Without warning

‘Right,’ Pete agreed, before waving his hand in the general direction of the energy wave. ‘That thing out there, most people won’t realise it yet, but that thing has thrown us into a state of fucking nature, a war of all against all. And I’ve been wondering whether the safest option might be to ride it out in the south Pacific for a couple of years. Island-hop, trade a bit. Stay one step ahead of the chaos – because it’s coming, believe me.’

‘Already here,’ said Lee.

‘What’s that?’ asked Pete, spinning in his captain’s chair.

Mr Lee was standing a few feet away, splitting his attention between a radar screen and an enormous pair of Zeiss binoculars, mounted on a pivot stand, through which he’d been watching the southern horizon. He’d peer through the glasses, check the screen, and peer through the glasses again, finally grunting once, emphatically.

‘Twelve miles sou’-sou’-east, Mr Peter. Three go-fast boats I see. They making over sixty knots.’

‘Heading?’ quizzed Jules before Pete could open his mouth.

‘Straight for us, I’ll bet,’ said Pete in a flat, fatalistic voice.

Mr Lee nodded. ‘Straight for us.’

‘They packin’?’ asked Fifi, suddenly on her feet, shotgun in hand. ‘You think I should go get the worm?’

‘Too far away, cannot see.’

‘They’re packin’,’ sighed Pete. ‘Come on,’ he said, pushing himself up out of the chair, ‘it’s started. And yeah, Fifi – go break out the worm. And get your cannon too.’

‘Awesome.’

* * * *

10

PITIЙ-SALPКTRIИRE HOSPITAL, PARIS

‘Non!’

The French girl’s shriek was a raw, animal sound. Within it roiled pain, violation, horror and outrage. Her face, a mask of dark, primal emotions, raged at Caitlin over the unwavering muzzle of the Glock 23. The assassin had long ago stopped counting the number of men and women whose last seconds she’d seen through crosshairs or iron gun sights, and she knew from that face that Monique’s cry was not a plea for life. It was a scream of protest at what had already been taken from her. Trust and intimacy and a whole world in which Caitlin (or Cathy, as Monique knew her) was a friend, not a liar and a murderer.

A hot flush washed over the Echelon agent, dizzying, unexpected. She let her gun hand fall to her side, tired of it all. And she might still use Monique to get to al Banna. If that still mattered.

‘If you stay here you will die,’ she said. ‘Come with me right now, and you might live.’

The emergency room remained a still life by Goya. The first cries of staff and patients had been silenced by the shots she’d fired into the heads of her would-be killers – or captors. As Caitlin turned for the exit, a spasm of movement passed through the onlookers, as each flinched away from the line of her gaze. One man in a white coat, a doctor most likely, took a few hesitant steps in her direction, but a shake of her head and a casual wave of the pistol in his direction arrested any further advance. Caitlin did not check to see whether Monique was following her as she exited the ER. She knew the girl would.

Walking quickly but calmly towards a set of sliding doors, she stripped off her bloodied chambray shirt. The white vest underneath was stained pink but she hid the worst of it with a black leather motorcycle jacket, lifted from the corner of a litter on which a man with a heavily bandaged head lay unconscious. It was too big for her but would have to do for now. The guns, identical models, went into a couple of zippered pockets and she plucked the last of the sensor leads from her filthy hair. A roll of thick surgical tape from a nurse’s trolley went into another pocket. In the last few steps she turned and walked backwards, scanning the room quickly for any more pursuers. Monique was glaring at her with unalloyed loathing, but she was following just a few feet behind, victim of a type of Stockholm syndrome that Caitlin had seen and exploited many times before.

The doors closed on the Pitiй-Salpкtriиre with a chime and the protesting grumble of old rubber wheels in dirty guide rails. Early evening had come with a hard frost and she shivered inside the jacket, thankful for its warmth. Transport was her first and most urgent need, then shelter. When they were safely hidden away she would contact Wales, her overwatch coordinator. Her cover was blown. Her image and the fight in the emergency room had certainly been captured on hospital security video.

‘Where the fuck are we going, Cathy? What are you going to do? You killed those men. Murdered them.’ Monique’s tone was shrill, accusatory.

Caitlin shrugged her off, scanning the cars parked in front of the building as she hastened down the steps. A blue Renault Fuego had caught her eye – a good car, easily stolen, and as close to invisible in Paris as she could get on short notice. The front passenger-side window was open a crack.

‘It’s not the same,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’ Monique demanded to know, hurrying to catch up beside her.