SPIRAL
SPIRAL
REDUCTION
Demol14: Bolivia
The ancient house sat astride the cliff's rugged shoulders. Sections of
rendering had fallen away into the tangled vegetation far below, revealing
thick stone slabs underneath: toothless gaps - the dark smile of an old
bearded gun-runner, the oblivion kiss of a whisky-drunk Brazilian whore. The
house was four storeys tall and had almost been reclaimed by the jungle;
this ornate Churrigueresque fortress had been smashed and peppered for
centuries by tropical elements intent on a gradual stripping away of its
baroque stone carvings.
Something - a shadow - slid from the jungle. A figure shrouded by darkness,
protected by the night and its moon-suffocating clouds. It climbed easily,
fluidly up cliff and carved stone and landed lightly on the walkway's tiles,
mosaics that shone dully in what little light penetrated the gloom.
The figure emerged from the shadows and moved lightly across the tiles. Then
it paused, listening, a static outline against the night, before sliding
again into darkness and vanishing: a ghost; mist; a grey dream.
A deep oppressive silence filled the corridor, at one end of which squatted
a riveted steel door, the single portal for the protected sanctum.
Seated, two heavy-set bearded guards, deeply tanned, their hair
grease-smeared and lank, were armed with 9mm Glocks and shoulder-slung
AK47s. They were playing cards across a small unvarnished table by the warm
light of an oil-burning lantern, their brutal scarred features softened by
the amber glow, a bottle of cheap vodka their only shared release from the
boredom of duty.
There was a soft clatter, muffled, from back along the shadowed corridor and
the two men's bloodshot gazes met over the smeared bottle. One man, the
larger of the two, removed the bedraggled hand-rolled cigarette from his
lips and discarded it in an overflowing ashtray knife-cut from a beer can.
'Your turn, hombre.'
The smaller of the two men shook his head. 'It'll be a fucking monkey again.
They climb in, looking for food.'
'Not up here. They don't like the climate - or the bullets. Go on, you dirty
drunken mestizo, go check who's there.' He grinned, baring crooked
coffee-stained teeth. 'Anyway, we're safe. If they'd got this far they would
have triggered the alarms. And there are the special men in there with the
hombre himself,' he sneered. 'We have nothing to fear.'
Cursing, the other man stood and checked his pistol and AK. The magazines
were both full and he flicked the safety off. 'I used to enjoy shooting
fucking monkeys,' he muttered, and, with his bloodworm eyes as alert as they
could ever be in the gloom, dissolved from the friendly perimeter glow of
the lamp.
The other Bolivian guard sat, shuffling the cards with the expert hands of a
man practised in sentry duty. His eyes shifted left to the digital display
on the wall, its plastic casing and LED warnings out of place against the
smoke-stained plaster. It registered zero. Nothing. No intruder. No worries.
But the fancy electronics made him uneasy. He was a guard trained with
traditional weapons: guns and bullets. He did not rate so called hi-tech
gadgets ...
There was a distant sound - almost inaudible. Like-
A hiss.
The seated man frowned, his brow furrowed, his eyes moving from the LED
display to the gloom of the corridor. 'Kaltzon, you there, my man?' His
words echoed, lonely, a stark contrast with the soft backdrop noise of
distant buzzing insects.
He got to his feet and placed the Glock on the table, making a soft clack;
with his AK switched to automatic he moved with a smooth military precision
that indicated a history of violence. Despite his sleazy appearance,
sobriety and stark professionalism kicked in; he crept forward, close to the
wall, suddenly alert, all senses buzzing with a sudden rush of adrenalin. He
reached the corridor junction and glanced tentatively to the right, gun
muzzle tracing an imaginary arc of fire. The half-open distant patio doors
showed only a beam of faint moonlight breaking briefly through the clouds
and spilling over the veranda. There was no sign of Kaltzon.
