“What does that do?” asked Dionne.
“It gives everybody free soda.”
“OK. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.”
Zoya ignored her and kept Birdie stationary above the wall. Theoretically, someone could spot her at any time, but here was the safest spot. Any further in and the risk of the other guard towers noticing her increased. Any higher and the aircraft-detection system they had in place would almost certainly pick up Birdie. Zoya wasn’t one hundred percent sure on that, as Birdie might just slip through the filtering that stopped birds from setting off the alarms, but she wasn’t going to risk it.
Dionne pointed at the monitors to the side of the screen that showed feeds from the security cameras. “What the hell is happening?”
Zoya started to guide Birdie over the yard. “Like I said, free soda.”
It had come up as part of the investigations into the set-up of Longhurst Prison’s systems. The cameras were networked, all their PCs for normal office stuff was networked, but their actual security control systems were kept in glorious isolation. That wasn’t all, though. As with lots of other places, their vending machines were networked too.
Each guard tower had one, seeing as the officers there couldn’t leave their posts for eight hours, except to use the restroom that each tower had. The vending machines were hooked up in that way so that catering staff would know when they were running low and could refill them only when required, cutting back on unnecessary visits.
It also left them open to a little abuse. Like, for example, if every vending machine in the entire complex, including the ones in the guard towers, started spontaneously firing out free cans of soda. It was a distraction, but one the Sisters were betting would not be considered a security alert.
It gave Zoya a two-minute window at best.
“Holy crap,” said Dionne.
Zoya could see Bunny sitting alone on the bleachers. She started to guide Birdie carefully into position above him. With almost no wind, from a height of three hundred feet, she reckoned she could get the payload within three feet. She nudged the controls a little more.
“Who the crap is that guy?”
Some white guy with no shirt on had just appeared on the screen, and was talking to Bunny.
Dionne stood up as if that would improve her view. “I have no idea. Hold off a second.”
Zoya looked at the other screens. “I can’t. The guards aren’t going to be distracted by soda indefinitely.”
“Shit,” said Dionne. “He’ll get rid of him. Just give him another second and …”
The shirtless man turned his back on Bunny, and Zoya pressed the button on the controller to release the payload.
“Phew,” said Dionne, quickly followed by, “Oh no, he’s—”
“Not my problem,” interrupted Zoya.
She was focused on retracing Birdie’s steps as quickly and smoothly as possible. She had done all she could. It was up to Bunny now.
Chapter Thirty-One
The good thing about having walked a beat is that you learn how to saunter. Really saunter. Some people are naturals, and some aren’t. Bunny’s mentor, Sergeant Gearoid “Grinner” Morgan, a wily old stager from Donegal, now there was a man blessed with a saunter for the ages. A proper swing in his hips, a sway in his motion. He never whistled, but the majesty of his swagger made your mind fill it in automatically. It was a thing of beauty.
It was also a powerful psychological tool in the copper’s arsenal, as Sergeant Morgan told it. The well-executed saunter showed the world that you were the master of all you surveyed, and in total control of your surroundings. You didn’t have to rush anywhere, because whatever was happening would still be happening when you got there. It told the world that you knew what it was up to, and if it didn’t catch itself on, it was going to get a belt around the earhole.
The Gearoid Morgan saunter stopped more crimes than an entire squad decked out in riot gear. At least that was how he told it. Bunny had been a believer. Morgan had got hold of him straight after graduation, a wet-behind-the-everywhere, mouthy little gobshite from Cork, and turned him into a proper copper. No amount of training could replace that kind of on-the-job experience.
Bunny thought of that as he sauntered over to the baseball bleachers and casually took a seat. He concentrated on the memories as, quite apart from anything else, it helped him control the urge to look up. What was about to happen was one of the few things they had properly planned out before he’d come in here.
The logic had been solid – at some point they’d almost certainly need to deliver something to him, and this was how they’d decided to do it. He had only seen Birdie, Zoya’s drone, in action once, but it had been impressive. To hear Dionne tell it, the girl was a certifiable technical genius. He hoped she was right, or else this could get very awkward very quickly.
Earlier that morning, after breakfast, he’d finally got the chance to go down and use the showers. Despite the old clichés and bad jokes about it, it had been a mundane experience. The water pressure had been very poor, but at least it had meant he could keep track of his minuscule bar of soap.
Bunny looked at the baseball diamond. Truth be told, he didn’t understand the game. He’d tried to watch a bit of it when he’d been back in Brooklyn, recuperating from his injuries, but he’d not been able to make head nor tail of it. There seemed to be a mind-boggling amount of statistics involved, which was bad.
Bunny was of the opinion that proper sports needed two stats – one being the score, and the other being how many players each team had on the field due to sending-offs or trips to the naughty step. Everything else was just over-complicating flim-flam. So no, Bunny didn’t like the stats, but that wasn’t his biggest
