His hands knotted into fists on the edge of the sink. He still wasn’t sure how they’d found him. His blackmailer – or blackmailers. He wasn’t sure whether they were one person, or many. A ghost in the frequency, reminding him of who he’d been – threatening him. Threatening to reveal who he was, beneath the mask of Marcus Tell.
He’d thought fear had been burned out of him long ago. But he’d been wrong. He feared losing his little flat, his memories. That was why he’d done it, in the end. To hold onto what he had, just for a little longer, just until… well.
So he’d picked up his old tools, and added some new tricks to his repertoire. He’d kept abreast of modern advances and techniques. The old stuff wouldn’t have done the job. Not the way his blackmailers wanted it done, whoever they were.
“Impatient bastards,” he murmured. He turned away from the sink, eyes straying again to the window. They’d wanted bombs and they’d wanted them fast. He’d done his best. Most of his old contacts were out of business or had been replaced by younger models with no respect for an old man. Not to mention trying to get the necessary materials without alerting the wrong people was harder than it had been. That his blackmailers had left it to him implied that it was his expertise they needed as much as his skills at constructing improvised explosive devices.
In his younger days, he might’ve tried to do something with that information. Maybe even find them, and teach them a lesson in respect. They were arrogant – overconfident. They had made no great secret as to their intentions towards him, once he’d completed his part in the affair. Perhaps they thought him too stupid to see what was coming, as Colin had been. Or maybe they simply didn’t care. What could one old man do, after all?
That he’d survived this long was more due to chance than any skill on his part. It had been sheerest luck that he’d spotted the pickpocket working the crowd on Sunday. He’d known he was being tracked, though he hadn’t yet realised why. It had been a simple matter to flash his Optik and then put it in his pocket in a position so as to invite theft.
The thief had been skilled. Tell had barely felt it when his Optik had been purloined. He’d thought to buy himself some time. When he heard the shot, he’d known there was no time left. They wanted him dead, and it was only a matter of time until they came looking. He’d expected someone to bust down his door before now, but so far – nothing.
But he couldn’t remain in hiding here. Eventually, he would have to leave, if only for his own sanity. They would find him sooner or later.
For him to survive, Marcus Tell would have to die. He would need a new name, a new life. He would have to start over again. He sighed. It seemed pointless, and a part of him wondered if it might be better to simply… wait. Make them work for it, but not too hard. Just enough to teach them some respect.
The thought of dying made his heart speed up. He looked at his hands – lined and spotted, but steady. You had to have steady hands, when you handled explosives. One wrong twitch and that was it.
Tell let out a slow breath, calming himself. He didn’t want to die. If he did, he wouldn’t have bothered becoming Marcus Tell. He would never have met Peter. He wouldn’t have had ten good years to overlay all the bad ones before.
He didn’t want to die. That meant he had to hide. He had to move and keep moving, until what was going to happen, happened, and his status became irrelevant. They would forget about him then, maybe. A small chance, but a chance nonetheless. A chance for another ten years. That was worth the effort.
Tell pushed away from the sink. Moving quickly now, decisively. He checked his wristwatch – an old fashioned habit. No one had watches, these days. He paused. Peter had given it to him. An anniversary gift, he thought.
He noted the time, took the watch off, and tossed it into the cutlery drawer. He couldn’t afford to take anything with him, just in case. That was for the best. He would make do with what he had on him until he reached the first of his lockups.
He looked around one last time, fixing the place in his mind and headed for the door.
Day Two
Wednesday
Bagley-bytes 13675-8: Attention, DedSec Wandsworth – this means you, Terry – members of a certain prominent criminal firm have been seen wandering about the Solar Garden at night. Maybe have a sneaky peek and get back to us. By which we mean you, Terry. Go. Or I’ll send a copy of your search history to Albion – or worse, your mother.
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On the subject of Albion, our recent POI, Richard Malik, has been seen trundling about in the company of its very own Mr Nigel Cass, as well as representatives from Blume. Dalton, if you’re still in contact with your MI5 chums, you might want to ask what all that’s about.
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Over to Islington. There’s a work-site in Finsbury that seems to be playing host to our old friends in Clan Kelley, including a gentleman by the name of Billy Bricks. Lot of bulky merchandise going into vans. Rasheed, see what you can dig up – but be careful. Things are in the wind.
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RE: Zero Day. No, I have no information on that phrase currently. Sorry, Dalton.
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Something’s afoot at the drone facility in Limehouse. An
