Firewall (30 page)

Feeling gently around the broken edge, I looked for a place where I could start to peel the side down like an orange. The sensation had virtually gone in my swollen hands, but the touch glove caught on the aluminum and I found what I wanted and started to pick and tear. My fingers slipped a couple of times, cutting me on the razor-sharp metal, but there wasn't time to worry about that; besides, I couldn't feel the pain and it was nothing to what would be inflicted on me if I didn't get away from here.

Once I'd pared the metal down to under an inch from the tab end, I tried moving my wrists apart as much as possible. It didn't work that well because plasticuffs are designed not to stretch, but there was just enough play to do what I wanted. Cupping the can in my right hand with the sharp edge upward, I bent it toward my wrist, trying to reach the plastic. If I'd left more tin sticking out it would have gone further, but the edge would have buckled under the pressure. That was also why I used the tab end: The thicker rim gave the cutting edge more strength.

I knew that establishing a cut into the cuffs was going to take the most time, but once I'd got into that nice smooth plastic I could go for it. It must have taken just a minute or two for the jagged tin to finally bite; then, when I was about three-quarters of the way through, I heard the loud, echoing creak of the swing door opening. Light and engine noise spilled through a gap of about two inches under the stall door.

There was the sound of boots on trash heading in my direction. The light got stronger and I started to stress big time, dropping the can and scrabbling for the hood, and, once it was on, trying to find my gloves. I didn't manage it, but just as I was gritting my teeth for the inevitable confrontation the footsteps went past.

There was a flurry of muffled pleas in English from the boys as their doors were kicked open and they got dragged out and subdued. They must have heard the Americans during the contact, too, as there was no multilingual begging now.

Doors banged and soon I could hear their feet dragging past me. Within moments, the door swung shut and silence was restored.

I felt around for the can end, not bothering to take the hood off. I couldn't have seen anything anyway. I started to work with more of a frenzy; I had to assume that they'd be coming for me next, and soon.

After two or three minutes of frantic sawing, the plastic finally gave.

Pulling the hood off, I felt around for the gloves and put them in my pocket, keeping just the touch gloves on.

Next I located the other can end. Getting slowly to my feet and enjoying being vertical, I felt around the stall. I found the door handle, opened it and walked very slowly and carefully out into what I could feel was a narrow corridor with painted brick walls. A faint glimmer of light under the swing door trickled into the corridor about ten feet up on my left. Picking my feet up and putting them down with infinite care, my left hand supporting me on the wall, I made my way toward the light.

As I got closer I began to hear a vehicle engine revving, then starting to move off.

Once at the door I couldn't find a keyhole to look through, so, clearing the debris on the ground, I got down on my knees. Chains rattled as the roller shutter was pulled open. I wondered if the pizza boys were leaving town.

Lying flat on the floor on my right side, I managed to get my eyeball close to the bottom of the door. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the bottom half of the can, the one I hadn't worked on. Using the light to find a place in the metal where I could start peeling this time, I got to work and put my eye back against the gap.

I'd been right, it was some sort of hangar or factory space. It was mostly in darkness, but lit in places by twelve-inch-long florescent lighting units, the sort that campers use. These had either been perched on the hoods of wagons or were being carried around. The pools of almost blue light and shadow made the place look like the set of the Twilight Zone.

Several vehicles were parked in a row on the far left, about forty yards away, sedans, wagons, MPVs, and SUVs, some of which had roof racks piled with skis.

My thumb slipped and ran along the ripped can. I still couldn't feel it, but at least some sensation was returning to my hands. Pins and needles had started to work their way around my fingers while I carried on peeling the metal back.

I looked straight ahead to the exit, my only way out, then at the people who would try and stop me. They were mostly by the two remaining vans, parked haphazardly in the middle of the hangar.

A group of maybe five or six bodies were hurriedly unloading their weapons and taking off their white uniforms and bundling them into what looked like Lacon boxes aluminim airfreight containers. They were in a hurry, but not rushing. No one was talking; everyone seemed to know what was required.

