two anonymous-looking occupants.
The atmosphere in London was bad; it was wrong.
Something nasty was going down.
‘Roadblock,’ said Ed softly.
‘I see it.’
They slowed, caught in a crawling queue of traffic moving towards Covent Garden. The rain turned to snow and swirled in the gently moaning wind. The quality of the light seemed to become subdued.
‘Shall we ditch the car?’
‘We’re too close to them now; they’ve probably tagged us,’ said Carter softly. ‘We’ll have to chance it.’
They moved on, closer and closer to the checkpoint. Carter pulled his collar up as snow settled across his shoulders and head and into the Range Rover’s damp interior. He allowed the snow to build, disguising the colour of his hair. As they reached the checkpoint—a temporary construction fashioned from sandbags and concrete-filled oil drums, and protected by two GAU 19/A Gatling-type three-barrelled machine guns that fired .50 Browning cartridges and were capable of putting down two thousand rounds per minute—the Nex waved the Range Rover through with only a cursory glance at the occupants.
Still Carter felt tense; the Browning dug into his hip as if reminding him of their mutual agreement—a blood-brother agreement written in the splattered souls of innumerable victims.
Carter eased the Range Rover forward, past the intimidating GAUs. They turned right at the earliest opportunity, down a narrow side street which had once been home to some of London’s finest West End restaurants but was now an avenue of dereliction. Carter killed the engine and both he and Ed clambered out, shouldering their packs. Carter checked up and down the gloomy street, looking back at shattered restaurant fronts and the bullet-riddled stonework around gaping doorways. He discreetly checked the ECube given to him by Nicky, then orientated himself. He killed the tiny machine, looked into Ed’s eyes, and said, ‘This way.’
They walked along the buckled pavements for five minutes, passing groups of people huddled in the snow or hurrying with heads down and dark-circled eyes shadowed by their fear. Stopping outside a deserted building Carter and Ed quickly stepped into the cold and draughty interior.
The building’s windows had long ago disintegrated, and the interior sported nothing more than rotting carpets. The walls were pockmarked with the signs of old battle. One wall sported a long jagged crack running from ceiling to floor.
‘Is this place condemned?’ Ed asked.
‘I would hope so,’ said Carter softly, his Browning in his fist as he moved forward past a disused buckled lift and towards a wide sweep of marble stairs. ‘Somebody sure shot the shit out of this place.’
The stairs were incomplete, with sections of marble facing missing to reveal gaps and blocks of supporting stone beneath. Carter trod warily up the snow-slippery steps.
He moved slowly and with care, eyes scanning continually. After four storeys of climbing the two men finally came to a series of narrow galvanised steps rising steeply to the roof.
The wind snapped at their exposed skin like a terrier, and snow settled across them in a diagonal fall. They moved carefully to the large stone blocks at the edge of the building, crouched, and peered over at the spread of the city around them. To their left rose a slick dome of green copper and the large white clock face—bullet-pocked like the victim of some awful skin disease.
Traffic moved in blocks below, held up by various checkpoints. Some people gathered on the streets, but this was lessening with the severity of the weather now that the snowstorm had increased in intensity. Carter’s sharp eyes picked up plenty of Nex—a more heavy concentration of them than he would have liked.
‘There’s a lot of them down there, boy,’ Ed muttered.
‘Yeah. And that’s why you’re going to stay up here. Watch my back.’
‘Which is the target building?’
Carter nodded over the low stone lip to a
The atmosphere in London was bad; it was wrong.
Something nasty was going down.
‘Roadblock,’ said Ed softly.
‘I see it.’
They slowed, caught in a crawling queue of traffic moving towards Covent Garden. The rain turned to snow and swirled in the gently moaning wind. The quality of the light seemed to become subdued.
‘Shall we ditch the car?’
‘We’re too close to them now; they’ve probably tagged us,’ said Carter softly. ‘We’ll have to chance it.’
They moved on, closer and closer to the checkpoint. Carter pulled his collar up as snow settled across his shoulders and head and into the Range Rover’s damp interior. He allowed the snow to build, disguising the colour of his hair. As they reached the checkpoint—a temporary construction fashioned from sandbags and concrete-filled oil drums, and protected by two GAU 19/A Gatling-type three-barrelled machine guns that fired .50 Browning cartridges and were capable of putting down two thousand rounds per minute—the Nex waved the Range Rover through with only a cursory glance at the occupants.
Still Carter felt tense; the Browning dug into his hip as if reminding him of their mutual agreement—a blood-brother agreement written in the splattered souls of innumerable victims.
Carter eased the Range Rover forward, past the intimidating GAUs. They turned right at the earliest opportunity, down a narrow side street which had once been home to some of London’s finest West End restaurants but was now an avenue of dereliction. Carter killed the engine and both he and Ed clambered out, shouldering their packs. Carter checked up and down the gloomy street, looking back at shattered restaurant fronts and the bullet-riddled stonework around gaping doorways. He discreetly checked the ECube given to him by Nicky, then orientated himself. He killed the tiny machine, looked into Ed’s eyes, and said, ‘This way.’
They walked along the buckled pavements for five minutes, passing groups of people huddled in the snow or hurrying with heads down and dark-circled eyes shadowed by their fear. Stopping outside a deserted building Carter and Ed quickly stepped into the cold and draughty interior.
The building’s windows had long ago disintegrated, and the interior sported nothing more than rotting carpets. The walls were pockmarked with the signs of old battle. One wall sported a long jagged crack running from ceiling to floor.
‘Is this place condemned?’ Ed asked.
‘I would hope so,’ said Carter softly, his Browning in his fist as he moved forward past a disused buckled lift and towards a wide sweep of marble stairs. ‘Somebody sure shot the shit out of this place.’
The stairs were incomplete, with sections of marble facing missing to reveal gaps and blocks of supporting stone beneath. Carter trod warily up the snow-slippery steps.
He moved slowly and with care, eyes scanning continually. After four storeys of climbing the two men finally came to a series of narrow galvanised steps rising steeply to the roof.
The wind snapped at their exposed skin like a terrier, and snow settled across them in a diagonal fall. They moved carefully to the large stone blocks at the edge of the building, crouched, and peered over at the spread of the city around them. To their left rose a slick dome of green copper and the large white clock face—bullet-pocked like the victim of some awful skin disease.
Traffic moved in blocks below, held up by various checkpoints. Some people gathered on the streets, but this was lessening with the severity of the weather now that the snowstorm had increased in intensity. Carter’s sharp eyes picked up plenty of Nex—a more heavy concentration of them than he would have liked.
‘There’s a lot of them down there, boy,’ Ed muttered.
‘Yeah. And that’s why you’re going to stay up here. Watch my back.’
‘Which is the target building?’
Carter nodded over the low stone lip to a
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