Yesterday's Hero (39 page)

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know.” I hear myself echo the phrase.

“Were you right about everything?” she asks. I realize she’s serious, and if this were any other time I might smile at that.

“Not everything,” I say. I’m still looking at that little black bag.

“About the EMP? About the Chronometer?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m right about that.”

“We have to stop them,” she says.

“Now?” I don’t want to move. I don’t think I can move. The ember of rage is still trying to spark, but I’m too sodden with grief, the fight washed out of me and gone downriver towards the docklands and the English Channel.

“It’s four p.m.,” she tells me. “Two hours left. And we have traffic to contend with.”

“And we’ll find them?” I ask. I want to be sure.

“Yes,” she says. “Once I get back to Vauxhall Cross, I’ll get clearance, redeploy the troops we have ready for the EMP blast. We’ll have those houses raided in under five minutes. Those Russian bastards won’t be able to teleport without landing in a field of lead.”

I look over at Aiko and Malcolm, wrapped together, fused in grief. “What about them?”

“Even if I wanted to, do you honestly think I could keep them out of this fight now?”

It’s said with kindness, with heart. I look up at her. At a good woman.

She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I was only ever trying to protect people, Arthur. I swear.”

It’s not wholly true. She was trying to protect herself too. Trying to protect her job. But it’s not wholly untrue either. And this is an apology. Of sorts. And here, now, intimate with loss, I am willing to be the bigger man.

“I know,” I say.

She smiles at me then. Not the powerful woman in a suit, not the director of MI37, but Felicity Shaw, a woman I know, a woman I admire, that maybe I… I don’t know.

“Come on,” she offers me a hand, “want to go see how big of a new arsehole we can rip in Coleman?”

I take her hand, stand up, and from somewhere inside me, I even find a smile.

85 Vauxhall Cross. 4:57 pm.

We march into MI6 like a storm cloud. The police cars that delivered us sit outside, lights still revolving, painting the lobby in the colors of urgency.

The security guard that fell for my Coleman disguise is on duty. He looks at the influx, blanches, and rushes forward.

“Can I see—” he starts, but Felicity bats him away with her ID.

“I am Division Director, Karl,” she says to him, “and you do not want to fuck with me today.”

And in that moment… I am so totally going to try to get back together with her if I get the chance.

The metal detectors squawk as we push through. Karl the security guard doesn’t.

We march down the corridors. Felicity leads, Clyde close behind her, his long legs and swift body propelling him rapidly. I take third position, Tabitha next to me, Kayla behind, Malcolm and Aiko taking the rear.

It was a quiet, tense ride over. It’s a quiet, tense walk. Tabitha is balling and unballing her fists. She talks a lot of smack, but she usually doesn’t let things get to her this way. She didn’t even know Jasmine.

“You OK?” I ask her.

She doesn’t say a word, but her eyes flick to Clyde.

So not Jasmine then. “He’s…” I start, but I don’t know how to finish.

“Worse,” she says. “Lot worse. Since you left. Not blaming you.”

It doesn’t help me feel less guilty to hear that.

“Withdrawn,” she says. “Always,” she hesitates, reaching for the word, then she taps the side of her head, “connected.”

I look at his tall back, head held high, hair swishing under the two leather straps holding the mask in place. “Does he…” I struggle to put the concern into words. I’m not even sure I should. “He understands what’s going on, right? He’s still… connected,” I use her word, “to here, to now.”

“Yes.” Tabitha nods, but her face twists. A foreign emotion invades her features. She looks helpless. “But distracted. Other stuff. Too much of it.” She shakes her head. “He never was any good at multi-tasking.” The fondness that breaks through into the last statement only seems to make things worse. She grimaces again, tries to fix the scowl back on her face.

“Maybe,” I start, “after all this is over… it’ll be easier. He’ll have time to process everything.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Tabitha says, “reality won’t exist.”

She always was a chipper girl, Tabitha.

We round a corner and come into MI37’s section of the building. It has changed significantly since I was there last night. About fifty women and men have been crammed into the space. They huddle around laptops like hobos around trash can fires. If hobos wore the off-the-rack suits preferred by myself and others on a government salary.

Coleman stands in the middle of the room barking at people.

