Target (16 page)

The man let out a holler of pain and bent over. He tried to lift his gun, but Georgie spun round and crushed his hand against the taxi with a precise kick. By then, Felix was up on his feet. He pounded the agent’s chest with a combination punch and jumped into the front seat. Georgie followed him in while the NJ7 agent lay groaning by the side of the road.

Georgie tweaked the engine into life and the taxi hopped forwards.

“Can you drive?” Felix called out.

“How hard can it be?” Georgie replied.

The agent was staggering to his feet. Felix obviously couldn’t punch as hard as he thought. “GO!” he shouted. And that second, they were roaring away.

In the rear-view mirror, Georgie caught a glimpse of the diminishing figure of the NJ7 agent. “Should we go back and kill him?” she asked.

“We don’t need to kill him,” Felix replied, trying to disguise a smile. “But no tip.”

“You’d better leave us for a moment, Miss Bennett,” Jimmy’s father said, his voice unnecessarily loud for the
intimate surroundings. Miss Bennett nodded and walked past Jimmy to the door.

“If anything…happens,” she announced just before she left, “dial 7 to raise the alarm.”

Jimmy heard the door shut behind him. He was alone with his father. A small part of Jimmy wanted to run over and hug him. But that part had been buried too deep for too long. And his hands were still cuffed behind his back. Why didn’t his father come and embrace him? Jimmy felt a tear creeping down his cheek and hated himself for it.

“Stop crying, Jimmy,” his father ordered. He sounded harsh, but Jimmy could hear the subtle crease in his voice. His father was finding this hard too. “I gave orders that you were not to be killed.”

Jimmy allowed a drop of joy to lighten his feelings. But then his father continued. “I gave those orders because I think you will listen to me.” He looked across the room, not at Jimmy, as he spoke. “You have been told some lies by the prisoners downstairs. Some horrible lies.”

“No,” Jimmy panted. His joy exploded into a thousand drops of despair. “You let me live so that I could try killing again?”

“Listen to me, Jimmy Coates!” his father roared. “Hollingdale was right. Absolute power is the only efficient way to run a nation. It is the only way forward for this country! You should be a part of that!”

Jimmy shut out the words. “You kept me alive so that you could convince me to kill for you?” he gasped. His fury was surging over him now, but he clung on to control. “I thought it was because you loved me.”

“I love my country,” Ian Coates whispered.

“What about your son?”

“You’re not my son.”

Ian Coates’s voice echoed around the room and through Jimmy’s head. His tears had stopped as if they had been frozen by shock. He tried to speak. Only a breath came out. ‘You’re not my son.’ Jimmy repeated it in his head. Had his father stopped seeing him as human or did he mean something far simpler? Did he mean that somebody else, and not him, had contributed to Jimmy’s DNA?

There was so much Jimmy wanted to ask. He felt like he would blurt it all out at once if he could, but because that wasn’t possible, he was silent. He kept his eyes fixed on the man he called his father, who looked shocked himself. Perhaps he had never meant to reveal this information to Jimmy.

“Will you do it?” asked Ian Coates, his voice flat. Jimmy didn’t respond. He hardly even took in the question. “I told Miss Bennett that if anybody could convince you it would be me.”

All Jimmy could think about as he looked into the man’s face – a face which was suddenly colourless – was that for eleven years they had lived together as a
family, basically happy. How could his father claim now that his only reason for keeping Jimmy alive was in order to convince him to kill for NJ7? How could he deny that he loved him?

“Join me, Jimmy,” insisted Ian Coates as he lifted the receiver of the phone on his desk. “It’s what you were made to do.” In that moment, Jimmy loved and hated his father more than he ever had.

“Give me your answer,” Ian Coates urged. “Just one word.” His finger hovered over the 7 key.

Jimmy felt his programming bubbling now. It knew that the human part of him felt weak. It was as if Jimmy could hear a whisper.
Yes,
it said, urging him to accept the offer. Refusing would put him in danger. His programming wanted to avoid that, but there was more. His programming was re-energising Jimmy’s insides with a kind of excitement – glee at the chance to rejoin NJ7 and take on the tasks of an assassin.

“The killer in you will only grow stronger, Jimmy,” his father declared, “You’ll never be anything else. Can’t you feel it?”

