The door is locked tight.
No! Is Jacob in on this? Is he on the other side, waiting to see if the execution has been a success, ready to act if it hasn’t? There’s only one way to find out. Alvy punches the five-digit code into the keypad, raises the pistol and pulls the door open.
There’s no one there. The walkway is empty. Maybe Jacob isn’t in on it after all—
Thud. A bullet rips into the wall in front of Alvy. He turns. Behind him a groggy Kilroy aims a smaller pistol at him and fires again.
Alvy pivots clear and runs backwards along the walkway, pistol raised and aimed at the door he just exited. Kilroy pokes his head out from behind it and Alvy fires, too low to be anything but a warning shot. Alvy’s never consciously hurt anyone in his life so the idea of actually shooting Kilroy doesn’t cross his mind, in spite of everything that just happened. Kilroy pulls back into the room and disappears from view.
Alvy’s back thumps into the door that leads outside. He turns, taps five numbers into the keypad and it unlocks. Gun raised, he yanks the door open and steps into dazzling sunlight—
Bam. A gunshot rings out. Alvy feels hot pain in his hip as he swings the pistol around, fires in the direction he thinks the bullet came from.
It is silent.
Alvy blinks through the sunlight, looks down, sees he’s been shot in his left thigh. Stunned, he turns and sees Jacob, slumped on the ground in front of him, a pistol in his hand, a bullet wound to the chest. Dead.
‘No.’ Alvy feels sick to his stomach. He just shot and killed a man he thought was a good friend — a man he has eaten lunch with every day for almost three years. Unfortunately, he’s also a man who just tried to end Alvy’s life with the bullet now lodged in his hip. Just thinking about it is doing the scientist’s head in. Everything Alvy thought was true is a lie.
‘Gotta move.’ That’s what he must do if he wants to live. He needs to get away from here as fast as possible, before Kilroy reappears. He takes a step — and instantly feels lightheaded, wants to lie down.
‘No!’ He pulls in a deep breath, grits his teeth, looks right, to the car park. His old blue Toyota Corolla is fifty metres away. He moves towards it as fast as he can, which isn’t very fast as a bolt of pain shoots down his left leg with every step. He ignores it, keeps going.
Kilroy likes Alvy, couldn’t help but be impressed by his outsized intellect, knew that Bunsen’s plan was not possible without it. Unfortunately for Alvy, that outsized intellect is also the reason he must now be put down.
Grey ponytail swishing behind him, blood on his face from his still-throbbing nose, Kilroy reaches the end of the walkway, works the keypad and shoulders the door open, weapon raised, finger tight around the trigger of the .38 he kept strapped to his calf in case of emergency.
There’s no sign of Alvy but Jacob is down. Jacob wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier but he’s still surprised Alvy managed to get the better of him. Kilroy scans the area, hears an engine running in the car park, focuses on the exhaust that puffs from the tail pipe of Alvy’s old blue Corolla.
Clearly the scientist planned to make a decidedly unstylish getaway in the sun-faded rust bucket. Kilroy’s best guess, and he tended to guess right, is that he, or Jacob, had hit Alvy with at least one bullet and the guy had collapsed in the driver’s seat before he could clunk the transmission into reverse.
Of course, it’s only a guess so Kilroy approaches the car cautiously, pistol raised. He has privacy. The compound is boarded on all sides by a dense, tightly packed line of two-metre-tall shrubs in front of a high chain-link fence. Bunsen had them installed to protect the compound from unwanted guests and prying eyes when it was built.
Kilroy creeps forward, just five metres away from the Corolla. He glances down, scans the asphalt below his feet. A drip of red blood glistens in the sun. Then another. Alvy is hit. The next step is simple. Line him up and pull the trigger. Kilroy crouches low and moves on. Two metres from the Corolla he peers in through the left rear window. The tint is so dark and blistered he can’t make out a goddamn thing inside. His finger tight on the pistol’s trigger, he glides onward, reaches the open passenger window.
There’s no one inside.
Alvy’s plan has worked beautifully, leading Kilroy right to where he wants him. Now he must finish the job. Camouflaged within the tree line that rings the compound, he stands just five metres from Kilroy. Through the foliage Alvy aims the weapon at Kilroy’s chest and squeezes the trigger.
He can’t do it.
Jesus H! He can’t pull the trigger! This bastard is trying to kill him and Alvy’s hesitating. Hesitating! He’s about to hesitate himself into an early grave. He must make the most of this moment because he knows Kilroy will keep coming after him.
Alvy pulls the trigger. The gunshot rings out — and Kilroy slumps to the ground beside the passenger door. Alvy moves fast, pulls open the driver’s door, slides inside, doesn’t look at Kilroy, just wants to get out of there as fast as possible.
Alvy doesn’t feel any better sitting down. He actually feels worse. His arm and leg scream in pain and his head goes light. ‘Wake up!’ He shouts it, widens his eyes, wills himself to stay conscious. He thumps the Corolla into reverse and hits the accelerator. The car jerks backwards and he points it towards the main gate. He clunks the transmission into drive, floors it and presses the button on his gate remote.
Thud, thud, thud. Bullets thunk into the Corolla. Alvy instinctively ducks but has no idea where the fire is coming from so doesn’t know if it will do any good.
Smash. The back window explodes, showers the interior with glass. Alvy looks in the rear-view mirror. Kilroy sit up from his position on the ground, shirt open to reveal the bulletproof vest he wears. He turns and aims his pistol at the Corolla again.
Thud, thud, thud. Three more bullets pepper the car’s boot as it speeds through the gate. Alvy steers onto the empty street and accelerates away, tyres screeching as they scramble for grip.
‘Christ almighty.’ He takes a breath, tries to process what just happened. It’s inconceivable and yet here he is, on the run with two gunshot wounds. He needs medical attention but first he must tell a cop, or someone in authority, about the Swarm and what is planned for today.
He wonders if anyone will believe him.
9
Bunsen paces the heliport, iPhone in hand. He doesn’t feel good about ending Alvy’s life, but there was no choice. Alvy is one of maybe three people on the planet who understands this nanotechnology well enough to create the Swarm, and is the only man who can disable it.
Bunsen’s iPhone rings.
He sees it’s Kilroy calling and knows it can’t be good news. If everything had gone to plan he would have received a short text from the old man such as: ‘it’s done’ or ‘it’s over’ or something equally pithy. But Bunsen just heard gunshots from the opposite side of the compound and now the phone is ringing. He fears the worst.
He answers with a short ‘Yes?’ then listens. The update from his 2IC takes less than thirty seconds and is worse than Bunsen could have imagined. Jacob is dead and Alvy has escaped. It’s a screw-up of epic proportions.
Bunsen keeps it simple. ‘We continue Phase Two as planned. Find him. Deal with it. If he talks to anyone, deal with them too. Call me when it’s done. Be quick.’ He waits for a ‘yes’ then hangs up. This is not the time for recriminations or Monday morning quarterbacking, and it’s not like there’s anything else that can be done. Bunsen can’t replace either Jacob or Kilroy. His crew is small for a good reason — it’s extremely difficult to find people who are dedicated to such a cause, have the correct skill set and are trustworthy.