The guard turned back - and was slammed off his feet, flung against the
wall, a bolt of black steel protruding from his forehead. His AK47 clattered
deafeningly on the floor tiles. Blood sprayed down his chin, ruining his
cheap Hawaiian shirt. His eyes, open and lifeless, stared at the ceiling as
his left leg twitched, while a long string of saliva and blood pooled from
his slack jaws and formed a slowly growing viscous puddle on the floor.
Demol14: an elite combat squad, supremely proficient and lethally effective
in the violent twin worlds of protection and destruction. This was to be an
easy gig. Protection: close quarters, waiting for one of Spiral's many
top-class analysts to arrive in order to verify certain documents carried -
stolen - by Sacha Bora.
Bora, Cuban-born, lately of Los Angeles, USA, and before that involved with
some nefarious desert activity in Southern Rub al'Khali. He was a man with a
unique profession. In the corner of the fortified sleeping quarters sat a
pilot's case containing the tools of his trade. The leather was of finest
hide, imported from North Africa and handcrafted to a very individual and
precise design: the case had been created for the sole purpose of smuggling.
Bora's payload was a sheaf of encoded metal documents that, he knew, Spiral
would pay well to get their hands on.
The safe room in this lonely fortress had been designed, appropriately
enough, first and foremost for the safety of its occupants. The two windows
were shuttered with a high-grade steel that was unusual and expensive in
this part of the world. The walls were stone, two feet thick, the ceiling
and floors solid concrete, the door heavy steel in a frame of the same metal
and controlled by digital locks.
The occupant, obviously, was paranoid.
Sacha Bora slept on his back, snoring, a sweat-stained silk pillow beneath
his long greasy black hair. The sheets had been thrown free due to the
oppressive heat seeping in from the jungle and an air-con unit clattered
softly in a corner of the room - its casing armoured, the machinery itself
painfully inefficient.
A click sounded. Sacha's eyes flickered open, drops of sweat beading on his
lashes.
He stared at the ceiling for a while, his breathing even. Then he scanned
the room, glad that he was no longer subject to the palpitations that had
recently haunted him. Outside sat his two most trusted guards, and the three
members of Demol14 were there in the room with him, awaiting Spiral's expert
analyst and the money that she would bring with her. Bora relaxed a little
more as he watched the DemolSquad; they were rated among the finest and
Sacha Bora had had dealings with them on several occasions over the last
four years. They were good. No, he thought, they were the best.
Jax was cleaning his S687 shotgun, while Dazna sat with her head resting
against the wall as she rubbed at her eyes. Evoss, huge Evoss, was on his
feet by the shuttered window. The big man tilted his head sideways, and
there was a cracking sound of released tension as his neck vertebrae
realigned.
From outside there came a distant muffled roar of engines struggling up the
rough mountain roads. Jax and Dazna exchanged meaningful glances. 'What is
it?' said Sacha Bora, suddenly - crazily - nervous. He sat up in bed,
staring at where his own personal - and concealed - shotgun nestled under an
ornately carved wooden chest: the last line in protection should Demol14 and
the guards outside fail.
Evoss moved towards him, black-clad, menacing and yet, to Bora, reassuring.
He pumped his own shotgun to load it and grinned through a mouthful of
broken teeth.
'Don't worry, Bora,' he rumbled. 'We are here. You'll be fine.' He reached
out to pat Bora's sweat-streaked arm.
A whine cut through the air. There was a metallic clack.
The digital locks failed.
The security door smashed open.
'I wouldn't be so sure about that,' came a soft voice.
The figure was of average height and build and dressed in a single-piece
dark grey body-hugging garment. The face was hidden by a tight grey
balaclava that revealed only the eyes, which were copper, bright and soft.
The voice was lilting, almost beautiful, nearly female but - not quite.
And the grey-clad figure carried no visible weapon.
Everybody froze ...
'Who the fuck-'
'Demol14, I am here to kill you.'
The figure moved with awesome speed as the three members of the Demolition
Squad opened fire. Rounds screamed across the room as the grey-clad figure
leaped into the air, somersaulted, twisted, and connected, booted feet
first, with the huge bulk of Evoss. The big man fell, and a small gleaming
knife had appeared in his chest before he crashed to the ground.
