A Life Owed: Europa City, #4 14532q

A Life Owed Europa City 4

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Leon Steelgrave

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Published by Ice Pick Books

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

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A LIFE OWED Second edition. April 05, 2021. Copyright © 2020 & 2021 Leon Steelgrave. ISBN: 978-1-8384435-5-9 Written by Leon Steelgrave.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Books by Leon Steelgrave

A Europa City Primer

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

About the Author

Books by Leon Steelgrave

Europa City 1: White Vampyre Europa City 2: Though Your Sins Be Scarlet Europa City 3: The Violet Hour Europa City 4: A Life Owed

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Europa City One-shot: Cocoa Psycho Killer Europa City One-shot: Smack Upside The Head

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Darkness Visible: The Complete Short Stories

A Europa City Primer

Construction of the vast conurbation commenced early in the sixth decade of the twenty-first century following the Great Flood of 2049, its purpose to provide a fresh start for millions of refugees. Situated on the hilly and mountainous lands of the former Umbria region of central Italy, the rocky slopes of the Apennines defined and protected its eastern borders. The city, home to more than forty million inhabitants, formed a melting pot of creeds and colours, composed largely from the original of the long defunct European Union. Each of the former countries ran their own section of the city, the Quarters subdivided into districts named after famous, long drowned, cities. An elected Council governed the city, its laws enforced by the Europa City Police Department. To them had fallen the onerous and thankless task of maintaining order against a rising tide of crime and violence fuelled by cramped living conditions and old prejudices. Beyond its environs, scattered communities farmed the surviving lands of Tuscany to the west, the Marche to the east and Lazio to the south, linked to the city by the steel umbilical cords of a massive monorail system. It stretched over the peninsula like a giant spider’s web, providing transit routes for the food, supplies and raw materials used by the city’s heavy industries, the latter vital in maintaining trade with the surviving communities of America and Asia. The export of weapons tech being of particular importance to the city’s arms manufacturing sector, with the Religious States of America its primary customer. With much of Asia rendered uninhabitable by flooding, new cyber technology capitals developed in North Africa and swiftly assumed market supremacy. A highly volatile territory, it maintains an uneasy alliance with Europa City’s corporations, the manufactories of which are dependent on its components.

PART ONE 3 February 2088 – 7 February 2088

Chapter 1

A life owed. Three words on the screen of my com-unit. No -ident, but then I didn’t need one, any more than I needed to know how the sender traced my number. I’d been waiting for this day for over two years, long enough to entertain the hope that my debt had gotten lost in the chaos that had engulfed Europa City. Stupid girl. I took the first flight out of Casablanca, direct to the city’s Danish Quarter. No point postponing the inevitable. Part of me, the contrary part, felt relieved to finally be returning home. My more pragmatic side ed how much it had cost to smuggle myself out of the city after Commissioner Sajer’s declaration of Martial Law. The coup proved to be short lived, as neither the corporations nor the organised crime families were willing to tolerate its brutal effect on their profits. Sajer went down, murdered by one of his own detectives, Wilson Haynes walked from his cell straight back into the Supreme Councillor’s chair, and Europa City went back to business as usual. That business being the export of weapons’ tech to various religious zealots. If the Americans wanted to continue their crusades in the Middles East that was nobody’s business but their own, right? Me? I stayed in self-imposed exile. Never saw the point in politics, be they council, corporate or the Code of the Families. Guess I can thank Daddy for that, he always did what he damn well pleased and worried about the fallout later. Say what you like about the North African nanotech corps, there’s no denying they have a direct approach to conflict resolution, which is money in the bank for a wetwork professional. Not that it was much of a choice between them and the Religious States of America. Work for a bunch of creationist pricks who view me as little more than a set of walking reproductive organs? No thank you. All right, I won’t deny an element of “out of sight, out of mind” in my decision making either, for all the good it did. Guess the easy money and the sun’s made me a little soft. But I better toughen up fast, because EC doesn’t do forgiveness. I knock back the last of my drink, open the blind, and look out at the unforgiving bitch as we circle down. The Apennines give way to the slab-like plascrete and

glass blocks of the original refugee housing, fabed together double-quick time in the wake of the Great Flood, the literal high-water mark of the then surviving European continent. The blocks thin out, giving way to the rubble of a reclaim zone, then we’re flying between the glass and neon spikes of the corporate datalabs and manufactories. Tessler, Ingram, Heckler & Koch, pumping out the latest drones, cluster bombs and MOAB’s, despite Conventions banning their manufacture and use. Morality is all well and good, but the city has to eat. Lower still, and we the obscenity of three and four storey buildings, the homes of the predominantly criminal rich, who pay for the obscenity of squandered air space in a city where all land is at as a . Hello and welcome to Østerbro in the Copenhagen district, where my reception awaits. The plane comes to a halt on the stand and I get up, hunching to avoid hitting my head on the ceiling. At one metre eighty-eight my spike heels are unnecessary but, as ever, I’m playing a role. Christine Latour, marketing exec for the Kohl House of Fashion, never goes anywhere without her vintage Saint Laurent shoes and their ridiculous signature heels. I brush imaginary lint from my pencil skirt and open the overhead locker to recover my carry-on luggage. Even without his reflection in the patent surface of my case, I can feel the creep opposite leering at me. Tall, dark, with the aura of self-assurance and entitlement that only comes from the finest corporate education, he thinks anything he wants should be his for the asking. I treat him to a conspiratorial smile before jabbing a knuckle into the nerve cluster between his right shoulder and pectoral. He lets out a yelp and collapses into the embrace of his first-class seat. Childish, but there’s a spring in my step as I thank the cabin crew and exit the plane. Sometimes it’s the little things in life.

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‘Business or pleasure, Ms Latour?’ ‘A bit of both, hopefully,’ I reply to the immigration official.

He completes the scan of the ident-chip implanted in my right wrist. I nod my thanks and step past his kiosk to officially set foot on Europa City soil. I key on the vid screen and settle back into my seat. The rush hour traffic is worse than I , so I put on the news feed while I wait for my cab to crawl to its destination. Lucian Artaud, CEO of Tessler, is the lead on every channel. Tessler has announced a twenty percent increase in pre-tax profit for the quarter and is proceeding with an expansion in the German Quarter, set to bring five thousand jobs. Supreme Councillor Haynes, gnarled and grey, seemingly bent under the weight of his own corruption, is there to glad-hand him, as is Police Commissioner Nilsson, commenting on the successful renewal of the ED arms contract. Karl Volk, of the Liberal Justice Party, also throws in his two cents as to what a wonderful investment this is for the city. It’s a bullshit broth of stock phrases so unpalatable you wonder how it doesn’t stick in the anchor’s throat. I’ve seen enough and spend the remainder of my journey staring out the window. I pay the cab with a disposable credit chit and stare balefully at the mock stucco frontage of Yoshiko Takahashi’s mansion. The top of a Shinto temple, on a hill in the garden, rises above the roofline. Last time I visited Takahashi anticipated my efforts to sneak inside. This time I press the bell and wait. The door opens almost immediately to reveal a pair of Yakuza enforcers straight out of central casting. Dark suits stretched over the type of muscle that has speed as well as strength, and is doubtless augmented by nanotech. Expressionless faces, eyes concealed behind HUD shades, could be any age from twenty-five to fifty. They step apart and motion me inside, where they form up front and back of me. A broad hallway takes me past an open plan living space and an office before delivering me to a reception room where Takahashi awaits. She wears a traditional kimono, pale face contrasted by the inky black bun of her hair. A casual wave of her hand directs the muscle to take up position either side of the door. We bow silently to one another and I proceed to the stone basin where I wash my hands and rinse my mouth with water. Purification complete, I follow Takahashi

from the reception room and onto the path that leads through the garden to the thatched tea house. Following Takahashi’s example, I remove my shoes and enter the tea room through the small crawling-in door, where I take up my position on the tatami, kneeling with my thighs pressed flat to my calves. The scent of the charcoal fire heating the water fills the room. I sit in silence, nodding and smiling as appropriate as she performs the tea ceremony, eating lightly of the delicacies put before me and ignoring the sake. Only when we have dutifully observed the ritual does Takahashi move to business. ‘You know why you have been summoned?’ ‘To fulfil my debt.’ ‘An assassination of my choosing in payment for my having saved your life. As oyabun you’ll appreciate I have many resources at my disposal, therefore use of an outside contractor indicates a certain delicacy in this matter is required.’ Plausible deniability. In other words, there’s going to be shit on both ends of the stick. ‘Montgomery Llewellyn.’ ED’s top public prosecutor. Takahashi couldn’t find a hotter target if she tried. She’s threatening the tacit understanding that exists between the organised crime families and the police department. A risk like this must involve a major pay out. Not that she’s going to clue me in any time soon. ‘Timescale?’ ‘March thirty-first. I trust this won’t be a problem.’ It’s a statement rather than a question. Three weeks is reasonable prep time. It’s not like I have a choice. Not unless I want to spend what’s left of a presumably short life looking over my shoulder. I stand and bow. Clock’s already ticking and I’m going to need every minute to complete the hit and ensure I walk away from whatever blowback follows.

Chapter 2

My cover identity necessitates another expensive cab ride, all the way to the London district and my New Docklands property. If I were half as careful as I ought to be, I would have sold it when I fled the city. Instead, I’m putting my faith in the labyrinth of shell companies it’s ed through rendering it untraceable. Ms Latour is simply the latest in a long line of short-term tenants. All the same, my finger hesitates above the call button for the elevator. Never mind growing soft, I’m becoming nervous too. Get your shit together, girl. Concentrate on the job. I run the gamut of physiological and behavioural biometric verification to access the elevator and step inside. Infinite reflections of myself stare back from the mirrored walls as it rapidly ascends the eighty-eight stories to the penthouse. So rapidly my ears pop. Then the rear doors open onto an expanse of glass and light and space. Climate control is set to 20 degrees, the floor to ceiling east-facing windows polarised to cut the glare of the winter sun reflecting from the snow-covered slopes of the Apennines. I kick off my heels and enjoy the cool tiles of the floor beneath my stockinged feet. I’ve spent years telling myself attachment to the physical is a weakness. But it still feels good to be home. I cross the open plan living area to the kitchen and press the release on the fridge to reveal its neatly stacked contents. A cursory glance confirms all is as expected. My gaze lingers on a bottle of akvavit but my fingers close around a water. Discipline starts here. Time enough to indulge myself when the job’s done. Llewellyn is going to be a tough nut to crack. Should have known Takahashi would call in my debt with interest aplenty. A protein shake s the water and I make my way to the office alcove and drop into a chair that immediately adjusts to correct my posture. I unlock the datapad and key in a search for Montgomery Llewellyn, starting with the public domain. The biographical details are largely as you would expect for someone of his class and background; a first degree in law, which saw him take up an appointment with the EC Department of Public Prosecutions. Given the usual mix of gang

violence, hacking, theft, and drugs, he quickly established a conviction rate that saw him entrusted with a high-profile murder case. Mikhail Pedersen, a member of the City Council, claimed to have shot his wife after mistaking her for an intruder. The great and the good of the political and corporate world expected a show trial followed by an acquittal. Unfortunately for them young Monty happened to believe in justice. A series of very public arguments, together with three beatings requiring hospital treatment that the ED failed to bury deep enough, plus the filing for a ruinous divorce convinced the jury of Pedersen’s guilt. The DPP knew it had found a keeper. The corporate world realised it had a problem. Llewellyn climbed steadily through the ranks after that. He left homicide behind for fraud, from where he came to rest in his current position leading the fight against organised crime. And there, I guess, lay Takahashi’s interest in his removal. Only it didn’t. At least not according to the stats. So far, he’d proved little more than a minor irritant to the Yakuza, successfully prosecuting a couple of kyodai. Maybe he had bigger plans afoot, but he was far from the first public prosecutor to get a hardon for the Six Families, or rather Four, as they were now. Sajer’s abortive coup having reduced their ranks. Assuming I was successful, he surely wouldn’t be the last. The uneasy feeling I’d been trying to ignore since Takahashi first revealed the target surfaced again. Something was wrong with this picture. Trouble was I’d have to go a lot deeper to find out what. By which point it might be too late to get out. Least not with my breathing privileges intact. Lacking any other choice for the moment, I continued getting to know my target, looking for some weakness I could exploit or transform into my window of opportunity. The only thing worse than a soft and nervous wetwork professional was one that beat herself up over the why. Married 2072 to Ann-Marie Glenister, who was employed as a university lecturer in humanities. Two children, both girls. Susanne age 11 and Alex age 8. Perfect nuclear family. In public, at least. I jack in and move to the dark web, digging for dirt. Alcohol, substance abuse, gambling, philandering and domestic violence all return negative hits. As does misconduct – not so much as a quashed parking ticket for friends or family. Our boy has either had his digital footprint cleaned, of which there’s no financial

trace, or he really is a modern-day saint. Immediate family offers no help either. No siblings, father deceased, mother works for an NGO in Central America. Going to have to fall back on the tried and tested options of hitting him at work or at home. Given work is in the Halls of Justice, the odds of avoiding death or prison afterwards aren’t good. Home it is. I have to crack three layers of ICE and run a decryption algorithm to break into the DPP’s HR records, affording me forty-five seconds before the system detects me. I exfiltrate as much data as possible to a server in the Greater Russian Collective before burning the connection. Chances are I’ll have tripped intrusion alarms, but the range of data I’ve taken is so broad it’ll be near impossible to identify the purpose of the breach. And certainly not in time to warn my target. I pull up the schematic for Llewellyn’s apartment in the Rome district. Single elevator access with biometric scanning, plus a concealed escape elevator. Similar to my own, but with the addition of a panic room. A Tessler XTC adaptive surveillance and countermeasures suite provides security, which is way beyond my hacking capabilities. Looks like I’m in the market for a cybernaut. Guaranteed to be an expensive experience, which there’s no point delaying. I put out a request via the Casbah and wait to see if there’s any takers. My neck, lower back and limbs are stiff, and when I look over to the window it reveals a setting sun. There are audible pops as I stretch. Flights, taxis, trawling the net; too much sitting for one day. Time for a workout. My skirt, blouse and stockings form a trail behind me as I make my way to the bedroom, shedding the persona of Christine Latour along with my clothes. It’s an ordinary enough room with one notable exception – the pole. A remnant of previous undercover work, I’ve found it as good away as any to stay limber. I start with a series of stretches, working the kinks out of my muscles and making sure they’re sufficiently warm. Then it’s time to try out the old moves. A little hesitant at first, but with growing confidence as the muscle memory kicks in, I work through the bee’s knees, jade, death lay, closed inside leg hang, flying cupid and the nose breaker drop. A brief break and then another set, mixing up the order, feeling the sweat come on. Thoughts of Takahashi and Llewellyn fade away until there’s only the pleasure of striking each pose perfectly. Feels good. Feels free.

A shower and a light meal of pasta and vegetables later, I’m channel hopping when the first quote comes in. Doesn’t matter I can afford it; the price is still eye-watering. This life debt business is anything but cheap. There are four further offers over the course of the next hour, all around the same price. Appears there’s a going rate for hacking the security of properties belonging to the Department of Public Prosecutions. I let the job to Sabbat, second most expensive. But he or she has thrown in Llewellyn’s schedule for the next ten days as proof of ability. Three days from now Llewellyn will be home alone. It’s time for you to do what you do best Cocoa; put him to sleep.

Chapter 3

I ride the wire as far as Piazza Novona. Early evening and the crowds are already dispersing. Just enough bodies for me not to standout. Even in flats I’m still tall, so I walk with a stoop and a vacant stare that discourages eye . I exit the square for the main thoroughfare, each step making me more obvious. Can’t do anything about eye witnesses but Sabbat should have looped the securicams. The familiar surge of adrenaline kicks in as I near my target. Loath as I am to it it, it’s a rush, an addiction. I concentrate on my breathing, slow it down, even it out. My mind clears and I enter an automatic state, moving through each meticulously planned stage of the hit. Two hundred metres. One hundred metres. Fifty metres. The entrance to Llewellyn’s building, an unlovely edifice of plascrete and glass, comes into focus, and with it the moment of truth. I press my palm against the sensor and present my eye for scanning. The seconds stretch. My muscles tense, preparing for flight or fight at the first sound of an alarm. Then the elevator door slides open and I’m on my way, heading for the twenty-fifth floor. The floor-plan unfolds in my mind’s eye. I exit the elevator and turn right, ing three apartments to arrive outside the door of number 254. A glance in either direction confirms no one has seen me before I tap Sabbat’s duplicated electronic key against the pad. The hum of the mag bolts is soft but audible. A turn of the handle swings the door open. By the time it completes its arc the Walther PZ9 is in my hand; a compact striker-fired 9mm pistol with ambidextrous controls. I follow the hallway past the kitchen and living area to arrive at Llewellyn’s study. The door is ajar, casting a wedge of light onto the hall floor. Music carries from the room, the low volume denying Wagner his full bombastic glory. A counterpoint of tuneless humming doesn’t improve matters. A capital crime in the eyes of some opera lovers. At least that’s what I tell myself. I push the door open. Llewellyn is sitting with his back to me, eyes fixed on the screen of his terminal. I don’t hesitate. A double tap to the heart. He utters a

grunt of surprise and slumps across the desk. I step into the room to confirm the kill. Too late, I sense movement behind me. Fire burns through my muscles as the Taser charge hits.

Chapter 4

I come to in the corner of the study, wrists and ankles handcuffed, a throbbing pain behind my eyes rendering everything out of focus. ‘Now don’t you be doing nothing stupid, Cocoa. On of which I’d have to zap you again.’ The voice is familiar, but I can’t place it. I close one eye and the juddering figure resolves itself to reveal Detective Pete Kurtzman, Hamburg Homicide. He’s lost a bit of weight and the clarity of his eyes suggests he’s kicked the booze. But clean living doesn’t seem to have improved his disposition any. Guess he’s still holding a grudge after I put the squeeze on him for letting me go after he caught me taking out a serial rapist a couple of years back. The fact he was there to plant evidence didn’t give him much choice. A dead man enters the room. Llewellyn has stripped off his shirt and is holding a Kevlar vest in his hand. The holes in the back are almost close enough to be one. Least my grouping is still good. ‘Jesus, detective. Feels like I’ve been kicked by a horse!’ ‘Count yourself lucky our girl here is enough of a pro to always go for centre mass and not a headshot.’ ‘Didn’t think you were the type to hold a grudge, Kurtzman.’ ‘Don’t you go flattering yourself. We knew the Yakuza would be sending someone. I must be living right it turned out to be you, is all.’ His swarthy features twitch into an approximation of a grin. ‘You should have stayed gone.’ ‘You know this woman, detective?’ ‘Cocoa here is what you would call your professional wetworker type. Last count, she’s suspected in seventeen unsolved homicides. Course, that’s only the ones we know about.’

‘Without proof, you ain’t got nothing,’ I say with a defiance I don’t feel. ‘What we got ourselves is an open and shut case of attempted murder linked to criminal conspiracy. It’ll be a short step from there once we have your DNA to you getting the needle.’ Llewellyn wheels over his chair and sits down. Just out of range of a kick. ‘Of course, it doesn’t necessarily have to be that way.’ Kurtzman’s face turns puce. ‘You gotta be yanking my chain here, Llewellyn! This ain’t no gangbanger you can cut a deal with for some bullshit idea of the greater good. She’s a gun for hire. A stone killer. All for money.’ ‘Thank you, detective. I do know what a wetwork professional is. I also know an opportunity when it presents itself.’ His smile is more convincing that Kurtzman’s, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘You were hired by Yoshiko Takahashi to kill me.’ I stay silent. Not out of some code of honour, but because I want to know where this is leading. Between a rock and a hard place; better the rocks should crush you or the monster eat you alive? ‘You’re not denying it, so let’s assume you’re in the service of the Yakuza. What you might not be aware of is Yoshiko Takahashi is acting in direct violation of the Code of the Four Families, and by extension the Yakuza itself.’ ‘And that concerns me how?’ ‘For one, she isn’t going to want any witnesses. Given the Yakuza has no shortage of killers, don’t you find it a little odd she’s opted for an outside contractor?’ Llewellyn nods. I should probably avoid poker in future. ‘I see I have your attention, so I’ll continue. By long standing agreement the Four Families have avoided any direct link to the corporations. They are, of course, pragmatic enough to recognise when their interests might crossover, but all within the realm of plausible deniability. A direct agreement for the supply of pharmaceuticals and arms in return for hitting the competition has always been unthinkable. And yet that’s exactly what Takahashi has arranged with Tessler.’

‘If you have the evidence, why don’t you arrest her?’ A look, almost too quick see, es between Llewellyn and Kurtzman. The former hesitates, weighing up which version of the truth to tell me. A resigned sigh implies I’m about to receive the truth and nothing but the truth. Or at least as much as he thinks I can handle. ‘We suspect there are certain factions within the ED actively working against the investigation. The department’s links to Tessler would make any prosecution... problematic.’ ‘By which you mean Police Commissioner Nilsson is Haynes’ man. And our Supreme Councillor, now that he’s got his nose back in the trough, doesn’t want to lose his share of the takings.’ Kurtzman grunts his approval. ‘No flies on you.’ Ignoring Kurtzman, Llewellyn continues. ‘The point being there has already been one attempt on my life and if word gets out you’ve failed there will surely be others. Better, therefore, we should announce my death to the city’s media, leaving me free to complete my investigation. I need incontrovertible proof that high-ranking of the ED have sanctioned dealings between the Yakuza and Tessler. Once I have that Nilsson and Haynes’ cronies within the department will be powerless to stop me. It’ll be hard on my family, but they’ll also be safer this way.’ ‘And what am I supposed to do, other than playing along with having killed you?’ ‘You’re going to go to the places myself and Detective Kurtzman can’t.’ ‘You expect me to risk my life for you?’ ‘It’s a simple enough choice. Take your chances among the criminal elements you’re familiar with, or face the certainty of execution. Either by the state or, more likely, a shank in the kidneys courtesy of your friends in the Yakuza.’ I proffer up my manacled wrists. ‘Where do I sign?’

Chapter 5

Daddy might have been a mean-spirited bastard, all too ready with his fists, particularly when it came to Mummy dearest, but he wasn’t without wisdom. The cardinal rule of which was stay alive at any cost. Steal. Lie. Cheat. Take the deal, no matter how onerous or unreasonable. Anything to keep breathing, even for a few extra minutes. Because you never know what opportunity might present itself in those vital seconds. Whereas the dead don’t get to change shit. Needless to say, I have no intention of honouring my deal with Llewellyn. I don’t think he believes I will either. But he’s in a tight corner and I’m not fool enough to give him a break. Fact is, I intend to screw him at the first opportunity. Starting now. The disguised mini-cam on my jacket resembles a button and transmits to a secure server. Some clients are satisfied with a media announcement. Some want more visceral proof. Others, no doubt, get off on watching their enemy die. But in this case what I have is proof of Takahashi’s treachery. She’s betrayed the Code of the Four Families. I just need to work out which of her rivals will best protect me. Ironically, it was a choice like this that indebted me to Takahashi to begin with. Hu Chen, leader of the Triad, is the very definition of oriental inscrutability. He plays the long game, patient to a fault. He’ll sit on the information until such time as it will cause maximum damage, or he’ll seek to use it to force concessions from the Yakuza. Either way, I’ll be dead long before he makes a move. Dominic Menichi, Mafia boss, and legend in his own very extended lunchtime. Fancies himself as a modern Machiavelli, but never makes the first move. A coward at heart, what I have to reveal would only burden him. Which leaves me with Dante Sciarrone, eldest son of the late Gabriel “Stiletto” Sciarrone. Dante very reluctantly returned to the family business after the death of his cousin Salvatore left the family without its heir apparent. It looked like an asphyxia-wank gone wrong, but Gabriel most likely had him taken care of after I

ratted him out to Takahashi for putting heat on me for another Family hit. Gonna have to hope the old man didn’t let Dante know of my involvement, otherwise I could be in for a very short and terminal meeting. I copy the relative portions of the file to a data-cube – Kurtzman zapping me is unlikely to boost my credibility, any more than Llewellyn offering me a deal. I weigh the risk of pre-arranging a meeting with Dante, but there’s no telling who might be monitoring comms. Best I make my way to the Italian Quarter and blag an audience. My rep still ought to be good enough for that. Kurtzman kept the PZ9. No doubt hoping forensics will match it to one or more of his unsolved cases. He won’t. But I didn’t have the heart to deny him his little moment of triumph. Sciarrone’s men will scan me, so there’s no point taking a gun anyway. I settle for a belt buckle that detaches to serve as a knuckleduster, albeit one capable of delivering a 20,000 volt shock. If I haven’t got hold of a more suitable weapon after deploying that, I probably don’t deserve to live. I change into jeans, sweatshirt and a leather jacket, all cheap, generic brands with the labels removed. My old friend the chameleon monofilament changes my hair to black and s make my blue eyes brown. It won’t fool facial recognition software, but it’ll throw off the casual observer. There’s an S-Bahn station three blocks down from my apartment. Two changes and forty minutes will see me in walking distance of Sciarrone’s headquarters, a trattoria-bar in the Milan district. The S-Bahn enjoys the natural anonymity of underground trains the world over. Eye is strictly verboten. I hunch into my body anyway, making myself smaller and covering the natural assets with which I lead my way through life. No point drawing attention by breaking fingers that’ve strayed where they don’t belong. The ride es without incident and I make my way up the escalator and through the barriers onto Corso Venezia. Just as I planned, it’s a moving riot of the district’s great and good. I move off into the crowd, threading my way with a steady purpose. For the first time since I got that damned message from Takahashi I start to feel like things might be going my way. Naturally that’s the point at which everything turns to shit. ‘Going somewhere, Cocoa?’

For once I think Kurtzman’s smile might be genuine.

Chapter 6

I could run, but something tells me Kurtzman would find me. Instead, I follow his crooked finger and cross the sidewalk to take a seat at one of the many street cafés. A waiter glides up on silent feet and Kurtzman orders espresso. I take a mineral water when prompted. We sit in silence until our drinks arrive. Kurtzman sips his coffee like a man long denied. He mutters under his breath, ‘What Marian don’t know won’t hurt her, or me. A man’s got to have some goddamn vices.’ ‘Did you track me down so I could witness your caffeine fix, or is there a point to this meeting?’ ‘There you go again, Cocoa. Running your mouth, without you having a firm grasp of the situation. Right now I bet you’re thinking about ways to escape, starting with should you disable or kill me. Well, let’s you and me be clear about the situation you’re in. Just so you don’t go making any mistakes. After I tasered you, I took out a little life insurance policy. You might have noticed some tenderness at the base of your skull. No? Not to worry, it don’t change the fact I injected you with nano-trackers and explosives.’ Kurtzman pulls his com-unit from his pocket and places it on the table. The tracking app is open, a flashing red dot in the centre. A screen swipe reveals a set of stats; heart rate, blood pressure and EEG. ‘These here are my vital signs. They go and stop for any reason – say a person reaches across the table and chokes me – and boom!’ ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Pete. But I’d feel a lot happier if you weren’t a stroke or a heart attack waiting to happen.’ That prompts Kurtzman’s second smile of the day. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been looking after myself since my daughter was born. I’d hate it for the kid to have to grow up without a father. You get

me?’ ‘Yeah, I get you. So why don’t we stop dancing around one another and you tell me what you want from me?’ ‘How about I start with what I don’t want. I don’t want you queering Llewellyn’s deal by, for example, going to see Dante Sciarrone and telling him what you know about Takahashi. This city’s been through enough without you kicking off another blood feud between the Families.’ ‘I’d have thought that would suit you guys well enough.’ ‘Goes to show you’re not one of life’s great thinkers then. The crossfire in that kind of war kills innocent people. Don’t need that on my conscience.’ ‘That one of the twelve steps, detective?’ Kurtzman’s palm slams down on the table. ‘Enough with the mouth already! I had my way we would have locked you up and thrown away the key. But Llewellyn seems to think he can use a psycho killer like you. Course, he was relying on some misguided sense of honour keeping you in line. Your need to get even with Takahashi. Me, after almost thirty years of dealing with skags, I know better. All you care about is getting out of the city. But that doesn’t work for me. Not while I’ve still got a score to settle with Tessler. We should have taken those bastards down after Sajer bought it. But no, we had to go and see the big picture and do what was best for the city. Bullshit. It’s all about the money. Chances are it always will be.’ ‘You want to watch that unfashionable sense of justice, Pete. Before it gets you and me killed.’ ‘Heh. You’d think a young wife, a baby daughter and being three years off retirement on a full pension would be enough for a guy like me. Particularly for a guy who hasn’t always played it straight during his career. But I owe it to the kid – what he did for this city – to see it through and bring Tessler down. Idealism,’ he spits the word. ‘It’s a Hell of a thing to catch. Particularly at my time of life.’ ‘I’ll consider that due warning. So what happens now?’

‘You get your ass back home and wait there for Llewellyn’s instruction. Like you were supposed to do in the first place. And, Cocoa? Consider this your first and last warning. Don’t you go trying to cross us again. Llewellyn might have some bullshit notion of redeeming you, but all I see is a cold and calculating killer. Putting you down would be doing the city a favour.’

Chapter 7

The journey home es in a blaze of self-recrimination. The final proof, were it needed, that I’d completely lost my edge in North Africa. Three years ago a mutt like Kurtzman would never have played me like that. Back in the city less than a week and my mistakes are already threatening to bury me. The knot in my gut tells me I’ll be lucky to get out of this one alive. This time, when I open the fridge, I go straight for the akvavit. The fuck up fairy has already come visiting, so what is there to lose? I pour a couple of fingers, down it, then refresh the glass. The spirit kindles a welcome warmth in my stomach that radiates back up into my chest. It won’t change anything, but for now it feels good, and that’s all I need. I sink down into the sofa and review my options. Fact of it is, Kurtzman has me exactly where he wants me. I might, and it’s a big might, be able to find someone capable of neutralising the nano-trackers and explosives. But Kurtzman won’t hesitate to kill me if gets wind of it and explain himself to Llewellyn afterwards. I try and go near Takahashi or any of the other Family heads and it’s the same deal. As is trying to flee the city. The bald ugly bastard has got me good. I brood. I drink. What else can a girl do while waiting for the man to call? Kurtzman might be shit-heel mean, but he’s a realist. It’s Llewellyn that worries me. He’s got the fervour of a crusader and I don’t want to become a martyr to the cause. The kind of man who’s willing to let his wife and children think he’s dead just to make a case is the kind of man it’s better to stay clear of. The booze kicks in during my self-pity fest and I drift off, because the next thing I know I’m leaping up in response to the intruder alarm. I bring up the cams and see a six-man SWAT team forcing entry to the elevator. Llewellyn’s instincts are bang on the money; now that Takahashi thinks I’ve taken care of her problem she’s taking care of me, leaving no witnesses. Luckily for me, they don’t appear to be aware of the concealed escape elevator. I engage the house defences in non-lethal mode. Leaving behind a trail of dead cops won’t make proving my innocence any easier.

