The Western Hills. High crags and rubble. Bleak and barren, like the surface of Mars.
Twin colossi flanked the rail tunnel entrance. Gargantuan Akkadian kings carved at the dawn of humanity. Austere, blank-eyed sentinels staring out across the desert.
The dull thud of detonation. A jet of flame from the tunnel mouth. The locomotive burst from the portal riding a wave of fire, like it was tearing out of hell.
The engine charged headlong into the desert. The scorched and scoured juggernaut jetted black diesel fumes. Bodywork burned carbon black. Windows blown out. Nose lamp shattered. Access doors buckled and ripped away.
The locomotive ploughed through dunes, tore down a track that stretched across desolate terrain and merged with rippling heat-haze at the distant horizon.
Amanda sat slumped in the engineer’s chair. She gazed out the smashed windshield at high sun and open desert. She drowsed, nodding out, pale and sick.
Lucy put a hand on her shoulder.
‘You okay?’
‘The sun is getting high,’ said Amanda. ‘No water. We’re going to get cooked in here.’
‘We’ll find some shade.’
‘How long will it take to cross this fucking desert?’
‘At this speed? Ten or twelve hours, if the fuel holds out.’
‘Christ.’
‘We’ll make it, babe. We’ll make it.’
Cleansweep
Lucy lay in her hospital bed. She struggled to stay conscious. Her mind was fogged by Amytal.
Street noise from an open window.
The crackle and squeak of bio-suit rubber as Colonel Drew loaded a hypodermic gun.
‘Are you going to kill me?’ she murmured.
‘Taking care of loose ends,’ he said, voice muffled by his face plate. ‘It’s nothing personal.’
Lucy let her arm droop over the side of the mattress. She snagged the wrist strap of her Rolex on the metal bed-frame and discreetly released the clasp. She shook the metal bracelet down her hand and gripped it like a knuckle-duster.
Drew leant over her.
‘Try to relax. It will be quick. It won’t hurt.’
He picked up her right arm. He positioned the needle, ready to prick skin.
Lucy punched his faceplate with an armoured fist. Lexan cracked. His nose broke against the visor. He spritzed the safety glass with blood and spit.
She rolled off the bed and pinned Drew to the tiled floor. She sat on his chest. She could see herself reflected in the crack visor. A wide-eyed crazy woman.
She pulled off his hood. Another blow to the head. The diamond bezel of her Rolex cut open his cheek. He coughed blood and spat a tooth.
She shook off the wristwatch and threw it aside. She snatched up the hypodermic gun.
‘Please,’ croaked Drew.
‘Fuck you.’
Lucy punched the needle into his right eye and pulled the trigger. Gas-cartridge hiss. His eye inflated and burst, spilling clear liquid.
He convulsed. He arched his back. Blood leaked from his nose and ears.
Lucy stood back. Drew gripped her bare ankle. She jerked her leg free.
She watched him thrash and slowly die.
She patted him down, slid her hands over the heavy rubber in case he had a holstered pistol beneath his suit.
Nothing.
Her clothes lay in a heap in the corner. She bent and picked them up. Amytal head rush. She swayed like a drunk.
The clothes had been cut from her body, reduced to rags.
Her prairie coat was still in one piece. She threw it over her shoulder.
She stepped into the corridor, bare feet padding silently on floor tiles. She stumbled down the passageway, leaning against the wall for support.
Amanda lay in her hospital bed, drowsed with morphine.
Koell stood at a side table, loading a hypodermic gun. She listened to the creak of his Tyvek hazmat suit. She was lulled by the electric hum of his backpack respirator. Air sucked through charcoal virus filters.
‘Don’t kill me,’ she murmured.
He stood over the bed. He lifted her arm and positioned the hypo gun.
‘I read your MI profile. Spoilt little rich girl. Trust-fund junkie. All that promise. All that potential. The person you could have been.’
He lifted her arm and positioned the hypo gun.
‘You and your friends. No country. No code. No high ideal. Nothing but the tawdry pursuit of money. And look where it got you. A miserable death. Utterly alone.’
Lucy’s voice:
‘Hey, Koell.’
Koell turned. The base of a drip stand struck him in the face. His rubber overboots slipped on the tiled floor and he fell on his back. A second blow smashed the hazmat faceplate.
Lucy threw Amanda a hospital gown and her Stetson.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
Lucy sat on Koell’s chest. She tore off his hood, grabbed the hypodermic gun from the floor and jabbed the needle into his neck.
‘Don’t,’ he whispered. ‘Please. Don’t.’
‘Where did you suit up? You and the other guy.’
‘What?’
‘Your clothes. Where are your clothes?’
The underground parking level of the Al Rasheed.
Koell’s Lincoln Navigator sat in shadow. Koell at the wheel, Lucy by his side. She kept him covered with the Sig P226 she found in the glove box.
Lucy wore Colonel Drew’s oversized fatigues. Koell wore Lucy’s ripped trousers, her laceless boots.
‘You won’t get far,’ said Koell.
‘Shut the fuck up. Keep your hands on the wheel.’
They watched Amanda check out their battered, shot-up Suburban. She wore Koell’s shirt, slacks and brogues.
She peered through cracked windows. She crouched and checked beneath the vehicle. She climbed in, dropped keys from the sun visor, and gunned the engine.
Thumbs up.
‘Okay,’ said Lucy. ‘Get out.’
They climbed out of the Navigator. Lucy could see the red dot of an active CCTV camera in corner shadows. She hid the pistol in her jacket pocket.
‘Act casual.’
They crossed the empty parking structure. Footfalls echoed in the cavernous space.
Koell limped.
‘Walk properly.’
‘Boots are about six sizes too small.’
‘Walk.’
They reached the Suburban.
‘Get in.’
Amanda shifted seats. Koell took the wheel. Lucy got in the rear.
‘Drive.’
‘Where are we headed?
‘Across town. QRF Indigo. The Canadian staging base on Route Irish.’
‘Why?’
‘Just drive the fucking car.’
They pulled out, and took the up-ramp into blinding sunlight.
The old quarter. Trash fires, feral dogs. Suspicious locals watched the Suburban speed past.
Lucy unzipped a holdall on the back seat. Fresh clothes. She changed. She strapped on a tac vest. She clipped a black nylon belt and dropped a HK 9mm into the drop holster.
She threw her dog tags from the window.
Koell watched her in the rear-view.
‘You and your girlfriend were going to skip out on your buddies. Was that the plan all along? Load the gold and run?’
Lucy examined the crumpled gang photo. Lucy, Amanda, Toon, Huang and Voss. Hanging out in the Riv, laughing, toasting the camera.
‘None of your damned business.’
They pulled over. Lucy and Amanda switched seats. Koell drove while Lucy kept him covered. Amanda sat on the back seat and dressed.
‘Why Indigo?’ asked Koell. ‘What do you think the Canucks are going to do for you?’
‘We’re going to hitch a ride on a supply flight back to Germany.’
She opened the glove box and shook out an envelope. Canadian passports. A wad of dollars. Bribe money had secured an amendment of provisional records. A handful of key strokes summoned two freelance journalists into existence. New names, birth dates, press accreditation and social insurance numbers.