatchWorld, Europol, the FBI and half a dozen other national and international law enforcement agencies for various criminal and terrorist acts I’ve committed over the last few years. Once I’m done here, I’m going to have to leave London—possibly for good.”

“Once … once you’re done?” Bunny repeated in a slightly shrill voice.

“Yes.” Coda reached into his jacket, and drew something out. “You see, when I set about trying to figure out who had carried out this rather
slick
job, the names of two idiots like you would not have been top of my list. But then I found this lying on the floor near my laptop. And this is just the kind of stupid mistake I’d expect you two to make.”

And with that, he held up Punkin’s wallet.

Punkin stared at it in astonishment for a moment before a look of realization blossomed on his face. Curling his hands into claws, clenching his teeth, he let rip with a frustrated, outraged cry:

“Those bloody rats!”

MY FIRST THANKS, as always, go to my family, for their encouragement and support. They are the root of my confidence, but ever-watchful in case I should get big-headed about having my name on the front of a few books. They are my first ‘outside eyes’—my first readers and my most valued critics. I’m especially grateful to my wife, Maedhbh, for her patience, her understanding, and her constant reminders about how weird it is to live with me. I’d disagree, but she’d say that’s just proof she’s right.

My brother, Marek, takes time out of his exploration of the human experience to keep my website working (
www.oisinmcgann.com
), discuss all things newfangled and technical, and answer my various random and awkward questions about … well, anything that comes to mind, really.

A big shout out to all of those passionate and dedicated oddballs who populate the children’s books industry and make it such a fun business to work in—even if it sometimes feels like we’re heading into some bizarre science-fiction world. Please support your local library and librarians! Times are tough and we need them more than ever. Do you know any other branch of your public service that welcomes you into its space and encourages you to spend time there? One where every visit
doesn’t
automatically involve a) paying, b) form-filling or c) speaking through a pane of glass? These places are ours, let’s keep them that way.

Thanks to my wise and ever-vigilant agent, Sophie Hicks, her able deputy, Edina Imrik, and all at Ed Victor Ltd for their continued professionalism.

And finally, a special thanks to Emma Pulitzer and Tim Travaglini at Open Road Media, for their work on the US edition of this book, and for their diligence in making sure I was involved in, and kept informed of, every stage of the process.

With gratitude,

Oisín

Oisín McGann was born and raised in Dublin and Drogheda, County Louth, in Ireland. He studied art at Senior College Ballyfermot and Dún Laoghaire School of Art, Design & Technology. Before becoming an author, he worked as a freelance illustrator, serving time along the way as a pizza chef, security guard, background artist for an animation company, and art director and copywriter in an advertising agency.

In 2003 McGann published his first two books in the Mad Grandad series for young readers, followed by his first novel,
The Gods and Their Machines
. Since then, he has written several novels for young adults, including the Wildenstern Saga, a steampunk series set in nineteenth-century Ireland, and the thrillers
Strangled Silence
and
Rat Runners
.

A full-time writer and illustrator, McGann is married, has three children, and lives somewhere in the Irish countryside.