I retrieve another PZ9 and a couple of spare mags from the weapons safe in the bedroom and pause long enough to watch the SWAT team react to the first of the flashbangs and ultrasonic noise. Vomiting into a gasmask is never good. A press of my palm and a wall slides open to reveal the escape elevator. A set of steel bars descends from the ceiling behind me as I enter. Delaying tactics, buying me vital minutes. Not only to exit the building, but to make good my escape. While my consciousness focusses on staying free and alive, somewhere in my lizard back-brain I’m tallying all the scores that need settling. The elevator opens into an underground carpark. It’s occupied by a single vehicle; a BMW T1000 motorbike. I grab a helmet from one panier and a stealth cape from the other, settling the latter over bike and rider. A tremor shakes the carpark. Looks like the SWAT team has resorted to shaped charges to clear the way. I push this and other thoughts from my mind and gun the bike towards the exit. The electric engine accelerates swiftly, carrying me into the late afternoon sun. ‘Bike, calculate fastest root to the North Poles, Dutch Quarter, and engage autodrive.’ ‘Route confirmed and laid in.’ I ease my grip on the throttle and slip my foot from the clutch. The bike accelerates to two kays below the speed limit and settles into cruise mode. No sign of pursuit in the rear-view cam. I need to keep it that way for the fifty minute ride. An up-ramp takes me onto the main intersection and I’m away. The T1000 moves nimbly between lanes of queueing traffic, carrying me to the exit turnoff. I still find it disconcerting to put my life in the hands of a machine, but it’s a machine with thousands of hours of driving experience. It doesn’t get angry or tired, misjudge speed or distance and, most importantly, hasn’t drunk half a bottle of akvavit. Twenty minutes into the ride I pack away the stealth cape. The cops will have worked out I’m in a vehicle of some sort, but no more than that. Certainly nothing they can trace. I’m free, for now. The wind numbs my hands and cuts through the thin denim of my jeans. My

leather jacket at least offers some degree of warmth, if not a great deal of protection. I’ll need to sort myself out with bike leathers, boots and gauntlets. The gradual change in architecture tells me I’m entering the Dutch Quarter, the buildings tall and narrow, some with stylised fronts, harking back to a drowned past. I’m off the main arterial road now, moving through narrower streets, the bike’s GPS guiding me unerringly to my refuge in the red-light district. Floor to ceiling windows display dead-eyed men and women with bored expressions on either side of the street. Clubs and bars break up the ribbons of tired flesh. I disengage the auto-drive and coast the bike down the narrow alley that separates the North Poles from the brothel next door. My nose wrinkles at the smell of urine as I take off my helmet and stow it away. ‘Bike, engage security protocols. Non-lethal shock.’ A tweak of the chameleon filament changes my hair to blonde. Then I slip out the s and present myself at the side door for the inevitable biometric scans. The door opens onto a narrow corridor. I a series of changing rooms on either side and pitch up at the door to the manager’s office, which I push open without knocking. Afterall, I own the t. Ethan de Sal is sitting with his feet up on the desk, scanning a datapad. His florid, pock-marked features go from rage to resignation. ‘What the Hell! Oh, it’s you.’ ‘Yeah, Ethan, it’s me. So why don’t you busy yourself elsewhere while I look over the books?’ There’s a slight twitch beneath his left eye, but otherwise his nerve holds. I bought the North Poles a couple of years ago as a money laundering front, lap dancing bars being one of the last vestiges of the disposable credit chit. Ethan manages it on my behalf. I’ve suspected him of skimming money off the top for some time. Would in fact be a little disappointed if he wasn’t, so long as the percentage isn’t too high. He swings his feet off the desk and makes to walk past me. I catch his bicep and grip it just hard enough to let him know I can squeeze a lot harder.

‘Leave the datapad.’ There’s another twitch below his eye that betrays his nonchalant smile as he tosses the pad on the desk. ‘As you wish, Ms Karnstein. I’ll be in the bar if you need me.’ Dropping into the vacated seat, I to the datapad and access the club s. My eyes flit across the figures without taking in any information. Just how safe is the club and my Sabine Karnstein identity? Takahashi found the penthouse despite all the financial trickery burying it deep. Or maybe I’m overthinking. It wouldn’t have been hard to have me followed, or to identify which cab company I used. Another fuck up on my part; going straight home from my meeting with Takahashi. I take out my com-unit and look up the number Kurtzman gave me. Begging goes against the grain, but what choice do I have? ‘Up ’til now I hadn’t pegged you for being one of the hard of thinking, Cocoa. Which part of sit tight and wait for us to you are you’re having trouble with?’ ‘What I’m having trouble with is being on the receiving end of a visit from a SWAT team less than two hours ago. You can check with your colleagues, but I’m well and truly burned from where I’m sitting. Which makes me worthless to you.’ There’s a sharp intake of breath, followed by a more considered exhalation. ‘No this is perfect. Fact there’s a city-wide alert out on you makes the report of Llewellyn’s assassination all the more credible. We can definitely make this work.’ ‘Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with half the city’s cops looking for you. In a case like this, they’re going to shoot first and ask questions later.’ ‘They need to find and identify you first. I’m sure a woman of your talents will make that as difficult as possible for them.’ ‘Can’t say I’m feeling as confident in my abilities as yourself, detective.’

‘Well that’s too bad, but I ain’t about to let you off the hook. Don’t you be thinking about trying to run out on me. We already got clear on what’ll happen.’ ‘Probable death versus certain death. You sure know how to show a girl a good time.’ ‘That sound you ain’t hearing is me not giving a fuck about this jam you got yourself into. Because I reckon you still got better odds than most of your victims.’ ‘Seriously? Most of my marks were bad people by anyone’s measure. They had it coming and you know it.’ ‘Maybe they did, but that don’t go giving you the right to act as judge, jury and executioner. Certainly not for profit.’ ‘Always good to know where you stand. Eh, detective?’ ‘Where you stand is a Hell of a lot better than where me or Llewellyn are. See, despite what you think, we got no interest in seeing you go out in a blaze of glory. In case you’ve forgotten, that’s why your ass isn’t in a cell. So you’re going to sit tight until tomorrow, when I’ll send you the address of a safe house. We’ll meet there and discuss how you can go about keeping your ass out of prison.’ The connection goes dead. I stare at the com-unit. It’s a long time since I felt this powerless. Back when Daddy ran the show.

PART TWO 28 June 2072 – 12 July 2072

Chapter 8

The belt struck my back with a crack, sending a wave of agony through my flesh. Teeth locked tight; I breathed against the pain. Two down. Four to go. A treacherous tremble started in my thighs after the fourth stroke and a gasp of pain escaped my lips. I forced my spine to stiffen. It would be worse if I showed weakness or tried to turn away. Five was a line of red-hot fire. I refused to cry. Six; I staggered forward but regained my balance. An acceptable recovery. ‘Put your top back on and we’ll try this again.’ I covered my breasts protectively with my arms as I turned to face him. But Daddy never looked at me that way. The only emotion I ever saw in his eyes was disappointment. The parts of the half-assembled pistol lay accusingly on the table before me. I stripped it back down and tied the blindfold about my head, placed my hands palm down on the table and visualised each part. ‘Go.’ Barrel into slide. Spring into slide. Attach slide to rails of pistol and rack it. Pull trigger – confirm operation. Insert magazine. Weapon assembled. I put the gun on the table and removed my blindfold. Daddy acknowledged my successful completion of the task with a curt nod. ‘Wash your hands and we’ll have supper.’ I hated him. But More than him, I hated myself and my desire to please him. To be the perfect soldier, ready to fight in the end times that were surely here as the planet continued to warm and environmental chaos engulfed us. Like many he saw it coming and prepared. That’s why he survived the Great Flood of ’49. That’s why I had to be strong. Unlike my mother. She couldn’t adapt to the city or her responsibilities as a parent. He should have seen the weakness that led her

to take her own life. Daddy won’t make that mistake with me. Supper was the usual grey-green gloop, which Daddy assured me to be the perfect combination of carbs, proteins and fats, along with essential vitamins and minerals. Probably true, given I measured one metre eighty-eight when I turned sixteen earlier this month. Years of physical training had given me a lithe musculature more masculine than feminine, except mother nature has had her joke and gifted me with 36DD breasts. With my full lips, high cheekbones and button nose, I might be pretty, if not for having my hair shaved close to my scalp. A recent punishment for what Daddy viewed as unseemly vanity when he caught me colouring my hair. Not that I needed to worry about my peers teasing me over my freakish appearance. Daddy took me out of school six years ago, convinced he was more qualified to see to my educational needs. Not for the first time, I think how easy it would have been to chamber a round and blow Daddy’s brains all over the wall. But that would make me an orphan. Mummy dearest died when I was three, leaving me with no reliable memories of her. I’m not ready to say goodbye to Daddy. Besides, death would be too quick and too easy. I want him to feel some of the pain I’ve suffered over the years. Then again, maybe he expected me to kill him as the ultimate ing out parade. To prove that Stina Hedlund, daughter of Axel Hedlund, is the ultimate survivalist. Well, I guess Daddy’s going to be disappointed. Because after tonight he’s never going to see me again. I’ve laid my plans carefully over the last three months. Securing clothing, food, money, putting all my counter-security training to full use. The apartment’s security systems kept the outside world at bay, but acted equally well as a prison. It’s taken a lot of painstaking hacking to secure the override codes. And almost as long to steel my nerve. But if I don’t go tonight I’ll be back to square one when Daddy changes the codes. With one of the bedrooms converted to a gym and armoury, we slept in the same room. Daddy was in the deepest part of his sleep cycle just after one in the morning. That’s when I slipped from the top bunk and crept into the open plan living area. During my early hacking trials one of the first things I accessed were the schematics for the building. That’s where I discovered an access for a heating duct in one of the kitchen cupboards. I retrieved my backpack and took a last look at the only home I’d ever known. Yes, it was my prison, but routine also offered safety and security. Was the city half as terrifying as

Daddy’s paranoia made out? Time would surely tell.

Chapter 9

The thing about having a sheltered upbringing is you don’t know it’s sheltered until you face life in the real world. I might have been an expert in unarmed combat and drilled in various firearms, but I had no idea of the cost of a litre of milk, let alone accommodation. Daddy having reckoned there’d be little call for such things after the collapse of society. What I’d thought sufficient money to me for the first few weeks of my new-found freedom turned out to be barely enough to feed me. A young girl sleeping rough attracts plenty of predatory attention, although I was more than capable of dealing with would-be rapists Word spread pretty quickly after I’d dealt with the second or third creep, divesting them of their “weapons” and appropriating any personal possessions I could make use of. Course by this time the general dirt and grime I’d accumulated, not to mention smell, made me a lot less desirable. If pride prevented me from returning home, it didn’t blind me to the unsustainability of my current existence. I needed a job, no matter how menial. Not easy in a city with unemployment running rampant and fresh influxes of refugees after every flood and earthquake; impossible as a down-and-out. Fortunately, my luck was about to pick up. I was shivering in a doorway, soaked to the skin, when a well-dressed black woman squatted down next to me. The rain sparkled on her braids and although the first signs of age had etched faint lines about her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, she remained a beauty. ‘You look like you could use a hot meal, a bath and a warm bed for the night.’ My few weeks on the streets had made me suspicious of the kindness of strangers. But as I hadn’t eaten in three days, I reckoned I had little to lose by going along with it, so I responded with a nod. ‘Well, then, you better come along with me and I’ll get you signed in.’

‘Signed in?’ ‘I run a women’s refuge. It’s a safe place for girls like you. Gives them a chance to get their lives back on track.’ ‘And just what kind of girl do you think I am?’ ‘You, honey, are a victim. I see it in your eyes. But you don’t have to stay one.’ I recoiled at her words, mainly because I recognised the truth of them. I wanted her and the mirror she was holding up to me gone. ‘I can’t pay for this,’ I snarled. ‘And I won’t give you... anything else for it.’ ‘You don’t have to. The refuge is a charity.’ She held out her hand. ‘I know trust isn’t easy, but why don’t you at least check it out? If you don’t like it, or don’t think it’s for you, you can always leave. I promise.’ She pulled me to my feet with surprising ease and settled a plastic rain cape over my head and shoulders. ‘My name’s Claudia. What do they call you?’ Seeing my hesitation, she added, ‘Doesn’t have to be your real name. Lord knows there’s plenty of reasons you might not want to use it. But I need something better than hey you.’ ‘Karen.’ It was my mother’s name. The first time I used an alias. Little did I know it would be far from the last.

Chapter 10

Turned out Dr Claudia Rae was a woman of her word. The Yemoja Women’s Refuge offered food and shelter with no strings attached. A medical confirmed I’d picked up nothing worse than malnutrition during my time on the streets, although some of the recent welts on my back had become necrotic. Claudia remained silent as she debrided the wounds and then sealed them with a combined antiseptic/synthetic spray on skin. Doubtless she’d seen worse in her time, and often enough that she no longer bothered to speculate as to circumstance. She settled for informing me that legal aid was available, should I decide to press charges. We both knew I wouldn’t. I slept fourteen hours the first night, waking to find a breakfast tray beside my bed. I washed down the cereal and toast with cranberry juice and cold coffee, the fear of not knowing where my next meal was coming from still fresh in my mind. The same fear kept me under the shower for a full fifteen minutes. I emerged to find clean clothes and underwear on my bed. The jeans were a little short in the leg, as were the arms of the top, but otherwise they were a serviceable fit. No sign of my own clothes and a moment of panic gripped me until I saw my wallet on the bedside table. I flipped it open and slid out my identity card. The photo was a couple of years of old, my features softened by puppy fat and shoulder length hair. My fingers moved automatically to my scalp and brushed against the centimetre or so of growth. It would be good to have hair again. My first three days in the refuge ed in the same cycle of sleep, eat and bathe. On the fourth morning Claudia came to me and asked if I was willing to move to a shared room – the single rooms were for the newly itted while they adjusted to life in the refuge. It was time for me to figure out what to do with my life. But first I had to meet my new roommate. Claudia opened the door to reveal a room with twin beds, the further away one

occupied by a girl in her early twenties with a tangle of black hair. She looked up from her datapad, her finger continuing to type frantically on the screen. ‘Hey, babe. The name’s Carice. Make yourself at home. You’re not a snorer, are you? I’ll have to suffocate you with a pillow if you are.’ ‘Carice,’ Claudia warned. ‘I’m sure Karen can take a joke. Can’t you, Karen?’ ‘Course.’ ‘There you go, Claudia. Nothing to worry about. Me and the fem here are going to get along famously.’ Claudia hesitated for a couple of seconds and then decided what would be would be. I waited until she had closed the door before throwing my toiletry bag on the bed. Carice continued with whatever task was occupying her, fingers moving ever more rapidly across the screen. ‘It’s okay, babe. You can speak. I can multitask.’ I hummed and hayed, unsure as to what was appropriate. Eventually I said rather lamely, ‘So you been here a while?’ ‘On my second week.’ She waggled the datapad. ‘Claudia’s got me filling in an application for college.’ ‘Corporate?’ Carice snorted. ‘That’ll be chocolate. State. Totally worthless in of earning a living. But the bursary’s better than welfare, so I figure I’m as well doing that with my time as anything else.’ ‘What about yourself? Got much schooling?’ ‘Da... my father home schooled me. No formal qualifications.’ ‘Too bad. Guess it’s the pole for you.’ ‘Excuse me?’

‘Lighten up, babe. I’m only fucking with you. There’s some decent remedial programmes Claudia can get you on. If that’s what you want.’ Carice threw the datapad aside and swung her legs off the bed. Now she was standing I could see she was of average height and build. In fact, average summed her up pretty well. Neither ugly nor pretty; the sort of person you walked past in the street without a second glance. Her one distinguishing feature was a brand on her upper left arm; a right hand, palm outwards, fingers raised, thumb at ninety degrees. I pegged it for a gang mark. Carice returned my scrutiny. Her eyes travelled from my toes to my crown, before coming back down to meet my own level gaze. ‘You’re certainly a tall drink of water.’ I shrugged, unsure how to take the compliment. If that was what it was. ‘Oh, we are definitely going to have to see about loosening you up, babe.’ ‘Maybe I’m happy being uptight.’ ‘Take it from somebody who knows – nobody’s happy being uptight. We’ve all been through it in here. Hard luck sob story one-oh-one. It might sound far easier said than done, but the sooner you start putting the past behind you the better.’ ‘I’m trying. But part of me can’t believe this place is for real.’ ‘Claudia is certainly a one-off. But you won’t find a more genuine soul.’ ‘What’s her story?’ ‘Used to be a whore, so she knows a thing or two about being used and abused. Had the smarts to get off the game and get herself an education. That’s why she’s so keen to push the various programmes. Course, what she’s offering might not suit everyone. But you can’t knock three meals a day and a roof over your head.’ ‘But surely there’s a limit to how long you can stay?’

‘Well the idea is you get on one of the programmes with a residential placement.’ ‘And if that doesn’t appeal? What’s my alternative to going back on the streets?’ Carice stood on her tiptoes and wrapped a conspiratorial arm about my shoulders. ‘Well there’s other families out there for a girl with the right qualifications. Stick with me, babe. I’ll see you right.’ I did and although Carice kept faith after a fashion, it was a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Chapter 11

Over the next week I got to know some of the other women in the refuge. Carice hadn’t been exaggerating about them being hard luck cases; ex prostitutes with alcohol and drug addictions, battered spouses, molested children, the gaslighted and mentally unstable. Apart from Anya, who claimed to be sixteen but looked closer to fourteen, all the women were considerably older than Carice and myself, which made it seem natural that we gravitated towards one another. Only later did I realise it was by Carice’s design. It seems naive looking back, but given I hadn’t socialised with anyone other than Daddy for the past six years it’s little wonder Carice captivated me. If I were under her spell, little doe-eyed Anya hung on her every word, following her like an adoring puppy. Carice had an old head on her young shoulders and the pair of us tried to drink in her worldliness, the difference between sixteen and twenty-one seeming an insurmountable gulf. Although she didn’t actively discourage our choices in of programmes, it became clear she had little interest in seeing out her own placement. The refuge was simply a means to an end. What we didn’t realise was we were that end. While I hated the idea of disappointing Carice, letting down Claudia after all she had done for me seemed a whole lot worse. So I reviewed the various programmes and settled on an eighteen month residential, which would give me my School Leaver’s Diploma. It meant leaving the refuge at the end of my second week. Carice might not have expressed her disapproval verbally, but I could tell she thought it the wrong choice. Keenly as I felt it, I’d vowed never to let another human being control me. From now on my successes and failures would be my own. While it’s possible Anya came to me of her own accord, I sensed Carice’s influence at work, hoping emotion might succeed over logic and reason. She perched on my bed the night before I was due to leave, all innocent big blue eyes and blonde curls. Her right index finger twirled nervously at her hair while

she plucked up her courage prior to dropping the payload. ‘Why do you have to go on the stupid school programme? Can’t you sign up to work experience? Then we could go together, like friends are supposed to.’ I’d already begun to think of Anya as the little sister I’d never had, but this naked play on my emotions was too much. ‘Because I don’t want to end up as some mindless drone doing data entry for the rest of my days! I want my life to mean something.’ ‘And if I want to I’m some mindless robot? Carice is right, you think you’re better than us!’ ‘Shit, that came out wrong. All I know is I have to make the right choices for me. And that starts with completing my education. If I work hard enough, I might be able to win a scholarship to corporate. Ask Carice if you don’t believe me, but that’s the only education that counts in this city.’ ‘See? You do want to be better than the rest of us. Some bigshot at Tessler or Heckler and Koch, ruling over the drones.’ I let out an exasperated sigh. Few things are as frustrating or pointless as arguing with a child. ittedly I wasn’t much older myself, but I’d put my time at the refuge to good use learning how the city operated. If the thought of working for one of the corporations didn’t exactly make my heart sing, I’d already become enough of a pragmatist to realise that without the means to myself my new-found freedom would quickly become a life spent on welfare, numbing my mind with vid-casts. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s just how it is, Anya. It’s not like school dorm is a prison. I’ll still be able to see you and Carice at nights or weekends. You’re going to learn before you’re much older that people don’t all want the same things in life. But that doesn’t make them wrong or bad. We all got our own lives to live.’ ‘But I don’t want you to go!’ Anya uttered this last with such a heart wrenching cry that I instinctively reached out and hugged her to me. Her body trembled and hot tears coursed down her cheeks, splashing on my top.

‘Hush now, darling. Don’t take on so. Everything is going to be all right. I’m sure Carice will take care of you, and I’ll visit as much as I can. I promise.’ It took me fifteen minutes to calm her, at the end of which my resolve began to falter. By tacit agreement there was no more talk of leaving. I brushed and plaited her hair. Showed her how to put on subtle makeup that hid spots and other blemishes, an art I’d learned by concealing bruises. Watched the inane pop-casts that meant so much to her. Identi-kit boy bands with sculpted pecs and abs, cheekbones you could cut yourself on. They looked too sterile and doll-like to stir my libido. It would be another couple of years before a man invoked feelings of lust and ion within me. And he would turn out to be the one love of my life. The hours slipped by and Anya drifted off to sleep. I tucked her into the bed, enjoying the look of peace she rarely wore during her waking hours, then went in search of Carice.

Chapter 12

I found Carice sitting in the patio at the back of the refuge that served as a smoking area. She ignored my approaching footsteps. Didn’t say a word while I settled myself into one of the plastic chairs next to her, simply saluted me with the bottle in her hand and took a long swallow. The smell of neat spirits stung my nostrils and I looked nervously around, checking we were still alone. The rules of the refuge strictly forbid alcohol and drugs. Anyone caught breaking this prohibition would be straight out the door. No ifs or buts. ‘Have you lost your fucking mind?’ ‘Least I’ve got one to lose.’ ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ ‘It means, babe, you’re turning into a real bore. Haven’t you heard? Girls just want to have fun.’ ‘Yeah? Well excuse me for not wanting thrown out on the streets again.’ ‘That there’s your problem. You can’t imagine anything else exists other than the streets or going back to school. But there’s a whole world of things out there. Sensations, experience, life! You don’t have play by the rules and become part of the system. Hell, fem, the moment I set eyes on you I knew you’d never be happy with a career or a family. You’re like me,’ she punched her chest, ‘a fucking free spirit. Someone who takes what she wants from life and says fuck the consequences.’ I shook my head. Leaving Daddy was the only choice I’d ever made in my life and it had left me broke and homeless. I ed the consequences of cold and hunger only too well. Carice lunged forward; her lips suddenly hot against mine. I felt her tongue in my mouth. My first kiss. It tasted of cheap vodka and spite.

She broke away from me. Threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh, your face right now. Shock and disapproval. But it it. Inside there’s a tiny part of you that’s curious where this could go.’ ‘Got a high opinion of yourself.’ ‘I know that’s the best kiss you ever had.’ As it was the only one, it could equally be the worst. But despite my inexperience being plain to see, I couldn’t it to it. Carice handed me the bottle. ‘Have yourself a drink, babe. If this is your leaving party we might as well celebrate.’ My fingers wrapped about the bottle before I knew what I was doing. I took a long swallow. Surprised by the lack of flavour. Then the burn caught the back of my throat and I started to cough. Carice laughed and slapped me on the back. ‘There, that wasn’t so hard. But maybe you ought to go a little slower.’ I took a more cautious drink, felt the alcohol sting my gums and warm my throat. The heat from the first drink travelled up from my gut and settled in my chest, bringing with it a sense of light-headedness. Probably more imagination than the effects of the spirit. Carice took the bottle and knocked back another slug. She smiled knowingly. Now she’d made me complicit, I was hers for the night. But she knew better than to overplay her hand. The bottle ed back and forth between us, each mouthful chipping away at my inhibitions and dulling my caution. Judging me suitably compliant, she said, ‘Come with me, babe. I got some people I want you to meet.’ Seeing my hesitation, she added, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be back in plenty of time for tomorrow.’ I stood up and immediately sat down again as a wave of dizziness hit me. Carice frowned. Her calculations didn’t involve me being too drunk to walk. She reached out to help me up but I shook her off; took a deep breath and unfolded

myself from the chair slowly. My legs held this time, but my steps were as skittish as a new-born foal. This time, when Carice put a steadying hand on my arm, I let it stay there. Carice uttered a wry chuckle. ‘Didn’t think you’d be such a lightweight, babe.’ ‘Never been drunk before. Am I doing it right?’ ‘Well, I don’t think anyone could mistake the condition you’re in.’ I let her guide me through the gate and into the narrow lane that led back to the main street. Movement seemed to help and my steps grew steadier as some of the fog cleared from my head. Up ahead, I saw the entrance to the S-Bahn. ‘Babe, I need you to pull it together until we get on the train. Can you do that?’ I nodded; speaking and walking seemed a bit too complicated. Carice pulled a face, but having gotten me into this state she had no choice except to go on. She steered me down the escalator and made me lean against the barrier next to the ticket machines while she sorted our es. ‘Where are we going, again?’ ‘Told you, babe. Got some friends I’d like you to meet.’ ‘Oh, cool. Can I have another drink?’ ‘Think you’ve had enough. Come on, there’s a train due in a couple of minutes. A seat will do you good.’ An hour and three changes later, we pitched up in the Hamburg district of the German Quarter. I felt a bit more focussed by this time and stared up at the towering glass and steel of the Davidwache Police Station. Carice pulled me along the Spielbudenplatz towards the Reeperbahn. ‘Quick gawking. We don’t want to draw attention.’ I followed meekly, taking in a riot of nightlife I’d only seen on the vid-cast. Whores, pimps, junkies, dealers and general hustlers vied for space and

attention. Carice dismissed all who approached with a brisk efficiency that told me this was her world. I suddenly felt very naïve to have followed her across the city without telling anyone. For all I knew I was about to be trafficked or sold for body parts. The fear sobered me up and I cast around warily. ‘See you’re starting to get the fear, babe. Good. Maybe you’re not so stupid after all.’ ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Told you already – to meet some friends of mine.’ I pulled up sharp. ‘This isn’t funny, Carice. I want to go home.’ ‘And just where is home, Stina? Is it back with your psycho old man? Or maybe it’s a twelve by twelve room in a refuge that you’re about to exchange for a similar room in another institution. All that’s for losers, babe. I’m about to offer you something real. But only if you hold your nerve.’ She turned away and walked on. The message clear, to follow or run back to the refuge and a life of compromise. If you subscribe to the theory of the multiverse with its infinite realities there’s a world in which I turned around and lived a very different life. I like to think it’s one where I had a successful corporate career, settled down with a decent man and had a family. One where I never saw Daddy again. Unfortunately, in this one, I hurried after Carice.

Chapter 13

Carice’s friends were waiting in a doorway midway along Grosse Freiheit. Both were in their early to mid-twenties, dressed in the quasi military garb currently fashionable. Despite the cool night air, they wore vest tops, revealing identical right hand brands to the one on Carice’s arm. Their bodies were rangy and they moved with a nervous, twitchy energy I’d later come to associate with stimulants. The slightly taller of the two peered critically at me through a fringe of pink and green hair, her expression as sour as the sweat wafting from her. ‘This the bitch you been telling us about? She don’t look so special.’ ‘Hey! I’m standing right here.’ ‘That you are. But we talking about you, bitch. Not to you.’ She turned to her red-haired companion. ‘What d’you think, Merel? Reckon this long streak of piss here has what it takes to be one of the Red Right Hand?’ ‘I think there’s been a mistake. I’m not here to your gang. Tell them, Carice.’ Carice stepped back, leaving me standing on my own. The girl with the pink and green hair smiled wolfishly. ‘There’s a mistake all right. If you ain’t one of us you just another mark, bitch.’ The knife, palmed from the small of her back, appeared almost by magic. She rotated it between her fingers, moving it from the outward to the chambered position and then back again without the grip leaving her hand. A flash display designed to capture my attention, but I could tell from her stance she wasn’t ready to attack and turned into the real danger – a roundhouse kick aimed at my head by Merel. I blocked the blow with my right forearm, reached out, grabbed hold of her ankle and twisted. Merel spun her body with the movement, tearing her ankle from my grasp.

Before I could capitalise on her being down, pink and green moved in for her attack. The knife swept past my face as I pivoted aside, leaving my attacker over extended. I caught her wrist with one hand, locked the arm and struck out with my palm to the elbow t. She screamed as the bone broke and I caught the knife as it fell from her grasp. Odds were she was out of the fight, but Daddy had taught me never to underestimate an opponent. I delivered a kick to her knee that produced a cry to match the crack of bone and turned to face Merel. Merel looked a lot less sure of herself as her eyes flicked from Carice to pink and green writhing on the ground. Carice merely shrugged. ‘Ah, fuck it!’ Knowing I couldn’t use the knife while defending myself, Merel came at me with a series of fast kicks that I blocked on my forearms. She had strength, flexibility and discipline, but the latter was her weakness. This wasn’t a dojo and I knew how to fight dirty. My forehead smashed into her nose, spraying blood and snot. Then I punched her hard in the left tit, allowing me to finish her off with a blow to the back of the head as she doubled over. The sound of slow handclapping cut across the women’s moans. ‘Congratulations, babe. You survived the audition. Welcome to the Red Right Hand gang.’ I contemplated the knife in my hand. Thought how easy it would be to stab it through one of Carice’s eyes and into her brain. But that would get me nothing more than a brief sense of satisfaction. I threw the knife down. ‘Reckon I’ve earned another drink, don’t you?’

PART THREE 8 February 2088 – 17 February 2088

Chapter 14

The call comes in from Kurtzman while I’m working out on one of the poles. It’s early morning and neither Ethan nor any of the girls are in, so I put him on speaker and continue my routine as he gives me an address in the Rome district and tells me to be there no later than midday. He rings off without waiting for confirmation or acceptance. The prick’s enjoying this and there’s nothing I can do about it. I take the bike; a proper set of leathers and the Walther PZ9 strapped below my left armpit giving me some small measure of security. There’s a couple of nervous moments with ing patrol cars but if any of the beat cops have an inkling that I’m Europa City’s most wanted woman none of them decides today’s the day to die a hero’s death. I park the bike outside one of the city’s ubiquitous tower blocks. A hundred and twenty storeys of human misery and tension. Just like the one I grew up in. Although the neighbours learned pretty quickly that Daddy was not a man to suffer antisocial behaviour in silence. To him they were but symptoms of the rot at the heart of society. Daddy was better than them. As I would be, too. Sadly, I had to disappoint him. That’s the trouble with expecting perfection from your offspring. Kurtzman answers the door, his usual suit and overcoat exchanged for jeans and a sweatshirt. Llewellyn is waiting in the living room. He, too, has gone for the casual look, accented by a couple of days’ worth of beard growth. The effect is quite credible, with the exception of the Patek Philippe on his wrist. If he’s lucky it’ll as a fake among the surrounding residents. If not, he might find himself a lot closer to actually being dead than he intended. ‘Take a seat.’ It’s an order. Not the offer of hospitality. I do as I’m bid. ‘I hear you’ve discovered the hard way that there’s no honour among criminals. I trust you’re now fully onboard with the mission?’

Oh great. The idealistic nutjob is now on a mission. I know I’ve next to no chance of making him see reason, but I have to try. ‘Like I already told your man, Pete, here. I’m burned. I’m as good as useless with half the city’s cops looking for me.’ ‘But ED’s finest aren’t looking for you. They’re looking for the assassin known as Cocoa. They have a codename, a description and one compromised address. Changing identity and appearance is something of a speciality for you, is it not?’ He doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead he es over a data-cube. ‘This contains information on your target: Anton Vogel, Chief Financial Officer of Tessler.’ ‘You want me to kill him?’ ‘Very droll. I want you to establish and make it clear to him that it’s in his best interest to provide evidence against his employers.’ ‘And he’ll do this because?’ Llewellyn taps the data-cube. ‘Forensic ing shows links between Tessler and the Yakuza. As he’s the CFO it’s his neck, not Artaud’s, that will be in the noose.’ ‘Just so we’re clear, what happens if he doesn’t go for it?’ ‘I might be forced to think you’re not taking our agreement seriously and have to reconsider my very generous offer.’ Seeing me about to react, Kurtzman chimes in, ‘What Mr Llewellyn means is that he has every confidence in your powers of persuasion. I’m sure you won’t disappoint, either of us.’ That last being a tacit reminder of the nano-explosives he’s injected me with. ‘Now, detective, how goes your enquiries into Internal Affairs?’ ‘That would be an... ongoing situation. As you know, under that rat-bastard Sinclair IAD was so crooked they needed to be screwed into their tros.’

‘Much as I appreciate the colourful language, perhaps you can get to the point?’ ‘You’ll have to excuse the frankness of an old cop.’ Kurtzman keeps his face imive as he delivers the jibe. ‘Captain Jeter is straight enough, but he’s a career man. He’ll fold the second Commissioner Nilsson, or any of the other brass, apply a bit of pressure. For the good of the city and all that crap. I’d say our best bet is Lieutenant Montreux. The kid’s an insufferable idealist, wedded to an uncompromising belief in the letter of the law, no exceptions. Ordinarily, I’d dismiss him as the sort of prick who jams up decent cops for no good reason. But for what we need he’s perfect. There’s no love lost between him and Jeter, so I don’t think he’ll lose much sleep over bying the chain of command. Downside is we’ll probably have to make him head of IAD afterwards.’ Llewellyn suddenly seems to realise I’m still sitting at the table catching an earful of ED’s dirty laundry. ‘You have your briefing. I suggest you crack on with it.’ As dismissals go, this one’s pretty plain. I pick my helmet up from the table and see myself out. The last thing I hear as the door closes behind me is Kurtzman. ‘With all due respect, I guarantee you that six months from now our house will be every bit as rotten unless we get Haynes in the frame.’

