last executioner’s shot.
Chapter 22
7.32 a.m., 12 September 2001, North Haven Plaza, outside Branford
Liam led the way out of the toystore’s upper-floor exit, on to the top concourse. The few mid-morning shoppers were frozen where they were; no one was going anywhere, merely exchanging expressions of panic.
‘Was that a gun I just heard?’ a woman asked Liam as he and the two support units rushed past.
‘Aye,’ said Liam, dragging a dawdling Becks by the hand.
‘We must stop and fight them,’ she said.
‘There’s two of ’em. And they got guns.’ He looked at her. ‘Are you that desperate to get yourself into a scrap?’
She cocked her head. ‘Scrap?’ Not used to Liam’s speech patterns just yet.
‘Inadvisable,’ said Bob. ‘The best course of action right now is evasion.’
Liam nodded. ‘Listen to your big brother.’
They were just passing a Barnes amp; Noble when half a dozen more shots erupted from the floor below and rang out across the mall.
‘Jay-zus!’
‘Oh my God!’ someone across the way screamed. ‘It’s terrorists!’
The ‘T’ word spread like a ripple across a still pond. People’s mouths dropping open into ‘O’s. The mall music suddenly stopped and a voice announced over the tannoy that an emergency situation was in progress and that all customers and staff were to proceed immediately to the nearest fire exits.
Inevitably someone screamed the ‘B’ word and the frozen tableau of confusion turned into a flood of shop staff emerging from the entrances of their respective stores, spilling on to the upper concourse. Suddenly it seemed like a very busy mall.
Liam and the other two joined the press of bodies heading towards the escalators at the end that would take them down to the front entrance and out into the car park.
Sal and Rashim had found a different way out of the toystore on the lower floor, a door marked STAFF ONLY that led to a stockroom piled high with cardboard boxes and bubble wrap. From there they found a door at the back that gave access to a service corridor of dull grey breeze-block walls.
‘Which way now?’ asked Rashim.
‘I don’t know.’ Her guess was left. Left would take them towards the entrance they came in, she figured. She led the way. Muted by two closed doors, they heard the faintest crackle of gunfire behind them.
‘This is insane,’ gasped Rashim. ‘Who in God’s name wants you lot dead so badly?’
‘Jahulla!’ she whispered. ‘Wish I knew.’ It felt to her like they’d been running non-stop for weeks. In added-up time for her, it was almost that. Just after sending Liam and Bob back to Rome, that’s when they’d been jumped in Times Square. Ambushed and pursued all the way back to the archway, and there, attacked yet again — one of the units even managing to dive through the portal right behind them and join them back in Ancient Rome.
Pandora. It was asking about Pandora that had set this off. Sal was almost certain of that. That and perhaps, somehow, it was linked to that poor, poor man who’d jumped back to 1831 to warn her about something.
But what was that warning? ‘ The bear ’. ‘ You’re not who you think you are.’ What the pinchudda was that supposed to mean?
I think I’m Sal. I’m Saleena Vikram. I’m a schoolgirl from Ajmeera Independent Academy in Mumbai. I used to play Pikodu pretty well. And listen to bhangra-metal. I’m the daughter of Sanjay and Abeer Vikram. And I used to live in a small apartment in Mumbai. Papaji used to buy and sell computer chips. Mamaji used to be an accountant. What part of all of that isn’t right?
They turned a corner.
‘Yo! Hey!’
Ahead of them, a black mall security guard. ‘Stop right there!’ He had a handgun pointed at them. ‘Hands where I can see them!’
‘We’re trying to get — ’
‘SHUT UP!’ A hand fumbled for the radio on his belt; he kept his eyes on them. ‘This is Kent. I got two of ’em right here. Service Access 5b.’
The radio squawked static and an unintelligible voice.
The mall guard replied. ‘Asian. One male, approximately mid-twenties. One female, mid-teens.’
Another squirt of static and voice.
‘Uh… yeah, he’s got a bit of a beard. They were both running from the gunfire.’
Static and voice.
‘Copy that!’ He hung the radio back on his belt. ‘You two raghead terrorist sons of…’ He bit his lip. ‘You gonna see a whole bunch of prison time.’
‘We are not terrorists!’ said Rashim.
‘You put a bomb in this mall somewhere? Huh? That it? You gonna blow up some more innocent people?’
‘Shadd-yah!’ Sal cursed. ‘We’re not terrorists!’
‘ Shallah? What’s that? Some Ay-rab raghead-talk or something?’
‘She’s Indian,’ said Rashim. ‘I’m Persian. That makes a total of zero “Ay-rabs” here.’
‘SHUT UP!’ He jerked his gun at them. ‘Put your goddamn hands on the wall, Abu-Babu!’
Sal shook her head, pointing over her shoulder. ‘The bad guys’re back there! They’ve got guns and — ’
‘You put your goddamn hands against the wall, miss, or I swear I’ll put a bullet in both of you right now!’
She could see the knuckle of his trigger finger bulging, the skin paler, drawn over tendon and bone. There were already several pounds of pressure resting on that trigger.
‘OK… OK…’ She placed her palms up against the rough breeze blocks. ‘Rashim…’ Silently, she urged him to do likewise.
‘ Rashim, is it, eh?’ The mall guard shook his head as he approached. Then as Sal and Rashim adopted the legs-apart-hands-against-the-wall pose, the guard began to pat Sal down one-handed.
‘What is it with you goddamned Moslems? Uh?’ he huffed as he frisked them. ‘What the hell is it you hate so much ’bout America? What is it, the Big Macs? The freedom? The rap music?’
‘Look, please… we’re not actually terrorists — ’
‘Or even Muslims,’ added Sal.
‘I lost a cousin in what you people did yesterday. Good man. Worked up in the top of the north tower in the restaurant. Took care of his folks, worked real hard.’
He began to frisk Rashim. ‘But that ain’t enough, is it? He’s gotta live your way, hasn’t he? Got to grow a goddamn Santa-beard and wear them stupid pyjama-suits. Gotta go an’ worship Buddha five times a day — ’
‘It’s Allah actually.’
The guard pushed Rashim’s head hard against the wall. ‘You shut your goddamn raghead mouth!’
Chapter 23
7.34 a.m., 12 September 2001, North Haven Plaza, Branford
They regarded the body of the old man lying on the floor in front of them in silence. Beside him a young female was cowering on the floor, her hands clasped to a wound.
‘P-please… d-don’t kill me…’ she whimpered.
Both support units ignored her. She was irrelevant. Back to the dead man.
‘It is an older version of the one called Liam O’Connor,’ said Faith, studying the old man’s face. ‘A valid
