“Not a chance,” I said.
“With due respect, sir, you’ve ‘accounted for’ what, seven of the bastards already, tonight?” the biker said. “What’s one more?”
“Asked, and answered,” I said.
Neither Marine spoke for a moment.
“What if he tried to make a run for it?” the other Marine said. “We’d have no choice, then.”
“OK,” I said. “Tell me this. Who else at the Embassy is involved in this?”
The Marines glanced at each other again, but this time neither one spoke.
“What was going to happen next?” I said. “More drug shipments?”
The biker Marine shrugged.
“Or was this one just to get the noose tighter around your necks?” I said. “So you’d give them, what? The Ambassador’s home address? Floor plans of the Embassy? Details of VIP visits?”
“Forget it,” the biker said. “We’d never give them stuff like that.”
“Spare me,” I said. “And something else. He didn’t do this to you. You did it to yourselves, by acting like morons. Killing him serves no tactical purpose. Not like the people outside. So if you expect any kind of leniency from the Navy, you’ll help me get this guy safely out of here. Are we clear?”
“Sir,” both Marines said after long a pause, but their body language made it clear they weren’t happy.
“Time to move,” I said. “Get him on his feet.”
“On your feet, arsehole,” the biker Marine said to Truly.
Truly didn’t move.
“Feel free to encourage him,” I said.
The Marine stepped forward and jammed the toe of his motorcycle boot into Truly’s left kidney. He squealed and pitched forward, saving himself just before his face hit the concrete. The Marine grabbed him by the collar, hauled him upright, and sent him stumbling towards the exit. I stepped back to avoid his flailing arms, and then something caught my eye. Movement. Above me. From the hole in the roof.
“Gun,” the other Marine shouted, spotting the same thing.
I threw myself forward, crashing my shoulder into Truly and sending him flying. We hit the ground together. I landed on top of him and the impact dislodged a lungful of his foul cigarette-breath, pumping it straight into my face. A bullet hit the ground near my feet, right where Truly had been standing. I grabbed him and rolled, not wanting either of us to offer a static target. I heard three more shots. They were coming from my left. I looked round and saw the biker Marine holding Truly’s Colt two-handed, aiming at the hole in the roof.
“Don’t think I got him,” he said. “He might be running. Shall I go and see?”
“No, stay where you are and give us cover,” I said, pulling out the Ruger I’d taken from the guys in the car and throwing it to the other Marine, who was closer to the exit. “You, outside, quickly. Find him.”
The echo of his footsteps died away and for a moment the warehouse was silent, except for the slight whimpering sound Truly made as I lifted my weight off his chest.
“Come on,” I said to the biker. “Let’s get this idiot out of harm’s way.”
Truly’s legs only managed a weak wriggle when he tried to move so I leaned down to lift him.
“Careful,” the Marine said as I pulled Truly to his feet. “He’s hit. His face is covered with blood.”
I couldn’t think how. I counted the shots I’d heard, and replayed what had just happened in my mind. Then I became away of a familiar throb at the back of my head. And a warm stickiness spreading down my neck. I looked down at the ground and surveyed the stubs of metal left by the shelf legs. It wasn’t obvious at first, because of the lack of light. But if you looked closely, you could just see the tip of the nearest one was darker than its neighbours.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not his.”
St Joseph’s Hospital
London
Patient Admission Record
This patient, a telecommunications consultant who appears to be in his mid-thirties, presented this morning having been driven by his boss from work. He is complaining of a blow to the head suffered on a business trip to Europe. He appears to be moderately disoriented and is unable to state clearly the circumstances of the accident, his date of birth, or his health service no.
He is not happy about being admitted and has repeatedly stated his intention to self-discharge.
This is the second occasion within the last 6 months that the patient has suffered a moderate to severe blow to the head. It is therefore recommended that an MRI scan be carried out at the earliest opportunity to assess the risk of permanent brain injury.
Chapter Three
I’ve ended up needing treatment many times, over the years. It’s an occupational hazard. But I’d never been hurt saving a drug dealer, before.
I’ve found myself in all kinds of different medical institutions. Huge teaching hospitals. Tiny, charitable clinics. Sick bays on ships. Even a veterinarian's office on one unfortunate occasion. But never anywhere as picture-perfect as St Joseph’s. It was made up of four matching buildings. They dated from the early eighteenth century, according to a round blue sign I saw on my way to the MRI suite, and were arranged symmetrically around a rectangular garden. Three of the wings contained the patients’ wards and private rooms, plus operating theatres and suites for all the specialist treatments the hospital offered. The other housed the kitchens, offices, meeting rooms, and stores.
I’m usually desperate to leave hospital before the doctors want me to. I even had to break out of one, once. But I’d never wanted to be cooped up for longer. Not until that morning, after a bored technician had taken two hours to fill his machine with little electronic slices of my brain. Because someone had taken that time and used some of it to slip into my room. Poke around in my locker. Spill my water. Search inside my pillowcases. Scrabble around under my bed. Rifle through my clothes. Toss my keys and empty wallet onto the floor. And skulk out again, unnoticed.
But whoever this person was, and wherever they went, they didn’t leave empty handed. They took something with them. Something that didn’t belong to them.
A pair of boots.
Grenson brogues. In black. They were nice to look at. The leather was supple, so they were comfortable to wear. Even for days at a time. And the toecaps were solid - almost as good as steel - which is essential in my line of work.
I’d bought the boots in London, the last time I was here for more than two nights in a row. That was three years ago, now. Since then I’d worn them on four continents. In fourteen countries. During twelve jobs. And there’s plenty of life left in them, yet. Enough that I’d figured to keep them another couple of years, at least. Till they got too scruffy. Or I found something I liked better. But either way, I was going to make the decision when to change them. It wasn’t going to be forced on me by some small-time sneak thief. Not at home, in England.
I want to be very clear about those boots. They weren’t government issue. There were no secret gadgets hidden in their heels. They weren’t needed as evidence in any high stakes trial. They were simply my boots. Chosen by me. Paid for by me. And now stolen by someone I’d been injured while protecting. Which meant those boots represented something more than footwear. They represented betrayal. And that’s something I’m never going to take lying down.