Chapter 15

The file on Anton Vogel makes for uninspiring reading. Married with no issue. hip of the usual clubs. Popular speaker at Christian Democrat functions. So far so much vanilla. The remainder of the dossier is an intractable stream of numbers, s and offshore holding companies. There’s a pattern, apparently, a route, for those trained to follow it. All I see is obscene sums of cash. And given the money I’ve earned for some of my hits that’s really saying something. I go old school in my search for something exploitable and start running surveillance. The pattern is typical of most of these corporate highflyers; first into the office, last to leave. Vogel’s exception being a Wednesday night, when he cuts sharp at five pm. I follow, expecting him to run home to wifekins. Instead, he goes deeper into the Hamburg district and pitches up at an osteopath. I run the good Doctor Litchfield through the dark web and hit the jackpot. Seems she’s more used to dealing with boners than bones. Our CFO isn’t so strait-laced after all. Whatever he’s paying for, it’s a full two hours before he emerges and points the car towards home. I trail him all the way to be certain. He kisses the wife demurely on the cheek as she opens the door. She has the permanently startled features of one too many facelifts and what I take to be a large quantity of implanted silicone. This doll-like appearance is probably driven by hubby, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I head back to the North Poles to plan my strategy. Litchfield’s is a far safer location to confront him in than either home or office. A bit more digging reveals it to be a former asset of the Rosenstein Family. It ed to Triad control after the old man and his son had their breathing privileges revoked. This is what you call a complication. Situation I’m in, I don’t need any more enemies. Whatever move I make must be under Hu Chen’s radar. More surveillance, during which I fend off a couple of testy calls from Llewellyn expecting results. Various suits come and go, but Doctor Litchfield is the only member of staff seen to enter and leave the building. I’d put her age at about

fifty and what you’d call well-preserved. While there are those who like experience and maturity, she can’t be servicing the clientele on her lonesome. There must be concealed access, most likely underground. I extend my watch zone and sure enough, four doors down, I see likely candidates entering a beauty salon. I set up cams with facial recognition and identify three women who don’t leave until the following day. The document trail is torturous but I persevere and trace ownership of the salon back to Chen. That’s the easy part. All I have to do now is break into the salon, locate the secret access to the brothel and find somewhere to hide until Vogel makes his weekly visit. The salon opens at nine. The girls arrive somewhere between half nine and eleven. Assuming I gain entry around five am, I’ll have to avoid detection for roughly twelve hours. What could possibly go wrong? Security on the salon is minimal, so other than the additional access and obligatory money laundering it’s probably no more than it purports to be. Cracking a rudimentary layer of ICE lets me disable the alarm and cams, after which the electronic lockpick makes short work of the door. I skirt past the chairs and tables and make for the beaded curtain that screens off the rear of the shop. Toilets, staff room and kitchen offer no surprises, but something is bothering me. I pull up the floorplans on my com-unit and do a little calculation. Sure enough, the rear wall of the bathroom stops a metre or so from where it should. A little searching reveals a sliding that gives access to an elevator. The control offers the simple choice of an up or down arrow. I hit the down button and the elevator drops an indeterminate distance. The elevator doors open onto a hospital-like corridor of sterile tiles and low energy lighting s. Gives me the heebie-jeebies. I can only hope the rooms for the punters are more welcoming. The bleak corridor ends at a reception area, on the opposite side of which I see another elevator, presumably from Doctor Litchfield’s. There’s a powered down terminal on the reception desk, but some matters are too sensitive to trust to the digital realm. I pick the lock on the desk pedestal and discover a hardcopy set of customer records. They’re neatly alphabetised and Vogel’s reveals he has room 3 on permanent hire. I scan through the details and realise this is going to be a lot easier than I thought.

Room 3 is off a second corridor adjacent to the first. This one has deep pile carpets and walls painted with relaxing pastel hues, because no one wants to feel uptight about getting their kink on. The light comes on automatically when I open the door, highlighting the prone forms of Lucy, Betty and Angela lying on the gigantic round bed. Sex-bots. Faces pancaked in heavy makeup and dressed in crude doll-like clothes; designed to indulge Vogel’s living doll fetish. Dear old Lucy is closest to my height and build. I strip her of wig and clothes and slide her under the bed. A makeup station on the dresser suggests Vogel likes to paint the dolls himself. I slather on white foundation, blusher, blue eye shadow and coral lipstick. It’s the look of a clown turned hooker. But who am I to judge? I’m tempted to activate the other two dolls, but they might have anti-intruder programming, so I settle for sliding in between them instead. I drift off to sleep after a couple of hours and stay that way until the door opens a little after one pm. A maid enters and services the room, beginning with the bathroom. She comes over to the bed and for a moment I fear she’s about to clean out the bots, which might be a little awkward. But it quickly becomes apparent she’s merely there to tut her disapproval. The tutting, however, isn’t enough and Betty receives a resounding slap. ‘Infernal machines!’ The blow leaves a white and red smear across her palm, which she wipes on her apron before hurrying from the room. Left alone, I set the alarm on my com-unit for a quarter to five and return to what is now a fitful sleep, haunted by images of myself servicing an endless line of male robots while the girls from the North Poles howl derisively and throw rotten fruit. It’s a relief a short while later when Vogel finally walks through the door with a cheerful, ‘Did you miss me, girls? Did you miss your daddy?’ Creepy, much?

Vogel undresses, folding his clothes and neatly stacking them on the chair in front of the dresser. His once gym fit body is showing signs of age and neglect; sagging pectorals and a nascent gut. He strokes some hardness into himself and perches on the bed beside the already abused Betty. Instead of activating her, he continues to masturbate. ‘Got something for my best girl. Been saving it all week. Saving all my love for you, Betty. Because I know you’re a dirty girl. Can’t get enough of my righteous stuff!’ From his tone of voice and breathing, I’m very much in the line of fire. Time to curtail Vogel’s happy ending. I reach out and grab his balls. Vogel’s mouth forms an “O” of surprise and he goes limp with the fear that he’s literally in the grip of a malfunctioning sex-bot. I give his nutsack a twist, just to be sure I have his full attention. His eyes widen as realisation dawns. ‘You’re not Lucy.’ ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ ‘Help! Help!’ I let him scream until he’s out of breath and then jump in as he prepares for round number two. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, you specified a sound proof room.’ Vogel opens and shuts his mouth. He’s still alive, which means he must have something to bargain with. ‘What do you want?’ ‘For a start, to let go of your junk without you bolting for that door. Because I don’t think this is really working for either of us.’ Vogel nods vigorously and I release my grip. He springs off the bed and cups his genitals. ‘Bit late for that – I’ve already seen and handled the goods. If it makes you feel

any better, it’s a normal enough size.’ ‘Did that slant-eyed Jap bitch put you up to this?’ ‘Now much as Takahashi is no friend of mine, that casual racism and misogyny isn’t a good look for you.’ ‘Then you work for one of the other Families.’ ‘Uh-uh. Strike two. ittedly, I’ve done a lot of work for them in the past, but now I’m working for the other side.’ Vogel looks blank, so I spell it out for him. ‘ED.’ ‘And what, exactly, would the ED want with me?’ ‘This would go a lot faster if you stop playing dumb. Never mind. The long and the short of it is we know Tessler is in bed with the Yakuza. In violation of the Code of the Four Families you’ve been supplying the Yakuza with arms and pharmaceuticals.’ ‘Even if this preposterous accusation of yours was true, what’s it got to do with me?’ ‘Hate to break it to you, Anton, but all those nested shell companies and offshore s aren’t as opaque as you’d like to think. We’ll go after Artaud, of course, but seeing as you’re the CFO, I think it’s fairly obvious who’s gonna get thrown to the wolves.’ Vogel is more than a little pale by now, but there’s still some fight in him. ‘Do you honestly think Supreme Councillor Haynes or Commissioner Nilsson will let you kill their golden goose?’ ‘No. But unfortunately for you there’s still some straight cops left in the city. The good news is they’re prepared to offer you a deal. It’s Artaud, Takahashi, Nilsson and Haynes they want. They want them badly enough that they’re willing to offer a full pardon and a new identity for you and your wife in exchange for testifying against them.’ ‘Even if you make half of whatever charges you have against me stick, and that’s

a big if, I can keep the system tied up in appeals for years. Chances are I’ll never see the inside of a prison cell. I’d be a fool to it my guilt.’ ‘You’d be a bigger fool to believe your corporate bosses at Tessler, or more importantly the Yakuza, are going to leave a loose thread such as yourself dangling.’ ‘I should paint a target on my back for them instead?’ ‘Like I said, we can protect you. Equally, we can make it known you’ve been talking to us.’ ‘Ah, there it is. The shakedown of a common hoodlum. It would appear you’re not entirely on the side of the angels after all.’ ‘Who is? You know how this city works. There’s a faction within ED wants to remove Tessler’s hooks from the department at any cost. Find yourself on the wrong side of that and you’ll be crushed.’ ‘A full pardon. Witness protection. Relocation.’ ‘That’s what the man promised.’ ‘And the man is?’ ‘Montgomery Llewellyn.’ ‘But he’s dead. I saw it on the vid-cast.’ ‘Fake news, Anton. It’s the spirit of the age.’

PART FOUR 4 April 2074 – 13 April 2074

Chapter 16

Carice, despite my misgivings, was right. The Red Right Hand gang proved to be the family I never had. A powerful sisterhood inside of which we each had each other’s backs. Okay, Merel and pink and green, whose name I later learn is Roos, were never gonna be besties, but at least we came to a grudging understanding. I was less keen on Carice drawing Anya into gang life, but it was clear this had been her intention from the off. We got our gang brands together. Anya drunk enough not to feel it initially, she cried with pain later when she thought no one was watching. The whole branding business struck me as crude and stupid, but by then I was already learning to recognise a means to an end. For all the gang’s activity appeared autonomous, I realised there must be a bigger power behind it and concentrated on making a name for myself. Crude drive-by shootings and punishment beatings to begin with, demonstrating my willingness to kill, I quickly rose through the ranks as first muscle and then trusted enforcer. I heard plenty of rumours during that tumultuous year, but it was to be almost another year before I confirmed the gang as one of the many fronts of the Rosenstein Family. That established, the difficult part lay in arranging a meet to prove I could offer them so much more. In the end I managed to attract the attention of one of their lieutenants, who assumed I was looking for advancement through sexual favours. That I didn’t immediately break his face was doubtless a measure of my newfound maturity. ‘I think you misunderstand me. All I’m asking for is the opportunity to prove myself – show I can be useful to the Family. Set me a task, something you would give to a trusted soldier. I’m more than some deadhead gangbanger who’ll never make it out of her teens.’ ‘Maybe you are. Maybe you’re not. But if you fuck up it’ll be my cock on the block.’ ‘I fuck up, I’ll submit to whatever punishment you see fit. A fair opportunity. That’s all I’m asking for here. Ask around. I’m good with or without weapons.

I know my way around electronic countermeasures as well.’ Delgano looked sceptical, but the lure of having me in his power won out. He made a show of shaking a cigarette from his pack and lighting up. His eyes narrowed against the smoke and I had to restrain myself from telling him not to be so bloody theatrical. Instead, I softened my expression and widened my eyes. ‘Okay, girlie, here it is. Your one-time chance to impress. Josef Veidt is running for mayor in Hamburg, riding pretty hard on an anti-crime ticket. We’ve tried to be reasonable, but this son of a bitch is determined to make a name for himself. He has to go.’ ‘Extreme prejudice?’ ‘Is there any other kind in our business?’ I nod my understanding. But there’s a niggle I can’t let go of. ‘Delgano? The name’s Stina. Not girlie, babe, bitch or anything else your limited vocabulary comes up with.’ For a moment it looks like I’ve overstepped the mark, then Delgano starts to laugh. It’s mostly good humoured with an undertone of menace. ‘You got guts, kid. I’ll give you that. Come through on this and I’ll call you anything you damn well please. But fail me and your name’s dirt.’

Chapter 17

So here we are, the story of my first professional hit. Okay, there was no direct payment but it’s fair to say this is the one got me started me in the business. It’s also worth pointing out that the primary difference between a wetwork professional and a psycho killer is that the former’s primary concern is escaping after the kill to collect their fee. That, very much, is where the professional part comes into play. Opportunities to kill someone rise exponentially if you’re willing to die in the process or spend the rest your life in prison. Up close and personal is for fools and crazies. If you have access, poison can be very effective. As can a bomb, so long as you’re not worried about collateral damage. But for my money you can’t beat the long-range sniper shot. Clean. Clinical. And in those first vital moments of confusion you have plenty of time to make your getaway. The downside to this is planning. You need to know where your target is going to be in advance. For some targets this can be a real problem. Not so politicians, especially those seeking election. The campaign schedule had Veidt down to attend a debate with the other mayoral candidates in just over a week’s time at the Rathausmarkt. Several buildings overlooked the square, each providing suitable elevation from which to take the shot. In the end it came down to a choice between the Schröder Plaza hotel and the unlet ninth floor of the Two Thousand Hamburg Four office block. The office space had the advantage of leaving no trace, but the distance, angle and prevailing winds made for a far harder shot. Daddy had taught me the basics but back then my sniper skills were part instinct, part natural talent. Choosing the hotel meant bringing in the gang’s forger in addition to the armourer. Although both were dependable enough individuals, they were Carice’s creatures and she was unlikely to be best pleased by my extracurricular activities. I thought about going back to Delgano but he’d made it abundantly clear that he expected me to handle this on my own. A test of initiative as well as skill. In the end fate played into my hands when a rival gang, the Black Sea Sharks, made a move on our territory, giving Carice other things to worry about.

The ID for Christine Wintour wouldn’t stand up to too much scrutiny and none of the cards that went with it were active. But the Schröder was on the wane and willing to take disposable credit chits without demanding much by way of proof of identity. That was something they were going to have cause to regret later. The rifle had to come out of my pocket and in the end I settled for hiring an ancient Heckler & Koch PSG1A1 with a Brügger & Thomet suppressor. It had an effective range of up to a klick, so six hundred metres was comfortably within its capabilities. The downside being I’d be financially ruined if I had to ditch the gun during my getaway, which was as nothing compared to the cops catching me with a hot weapon. That gun had a history as long as my arm, which would guarantee any mug found in its possession the needle. Looking back, I don’t know if that was so much the confidence of youth as the naiveite. Back in the seventies there were still large areas of reclaim land within the city boundaries, construction unable to compete with the influx of refugees. I took the rifle to one such spot and zeroed in the Schmidt & Bender scope. I’d gone for the five round magazine, opposed to the twenty, to keep the weapon as light as possible. If things went wrong shooting my way out wasn’t likely to be an option. The old 7.62x51mm NATO rounds were cheap, so I was able fire my grouping shots from a variety of distances, culminating with the top of an abandoned loading gantry that I reckoned to be a couple of metres shy of the elevation of the third floor room I’d secured at the Schröder. The weather forecast was for light breezes that day, but that could change soon enough with the fucked up weather patterns. D-Day arrived and I checked into the Schröder. In those days my budget stretched to changing my appearance with wigs, glasses and make up, using the latter to put as many years on me as I could. I was careful to tip the porter just the right amount to ensure he didn’t me as too cheap or too generous. My clothes were loose casual and I’d strapped down my breasts. As ever, I could do nothing about my height, but the porter was tall enough not to feel dwarfed. I’d be all over the cams but my exit route involved several surveillance blind spots during which I’d change my appearance. The day dawned clear with a light south-westerly breeze, much as forecast. I had a good view of the stage where sound technicians buzzed about setting up

microphones on the four pedestals from which the candidates would make their pitches to the electorate. Veidt, as challenger to the incumbent, was due to occupy the one nearest stage left. I’d paid extra for a room with a balcony, the sliding glass doors drawing back to provide a sufficient field of fire. Sat in one of the plastic chairs, the railing proved a perfect rest for the rifle. I took some initial sightings before stowing the rifle in the room, fearful some eager-eyed member of the public would spot it and call the police. Down below, security moved to and fro across the square, scanning for threats. Actual police presence was minimal, a sign the authorities had rated the event as low risk. The various district mayors were predominantly figureheads which, with hindsight, makes you wonder why Rosenstein wanted him taken care of. But back then, young and hungry, I wasn’t one of life’s great thinkers. This was my big chance and one life a small price to pay for it. It’s probably worth mentioning that at this point in my criminal career I had killed seven people. Five were drive-by shootings, one an execution, the last an accident when a punishment beating went too far. Some will no doubt take it as evidence of sociopathic tendencies that none of these killings overly concerned me. They were all gang and therefore part of the game. What did worry me was the relative pointlessness of the game. A revenge killing here, a hundred metres of turf there, it all seemed so small and worthless. I wanted my kills to mean something. Such ambition set me apart from the pack. Carice, who less than two years before had seemed so worldly, was clearly content with being a big fish in a small pond, which was why I had no interest in challenging her for leadership of the gang. Its were all destined for prison or the mortuary slab, Carice included. Not me. The crowds condensed around the stage and at a minute before two the current mayor, Bruno Schulze, took the stage to, if not rapturous applause, then enough to suggest his opponents had serious ground to make up. Only I knew one of them was about to suddenly drop out of the race. The remaining candidates followed suit, tailed by the debate . She raised her hands for silence and the noise of the audience dropped from a roar to a white noise hiss. Satisfied, she explained that each candidate had two minutes to make their opening pitch and that Schulze, as incumbent, would go first. I tuned out Schulze and took a look at my target. Average height, well built, denoting serious gym time, the first hint of grey showing at his temples, the

coldness in his eyes offset by a ready and generous smile. In short, moulded and media coached to within a centimetre of his life by the party political machine. I had the shot, but it seemed rude to deprive the voters of hearing what they could have won, particularly as he was last to speak. I won’t bore you with the details, suffice to say Veidt promised to be tough on crime and the causes of crime. To take back this city, founded on the great principles of a united European state, from the gangs and organised crime lords and return it to honest, hardworking citizens. To be fair he spoke well, but the crowd had heard a hundred different versions of the same spiel from politicians past and present and had little doubt they would hear it again. You might argue I did Veidt a favour that day. Come the aftermath of the election he would have been just another also ran. But I made sure he was top of the news cycle for more than a week. An eternity by Europa City standards. As the read out the first of the absolutely not rigged audience questions, I sighted on Veidt. The pocket handkerchief in his breast pocket made for the perfect target. I breathed in as I squeezed back on the trigger, holding at the biting point. The briefest moment of hesitation as I reminded myself this was what I wanted, then the shot rang out. I followed Veidt’s backward trajectory through the scope as the first screams of alarm sounded from the audience. Job done. As I was to discover many times, an eerie calm settled over me post hit. I slid the balcony doors closed, broke down the rifle, packed it into a valise and, shading my face with the brim of a cap, exited the room. A short walk across the corridor took me to the fire exit. Less than two minutes had ed since I shot Veidt. Typical response times suggested it would take the police a minimum of six minutes to seal off the square and a further three minutes to shut down the SBahn. The bottom of the fire escape opened onto a back alley, the first of the blind spots I’d marked out. Here I removed my cap and wig, swapped clothes and packed my old clothes, rifle and valise into a second bag. Four minutes thirty. The alley gave way to the main road in front of the square. I kept my head angled down as I came back under surveillance. Two hundred metres later I hit the down escalator for the S-Bahn. I tapped in through the barriers using a

stolen travel card and rode four stops on the U-3 line to the main interchange. There I opened a rented locker and swapped out my trolley case for a rucksack, leaving behind my Christine Wintour ID. The armourer would recover the rifle within the next thirty minutes and dispose of the clothes and wig. A trip to the bathroom resulted in the removal of most of my makeup, another change of clothes and a fresh wig. From now on I would be travelling under my own Stina Hedlund ID. By this point the cops were starting to close the stations, but with no clear idea of where the shot had come from, let alone the identity of the shooter, it amounted to little more than an ID check. I was home and dry. Or so I thought. The uniform looked at my ID card and then my face before reciting my social security number into the com-unit clipped to his lapel. His eyes narrowed as the response crackled into his earpiece. ‘Ms Hedlund, I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me.’

Chapter 18

I tensed, running the odds in my head. I could easily disable the cop and take his weapon, but with three of his colleagues close by I wouldn’t make it out of the station alive. ‘What seems to be the problem, officer?’ ‘Procedure, ma’am. We have an outstanding missing person report on you.’ ‘You’ve seen my ID. I’m past the age of consent.’ He looked at my ID again. Even with my adopted long brown hair, it was clearly me. A queue was forming behind us and his ear piece crackled again, the static somehow sounding urgent. ‘I take it you have no interest in being reunited with your family?’ ‘That’s correct.’ ‘Then we’ll consider the case closed.’ He handed me back my ID. ‘Mind how you go, Ms Hedlund.’ My heart thumped in my chest as I tapped out through the barrier. Cold sweat ran down my spine and gathered in the small of my back. The sins of my past had come close to getting me caught. Time to bury Stina Hedland once and for all.

––––––––

At fifty-five Gunther Rosenstein’s once powerful physique had long since run to fat. Too much of the good life and having other people to do the heavy lifting. Not that that made him anyone’s fool. His heavy-lidded eyes still retained a

shrewd intelligence. Those same eyes lingered a little too long on my cleavage, but I’d long since learned to deal with that. A movement of air reminded me that Delgano, as my sponsor, stood guard behind me. The fact he’d stood me on a plastic sheet further reminded me that we were playing mobster basic here. Rosenstein had been gracious enough to grant me an audience, albeit very much on his sufferance, and I’d be a fool to forget it. A thinly drawn line existed between success and a bullet in the brain. ‘Michael, here, tells me you handled yourself well with this Veidt business. Near professional, which, given your youth, is something of a surprise. Clearly you have something of a natural talent in this area, but the question remains as to how much of a need I have for that talent. Still, a good businessman recognises and develops talent. Thinks ahead about possible emerging markets. And make no mistake, Ms Hedlund, there is a definite market for your skillset.’ ‘Thank you... sir.’ ‘Don’t thank me until you know the and conditions of our contract. Our sources within the ED inform me that they have no viable leads from which to identify you. This is as much by luck as by your design. You have, however, shown initiative and courage, so I’m prepared to reward that by developing your talent. But understand this, if you accept my offer there’s no going back. We keep our secrets, because the dead tell no tales.’ ‘I understand.’ ‘I hope you do. Michael, Feldmann. Tell him we have a candidate.’

PART FIVE 19 February 2088 – 27 February 2088

Chapter 19

I spend the next couple of days after putting the squeeze on Vogel cooling my heels at the North Poles. No word from Llewellyn or Kurtzman, but the fact my brain and the rest of my vital organs don’t explode has to be a good sign. I figure they will have to take him into protective custody at some point, but not until Llewellyn is sure as to who he can trust within the department. In the meantime, I’ve staffing concerns of my own. If a week’s a long time in politics, two years is a veritable ice age in the world of organised crime. Ethan de Sal has had long enough to consider himself not only manager but de facto owner of the Poles during my extended absence and it’s clear he’s coping none too well with my unannounced return. Largely because he knows I’ve been looking at the books and is all too aware of the story they have to tell. The crunch point seems to have occurred about six months previously, when he’s decided the couple of percent he’s been skimming off the genuine profits has gone unnoticed for so long that he might as well help himself to some of the laundered money. Unfortunately, for both of us, that’s crossing a line I can’t ignore. Ordinarily I’d have settled for putting a bullet in him and left it at that. But I’ve had more than my share of unforeseen expenses since I returned to the city, not least the loss of the penthouse, and it doesn’t look like there’s going to be a pay day any time soon. Ethan is at least smart enough not to have syphoned the money into his own . While I’m not adverse to torture, I’m not entirely convinced it will achieve what I need in this case. Appealing to his better nature is also unlikely to work. Indeed, around about now he’s probably thinking I’m the problem that needs removing. The more time I give him, the deeper rooted his paranoia is likely to become. I do a little digging and come up with a solution. It’s not one I’m proud of, or even comfortable with, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The next day I do a little surveillance, take some pictures, load them onto the Casbah and put a dead man’s switch contract in place. Then I call Ethan into the office

for a meeting. Ethan is more than a little put out when I frisk him at the door and take a Glock 9mm off him. I lock the office door behind him and usher him to the seat in front of the desk. He moves with the grudging steps of the condemned. ‘Guess this is it, huh?’ He hesitates for a moment, weighing up his pride, and decides it’s a small enough sacrifice in return for his life. ‘I’ll pay you back. Every cent.’ ‘I know you will, Ethan. That’s why you’re still breathing. The only reason you’re still breathing.’ ‘For what it’s worth, it was nothing personal. I want you to know that. The opportunity was staring me in the face for so long I just gave into temptation.’ ‘This is nothing personal either. Just business.’ Ethan starts at the beep from his com-unit. I motion at him to read the message. His eyes go wide and his hand starts to tremble as he scrolls through the photos. ‘Your daughter is a good looking kid, with her whole future ahead of her. Providing her father plays it smart.’ ‘You fucking bitch!’ ‘Now, now, Ethan. You know I don’t like the b-word.’ ‘For Christ’s sake, she’s nine years old! She don’t have nothing to do with any of this.’ ‘I know. And believe me, that’s how I’d like to keep it. So as long as I remain in good health little Lana has nothing to worry about. That sound fair to you?’ I can tell from Ethan’s expression that what this sounds like is a whole level of hate and complication he could do without. I have the faintest stab of conscience until I remind myself that Ethan has brought this on himself. However, I’m not completely heartless. ‘Chances are I’ll be leaving the city soon. For good. You keep your side of the

deal and the club’s yours to do with as you want. It won’t have my money ing through it anymore, but it’s still a decent enough business.’ If Ethan hears the words, he’s not processing them. ‘I get I fucked up. You want to kill me, go ahead. But please leave my daughter out of this. Surely putting me in a box and leaving her without a father is revenge enough?’ I reach out and grip his chin firmly. Make sure he’s looking directly into my eyes. It’s time for some slow and deliberate enunciation. ‘Ethan, do as I say and neither you or Lana will come to any harm. Give in to some half-assed notion of revenge and it will be different. Now, I suggest you get on the terminal over there and see about getting me my money back.’ I watch him shuffle over to the desk. He’s a broken man, but will he stay that way? Said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m getting soft. The sooner I get Llewellyn and Takahashi off my back and get out of this city the better.

Chapter 20

Ethan proves good to his word and the hundred thou is back in my by the close of business the following day. Part of me still thinks the smart move is to put a bullet in his head. But I’m fighting it. That may seem peculiarly squeamish from someone who kills for a living, but I decided a long time ago to be selective in my targets. As I said to Kurtzman, I like to think the majority of those I’ve killed had it coming. Not that I’m claiming to be any kind of saint. No denying there’s innocent blood on my hands. But I’m pragmatic enough not to end up endlessly scrubbing them like some neurotic Lady Macbeth. The club doesn’t open until two, so I spend my mornings working out on the poles, waiting for Llewellyn or Kurtzman to call. Several days go by with nothing newsworthy on the vid-cast. If the forces of law and order are working, they’re doing it very quietly. Worse still, one of my North Africa s calls with a job. He’s not best pleased when I turn it down and these are people it doesn’t pay to disappoint. I can almost hear the mental calculation as he moves me several places down the list of preferred contractors. Much more of this and I’ll have to start over. I almost give in and call Kurtzman, but I can live without the abuse. On the fifth day all Hell breaks loose. A bomb goes off in Vogel’s office, taking out most of the top floor. The vid-cast pundits have a field day, crediting terrorists, organised crime, even rival corporations. Facts are few and far between, including an accurate body count. There’s a salacious quality to the numerous mentions of using DNA identification. Somewhere around the news cycle’s third or fourth repeat my com-unit lights up with a message from Kurtzman: Via del Corso, 1 hour, come armed. It’s going to be tight getting from the Amsterdam Quarter to Rome in an hour. I consider the bike but there’s no way I can make it at street legal speeds and I really can’t afford to draw attention to myself. The cross-city monorail, the wire, is the next best option. It has minimal stops and the underground runs from the

wire terminal to the Via del Corso. I go with black hair and loose sports clothes that hide the ballistic vest I strap on. Weapon-wise, I settle for the faithful Walther in its shoulder holster, then pack a Heckler & Koch MP9 and a couple of flash-bangs into a holdall. It’s about as armed as I can manage while remaining relatively discreet. I leave the North Poles at a run, my choice of clothing making my haste marginally less suspicious. Kurtzman has got to be in deep before he’s calling me in as the cavalry. At a little after ten in the morning the wire is relatively quiet. I threat assess the other three engers and come back good; an old woman, a down-and-out and what I take to be a female student. Whoever she is, she’s engrossed in the mathematical equations on her datapad. I wonder what it would have been like to grow up with such ordinary cares. But for all I know she has plenty of tragedy in her life. Reflection; something else I never used to do. The older buildings below as electromagnetic pulses shunt the train at over 300 kph. The newer ones rise either side of the monorail, creating plascrete canyons. I try to keep from checking the time on my com-unit every couple of minutes. Not like I owe that prick Kurtzman anything. But I’m all too aware of what happens to the nano-explosives in my bloodstream if he dies. Forty-three minutes after receiving Kurtzman’s message, I shoulder past the old lady, earning a dirty look, and hit the platform running. I take the escalator steps two at a time, thankful it’s not rush hour. A further eight minutes elapse before I’m sitting on the underground, three stops from the Via del Corso. No matter how many times I check it, the com-unit refuses to display any new messages from Kurtzman. Nothing worse than going into an operational situation blind. I emerge from the underground on the stroke of eleven, momentarily blinded by the low winter sun. I turn my head left and right, squinting anxiously at the cafés and stalls that line the long street. Are there eyes on me? Am I walking willingly into a kill zone? I set off at a casual pace, studying menus and window shopping. Epitomising the bored wife on a stroll. Few give me a second glance, but they’re the ones I feel comfortable about. Anyone with basic tradecraft knows better than to gawk.

By this point I’ve meandered some two hundred metres. Where the Hell is Kurtzman? I continue on, attracting the unwelcome attention of a sales assistant. He pouts and mutters under his breath about rudeness as I hurry past, ignoring the sweater he holds out for my inspection. It’s poor tradecraft on my part, but instinct tells me time is pressing. Another fifty metres and I have eyes on not only Kurtzman but Vogel also. They sit conspicuously at a table in front of a little street café. A selection of coffee cups tells me they’ve been here for some time. I glance across the street and immediately spot the problem sat at another café. A pair of goons whose features and clothing absolutely screams Yakuza. I slow my pace, pretending to be interested in a jewellery boutique. For now, surprise is on my side. But a reaction from Kurtzman or Vogel will swiftly undo my advantage. I unzip my jacket and take out the Walther, holding it low against my leg. My image is sure to be on a dozen or more of the cams that line the Via del Corso. I’m about to burn myself again, but what choice is there? The only way I’m getting out of the hole I’ve dug for myself with life and liberty intact is to ensure Vogel testifies. As long as there’s no collateral, I’ll have to trust to Llewellyn’s pardon extending to dropping a couple of Yakuza soldiers in the service of the greater good. I send Kurtzman a message telling him to be ready and wait until I see him look at his com-unit before making my move. I cross the road and walk purposely towards the Yakuza, glancing back and forth at my com-unit as if reading directions or a review. The men’s attention remains fixed on Kurtzman and Vogel. A fatal error. I fire a double tap into the back of each goon’s head and am already walking away before the first screams ring out. There’s another underground station at the far end of the street and I intend to be on the next train. I keep walking, trusting Kurtzman and Vogel are following. I can’t risk looking back and linking them to me. Whatever else happens, I need to be seen as a lone actor if I’m made from surveillance footage. Shock and surprise work in my favour. The street is busy enough that no one is certain where the shots came from. I pause at the entrance to the station and slip the gun inside my jacket. I stop to study the map on the back wall of the platform. Kurtzman sidles up

next to me, eyes fixed firmly on the map. He speaks quietly, out of the side of his mouth. ‘Was that absolutely necessary?’ ‘Depends on how much you and doll-boy here want to keep breathing.’ ‘When you put it like that, guess I can let it slide.’ I almost turn to see if he’s being serious. I ask instead, ‘What now?’ ‘Now we head back to the safe house and see if we can’t unfuck this cluster.’