When one of the bodies did a half turn so that it was in profile, I realized that Bobby wasn't the only woman on this job.

As they continued to throw off their kit, I could now see where the sound of Velcro had come from: She was ripping apart the side straps from sets of body armor before stacking them in the boxes.

Another group of maybe eight were out of their whites and unpacking civilian clothes from duffel bags. Others were combing their hair in the side mirrors, trying to make themselves look like normal citizens.

I caught a glimpse of the 4x4 I'd been transported in; its back window safety glass was pockmarked with holes where the rounds had passed through. Beyond it were the shapes of the other vehicles used on the job, which were now probably going to be abandoned. Strike marks from automatic weapons were not the best kind of modification to be sporting at stoplights.

I couldn't see any evidence of the computer kit. I assumed they'd moved it straight on, along with the pizza boys and probably Bobby and the guy with the hook hanging from his thigh. They'd be in need of proper trauma care. Since the weather had put a stop to a quick exfiltration, the next destination would be a secure area like the U.S. embassy. From there, the equipment would probably be moved by diplomatic bag back to the U.S. Dip bags are basically mail sacks or containers that by mutual agreement other governments cannot have access to, which means they can contain anything from sensitive documents to weapons, ammunition, and dead bodies. I'd even heard a story of the intelligence service bringing back the turret of a new Russian armored personnel carrier in what must have been a party-sized one.

The pizza boys would be stuck in the embassy or a safe house until a heli could get in sometime tomorrow and airlift them out of the country, unless there was a U.S. warship in dock. If I didn't get a grip of this situation, I knew I'd soon be following them.

Everyone was now out of their whites and in jeans, down jackets, and hats. The woman was still organizing the loading of the Lacons.

Loud metallic echoes filled the hangar as the boxes were moved into the vans.

One man seemed to be running the whole show. I couldn't see his face from this distance, but he was the tallest of the group, maybe six foot two or three, and a head above everyone else. He gathered everyone around him and seemed to be giving them a brief. They were certainly doing a lot of nodding, but his voice wasn't loud enough for me to understand what he was saying.

While he finished the briefing, the doors of the two vans slammed, both engines revved and they started to leave. Their headlights swept across the group as they turned toward the shutter.

I felt around the rim of the half can in my hands as the chains went into action. I wasn't doing particularly well with it because I hadn't really been concentrating.

I watched the Wasp team disperse as they moved off toward the line of vehicles like aircrew to their fighters, lights swinging in their hands. They were probably going to split up and do their own thing, probably in exactly the same way as they'd come into the country in the first place.

They would now be sterile of anything implicating them in the job. They would have cover documents and a perfect cover story and would certainly no longer be armed. All they had to do was wander back to their chalets and hotels as if they'd had a good night out, which I supposed they had. None of them was dead.

More engines revved, doors slammed, and headlights came on. I could see the fumes rising from exhausts. It looked a bit like the starting grid before a Grand Prix.

The people from the embassy would probably take care of the abandoned vehicles. Their priority was to get away from here now that the equipment and pizza boys were safely on their way. Their only problem was that they had a little bonus me.

It looked like the Wasp and another woman were taking on that responsibility. The vehicles were now leaving, but they were still on their feet, the woman with a set of jumper cables dragging along the floor as she moved out of the way of the holiday makers. They were leaving nothing to chance.

Red brake lights lined up as they took it in turn to exit and hang left. Snow was still falling. I could see it clearly now as full beams shone out into the darkness.

Soon there was just one car left stationary, its engine running and its lights blazing. The Wasp was sitting sideways in the driver's seat with his feet on the concrete, the glow of a cigarette intensifying as he sucked on it. The interior light was on and I could make out thick curly hair on a very large head.

The jumper cables were thrown into the rear seat and the woman disappeared into the darkness.