“Tell that fuck from Channel Four he can stick to the script or I will personally crucify him. On a real fucking cross.” He spins. “Where’s my bloody five-minute warning broadcast?” Spins again. “Why the fuck hasn’t the Prime Minister called back? The urgency here is not hard to fucking understand.” He spins again. He sees us.

“You!” He points at Felicity. “I realize you have managed to bungle every damn operation leading up to this moment, and you can count your remaining days in this office on your pinky fucking finger, but I thought you might have the brain cells required to—”

He stops mid-harangue. His eyes fix on me. “You.” His voice drips acid. He wheels back to the crowd of agents behind him. “Jennings, Smith,” he barks. “Arrest this blithering fuck. With extreme fucking prejudice.”

Two agents stand and stare at our group. Apparently the description “blithering fuck,” isn’t enough to make me stand out from the group. I don’t know if that speaks to the poorness of Coleman’s descriptive powers or of the quality of company I keep.

“No.” Felicity’s voice is razor sharp. “Sit down and pay attention.”

Coleman doesn’t move a muscle, but the blood flows to his cheeks.

“The EMP is over,” she says. “It’s done. It’s a broken plan. It endangers more than London, more than England, more than the Western world, more than the whole world. It’s over. Now you,” she points, “Jennings was it? I need—”

“You shut your fucking trap, woman.” Coleman is the color of a beetroot.

“No.” Felicity doesn’t even blink. She takes a step toward him. “Understand this: your plan is over, George.” She doesn’t raise her voice but everyone can hear her. “You’re over. You’ll be packing your bags. You backed the wrong horse. Arthur came through. He was right. He has the proof.” She points to a chair. “Now sit down, shut up, and be a good little boy while your career goes away.”

Coleman visibly quakes with rage. I think he’s going to hit Felicity. I think if he does I might run him through with this goddamn sword.

Somehow, using some resolve I didn’t know he possessed, Coleman brings himself under control.

“Arrest her,” Coleman barks. He doesn’t even bother naming agents to do his dirty work. “Arrest them all.”

Behind me, I hear the slight noise of metal over metal. Kayla draws her sword.

The mass of agents blanches.

“You are relieved of duty, George.” Felicity is no less insistent. “You two,” she points at the two agents Coleman wanted to arrest me, “escort Co-Director Coleman out of here please.”

“In your fucking seats,” Coleman barks, not that any of the agents look any keener to carry out Felicity’s order.

Coleman and Felicity stand in the middle of the room staring at each other. It feels like a recreation of the experiment in which nuclear fission was discovered.

A telephone on the desk behind Coleman shatters the silence. He seizes it so hard I’m surprised the receiver doesn’t crack in his grip.

“Yes?” he hisses into the mouthpiece.

Suddenly his whole demeanor changes. He stands up straighter, puts his shoulders back. He even sucks in his gut. “Yes, sir.”

I exchange a look with Felicity. She looks as nervous as I feel. A happy, comfortable Coleman is not a good thing for us.

“Ready to go, sir,” Coleman says. His smile is a broad, smug stain on his face. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Three bags bloody full, sir.

He hangs up. He lets the silence drag out.

Felicity, clearly sick of his shit, opens her mouth to speak.

“Do you know who that was, Felicity?” Coleman cuts her off. He is prim with pride.

“Escort him out of here. Now, please.” Felicity is still talking to the agents. One or two of them shift their weight. They’re the ones unable to see the expression on Coleman’s face.

Coleman keeps on looking smug. “It was the Prime Minister, Felicity.” He rolls the title round his mouth like hard candy. “He just gave the final go-ahead on the EMP blast. Authority from the highest level.”

And that is us pretty much screwed right there. The wind sags out of Felicity. She knew she was beaten, I think, she just didn’t know how badly.

Coleman turns to the collected MI6 agents. “Arrest them.”

For a moment we just stand there. I don’t think any of us know what else to do. The EMP is going to go off. The Chronometer is going to be exposed. We are just totally screwed.

An agent steps towards Felicity. He looks apologetic, still deferential. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m going to have to ask you—”

And no. Just no.

My fist whips out and shuts him up. He staggers back, falls, lands in a tangled heap. Coleman’s jaw drops.