The grey-masked figure looked up - a quick, insect-like motion.
Evoss's gun was lifted gently from the floor.
'You bastard!' hissed Dazna, her pretty mouth open in shock. She charged,
her gun spitting fire, bullet casings ejecting, but the grey figure was-
Gone.
The gun muzzle caressed Dazna's temple gently. There was a whump whump whump
as three stray bullets ate plaster before Jax got his weapon trained on the
grey-clad figure from across the room. But too late-
'No,' Jax mouthed silently.
The grey intruder squeezed the pistol trigger and, even as Dazna's brains
were mushrooming from the side of her head, kicked off from her falling
corpse, curled into a ball, somehow avoiding the screaming 7.62mm rounds
from Jax's weapon, hit the ground and rolled towards a low wooden chest.
From nowhere a shotgun appeared and there was a heavy bass boom. Jax was
plucked from his feet and blown across the room. He left a huge smear of
blood against the plaster, then toppled onto his face and lay unmoving.
Suddenly everything was still, awesomely silent. The flickering damaged
light illuminated the kneeling, hunched figure of Sacha Bora. He looked up
slowly, glanced around, and let out a long-drawn shuddering sigh. He
understood: understood that he was lucky to be alive, understood that he was
lucky not to be a corpse sprawling beside the three broken carcasses on the
floor.
The grey-clad figure was standing with the shotgun in his - her? - hands.
'I ... you came just in time,' wheezed Sacha Bora through cracked lips.
The figure said nothing. It made no move - no sound.
Sacha squirmed uncomfortably as trickles of sweat crawled down his face and
body.
'I can't believe you killed three members of a DemolSquad,' he croaked. The
figure did not move: it made no physical or oral response. 'How did you move
so fucking fast? And are you here for what I think you're here for? I've got
it - don't worry, it's safe, I was bringing it to ... him.'
The shotgun's barrel swung up and with twin snarls smashed Sacha Bora across
the room and into a twisted heap in the corner. There was a clatter as the
shotgun fell to the ground and lay in a pool of blood. Soft black boots left
crimson imprints across the floor while footsteps pounded down the corridor
towards the scene of carnage. Men's voices were snarling, shouting orders.
The grey-clad assassin threw a switch and the room's shutters began their
clattering ascent.
The figure approached the finely carved leather case, hurled aside in the
recent confusion. Hands moved swiftly, revealing a further concealed section
below the secret compartment. There was a glint as a sheaf of metal sheets
was withdrawn and stowed away inside the tight grey clothing.
The assassin leaped up onto the balcony and glanced down at the jungle far
below. Fresh morning sunlight bathed the scene and for a few moments the
copper eyes seemed to glow like molten metal.
And then the figure was gone, leaving only bloody footprints on the parapet.
There was a distant rattle of machine-gun fire.
The guards who had been examining the room and the four corpses exchanged
worried glances.
'How did he open the digital locks? I thought they were foolproof. A billion
fucking combinations or something.'
'Hey, look here.'
They lumbered towards the gaping window, saw the footprints in congealed
blood and glanced down into the sprawling jungle ...
Within the damp, dripping cellar deep beneath and within the clifftop house, something barely visible dropped to a crouch. There was a scrape - of metal on stone. Then a single red light came on, glowing faintly, an omen of death and destruction.
The bomb detonated.
Fire and hell-fury screamed white-hot through the building, wrenching it
apart with the force of unleashed chemical savagery.
In the jungle below, there was a pattering of pebbles, followed by heavy
thuds as chunks of stone and plaster described their individual arcs through
the foliage and tropical morning mist.
Black smoke rolled up towards the sky, blocking out the newly risen sun.
Demol77: United Kingdom
The wind howled violently across the North Sea's heaving, beating waves
towards a dark rearing metal structure, unlit and unloved, pounded and
abused by the elements.
The oil rig was old, a cast-off from one of the world's largest petroleum
companies. The rusting machinery no longer drilled and pumped, the derrick
was a tangle of fused rusting steel being gradually eaten away by sea spray,
and the huge engines no longer thundered and beat with life. The rig was a
cast-off - discarded, abused, raped, bled, drawn, fucked and forgotten.
