a special agent. I could damn well look after myself.
I checked my watch. Half past nine. Maria.
“I need your help,” I said when she answered.
“What kind of help?” she asked cautiously. “If this is about Luke, I’m not—”
“It’s not about Luke. I have a…a situation here. I need you to help me out.”
“What kind of situation?”
“One that requires assistance,” I said through gritted teeth, not sure how much Balaclava Guy understood.
She asked where I was, sounding intrigued when I told her, and said she’d be there in fifteen minutes. She turned up in twelve.
“Impressive,” I said, running my eyes over her little red 205, which was panting and shuddering.
“Felt like breaking the limit,” she said. “Who’s this guy?”
“Dunno. He turned up and told me to drive. Not sure how much English he speaks.”
“He’s injured…”
“Yes.” I twirled my gun and nearly dropped it. “He drew on me so I drew on him. And then I shot him.”
“Anywhere fatal?”
“Lower arm.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “You want to put him downstairs?”
“Yep.”
“Okay.” She went to her car and got a mucky rag out of the door bucket, the sort you use to wipe condensation off windows. “He needs blindfolding.”
Good plan. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Balaclava Guy could walk okay, so Maria guided him up the ramp into the office, her own ten millimetre Glock pressed to his head as a reminder. I swiped my red pass on the control panel and unlocked the door, and when we were in, went to the bookshelf on the right hand wall and took off a file. There was another control panel there, and I swiped my card again, keyed in a code and glanced at Maria.
“Can you block his ears? I really should have chosen another thing for my voice recognition.”
She grinned and pressed the gun against one balaclava’d ear, and her hand against the other. “Go ahead.”
I spoke my name into the microphone, the control panel lit up, and the bookshelf broke in half and slid apart to reveal a little steel elevator.
“Remind me,” Maria said, “to change mine as well. Giving your name is not a smart thing to do.”
The lift went down one storey—at least I think it’s only one storey—and swooshed open onto a small but very expensively decked out lab. At the end of the lab was a small cage, its bars set into thick glass that could be hidden behind steel shutters if we wanted. We pulled Balaclava Guy over and Maria lifted her gun and cracked him on the head with it.
“I should have a heavier gun,” she said as he went down. “That took more effort than it used to with my Browning.”
“Won’t have killed him, will it?”
“Nah. Just keep him quiet.” She took off the window rag and pulled the balaclava away with it, and it occurred to me that she could easily have just turned the balaclava around to block his eyes. But then that wouldn’t have been as much fun, would it?
He was reasonably good-looking, I was surprised to see, with high, Slavic cheekbones and messy dark hair. Yeah. He could easily have been quite cute, if he hadn’t tried to kill me.
You know, I never thought I’d have to say that more than once.
Maria pushed up his shirt sleeve and checked the bullet wound. “Nice job,” she said, going over to one of the cupboards, which all required swipe-card entry, and getting a pair of large tweezers out. She extracted my bullet, put it in a metal bowl in the one of the refrigerated cupboards, then cleaned and wrapped a bandage around the wound. While she did this I checked his pockets for ID, and found a Czech passport.
“Interesting,” Maria said. “And also incredibly stupid. Who carries their passport around with them?”
I hoped she wouldn’t be going through my bag any time soon.
“Staszic, Petr,” I read. “Twenty-eight. Occupation: civil servant.”
“Doesn’t look very civil to me,” Maria said. “You want to leave him here?”
“Last time I
I checked my watch. Half past nine. Maria.
“I need your help,” I said when she answered.
“What kind of help?” she asked cautiously. “If this is about Luke, I’m not—”
“It’s not about Luke. I have a…a situation here. I need you to help me out.”
“What kind of situation?”
“One that requires assistance,” I said through gritted teeth, not sure how much Balaclava Guy understood.
She asked where I was, sounding intrigued when I told her, and said she’d be there in fifteen minutes. She turned up in twelve.
“Impressive,” I said, running my eyes over her little red 205, which was panting and shuddering.
“Felt like breaking the limit,” she said. “Who’s this guy?”
“Dunno. He turned up and told me to drive. Not sure how much English he speaks.”
“He’s injured…”
“Yes.” I twirled my gun and nearly dropped it. “He drew on me so I drew on him. And then I shot him.”
“Anywhere fatal?”
“Lower arm.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “You want to put him downstairs?”
“Yep.”
“Okay.” She went to her car and got a mucky rag out of the door bucket, the sort you use to wipe condensation off windows. “He needs blindfolding.”
Good plan. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Balaclava Guy could walk okay, so Maria guided him up the ramp into the office, her own ten millimetre Glock pressed to his head as a reminder. I swiped my red pass on the control panel and unlocked the door, and when we were in, went to the bookshelf on the right hand wall and took off a file. There was another control panel there, and I swiped my card again, keyed in a code and glanced at Maria.
“Can you block his ears? I really should have chosen another thing for my voice recognition.”
She grinned and pressed the gun against one balaclava’d ear, and her hand against the other. “Go ahead.”
I spoke my name into the microphone, the control panel lit up, and the bookshelf broke in half and slid apart to reveal a little steel elevator.
“Remind me,” Maria said, “to change mine as well. Giving your name is not a smart thing to do.”
The lift went down one storey—at least I think it’s only one storey—and swooshed open onto a small but very expensively decked out lab. At the end of the lab was a small cage, its bars set into thick glass that could be hidden behind steel shutters if we wanted. We pulled Balaclava Guy over and Maria lifted her gun and cracked him on the head with it.
“I should have a heavier gun,” she said as he went down. “That took more effort than it used to with my Browning.”
“Won’t have killed him, will it?”
“Nah. Just keep him quiet.” She took off the window rag and pulled the balaclava away with it, and it occurred to me that she could easily have just turned the balaclava around to block his eyes. But then that wouldn’t have been as much fun, would it?
He was reasonably good-looking, I was surprised to see, with high, Slavic cheekbones and messy dark hair. Yeah. He could easily have been quite cute, if he hadn’t tried to kill me.
You know, I never thought I’d have to say that more than once.
Maria pushed up his shirt sleeve and checked the bullet wound. “Nice job,” she said, going over to one of the cupboards, which all required swipe-card entry, and getting a pair of large tweezers out. She extracted my bullet, put it in a metal bowl in the one of the refrigerated cupboards, then cleaned and wrapped a bandage around the wound. While she did this I checked his pockets for ID, and found a Czech passport.
“Interesting,” Maria said. “And also incredibly stupid. Who carries their passport around with them?”
I hoped she wouldn’t be going through my bag any time soon.
“Staszic, Petr,” I read. “Twenty-eight. Occupation: civil servant.”
“Doesn’t look very civil to me,” Maria said. “You want to leave him here?”
“Last time I
Similar Books