Jimmy’s father was scrutinising him. Jimmy stayed absolutely still. He didn’t want his father to know that everything inside him was desperate for him to say ‘yes’. Then, gradually, Jimmy shunted his nerves aside. As he did it, he grasped his programming with his mind and turned its power upside down. He needed it, but he needed it to work for
him,
not NJ7.

“I don’t feel like a killer,” Jimmy pledged through clenched teeth. “I feel like there are people who love me. And they love me because I’m human.”

Ian Coates’s expression changed. Jimmy had said enough. The man he had always thought was his father now dropped his gaze to the phone. Something vanished from his eyes. Any trace of compassion dissolved. His finger hit the keypad.

S
OMEWHERE OVER THE
south coast of England an A400M Tactical Transport Aircraft entered British airspace. The four eight-bladed propellers along its wingspan were unmistakable. In a matter of minutes it was approaching London. The pilot checked each of his nine display screens, then gave a thumbs up.

Behind him, a team of four moved towards the paratroop doors. All five people were dressed head to toe in black leather. Black helmets with tinted visors covered their faces.

Then, at the push of a button, the roof of the cockpit burst open. The pilot exploded out of the plane, ejected at a speed of over thirty metres per second. His team followed out of the loading doors. The plane zoomed on, steered by the FMS400 flight management system, turning in an arc to return to France by the most direct route.

The parachute on the pilot’s back opened automatically, as it was designed to do. The small, slim figure plummeted
to earth under a blanket of black silk. After twenty-five seconds, he assumed the ‘flat and stable’ position – back arched, arms and legs spread, hands flat and facing the earth. From here it was less than 600 metres to the ground. But this parachutist wasn’t aiming for the ground.

By shifting his body weight, he steered himself through the air as easily as if he were flying. The roof of the French Embassy lurched up to meet his feet as he broke into a run. After barely a step, he had undipped the parachute harness. His team copied his actions precisely.

Suddenly, the roof of the Embassy was awash with people. An NJ7 team had monitored the drop and now they burst into the open. The pilot dropped to the floor in a forward roll and came up with a knife in each hand, plucked from his belt. He moved too fast for the agents to even cry out as one by one their weapons were cut away by the curved blades of the two daggers.

The team plunged through the fire escape. The French Embassy had once again been breached.

As soon as Ian Coates touched the number 7 on his phone, Jimmy exploded into action.

He harnessed the full force of his programming, fuelling it with his rage. With his hands still trapped behind him, he jumped on to the desk. Ian Coates was stunned for just an instant. He must have feared for his
life.
No,
Jimmy thought.
Have the strength to ignore him.
Their eyes met, and before Ian Coates could do anything, Jimmy bent his knees and sprang into the air once more. He flew straight over Ian Coates’s head, slamming into the window.

He led with his shoulder and closed his eyes. The glass shattered. He soared through it into the open air, but kept his eyes shut, protected from the splinters of glass. Unable to see where he was falling, he had to trust his calculation about the location of the office.

Jimmy stretched his legs directly out in front of him and reached down behind him with his hands. They hit metal – the flagpole where the French flag had once hung so proudly. It dipped slightly as he caught it, and when it sprang back, he pushed himself up. As he twisted in the air, he saw the two guards below him brush the glass off their uniforms and ready their weapons.

Jimmy landed on his feet. He tottered from side to side. It was hard to balance himself with his hands still behind his back, but he did it – he was standing upright on the flagpole. With the precision of a gymnast, he spun round on the spot. Ian Coates stared at him out of the broken window. He was holding the receiver of the telephone to his ear. Jimmy heard the guard below shouting into his walkie-talkie.

“I have a shot,” he cried above the noise of the traffic. “Do I take it?”

Now a team of NJ7 agents flooded out of the Embassy on to the street. From the safety of his office, Ian Coates kept his eyes on Jimmy. His face was twisted, but empty. Jimmy couldn’t hear the words, though he read the man’s lips perfectly: “Shoot to kill.”

Jimmy felt like his heart had stopped as the first shots ripped towards him. But his programming wouldn’t let him die. He flipped over, performing a complete somersault above the flagpole. The bullets sprayed past him. Then there were more.

Jimmy looked down through the haze of a tear, focusing on the barrel of a single gun. He concentrated all his energies on to the one bullet that erupted from the chamber. His ears picked out that one shot above all the others. His eyes processed what he was watching with such clarity and speed that the bullet seemed to be flying upwards no faster than a feather would fall. Jimmy contorted his body and jumped towards the bullet, stretching his hands out behind him.

