Jacket-and-Scarf was shivering, clutching her left arm, staring at where it came to an abrupt end.
The pizza song and dance routine reached its big finale, and then it was gone-leaving them in darkness and silence.
‘You’ve got two choices,’ said Will, spitting out a mouthful of blood. ‘Either you tell me who sent you and what your orders were, or I kill you.’
She looked up at him, face waxy, lips going purple. ‘I…I…My arm! A’ve nae arm!’
Will planted his foot on her chest and shoved till she was flat on her back. ‘Let’s try it again!’ He was shouting now, the adrenaline burn making his voice tremble. ‘You and your friend the smear, were sent here to kill me. Who was it? Who sent you? It was Peitai, wasn’t it?’
‘Ma arm!’
Will dropped to his knees, straddling her chest, and pressed the Thrummer against her pale cheek.
‘It’ll be your head next, understand?’ He slapped her hard across the face. ‘Understand?’ Another slap. ‘WHO’S HE WORKING FOR?’
‘We only wanted some cash! A couple o’ cards, some credits! Just enough to get oan wi! We wouldnae’ve touched yer girlfriend! We wouldnae!’ She sobbed. ‘Please…Ah that stuff Malk wis sayin wis just tae scare ye. We wouldnae’ve done it. We just wanted a bitta dosh fer H! Ye didnae haf tae take ma arm!’
‘I’ll take your whole head you snivelling piece of-’
There was a roar above him and a sudden downdraft of hot air. All around them the park jumped into eye-searing focus as landing lights flooded the area, the downpour whipped into a hurricane by the Dragonfly’s engines.
A voice buzzed in Will’s earpiece, crackling with static.
‘This is Echo Two Seven, we show landing zone secure.’
The cavalry had arrived.
Will looked down at Jacket-and-Scarf. Two more minutes and he’d have got the truth out of her, even if he’d had to take every single one of her bloody limbs off. She wouldn’t admit anything now there were witnesses. Even if she made it as far as the Tin, Peitai would find a way to get her out. That or silence her for good.
Will placed the Thrummer against her temple. Maybe he’d save them the trouble.
The holographic advert flickered back to the start: Mum, Dad, and two-point-four children launching into their song and dance again. ‘If you’re hungry as can be-need to feed your family…’
Someone tapped Will on the shoulder. ‘It’s OK, sir, we’ve got her now.’
He didn’t have to look to know it was one of the Dragon-fly’s pickup team. They wouldn’t like him blowing Jacket-and-Scarf’s head off like this, but they wouldn’t say anything about it. They’d close ranks. Delete the footage from the gunship and their helmet-cams. He’d been one of them, riding the wire for almost three and a half years before making the grade as a Network Agent and they knew it. The team protected its own.
A new voice: ‘Mr Hunter? Sir?’ Will caught a flash of neon-pink trouser leg.
Fuck.
‘Sir, are you OK?’
Too late.
He couldn’t execute the one-armed bandit while DS Cameron was watching. She wouldn’t understand. She still believed in the rules.
‘You can let go of her now, sir.’
He closed his eyes and powered down the Thrummer.
‘You’re bleeding…’ She helped him to his feet, holding him upright while he hissed breath through his clenched teeth. Definitely a broken rib. Probably two.
‘I’ve had better days.’ Will watched someone spray Jacket-and-Scarf’s stump with skinpaint. She’d go to hospital overnight for observation; Ken Peitai would make all the charges disappear; it only took a week to grow a new arm; couple of hours in surgery; and she’d be back on the streets.
Will should have killed her when he had the chance.
‘Looks like you put up quite a struggle.’ Jo pointed at the chunks of Cloat littering the sodden grass.
The dinosaur reappeared, singing, ‘On Monday bring your fa-mil-eee, cos kids under twelve eat for free!’ Will pointed his Thrummer at the advertipod and reduced the emitters to dust.
Jo stared at him. ‘Not a big fan of pizza then?’
‘The dead one had an old S-Nine-Eighty. Looked like it fell off the back of a museum. Blew up in his hands.’
‘Long black cloat?’
Will nodded.
‘That’ll’ve been Malcolm Albany. He and Samantha here used to work the Green, till Nicholson and Richmond offered to pop their heads in a cruncher.’
‘You know these people?’
She sighed. ‘Know them? I’ve arrested Samantha McLean more times than I can count. Prostitution, assault, burglary…you name it. Been in and out of the Tin since she was six. She’s screwed this time-attempted murder. Poor cow’s in for a halfheading.’
Muggers. Not Peitai after all.
Will ran a hand over his face. It came away sticky, covered in red. He snorted. Smiled. Started to laugh.
‘How hard did they hit you?’ Jo stepped in close, peering into his eyes. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
He grabbed her cheeks with his bloody hands and kissed her full on the lips. ‘You,’ he said, ‘have restored my faith in human nature.’
‘I…em…’ She stepped back, mouth working up and down in time with her eyebrows, a blush rushing up her neck. ‘I don’t understand, sir.’
Will limped towards the waiting Dragonfly. ‘Sometimes there is no conspiracy. Sometimes people are just basically evil.’
‘But why did you-’
The rain-swept sky exploded as a second Dragonfly swung in over the scene with all weapons pods opened. Deep, dark scars wound their way back along the gunship, smoke trailing from the port engine.
‘Hunter, this is Brand, do you copy, over?’ Emily. She wouldn’t know if he was alive or the filling in a body-bag buttie.
‘Panic’s over, Lieutenant.’ He turned and beamed at Jo and her ridiculously colourful suit. ‘DS Cameron saved the day. They were just muggers. Can you believe it? Muggers.’ He started to laugh again and didn’t stop until they’d snapped a blocker into his neck.
The hospital’s busy in the run-up to lunch: lots of things going on, people trying to clear their desks before noon. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzing about the hospital like busy, busy bees. No one paying attention to anyone else. Always the best time to get things done.
She takes a good look around before hauling the trolley out of the storeroom and into the corridor. Body-bags would be too suspicious-they don’t let halfheads push dead people around-but general-purpose refuse sacks are another matter entirely. You just have to cut the dearly departed into smaller bits.
She pulls the door shut behind her and trundles along the corridor to the incinerator. It’s been six years since she last needed it: Gordon Waugh. She’d kept the furnace door open that time, turning the heat down so it wouldn’t instantly reduce his mangled corpse to ash…smiling as Gordon hissed and crackled in the flames. That night she’d gone out and had a huge plate of roast pork.
But she doesn’t have time for fun now. So she just throws the eight heavy refuse sacks into the furnace and cranks the heat up full. Soon there is nothing left. Bye-bye Kris, bye-bye Norman.
Dr Westfield waves, then abandons the trolley in favour of a mop and wheely-bucket, pushing it in front of her like a bag lady pushing a shopping cart full of empty plastics. Focusing on the soapy water as if it’s the only thing in the world.
The service elevator is crowded-just as she expected it to be. Four doctors, three interns, and a nurse. They move over, just enough to let her in without actually acknowledging her existence. Even though two of them used to work with her every day…Back when she was a human being.
Dr Stephen Bexley-the one with the salt and pepper beard, reading a patient’s chart on his datapad-even went to the trial. He wept as she took the court through the list of names, telling them exactly what she’d done to their bodies, both before and after death. It was the post-mortem activities that seemed to upset Stephen most of all. Once upon a time he’d claimed to be her friend. Now he doesn’t even recognize her.