Chapter 21

Llewellyn has aged visibly since I last saw him; dark circles under his eyes and several more days of greying beard growth. Whatever master plan he had is clearly down the shitter and he’s unsure how to handle it. Until now he’s settled all the conflict in his life with words. Rhetoric, he’s just discovered, is no match for bombs or bullets. Kurtzman shoots him a dirty look and he stops pacing and slumps heavily into one of the kitchen chairs. Vogel sits opposite, pouting like a petulant child. Me? I help myself to coffee and a pastry and wait for their egos to land. ‘Seventeen people dead. I can’t believe they’d sacrifice that many innocent lives to stop the truth getting out.’ I arch a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Really? This is Tessler and the Yakuza we’re talking about. Did you honestly think no innocent lives would be lost in this little crusade of yours?’ Llewellyn looks stung. The unvarnished truth tends to have that effect. ‘You’re judging me? You of all people.’ ‘No judgement here. I know what I am. Difference is I’m not ashamed to it it. You want to make like little baby Mosses, that’s your affair. There’ll be time enough for hand-wringing if and when we get out of this.’ Kurtzman throws his hands in the air. ‘If you got a plan, I’m all ears.’ ‘I’m guessing from that little fireworks display on the forty-ninth floor that Tessler knows your boy here is planning to testify against them?’ Vogel springs to his feet, hatred blazing in his eyes. ‘Is this all some kind of a fucking joke to you? My colleagues and friends are dead. Innocent people.’ ‘They worked for Tessler; how innocent could they be?’ I’m ready for the lunge when it comes. I swivel to one side, grab his arm, twist

it up his back and plant the side of his head against the table. ‘A broken arm or even a pair of broken legs won’t prevent you from testifying. I strongly suggest you sit the fuck down when I let go of you and behave yourself.’ ‘All right already, that’s enough! You’ve made your point, Cocoa. Let the little shit-stain go.’ There’s a look in Kurtzman’s eyes that warns me not to push it. I give Vogel’s arm a final twist, provoking a high-pitched yelp, and throw him back in his chair. Llewellyn tuts. ‘I hardly think that sort of language is helping the situation, detective.’ ‘You can think what you like, Mr Prosecutor. I’ve spent almost thirty years on the streets dealing with skags on a daily basis. I know when some shit-heel has a guilty conscience. See I didn’t tell anyone Vogel was going to testify. I’m pretty damn certain you didn’t. And Cocoa knows which side her bread’s buttered on. So that leaves our man here.’ Kurtzman waits a second for that to sink in and then looms over Vogel. ‘Want to tell us what happened? You get careless and give the game away?’ The petulant pout is back on Vogel’s face but with the three of us staring at him he’s got nowhere to hide. ‘I might have triggered a flag copying data off the server. But it’s the evidence you asked me to get.’ ‘Maybe we did. But just , the blood of those seventeen people is on your hands as much as anyone else’s.’ ‘Now we’ve got that settled,’ I say, ‘you still all ears for my plan?’ ‘Go right ahead. Hard to see how you can make the situation any worse.’ ‘The way I see it nothing much has changed. The end game is still to get Vogel in the witness box. Keeping him alive might have got more difficult. But luckily for you guys I have the perfect skillset for protection work. Equally

fortunate is the fact I appear to be less fussy about keeping people alive than I am about killing them.’ ‘That’s seriously your pitch? We give you carte blanche to take on all comers and hope our man here is still breathing at the end of it?’ ‘The Yakuza and Tessler are coming for him no matter what. This safe house might be off book but they’ll find it sooner or later. Said it yourself – the ED’s in hock to Tessler. Someone’s going to talk, at which point it’ll be termination with extreme prejudice all round. Way I see it, we ought to get ahead of that and pick our own battleground.’ ‘Choose the hill you want to die on, eh?’ Llewellyn scratches his beard. He still very much wants this to be his operation, but he also knows when he’s beat. ‘What do you think, Pete?’ ‘That it’s bullshit, desperate and likely to get us all killed. But so is everything else I can think of. Montreux and a couple of his guys are onboard, but it’s not enough to keep us safe if we take Vogel into formal custody right this second.’ ‘I have a lot of good people in the prosecutor’s office.’ ‘Maybe you do. But I wouldn’t like to stake my life on it. Besides, they ain’t gonna be the ones guarding the custody block. Hate to it it, but Cocoa here is probably right. We need to get Vogel squared away while you continue building the case. You got a judge in mind to present to?’ ‘Carlotta Lennox. Bit of a fossil, but she’s no fan of Haynes and can be relied to play it one hundred percent by the book.’ Kurtzman doesn’t look entirely happy with this choice, but he keeps his peace. I take the general silence that follows as consent for my plan and offer up some further advice while I have them onside. ‘You need to find out who you can trust, Llewellyn. And believe me when I say you can’t trust them all. Everyone has secrets, some small, some big. Either way, the Yakuza are masters of finding out those secrets and leveraging them.’ ‘I’m supposed to go digging into their affairs?’

‘No, you play it smart. Give out different information to your guys and see what leaks. Then, once you’ve found your leak, use it to give out disinformation.’ ‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.’ ‘Tough. We’ve come a long way past comfortable. Seventeen dead bodies and counting. This isn’t the court room with its procedures and precedents. Out here it’s survival of the fittest.’ Llewellyn might not realise it but he’s already onboard. He’s come too far and invested too much to back out now. I turn to Vogel. ‘Get your shit together, we’re leaving.’ ‘I don’t think so. Kurtzman, tell this psycho I’m not going anywhere with her.’ ‘You are. And don’t you go busting my balls about it neither.’ ‘But she’s a criminal. A killer. She’ll hand me over to the Yakuza to save her own skin or sell me to the next highest bidder.’ ‘Trust me, Cocoa here is going to take real good care of you.’ Behind Vogel’s back Kurtzman mimes thumbing a detonator. Like I need the reminder. ‘Ain’t that so?’ ‘Absolutely, Pete.’ Yeah, I’ll keep him alive. But that doesn’t mean I can’t use him to try and flush out a few rats. There ive protection and active protection. I’m the hands-on kind of a girl.

Chapter 22

Vogel sulks all the way back to the North Poles, which suits me as it means I don’t have to talk to him. I watch him closely, though. Desperation can make people do strange things, like try to leap off the back of a bike doing 120 kph. In the end he just sits there, gripping hard at my waist, lost in his self-pity. I park in the side street and let him into the office. His eyes flit around the cramped space, widening in disbelief as he takes in the basic terminal and rickety office furniture. ‘Guess the killing business doesn’t pay like it used to.’ ‘Certainly not corporate standard. But I gather you’ve been forcibly laid off.’ ‘True. You got anything to drink round here?’ I think about it for second and decide there’s no harm in it. Truth is, I could use a drink myself. There’s vodka and tonic in the fridge. I fix us a couple of long drinks and motion Vogel to sit in the easy chair. He catches himself about to wipe its seat and offers a half-apologetic smile. I stare at him while he stares at the contents of his glass. A few weeks ago Vogel had it all. Top corporate position, lavish lifestyle, trophy wife, all the makings of a bright future. True, he got there by a list of financial crimes as long as my arm, but I’m pragmatic enough to realise it goes with the territory. His crimes are probably no worse than the majority of his rivals, with one notable exception. As far as Llewellyn knows, none of them have been foolish enough to deal directly with the Four Families. The operative word here being directly. Organised crime and the corporations will never be complete strangers. Whether he wants to it it or not, Llewellyn’s real issue is with the incestuous relationship between Tessler and the ED. Supreme Councillor Haynes and the late Commissioner Sajer were a little too accommodating when it came to ensuring the supply of arms and munitions to the city’s finest. Vogel, apparently having finished his search for auguries in the vodka, downs his

drink in a single swallow and returns his glass to the desk. He smacks his lips appreciatively. ‘The office might not be up to much but at least your liquor is top shelf. Any chance of a refill?’ I fix him another, stronger drink. He gives me an ironic salute with the glass, but only drinks about half. Then it’s back to staring into the liquid depths. I freshen my own drink. This is a brief respite from danger. I know it won’t last. Vogel breaks the silence, ‘Just the two of us now. No Llewellyn or Kurtzman to impress. So how about you level with me?’ ‘About what?’ ‘Spare me the disingenuous act. What are my chances? Is there a hope in Hell I’m getting out of this alive?’ ‘I’ve no plans of selling you out, if that’s what’s worrying you. Beyond that, your best bet lies with me staying alive. Trouble is, Takahashi probably wants me dead every bit as much as you.’ ‘I really hope you’re as good an assassin as you make out. Because you’re a shit motivational speaker.’ ‘You’re the one wanted me to level with you.’ ‘I did that. But I was hoping you weren’t going to it we’re both fucked.’ I finish my drink and rattle the ice in my glass. Vogel might be a corporate shitheel, but even he deserved some measure of the truth. ‘Here’s how it is. We stay here, or anywhere in the city, and it’s only a matter of time before one of Takahashi’s hit squads tracks us down. That happens, we’ll be fighting on their . That doesn’t work for me. What we’re gonna do instead is head out into the Badlands to a little place I know. It’s remote. Defensible. And when the time is right, we let Takahashi know where we are.’ Vogel downs the other half of his drink and offers me a sardonic grin. ‘What was it Kurtzman said? Choose the hill you want to die on.’

‘Yeah, but in this case it’s a farm.’ ‘Just so long as we don’t end up buying it, eh?’

––––––––

We take the monorail out to the farm, travelling high above the alluvial plains and out to the desert. Like many Rosenstein assets it has fallen into disuse since the old man’s death. Too much trouble to service for too little return compared to his more overtly criminal operations. The halt is a five minute walk from the farm. Early spring, the land has some of the barrenness of winter but hasn’t achieved the arid summer dusts. The farm sits there like a giant squatting spider, living quarters and dormant hydroponic chambers suspended above the earth on steel stilts. Rust has gathered in the last fourteen years and the little vegetation that grows has crept nearer. If the signs of neglect don’t exactly invoke sadness I’ll it to a certain melancholy. This is where I commenced my training as an assassin. Where I met Erik Feldmann, the one man I ever loved. After all these years the pain refuses to fade away.

PART SIX 19 May 2074 – 23 June 2074

Chapter 23

Erik Feldmann turned out to be one metre ninety-four of lean muscled, blondehaired, leather clad twenty-something. The shades and the rock chic might have been laughable if he hadn’t carried it so well. I crushed hard on him. An experience previously unknown to me. One that hurt in the light of his detached professionalism. At this stage I didn’t truly understand what it meant to give your loyalty to one of the Families. Rosenstein had given Feldmann a task and the artless flaunting of my ample charms would not divert him from it. The consequences of failing Gunther Rosenstein far outweighed the temptations of the flesh, however ripe and ready for the plucking. The Rosenstein Family owned several farms that supplied food to the city and it was to one of these that Feldmann and I travelled to in order to commence my training. I tried not to gawk like a rube as we rode the monorail across the floodplains, heading for the high ground. This was the first time I’d been beyond Europa City’s environs, seen the ecological wasteland that surrounded it. Something made all the stranger for realising this was where Daddy had expected us to scrape a living come what he believed to be the immanent the collapse of civilisation. The farm was hydroponic and mounted on stilts above the now annual autumn inundation. During harvests, of which the GM crops yielded four a year, workers shipped in from the city on a two week trip, working around the clock on twelve hour shifts. Feldmann and I found quarters in one of the empty accommodation blocks, isolated from the teks who monitored and maintained the hydroponics. The bunks reminded me uncomfortably of my years living with Daddy, although we occupied separate dorms. At least initially. Late spring was the hot season and the surrounding land, flooded in winter and green in early spring, had baked to an arid crust. On a clear day you could see for klicks across the denuded landscape, where the animals had long since perished and only the hardiest shrubs survived. By this point we’d driven more than 90% of the wildlife to extinction, while the temperature continued to rise.

Until then, finally seeing the harsh reality with my own eyes, I’d always thought Daddy guilty of exaggeration, if not outright paranoia. If he hadn’t been such an outright bastard in every other respect I might have felt I owed him an apology.

––––––––

My first lesson took place in the farm’s garage. I took in the curious diorama that had been set up; a chair with a target pinned to the top strut of its back stood two metres in front of a table topped with two sandbags. Didn’t seem like much of a challenge. Feldmann handed me a MK 18 Accuracy International bolt-action rifle fitted with iron sights. Seeing my evident dismay, he smiled. ‘Yeah, a scope makes life easy. I want to see how good your aim is naturally.’ Under his instruction I fixed the rifle between the sandbags and took aim at the centre of the target. I then walked to the rear of the chair and looked through the hole in the target’s centre, getting the bullet’s eye view. ‘Is the foresight in the centre of the “U” of the backsight?’ ‘No. It’s below it, a little to my right.’ ‘Then you’re aiming low to the left. Try again.’ I did. Repeatedly. Sometimes with both eyes open to simulate quick firing. To begin with less than half of my aims were on target. A few were high, a few to the right, but the predominant fault was that damned low left. It took the better part of half a day to eliminate this to Feldmann’s satisfaction. We spent the remainder of the day reviewing the basics of firing positions, trigger pressing, loading, and operating the bolt to improve my quick handling. It reminded me uncomfortably of my drills with Daddy. At least with Feldmann there was no threat of physical punishment. Despite my misgivings I must have done something right, as he called it a day and said we would begin live firing in the morning.

––––––––

Satisfied I now had the basics, Feldman fitted the rifle with a Nightforce scope and took me out to the plains to practice. The scope was capable of compensating for the drop of the bullet over distance, but Feldmann disabled this and the elevation and windage features. I was once again to learn my skills without the aid of technological trickery. Tools, he said, could assist, but there was no substitute for being able to calculate and compensate for all factors affecting the shot. Given my limited academic schooling I balked at this trigonometry to begin with, but Feldmann, with an expert flair for teaching, broke it down into a series of easy to understand analogies. Turned out I had more of a head for figures than I’d realised. The skill I’d displayed in taking out Veidt was based on natural talent. We kept it simple to begin with, distance and elevation only, moving on to crosswinds once I’d mastered the fundamentals. Feldmann kept both praise and criticism sparing, which allowed me to come into an unbiased sense of my abilities. Later, he would tell me I was the best he had ever taught. Something I still believe to be more than idle pillow talk. The change in our relationship came towards the end of the second week. Up until that point we’d kept a studious cool between us, unaware we were fighting a mutual attraction. Despite the forecast being for strong winds we had driven over a hundred klicks into the Badlands, where a high outcrop of rock offered suitably challenging conditions. The days had been particularly long and dry by this point and when the winds blew in they whipped the surface into a blinding dust storm. Although the vehicle was less than thirty metres away, we had no means of determining direction. We clung together instead while the sands scoured at our flesh, seeking ingress through our goggles and scarves, painfully aware of the heat of our bodies pressing together. We stayed that way for close to thirty minutes, Feldmann’s excitement pressing hard against my belly. A sudden lull in the winds revealed the half-buried form of our landcruiser and Feldmann grabbed my hand and dragged me towards it. The soft drifts of sand shifted treacherously as we staggered towards safety. At

ten metres the pitch of the wind rose again and fresh flurries of sand whipped our flesh. We shared a look and pressed on. Blind, I trusted entirely to Feldmann’s navigation, knowing a turn of even a few degrees would send us past our vehicle and into the heart of nothingness. How long did we stagger through the stinging sand? It seemed an age. Too long not to have made that fatal error. Fear took hold and Feldmann had to drag me forward. I could feel his frustration in the tightening of his grip, but my body refused to obey the urgent commands of my brain. Perhaps it never would have if not for the sudden clang of Feldmann’s hand against the hull of the landcruiser. A gullwing door hinged upwards and we stumbled inside, collapsing in a heap on the loading bay floor. Silence descended in the wake of the soft hiss of the door seals, the scouring sand collapsing to the floor like the severed tentacles of some phantasmal beast. I pulled off my scarf and goggles and shook the sand from my hair. The rapid beating of my heart had nothing to do with fear as I looked into Feldmann’s eyes. Angst flickered amidst the desire. How much of a sin was he about to commit? Could he rationalise it away? Fearing he might, I leaned forward and kissed him clumsily. Then we were tearing at one another’s clothes, our lips and fingers hot on our flesh. That first lovemaking had the heat and urgency of suppressed desire, closely followed by the realisation that we were now co-conspirators. We told ourselves in the afterglow that this was a one off. That our ambitions were more important than lust or love. We knew we were lying even as we spoke the words. That we were powerless to resist what now existed between us. We could deny and we could delay, but we would inevitably fall again. For now, though, we would pretend otherwise. Keep a magnified distance between us to compensate. The dust storm blew out nine hours later. We busied ourselves digging out the landcruiser, checking its rear tracks and air intakes, running full system diagnostics. Although designed as a desert armoured transport, we knew how pernicious the fine sand could be. We had gotten lucky once and didn’t care to chance our good fortune any further. The systems checked out and we trundled our way back to the farm, moving across a fresh sea of dunes that hadn’t existed before the storm. We made good progress and three hours later we parked on one of the hydraulic lift platforms

and it carried us into the safety of the main building. Luck remained on our side, or so we thought. Then Feldmann’s com-unit beeped; Gunther Rosenstein was coming to check on his investment.

Chapter 24

I waited in my room like some nervous debutante while Feldmann went to meet Rosenstein off the hopper. A full hour elapses before I’m summoned to the meeting room off of the main hydroponics control block. Rosenstein sat at the head of the table flanked by two bodyguards, regarding me with jowly disapproval. The Six Families appeared to draw such men from a central reservoir. Regardless of allegiance they were invariably clad in dark suits, wraparound HUD shades and earpieces, with conspicuous bulges below left, right or both armpits. They were physically similar enough to make me wonder if someone had been breaking the international moratorium on cloning. It’s called organised crime for a reason. I’m steered to a seat directly opposite Feldmann at the centre of the table, far enough away to pose no immediate physical threat. Rosenstein appears to have grown more cautious since our first meeting, or maybe he’s always like this when he’s off his home turf. After all, he’s sitting with one assassin and a second one in training. Perhaps he’s worried his dogs will bite that hand that feeds them? Rosenstein fixed me with a gaze I would grow to know well over the years of our association. I held it then, as I held it subsequently. It might have been a break with protocol, but my vow to let no man cow me held firm. ‘Erik tells me you are making... sufficient progress, Ms Hedlund.’ Talk about being damned by faint praise. ‘Have I disappointed you, Herr Rosenstein?’ Feldmann’s sharp look informed me it would have been better to remain silent. Far too late for that now. ‘Disappointment would suggest familiarity or attachment. If I have not made our relationship sufficiently clear, let there be no further misunderstanding. You,

Ms Hedlund, are a tool. One which currently needs tempering in order to be of the most efficient service. As with any process there is a margin for error, the possibility that the craftsman must scrap the end product. This would be a waste and I am not a man who enjoys squandering resources. I trust we understand one another?’ I nodded my acceptance and Rosenstein turned to Feldmann. ‘I said four weeks, but circumstance has overtaken us.’ ‘You’re deploying her before completing her training?’ ‘Your progress reports indicate she’s made sufficient progress for the job in question. I trust your reports are accurate? It would be unfortunate if you had succumbed to an urge to embellish.’ ‘She’s as capable as I’ve stated.’ ‘Then we shan’t have any problems.’ Gunther rose, smoothed the creases from his tros, and fixed me with a benign smile. ‘Ms Hedlund, you’re with me.’ His bodyguards fell in behind him as he made a surprisingly fast exit for a man of his bulk. Feldmann’s face showed no emotion as I followed them. Was I the condemned walking to my own execution?

Chapter 25

I am briefed on the flight back to the city. My target is an RSA general. Hank Dukakis has made the fatal mistake of reneging on an arms deal and supplying the weapons to the rival Prinzi Family. It’s an insult and loss of face that Rosenstein cannot tolerate. I am to terminate Dukakis with extreme prejudice. We land at Angela Merkel International Airport, where I’m transferred to a chartered suborbital flight to Alabama. Rosenstein handlers have greased the appropriate palms to by airport security. Further briefing notes and a fresh MK 18 rifle equipped with armour piercing rounds await me on the plane. Collateral damage is not only acceptable but expected. There is to be no ambiguity about the message the Rosenstein Family is sending to existing and prospective business partners. A car transports me from the airport to a safe house in Huntsville, near the US Army Strategic Defense base. Dukakis will leave the base at 0700 hours the following morning to deliver a briefing on the fourth Crusade campaign. His motorcade will in view of my location at 0712. I have three seconds to take two shots. The first will take out the armoured glass, the second Dukakis. I am to leave the rifle and exit the building by means of a tunnel that emerges two streets over, where a motorcycle will be waiting to transport me back to the airport to complete my exfiltration. Like most plans it looks excellent on paper. Reality may be somewhat different. It occurs to me that Rosenstein, despite his words, might well have selected me for this mission because I represent a minor investment in my current state, the loss of which is acceptable. The safe house had a fully stocked refrigerator, toiletries, bed linen and clean clothes. I made use of all of them, enjoying the luxury of a real shower after the privations of the farm. It felt good to wash away the last of the desert sand. Afterwards, I checked out the tunnel and the bike – a Kawasaki ZZ-15 with a top speed of 300 kph. Both were in serviceable condition, which almost alleviated my fear of treachery. Finally, I stripped, cleaned and reassembled the rifle, inspecting each round before loading it back into the magazine. The inorganic

tools of my trade were fully functional. I hoped the same was true of me. I turned in at nine pm and rose at half past five. After a brief work out and a shower I ate a light breakfast and took up position at the first floor window. The rising sun was behind me and would stay that way for the next couple of hours. A male emerged from a property a hundred metres down the road. He reversed his car from the drive and I tracked him as he drove past, checking the angle of the shot. Dukakis would be travelling faster, having turned onto the street at a junction one hundred and sixty metres away. There was a crosswalk, but it would stop the car at too great and angle to make the shot. I hacked it anyway, knowing I could use it to slow the car down. This was not part of the mission briefing, but surely a girl was allowed to improvise? The clock read 0647. I stood up and performed a series of stretches followed by some yogic breathing, a recent introduction to my training with Feldmann that I’d not had time to fully develop. My mind emptied and there was only the task before me. I could do this. 0703: in position at the window, link to crosswalk controls confirmed, weapon hot. It was a journey of less than three klicks from the base, but you never knew what might develop on the road. At 0711 a pair of motorcycle outriders turned onto the street. I ignored them and waited for Dukakis’ car. Thirty seconds later the black limousine made its turn and I triggered the lights. The car kept going. Protocol. Guess Rosenstein’s planners had already looked into it. No time for doubts. The car was moving above the speed limit. I took the first shot. Glass shattered. Dukakis ducked. The second shot followed automatically. Dukakis’ head exploded and the bullet continued on to the next solid object, his wife’s skull. Brakes squealed. Warnings were shouted. But I was already on the stairs, heading for the basement. Now I understood the real purpose of the mission; to see how I handled innocent blood on my hands. I pulled on the helmet and pressed the starter. The bike roared to life and I pointed myself towards the freeway. Roadblocks would start to go up within minutes. But I had the speed to make the airport. I kept my mind clear, opened the throttle up and gunned the engine. Maybe I got lucky or, more likely, Rosenstein money dulled the response time of local law enforcement. Either way, I made it to the airport without incident and boarded the suborbital. The plane was already moving by the time I strapped myself in. Sudden acceleration pressed me back in my seat. I closed my eyes and kept them closed until we

touched down at Angela Merkel. I’ve had many years to consider that death, asked myself a thousand times if I would still have taken the shot if I’d seen his wife. Sometimes I lie to myself, others I it the truth. I honestly don’t know.

Chapter 26

My escort sees that I’m returned to the farm after the hit. There’s no celebration; you don’t congratulate a hammer for driving in a nail. That suited me. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the surprised expression on the face of Dukakis’ wife as the bullet entered her brain. Not guilt, only the acknowledgement that this was the true price of being a Rosenstein asset. It hardened my resolve to be able to choose my own targets. In the interim, I had to play the good soldier. The final two weeks of my stay at the farm were a schizophrenic split between training and nightly lust. The former always conducted in a cold professionalism to prevent any of the workers betraying us to Rosenstein. In this manner Feldmann brushed up my close quarters combat skills, teaching me Defendu; a mix of savate, jujitsu and street fighting that concentrated on the rapid disabling of an opponent. Further lesson involved surveillance techniques, electronic countermeasures, combat driving, physical fitness and meditation. As with my marksmanship, the skills came naturally to me and I made swift progress. Feldmann, as ever, kept his praise tight, but unknown to me issued glowing reports to Rosenstein. It seemed old Gunther had, in the beginning at least, second thoughts as to the wisdom of investing in me. Fears that both the Dukakis hit and my rapid development now allayed. We spent the last night in a frenzy of ion. Feldmann had received word from Rosenstein that he was deploying him in Latin America to further Family interests within the remaining drug cartels. It was an open-ended mission with no fixed return date; announced the day after I returned from the RSA. Although we’d swept the dorms for surveillance devices and found none, I couldn’t shake the feeling Rosenstein had intuited our involvement and taken steps to separate us. Feldmann dismissed my speculation as paranoia, but I could see in his eyes he felt uneasy about his mission to Columbia and Venezuela. When I pressed him, he quipped he didn’t like the heat or humidity. I knew him well enough by then to know I’d gain nothing from pushing him. Besides, I had my own future to think of. All I knew for certain was I would be returning to Europa City. Where and on

what remained a mystery. The first indication arrived in a storm of dust just after breakfast when a hopper touched down. It seemed I was now a valued and/or trusted enough asset to be worthy of flying back to the city. Feldmann kept his features imive as the hopper dusted off. It would be almost two years before we saw one another again, by which time my circumstances would be much altered. We landed once again at Angela Merkel International where a car was waiting to take me to the city’s Hamburg district, the seat of Rosenstein power. I rehearsed what I would say to him over and over, knowing words might fail me when he fixed me with his dead gaze. Rosenstein currently occupied the penthouse suite of the Sheraton. One of several he kept on a permanent retainer, moving as whim or necessity dictated, keeping ahead of his many enemies on both sides of the law. One of the ever-present bodyguards motioned me to a sofa and I sank into its soft cushions. Gunther regarded me across the low table, its surface littered with the remnants of breakfast. ‘Help yourself to a croissant. I get them delivered from this little bakery I know.’ My mouth dropped open at this banal pleasantry. New but not entirely unwelcome, I decided not spoil the friendly atmosphere. ‘I’ve eaten, thank you. But I’ll take some coffee if there’s any going?’ Gunther shrugged as if to say I didn’t know what I was missing. But he poured me a cup of black coffee. I tasted it and nodded my approval. ‘Now, Ms Hedlund, it’s time to discuss business. I spoke of investment when we first met and I’m pleased to say you’ve proven to be a worthy one. You handled the Dukakis job well – took him out and followed your exit protocol without being distracted by that unfortunate business with the wife.’ Rosenstein’s tone and body language said he found the death of Dukakis’ wife neither unfortunate nor troubling. I let him continue. ‘Erik says you’re the best he’s ever trained. And believe me, he’s trained more

than a few. I tell you this not to inflate your ego but to make you aware of the high standard I shall hold you up to. You have a lot to live up to and, needless to say, I don’t expect to be disappointed. If I were to be, I might conclude Erik had some other reason to inflate your abilities. That would be... unfortunate.’ There it was again, the not so veiled intimation that he knew about our relationship. I kept my face poker-straight. If Gunther was fishing, I wasn’t about to bite. I let the silence stretch, playing on Rosenstein’s fondness for the sound of his own voice. ‘There is a hierarchy within the Rosenstein Family, Ms Hedlund, and you have gone from the very bottom to several rungs up the ladder in one swift leap. You certainly can’t go back to running with that gang you came from. It was fortunate indeed that you came to me before you became known to the police. Otherwise no amount of talent would have made you worth my time and effort.’ ‘But where will I stay? I have no money.’ ‘I’m aware of your financial status, which is why I’ve engaged an apartment for you here in the Hamburg district. The amenities are basic, but certainly an improvement on the squats you’ve been living in. I have also taken the liberty of providing some clothes.’ My poker face must have slipped, for he added testily, ‘Please don’t flatter yourself. I’m not the sort of man who seeks carnal gratification from the women in my service. The clothes, like the apartment, are basic, functional, designed to avoid arousing undue attention. In order to exploit you fully it is essential you remain under the radar.’ ‘I’m on some kind of... retainer?’ ‘That’s one way of viewing it. You will also find an in the name of Klara Becker containing fifty thousand Euro-dollars. Your fee for Dukakis. I trust this is satisfactory?’ ‘Certainly, Herr Rosenstein. Is the apartment also in the same name?’ ‘Not that it need concern you, but no. You’ll find it’s leased through a subsidiary of our farm business. Ms Becker is simply a tenant. One other thing – you have an appointment at the Schröder Plastics clinic at ten o’clock on Tuesday morning.’

‘I do?’ ‘That brand on your arm is rather conspicuous. Think of this, like the apartment and clothes, as an employee benefit. You wanted to leave gang life behind, Ms Hedlund, or should I say, Ms Becker. You have.’ And that was it. My audience was over. I was now a retained wetwork professional for the Rosenstein Family.

PART SEVEN 3 March 2088 – 8 March 2088

Chapter 27

It took less than an hour to get the backup generator online and start running system checks. Hydroponic farms were largely automated, designed to run with a skeleton maintenance crew, drafting in work parties for the harvests. According to the logs this one had been down about two years. I kicked in the air scrubbers first, filtering and recirculating the air while ramping up the temperature. The surveillance cams were next. Out of the 360 zone there were a couple of 20 degree blind spots, one of which faced the monorail halt. With the sun already dipping towards the horizon I reckoned a camera inspection could wait until tomorrow. Vogel wandered about the room, inspecting consoles and readouts, unsure what to do with himself and being a general pain in the ass. I decided to task him with something even his limited technical skills should be able to cope with. ‘Take the elevator down to level three, check the stores and find us some dinner. Food here is predominantly ration packs so most of it should still be good. Also check the readouts on the water purification tanks.’ ‘Any preference?’ ‘Frankly, whether it’s roast chicken dinner or T-bone steak, you’ll find most of this reconstituted crap tastes vaguely the same. I don’t care so long as it doesn’t poison me.’ Vogel shrugged and walked off with the air of a man who, having found himself in Hell, thought he might as well take in the sights. At least he was out of my hair. I turned back to the environmental controls and kicked off a bio-scan. Some random virus killing me before Takahashi’s goons got here was an irony I could live without. Not for the first time I questioned my choice of “hill”. Psychologically I knew this was very much where I started from, but did I have some subconscious desire to end it here? It was defensible, remote from the city and unlikely to cause any collateral damage. But weren’t there still reclaim zones in the city

every bit as good? Was I lying to myself and Vogel? I was probably out of range of Kurtzman’s detonator. What was to stop me calling Takahashi and brokering a deal to turn Vogel in? Decency, I told myself. Although it probably boiled down to not trusting Takahashi any more than I would a rabid dog. I left the system working through its diagnostics and made my way to the infirmary. The cupboards were full of basic supplies; sterile dressings, sutures, antiseptics and painkillers, along with basic surgical tools. Enough to treat a GSW. Not that I intended stopping any lead. But then again, who does? I powered on the medical AI. Red and amber warning lights lit up across the console as it slurred its way through a greeting like some mechanised stroke victim. Bio-tec had been the great breakthrough about a decade before., but the processing cells were prone to rapid degradation if powered down for any length of time. It seemed to sigh with relief as I powered it off. The surgical drone was at least in serviceable condition. If things could be better, they could also be a lot worse. Vogel was waiting for me in the control room. He slid a ration pack across the table. Bolognaise. Allegedly. I pulled the tab on it and left it to self-heat. The water had a faint metallic edge to it but at least it was cold. Vogel loaded up his fork and chewed thoughtfully. Having learned his lesson, he shovelled up the next few forkfuls and swallowed quickly. I ripped the covering from my own meal and did the same. ‘I’ve been thinking.’ ‘Good for you.’ ‘We have plenty of supplies and no one knows we’re here. Why spoil that by letting the Yakuza know where we are? We should at least give Llewellyn some time to see if he can present his case.’ ‘When I was a little kid I watched a movie about General Custer. It got to the Battle of the Little Bighorn and the Sioux and Cheyenne wipe out Custer and all his men. I turned to my daddy and asked him why it had to end that way and he told me because that’s what happened. See, I couldn’t grasp the difference make-believe and historical fact.’

