Market Forces Page 26

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It rained hard most of the next week, and the roads turned treacherous. As usual, patchwork repairs hadn’t stood up to the summer weather, and the various service providers were still squabbling about whose responsibility it was to put it right. Chris drove the Saab at careful velocities, getting in to Shorn later than usual and doing a lot of his phone work from the car. The datadown ran remote scrambling and patched through flagged callers on automatic.

  Back to work. Back to the pretence.

  It was easier now he was committed. Two weeks of jittering uncertainty, of not knowing if they’d get away with it, knowing even less what would come of the meeting - now it all gave way to solid data. He knew they wanted him now, knew at a level he could trust more than Carla’s wishful thinking assurances and his own mixed feelings. Now it was just a matter of waiting to see if they could afford him. A no-lose situation. They could afford him, he went. They couldn’t afford him, he stayed. Either way, he had work, he had guarantees. He had income.

  A small part of him knew that he would lose Carla if he stayed, but somehow he couldn’t make that matter as much as he knew it should.

  Back to work.

  Wednesday morning, turning onto the Elsenham ramp, he heard from Lopez. Confirmation of Vicente Barranco’s arrival date.

  ‘It’s good,’ said the Americas agent through the crackle of the scrambler and a bad satellite link. ‘The way I figure it, you’ve got North Memorial on. You could show him round, maybe buy him a few assault rifles.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s. Fuck.’ His foot came off the accelerator as the realisation hit. He nearly braked.

  ‘Chris?’ Lopez sounded concerned. ‘You still there?’

  He sighed. The car picked up speed again, down the ramp. ‘Yeah, I’m still here. I don’t suppose there’s any way you can set that date back about a week?’

  ‘A week? Jesus, Chris, you said as soon as possible. You said you’d move things around to—‘

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ The rain intensified as he came off the ramp. Chris turned up the wipers. ‘Look, forget it, send him anyway. My problem, I’ll deal with it here.’

  ‘Is this something I need to worry about?’

  ‘No. You did the right thing, it’s fine. I’ll be in touch.’ He cut the connection and redialled.

  ‘Yeah, this is Bryant.’

  ‘Mike, it’s Chris. We’ve got—‘

  ‘Just the man. You in yet?’

  ‘On the way. Listen, Mike—‘

  ‘How about lending me some of that old Emerging Markets background you don’t like to talk about these days, huh? You wouldn’t fucking believe what happened in Harbin this morning.’

  ‘Mike—‘

  ‘You remember that thing we were putting together with the guys in EM? The transport net sell-off?’

  Chris gave up and searched his memory. The north-eastern end of the former People’s Republic of China wasn’t his sphere of interest. Outside the tendencies of ethnic Chinese where Tarim Pendi was concerned, he didn’t pay the area much attention. And his dealings with Shorn’s Emerging Markets division had been minimal so far. They were a hard enough bunch, but still pretty urbane by CI standards.

  Still, listening to Mike’s tale of woe might help take the sting out of the minor fuck-up he had to report.

  So think.

  He recalled a late night wine bar bitching session a week back. Mike and some elegant Chinese woman from Shorn EM. Crossover with an old CI account, guerrilla figures from the last decade, now snugly installed as political leaders. Privatisation schematics and character assassination of the major players. Who could be trusted further than they could be thrown. Macho stuff. The wine had been crap.

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He groped after a name. ‘The Tseng thing, right?’

  ‘Right.’ It was hard to tell if Bryant was angry or amused. ‘Had it all lined up and ready to roll. Now some shithead civil servant has taken out, get this, a fucking injunction to prevent the sell-off. They’re claiming it’s unlawful under the ‘37 Constitution.’

  ‘Well, is it?’

  ‘How the fuck would I know? I’m not EM, am I. Irene Lan’s team handle the legal stuff.’

  ‘Well, can’t you, I don’t know, pass a law or something? Change the current law? It’s not like this is Conflict as such. You are the government out there.’

  Mike sighed audibly. ‘Yeah, I know. Fucking politics. Give me a Kalashnikov and a dickhead to fire it any day. So. What’s up?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You sounded worried.’