Perfect aim – the bullet pinged into the metal of his cuffs, snapping them with ease. Jimmy’s hands were free. He instantly caught the flagpole and threw himself towards the building. The agents continued to shoot, but their target was moving like the swirls of a hurricane.

Jimmy’s legs hit the wall of the Embassy. He pushed himself off so fast that one of the agents couldn’t turn in time. Jimmy landed right on the man’s back, gripping him round the neck. Now he had a shield
against the rest of the NJ7 fire. The agent flailed about, trying to throw Jimmy off and trying to twist his gun round to shoot over his shoulder. Jimmy was in control though. He grabbed the agent’s right hand and forced him to spray bullets all around them at knee level.

The whole NJ7 team crumpled to the pavement, some of them wailing in pain. Jimmy pushed down on the agent’s shoulders and flipped over his head, knocking out the agent on the way with a jab to the temples.

Why weren’t there more agents closing in on him? Jimmy thought. Why weren’t there snipers in all the windows? It was as if half of them had been called to some other emergency.

For a split second, Jimmy peered down the street. He could run. But he knew that wasn’t an option. In the basement there were four people relying on him to get them out. He prayed that he wasn’t too late. He dived back into the building.

Forty metres above the street, a window opened and a head poked out. Mitchell needed only a glance. He saw the agents lying helpless on the ground and a boy disappearing into the Embassy. Mitchell had no sympathy for the wounded NJ7 team. He allowed himself a tiny smile, pleased at what Jimmy was capable of.
Of course they couldn’t kill you,
he thought –
that’s my job.

Where was everybody? Now Jimmy was in the lobby of the Embassy there should have been dozens more men to stop him dashing to the lift. Even the guard who was usually posted by the lift was gone.

With relief, Jimmy spat the key from his mouth. He tried to lick away the disgusting taste as he wiped the blade of the key clean on his trousers. Then, without pressing the button to call the lift up, he slotted the key into the panel on the wall. He hurriedly twisted it and the doors slid apart. Were those gunshots coming from somewhere up the stairs? he thought. Who else could NJ7 possibly be shooting at? There was no time to find out. He slipped between the doors. There was no lift there to step into of course, so Jimmy jumped.

The lift shaft was deeper than he had expected. Dust blasted his face as he fell. He reached out and caught one of the pylons that ran down the centre of the shaft, then wrapped his legs around it. His hands scraped down the thick wire. He winced as the wire bit into him and the friction burned his skin. He had no choice but to trust in the construction of his remarkable body.

He landed with a thump on top of the lift cabin. He squeezed his hands together, wishing away the pain, and realised he was sweating.
Come on,
he urged himself. His programming responded, softening the scorching wound.

With a sharp stamp, Jimmy pounded on the roof of the lift. It was tougher than he had expected – reinforced with concrete. He poured all his effort into a second stamp. The reverberations jarred up his leg.
Come on,
he urged, suddenly doubting whether he had done enough to rebuild the strength in his legs.

He stamped again. There was no pain from the impact, but Jimmy cursed his body. If only he had been strong enough to keep his leg out of that shredder. Mustering all his concentration, he banged his foot down again and again.

At last a crack shot through the concrete like a vein. With that encouragement, Jimmy doubled his efforts. In no time, he busted through. He coughed and blinked in the cloud of dust that he’d created then dropped himself through the hole.

He landed on his feet, still coughing, and pushed the lowest button next to the doors of the lift. They slid open. The dust slowly cleared, like curtains being drawn apart to reveal a scene. There, filling the cavernous hall, was a whole army of NJ7 agents. They stood in small groups, positioned to cover every corner of the basement. There were others, too, who had been digging through the wall, expanding the NJ7 complex. They carried tools and wore hard hats, but their black suits were unmistakably NJ7. Even the industrial digger bore a green stripe. Jimmy gulped.

Then, looking past the agents, Jimmy saw something that terrified him even more. At the bars of the cell, a
pistol in her fist, was Miss Bennett. She was taking careful aim through the bars – straight at Christopher Viggo.

“No!” cried Jimmy. Every face in the room snapped round to look at him. The scores of agents stared through the fog. At the same moment, they all realised it was Jimmy. As one, they took aim. Jimmy stiffened, ready for action. Then suddenly, the lights went out.