Night Moves

being killed, now did they? It was all part of the game. You got caught, you suffered the consequences. Unfortunately, that was how Peel had been forced to resign, being… overzealous with Irish terrorists — which, as far as he was concerned, was redundant. Whatever peace decrees were signed, the bloody Irish were never going to settle down and be civil. But some of them had died under his interrogations, word had gotten back to the rear echelons, and that was that.

Ah, well. Water under the bridge. That was when he had been a major in good standing, serving king and country. Now, he catered to another master, one who understood the reality of things, and he was already rich as a result. Not a bad trade, all in all.

The target emerged from the pub in a cloud of alcohol-fueled noise and good cheer. BC wanted him bent but not broken, just enough to put him out of active service for a few days, after which it wouldn't matter. It ought not to be too difficult to manage one old college professor.

'Here we go, boys. Move sharp — and be careful.'

The target, a rotund man of sixty in a twenty-year-old tweed suit and matching Irish rain hat, sported a mostly white beard and carried a furled umbrella.

'Right, Major,' Lewis said, grinning. He was the leader of the attack team. 'Here's a fierce old beaky. We'll keep our heads in.'

Huard and Doolittle laughed. They exited the car.

The plan was for them to amble to the professor and, once close enough, jump him. A few good thumps and they'd be away, taking his wallet. The police would see it as no more than another sad example of youth gone bad and tell the professor he was lucky to get off as easy as he did. They'd look for the trio of skinheads, but since those three wouldn't exist in an hour, their disguises burned and gone, it would be a fruitless search. A pickup vehicle waited around the corner for Peel's men, a stolen lorry with the license plates switched with those of a van parked at a nearby cinema. A simple operation, and untraceable.

The major cranked the Dodge Ram's engine to depart, which he intended to do as soon as he was sure the assault was proceeding as planned.

The three skinhead slackabouts, laughing and talking too loudly, moved to intersect the professor's path. Lewis held an unlit cigarette, and he was first to reach the target. He waved the cigarette and said something to the older man. Too far away for Peel to hear, but he knew the gist: 'Allo, Gramps, gottuh match, have ye?'

Huard and Doolittle drifted out to the sides, to encircle the old man.

Peel put the truck in gear to drive off. It was going by the numbers, one, two, three—

Then, of a moment, the operation leaped past three to seventeen: The professor lunged like bloody Zorro, jabbed at Lewis with the tip of the umbrella, and caught him a hard stab in the solar plexus. The team leader lost his cigarette prop and his wind as he backed off and clutched at his belly. The professor twisted to his left, swung the umbrella like an ax, and whacked Huard across the face. The shock and surprise drove him backward, too.

'Help!' the white-bearded old boy yelled in a voice to wake the dead. 'Assassins! Help!'

Doolittle lunged and bounced a fist off the old man's shoulder, and the old fellow spun and slashed at him with the umbrella, missing only because the fake skinhead leaped back like he was bloody Nijinsky doing steps from bloody Swan Lake.

'Help! Help, I say!'

Several men rushed out of the pub and saw the goings-on.

Wonderful. Bloody wonderful!

Lewis recovered, stepped in, dodged another rapier-like thrust from the umbrella, and managed to land a solid punch to the old man's nose. The professor stumbled and sat down hard on the sidewalk but did not release his hold on his weapon. He swung at Doolittle's legs, caught a shin with a whack Peel heard thirty meters away, and flailed his weapon back and forth, missing only because Doolittle did another quick little nancy-boy ballet step to get out of the way.

What a bloody cock up!

The party was over. The three troops took to their heels as the growing mob from the pub rushed them. The boys were young and fit, didn't smoke, contrary to the faggot prop, and should be able to outrun a bunch of middle-aged men who'd had a pint or two. If they couldn't, they deserved what they got. Idiots.

Peel pulled away from the curb, made a turn, and glanced at the professor. Peel did not intend to relate exactly how the attack had gone, nor how it had slipped downhill. The old man probably had a broken nose, that should be enough — though it was likely he was less damaged than the three who had set upon him.

Peel watched in his rearview mirror as the first of the pub-goers reached the professor and helped him to his feet.

Hello all. Meet my friend, Corporal Disaster.

Hell's bells! He'd warned the lads to take care, but they were young and too full of themselves to even consider that one old man was a threat of any kind. Didn't expect they'd be up against John bloody Steed and his samurai umbrella, now had they?

Well. They'd know better next time. Embarrassing and painful lessons were the kind that etched themselves into one's memory.

Christ.

Friday, April 8th

Somewhere in the British Raj, India

Jay Gridley stood there, machete in one hand, his revolver in the other. He hadn't even moved yet, and already he was dripping with sweat. The jungle lay in front of him, leaves and vines woven into a thick wall of tangles, too verdant and altogether too alive. His heart pounded, and he was breathing hard. It took everything he had just to hold the jungle image, and even so, it wavered at the edges, threatening to collapse at any second.

It wasn't just the problem with concentration. Yeah, Saji's exercises had helped, the breath and meditation and all. And his grandfather had been a Buddhist, and he knew a bunch of them, so it wasn't that weird.

The big thing was, Jay was afraid. No, not just afraid, he was terrified. This was the jungle where the tiger had been, where it had leaped from cover and clawed him, ripped at his brain so he couldn't think. Maybe killing his ability to walk the web forever, and, if so, killing him, too.

He didn't have to be here. Nobody was making him go back into the jungle. But if he couldn't play computers, he might as well be dead.

He took another breath. The little handgun wouldn't even slow the tiger down, he knew, but he couldn't work the machete and hold the big double rifle ready. If it came at him again, he would get hurt again, maybe worse than before.

He could get help. Saji was willing to come with him. He wouldn't carry a gun, because he wouldn't shoot even a VR creature, but he could offer moral support. And there were other ops, some in Net Force, some not, who could link with Jay and share the scenario, some of whom would cheerfully tow a howitzer and who'd blast anything that moved. But that wasn't the way. Jay couldn't spend the rest of his life asking for help. If he couldn't walk in the valley of the shadow alone, he couldn't do his job, and if he couldn't do the thing he loved most in the world, what was the point?

He took yet another breath and let it out slowly. He was going in. If it got him, then it got him, but he was going to go down swinging the big knife and pulling the Webley's trigger if he went, and to hell with it.

He raised the machete. The VR wall of vegetation rippled and wavered. The image started to fade. Crap!

He came back into himself in front of his home workstation, soaked with sour-smelling sweat, heart still thumping madly away.

He'd been ready. He had. He was willing to do it.

Just not ready and willing enough to hold the scenario.

He blew out a sigh. Okay. He'd go back, try it again.

In a little while. When he'd had a chance to get his breath back, to rest a little. Really, he would go back. Really.