  ‘Ah, yeah. Just a glitch. Barranco’s down to arrive in London on the eighteenth—‘

  ‘The eighteenth. Ah, fuck, Chris. That’s two days after Echevarria.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have—‘

  ‘Yeah, my fault, I know. I gave Lopez carte blanche to get him here asap. No other parameters.’

  ‘Carte Blanche?’ He could hear Mike grinning. ‘Who’s she? Yeah, alright, I don’t suppose it matters much. We’d better just make sure they don’t bang into each other in a corridor.’

  ‘Or at the North Memorial. I was thinking—‘

  Impact!

  The meaty crunch of metal on metal. The Saab jolted hard left and started to skid from the back. His foot slipped on the accelerator and he felt the treacherous slither as the wheels spun in water.

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Now what?’ Bryant, through a yawn.

  He fought the skid, shedding speed as fast as he dared. Eyes ripping across the mirrors, searching for the other car. Teeth gritted.

  ‘Where are you, motherfucker?’

  ‘Chris? You okay?’

  Another crunch from the rear. He wasn’t yet fully out of the skid and it sent him slithering again. He hauled on the wheel.

  ‘Motherfucker!’

  ‘Chris?’ By now, Mike had got it. His voice came through urgent. ‘What’s happening out there?’

  ‘I’m—‘

  Impact, again. He thought the Saab might spin clear round this time. Fighting it, he caught a glimpse of the other vehicle as it pulled clear. Primer-grey, looked like an old Mitsubishi from what he could see of the lines, but with the amount of custom-built armouring, it was hard to tell.

  No-namer?

  It was coming back, and the skid—

  He made the decision too fast for it to register until afterwards. As the other car leapt forward, he jerked the wheel back the way he’d hauled it and opened the skid up. His guts sloshed. The no-namer struck, but Chris had read the manoeuvre correctly. With the spin on the Saab, his attacker’s impact was a barely felt jab, in a direction he was already sliding.

  The Saab spun about.

  For a heartbeat they were parallel, facing each other. He saw a pale face, staring through the windscreen of the other car. Then it was gone, past him southward as he braked the Saab to a wagging halt, pointed north.

  Rain drummed down on the roof. He felt his pulse catch up.

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He slammed the car into gear and cut a sharp U-turn, peering through the sluicing water across his windscreen. Up ahead, he spotted brake lights. ‘Some. Motherfucker. Is about to have his chassis squeezed.’

  ‘You’re fighting a challenge?’

  ‘Looks like it.’ He took the Saab up through the gears, pushing each one as hard as he dared in the rain. The brake lights ahead of him went out and he had to work to spot the outlines of the other car. ‘Guy just landed on me, Mike. No-namer, and no warning.’

  He frowned. And no proximity alarm.

  ‘Chris, call Driver Control.’ Bryant sounded worried. ‘You don’t have to drive this, if he hasn’t filed. He’s in breach of—‘

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Be with you in a minute.’ The car was swelling in his forward view, moving but throttled back, waiting for him. ‘Come on, you fucker. Let’s see what you’ve got.’

  The grey
car braked suddenly, trying to get behind him. He matched the manoeuvre and slewed into the vehicle’s side. Metal screeched and tore. His wing mirror went, ripped free and bouncing away, in their wake like a grenade. He looked across and made eye contact through windows streaming with rain. He saw the other driver flinch.

  The side-to-side clinch came apart. The no-namer picked up escape speed. Chris grinned savagely.

  Rattled.

  He went after him.

  His own shock was ebbing now, pulse coming down, brain working. Time to kill this piece of shit. Bryant seemed to have rung off, and the only sound was the roar of the engine and the hammering rain. The other car held him off. Neither driver could afford to go flat to the floor in a rain duel, and the no-namer was cool enough to know it. Chris stopped trying to close the gap, and thought about the road ahead.

  ‘This is Driver Control.’

  He glanced down at the radio in surprise.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Driver clearance 260B354R, Faulkner, C. You are engaged in an unauthorised duel—‘

  ‘Hardly my choice, Driver Control.’

  ‘You are required to disengage immediately.’

  ‘No fucking way. This piece of shit is going down.’

  A pause. Chris could swear he heard a throat being cleared.