‘I’m not a child.’ ‘No. But this is real life. There won’t be any cavalry riding to our rescue. If we don’t help ourselves no one else will.’ ‘Christ, woman! Surely you’ve got some friends will help you out? Or someone in one of the other Families that owes you a favour?’ ‘Oddly enough contract killing doesn’t work like that. You take on a job, fulfil that job, pick up your pay and move on to the next one. No room for sentiment in this business. Not like we do BOGOF either.’ ‘I’m just supposed to sit here while you take on Yakuza hit squad after hit squad until one of them gets lucky and kills you?’ ‘There’ll only be one death squad and Takahashi will be leading it herself. The ED failed to take me out earlier so honour demands she takes care of the problem herself. Anything else would be a major loss of face.’ ‘You’re certain of that?’ ‘In as much as I know Yoshiko Takahashi, yes.’ ‘Food’s shit, by the way.’ I threw down my fork. Vogel hadn’t said a truer word all day.

Chapter 28

I get Vogel settled in one of the dorms and then key into the security system and assign all rights to myself. I hope I’ve gotten through to him, but there’s no point taking any chances. I want my goat tethered exactly where I can see him. I find the landcruiser parked up in the garage. There’s just enough of a residual charge in the batteries to power it up. Systems look good, so I jack it into the station supply and put it on fast charge — six hours instead of twelve. I could get one of the sked-bikes going in a quarter of the time and it would be good for the fifty klicks I need to travel, but even with clear weather forecast for the next two days I’m disinclined to risk it after my previous experience. I put in my time inventorying the landcruiser. The basic field supplies are intact and complemented with a pair of .50 Glock pistols. A little further digging produces a pair of shoulder holsters. I strap the guns on. Truth be known, I’m not much of a size queen. But there’s comfort in stopping power and the hydrostatic shock from these babies can cause death from the tissue quake alone. Vogel pings me on comms about an hour later. He’s made some coffee – the real deal. He doesn’t need to ask me twice. I meet him back in the control room. Sun’s gone down and the cams are on thermal imaging. I sip the brew while scanning the perimeter. A couple of gecko-like lizards scuttle past, but the night is otherwise still. ‘Expecting company already?’ ‘Nope. But it never hurts to be prepared.’ ‘Uh-huh.’ I think he’s staring at my breasts but quickly realise he’s fixated on the handcannons strapped below them. Until now I haven’t asked myself if Vogel can even shoot a gun.

I take out the left pistol, remove the magazine and rack the slide to eject the round in the chamber. It lands on the floor with a metallic ping and rolls under the main console. Vogel shrugs when I offer him the pistol, grip first. The gun looks large and ungainly in his hand but he holds it firm, finger resting against the guard rather than on the trigger as he points it towards the floor and checks the safety. Don’t know if he can hit anything but he’s certainly familiar with firearms. I make a mental note to keep loaded ones out of his reach and hold out my hand. ‘Don’t trust me, huh? Guess that’s fair. Just , though, if things go sideways you might be glad of another gun.’ I tell myself that’ll be shinning bright, but give him a “I’ll think about it” nod. It satisfies him enough to hand the gun back. I reload and holster it. This time he’s definitely staring at my breasts and not the hardware. I let it slide. There’s going to be little enough entertainment out here for him.

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Morning arrives bright and early. I let my paranoia or, as I prefer to think of it, professional instinct get the better of me and head straight out to the cams after a disappointing breakfast of porridge. You wouldn’t think it possible to fuck up oats, seasoning and water but the ration packs manage it. The loss of the cam covering the monorail halt has been bothering me all night. Feels too convenient. Sure enough I find the cable neatly severed. Might be fresh, hard to tell. In this atmosphere corrosion takes a while to build up. Has the Yakuza somehow anticipated our arrival? If not them, who and why? Even the most rudimentary scouting would have confirmed the farm as inactive and unoccupied. So why blind it to the halt? It’s a mystery and I don’t like mysteries. But I push the thought aside, slip the Balisong knife from my boot and strip back the cable. There’s enough slack on it to twist the ends together in a crude t. At least we won’t be blind until I find a replacement. The other faulty cam is on the north-west side of the farm, facing out to the

Badlands. The fault on this one is more innocuous – its lens obscured by a rats’ nest. I clear the nest with my foot, sending a pair of mangy black rats scurrying for cover. Best not to think too much about what they’re living on. I’ll come back and burn the nest out properly. Vogel is in the control room when I get back, checking the restored cams. ‘All good?’ ‘Dead in every sense of the word. Never understood the fascination with nature.’ ‘I’m told it was worth seeing – before we killed most of it off.’ ‘Still haven’t got the hang of the morale boosting thing.’ I flip him the finger, to which he shakes his head. Finding himself trapped here with a half-educated cultural savage is just one indignity among many. The secret is not to let him brood on it. ‘Why don’t you check the stores – see if they got any spare cables for the cams.’ ‘Wouldn’t it be quicker for you to do it?’ ‘I have to go out. Need to dig up some ancient history.’ I walk off before he has time to argue. For all his bluster to the contrary he’ll take a look. The thing about the corporate education system is that it instils a sense of superiority that makes graduates very uncomfortable when someone else takes the lead. The landcruiser rolls off the hydraulic lifting platform with a steady thrum of electric engines. I point it towards the tall column of rock known as the Devil’s Finger and set the cruise control. The rear tracks kick up dirt as it accelerates, leaving a parallel set of scars in its wake. I watch the landscape flit by; scorched grass, stunted bushes and the rare twisted and fragile tree. Come the rainy season and its shotgun growth it’s easy to believe you’ve stepped into another world, or back in time to a cleaner, better one. The cruiser pitches up at the base of the Devil’s Finger an hour later. Sensor

sweep doesn’t pick up so much as a bird or a rodent. I grab the entrenching tool and work my way around the column. Wind and water erosion have scoured the surface but I eventually find what looks like an old stonemason’s mark cut into the face of the rock. Standing with my back to it, I count out twenty paces. The earth around me looks flat and unremarkable, stirs no memories or sense of recognition. I unfold the shovel and plant it in the ground anyway. What I’m looking for is about a metre and a half down, always assuming I’m digging in the right spot. The sun has baked the top soil into a hard crust but once I’m through that the ground beneath lifts more easily. I keep the initial trench about a metre square. No point shifting too much earth at this point. My hands blister and sweat is running off my body before I’m even halfway down. I take a break and drink deep from one of the rehydration packs. Then there’s nothing else for it but to crack on. I empty my mind of thought, push down the pain in my hands, the ache in my muscles, and dig mechanically. Forty minutes later I’m rewarded by the clunk of metal on metal. I brush away the soil to reveal the dull grey sheen of the munitions locker. Still where Feldmann and I buried it all those years ago as an insurance policy against any difficulties with Gunther Rosenstein. I didn’t need it then but I sure as Hell do now. I take a break, reassured I’m digging in the right location, eat a protein bar and bandage my hands. There’s a lot more earth to clear. Maybe I should have brought Vogel along, but instinct tells me he’s best kept clear of the locker’s contents. It takes another three hours to unearth the locker, by which point the sun is directly overhead. Even in March its rays feel uncomfortably hot. Physically fit as I am, I notice the brain fugue that comes with physical exhaustion. I’ll rest once I have the cargo safely secured on the landcruiser. Luckily the landcruiser’s winch comes with an electromagnet. It attaches to the locker with a reassuring clang. I scramble from the hole and start the winch. The steel hawser tightens quickly and I take cover. The winch motor rises in pitch and I hear the cable thrum. I’m debating shutting it off and investigating when the pitch drops and the cable starts to wind in. I emerge in time to witness the sweet sight of the locker breeching the top of the trench and starting its journey into the landcruiser’s cargo bay.

With the locker safely onboard, I close up the tailgate and turn my attention to its contents. I turn the dials on the combination lock and hit the release. Air hisses out as the seals break. My fingers scrabble for purchase on the lid, finally getting a hold after I brush the last of the dirt away. It swings up ponderously, seems to hang for a split second in the air, then crashes to the cargo bay floor. Each item remains nestled in its shock-proof foam cut out; my old friend the MK 18 Accuracy International sniper rifle, complete with Nightforce scope, an RPG with six rockets, a dozen plasma grenades, and last, but most definitely not least, a portable railgun. Those Yakuza fucks are going to be in for a very unpleasant surprise. I set the alarm on my com-unit for two hours and rack back the driver’s chair to almost horizontal. A few zeds will sharpen me up for the drive back before the light fades. If I’m lucky Vogel will have found something in the stores that isn’t completely inedible.

Chapter 29

Trouble hits ten klicks into the journey home. I see the dust plumes first, a large one flanked by two smaller ones, kicked up by rapidly approaching vehicles. Badlands Marauders. Criminals with death marks from the Families, anarchists refusing to submit to the laws of the city, and doomsday crazies like Daddy. One thing unites their disparate ranks, the brutal instinct to pillage in order to survive. The cut surveillance cam suddenly makes a lot more sense – prep for an attack on the farm. The rear-view cam picks up my pursuers as a dune buggy and two scrambler type bikes. Probably an advance scout party. No doubt been shadowing me since I set off, but the lure of a well-equipped landcruiser has finally got the better of them. I drop a gear and floor the accelerator. The landcruiser winds up to its top speed of 80 kph. Not nearly enough to outrun them, but it buys me a little thinking time. I hear the ping and rattle of ricocheting bullets as the gunner on the back of the dune buggy strafes the landcruiser. Sounds like 9 or 10mm. Nothing the armour can’t handle. The biker approaching on the right is more of a concern. He unlimbers some kind of lance from his back – chromium steel alloy by the look of it. Perfect for busting the rear tracks. I let him close in, watching carefully as he draws his arm back for the throw, then lock the left track. The rear of the landcruiser spins out to the right, sending bike and rider tumbling into the dirt. The clang of boots on the hull prevents me lingering over the rider’s demise. Heavy steps echo through the interior of the cruiser as my unwelcome hitcher makes their way to the top hatch. I wait until I see the inner-wheel of the hatch start to turn before electrifying the outer hull. 20,000 volts at a couple of amps charbroils attacker number two. The machine-gun rattles off a fresh salvo as the buggy closes. Having learned his lesson, the gunner is now concentrating on the tracks. I need to bring this to a close, fast. The landcruiser rocks back and forth as I slam on the brakes. As expected, the far more manoeuvrable dune buggy jinks to one side and accelerates past. Bullets chip the windshield’s armoured glass as the gunner

continues to probe for weak spots. Luckily, these crazies don’t have any ordnance heavy enough to penetrate the hull. I kick the motor back to life and grind forward. The buggy, meantime, pulls a doughnut and heads back on itself. From where I’m sat we now appear to be playing the world’s most unequal game of chicken. Probably wired out of their heads on whatever form of bathtub crank they cook out here. It’s their funeral. I strap myself into the seat and hit the accelerator, intending to cause as much damage as possible. The gunfire stops; the gunner apparently possessing more of an instinct for self-preservation than the driver. I try to guess which way the buggy will veer, intending to match it and prevent their escape. A steep incline on the right makes the choice for them. We both spin to the left at the same time and I’m thrown back in my seat as we collide. The buggy stands up on its nose before flipping over the top of the landcruiser in seeming slow motion. It lands in a crumpled heap and life returns to normal speed as it rolls four or five times before coming to rest in a cloud of dust. I draw one of the Glocks and lower the rear loading door. In the wake of the crash the only sound is the tik-tik of cooling metal. The smell of smoke hits me next and I see the first flames licking at the twisted remains of the buggy. The flames spread rapidly and the screaming starts. I shield my eyes with one hand and peer through the thickening smoke. It’s hard to separate the mess of flesh and metal from one another, but I fire off a shot and the screaming stops. It’s several minutes before the remaining fuel in the tank ignites in a glowing fireball, during which time the smell of burnt meat thickens the air. Cooking human flesh, it’s not a smell you readily forget. A change in the wind lifts the smoke and reveals the figure slithering forward on its belly, fingers digging into the soil while its legs trail uselessly behind. Looks like the gunner made it clear. I sigh and start off in pursuit. I’m almost on top of the gunner before she realises I’m following her and rolls over. I catch the glint of sunlight on steel as she draws a knife and stamp down hard on her wrist. She lets out a sharp hiss, revealing teeth filed to points. Beneath all her warpaint she’s probably still in her teens. ‘C’mon then, bitch. Do me!’

‘No. Don’t think so,’ I say, kicking the knife away. ‘See I need you to deliver a message to the rest of the bat-shit crazies you’re hanging with.’ ‘Why I gonna do that?’ ‘Because I’m going to leave you in the shade of that rock over there with some water. And for all your mouth you’re going to be grateful I spared this wretched pantomime you call a life.’ ‘Wasting your time. That fire you lit gonna draw every scavenger in the Badlands.’ ‘Maybe. But I reckon your other buddy on the bike came away with nothing worse than road rash from his spill and will be turning up shortly. Course he might decide a broken thing like you is worthless and put a bullet in you. But that’s a chance we’ll both have to take.’ Beneath the pain I see a faint glimmer of hope in her eyes. The instinct to live is strong, particularly in the young. Probably won’t do her much good in the long run, but that’s not my concern. ‘Tell whatever warlord or other lunatic you serve that the farm is off limits for now. All kinds of heat coming down there that they don’t want any part of. Once I’m done, they can pick over the wreckage.’ ‘What if that don’t suit?’ ‘Then they better be prepared to lose men and equipment like today.’ She thinks this over. There’s nothing too contentious in my words. Not like I’m issuing a direct challenge. Course the loss of the buggy and men is going to hurt, but no one survives in the Badlands for long without a sense of pragmatism. She reaches out a hand and I take it. We have a deal.

Chapter 30

Vogel and I spend the next three days prepping. I fix the landcruiser’s busted front end and replace the standard weaponry with the railgun; he replaces the cam cable and burns out the rats’ nest. If Vogel enjoys the sight of phosphor drenched rats scurrying to their deaths a little too much, who am I to judge? There’ll be plenty of blood on my own hands before I’m done with this business and I can’t say I’ll be any more humane about my killing. On the second and third day we dig trenches and prepare booby traps. Vogel starts off enthusiastic, enjoying the physical exercise, but the novelty soon wears off. I ride him hard; these defences will literally mean the difference between life and death. All the while I scan the horizon. It remains clear, my truce with the Marauders apparently holding. I spend the fourth day cracking ICE, most of it Black, to establish a direct comms route to Takahashi. There are easier ways to let her know her quarry’s whereabouts, but I need to be certain she’ll lead the attack in person. Hacking her comms sends a definite message. One she can’t afford to ignore. The screen crackles with static that gradually resolves into Takahashi’s face. Maybe it’s the late hour but even beneath her customary heavy white foundation she looks tired; bags beneath her eyes and deep lines running either side of her nose to the corners of her mouth. The hiss of recognition has plenty of venom and spite, however. ‘Cocoa!’ Takahashi pronounces my nom de guerre like some vile epithet. ‘Good to see you too, Yoshiko. Tell me, how’s that little arrangement between you and Tessler working out? Be a real shame if the law were to take an interest. Oh, wait. That’s right – they have. What’s more, they’ve got a star witness all ready to testify. Hear your soldiers tried to silence him and dropped the ball.’ Various suppressed emotions flit across her face but she keeps her composure. Although suppressed anger clips her words when she speaks.

‘Have you merely called to gloat? I thought you above such trivial concerns?’ ‘Oh I am. But I do tend to hold a grudge. Particularly when someone tries to kill me. Ironic, I know, given my line of work. But that’s just the kind of girl I am.’ ‘Then to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?’ ‘I’ve encoded my location as part of this transmission. Now’s your chance to meet with me and settle this once and for all. Not just me, but Anton Vogel as well. Kill your two biggest problems with a single stone.’ ‘What makes you think I’m going to soil myself dealing with scum like you? I’ve plenty of soldiers willing and able.’ ‘Willing, yes. But I wouldn’t bet on able. Let’s be frank here, the fewer people you involve from your side the better. Wouldn’t do if word got back to your masters about this little arrangement between you and Tessler. There’s also the not so insignificant question of honour. You lost face when I escaped. You lost even more when your boys messed up with Vogel. You and I both know you need to settle this in person. Course I’m not stupid enough to think you’ll come alone. You’ll take those of your inner circle you can trust and draft in as much outside help as you can manage within the bounds of plausible deniability. It’ll give me something to warm up on before I put you down.’ ‘Words are cheap, Cocoa-san. We will see which one of us lies in the narrow house by the time the next sun sets.’ I end the transmission, Takahashi’s ritualistic words ringing in my ears. My strategy has worked. She’ll deal with this in person. Which is better than the alternative scenario I had in my head where she erased the farm with a missile strike. I thought it best not to let Vogel in on that one.

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‘You going to give me a damn gun or what?’

The calculus of unwilling allies. Does arming Vogel increase my chances of survival or merely open me up to the possibility of him shooting me in the back? In the end I find an excuse not to compute the answer. ‘I promised Llewellyn I’d keep you alive or die trying and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. We stick to the plan — you lock yourself in the store room and wait for me to give the all clear. Anyone else knocks on the door? Trust me, you’re not going to shoot your way out on your own.’ ‘But I can help.’ ‘All you’d be is a vulnerability I need to protect. Now, are you going to go willing or do I have to slap you upside the head?’ Vogel wouldn’t normally tolerate anyone speaking to him like this, but he’s afraid. He knows the odds on him surviving are evens at best. He resorts to the one thing he understands and assumes matters to everyone else – money. ‘Whatever Llewellyn’s paying you, I can double it. Triple it, even.’ ‘ED has already frozen all of your s.’ ‘Do you really think that’s the only money I have? Taxes, in case you haven’t heard, are for the little people.’ There’s that corporate arrogance again, but no reason I can’t make it work to my advantage. Time to play out a little more line. ‘Not sure you can put a price on my life and liberty. Anyway, it’s too late. Takahashi is already on her way.’ ‘And she needs to be dealt with. That much you and I agree on. But afterwards I see no reason why we can’t cut a deal. You help me and Fenella escape the city and go on your way a wealthy woman.’ ‘As simple as that, huh?’ ‘If it was simple I wouldn’t need you. Now name your price.’ I pause, appearing to weigh up the pros and cons of the deal. No point seeming

too keen and arousing suspicion. Eventually I nod as though winning some internal argument with myself. ‘Two million. That’s RSA dollars, not Euro. Half now. Half on completion.’ ‘You appear to take me for a fool, expecting me to pay you that kind of money up front.’ ‘Maybe, but you seem to be forgetting I’ve only your word the money exists. You’re going to have show me some good faith if you expect me to put my neck on the line for you.’ It’s Vogel’s turn to appear to think things over, but the fact he accepted my price without blinking suggests it’s a fraction of whatever he has hidden away. ‘Seven hundred and fifty thousand.’ I nod my acceptance and get him set up for a payment to my Casbah . The verification comes through almost instantly. Given I’ve no intention of helping the little rat escape it feels like I’ve crossed a line here. But the way I see it the money’s so dirty it hardly makes a difference.

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The thermal imaging on the cams kicks in as the sun sets. Takahashi will most likely strike under cover of darkness. Not necessarily the advantage she thinks, but she won’t be able to sleep on it either. I sharpen myself up with some stims, using yogic breathing to temper the rush. Thirty minutes later all I feel is a clinical calm. I keep my focus moving, shifting from screen to screen and into the middle distance, cutting down the glare and shimmer of the monitors. It’s gone midnight when two s ping on the long-range sensors. I zoom out the appropriate cams and two minutes later identify the heat signatures of two armoured personnel carriers. Each is capable of carrying twenty troops, but has Takahashi succeeded in filling them?

They’re coming in fast, weapons hot, so it’s time for me to move. I make my way down to the landcruiser, which is waiting outside, and power up the railgun. It’s loaded with armour piercing incendiaries. The APC’s are closing fast, meaning I have time for one shot. There’s no need for finesse. I line up on the front of the carrier on the targeting scope and squeeze the trigger. The railgun lets go a five round burst that rocks the landcruiser back on its shocks. Thermal imaging picks up the blossoming flower of heat as the rounds ignite inside the carrier. A second later it skids out of control and rolls onto its side. A hatch pops open and two flaming figures emerge and stagger across the parched earth before sinking to their knees to curl up in the flames. The thermal imager whites out and I quickly look away as the carrier erupts in a fireball. The other APC has closed the gap but Takahashi is taking no chances. It slews to a halt and a dozen figures spill out and start laying down suppression fire. Large calibre shots ricochet off the landcruiser’s armour, sending metal fragments spinning through the interior. I slam the landcruiser into reverse, seeking the high ground to the south. The motor howls as the tracks dig for purchase. The ground here is softer than I expected, leaving me a sitting duck. Takahashi’s hit squad intensifies its fire. A metal fragment cuts open my cheek. I slow the right track and the landcruiser slews around. It’s enough to gain traction and I begin my retreat. I rack my way up the gears and reach a respectable 50 kph. The goon squad takes the opportunity to advance, splitting into two unequal groups. The smaller group led by a shorter, slighter figure – Takahashi. They circle west, possibly seeking to outflank me, but most likely heading for the farm, where they hope to take out Vogel. The other group stops behind a natural ridge where three of them start setting up a minigun. One problem at a time. I power up the railgun and take out the remaining APC and any reserve troops it might be sheltering. I have the elevation now so I lock on the brakes and charge the railgun again. Too slow. The enemy has assembled the minigun and it spits armour piercing rounds. A taste of my own medicine. I throw myself from the driver’s seat as the first of them rips through the cabin. Something burns my upper arm and I feel a wetness as the blood starts to flow. Instrument s shatter, LED’s flicker and die and acrid smoke fills the cab as the bullets hammer home. I crawl towards the cargo door, ignoring the sting of a dozen shrapnel wounds. There’ll be a couple of seconds grace while they change the ammunition belt.

Enough time to make my exit, providing the smoke doesn’t overcome me or the landcruiser blows. I’ve been in tighter situations. I just can’t when. The silence that follows is like going deaf. I grab the MK 18, hit the door release and roll down the ramp. Sound returns, the steady ratcheting bark of a .50 calibre minigun on full auto. It shreds the landcruiser. I slither away from it, seeking the cover of one of the trenches I dug earlier. I roll into it and land on my back as a wave of flame shoots overhead. There goes the landcruiser. The minigun falls silent again. At least two of the squad will be moving up to confirm the kill. I key up the motion sensor on my forearm. Two buddy pairs converging from either side in a pincer movement. Another four are spreading out across the ridgeline. But what concerns me most is the final four closing on the farm and Vogel. The only reason I’m still alive is Takahashi has settled for renta-soldiers instead of mercs. Ex RSA Templars or Spetsnaz would never have been this sloppy. As if to prove my point, two of the men with Takahashi disappear off my screen as they stumble over a tripwire and trigger a plasma grenade. It sends the remainder of their comrades diving for cover and lets me set up the rifle on top of the trench. ‘Come to mama, bitches!’ The first of the buddy pair to my right to raise his head gets a bullet through it for his trouble. His partner panics and I nail him between the shoulder blades. Something kicks up earth beside my arm and I swing around to the left and fire. The bullet ricochets from my attacker’s helmet; it’s enough to make him drop his gun and roll away. Meantime, his partner has found an area of natural cover between two rocks. I see the muzzle flash an instant before the bullet grazes my shoulder. Realising he has me pinned, I slip back into the trench. The motion sensor shows his four buddies advancing towards me over the ridgeline. I move back along a narrow zig-zagging trench that opens up into a short fire platform, where the RPG awaits me. Due to the trench cutting back at a 45 degree angle I’m now on the right flank of the soldier, who still thinks he has me pinned down in the forward trench. I load a rocket and fire quickly. His position disappears in a wall of flame topped by a halo of crimson mist. I have the next rocket loaded and trained on the ridge before the sound of the first explosion has died away. I put this and a further two into the ridge, targeting via the motion

sensor. Then I sling the RPG and the snipper rifle over my shoulder and sprint for the farm. Anything still alive on that ridge won’t be breathing for long. I the twisted remains of the two goons that tripped the plasma grenade. The standard Kevlar body armour provided little protection. Someone, however, has taken the time to strip the bodies of their weapons. Makes me curious as to what they were packing. Nothing on the motion sensor for Takahashi or her two remaining soldiers, which means they must be inside the main complex. Can only hope Vogel is doing as I told him and has holed up in the stores section. Fearing a trap in the elevator, I take the hydraulic lift platform back to the garage. It gives me the better part of a 360 degree field of fire as it docks inside the building. I left the lights full up, so it’s odd to find them dimmed. I throw myself into a diving roll, snapping off a couple of shots at the tool racking, which is the most obvious cover in the garage. Flechettes take tiny bites out of the plascrete beside my head as I keep rolling towards one of the sked-bikes. Guess I’ve solved the mystery of what weapons the dead soldiers were carrying. Chances are they’re laced with poison, making even a graze lethal. I fire off another shot, eliciting a surprised grunt, buying me enough time to take cover behind the bike. Another burst of flechettes plinks against its metalwork. My man is either a terrible shot or his oyabun has tasked him with keeping me occupied while she finds Vogel. I load another rocket into the RPG. It’s a sledgehammer to crack a nut but I don’t have the luxury of subtlety. I roll out to the side, launch the grenade in the direction of the tool racking and cover my head with my forearms. The world explodes. There’s a brief flash of pain and then everything goes dark.

Chapter 31

Don’t know how long I’m out for – a few seconds at most. My arms are bloody and there’s a violent ringing in my ears. The acrid smell of burnt flesh catches the back of my throat as the extractor fans kick into high speed. I put the RPG aside and draw the pair of Glocks, ratcheting back the slides. The element of surprise is well and truly gone. Time to put Takahashi down for good. Shrapnel has scragged the motion sensor, so it looks like I’m going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. I make my way up the stairs, pausing before swinging onto each landing between flights. Nothing bars my way and I open the door to the corridor that leads to the control room. I feel sick and dizzy. Blood drips and splatters on the floor as I walk. There’s an ache in my side and I look down to see part of a torque wrench sticking out of me. That’s definitely what you’d call a complication. I fumble open one of the pouches on my combat vest and pull out an injection pen. Another dose of stims at this point is definitely a bad idea. I bang the pen into my thigh anyway and the rush kicks in almost instantly. Five minutes later the pain is still there, but it’s no longer slowing me down. I hear heavy breathing as I move forward. It takes me a moment to realise I’m the source of this bronchial gasping. Vogel damn well better still be alive. I push on. One determined foot in front of the other. The control room door stands open. A trap? Guess I’m about to find out. I step into the doorway. Takahashi’s last soldier bends over the console, scanning the monitors for signs of life outside. His flechette-auto sits on the desk beside him. I stagger against the door and grunt in pain. He whirls around. His eyes flit from me to his weapon. I deliver a double-tap from each Glock to his chest before he can move. The impact picks him up off his feet and throws him against the monitors. Blood, muscle and bone fragments glitter across the screens. And then there was one.

I have a sense of looking down on myself as I limp my way to the elevator, leaving a trail of blood behind me. How much have I lost? Too much. But now is not the time to reason why. It’s just to... yeah, whatever. The service elevator is not much bigger than a coffin. I hope that’s not a prophetic observation. My thumb smears blood all over the controls as I jab it against the button for the stores level. I’ll be a sitting duck when the door pings open, but I can’t summon the energy to care. I’m counting on Takahashi wanting to make this more personal than a bullet. A subjective ice age later the elevator door slides open. Takashi is just visible behind Vogel. One hand has a grip of his hair, the other is holding a tanto to his throat. The expanding puddle of piss they’re standing in shows that he’s still very much alive, for now at least. ‘Cocoa-san, so nice of you to finally us. Lose the hardware.’ For a moment I’m tempted to ventilate both of them and put an end to the whole sorry business. But I’ve made it a point of my professional career to have a code and that code says once you take on a job you see it through. In this case that means delivering Vogel to Llewellyn with his breathing privileges intact. The pistols clunk against the floor. I kick them across the room without Takahashi asking. I know how this game goes. ‘What now?’ ‘Now you die.’ Takahashi is fast. Far quicker than anyone her age has a right to be. Probably a hardwired nervous system. Her limbs are a blur of motion as she kicks Vogel in the back of the knees and strikes him on the head with the hilt of the tanto as he goes down. He lands spark out on the deck and she steps over his prone body. By now my own conditioning is kicking in. The Balisong knife is in my hand and I’m in a fighting crouch without thinking about it. Takahashi motions for me to come on with the index and middle finger of her left hand. I close in warily. The blow, when it comes, is not a knife strike but a kick. I tell my tortured body to move but it’s slow to obey and Takahashi’s foot hits the side

of my knee. My kneecap goes with a pop. Takahashi watches me limp to one side. There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips. She knows she can take her time. I try to buy a little of my own. ‘Was it always the plan to dispose of me once I took out Llewellyn or did that occur to you later? I thought a deal was a deal? A life for a life. Guess honour is cheap these days.’ ‘Honour? What does your kind know of honour? You sell your services to the highest bidder. Working for Sciarrone one day and Chen the next.’ ‘Don’t recall you complaining when I worked for you. Suppose you’re going to tell me that was different.’ ‘It is. I don’t expect someone with your child-like grasp of Family politics to understand. The Yakuza has centuries of proud tradition behind it. Whereas you’re nothing more than a street creature with a talent for killing. Enough of this tiresome chatter.’ Her words are forewarning, which is as well, as I catch only the faintest tensing of muscles as she springs the gap between us. The tanto is primarily a slashing weapon and Takahashi’s favourite method of dispatch is a swift stroke across the throat. I put all my weight on my good leg and jump up. The blade rakes across my breasts. The pain is excruciating but nothing critical is damaged. The move catches Takahashi off guard and I pivot to safety. She’s more wary now, her technique reliant on speed and surprise. My own style favours biomechanical cutting. I stagger back, encouraging Takahashi to press her attack. I turn away as her right arm sweeps up, exposing her forearm. My knife cuts through her sleeve, seeking the flexor tendons and encountering Kevlar instead. The is brief, Takahashi following the arc of her slash to spin away in a 360 turn, coming to rest with her arm raised diagonally across her chest. I step in before she can strike, slashing deep into her bicep and pinning her right arm against her body with my left hand as I drop down and stab into her right leg above the knee. Pushing downwards, I turn as I cut through the quadricep. The shock is instant and I catch her as she collapses, pulling her into my embrace. I see myself reflected in her pupils as I stab my knife through her back and into her heart. The same way I killed Daddy all those years ago.

PART EIGHT 2 July 2076 – 11 July 2076

Chapter 32

My life changed immeasurably in the two years following the Dukakis assassination. Successful kill followed successful kill, building both my professional reputation and personal wealth. Rosenstein was nothing if not generous, which proved to be to his detriment when I bought myself out of my contract. He tried to talk me out of it, but one of the many precedents set out by the Code of the Families gave soldiers such as myself the right to buy our way out of our service. In truth, some of the fire had gone out of old Gunther after he had to disown his son. Andreas had developed an appetite for junk that no amount of rehab could curb and had gone from heir apparent to liability. His rivals took the old man’s failure to put a bullet in him as a sign of weakness and the Prinzi Family launched several successful assaults that saw them take control of Rosenstein holdings. In a roundabout way they did the old man a favour. Left to his moping, his lieutenants would have deposed him in a matter of months, but the slight to Family honour got him back in the game. I undertook an extended bombing campaign for him; destroying every casino, bar and club the Prinzi Family had seized before moving into their territory and levelling the equivalent premises. Warnings were issued in every case, keeping the collateral damage to a minimum, but it made for unpleasant headlines for the ED and city’s ruling council. Doubtless they brought a certain amount of pressure to bear at the appropriate level and the Rosenstein and Prinzi Families found themselves around the negotiating table. Prinzi might have been the initial transgressor but the heads of the other Families deemed both to be in the wrong and enforced a truce with zero reparations on either side. Not that I cared. Rosenstein had paid handsomely for my work which, together with my other savings, allowed me to sever formal Family ties. Klara Becker became the recipient of a trust fund from a long-lost maiden aunt, allowing me to purchase my own apartment on David Strasse. My first vital step towards independence. The next and most important step being I was now free to contract my services to anyone in the city. Working for the Families remained the most lucrative, but it came with strictures. I thought best to avoid becoming

embroiled in their politics, particularly with my association with Rosenstein being so fresh. Fortunately, my reputation proceeded me and it wasn’t long before I received a call from Lou Dempsey asking for a meet. It’s the nature of capitalism to monetise everything and the killing game was no exception. In Europa City the ten percenters had cut themselves a slice of the wetwork action and Lou Dempsey was the best agent in town. We met in a basement bar in the Amsterdam district. The lights were low, Lou hoping to utilise the last of his fading charms. Ten years ago he might conceivably have ed for good looking but time, gravity and too much good living had all taken their toll. His face was pasty and jowly, his hair thinning, and no amount of expensive tailoring could hide the thickening of his waist. But I wasn’t here to date him, which made his sleazing the more annoying. ‘Klara, you don’t mind me calling you by your first name? Course you don’t. Not a woman of the world such as yourself. And may I say, what a remarkable woman you are. Particularly in the flesh.’ He flashed me his best used car salesman’s smile. ‘Your images simply do not do you justice.’ ‘Flattery is cheap, Lou. And ten percent of it won’t take you very far.’ ‘Fifteen.’ ‘Pardon?’ ‘My commission is fifteen percent. Non-negotiable.’ And there it was, the shark lurking just below the surface. At least my inadvertent insult had brought him swiftly back to business. ‘And what exactly do I get for your fifteen percent?’ ‘Someone who negotiates the top rate for your skill. Someone who filters out the law and timewasters. No more fickle spouses changing their minds about putting hubby in a box. Someone who collects and washes your fee. In short, someone who takes care of all the tiresome and leaves you free to concentrate on what you do best. I promise you it will be the best fifteen percent you ever spend.’

