Terror Firma. Matthew Thomas
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and flicked its large-bore needle. He had watched the news reports from across the pond – there could have been few humans who hadn’t. As to the significance of what he’d seen he was currently reserving judgement; better stick to what he knew. With practised ease he found a vein and administered the dose.
Freemantle went rigid from head to toe. For a moment Becker thought rigor mortis must have set in with exceptional speed, but then, with a convulsion that nearly shook their subterranean bunker, the captain’s eyes snapped open and the words flooded forth.
His rantings wouldn’t have made sense to an outsider. Fortunately Becker was about as much of an insider as you could get without actually becoming inside out. He had also come prepared. Holding a small dictaphone as close to Freemantle as his rabid saliva-flecked monologue would allow, Becker recorded every word for posterity and for the next chapter of his voluminous memoirs.
When the tirade had run its course the surgeon looked bemused. ‘Machu Picchu. That’s the Inca capital in the Andes, isn’t it?
But when he turned to question Becker further he was faced only by a furiously swinging door.
1 These days it isn’t only angst-ridden poets in fluffy white shirts who die of TB. With the help of virulent new strains resistant to those tried and tested (i.e. cheap, out-of-patent) drugs, almost anyone can receive the benefits of the ultimate creative muse. All over the globe this old favourite was making a comeback as the most efficient regulator of the urban poor, not to mention a most efficient filler of drug corporations’ bank accounts. Potent new strains require potent new cures, which in turn require potent research grants and tax incentives.
1 Not to be confused with the Donor Kebab. As in: ‘I wish I could donate my stomach to science. Pass me a fresh bucket please.’
For no obvious reason, suddenly Frank was alert.
Nothing had changed in the dingy third-floor apartment, but like a US Marine’s genitals on his first trip ashore in Manila, the hairs on the back of McIntyre’s neck had become instantly erect. The TV news still blared in the corner – a hectic report about a military take-over in some tin-pot Central Asian republic. The bowl of Coco Puffs still hovered above Frank’s heroically stained T-shirt,1 the spoonful of the same choc-flavoured corn-based breakfast cereal still suspended precariously half-way to his lips.
But something was different.
Some unknown set of relays had clicked inside Frank’s head. The highly tuned sixth sense which had saved his skin on countless occasions had kicked in again. So Frank McIntyre, Master Sergeant US Special Forces (ret), was in danger, but (as he reflected with a detached professional confidence) as of that instant not half as much danger as the other guy.
Just who that ‘other guy’ might be didn’t bother him at this stage. Frank hadn’t stopped to consider who had been wearing the Vietcong-issue pyjamas, or enquire after the health of the balaclava-swathed terrorists. The personalities behind the Federal Marshals’ badges hadn’t entered into the equation. He’d simply seen them as enemies, obstacles to his continued existence – and now there were other ‘obstacles’ crowding in on him. Frank was an equal opportunities killing machine, as free with his political allegiances as he was with his ammunition.
That was another good point. His Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun was tucked safely under the bed – no way to reach that now. The laser sight was a toy, but one that gave him and the drivers of the big eighteen-wheel semis that thundered beneath his window constant amusement. Frank owned a fine collection of handguns, but his Colt automatic was shut in his desk draw. His .345 Smith & Wesson Magnum was, as usual, taped to the inside of the toilet cistern. With bitter irony he reflected that he was currently equidistant from all his carefully placed hardware.
If he was going to leave with his guest when the fun started he was going to have to move very fast indeed. Abandoning his guns was not a happy thought, but he knew the deadliest weapon of all was carried with him. The United Nations had never tried to ban it, nor had it been the subject of arms limitation talks, yet its facility to unleash unrivalled mayhem and slaughter was impossible to match. It was the twin handful of pink-grey blancmange that quivered between Frank’s ears, and what’s more it was currently working overtime.
For the briefest of seconds he contemplated leaving the contents of his fridge undisturbed. No way, hosayovich. His uncommunicative guest represented the chance of several million lifetimes. He had no doubt it was the thing in his chiller cabinet ‘they’ were after. It was too much of a coincidence to hope his former employers wanted a chat for anything less. They also wanted to take him alive. Otherwise he’d already be dead. Frank knew how these guys operated – he’d all but written the manual himself. But knowing he was wanted for interrogation gave him a slender advantage, and right now he needed all the help he could get.
These thoughts went through Frank’s head in a split second. He didn’t have to think about them, the act of knowing he’d been compromised and analysing the tactical situation happened so fast as to be instantaneous. How would he plan it if he were commanding the assault? First off he’d place a sniper team in the derelict warehouse across the street. Secondly, he’d put a back-up squad at the bottom of the fire escape, to rush up when the main team hit the front door. He’d make sure he had every detail planned three ways in advance. But the time for preparation was at an end, now it was time for action.
Slowly, Frank lowered his bowl and made a careful show of appearing relaxed. The surveillance spooks would have him scoped at that very moment; his every move carefully analysed for signs of stress. As Frank got up and stretched, from the corner of the room, the confessional TV show presenter pointed out the problems faced by single-parent-transvestite households. There was a careful line Frank had to tread between haste and circumspection. Too fast and he risked letting on he knew of the raid, too slow and he’d be yesterday’s enchiladas before you could say ‘justifiable force’. As nonchalantly as he was able he headed for the kitchen, as if to fetch a morning beer.
His speed/stealth quandary was resolved for him. Before he’d gone three steps with low-battery flatness his musical doorbell creaked to life. When the first bars of ‘Do You Know the Way to San José?’ had trailed away, a carefully measured voice (too quick) called out, ‘Floral delivery for Mr McIntyre. I need your signature.’
The image of fifteen black berets, spread-eagled along the threadbare hallway, shotguns and battering rams at the ready, one reading from a carefully prepared script, sprung alarmingly to mind and refused to go away. That settled things. Speed was of the essence, and he’d have to leave by the window. Painful, but not half as painful as getting shot.
‘Coming,’ Frank called in a none-too-convincing effort to buy time, as he ducked into the kitchen. He knew that wouldn’t stall them for long, but at least he was hidden from view in the pokey windowless room.
Working quickly, he bundled his decaying guest from the fridge, removing its satchel as he did so. Checking the inhuman buckle he securely fastened the bulging sack around his neck. The document it contained was most definitely leaving with him. Next, he jammed the alien under one sinewy arm and tucked its legs up into his armpit. This way he was able to carry the feather-light carcass with surprising ease.
Now came the minor matter of making his escape. Talented and trained he might have been, but Frank held no illusions as to his chances. With a softly spoken ‘Hail Mary’ he crawled back into the living room. He had the makings of a plan. It wasn’t good, but it was painfully simple – with the emphasis very much on the painful part.
Stealthily he backed up against one damp mould-encrusted wall. Next to him the apartment’s main window overlooked the busy street