The rig was a steel ghost, deserted.
Almost ...
A figure glided out into the blackness from some pit in the bowels of the
machine, wearing a tight-fitting black garment and a rolled-up balaclava.
Gloved hands grasped a rusting rail and the man lifted his face, gasping as
the wind rocked him, pulled him into a tight embrace and promised him-
Death.
He grinned, revelling in the violent wild-ride feeling, pulled out a
cigarette and shouldered his Sterling sub-machine gun as he searched for his
Zippo.
'You'll never light that out here.'
'Aye.'
Pulling free the lighter, he cupped the cigarette in a valiant attempt to
defeat the gale. Miraculously, the cigarette glowed, a bright spark against
the gloom. Smoke plumed around the man's face and he inhaled, closing his
eyes and enjoying the nicotine rush.
'Scott, this is a fucking shite gig, man.'
Scott merely nodded, turning his back on the wide-shouldered man with the
pock-marked complexion and staring out into the black churning waters. 'Get
us some coffee, eh, lad? And check on our Chechen friend while you're at
it.'
Grumbling, the big man - newly recruited to Demol77 - thudded his way down
the riveted iron steps and into the stairwell below.
Scott took his time enjoying the cigarette, gazing out over the rolling
waves that hid the Skene Fields. He wondered idly what it would be like,
working on a rig, living off the black gold from deep beneath the surface.
His mind drifted; he pictured blueprints - of the rig, the seabed pipelines,
the outrigged tankers - and thought about the locations of the huge mooring
anchors, pontoons and columns that kept this piece of shit squatting like a
drunkard in a gutter.
And he thought about himself: Scott; eighteen-year Spiral veteran; fucked up
the arse by his superiors and given one of the lamest protection gigs ever
devised by the shadowy Spiral planners. To protect Vladimir Kachenyav,
Chechen rebel sympathiser and member of VKW, an underground Grozny action
group. Vladimir was a hunted man. Scott was merely tired; and he wanted to
go home. Wanted to be out of the game. Wanted - that elusive word he never,
ever thought he would stoop to consider - retirement.
Scott laughed to himself, and leaned out over the rail. It creaked, the
noise lost in the wind as he gazed down into that black water. His fear made
manifest, close at hand ...
Scott licked his salt-dry lips and finished the cigarette. He flicked the
butt out over the water and the glow disappeared in an instant.
Retirement.
I thought only old men got tired, his inner voice taunted him.
I thought you were a soldier. A fighter. A warrior.
He had seen enough after the Siege of Qingdao to last a man a hundred
lifetimes.
Toffee was right, he thought as he moved to the stairwell and caught his
breath away from the wild wind. This is a shite gig; a full eight-man team
locked away on this desolate piece of junk for a whole two weeks with
Vladimir, a slightly crazy Russian.
Scott shook his head and spat into the howling wind.
He stomped down the stairs, rigged with emergency lighting that hung
untidily from low ceilings, and strode on towards the canteen, his boots
hammering the metal, his torso twisting and turning to fit through the
narrow doorways with their heavy bastard rims and gunmetal-grey decor.
'You get that coffee on?' Scott grinned as he stepped into the canteen. The
smile was wiped instantly from his face. Bodies were strewn across the
floor, blood pooling on the grey metal. Blood was spattered up the walls,
across the stainless-steel worktops, dripping from the tables and benches.
Toffee was sprawled on his back, mouth slack, dead eyes staring as the
flickering fluorescent tube above him strobed over his corpse.
Scott did not move; slowly, very slowly, he unslung the Sterling and flicked
off its safety. His gaze moved to the right. His teeth clamped tightly and
he tasted blood in his mouth.
Fuck, screamed his brain.
Fuck.
Powell was dead, trailing backwards off a bench, blood-speckled fingers
clasping the cord of his SA80. Holloway lay face down against the
iron-studded flooring. And Worm, arms outstretched, face twisted in abject
agony, a huge hole smashed through his throat, looked sightlessly up at the
ceiling, blank eyes pleading with the God who had abandoned him.