“Oh hell yes,” Aiko says from behind me.

If only one bold move of defiance could somehow cancel out the mass of armed agents whose friend I just punched.

“Time for us to move,” I suggest.

“Kayla! Clyde!” Felicity barks. “Cover our exit.”

Kayla’s sword is out in less time than in takes Coleman to think of shitting himself. Clyde’s body gives a violent ripple, and every screen on every computer in the room goes blank. With trembling fingers he eases a battery up under his mask. Not to be outdone I pull out the flaming sword. Shock and goddamn awe.

The MI6 agents look very upset. But now they also look nervous as hell.

“What are you waiting for?” Coleman froths. “Get them!”Despite their nervousness, more than one of them pulls a gun.

“Tactical retreat,” Felicity mutters.

Clyde stretches out a hand, mutters to himself. This time it’s not him who shudders but the reality around him. A great invisible tidal wave of force sweeps through the room and smashes into Coleman’s operations center. Papers, laptops, and agents fly like dice rattled in a shaker. Coleman is barreled over, arms flapping like his bright red tie.

And then the bullets come.

“Faster tactical withdrawal!”

That, apparently, is the fancy technical language for, “flee.”

We turn and hoof it. Shouts, barked orders, and bullets careen after us. We spin down one passageway and then another. We thunder past men talking quickly into walkie-talkies, tear away from doorways blocked by gaggles of anxious-looking civil servants.

“Arthur,” Felicity says to me between pants. “Sword. Fire.” She nods at the ceiling.

“What?”

“Alarms. Sprinklers.” She pants again. “Set off.”

I stare at the flaming sword still clutched in my hand, stare up at the ceiling. Every ten yards, a little gray nozzle perches between strip lights. I catch on, raise my sword. And I bring the rain.

We’re splashing through puddles as we reach the exit. The lobby is full of milling sodden people. Security guards try to form a line but anxious men with half-drowned laptops keep pushing past. The place is a mad turmoil of panicking humanity. Behind us, the shouts are getting louder.

“Clyde!” Felicity yells. “A hole!”

He stretches out his hand and makes one. Personnel fly like bowling pins. I wave my sword around as imposingly as possible.

One guard fires. Kayla’s sword whips out and there is the whine of a ricochet.

Oh, that trick I am going to
have
to learn.

Then we’re out. Through the opening, through the doors, down the steps. The police cars still sit there. Policemen stand about looking confused. We race toward them.

“Ma’am,” says an officer, holding out his hand to stop Felicity.

Out whips her fist. Down goes the officer. His partner yells, but only until the pommel of Kayla’s sword cracks his skull.

“In!” Felicity yells at us. “Drive!”

There’s a mad scramble for the cars. I still have the list of Russian safe house locations in my pocket so I dive for a driver’s door, but Tabitha ducks in front of me.

I spin around, seize the door on the next car. Devon is sitting behind the wheel with a look of panic on her face.

“I don’t really drive,” she says.

“Accelerator. Floor. Now!” I so would have made an awesome driving instructor.

Behind me, people are still scrabbling into the seats. A door slams.

“Now!” a voice yells. Felicity. I spin round. There’s something about the fact she chose the same car as me. Something that might be trust. That maybe could be something more.

Felicity sits in the back seat. Next to Clyde. And then… Aiko.

Oh, this is going to be a terrible race to save the world.

Devon pops the clutch, slams her foot to the floor. Wheels spin. Devon gives us all intimate feel for the g-forces available in a standard-issue police car.

By the expression on her face, I think Devon rather likes the experience. So at least one person in this car is grinning.

I
n my pocket, my phone buzzes. Screeching down the waterfront doesn’t seem like the best time to take a call. Then Tabitha pulls alongside us, gesticulating wildly with her phone.

Side by side the cars peel down the road. Devon is letting out a keening yell of excitement and terror. Cars lean on their horns and spin out of our way.

I fish for my phone and smell something ugly. The flaming sword is melting its way through the passenger door. I somehow wrestle it away and settle for plunging it through the window. Shatter-proof glass, shatters, spills in our wake. A thousand glittering glass beads flash with reflected firelight.