constricted geometric tangle of wooden beams, hundreds of years old, rendered into opalescent green by her borrowed night-vision goggles. She’d had three days to recover since her liberation from the cell, but at least two of those days she had spent on the move with Rolland and his small team, creeping through hostile territory, backtracking through a year’s worth of surveillance of Bilal Baumer. Tight spaces had never bothered her before, but her heart felt as though it was being squeezed by a giant rubber band. Yet another symptom of her physical decay.
And so it came to this, as always. Caitlin Monroe, on her own, inching carefully towards her prey in the dark.
She’d reached the little access panel after an hour of snaking through the roof spaces along the line of tenements, ending up here at the four-storey house where Baumer and his companions were holed up. Her watch read 2.13 am, and although she could hear the rumble of a great battle in the distance, and even sense it vibrating up through the structure of the four-storey house, down below her, all seemed quiet. She had no idea what Baumer and his men were doing down there. Chances were, it was just a lay-up point, a place to regroup before escaping the city.
Caitlin adjusted her headset and hit the push-to-talk button on the secure digital radio. ‘In position,’ she reported quietly.
Rolland’s voice came back in a brief crackle. ‘No discernible movement inside. One guard at the front door. Sniper has him marked.’
‘I’m going in.’
She cut the connection and carefully lifted the wooden panel, just a crack, giving her access to a hallway on the top floor. By threading through a thin black fibre-optic wire plugged into a hand-held display, she was able to recon the hallway. It was clear.
Caitlin removed the hatch and took a length of rope from the heavy utility belt she wore over her black coveralls. Then, tying it to a beam, she rappelled down silently and took a moment to orient herself, imagining Rolland’s floor plans overlaid onto the glowing green setting in front of her. A narrow corridor leading to a stairwell. Two doors on the left, both closed.
A silenced handgun and a fighting knife appeared in her hands.
She glided over to the first door and inserted the fibre-optic wire through the old keyhole. The room appeared to be deserted. She turned the knob. Hinges creaked horribly and she sidestepped, bringing up the pistol. For two minutes she stood, ready to cut down anyone who appeared, but there was nobody inside.
She moved on and repeated the routine. This time her pulse accelerated, as the optic display unit showed her a low-light amplified image of a man, crouched in the corner of the room, pointing a pistol at the door.
A large Caucasian male, with head and arm wounds field-dressed using torn bed sheets, if she was not mistaken. He seemed to be straining to hear any sound that might give away the position of someone in the corridor. Caitlin checked her exposure. Crouched low as she was, off to the side of the door, she was safely out of his line of fire. He was aiming for the centre mass of anyone who walked through the door.
With no idea who he was, or what he was doing there, the man was a complication she did not need. There was no going in and taking him down, though. This guy was primed for trouble.
She took a moment to examine him in the display screen again. He had a good firing position and held the gun as though it were an extension of his body. He didn’t look nervous, self-conscious, or likely to hesitate if he needed to shoot.
He was clean-shaven, and wearing the sort of vest she’d often seen on press photographers. The image was not sharp, unfortunately, but in his pockets, she thought she could make out a notepad, some pens and possibly a small dictaphone, the sort of thing that took little micro-cassettes. If only she could’ve seen the back of his vest, there might have been an identifying logo or something. A lot of reporters used reflective tape to spell out TRESS’ or the acronym of their media affiliates on their backs. Caitlin always thought that just made them easier targets, but journalists were weird. They had some fucked-up ideas.
She had to come to a decision quickly.
The man was almost certainly not part of the group downstairs. He was trapped in the room, doubtless due to their unexpected arrival. There was probably no way of getting in there without him firing off half a mag at the door.
She decided to leave him in place.
He disappeared from the screen as she withdrew the fibre-optic wire. For thirty seconds she crouched, waiting, but no sound or movement came from within. That was actually kind of impressive. This guy was no amateur – but he was not necessarily an ally either.
She began to edge away, eventually making the stairs, where she stood, adjusting herself to the sounds, to the feel of the house. It felt like an inhabited dwelling, but that wasn’t down to any bullshit sixth sense. She already knew the lower floors were occupied. What she didn’t know was where her targets were holed up.
She listened, willing her nausea to recede to the edge of her consciousness, breathing as she had been taught, to settle her nervous system.
She could hear the angry rumble of battle. A jet aircraft shrieking low to the west.
The creaking and settling of the building as the ground underneath moved fractionally in response to the pounding of high explosives and the grinding of heavy armour through streets no more than a mile away.
A radio, playing Arabic music.
Snoring. Some muttering, but not conversational – probably someone talking in their sleep.
The clink of china cups or glasses.
Quiet laughter.
And then a ringing in her ears, which had been constant for two weeks. Her pulse and heartbeat. The silent advance of the tumour that was eating her from the inside out.