  ‘I repeat, you are required to disengage and—‘

  ‘Have you tried telling that to our little primer-painted friend?’

  Another pause. The gap was less than ten metres. Chris upped his velocity, higher than he could afford on the rain-slick road. He felt a tiny bubble of fear rising in his chest with the knowledge.

  ‘Your opponent does not respond to radio address.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ll just go talk to him.’

  ‘You are required, immediately, to—‘

  He flattened the accelerator, momentarily, and clouted the no-namer across the driver-side rear wing. Driver Control wittered from the speaker as the Saab slipped and he dropped speed, fighting the urge to brake hard. The no-namer was trying to slow down. He drifted across and blocked the move. Another clank as they jammed together, nose to tail. The other car flailed spray off the road as it tried to pull away and lost purchase in the wet: Chris felt his upper lip peel back from his teeth. He pulled fractionally left, shivery with the lack of firm control he had over the Saab, and accelerated again.

  ‘Goodnight, motherfucker.’

  He hit at an angle and the skid kicked off in both cars. He felt the Saab start to skate from the front, saw the other car doing the same from the rear, in graceful mirror image. Fragments of control left to him, like sand through his fingers. He made a noise behind his teeth and fed all he had to the engine. Hard and fast and raking uncontrolled across the no-namer’s sideways-skating rear fender. Enough to push the whole thing beyond any hope of redemption for either of them. The nose-to-tail clinch came apart like a stick broken across a knee.

  It was like cutting a cable.

  Loss of control, seeming weightlessness, something approaching calm as the Saab spun out. For a timeless moment, it was almost quiet. Even the snarl of the frustrated engine seemed to fade. Then, he felt a sideswiping impact as the two cars glanced off each other in drunken ballet. The Saab lurched. Time unlocked again. He was on the brakes. His hands were a blur on the wheel, hopelessly late behind the uncontrolled motion of the vehicle. The rain took over. In the windscreen, it seemed to curtain back momentarily, to show him the embankment, coming up fast.

  Deep breath.

  The Saab hit.

  The force of impact lifted the car up on two wheels. It hung there for a moment - he had time to see the grass on the bank flattened against the passenger side window - then fell back to the asphalt, hard. The landing snapped his teeth together and clipped a chunk out of his tongue.

  For what seemed a very long time, he sat in the stilled car, arms on the wheel, head down, tasting the blood in his mouth.

  The steady drumming of rain on the roof.

  He lifted his head and peered out across the carriageway. Fifty metres off in the slashing grey, he spotted the other car jammed against the crash barrier. There was steam pouring out of the crumpled hood.

  He grunted, and sucked at the damage to his tongue. One hand crept out more or less automatically, knocked on the hazard lights, killed the Saab’s engine, which — I fucking love you, Carla — had not cut out. He opened the glove compartment and found the Nemex. Checked the load and snapped the slide.

  Right.

  He cracked the door and climbed out into the rain.

  It drenched him before he’d gone half the distance to the other car, plastered his shirt to transparency on his body, turned his trousers sodden and filled his Argentine leather shoes. He had to blink the stuff out of his eyes, rake his hair back from his face to peer into the wrecked car. It looked as if the other driver was trapped in his seat, struggling to free himself. Oddly, the expected victory surge didn’t come. Maybe it was the rain that dampened the savagery, maybe a rapidly assimilating picture of angles that didn’t fit.

  No proximity alarm.

  No filed challenge.

  He stared at the side of the primer-painted vehicle. There was no driver number anywhere on the body.

  No point.

  He circled the wreck warily, Nemex held low in both hands, as Mike had shown him. He blinked rain out of his eyes.

  The other driver had the door open, but it looked as if the whole engine compartment had shifted backwards with the impact and the steering column had him pinned back in the seat. He was young. Not out of his teens, by the look of it. The unhealthy pallor of his skin suggested the zones. Chris stared at him, Nemex down.

  ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing back there?’

  The kid’s face twisted. ‘Hey, fuck you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ The anger came gushing up, the memory of the attack suddenly there. He sniffed the air and caught the scent of petrol under the rain. ‘You got a cracked fuel feed there, son. You want me to fucking light you, you little shit?’