‘Or my money back?’ ‘Beautiful and a sense of humour, too.’ Dempsey held out his hand. The nails, of course, were exquisitely manicured. I needed him far more than he needed me. But I didn’t want to appear too keen. I let his hand hang in the air just long enough to see a faint crease of worry mar his otherwise immobile forehead. His grip when I finally shook his hand was surprisingly firm. ‘Excellent. Now then, let’s find you some appropriate work.’ ‘That’s it? No contract? No and conditions?’ ‘I find it best not to leave an audit trail, paper or electronic, in this business.’ ‘All well and good. But how do I know you’re not taking more than fifteen percent of my fee?’ To his credit, Dempsey looked genuinely pained by such an accusation. ‘Because I am a man of principle and honour. But, more pertinently, how long do you think a man who cheated contract killers would last in this city?’ He had a point and to be honest I didn’t really care what he took as long as he guaranteed me a certain level of income. ‘So what have you got?’ ‘Three jobs at two hundred thou a piece; infidelity, pederast or business rival.’ ‘I’ll take the business rival. I try to avoid any moral or emotional aspect to my work.’ ‘Very wise, Klara. Of course, I must cater for every taste and some of your colleagues have their, shall we say foibles.’ ‘The job?’ ‘Dwight Essenbach, industrial chemist. Has had a number of patent disputes with one of his rivals.’

‘Doesn’t sound worth the price tag.’ ‘There are conditions. One – you must complete the work within the week. Two – it is to look like natural causes or an accident. Still interested?’ ‘You have my number. Send me the details.’ ‘Excellent.’ Dempsey raised his glass and toasted me. ‘Here’s to the start of what I’m certain will be a most fruitful relationship for the both of us.’ I downed my own drink and stood. ‘Leaving so soon? I thought we might have another drink together?’ ‘Sorry, Lou. This is strictly business.’

Chapter 33

Whatever faults he had Dempsey was right about one thing — this was indeed the beginning of a very fruitful relationship. Work was plentiful enough that I got to pick and choose my hits. Whatever my protestations to the contrary, I found myself developing a code. I went after the bad ones, the deserving ones. But sometimes I went after the difficult ones for no better reason than the challenge. I never said I was perfect or a saint. My reputation and wealth soared at this point and I traded up my Hamburg apartment for an Amsterdam one. It was a situation that should have endured but, as is so often the case, with success comes overconfidence and sloppiness. Personified in this case by Alex Kritikos. That particular Wednesday morning started innocuously enough with a message from Dempsey. Kritikos wanted the stepfather who had physically and sexually abused him as a child taken care of. So far so reasonable and righteous. Background check came back clear. The stepfather proved to be a wealthy monster. The sort, perhaps by way of compensation for his unnatural desires, who had bestowed a corporate education on his stepson and set him up in finance. Now, a decade later, Kritikos had the funds available to exact his long overdue revenge. Dempsey’s mistake was in assuming Kritikos had legitimately earned all of his wealth. But we’ll come to that in due time. As had become my habit with the more personal hits, I set up a vid-call with Kritikos, using a scrambler at my end. I saw a dark-haired olive-skinned man in his early thirties. Handsome in the conventional sense, but with a haunted look in his eyes recognisable to a fellow survivor. It gave me reassurance that his motives were genuine and not simply a case of greedy fuck looking to inherit early. Not that I wouldn’t do a little digging before fully committing. ‘I trust our mutual acquaintance has explained to you how this works? The method of payment and, most importantly, the finality of our arrangement. If you have any doubt at all about wanting this man dead now is the time to declare it and walk away. Because agreement on this call will put in motion an unstoppable chain of events. Once I take on a job I see it through to

completion. Understood?’ ‘Perfectly. As to your first question – I’ve thought about little else for the better part of the last twenty years. Imagined the old bastard burning in Hell.’ ‘Can’t make any promises about what happens in the hereafter, but I’ll certainly see to it that your stepfather departs this life.’ ‘Is there a surcharge for the pedantic observations?’ ‘Nope, all part of the service. Speaking of which, you’ve requested “up close and personal” as the means of dispatch?’ ‘It’s very important he’s knows I’m responsible. Knows the reason why. Though I suspect it will still come as something of a surprise to the old bastard. When I reached a certain age he lost interest in me, sexually at least. Since then I’ve played the dutiful stepson, following in his footsteps, sitting with him on the board, not breathing a word of what ed between us to another living soul. When the time comes I’ll be sure to have an alibi. But to my immediate family and the world at large I have no motive for wanting to kill the man who raised me, bought me the best education money could buy and secured me a top position within the family business. Marcin Kaufmann has in every other respect been a father to me.’ Couldn’t fault the guy on his patience. Then again, that should have set the warning flags. There had to be something inherently unhinged about anyone who could spend a couple of decades plotting their revenge. A likelihood that they had dirtied their hands in other ways. ‘We have a deal?’ I nodded and closed down the connection. Time to do a little research into the sins of the father. MG Kaufmann was already known to me as one of the city’s leading investment banks. I’d briefly looked into cleaning some money through them prior to my association with Dempsey, only to discover they didn’t take on personal clients with a net wealth of less than 30 million. Kaufmann, the MG of the title, had made his reputation trading in futures and

shares. In recent years he’d become a major donor to the Christian Fundamentals party, which had enjoyed a resurgence in the wake of the Great Flood of ’49. In chaotic and uncertain times a surprising amount of people were willing to buy into the idea of a second visitation from God sent to wipe away the unholy. Why take responsibility for the damage you, your parents and your grandparents had done to the environment when you could blame some big beard in the sky? Kaufmann’s bio up until that point didn’t indicate any particular piety. While it remained possible that he’d underwent some kind of Damascene conversion, I thought it more likely he’d taken a look at the poll ratings and picked the best vehicle for his growing political ambitions. Not that I cared. Sinner or saint, once I took the contract it was all the same to me. Most of my preferred methodologies were out. A fast acting poison remained a possibility but I figured if you could get close enough to jab someone with the tip of an umbrella or other equally ridiculous vid-cast spy cliché, you might as well save yourself the hassle and stab them with a knife. A warm embrace and a knife in the back was a favoured method of the Sciarrone Family. So much so it had earned their head, Gabriel, the nickname of “Stiletto”. Although the rifle remained very much my weapon of choice, Feldmann had drilled me in knife fighting during my training at the farm. Accordingly, I’d built up a collection of combat knives during my time in the trade. While I always acquired a fresh weapon for each hit and disposed of it afterwards, I kept a number of handguns and knives in the apartment. Access to the weapons safe was via a sliding in the walk-in wardrobe in the master bedroom. I opened the safe and slid out the bottom drawer. Would a fixed blade or a folding knife serve me best? On the fixed side I had the classic US Army KA-bar or the Gerber Silver Trident. The Trident had the better steel and grip, but both knives, while great for combat, were bulky for public deployment. That left me with the Gerber Covert, an assisted opening folding tactical knife that combined concealability with rapid deployment. At 9 ½ cm the blade was little more than half the length of the KA-Bar. But sometimes deep penetration isn’t everything. People assume the life of a wetwork professional to be exciting and glamorous. While it’s true to say it certainly has its moments, behind every hit are hours of

meticulous planning; the relentless grind of minutely examining the target’s professional and domestic affairs. All with the fixed end of finding that perfect window of opportunity. Kaufmann was a man married more to his work than his wife, it not being unusual for him to sleep in the office. An arrangement that no doubt suited Mrs Kaufmann, as a little digging revealed she was having an affair with an art dealer ten years her junior. I wondered if Kritikos knew or cared that the police were likely to view his mother as the prime suspect? A hunch told me he would lose little sleep over it. Both the bank’s headquarters and the surrounding financial district were heavily saturated with surveillance. The area, oddly enough, also logged the fastest ED response time of anywhere in the city. If my ego thought it a worthy challenge, the more rational part of me placed a greater value on my freedom. The family home was nearly as impregnable, with a state-of-the-art alarm system, motion sensors, two on site security guards and a panic room. There wasn’t so much a divide as an ever-widening chasm between the have and the have-nots in the city, with the former determined to hold what was theirs. An age-old story that didn’t make my job any easier. I reluctantly settled on his one apparent interest outside of work, the church. Kaufman had spent every Sunday morning there for the last four months, a date that coincided with his application to the Christian Fundamentals party. The church in question belonged to the Modern Day Apostles, a creationist sect that first sprang up in the wake of the Great Flood and was instrumental in the formation of the Religious States of America. A more regressive body in of their attitudes to women, homosexuals and Islam would be hard to find. I’d twice turned down massive pay days from Dempsey because they came from the RSA and I wanted nothing do with those bigoted fucks. Infiltrating the congregation was also out – there wouldn’t be a woman there who wasn’t wife, mother or daughter. I idly wondered how Mrs Kaufmann’s disobedience was going down. As far as I could determine she had attended church with her husband only a handful of times. Perhaps she had less of a stomach for hypocrisy than Kaufmann, or maybe their attitude to adultery had frightened her off. Either way, I hoped for her sake they had a more positive outlook on helping widows.

And so, by a process of elimination, I arrived at the only option left to me, hitting him on his drive to church. His route skirted the edge of the London reclaim zone at the eastern side of the district, affording me ample opportunity to prepare my trap in one of the emergency lay-bys. For all the sifting and digging I’d done, no clear picture had emerged of Kaufmann’s predilections beyond what Kritikos had told me. With no certainty of a honey trap, I dressed the high end of smart casual and chose a suitable car from the upper mid-range for him to see me tinkering under the hood of. I just had to hope they had gotten as far as the tale of the good Samaritan during his Bible lessons. I’d planted a tracker on Kaufmann’s car about a week earlier and used it to confirm the only time his BMW left the garage was his weekly visit to church. I waited until he was less than a minute away before releasing the hood, figuring it wouldn’t do for another good-spirited er-by to stop off to help me. The road was quiet and I heard the thrum of the car long before I saw it. Not wishing to take any chances, I stepped onto the edge of the carriageway and started waving my jacket. The car came into sharp focus as it sped towards me, showing no sign of slowing. I cursed and stepped back to safety as Kaufmann drove past, staring at me though the enger side window. I guess he liked what he saw or at least felt insufficiently threatened by me, as the brake lights came on a second later. The BMW slewed to a halt and then kicked into reverse. I slipped the Gerber Covert out of my pocket and put on my most welcoming smile. Kaufmann reversed the car into the lay-by in front of me and got out. His dress was sombre, a dark suit with a white shirt open at the neck. Tall, gangly, he possessed the pallor of a man who spent too much time indoors. ‘Hi. I’m so sorry to trouble you like this – I’d have called a recovery truck but there’s no signal out here. I don’t know the first thing about cars. Could you take a look?’ Kaufmann shrugged. ‘Not sure I’ll be much of a help. Might be easier if I just phone your breakdown service for you.’ He pulled out his com-unit, checked the screen and frowned. ‘That’s odd. Normally a good service out here. Wonder if there’s a transmitter down or something.’

Wasn’t odd at all, as I had a signal jammer in the car. I pointed to the engine. ‘Guess there’s no harm in you taking a look?’ Kaufmann looked at his soft hands and then at my bright, expectant smile. With a hint of bad grace, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and laid it carefully on the back seat of his car before rolling up his shirt sleeves. He checked the washer fluid and brake fluid, just like they showed you in driver school, which was probably the last time he’d been under the hood of a car. A couple of seconds went by and then he uttered a triumphant cry as he spotted the lead I’d disconnected from the battery earlier. He reconnected it and stepped away from the car. ‘Loose battery connection. Why don’t you give it a try?’ I slid into the car and pressed the starter. The engine purred to life. I left it idling and gave Kaufmann an ego stroking smile. He returned it as I stepped from the car. ‘Is there anything I can do to thank you?’ Kaufmann flushed as I moved in closer. ‘Look, I’m flattered. But it really isn’t necessary.’ ‘Oh, but I think it is.’ I stepped into him at an angle, let him feel the left side of my body pressing against him. He looked embarrassed, sheepish, opened his mouth to speak, but I pressed a finger against his lips. ‘Alex Kritikos sends his regards and hopes you burn in Hell.’ Kaufmann’s eyes widened in shock. Initially in response to my words, then as he felt the knife slide into him a little to the left of his sternum. I pressed it home and it entered his heart. Kaufmann started to laugh, or maybe it was nothing more than a strange death rattle. Either way, I swear he went with a smile on his face.

Chapter 34

If I say so myself, it was a textbook hit and that should have been the beginning and end of it. Kaufmann was dead and the money in my . I could afford a few weeks of leisure time. For the first two days I did just that, sat there in the secure glow of another job well done. On the third morning I tuned into the news and everything changed. The police had arrested Alex Kritikos for the murder-for-hire of his stepfather Marcin Kaufmann. While motive remained unclear, a long term ED investigation identified Kritikos as the money-man behind a major city-wide drug distribution business. Investigators speculated his stepfather had confronted him and paid the ultimate price. I called myself a hundred different dirty names as I shut off the vid-cast. The one thing I hadn’t dug into when I verified Kritikos’ story was the money. I’d simply assumed his lifestyle to be commensurate with a successful investment banker. Yet rule number one, which even the plods in the ED had gotten correct, was follow the money. I called Dempsey to deliver some shit. After all, one of the main reasons for paying him his 15% was to avoid this kind of trouble. The fractal screen of a voice only scrambled call greeted me. Not an encouraging start. ‘I take it you’ve heard about Kritikos?’ ‘If by that you mean I’ve seen the news, then yes. I watch the vid like everyone else. Goes to show you never can tell.’ ‘Thanks for the platitudes, Lou, but I need to know how deep in the shit are we?’ ‘I’m afraid there is no we here, Klara. All my dealings are via multilayer encryption protected by Black ICE. The ED can dig as deep as they want, nothing will lead back to me. As for yourself, they’ll have traced the Kritikos paid into and any assets linked to it. It might look safe, but as soon as you access it they’ll be on you like a terrier with a rat. You need to dump it, the Amsterdam apartment and say goodbye to Klara Becker.’

‘Fuck!’ ‘Please don’t tell me you have all your funds in that one ?’ ‘Course not. But it and the apartment aren’t exactly loose change. Guess I’m going to need another job quicker than I thought.’ ‘Ah, about that. I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go. Until I can be certain the ED aren’t focussing on you, you’re too hot to handle.’ ‘You cannot be fucking serious! You fuck up, don’t do due diligence, leaving me burned?’ ‘It’s unfortunate, I’ll grant you, but that’s the way it is. The Families are always looking for someone with your talents. I’m sure Gunther Rosenstein would welcome you back with open arms. I can always put out some feelers on your behalf.’ ‘Fuck you, Lou! I ever see you again I’m going to snap your goddamn neck.’ I killed the connection and stared off into space. Shouldn’t come as any surprise the slippery sod had screwed me over, but it still hurt. Not as much as crawling back to Rosenstein would. But I was enough of a realist to know I had no choice in the matter. I sucked in a deep breath and pulled up my s list. No time like the present.

Chapter 35

Gunther played it cool but I knew him well enough to know he was pleased at the prospect of getting me back in the fold. I told him it was a one off, meaning it as much as a warning to myself as anyone else. Rosenstein responded with a condescending smile that made me want to punch him in the throat. His ever present bodyguards, perhaps reading me better than I read myself, tensed as I reached for my drink. The tension ratcheted down a notch as I took a sip and placed the glass back on the table. ‘I have something a little out of the norm for you. On the positive side, it’s available immediately which, given your current cash flow issues, I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’ ‘I don’t kill children.’ ‘Glad to hear it, because I don’t order people to either. Our friends from the East have been, shall we say, getting adventurous.’ ‘There’s Bratva in the city? I understood there was an agreement between the Six Families and the Russians.’ ‘Indeed. They don’t infringe on our territory and in return we don’t infringe on theirs. However, we have a rogue Avtoritet in the city. His soldiers have already hit several of our operations in Hamburg.’ ‘Then I’m to take care of this Brigadier for you?’ ‘You are to kill him and every last one of his men, including associates.’ ‘Just how many are we talking about here?’ ‘Including the associates, we’re looking at fifty to fifty-five.’ I actually choked on my drink at that point. ‘I’m good, Herr Rosenstein, but I’m not that good! Nobody is.’

‘Which is why you’ll be working with a partner. Come in, Erik.’ The curtain separating the VIP area from the rest of the club swished aside and in strode Erik Feldmann. His hair was longer, tied back in a pony tail which, together with the shades and leathers, made him look even more like a rock star. I’d thought about him often in the years we’d been apart, but had reconciled myself to never seeing him again. In fact I was certain Rosenstein had sent him to Columbia with the deliberate intention of getting him killed. It would seem I was wrong about that. I sat there like an idiot, lost for words, until Feldmann rescued me. ‘Stina, a pleasure to see you again. I hear you’ve put your training to good use?’ I shook the proffered hand, alarmed by how good even that brief touch felt. ‘How was Latin America?’ Feldmann’s face clouded and I noticed a wince of pain as he sat. He caught Rosenstein’s gaze and held it. ‘Eventful. But that’s all in the past. It’s good to be back in the city, and to see a familiar face.’ Rosenstein stood. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Feldmann had unnerved him. There was an undeniable tension between the two. The stories were clearly true, Gunther was no longer the man he used to be. I filed that away for future use. ‘As you two are already acquainted, I’ll leave Erik here to brief you. For your information, you’re working bounty rates. How you choose to split it is up to you.’ Feldmann silenced me with the briefest shake of his head when I opened my mouth to speak. He tapped the table, then pointed at the ceiling. We were in a miked-up room. ‘I’m late for another meeting. Why don’t I fill you in on the details while we walk?’ I nodded and followed him to the fire exit. The door opened onto a back alley. Feldmann looked up and down it before heading off in the direction of the main

drag. I followed at a distance, watching his six until we reached the safety of the street. There, in the bustle of noise and traffic, Feldmann appeared to relax. ‘You look every bit as beautiful as I , Stina.’ ‘You’re not too hard on the eyes, either,’ I said, using humour to deflect the complement, even though it made my pulse quicken. ‘What’s the deal here? We got reason to be concerned about Rosenstein?’ ‘No more than normal. I don’t want the man or his captains knowing our business. Safer that way.’ ‘Uh-huh. You going to tell me about Colombia or what?’ ‘Feldmann shrugged. ‘Eight months of living Hell. Checking for bombs, expecting hit squads, losing men and merchandise to raids, the latter usually carried out by crooked cops in the pay of the cartels. I had some successes – took out a couple of key players – but they had us outnumbered and outgunned from the start. Eventually my luck ran out and some mercs caught me in an ambush. Just managed to throw myself clear of the car before a rocket hit. Caught a load of shrapnel for my trouble. Rosenstein cut me off. Left me to rot in some backwater clinic. Luckily I’d made a few friends. They got me fit enough to travel and smuggled me up through Central America and into Mexico. It literally cost me my weight in cocaine to get a flight back to Europa City, because that’s how much product they had to unload from the plane. Rosenstein acts like nothing’s happened when I come to collect my fee. Just business to him. I’d become a bad investment.’ ‘Yet here you are working for him again. Me too. Guess neither of us is as smart as we like to think we are.’ ‘Necessity makes for strange bedfellows.’ ‘Speaking of which, I hope that shrapnel didn’t hit anything... vital?’ ‘I think you’ll find me pretty much the man you .’

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I ran my fingers across Feldmann’s stomach, over his right hip and down the thigh to the inside of his knee, feeling the rough tracery of scar tissue. Extensive as the scarring was, he’d been lucky. A few mils left or right and the shrapnel might have nicked his femoral artery. A shudder ran through me as I imagined the pain of red-hot metal tearing through my flesh. Feldmann misread it and pulled the sheet up over my body. I curled into him and he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. It seemed a pity to interrupt the post coital glow, but Rosenstein would be impatient for results. ‘What’s the plan for dealing with the Bratva?’ Feldmann sighed. His escape from reality over. ‘They’ve set up quarters in a warehouse down by the docks for the Trasimeno canal. Eight pm on a Tuesday night the soldiers pay their tribute to the Avtoritet. Hit them then and we should get a good thirty to forty.’ ‘That’s a lot to handle. We get a few hold outs and that kind of firefight is sure to draw the cops down on us.’ ‘We’ll have the element of surprise, plus I’m planning on deploying some heavy ordnance, which should take care of most of them. After that, mopping up the dregs will take a little time. Sure, a couple might make it from the city, but Rosenstein is going to have to live with that. The top men will all be gone and they’re the ones worth the big bucks.’ ‘Exactly who are we talking about?’ ‘The Avtoritet is Viktor Kuznetsov. He’s ex Spetsnaz. It’s almost like they map it out as career development for these guys. Ilya Chernyshevsky is the bookkeeper, so he’ll definitely be there. Kuznetsov has two Vory — Turgenev and Yahontov. They run cybercrime and the protection rackets respectively. The rest are just Boyeviks. They’ll scatter like rats once the main players are down.’ ‘And if they don’t?’ ‘We exterminate the brutes.’

Chapter 36

The plan, like most of the best ones, was simple. And it probably would’ve worked if it hadn’t been for the wild card in the pack that was Aleksander Volkonsky. Volkonsky, like his master, was ex Spetsnaz, which made him a skilled and highly efficient soldier. Unfortunately his experiences during the Oil Wars had also left him a kill-crazy motherfucker. The sort of man useful to have around for the purposes of intimidation and fear when building your empire, but who inevitably ended up in a shallow grave when the violence gave way to diplomacy. Volkonsky appeared unprepossessing as I followed him through my scope while he completed his circuit of the warehouse; just another foot soldier in black Kevlar and night vision goggles. From my vantage point on top of one of the automated cargo barges that plied the Trasimeno canal I had an unrestricted view of the warehouse, from where I counted in the arrival of Kuznetsov’s troops. Heat signatures told us the Brigadier and his bookkeeper were already in place by the time Feldmann and I arrived at a little after 1800 hours. After scoping out the surrounding area, Feldmann had taken up position at the top of the water tower west of the warehouse. From there he would launch an attack using an M83 LAWS, firing three 66mm rockets into the building; the old principle of shock and awe. I was to pick off survivors as they attempted to flee. And so we counted down the minutes to 2000 hours and counted up the bodies as they arrived. As expected, Turgenev and Yahontov were among the first to arrive, minutes apart and each brining an entourage of five soldiers apiece. One man peeled away from each side as they filed into the building and began a perimeter sweep of the area. Although we didn’t know it at the time, Volkonsky was Yahontov’s creature. A further twenty-seven soldiers arrived in groups of twos and threes, bringing the total to forty-one, including the two guards. That, I reasoned, should be enough to satisfy Rosenstein. Although I understood he needed to make an example. Not only to discourage any future excursions by the Bratva, but to demonstrate his own strength to the other heads of the Families. Whether it was luck or design that had seen the Bratva pitch up in his territory was irrelevant.

The handing over of profits followed by brigade business would take between forty-five minutes and an hour. We had agreed to wait fifteen minutes for any stragglers before launching the attack. I spent the time working the kinks out of my muscles and getting myself into the zone. Three short beeps on comms told me Feldmann was about to commence the attack. Designed as an anti-armour weapon, the first rocket punched through the metal skin of the warehouse and detonated inside, blowing out windows and buckling the main loading doors. It brought the two perimeter guards running, by which time Feldmann had loaded and fired the second rocket, targeting the doors directly. Jets of flame shot outwards, engulfing one of the guards as the doors collapsed. The other guard, Volkonsky, dropped to one knee and snapped off a three round burst towards the water tower. The shots sent Feldmann ducking for cover. I hesitated for a split second, unwilling to take my focus from the door and the potential emergence of a high value target. By the time I made the decision to take out Volkonsky he had sprinted across the dock and taken cover behind a container. Cries brought my focus back to the warehouse as two burning figures emerged from the doorway. I dropped them both as Feldmann delivered his third and final rocket, targeting the rear of the warehouse. The explosion made me turn my head away, an act that probably saved my life as bullets punched through the top lip of the cargo barge. I rolled back as Volkonsky continued to rake my position. He emptied an entire magazine, punctuating his curses with manic laughter. I got Feldmann on the comms. ‘Erik, have you got eyes on this crazy bastard?’ ‘Yeah, but I only have a pistol. Fuck! Yahontov is making a run for it.’ I heard the pistol bark twice. From that elevation and at that distance a running man was an impossible target. Feldmann swore again as Volkonsky loosed a long burst of fire at the water tower. I edged to the now torn up lip of the barge and rested my rifle on it. Volkonsky’s left forearm was visible beyond the edge of the container, steadying his machine pistol. It was a difficult shot; I hit the machine pistol rather than his arm, but the result was the same and the weapon clattered to the ground as Volkonsky pulled himself back. I fired a second shot, spinning the gun across the tarmac as

Volkonsky reached for it, then scanned the length of the container. There was no trace of Yahontov. The fucker was probably half way back to Russia. The wail of approaching sirens grew louder and I knew it was time to scrub the mission. I rolled back across the deck of the barge and scrambled over the side into a waiting dingy. Feldmann had a similar dingy moored at the side of the canal near the water tower. The plan was for us to head out into lake Trasimeno, dump the weapons and rendezvous on the far side where we’d stashed a couple of getaway bikes. I cast off and opened up the throttle of the outboard motor, following the curve of the dock, getting ready to head out to open water. I was almost there when the beam of a high-powered torch blinded me. I heard the ratchetting of an automatic. ‘You, my friend, I think, are shit out of luck.’

Chapter 37

How that Russian psycho succeeded in outflanking me, I don’t know to this day. What I did know at that moment was I had one desperate chance. I ducked, pointed the dingy directly at the quay and opened the throttle full bore. Shots whistled above my head as the prow rose up out of the water and the mid-section of the dingy hit the edge of the plascrete. I felt the impact as it scooted across the quay and rammed into Volkonsky, sending him tumbling. The propeller beat out a staccato tattoo, throwing up chips of plascrete as I angled the dingy back to the water. I landed with a splash that threatened to swamp me. Turning towards open water once more, I bailed frantically with my hands as the beam of Volkonsky’s flashlight skimmed across the water. He fired off a couple of shots, one of which creased my shoulder, before the approaching sirens made him turn and run. I kept low, knowing the cops’ focus would be on the warehouse and its grisly contents, helping aid my escape. The dingy rode increasingly low in the water, probably punctured during my stunt on the quayside. Realising I wasn’t going to make the far side of the lake, I stripped off my Kevlar vest and my boots and slipped into the water. The cold took my breath away as I clung to the side of the dingy, letting it close the gap between me and the shore. It took me another couple of hundred metres before that same body sapping water penetrated the outboard motor and brought it to a sputtering stop. Judging by the lights on the shore, I had about a klick to go. I pulled the knife from the sheath on my calf and punched it repeatedly into the dingy, making sure it and my rifle went to the bottom of the lake. I struck out for the lights using a crawl stroke, fighting off fatigue and the numbing cold. While I was a competent swimmer I rarely ventured beyond the confines of a pool. Fifty lengths of a heated pool are a somewhat different proposition to swimming in an icy lake. After all I had lived through drowning seemed a rather prosaic end, so I gritted my teeth, ignored the numbness in my limbs and pushed on. The lights grew larger and eventually one of the shadows on the shore resolved itself into Feldmann. His body swivelled side to side as he

scanned the lake with binoculars. A sudden rigidness in his stance indicated he’d spotted me. He waved, turned back to the bikes and bent over the paniers. I tentatively reached down with my feet and felt the comforting stab of shingle. A long, shuddering sigh hissed out of me. Until that point I’d secretly thought I wasn’t going to make it. As if to reaffirm this I stumbled and the water rushed over my head. I emerged coughing and spluttering. My feet slipped and slid over the shingle as I tried to run for the shore. My chest was tight and I couldn’t breathe. Surely I hadn’t come this far to fail now? ‘Easy. Easy now. I got you.’ My world tilted as Feldmann picked me up in his arms and carried me the final few metres to shore. His body felt burning hot next to my chilled flesh. I clung to him, trying to leach as much warmth, as much life from him as I could. We cleared the beach and he swung my feet to the ground, holding my upper body steady as he wrapped a thermal blanket about me. ‘Well this is a total cluster.’ It was that. But I was alive and the rest of my problems could wait.

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Feldmann made the call. I was in no condition mentally or physically to deal with Rosenstein. He led with the good news but I knew from Gunther’s rising tone of irritation that word of Yahontov’s escape had already reached him. While the Bratva had no proof as to who had hit them, they knew whose territory they were on. Right now Yahontov would be gathering what remained of his soldiers and associates and preparing for a counter strike. Ultimately he would lose. But what other option did he have? Go back to Russia a disgraced and broken man, one that had broken the compact not to infringe on Europa City territory? Better to die with some semblance of honour, taking as many of Rosenstein’s men with him to Hell as he could. Feldmann had called it right on the Trasimeno shore; a total clusterfuck.

‘Well?’ I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer. Feldmann sighed and ran his hands through his hair. ‘We’re to finish the job.’ ‘And how are we supposed to do that when we don’t know where Yahontov has gone to ground?’ ‘Fuck knows. But the old man is adamant that he ain’t paying us shit until Yahontov is in a cremation urn. Far as he’s concerned he gave us the job on a plate and we fucked it up.’ I glared at Feldmann. He didn’t deserve my anger but it had nowhere else to go. I was the one who had dropped the ball. If I’d taken out Volkonsky when I had the chance Yahontov would never have gotten away. ‘Please tell me you have a lead or an idea where Yahontov’s hiding?’ ‘I’ve a list of safe houses from the original intel. Whether Yahontov still trusts them after we compromised the warehouse is another question. Look, you’re shattered. Probably in mild shock. Best get some sleep and we can come at this fresh in the morning.’ I caught myself about to argue and bit down on the words. Feldmann was being more than reasonable in the circumstances. I might not be in shock, but I certainly needed some sleep. ‘You coming to bed, too?’ ‘In a little while. Just need to run through some things here.’ Like an idiot I took myself off to bed and crashed out. Ten hours later I woke up alone. Feldmann had gone off on his own to sort out my mess.

Chapter 38

I know what you’re thinking – I really should have seen that one coming. Maybe part of the problem was I didn’t want to. I’d been on a losing streak since that business with Kritikos and it burned me up to think I might be dragging Feldmann down with me. I hunted the apartment for clues. Feldmann had left his terminal on. He’d filtered the list of safe houses in what appeared to be descending order of likelihood. Top of the list was Friedrich Strasse – central and an excellent marshalling point to launch attacks on Rosenstein assets. I tried Feldmann on comms and got dead air. He’d either switched off his comunit or else... I didn’t want to think about the else. I helped myself to a SIG Sauer 9mm and a couple of grenades and picked up the bike from the basement garage. Nothing in the apartment gave me any indication of when Feldmann had left. I had to hope he’d taken his own advice and got some sleep before heading off. Else I was going to be far too late. The bikes each had a tracking system, a precaution Feldmann had installed in case we became separated during the operation at the docks. It showed Feldmann’s bike parked in Gerhard Strasse, around the corner from the safe house in Friedrich Strasse. It stayed stationary as my own bike ate up the tarmac, weaving in and out of the rush hour traffic. I knew I was being reckless, careering off without even a semblance of a plan. But having found Feldmann again the thought of losing him drove all sense from me. I turned into Gerhard Strasse from Erich Strasse and brought the bike to a skidding halt. Feldmann’s bike sat parked outside one of the many basement bars. I looked around, foolishly expecting him to come bounding up the stairs as though he’d only popped out for breakfast. The stupidity of it finally made me check myself. Feldmann wouldn’t have rushed headlong into an attack. He’d carry out reconnaissance first and then pause to plan his strategy. And the best place for that in this area was a bar. The barman looked up from polishing a glass as I entered, stooping below the door lintel.

