Once he was certain the drone was safely underway, he minimised the HUD. It would alert him if and when it located its target. He turned his attentions to a different app suite – an encrypted bloodhound program, designed to analyse and develop projections based on specific data trawled from a target’s phone data, social media, site profiles and shopping habits. The suite came in handy during the planning stages of his operations.
He’d programmed in every scrap of information he’d collected, every recording he’d made, of his employers. Now it was searching the net for similar turns of phrase and the like. So far, the program had come up with nothing. But soon enough, something – some phrase, some reference – would strike a hit, and he’d have their scent. Then, it would only be a matter of time until he tracked them down.
Coyle intended to complete the job he’d been hired for. He was a professional, after all. But afterwards, there’d be a reckoning with Zero Day – whoever they were. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. It was quickly wiped away by an alert – an incoming call, for one of his aliases. He recognised the number and cursed. He activated an encryption app before he answered. “Holden. I thought I told you not to call me.”
“Was that you?”
Holden’s voice sounded scratchy, electronically distorted. He was using a scrambler. “Was what me?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“The shootings on Sunday – it was you, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. And if you’re smart, you’ll drop the act. I don’t have much time.”
“Then by all means, get to the point.” Coyle considered trying to trace the call, but Holden was surely too smart for that sort of thing.
“I need money. And I need it now.”
“I believe I already paid you, and quite fairly.”
“I know who you are.”
Coyle hesitated. “Do you? Please enlighten me, Mr Holden.”
“Your name is Coyle…”
“I get the picture. Fine. What do you want?”
“I need money. Enough to get out of the city – the country…”
Coyle’s eyes narrowed. “What have you done, Mr Holden?”
Silence. Coyle sighed. That was answer enough. “Where are you?”
He could sense Holden’s sudden hesitation. Greed and fear had made the other man incautious. But now he was beginning to realise that he’d just tried to extort a man in possession of a combat capable drone. Coyle chuckled. “Come now, Mr Holden. No sense acting shy now. Where are you?”
“I– I want to arrange a drop. Somewhere indoors. Whitechapel Terminus.”
“By drop, I assume you mean that I’m to leave you a certain amount of money in return for… what? Your silence?”
“Something like that.”
Coyle laughed. “No, I don’t think so. In fact, I think you leave me with little choice but to ensure your silence by any means necessary. Do have a nice day, Mr Holden.”
He ended the call before Holden could reply and shook his head. Holden was a loose end he’d intended to leave until after everything was settled. He’d clearly underestimated the man, however. Holden had put two and two together with remarkable alacrity.
Still, if he was as smart as all that, he would leave the city as soon as possible. Whatever had prompted this unwise attempt at blackmail would no doubt keep him occupied until Coyle could catch up with him at a time and place of his choosing. Satisfied, he sat back down and returned his attentions to the spiderbot.
Over London, the drone continued the hunt.
16: Hunted
George Holden sat on a camp bed in his lock-up garage in Hackney, and stared at the burner in his hand. He’d made a mistake, contacting Coyle. He’d known that as soon as Coyle had picked up the phone. Not his first mistake, but possibly his last.
His heart was beating too fast, making him feel sick. He’d known there was something wrong with Coyle the first time they’d met. A sort of cold calculation. You saw it sometimes in the men and women Albion employed – like they’d been too long in the sandbox, and seen too much to ever slip back into civilised society. Coyle reminded him of Faulkner, Albion’s man in East London, a little bit. There was that same animal viciousness there, hidden beneath a veneer of faux-affability.
And now that viciousness was aimed at him.
He’d been desperate, hoping for a quick pay-out to get him free and clear. Not for the first time, he’d let his greed outweigh his common sense. But now there was probably a killer drone prowling the skies, looking for him. He peered about him, at the racks of Albion surplus and equipment. He’d been selling corporate kit for months, trying to cover his debts.
Nobody had noticed, until, suddenly, somebody had. They called themselves Zero Day, though whether that was the name of a person or a group, Holden couldn’t say. They’d contacted him out of the blue, using an encrypted program that he had yet to crack. They’d wanted supplies – made to order. They’d promised a good deal of money in exchange, and Holden had jumped at the deal. He’d forgotten that a sure thing rarely was, no matter what some insisted. He lay back on the bed, massaging his temples.
Things had quickly become far too complicated. Zero Day, whoever they were, had provided Holden with a number to call. He’d done so, and received a list of materials to be provided for pick up by a courier. Some weeks later, a second number had been provided – a man looking to buy a drone.
That was where things had started to go wrong. The UCAV drone was a prototype from Project LIBRA, one of Albion’s black book initiatives. He never should have
