difficulty in recognising the Lucznik PM-98 the man was holding. I’d had one in my own hands only two days ago, when I’d picked up the Peugeot driver’s fallen weapon.
I’d no difficulty recognising the man who held it now either. As he turned I caught my first proper full view of his face.
Rebanks.
Question was, what the hell was Gilby’s weapons’ handler doing with a case-load of machine pistols?
I didn’t have the chance to expand much on this train of thought. Behind me there was a clatter from the other room, followed by a deafening clamour as somebody punched the fire alarm.
I flinched back. The alarm bell seemed to be ringing right next to my head, incredibly loud, but it didn’t quite mask the faint slam of the outer door. I didn’t think I’d been followed in, but whoever had done so obviously wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to get out again unobserved or unhindered.
I almost made it.
I was only half a dozen strides from the outer doorway when I felt Rebanks make a grab for the back of my jacket. His fingers closed down hard, and I was caught. In the darkness my capture took on nightmare proportions. I fought down the spike of panic and tried to rely on cool, logical thought.
He hadn’t seen my face near the cage, didn’t know it was me. It was dark enough in the outer room so if I could escape now, I could get away with this. I hadn’t zipped my jacket up and, all too briefly, I considered jettisoning it. Pointless to leave it behind. It would lead them straight to me.
Instead, I braked suddenly and dodged sideways. Rebanks had been at full stretch reaching for me. The additional movement unbalanced him. He stumbled, went down onto his knees, but he didn’t let go.
Using his hold on my jacket to steady me, I locked down hard on his wrist, pivoted on my right leg and kicked him, twice, with my left foot where I guessed his body would be. The first blow landed square in his diaphragm, in the fleshy vee just beneath his ribcage. I heard the explosive whoosh as his lungs were blasted empty. He floundered for air, his grip slackening.
Even though I couldn’t see any more than a dim outline, I instinctively understood the size and the shape of him. I could map the vulnerable areas of his body. Before he’d recovered enough to shout, my second kick connected to his throat, straight across his windpipe.
His hands fell away. He dropped backwards and rolled slowly onto his side, making quiet little gasping and gulping sounds that were hideous in their softness.
I didn’t stop to check how badly I’d hurt him. It was enough to know that I had. At that moment, I really didn’t care.
I ran.
I ran out of the building, heedless of who might be waiting in ambush outside, and hared along the concrete path back towards the house. It was the most exposed route, but it was the quickest, too. I’d hoped that the alarm in the range might have been linked to the Manor’s entire system, to add confusion, but there my luck failed me. The only sounds came from behind me.
I reached the house and flattened against the wall, burying myself into the ivy that clung to the stonework. The alarm was clearly audible across the grounds from there. It must have been wired in to some sort of central control system in any case, because lights had suddenly come on in the centre section of the house. The instructors’ quarters.
I had to suppress a gasp of shock when a door was thrown open less than four metres from me. Two dark figures rushed out. They pounded back along the path in the direction of the building. The kind of power that sprinters have, born of muscle.
I waited, silent except for the thunder of my heart, until they’d almost disappeared from view. Then I slipped out of my hiding place and back into the house.
I resisted the urge to run back to my room. On that floor it would have sounded like a stampede. Mind you, with the amount of noise going on in there anyway, nobody might have noticed.
I darted up the main staircase, hearing shouting and running feet above and below me. Then I tiptoed along the edges of the corridor until I reached the women’s dormitory. I opened the door as little as I could get away with, and slid through the gap into the room. I closed it quickly and stilled in the darkness that met me. Nothing.
I crossed to the bathroom, closed the door and stripped down to my T-shirt and knickers. Then I flushed the loo, just in case, washed my hands, and padded back across to my bed, bundling my clothes into my locker as I did so.
As I lay awake, listening to the far-off noises of panic and disorder, a terrible coldness swept over me. I began to shiver violently, like I was in the grip of a fever. The bedclothes suddenly felt chilled and damp against my skin.
I told myself, over and over, that I’d only done what I had to. That I’d acted in self defence. I hadn’t hit Rebanks hard enough to do him any real harm. Hadn’t hit him hard enough to kill him . . .
But I knew I had.
I went over it again and again in slow-motion replay. The first blow to his solar plexus, I recognised with a sickly taste in the back of my mouth, had winded him, effectively silenced him. It could have been enough to allow me to escape. I should have made it enough. Should have taken that chance.
The second blow was the killer in every sense of the word. Running down either side of the trachea are the vagus nerves. They control just about everything of importance in the body, from the heart and lungs to the abdominal organs. Hit the vagus nerves hard enough and your victim ceases to breathe, his heartbeat stutters, his nervous system crashes.
And then he dies.
I remembered again the dreadful noises Rebanks had made as he’d fallen. I shut my eyes, but it only made the images in my head more vivid.
I hadn’t hesitated. Not for a second. I was in danger and I’d reacted with potentially deadly force. Perhaps if the army had known what was inside me, what I would eventually turn into, they might not have been so keen to let me go.
It seemed like I lay there for hours, wrestling with my conscience. According to the red digital figures of my alarm clock, it was actually seven minutes before the door was rammed open and the lights flashed on.
Elsa sat up almost as a reflex action, with a startled cry. I raised myself up on my elbow and engineered a groggy, just-woken-from-sleep expression onto my face. Jan barely stirred under the blankets.
Gilby stood in the doorway glaring at the three of us, with O’Neill by his shoulder. They both had faces that should have come with a severe weather warning.
“All right, let’s have everyone out of their beds and downstairs immediately!” Gilby rapped out.
With reluctance I didn’t have to feign, I pushed back the covers and swung my legs out of bed, trying to ignore the way O’Neill’s eyes flicked over them.
“Major, what is the meaning of this, please?” Elsa demanded, her German accent becoming more pronounced as it tended to do, I’d noticed, when she was angry or upset. She groped for her glasses from the bedside table and peered at the clock.
“We’ve had an incident, Frau Schmitt,” he said shortly. “One of my staff has been seriously assaulted.”
Elsa gaped at him. “And you think one of us was responsible?” The incredulity was clear in her voice. “When did this ‘incident’ take place?”
The Major checked his watch automatically. “About fifteen minutes ago,” he said, but his anger was beginning to dissipate into discomfort. Elsa, I considered, must have been a formidable police officer. Jan had come round by this time and was eyeing the intruders with some malevolence.
“Then you are wasting your time looking here,” Elsa dismissed contemptuously. “We have all been asleep in our beds, as you can plainly see.”
“All of you?” the Major said sharply. “None of you has been outside?”
Elsa glanced briefly in my direction, sending my pulse rate skittering. “Both Jan and Charlie have been to the bathroom,” she said solemnly, “but I hardly feel that counts against them.”