  The bravado crumpled. Fear smeared the kid’s eyes wide. He felt a sudden flush of shame. This was some car-jacker barely out of nappies, some joy-rider who

  just happened to jack an unnumbered crash wagon? Some joy-rider who just happened to be cruising a motorway ramp an hour out of town? Who decided to take on an obvious corporate custom job whose proximity alarm just happened to fail? Yeah, right.

  Chris wiped rain from his face, and tried to think through the adrenalin comedown and the drenching he was getting.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  The kid set his mouth in a sullen line. Chris lost his temper again. He took a step closer and ground the muzzle of the Nemex into the boy’s temple.

  ‘I’m not fucking about here,’ he yelled. ‘You tell me who you’re a sicario for, I might call the cutters for you. Otherwise, I’m going to splash your fucking head all over the upholstery.’ He jabbed hard with the gun, and the kid yelped. ‘Now, who sent you?’

  ‘They told me—‘

  ‘Never mind what they told you.’ Another muzzle jab. It drew blood. ‘I need a name, son, or you’re going to die. Right here, right now.’

  The kid broke. A long shudder and suddenly leaking tears. Chris eased the pressure on the gun.

  ‘A name. I’m listening.’

  ‘They call him Fucktional, but—‘

  ‘Fucktional? He a zoner? A gangwit?’ He jabbed the gun again, more gently. ‘Come on.’

  The kid started to cry out loud. ‘He run the whole estate man, he’s going to—‘

  ‘Which estate?’

  ‘Mandela. The crags.’

  Southside. It was a start.

  ‘Okay, now you’re going to tell me—‘

  ‘STAND AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE.’ The sky filled with the metal voice. ‘YOU ARE NOT AUTHORISED ON THIS STRETCH. STAND AWAY.’

  The Driver Control helicopter swung down from the embankment where the Saab had wound
up and danced crabwise across the air to the central reservation, ten metres up. Chris sighed and lifted his hands, Nemex held ostentatiously by the barrel.

  ‘STAND ASIDE AND PLACE YOUR WEAPON ON THE GROUND.’

  The kid was looking confused, not sure if he was off the hook yet. He couldn’t move enough to wipe the tears off his face, but there was an ugly confidence already surfacing in his eyes.

  Well, whoever said a good driver had to be smart as well.

  ‘I’ll be talking to you later,’ Chris snapped, wondering how the hell he was going to ensure it happened. Estate ganglords had a nasty habit of disappearing their sicarios when they became a liability, and he didn’t have much faith in the regular police’s ability to keep undervalued zone criminals alive in custody. He’d have to call a contractor, get private security onto the cutting crew and trace the kid to whatever charity clean-up shop they dumped him at. Then talk to Troy Morris about the southside gangs.

  He backed off a half-dozen steps, bent and placed the Nemex on the ground, then straightened up and spread his arms at the helicopter.

  ‘RETURN TO YOUR VEHICLE AND AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.’

  He went, arms still raised, just in case.

  He was about halfway back when the gatlings cut loose.

  The sound of whining, whirling steel and the shattering roar of the multiple barrels unloading. He hit the asphalt, face down, a pair of seconds before the realisation hit him, that they were not firing at him, could not be because he was still alive. He lifted his head a cautious fraction, craned it to look back.

  The helicopter had sunk almost to asphalt level, and swung around, nose to nose with the wrecked car. Later, he guessed the manoeuvre was intended to keep him out of the field of fire. The zone kid must have got it head-on, the full fury of the gatling hail as it tore through the windscreen and everything behind it.

  The tank went up with a dull crump. Chris clamped his hands over his head, face to the road. An insanely calm part of him knew there wouldn’t be much shrapnel off a vehicle that armoured, but you always had glass. He heard some of it hiss past.

  The gatlings shut off. In their place, there was a greedy crackling as the fire took hold in the wreck. The departing throb of the helicopter. He lifted his head again, just in time to see it disappear over the embankment the way it had come. Flames curled from the strafed car, bright and cheery through the rain. Thinking about getting up, he heard a sudden ripple of explosions and flattened himself to the asphalt again. Slugs in the abandoned Nemex, he guessed, cooked to ignition point by the backwash of heat from the fire. He stayed down. The fucking Nemex. He found himself grinning.