‘What can I get you?’ ‘Just some information.’ I pulled out a disposal credit chit and placed it on the bar. ‘But it’ll be worth your while.’ I slid the chit back as the barman reached out for it. ‘Uh-uh. You have to earn it.’ ‘How?’ I gave the barman Feldmann’s description and he confirmed he’d sat with a coffee for fifteen minutes or so an hour earlier. I pulled up Yahontov, Volkonsky and the remaining soldiers and associates we knew about on my com-unit. Volkonsky and a couple of the other guys were regulars, plus he’d seen Yahontov with them at least once in the past week. I started to slide the chit over and paused. ‘One more thing. Anybody asks...’ ‘You were never here, right? I seen the vids, lady.’ No doubt he had and that was cause enough to be nervous. He’d squeal within the first five minutes of the cops asking questions. Didn’t matter. I was long overdue another change of identity. Back at Feldmann’s bike I went through the panniers and came up trumps. The infra-red vision glasses were North African tech; ultra-light, they resembled a pair of wraparound shades. I perched them atop my head like an Alice band and went to check out the competition. First thing I spotted as I turned onto the street was the muscle hanging around the communal entrance. He tried to look casual, another Joe out for a smoke, but the ’roided biceps straining the fabric of his suit and the buzz cut hair marked him as clearly as any Yakuza tattoo. If I needed further confirmation, he provided it by checking me out as I walked by. There was nothing sexual in that gaze, it was pure risk assessment. It lingered long enough to tell me that while he hadn’t made me there was cause enough for mild concern on his part. I dropped the glasses, hit record and kept on walking, looking up to my right and scanning the third floor apartment. Heat signatures coalesced thick and fast. Too many for your average two bedroom apartment. A spread-eagled figure against one of the living area walls had to be Feldmann. Still warm. For now.

I walked up the street and turned into another of the ubiquitous bars to formulate a plan. One that didn’t equate to a death sentence for Feldmann and suicide for me. Having ordered a tonic and lime, I sat in the corner and played back the footage on the glasses. Twelve targets in the apartment, plus the stooge outside and, I reckoned, at least one more soldier monitoring the elevator/stairs. All would be heavily armed, so a frontal assault was out of the question. They’d execute Feldmann before I got anywhere near the front door. His position in the living area also ruled out lobbing a grenade through the window. Setting up a sniper’s nest on the opposite building was equally pointless. I would get two or three at most before they found cover. And the crux of the problem lay right there; I could execute the job quite easily, so long as I was willing to sacrifice Feldmann. Needless to say, that wasn’t an option. I finished my drink and made my way back to the bikes. A different goon stood smoking outside, this one barely glanced at me. But it was odds on that they were recording ers-by. My next appearance would trigger an alarm for certain. I drove back to base. A plan had formed. Not brilliant, but in the circumstances the only one that offered any chance of success. To execute it I needed some specialist pieces of kit. Luckily Feldmann had all the toys. Having procured the necessary, I changed into my bike leathers, inserting the Kevlar guards, and slung my goodie bag over my shoulder. This time I entered Friedrich Strasse from the south end, pulling my bike up on the sidewalk. I’d disguised my hair with a short, dark wig and applied heavy eye makeup. It wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, but I only needed to suspend suspicion long enough for me to gain entrance to the next door apartment block. I affected a rolling, swaggering gait and made my way to the intercom, on which I slapped a signal jammer, releasing the mag-bolt. The door buzzed open. Stage one complete. Taking the stairs, I made my way to apartment 34c, which happened to be next door to the safe house. According to records the occupant was a single male, age 47. I took out a hypo-spray and rang the bell. Muttering and shuffling steps sounded from inside as G. Bek made his way to the door. It swung open to reveal the pasty and overweight features of a shut-in. I let the poor bastard have the whole spray in the face. His eyes widened in surprise and I stepped forward to catch him as he folded to the floor. He’d come to in an hour or so with a

splitting headache and no memory of the past day or so. The amnesia struck me as unfortunate, as this was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to him in years. Having deposited him on the sofa, I made my way to the bedroom. I put the glasses back on and confirmed the room through the wall was unoccupied. The majority congregated in the living area. One, judging from his position, sat on the toilet. Feldmann remained pinned to the wall in a Christ-like pose. I worked quickly, setting the shaped charges, priming a pair of flash-bangs and readying my H&K MP7 Kurz. Several of these men were ex special forces, so my element of surprise would last a couple of seconds at best. Speed would be everything in the next thirty seconds. My thumb pressed down on the detonator and the wall blew through into the next apartment. I charged through, firing a burst at the adjacent wall and taking out the goon on the toilet. I rolled the flash-bangs across the floor as I turned towards the living area and shielded myself behind the door. They detonated with a one-two whumph! I gave it a second, swung into the doorway and raked the room with fire, knowing Feldmann was safely to the right and behind me. The blue, red and gold figures dropped like ninepins. A couple were quick enough to reach the makeshift cover of one of the sofas. Foam and fabric filled the room as I directed a fresh burst in their direction. The clock was ticking. I needed to free Feldmann and get the fuck out of Dodge. I fired another salvo, closer to the floor and heard a scream as the H&K stuttered to a halt. Silence fell, broken only by the groans of the dying as I changed the magazine and backed up towards Feldmann. I risked a quick glance in his direction. They’d handcuffed him to the metal frame of an exercise machine. My eyes skimmed the room, searching for the keys. ‘How about we talk this out?’ The voice came from behind the sofa. ‘Seems I have something you want? What say I give you your man and you let me walk?’ ‘All right. Nice and slow. Show me the keys.’ A hand appeared above the sofa clutching a ring of keys. Too far away for me to see clearly if any of them fit the handcuffs.

‘Catch!’ The keys arced across the room and, like a rookie, my eyes followed them. A split second later one of the cushions exploded and a bullet whistled past my ear. I dropped to one knee and emptied the whole magazine into the sofa. Its frame disintegrated and a bloody arm flopped across the floor. I retrieved the keys, sorted through them and found a likely suspect. Feldmann opened a swollen eye and gave me a crooked smile. ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’ I tried to ignore the bruises, cuts and burns that covered his torso. The Bratva had gone to work on him with a vengeance in the few hours they’d held him. ‘I got food... fuck!’ I pulled the Sig Sauer from its holster and turned to find Volkonsky standing in the doorway. He looked at the carnage in the room, snapped off an ironic salute and threw himself to one side. My bullet took a bite out of the doorframe and I heard the sound of retreating footsteps. I thought about running after him but a groan from Feldmann reminded me of the mission at hand. The remains of Feldmann’s clothes lay on the floor where they’d fallen after the Bratva had cut them from his body. His boots were still serviceable so I left him struggling with the laces while I searched the bedrooms. I came back with a woollen overcoat and helped him into it. While the Bratva had no doubt offered their protection services to the neighbours I had to figure at least one of them would have the courage to call the cops. I took ten seconds anyway to confirm the set of keys had belonged to Yahontov. His sightless eyes stared up me but I put two bullets in his head to be certain. ‘Way past time we weren’t here, Cocoa.’ ‘Cocoa?’ ‘That’s what I’m calling you from now on, because of all the people you’ve put to sleep.’

‘Reckon those Bratva creeps hit you one too many times in the head, Erik.’ I pointed towards the bedroom and the neighbouring apartment. Feldmann took the hint and limped towards it. I had one last look around, satisfied I’d left only the dead behind. Mission accomplished.

PART NINE 8 March 2088 – 6 April 2088

Chapter 39

I wake to find my legs and wrists fastened together with zip ties. A satisfied smile flits across my face as I Takahashi’s look of shock as the knife pierced her heart. But whatever followed after that remains a blank. A look confirms I’m in the corner of the control room. That someone has taken the trouble to move me here and dress my wounds indicates I’m wanted alive. I draw my knees in close and start trying to inch my way up the wall. ‘If I were you I’d save my energy for later.’ I glare in Vogel’s direction, but let my body slide back to the floor. The grips of the Glocks, so recently mine, now gleam below his armpits. ‘Why? What happens later?’ ‘Later you get sold to the fleshpots. ittedly you’re somewhat older and definitely a bit more used than they prefer, but they do so love a white woman.’ Great. Vogel is selling me off to Middle Eastern slavers. At least I now know who his allies are. Believing he has the advantage makes him cocky. I can use that carelessness to my advantage. ‘Guess this means you don’t trust me to come through on my end of the deal?’ ‘Hate to break it to you, but there never was a deal. That money I transferred to your was nothing more than a distraction. A cheap one at that.’ ‘Then this was your exfil plan all along?’ ‘Not quite. But, if you’re smart, you don’t work at executive level for a company like Tessler without preparing an exit strategy.’ ‘Wouldn’t the RSA be more to your taste?’ ‘Probably, but the links between its government and Tessler make rendition a

problem. And if it’s a choice between one group of religious zealots and another I’d rather go where the sun is.’ Vogel laughs at his own joke. He’s enjoying this. I might as well play along and see if I can learn anything to my advantage. ‘Did you ever have any intention of testifying or were you always going to cut and run? Only asking because I thought I had you hooked good there at the beginning.’ ‘If it makes you feel any better I was in to begin with. Might still have been if I hadn’t tripped that alarm copying data from the server. But that first kill squad the Yakuza sent after me refocussed my attention.’ ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ ‘You did ask.’ Vogel goes back to studying the monitors. My guess is he’s waiting on an incoming hopper. I pat down my combat tros while his attention is elsewhere. Vogel’s done a decent job of searching me; picked up the throwing knife I keep strapped to my right calf and the coin sized magnesium flare from my left boot. What he’s missed is the razor floss woven into the right inside seam of my combats. I pull one end clear, tension it up using my teeth and cut the zip tie between my wrists. A glance towards Vogel confirms he’s still focussed on the monitors, so I free my feet and pocket the floss. ‘This exit plan of yours, does it involve the wife?’ Vogel freezes, then slowly spins around in his chair. His expression tells me I’ve hit a nerve. ‘That’s no concern of yours.’ ‘Maybe not. But you know there’ll be no witness protection for her without you, right? There’s no way Llewellyn will be able to justify the budget.’ Vogel stands up. A nerve makes his right leg vibrate. ‘Fenella is nobody’s fool. She’s from old money. Her family will see she’s well

looked after. If anything, they’ll be delighted. They always thought she married beneath her. Not enough to prevent the marriage, you understand. Not when it meant the opportunity to get their hands on Tessler stock. But I think they were more than a little disappointed when the marriage lasted.’ ‘Guess they’ll be even more disappointed when Tessler kills her. Because that’s what they’re going to do if you cut and run and leave her behind. They’ll make her an example to discourage anyone else from betraying their trust. But not your problem, right?’ ‘Enough!’ Vogel takes a run up to deliver the kick. It’s telegraphed well in advance. I twist to one side, reach up and catch his foot. He stares at me dumbfounded, then his eyes widen as I wrench his leg around, throwing him off balance and pitching him into the wall. There’s a satisfying crack from his nose as his face makes . He slides slowly downward, leaving a smear of blood and snot behind. I flip him over, kneel on his chest and draw the Glocks from under his arms. ‘What are you waiting for? Do it!’ Can’t deny I’m tempted. I even reach first tension on the triggers. But much as his departure would leave the world a better place, he needs to take the witness stand for Llewellyn to cut me a deal. Plus I wasn’t lying about what would happen to his wife. I ease off the triggers and get to my feet. ‘Stand up and turn around.’ Vogel does as he’s told and I reverse my grip on one of the pistols and hit him at the base of the skull. He folds slowly to the deck and I check his pulse. It’s a little erratic but strong. I find a packet of zip ties on the desk and strip him naked and check the body cavities before binding his wrists and ankles. Prisoner handling 101 – the foolproof method that ensures they have nothing hidden. The beep of the proximity sensor tells me I’ve got incoming; a hundred klicks out and closing. I need to think fast. Most of the heavy ordnance is gone and I’m in no condition to fight hand to hand – blood is already seeping through my dressings. If that hopper lands I’m a dead woman. Better make sure it doesn’t land.

I recover my old friend the MK 18 and make my way up to the observation platform. The remains of the landcruiser and the two APC’s are still burning, but the wind is carrying the smoke clear of the approach to the farm. About time I had some luck. I set up for the shot as the incoming dot resolves itself into a VTOL gunship. The gunners draw back the side doors in preparation for firing. I wait for it to go into hover mode, the manoeuvring jets swivelling from horizontal to vertical. I put a couple of rounds into the left engine which flares out sending the hopper into a spin. It’s violent enough to dislodge one of the gunners. He dangles from his lanyard as the pilot fights for control. It’s a literal downward spiral from there with an inevitable end. One that the gunner clearly isn’t in favour of. He hits the release on his harness and drops ten metres to the ground. I pick him up through the scope. He’s landed badly, bone gleams from a fracture in his lower right leg. But despite his agony his attention remains on the looming shadow of the hopper as it drops. He starts to crawl and then stops, accepting the inevitable. I put him out of his misery the second before the hopper hits. It’s right about then I realise downing a hopper laden with a full complement of Hellfire missiles less than twenty metres from my position is a bad idea. All I can do is throw myself to the ground as the fireball rushes towards me.

Chapter 40

I cover my head with my hands and try not to breathe as the wall of flame washes over the observation platform. Superheated air capable of scorching my airways follows the flames. The thought of slowly choking to death as my oesophagus swells shut does not appeal. I keep my face to the ground and my mouth clamped tight. After what seems an age, but is actually a little over two minutes, I’m forced to draw a ragged breath. The air is warm but tolerable. Less welcome is the smell of singed hair. Guess I’m going to be wearing my hair short this season. I push myself up, ignoring the pain of my already blistering hands, and look over the edge of the platform. The blast crater is at least ten metres in diameter; the hopper itself reduced to pieces of scattered fuselage. I spy gobbets of burnt human flesh, like the remains of some Satanic barbecue. Scratch one snatch team. I stagger to my feet and somehow make my way back to the control room where I call Kurtzman and ask for an extraction. We might be outside the city’s jurisdiction and klicks from the nearest settlement, but there’s been altogether too many fireworks and it’s only a matter of time before the Marauders come looking. Kurtzman wants to know why we can’t keep it low key and take the monorail back. I tell him I’m in no condition to walk and, unless I him off as my gimp, a naked and bound Vogel might draw attention. Kurtzman gives me a look he’s doubtlessly honed after thirty years of dealing with degenerates and killers. But I am seriously out of fucks to give. I sign off by telling him to make sure there’s a medic onboard and all but collapse beside Vogel. ‘I hope you fucking bleed out, you bitch!’ I have just enough strength left to reach over and tweak Vogel’s broken nose. He yelps like a stuck pig and I out with a smile on my lips.

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My recollection of the next few hours is hazy at best. Kurtzman arrives in an ancient Huey helicopter of dubious origin. I suspect, and it’s later confirmed, that he and Llewellyn have still not worked out who to trust within the ED. The medic is a gnarled veteran with a shit bedside manner, but I forgive him as soon as he shoots me full of fentanyl. I watch disionately as he staples and glues me into a fit enough state for the flight home. Kurtzman circles all the while, taking in the surrounding carnage and uttering alternating grunts of disbelief and iration. At some point we take off. I can’t see Kurtzman, so he must be in the co-pilot’s chair. The medic sits one side of me, Vogel on the other. The thermal blanket they’ve wrapped him in is oh-so shiny. I think he’s glaring at me, but it’s hard to tell as his eyes are near swollen shut and the white gauze across his nose s as a patch of nothingness. We land on a helipad atop one of the ubiquitous glass and plascrete towers. I look for landmarks as they offload me but I have fishbowl vision and everything blends together. If I’m dying it’s one Hell of a way to go. Strip lights flash above me as the paramedic wheels me down a long corridor. Or maybe it’s a short one and we’re just going really slow. Double doors swing open. Are we entering the last chance saloon? My vision of the wild west resolves itself into an anaesthetist, a nurse and a surgical-bot. Beyond the operating table I glimpse the surgeon through the glass, prepping to operate the bot. The nurse steps forward and she and the medic lift me onto the operating table, where she cuts away the remains of my clothes. The medic gives me a thumbs up as he retreats and the anaesthetist places the mask over my face. I wonder if I’ll dream?

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Consciousness returns wrapped in the sweet embrace of morphine. A machine bleeps annoyingly next to my bed. It takes me a minute or two to work out it’s my heartbeat. I run a quick physical inventory and come back with the expected number of limbs, digits, eyes and ears. So far so good.

What I at first take for a rumpled pile of clothes on the chair next to me stretches and rises to its feet. Kurtzman’s eyes are like the proverbial piss-holes in the snow. Although I find it hard to believe he’s been losing any sleep over my wellbeing. Still, it’s always worth checking the boundaries. ‘Water,’ I croak, intending to fake it but discovering my throat painfully raw. Kurtzman picks up the jug on the bedside table, fills a glass and pops in a straw. He looks uncertain for a moment, then finds the control for the bed and raises me into a sitting position. I gesture helplessly at the glass and he picks it up and places the straw to my lips. The water is the sweetest drink I’ve had in a long time. ‘Vogel?’ ‘He’ll live. I’m guessing he walked into a door or something?’ ‘Or something.’ ‘Guess I should be thankful he didn’t fall down the stairs.’ ‘You boys still using that old one for when you tune up a suspect?’ Kurtzman’s face darkens, but he catches whatever retort he’s thinking of before he says it. While age and experience may have mellowed him, he knows he’s no angel. Perversely, I think he actually feels responsible for what’s happened to me. At least in part. ‘Where is our star witness?’ ‘Protective custody. But in an IAD facility rather than a general custody block.’ ‘You know your boy there was trying to cut and run for the Caliphate?’ ‘Figured he had something on the go. Looks like you burned his bridges for him. Are we looking at a diplomatic incident here?’ Pain shoots through my ribs as I start to laugh. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Most likely they’ll chalk it up to engine failure. Private contractors are always expendable. So where are we in of wrapping this up?’

Kurtzman puffs out his lips. I can feel the frustration rising off him. It clearly galls him that I’ve come through on my end of the deal while he hasn’t. ‘Montreux is doing what he can, which is why we’ve got Vogel in an IAD cell off the books. But it’s hard to know who actually is in Nilsson’s pocket. Trouble with chain of command is a lot of the lower ranks, especially the patrol cops, will do as they’re told, no questions asked.’ ‘Only obeying orders, huh?’ ‘Y’know things might go a bit quicker if you’d actually let me finish instead of busting my balls all the time.’ ‘C’mon, Pete, a girl’s gotta have a little fun. ‘Specially after she got herself shot, stabbed, beaten and blown up.’ ‘Seem to recall this whole crazy scheme of letting Takahashi know where you and Vogel were was your idea.’ ‘And it worked, didn’t it? With Takahashi gone the Yakuza will appoint a new Oyabun. Whoever it is won’t want word that she was dealing directly with Tessler getting back to the other Families. They’d strip the Yakuza of all their holdings and banish them from the city. A loss of face they couldn’t tolerate.’ Kurtzman mulls this over but finds no argument against it. I decide to press my advantage while I have it. ‘Seeing as I’ve upheld my end of the deal, how about you disable those nanotrackers and explosives you shot me full of? Not like I’m in any state to run. Besides, I always make a point of seeing a job through to completion. Don’t reckon I’ll be safe until Supreme Councillor Haynes and Lucian Artaud are staring at the walls of a prison cell.’ Kurtzman looks away, his attention fixed on the door. ‘Just so you and I are clear about this, Cocoa. I don’t like you and I never will. You’re the worst kind of killer – pre-meditated, cold, calculated, murdering for profit. A drunk gets into a fight, a jealous lover flies into a rage, or a beating goes too far – these things are wrong and the victim deserves to be avenged – but they’re an almost inevitable part of human nature. After two decades of being murder police I’ve seen the worst humanity has to offer, but you and your kind are lower than that.

If I had my way, you’d get the needle and I wouldn’t feel sorry about it. Much as I hate myself for saying this, cleaning up this city and hanging that bastard Haynes out to dry are more important than leaving some red names on the board when I retire.’ Kurtzman takes the remote out of his pocket. For a moment I think he might be about to act as judge, jury and executioner. But that’s a line he won’t cross. He keys in a code and throws the remote in the waste basket at the side of the bed. ‘Consider that payment for a job well done. But let’s be clear about one more thing – once you’re back on your feet and this business is over, you get out of this city and you don’t ever come back. I see you on the streets, whether you’re conducting business or not, I’ll make sure you’ve got an appointment with the executioner’s needle.’ I resist the urge to tell him that if I wanted him dead after all this is over he’d never see me coming. Kurtzman, for all his flaws, has a code. Over the years he’s beaten confessions out of suspects, lied and tricked them, even planted evidence. But all to the one end; ensuring the guilty receive punishment. In his own peculiar, fucked up way he’s a moralist. I like to think I am too. I’ve given him and Llewellyn my word, even if it was under duress. Creeps like Haynes and Artaud have it coming, far as I’m concerned. I’ll see the job out and won’t be sorry to see the back of this city at the end of it. ‘Don’t worry,’ I assure him. ‘I’m over this bastard of a city.’

Chapter 41

It’ll come as no surprise to learn I’m a bad patient. If a week’s a long time in politics, it’s an eternity in a hospital bed. Despite my own intransigence I make good progress. The same nanotech that previously kept me under the cosh is now employed knitting muscle and sinew back together. After four days I’m capable of walking to the toilet unassisted and by week’s end moderate exercise is possible. During this time I discover we’re holed up in the Brussels district, not far from the Halls of Justice. Guess Llewellyn wanted to be close to what he no doubt considers his spiritual home. His thanks for my delivering Vogel is even more grudging than Kurtzman’s, or maybe he’s preoccupied with navigating his Lazarus-like return from the dead. Faking your own assassination is not exactly standard operating procedure. But these are far from normal times. When pressed, he tells me he’s presented his evidence to Judge Lennox and she’s satisfied it’s sound enough to issue warrants for the arrest of Haynes, Nilsson and Artaud, plus a dozen assorted police officers and Tessler employees. Yoshiko Takahashi’s death is a wrinkle, but Llewellyn plays it off as collateral in the war against organised crime. The trade in arms and pharmaceuticals between Tessler and the Yakuza has ended with her demise. It’s not deemed prudent to mention my involvement and Llewellyn has warned Vogel that witness protection for him and his wife depends on my name not arising at any stage of the proceedings. The real wrinkle in the plan is co-ordinating the takedown to ensure there’s no leaks. Much to Llewellyn’s chagrin, my advice to deliberately plant misinformation has identified two corrupt officials within the Department of Public Prosecutions. I suspect this proof of the fallibility of his own office is in part responsible for his newfound taciturnity. With this in mind, Montreux and Kurtzman have picked out the various duty details, comprising largely of the young team, men and women without families to threaten and free of obligations and debts. Captain Jeter, Montreux’s superior at IAD, will receive his briefing at the last minute. Weak in many ways, he’s a committed careerist and with the warrants signed and the teams assembled will accede to the fait accompli.

Frankly, I find it all something of an anti-climax. I’m to slink into the shadows and be all but forgotten. But only after Vogel testifies. And that’s why they’re pumping me full of expensive nanotech, because I’m needed for witness protection. No matter how tight they keep it, Haynes, Tessler, the Yakuza, or most likely all three, will be sending soldiers to prevent Vogel from taking the stand. Without him the case collapses and it’s back to business as usual. I suppose I should feel insulted that they’re using me, letting me take all the risks. But I’m too damn tired and sick of all the complications. I’m not much given to introspection, but I have to wonder how things might have panned out if I’d ignored Takahashi’s summons. I like the North African market, but maybe that’s nothing more than the comfort that comes with familiarity. Could just as easily lose myself in South America where the killing trade pays big money. But like I said, for good or ill, you have to have a code. That’s one thing Kurtzman is wrong about; it’s never solely about the money. Not for me. Fourteen years is a long time in the wetwork profession. And, if I’m being honest, I can’t tell you how many kills I’ve made in that time. The first one, cliché or not, stays with you. Others depend on circumstance; difficulty, collateral, or something as prosaic as payment problems. As to the last, I’ve made and spent several fortunes. Money that comes easily tends to go just as easily. Growing up with little to nothing has left me an unapologetic material girl. The investments I have left after losing the Docklands penthouse would keep me modestly for a couple of years at best, particularly now I’ve agreed to sign over the North Poles to Ethan de Sal. Fortunately, I have the money from Vogel, some of which will go on yet another new identity. Over the years I’ve worn so many names and faces it’s like my own identity has worn thin. But if I don’t know who I am anymore at least I’m certain of what I stand for. That surely must count for something.

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A week of physio and a further week of physical training sees me declared fit for discharge by the doctor. I marvel at my reflection in the mirror; lean muscled

flesh, pale from the best part of a month indoors, but blemish free. Even my old scars are gone, skin regenerated by nanotech. The one thing these wonders of technology cannot do is force grow my hair. It must remain buzz cut for now, as Daddy once made me keep it all those years ago. It gives me a haunted look and accentuates the fresh pain lines that spider about my eyes and run from nose to mouth. I cover my blonde fuzz with a short auburn wig. Not from vanity but to avoid drawing attention to myself during my witness protection duties. On Llewellyn’s instruction I am to pose as an SPF officer. A sure sign that he doesn’t share Montreux and Kurtzman’s faith in their vetting programme. I zip up the leathers, buckle myself into the Kevlar vest and strap on the shin and forearm braces. Holster the ED issue Walther PP10 below my left arm. Contrary to regs I’ve loaded it with amorphous tungsten alloy rounds. Tank busters that will take a human being apart. I conceal the Balisong knife and magnesium flare in my boots and, as an extra precaution, throwing knives inside my forearm braces. HUD shades and an earpiece complete the ensemble.

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At a little after two am on the morning of April 2 the vid-cast goes berserk with the news that the ED has taken Supreme Councillor Wilson Haynes into custody, along with co-conspirators Police Commissioner Marcus Nilsson and Tessler CEO Lucian Artaud. There’s a sense of history repeating itself, Sajer having previously arrested Haynes during the late and unlamented Commissioner’s coup. This time, however, there’s no suspension of the city’s ruling council, only the near seamless transition as Birgette Ladegaard steps up. Matters go a little less smoothly within the ED and after much wrangling Captain Jeter assumes the mantle of acting Police Commissioner. Montreux seems particularly put out by his superior’s ascension to the top. Guess the kid has discovered ambition is a cruel mistress. According to Kurtzman he’ll never progress further than head of Internal Affairs. The reward for rooting out corruption in the department is for the rank and file to forever despise you. Word is they’ve already started referring to him as King Rat. Kurtzman, with a

degree of acumen I wouldn’t previously have credited him with, simply slips away, returning to homicide and a raft of fresh names in red on the board. Then there’s Tessler, which I can only describe as a clusterfuck of the highest order. Following Artaud’s arrest Judge Lennox suspends the board and places its under house arrest pending further investigation. She also places the workforce on a month’s paid furlough pending the appointment of a new management team. Those in the know estimate the damage to the city’s economy in the range of 40 billion, and that’s before the RSA launches several lawsuits for breach of contract – the Islamic Caliphate isn’t going to bomb itself. Last but certainly not least is the toxic fallout from the Yakuza. A swift clean-up operation leaves Llewellyn and the DPP’s office high and dry. Three of those closest to Takahashi commit Seppuku. The Yakuza’s assertion that this was a private dispute between Takahashi and a renegade faction of the Islamic Caliphate further hampers the investigation into her death. Llewellyn, of course, knows I’m responsible, but can’t tell anyone. He has to reluctantly accept that it’s business as usual for the Yakuza; extortion, robbery, gambling, narcotics, fraud and money laundering. This return to the status quo at least serves to placate the remaining Families, preventing another bloody gang war. Given the enormous financial and political disruption, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out there are those who would happily put a bullet in Llewellyn and Vogel and forget the whole sorry business. In this, at least, Llewellyn has chosen his allies wisely; Lennox for her unbending adherence to the law, and Birgette Ladegaard for sharing his reformer’s zeal. Without their t I very much doubt I would be checking in at an Internal Affairs’ secure custody block. The Custody Sergeant wheels back his chair and looks me up slowly from toes to head. His eyes bore into mine, daring me to say something. I fix my line of sight just above his balding head. The discipline appears to satisfy him. ‘Badge.’ I retrieve my badge from beneath my vest, holding it out for inspection at the end of its lanyard. The sergeant leans closer. ‘Macaffee, four-oh-seven-three. Don’t think I’ve seen you before.’ ‘Newly transferred out of Hamburg, sarge.’

‘And you wind up on this detail? Someone either hates you or loves you Macaffee.’ He holds out a datapad. ‘Thumbprint and retina scan.’ Beads of sweat form on my brow. If Llewellyn hasn’t added me to the system this is going to be the shortest protection shift ever. After a small eternity the CS drops the pad back on the desk. ‘You’re good to go, Macaffee. Shift starts in ten. If you need the bathroom go now. Otherwise you’re in front of that door for the next six hours.’ I nod my assent and head down the corridor, stopping for appearances sake in the toilet. I pull back the slide on the PP10, chambering a round and flick the safety off. Balisong and throwing knives are secure but accessible. Ready to rock and roll. At 0558 I present myself outside the door of Vogel’s cell. Officer Kristofer Johansen gives me a shit-eating grin and motions me to his newly vacated chair – hard plastic, the sort that does not encourage comfort, let alone sleep. He waits until I’m seated before moving off, casting not one but two backward glances before disappearing into the locker room. I’ve read his jacket; three years’ service with the SPF during which he’s racked up two citations for bravery in the line of duty. A solid ally to have in a fight, should it come to that. I give it ten before getting up and pulling back the viewing slide on the cell door. Vogel’s reclining on the bed, head resting on the palms of his hands as he stares up at the ceiling. Suit jacket hanging from the back of the chair in front of a small desk. His smile has the look of the freshly tranquilised. I slide back the hatch and resume my vigil. One hour slips into two, then gets on for three. And then all Hell breaks loose.

Chapter 42

The shockwave from the explosion knocks me from my chair. I’m already rolling as I hit the ground, coming up into a crouch with the PP10 in my hand. Various alarms create a babel of confusion as smoke fills the corridor. I drop my shades and switch the HUD to thermal imaging. Gunfire sounds close by. Mainly the chatter of automatic rifles with the occasional reply of a handgun. The automatic fire increases and the retaliating fire stops. My position in the corridor is hopelessly exposed, so I make my way back in a crouching run to the Custody Sergeant’s desk. The sarge is gone, probably bleeding out with the rest of the custody block’s defenders. I’ve no intention of rushing in blind and making the same mistake. The smoke thickens, catching the back of my throat and I curse myself for not having brought a respirator. I’d reckoned a direct assault on the custody block to be at the lower end of the probability scale. But desperate times and all that jazz. The first heat signature flares up and I fire two shots at centre mass. The amorphous tungsten alloy rounds punch through his vest and he goes down hard. His buddy swears and drops to the ground, using his downed comrade for cover. I duck back behind the desk as his return fire rips through the front of it. The alarm is still sounding and backup can only be a minute or two away. I just need to keep this grunt pinned down until it arrives. I suspect theirs was always a suicide mission that relied on speed to succeed. Always nice to know you’ve fucked up someone’s day. In the hiatus of a magazine change I fire off another couple of shots. They thud into the already dead operative sending up a crimson spatter. The desk starts to sag as a fresh hail of bullets cuts into it. I slip the magnesium flare from my boot and prime it, waiting for the automatic fire to stutter to a halt. By my reckoning it pauses about two thirds of the way through the magazine. I test my theory by flipping the flare across the desk like a coin, screwing my eyes shut. Sure enough, another burst of fire follows as the flare ignites.

