Unearthed. Jordan Gray
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Keith laughed. “Soon enough.”
“I want the city to be the only thing aging.”
Keith groaned good-naturedly. “Thought you were retired and away from all the deadline pressure. Just for fun, you said. Just to keep your hand in.”
“I meant that, but we’ve still got people waiting on us for work so they can keep cashing paychecks.” That was the secondary reason for keeping the studio alive. The primary one was because Michael couldn’t stop imagining games. There were just too many interesting things in the world. Actually, worlds. And a lot of them were always traipsing through his mind.
“Give me a week, mate, and I’ll present you with a much older undersea city.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Michael rang off and started to pocket his mobile, but it buzzed to signal a new text.
I HAVE NANNY MYRIE. DID YOU KNOW SHE CAN FLY A FLOATPLANE?
Michael shook his head. He couldn’t imagine Rohan Wallace’s grandmother at all, much less as a floatplane pilot. He slid his iPhone into his jeans and headed back to his friend’s room.
A MAN STOOD BY ROHAN’S BED when Michael reached the open door. About six feet tall and thirtyish, he had chestnut-brown hair pulled into a small ponytail. A dragon tattoo snaked up from the collar of the dark blue suit jacket he wore. His jeans were tucked into motorcycle boots.
“Rohan. C’mon, mate, I need you to wake up.” The man’s voice held a desperate note. “You’re leaving me hanging here. These guys I’ve got chasing after me aren’t messing about.”
Moving quietly, Michael put the teacup and saucer onto the small window shelf by the door. “Who are you?”
The man whirled around. Wild-eyed and breathing fast, he stared at Michael. “Just checking on my mate. That’s all. Nothing to get your knickers in a twist over.”
Michael spread his hands away from his sides to show that he meant no harm. “My name’s Michael Graham.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly. “I know who you are. I’ll ask you to clear that door.”
Slowly, Michael shook his head. “Not until you give me some identification.”
The man grinned, but it was a sick expression and tainted with panic. “You don’t need that.”
“Sorry. I don’t succumb to Jedi mind tricks. But I will be having your name.”
“Let me introduce you to Mr. Slicey.” With a quick snap of his wrist, the man pulled a switchblade knife into view. He flipped it open as easily as breathing and the stainless-steel edge gleamed. It would have been an excellent cut-scene in a game. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. I don’t have time for a lot of questions.”
His stomach twisting and turning sour with fear, Michael raised his hands. Until moving to Blackpool, he’d led a rather dull life when it came to criminal affairs. But recently he’d been threatened, beaten and shot at. He wasn’t becoming any more inured to violence—his quivering stomach was the perfect illustration of that fact—but he was determined that he wasn’t going to allow any information this man might have about what Rohan was doing in Crowe’s Nest that night to slip through his fingers.
“Stand aside.” The man held the switchblade before him.
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid. I need to know what business you’ve had with my friend.”
“None of yours.”
“I’ll have to be the judge of that.”
Smoothly and without hesitation, the man lunged forward, his body following the knife. Reacting instinctively, reflexes honed from rugby and other sports he’d played, Michael slapped the man’s hand away. The fellow tried to slip through the door, but Michael slammed his body into his attacker’s and bounced him off the door frame.
Off balance and slightly dazed, the thug swept the knife back at Michael, who managed to grab the man’s wrist in both hands, but not before the blade sliced through his rugby jersey and burned across his stomach. Twisting viciously, Michael experienced a momentary thrill of success as the switchblade clattered to the floor. He took just a second to kick the weapon under Rohan’s bed, then the man head-butted him in the face.
The room and the lights swam in Michael’s vision and pain filled his skull. He managed to stay upright despite the dizziness that surged through him. He felt blood running down his face and stomach and told himself he was a proper cretin for trying to mix it up with a man with a knife.
Then his attacker slammed a shoulder into him and knocked him backward. Before Michael could recover, the man shoved him out of the way and ran. Staggering, senses reeling, Michael followed.
MERCIFUL ANGELS WAS SMALL. The second-floor nurses’ station was in the center of the building next to the flight of stairs leading down. Hospital rooms lined halls on either side of the large area. Frightened nurses stepped back from the man as he ran. Michael trailed at his heels and, with his longer strides, gained steadily.
Grabbing the low wall near the stairs, the man whipped around it and took the stairway down to the first floor. Two nurses shouted out in alarm and Michael felt certain security would be alerted. That suited him fine, although the guards he’d seen were all elderly gentlemen and didn’t look as if they’d put up much of a fight. He hoped that Paddington or one of Blackpool’s constables would be nearby. With all the work going on in the marina and the shipwreck discovery, extra men were on duty.
Losing his attacker at the first landing, Michael panicked for a moment till he made the corner and spotted the guy streaking for the front door. By the time the man reached it, Michael was closing the distance again.
The man burst through the door and ran outside into the small yard. Merciful Angels was only a couple blocks back of Main Street and fronted a residential area filled with small, old houses. The tiny visitors’ parking lot in front of the hospital was barely large enough to hold six vehicles. Both of the town’s ambulances sat at the emergency-room entrance.
The streets in Blackpool were small and narrow, built more for wagons and carts than sedans. The citizens got around on bicycles, mopeds and motorbikes. Very few had cars, and only a handful of businesses used delivery vans.
Up to full speed now, the fleeing man sped toward the parked cars. One of them was Aleister Crowe’s green Jaguar. Crowe stood to the side of the vehicle, talking on his mobile.
Another man stood near Crowe. He was about Crowe’s age and prim, dressed in a gunmetal-gray business suit with neatly coiffed blond hair and amber-tinted aviator sunglasses.
Drawing closer to his quarry, Michael launched himself forward and grabbed for the man’s feet. He succeeded in wrapping an arm around his knees and the two of them went down in a sprawl. Just before they hit the ground, Michael heard a sudden, harsh crack.
He knew immediately something was wrong. The man fell too loosely. Normally a person would tighten up a little even if he’d been trained professionally to fall.
Rolling to his feet, Michael kept one hand locked around the man’s ankle so he wouldn’t get away. One glance at the man assured him that wouldn’t be the case. A trickle of blood slid down his attacker’s cheek and dripped off his nose from a round wound on his temple.
Stunned, Michael couldn’t help but stare for a moment, then he ran for cover beside the cars.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” The man who had been standing with Crowe was now huddled beside him, holding his arms protectively over his head.
“Sniper.” Michael fumbled for his iPhone and got it out.
Crowe shifted, turning on his feet while remaining in a crouched position. “One sniper or more?”
Michael