At last I'd finished the other half of the can. The blood from my fingers felt cold as it was soaked up by my touch gloves. It was a good sign. Feeling had returned to my hands.

It was quiet for a few moments, with just the engine ticking over, and then chains started rattling, and the shutter closed. The woman emerged from the shadows once again and bent toward the glowing cigarette. I couldn't make out any of her features because her hair covered her face.

They talked for a moment, then he turned back into the car to stub his cigarette in the ashtray. He was clearly too professional even to leave DNA evidence on the floor. By then she was round the back, pulling open the trunk.

The Wasp started walking in my direction, his long legs silhouetted by the vehicle's headlamps. There was a flicker of bright white light, then the florescent unit in his left hand burst into life. I could see that he'd just finished pulling his ski mask back on. I watched his right hand go under his coat and come out again holding a multi barreled P7, which went into his coat pocket.

My body banged into shock. He was coming to kill me. I made myself calm down. Of course he wasn't coming to kill me. Why would they have gone to the trouble of bringing me here? And why the hood to hide his identity? He was taking precautions in case I'd pulled my hood off.

The car edged forward with the trunk open as he got within about thirty feet of the door, the light still swaying in his left hand. It was time to get in gear, otherwise I'd soon be given a dose of the medicine I'd forced Val to take last week.

I got to my feet and moved to the right of the door, away from the toilets, stressing at the prospect of taking on a guy of his size. All that stuff about the bigger they are, the harder they fall, it's a myth. The bigger they are, the harder they hit you back.

I wasn't sure how long the hallway was, but I soon found out. I'd only taken four steps when I banged into the end wall. Turning back, I faced the door, fumbling in my pocket for the other half-can, breathing deeply to oxygenate myself in preparation.

The door swung open with a metallic screech of its hinges, momentarily flooding the area with bright white light. I could hear the car whining in reverse. He had turned right, his massive back to me now as he took the first few steps toward my toilet stall.

I moved quickly as the door closed; not exactly running, because I didn't want to trip, but taking long, fast steps to get some speed and momentum, with my right arm raised. With the main door closed and car engine running, there was no way she was going to hear this.

He did, though, and when I was still a couple of feet away he started to turn.

I focused on the shape of his head as I leaped up and at him. Landing with my left foot forward, I swung my whole body to the left, my right arm crooked and the palm held open. Sometimes a really firm, heavy slap to the face can be more effective than a punch, and that's absolutely guaranteed if you're wielding a sawed off soda can with razor-sharp edges.

It hit his head hard. I didn't care where the can connected, just so long as it did. There was a loud groan. I didn't feel the can digging in, just the pressure of my arm being stopped mid swing as the rest of my body carried on swiveling.

The light danced as the florescent unit in his hand clattered to the concrete, and he started to follow it. I swung to the right with my left arm slightly bent, still focusing on his head. I hit the mark; I could feel the softness of his cheek under the left half of the can, then felt it scrape around the contour of his jaw as he fell. He moaned again, this time louder and with more anguish. By now he was on his knees.

As I brought my right hand down hard onto the top of his head, the metal edges dug deep, then hit bone, stripping back the skin as he fell. I gouged a thick furrow from his scalp; the can held for a couple more inches and then broke free.

He slumped to the ground, hands scrabbling to protect his head. For a few more frenzied seconds I continued to slash at his hands and head, then his hands fell away and he lay very still. He wasn't feigning unconsciousness: he wouldn't have risked dropping his hands and exposing himself to further attack. He had gone into shock, but he was still breathing; He wasn't dead. He was never going to get a job modeling for Gillette, but he'd live. There had been no other way out. If you're going to stop somebody, you have to do it as quickly and violently as you can.

The florescent unit threw a pool of light across the floor and onto his ski mask. The wool still looked remarkably intact, as it does when a sweater rips and the tear seems to knit itself together, unless you look at it close up. Blood was seeping through the material.