‘Fuck! You’ve blinded me!’ Being blind is the least of this asshole’s worries. As his gun clicks empty for real, I jump up onto the remains of the desk using the elevation to shoot downwards. He’s probably dead with the first shot but I let him have two more. There’s an ominous creak followed by a sharp crack as the desk gives up the ghost. I’m sat on my ass in the middle of the remains when the cavalry arrives in the form of a six-man SWAT team. ‘Any of you boys want to give a girl a hand? Think I’ve got a splinter in my ass.’ If I’m expecting a laugh, I don’t get it. One of them checks the bodies, another covers me, while two secure the corridor leaving the final pair to check on Vogel. I make a show of raising my hands. Still hot on adrenaline, this guy is likely to shoot first and ask questions later. ‘Target safe and secure.’ Confirmation Vogel is alive eases the tension and I’m allowed to rise to my feet and accepted as a friendly. ‘Sit rep, officer.’ I give a brief and perfunctory outline. After all, the corpses pretty much speak for themselves. In return he confirms my suspicions; grenade attack on the door followed by a pair of two-men teams. One on general sweep and clean duties while the other made the strike on Vogel. Both teams now nullified. Our casualties tally nine, including the CS, of whom the SWAT commander is less than complementary – should have stayed at his post as ordered. I get a terse nod of thanks for having taken out the kill team. Perhaps I should have stayed at my post too, without any cover. I make a mental note to get Llewellyn or Montreux to recheck the SWAT commander. Might be nothing more sinister than the guy’s a dick. I take up position outside Vogel’s cell again. My relief isn’t due for two and a half hours, by which time there may be some progress on which of our interested

parties sent the kill teams. My money is on Tessler. Haynes might be the biggest shit-heel in the city but even he’s likely to balk at declaring open season on his former colleagues in the ED. No, this has all the crude hallmarks of a corporate sledgehammer. Those fucks have a sense of superiority and entitlement bred into them at school. Nothing riles them more than having that authority challenged. Having failed here they’ll target Vogel during his transit to the court, which is also the point, by my reckoning, that Haynes will strike. The trial date being a matter of public record there’s nothing we can do to hide it, which isn’t to say I don’t have a plan or two up my sleeve. Officer Johansen relieves me just before the stroke of midday, pointedly ignoring the wreckage of the desk. I tell him he’s missed all the fun, to which I get a laconic reminder that the day is far from over. Man’s got a point. Just not one I like, which reminds me to Llewellyn. He’s not going to like what I have to say either.

Chapter 43

The morning of April 6 dawns bright and clear. It’s unseasonably warm even by our screwed-up norms. I have, of course, drawn witness escort duty, driving an armoured patrol truck from the Halls of Justice to the Supreme Court House. It’s a distance of three klicks through one of the most populous areas of the city. The order has gone out to close the road off and for all shops, bars and restaurants to cease trading. Despite these precautions it still strikes me as a plascrete canyon of death. I’ve poured over the route in my professional capacity and there are more than a dozen points at which I could implement a successful hit. The opportunities rise exponentially in the event the operative is willing to sacrifice themselves. I slide back the grill at the rear of the cab and look in on my enger. Only the back of his head is visible above the rear facing high-impact seat. I ask if he’s all right and receive a thumbs up. So far so good. I charge up the motor and raise the armoured shield above the windscreen. I’ll be driving by a mix of video feed and motion sensors. I’ve disabled the anticollision – figure I might be the one doing the ramming. The dash clock reads just after seven am. I engage drive and rise up the ramp from the custody block on what may prove to be the longest drive of my life. I get five blocks before the first bogey pings up on the motion sensors. Small, closing fast, the rear cam picks up a lone biker. The rider raises a gun and shots thud harmlessly into the armoured tyres. Just one of the vehicle’s many modifications. The throttle opens and the bike accelerates towards me, its rider intent on attacking the cab. He or she is either dumb or overly confident in their abilities. This is almost too easy. I swing the rear of the truck out in an almost text book copy of the move I used out in the Badlands. The collision siren sounds as the truck slams into the bike, sending it and its rider tumbling across the tarmac in a shower of sparks. I stamp down on the accelerator and the truck spins up to 180 kph. Not like the cops are gonna pull me over. I eat up another klick before the next threat comes into a view. One of the big automated HGV’s pulls out from a side street and

grinds to a halt across all four carriageways. At the same time an armoured SUV bulldozes its way through the central reservation from the opposite direction and spins in behind me. A challenge at last. I hit the brakes as expected and the truck squeals to a halt amidst the smell of burning rubber. The roof slides back on the SUV and a gunner’s platform appears. A chain gun rattles to life, spitting armour piercing rounds. They rip through the tyres and side of the truck, but fail to penetrate the cab. The front cams show a more immediate problem, as the driver of the HGV approaches with a limpet mine in his hand. I pull back the slide on the PP10 and hit the door release. It swings out providing me with a shield. The chain gun rattles on mercilessly as I put two in the startled driver. A bullet rips off the heel of my boot as the gunner lowers his trajectory. I drop and roll beneath the truck. It buys me a second or two but I’ve no real exit strategy. Ahead of me, the limpet mine lies tantalisingly out of reach. To think is to fail, so I act, pushing off with the palms of my hands. The chain gun continues to fire but its target is the occupant of the truck. For now, I’m of minor concern. The mine is a comforting weight in my hand as I spin around and sprint behind the truck. I take a deep breath and focus. I’m going to get one chance at this. The gunner is raking the side of the truck, sweeping from left to right. I wait until he’s at the far side of his swing before commencing my run. The first cry of alarm sounds as he tries desperately to track back. I prime the mine and slap it on the side of the SUV as I run past. The gunner tries to scramble free. He’s standing on the roof when the mine detonates. The shock of the blast throws me to the ground and I roll to the side as fragments of white-hot metal and charred flesh rain down. There’s no time for self-congratulation as the rear doors of the HGV swing open to disgorge a dozen soldiers. Half of them lay down suppressing fire, pinning me to the tarmac while the remainder of the squad advance on the truck. I know what’s coming and squirm my way backwards into the scant cover of doorway. Bullets continue to chip away at the plascrete around me as one of the soldiers throws open the rear door of the truck exposing its occupant, still trapped by the cross-harness holding him to the chair. Four machine pistols rise in unison and start to chatter. The world explodes into flame.

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By the time I rise to my feet the HGV and surviving of the kill-squad are gone. I survey the surrounding carnage with satisfaction, my plan executed precisely as intended. I check the time on my com-unit; right about now Vogel should be testifying via holographic link from a secure location. My enger for the gauntlet being a male sex-bot with a chest cavity packed full of RDX and detonator caps. Because I knew I could rely on the leaking of my route and a lack of imagination on the part of my enemies. For all the aches in my muscles there’s a lightness in my step I haven’t felt in some time. I thumb on my com-unit. ‘Llewellyn, about that pardon.’

PART TEN January 4 2077 – July 9 2077

Chapter 44

Old man Rosenstein forgave Feldmann and me our earlier transgressions and rewarded us well for ridding him of the Bratva. The coming months saw us go from strength to strength, primarily through our introduction to the Casbah – an online black market for assassins. It made the ten percenters redundant with prospective clients able to post their jobs and select from a range of applicants, with the payment held in escrow. Multilayer encryption provided anonymity and rendered both origin and destination of the money untraceable. We took over a loft apartment in Berlin with a view over the Kohl Memorial Gardens. The rent was exorbitant but our services paid top dollar. The three months that followed remain the happiest I can . But, as always seemed to be the case with my life, the Devil felt the need to claim his due. It started with a news alert on my com-unit; a bank raid in the Hamburg district that ended in the fatal shooting of one of the robbers. Nothing remarkable in itself until I saw the name – Anya van der Groot, 19. It hit me like a blow to the gut. Then the oddness of that reaction hit me again. I hadn’t thought about little Anya, Carice or any of the of the Red Hand Gang since I left to work for the Rosenstein Family. They were part of a forgotten woman’s past, because as far as I was concerned Stina Hedlund was dead and buried. At least that’s what I told myself, which made my next action seem more than a little odd to me. A swift cremation followed by an unceremonious scattering of the ashes was standard procedure for unclaimed bodies in the city, particularly those of criminals. The modern version of the pauper’s grave. Not that the rich fared much better. With land at a nobody wasted it burying bodies. For those with money, there was a choice of showy receptacle, transformation into industrial diamond or having your ashes used in some other equally tasteless artform. I paid for a humanist ceremony and an alloy urn for Anya, with the intention of laying her to rest on the waters of lake Trasimeno. Not strictly legal, but given my professional activities I didn’t lose any sleep over it. I put out a public notice of the funeral arrangements, unsure who, if anyone,

would come. Anya had never spoken about her family and I’d assumed they were either irreparably estranged or deceased. The day arrived. Feldmann wanted to escort me but I wasn’t having any of it. I’d closed this part of my past even to him. I dressed in a black tro suit, white blouse and flats, all from the higher end of standard retail without being ostentatious. My arrival was via a cab, pulling up outside the grey and functional chapel some fifteen minutes before the ceremony was due to begin. The Humanist celebrant was in in her early forties, a shock of red hair piled atop her head. She smiled sympathetically, walked purposely towards me and took my hand. ‘Welcome, Wendy.’ With that simple greeting she turned and pointed towards the coffin, a plain carboard construct. At least the spray of lilies on top were genuine, if vat grown. ‘Would you like a moment with the deceased?’ I nodded and made my way to where the coffin sat on a raised pedestal. In addition to the flowers I’d ordered a small framed picture, a head and shoulders shot of Anya taken during our time in the refuge. If she didn’t have the smile of an angel it was at least one of carefree innocence. A pang of guilt twisted in my gut. I should have tried to get her away from the gang life Carice had lured us into. The old coulda, shoulda, woulda. But the reality was my own life had absorbed me too much to think of, let alone care about, others. ‘Maybe it’s unseemly pride, but I had such hopes for the pair of you.’ The voice was little above a melancholy whisper, one I’d not heard in many years, but I knew exactly who I would find behind me when I turned. Dr Claudia Rae looked much as I ed her, perhaps a little fuller in the figure, but ever immaculately turned out. Only the eyes gave her away now, as they did when we first met, kindly but shaded by too much pain. ‘Still,’ she said. ‘You seem to have done all right for yourself. Any idea who’s paying for this?’ ‘No,’ I lied, refusing to meet her gaze. In that moment her gentle disapproval made all I’d accomplished feel worthless. ‘Excuse me,’ I said brusquely and made my way to the front row of the chairs.

Claudia took up a similar position on the opposite side of the aisle. I fought the urge to rush over and seek forgiveness. I’d long since left behind the errant child seeking solace in a parent figure. Claudia had earned her money on her back. What right did she have to sit in judgement on me? My growing rage broke against the sight of Anya’s coffin. Today wasn’t about me. Least that’s what I told myself. I turned in my seat to find two mourners seated at the rear of the chapel. Clothes, haircuts and demeanour all screamed plainclothes officers. They’d come to scope out Anya’s literal partners in crime. Careful as I’d been, there was always a chance they’d connect me to Rosenstein, putting myself and Feldmann in danger. But, as luck would have it, the main attraction arrived at that moment. Carice was almost unrecognisable as the young woman I’d known. Her features coarsened by experience and drug use; her body thick with corded muscle from time in prison. Her gang brand shone proudly on her arm, accompanied by various scars left by bullets and knifes that told the brutal story of her fight to stay at the top of a two-bit pack of thugs. The two girls that accompanied her were younger facsimiles, destined, like Anya, to end their days in a cardboard cremation box. They swaggered up the central aisle, popping gum like cartoon hoodlums. I knew from Carice’s stance that it was injured pride that had brought her here; the need to see who had the affront to pay for her fallen soldier’s funeral. They took their seats behind Claudia, a ghost from the past Carice clearly recognised. The Humanist celebrant kept the ceremony short, tactfully avoiding Anya’s death at the hands of the police and glossing over a short life lived in gangland violence. Claudia was the only one to accept the invitation to speak about the deceased. She recounted a bright young woman robbed of her possibilities. The accusation was painfully clear and its target looked relieved that Claudia had gifted her an outlet for her guilt and rage. I’d hoped to slip away unnoticed. That now seemed unlikely. The service concluded with one of the saccharine hits from the pop-casts I’d found so objectional when we were in the refuge. In many ways it seemed a travesty that such an inane soundbite should soundtrack her descent into the flames of the cremation chamber. But Anya had doted on those boy bands with

a teenager’s need for escapism. I shook hands with the celebrant and made my way to the exit. I had arranged delivery of the urn with Anya’s ashes to a secure collection locker. Claudia was next in line to share a few words of thanks. I felt Carice and her shadows at my back as I walked down the aisle. I used the second or two of grace at the exit to duck into the shadow of a doorway. Instinct told me something bad was about to play out. Carice and company swung to the opposite side and waited. Barely restrained fury visible in every line of her body. She stepped straight into Claudia’s path and jabbed a blunt finger into her chest. ‘Well if it ain’t the high and mighty doctor. Still doing your good work saving lost girls?’ Claudia straightened up and held Carice’s gaze. I pictured her back in the day, displaying the same unflinching pride just before some pimp beat her down. She might have left the gutter behind but she still understood violence and refused to bow before it. The tableau held for a few seconds as the not so undercover cops left the chapel and walked on by. Street brawls were apparently below their paygrade. The punch was fast but I was faster. Stepping out of the shadows and blocking the blow with my forearm. Claudia took a step back, wrongfooted by the unexpected intervention. ‘Now that, bitch,’ Carice spat, ‘was a mistake.’ ‘Same old Carice. Using your fists before your head.’ The use of her name brought her up short and made her step back the better to look me up and down. ‘Well if it ain’t my old friend, Stina. Take a good look at this bitch, girls. She used to be one of us, but she turned her back on her sisters. Ran away like some mangy cur. Guess she thought herself better than us. That right, Stina? You better than those of us still fighting to protect our corners?’

‘Not for me to say. I made my choice not to end up burnt in a carboard box before I was twenty.’ ‘Bitch, I ought to cut you where you stand for that.’ ‘But you won’t.’ I motioned with my head across the road to where the two plainclothes officers were going a very bad job of pretending to be interested in a store window. ‘Our mutual friends there would have you back inside before you could blink.’ Carice straightened, puffing herself up. I knew it for the empty display it was. ‘You got lucky today. that, because next time I see you there won’t be any cops about to save your ass.’ With that threat, Carice turned and walked away, her companions falling in either side of her, half a step behind. The cops let them get all of twenty metres before moving off in their direction. ‘Guess I owe you some thanks. How about I buy you a coffee and you tell me what’s going on in your life?’ ‘Sorry, Claudia, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. Reckon I’ve made enough mistakes for one day.’ Claudia sighed. And there it was again, the twist in my gut of having disappointed her. But I held firm, knowing it was safer for her not to be involved in my world. ‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said. ‘Be careful. I think you’ve made an enemy today.’ ‘Possibly. But the key to handling a scorpion is knowing it’s in its nature to sting.’

Chapter 45

I got word the urn was ready for collection the following afternoon. The confrontation with Carice had left me unsettled and I felt twitchy. I told myself the cops were unlikely to have read anything more suspicious into it than a gangbanger being a gangbanger. Even if they’d wired the place for sound, there was nothing of substance in our conversation that would persuade a judge to issue a warrant forcing the chapel to reveal my identity and the urn’s collection point. Even so, I drove past the lockers three times, checking for a tail before finally parking up. The box seemed surprisingly light. I shook it and felt something move inside, heard a faint rattle, probably the remains of a femur. Someday I knew that would be me. Carbon based life reduced again to carbon. Nothing more or less. I’d got that from Daddy. He called religion the crutch of the feeble-minded, an excuse for people to abrogate responsibility for their actions. For all his many and varied flaws, he owned everything he did and didn’t let it keep him awake at night. The old bastard was good at compartmentalising. An hour later I was bobbing about in the centre of lake Trasimeno, trying and failing to find some suitable words. I mean, what was there to say? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, ever so sorry you fucked up your life. In the end I did the only thing I could – unscrewed the cap of the urn and poured Anya’s ashes on the water, where they slowly swirled away. I spent the next hour lying back in the boat staring up at a watery sun. I might have stayed longer if the boat hadn’t drifted ashore. The wind had picked up by this time and the sky turned a shade of leaden grey that threatened snow. I flipped up the collar of my jacket, dropped the urn in a litter bin and started the bike. Brooding wouldn’t change anything. I needed something to occupy myself with, so I pulled up the Casbah on my com-unit and went looking for the most challenging job available.

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Feldmann gave me the space I needed over the next week, leaving me to my own devices after letting me know he was there if needed. There were times I could see he was close to breaking his word, only for him to pull away at the last moment. I think my pain hurt him more than it hurt me. The trouble was the cure I’d prescribed myself didn’t even treat the symptoms, let alone the cause. The first hit I signed on for was a business tycoon who had bought a rival manufacturing company, asset stripped it and laid off the workforce. A textbook shot from five hundred metres ended him during his early morning jog. I felt nothing. No pride in my skill or sense of having delivered justice for close to a thousand disenfranchised workers. I simply pulled the trigger like an automaton, watched him sprawl on the road, and packed away my rifle. Next, thinking I needed something more up close and personal, I took out a socialite’s philandering husband, picking him up in a bar and scratching him with a fingernail dipped in a slow acting neuro-toxin. It paralysed him first and I sat beside him on the bed in a cheap motel and watched him suffocate while holding a picture of his wife in his line of sight. No gratification. No release. Like chasing a high I couldn’t reach again. I gave up plying my trade as a bad job after that. Retail therapy proved equally fruitless. The heels might have accentuated my legs and the dress shown off my curves, but who was I dressing for? A trip down the range shredding targets with a new flechette-auto likewise failed to lift my spirits, as did an attempt at deg my own tactical knife. Drinking Anya off my mind didn’t work either. Not after a night spent vomiting into the toilet while Feldmann held my hair out of the way. Though I think he found a little comfort in what finally appeared to be a normal reaction to grief. My sleep pattern predictably went to Hell and I found myself taking long night time drives around city, cruising on the bike looking for trouble. Trouble, it seemed, was wise to me and kept out of my way. I ate up klick after klick, tearing down the centre white lines, weaving in and out of the automated HGV’s, triggering their proximity alarms for spite. Round and round until the skies lightened and I finally pitched up at home, exhausted enough to snatch a few

hours fitful sleep. It was after one such trip that I arrived back at the apartment in the early hours to find Daddy sitting on the sofa. He looked up and smiled like the intervening years had never happened. ‘Hello, Stina.’

Chapter 46

‘What the fuck do you want?’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Daddy looked mildly pained by them if not overly surprised. Feldmann shifted uneasily, rapidly recalibrating the situation, having wrongfully assumed I’d be pleased to see Daddy. Guess that was my fault for not telling him about my past. ‘Is that anyway to greet your father after almost five years?’ ‘You stopped being my father the day I left home.’ ‘Left?’ Some of the old rage flared in his voice. ‘You snuck out in the middle of the night like a common criminal. But I searched for you. Turned this abomination of a city upside down trying to find where you’d run off to.’ ‘Guess that didn’t work out so well for you. Not until now. Which raises the question; how did you find me?’ ‘A friend of yours dropped by. Gave me your address. Rough looking sort. Done some time, if I’m any judge. If that’s the kind of company you’ve been keeping it’s a wonder you’ve lived this long.’ Carice! She must have tailed me or hacked the chapel database. I’d worry about that later. Once I’d dealt with the immediate problem. ‘Erik, why don’t you go and make us some coffee? I think Daddy and me need to have a little chat.’ He shot me a look but I shook my head to signal I didn’t need any help. Daddy watched him walk to the kitchen, then stood. I watched him slowly unfold to a height of almost two metres. At fifty-one he remained a solid slab of muscle, honed by strict diet and exercise. The salt ‘n’ pepper hair I ed had turned iron grey, adding to his hardness. He folded corded forearms across his chest and waited.

‘The cops must have notified you they were closing the missing person’s case after I turned eighteen and told them I didn’t want to come home?’ ‘Near tore my heart out, Stina. To be rejected by my own flesh and blood after all I’d done for you.’ ‘What? The social isolation? The punishment beatings? The programming that we were living in the end days? Yeah, thanks for nothing!’ ‘You always were wilful. You get that from your mother. But everything I did, I did it for your own good. The planet’s an ecological basket case. This city’s proof of that. Forty million people clinging to the ruins of a dead culture. A quarter of a century after the Great Flood and they still haven’t realised they’re doomed. But I can save you, Stina. Come home with me. Resume your training. Let me help you prepare for what’s coming. Don’t make me the last of our line.’ ‘Case you didn’t notice, Daddy, I’m all grown up now and can look after myself. I have a life here with Erik. One I’m very happy with.’ ‘Then they’ve got to you, my girl. Turned you into one of their happy little consumers. But their pretty little trinkets only exist to distract you from the truth and help keep you sedated and in your place. If you won’t come willingly, then I’ll have to make you.’ ‘You haven’t changed in the slightest – using violence to get your way when words don’t work. I think you should leave now. Before you make me do something I probably won’t regret.’ Daddy took a step towards me and stopped as Feldmann came forward and caught his arm. ‘Looks like you’ve outstayed your welcome. You going to leave quietly or do we have to do this the hard way?’ ‘If I were you, son, I’d take that hand off me before I break your arm. That way hard enough for you?’ ‘Erik, it’s all right. I got this.’

Feldmann looked over at me and in that moment of distraction Daddy pivoted free of his grasp and caught his still outstretched arm in his own grip. Bone cracked loudly as he forced the elbow t against itself, the momentum spinning Feldmann to the floor. With his man down, Daddy planted his foot on Feldmann’s back, keeping pressure on the fractured arm. ‘This doesn’t have to concern you. Stay down and keep out of it and no more harm will come to you. We got no quarrel you and me.’ Considering the matter closed, Daddy turned his back on Feldmann and advanced towards me. ‘What will it take to make you leave? I got money. Enough to keep you supplied for several years. It’s yours if you just go.’ ‘You still don’t get it, do you? You’re my flesh and blood. You can’t pay me off like some tradesman. You’re all I got left of your mother. All I have for a future.’ The look in his eyes told he wasn’t going to budge on this. Yeah, we were going to have to do this the hard way. I swung fast only for Daddy to block the punch with his left forearm and deliver a right-cross that sent tooth enamel and blood flying. If anything, the old bastard was quicker and harder than I ed. He stepped forward and the heel of his right hand struck my sternum, dumping me on my ass. ‘Hey, old man. Got something for you!’ Daddy turned into Feldmann’s southpaw. The blow snapped his head back but he kept his footing. I saw him reach for the small of his back and tried to shout a warning, but my swollen mouth could only grunt. I watched helplessly as Daddy thumped the black hilt into Feldmann’s chest and triggered the gravity knife’s blade. Feldmann’s eyes widened and blood bubbled from between his lips as he dropped to his knees. ‘Now look what you made me do?’ A look of disgust flitted across Daddy’s face as I crawled across the floor to where Feldmann had collapsed on his back. I knew even before I took him in

my arms that he was gone, the knife embedded in his heart. I leaned in close, letting my hair hang down like a screen, aware of Daddy standing behind me. The grip of the knife was slick with blood, but it came free centimetre by centimetre as I rocked back and forth putting on a display of grief. Daddy’s hand dropped on my shoulder as the tip of the blade finally slid clear of Feldmann’s flesh. ‘Pull yourself together, girl. I raised you tougher than that.’ ‘That you did!’ I spun to the right, swinging my right arm upwards with the knife reversed in my hand. It pierced him below the sternum and drove upwards into his heart. He staggered back, his hands reaching for the hilt but lacking the strength to grip it. I stood up, pushed him to the ground and stepped astride his body. I watched the light fade out of his eyes. ‘Guess you taught me right, Daddy.’

Chapter 47

It’s said that the definition of madness is repeating the same action over and over and expecting a different result. Exactly how many times qualifies as the above, I couldn’t say. But I checked Feldmann for a pulse four times before I finally came to my senses. Then I sat for another half hour with his head on my lap while his blood formed an expanding ring around us. A similar halo formed around Daddy, adding to an abattoir reek that the air-con did little to dispel. Professional instinct finally kicked in; sitting in an apartment with two dead bodies during the height of summer was sure to end badly. I’d well and truly shat in my own nest, but at least I had all the materials for body disposal to hand. Having laid out several layers of plastic sheeting, I started with Feldmann, realising his would be the hardest body to work with. I stripped the body and placed his clothes and ID in a refuse sack. Then came the hard part, removal of the head and hands. I used an old-fashioned Liston knife to cut through skin, sinew and muscle, then got to work with the bone saw. Dry retching shook my body in response to its rasping. I swallowed my bile and kept going. Told myself this was a job like any other. Routine disappearance, for which procedures were in place. The procedure went as follows: head and hands packed into medical cooler box, body securely wrapped in twenty layers of plastic sheeting, clothes and personal effects placed in refuse sack. Three distinct packages, three distinct destinations. Package one was destined for Hamburg General where a medical orderly, employed via the Casbah, would incinerate the contents as medical waste. Incineration also awaited package two, this time at a waste and reclamation centre. Package three was down to myself; sometimes by water, but usually by land, as there were plenty of active construction projects at this point in city’s history. A quick search identified the construction of a new tower block scheme in a nearby reclaim zone. Time to make some calls – transport and a cleaning crew. Having confirmed the van’s arrival within the hour I did some stripping of my own, left my clothes piled on the bloody living room floor and hit the shower. I

used a good portion of the week’s water ration waiting for the run-off to turn from pink to clear, Feldmann’s life-stuff literally swirling down the drain. I made a mental note to ensure the clean-up included the bathroom and spurred myself into action with a final blast of icy water, ignoring the sting as it hit my burst lip. I was pulling a hi-vis vest over a set of coveralls when a bleep on my com-unit informed me my transport had arrived. The driver appeared at the door five minutes later. He was a squat, powerfully built man with an olive complexion crowned by corkscrew curls of black hair. I’d met him on at least two previous disposal jobs. We acknowledged one another with a curt nod and proceeded with the job at hand, transporting the bodies and containers to the basement parking lot via the service elevator. This was the most dangerous part of the disposal. Locked doors and “Out of Order” signs could only protect you so far; a two metre long bundle of plastic wrap looks like a body even when it’s something innocuous. Two tense trips later, I left the driver in the apartment to brief the clean-up crew and rode the elevator back to the basement on my own. The coast remained clear, so I loaded the coolers and refuse sacks and clambered into the van. The roads were quiet and the sun rising as I drove through the district in a sweeping arc; hitting first the hospital and then the reclamation centre, before arriving at the construction site. Demand for housing had become so critical the sites worked 24/7, automated machines digging foundations, pouring plascrete and throwing up steelwork in preparation for the craning in of the pre-fabed living sections. I waited until I saw one of the drones prepping for a pour before reversing the van up to the far side and rolling in the bodies. A warning buzzer sounded and twenty seconds later several hundred cubic metres of plascrete sluiced forward in a porridge-like tide. By the time it levelled the drone had already moved to the next pour. I resisted the urge to write an epitaph, mawkish or otherwise, in its surface and got into the van. Which one was Daddy and Erik’s final resting place? I couldn’t tell you – they literally all looked the same. Not that it mattered. As Anya had already proved to me, dead was dead. Least that’s what I told myself as I drove away.

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Killing Daddy seemed to clear some blockage in my psyche. I certainly derived a satisfaction from it that had been missing of late. While Feldmann’s loss felt raw and ragged, it also felt natural. I mourned him deeply but moved on regardless. Selling up our apartment and using the proceeds, together with funds Feldmann had left me, to buy a penthouse in the New Docklands development. Maybe Daddy was right and I was distracting myself with pretty baubles. But I also knew worrying about the world going to Hell wasn’t going to change it. The years slipped by and with them my reputation and fortunes climbed once more. Among the Six Families my name was gold; a sure, discrete and reliable source. But I preferred to stay clear of the convoluted politics of the city’s organised crime families. There was work aplenty on the Casbah, for which I was able to name my price. If the pain of losing Feldmann never quite faded I at least found myself able to seek comfort as long as it came without commitment. Others might have wanted more, but it felt like a win to me.

PART ELEVEN 3 May 2088

Chapter 48

Llewellyn is good to his word and issues me a full pardon, both for crimes known and unknown. What can I say? I’ve been a busy girl during my career. By mutual agreement I stay city-side until the conclusion of the trial. The jury finds Haynes, Nilsson and Artaud guilty on a range of charges from misconduct in a public office to drug and arms trafficking. The evidence, however, fails to link them to the various hit squads, sparing them the needle. Even so, Haynes receives a seventy-three year sentence, Nilsson goes down for eight and Artaud gets a twenty stretch and a lifetime ban from holding a directorship. The Tessler group receives the largest fine in corporate history — a whopping 10% of its annual profits. Seventeen co-conspirators clock up an impressive three hundred and twenty-five years between them. Like the fine, it’s a purge on a scale previously unheard of. Birgette Ladegaard takes official office as Supreme Councillor and immediately sets up a committee to review oversight of the ED, plus another for corporate governance. The cynic in me suspects it’ll amount to little more than sabre rattling. But who knows? This brave new world of ours might actually see some of it enacted into law. Not that it will make a shred of difference in the long run. Europa City’s manufacturing will continue to feed the RSA’s war machine enabling their crusade against the Islamic Caliphate. Both sides have been fighting a brutal war of attrition since the fall of Jerusalem in ’63. A girl like me could make her fortune several times over. But some money is just too dirty to ever wash clean. I’m waiting to check in for my flight to Casablanca when Kurtzman appears. His face has that constipated look it gets when he suspects someone is dicking him around. ‘You got my message, detective?’ ‘Yeah, I got it. But I’m curious as to what you think still needs saying between you and me. Most skags I’ve met are grateful to get away with murder.’ I let the insult go. It’s just Kurtzman being Kurtzman. ‘I hear you’re working

cold cases now? Winding down to your retirement?’ ‘You heard right. What’s it to you?’ I slip the data-cube out of my pocket and hold it out. Kurtzman looks as if I’m trying to hand him a turd. ‘It won’t bite, you know.’ ‘That’s as maybe. But before you give me Pandora’s Box I’d like to know what’s inside.’ ‘Nothing bad. Quite the opposite. It’s a list of all the kills I made in your jurisdiction. Figured the least I could do is make sure you didn’t spend your last couple of years on the job chasing cases you’d no hope of clearing.’ ‘This is you doing me a solid? Not your way of rubbing my nose in the ones you got away with?’ ‘ how we first met in Henrik Skramstad’s apartment? You in a SOC oversuit with a bag full of evidence linking him to three rape/homicides. Didn’t seem to worry you much that night that I’d killed him.’ ‘Your point being?’ ‘You don’t get to stand in judgement on me. We’ve both changed since then. I like to think for the better. I’m no psychologist, but your transfer to cold cases smacks of atonement to me. So take the damn cube and see if you can’t use it to bring closure to a family or two. That’s what you’re after, right? Redemption.’ ‘And what exactly are looking for?’ Kurtzman asks, taking the cube. ‘A bit of peace and quiet. For now, at least.’ Kurtzman raises a sceptical eyebrow but he shakes my hand regardless. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I trust this is goodbye and not au revoir?’ ‘Certainly is.’ He nods, finding my answer satisfactory and I turn away and wheel my carry-on luggage towards the check-in desk. Thanks to the money Vogel tried to buy me

with I’m flying first class. More than that, I’ve no need to work for the immediate future. At thirty-two I’m certainly not old, but I’m no spring chicken either. Now would be a good time to move into the consultancy business, provide expertise and training. The world’s full of young Turks looking to make a name. Think I’ll leave the killing to them. Because in the end that was Daddy’s great failing; not quitting while he was ahead. I’m smarter than that. I look out of the window as the plane turns across the blue expanse of the Mediterranean. Sunlight glints from the city’s tallest towers, burnishing them with gold. It looks beautiful but I know it’s only a façade, covering the ugliness that hides below. I pull down my blind, sip my champagne and look to the future.

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About the Author

Leon Steelgrave is the author of the Europa City series – hardboiled science fiction that traces its genealogy back to the pulp stories of the 1930s. This dark and satirical world serves as a warning of the dangers of ecological disaster and totalitarian regimes. Leon’s early work includes articles and reviews for music fanzines Take To The Sky and Glasperlenspiel. But it was his attempt to secure a commission for writing one of a series of Judge Dredd novels published by Virgin Books that kickstarted his fiction writing career. Although ultimately unsuccessful, the editorial was sufficiently positive and encouraging for him to complete his debut novel White Vampyre. He has published a further three books in the series and is currently working on the first of a new series set in the wider Europa City universe. Leon is a member of the Alliance of Independent Authors and self-publishes his work through Ice Pick Books – fiction to make your ears burn! Writing being a solitary profession, Leon loves to engage with his readers, so feel free to his mailing list for releases, updates and exclusive material. Read more at Leon Steelgrave’s site.