Focus. Think ...
There had been no sound of gunfire; the assassin - or assassins - had used
silenced weapons. The poor fuckers - Toffee and the others - hadn't even
known what had hit them. And that meant the assassins were-
Fast.
A blur raced across the edge of Scott's vision and he kicked himself
backwards purely from reflex. Bullets sprayed up the iron wall, splashing
bright firework sparks that burnt his face. Scott hit the deck hard, rolled
onto his front and squeezed the trigger of his own weapon. The base of the
stairwell was filled with a deafening roar of gunfire, and ricochets
peppered the canteen with hot bright metal flashes as Scott scrambled up and
sprinted for his life.
His booted feet pounded along the corridor and the blueprints for the rig
flickered back into his brain: corridors, ramps, cranes, derrick - all now
seemed a blur and Scott halted, slowed his breathing, and took a quick
glance behind him. He stepped sideways into a doorway and waited, his
breathing suddenly calm, his professionalism kicking him into-
Reality.
Nothing, no sounds of pursuit, and-
The figure glided into view, its attention focused up ahead, and sensed
rather than saw Scott by its side. The head, mere inches from the levelled
sub-machine gun, snapped left - and Scott found himself staring into bright
copper eyes ...
He squeezed the trigger.
The world seemed to explode as the Sterling hammered in the confines of the
corridor. The assassin was smashed up against the wall and drilled with a
whole magazine of bullets whose impacts held the body upright, dancing and
twitching, until the 'dead man's click' reverberated in Scott's skull and
brought the world to a sudden echoing silence. Scott fumbled for a fresh
magazine with gore-slippery gloves, trying not to look at the pulped brains
that covered his arms, trying not to choke on the cordite reek that filled
his nose and throat.
The corpse slithered to the deck and lay in a slick crimson pool of its own
blood.
The fresh magazine clicked firmly into place, and Scott - breathing slowly
and heavily through blood-speckled lips - looked left and right. His ears
were ringing from the deafening roar in the narrow metal corridor.
What the fuck is going on? he thought.
He stepped gingerly over the corpse, then headed towards the steep stairs
ahead. Warily, clasping the rail, he climbed towards the night. Rain was
pounding, driven by the wind, a sudden heavy downpour. Above, Scott could
see nothing but darkness riddled with diagonal slashes of sheeting rain.
Carefully, and with all his senses on full alert, he pulled free his ECube
and, with a twist, initiated the emergency call-up. But instead of the usual
flicker of lights the ECube failed to respond. Scott stared at the device in
disbelief. In all his years as a Spiral operative an ECube had never failed
him.
'Fucker.'
He licked his lips again. Calm, whispered his raging mind. Focus.
Vladimir: Scott knew that he had to reach the Russian. Had to protect him;
save him. Get them both off this desolate rusting graveyard.
The only escape craft that the squad had were boats, moored at a pontoon
floater on the other side of the rig. But the most important question now
was:
How many killers?
One? Five?
They had killed seven members of a DemolSquad. It had to be more than one.
Had to be. Which meant-
The game was not yet over.
Scott peered over the edge; the platform, at eye level, was a riveted
monstrosity, slippery like black glass, stretching away into apparent
infinity. Scott peered along the platform, towards the ramp at the end that
seemed to descend into nothing.
Not far.
But not far is always too far when bullets are clipping your heels.
What to do? Run or wait?
Scott crept up until he was crouching on the platform; the rain needles
drove into him and the wind howled though his jangling brain finding a way
into his tight military clothing and caressing him with fingers of ice. His
eyes followed every contour that the weak natural light could reveal. He
searched for every possible sniping position. He tried to think where best
to lay an ambush-
If he could sneak down the left flank of the rig, Vladimir's chamber was
nearby; a few easy steps and - hopefully - the fucker would be there,
waiting, ready to sprint to the safety of the boats ... Scott nodded to
himself. He craved the nicotine buzz of a cigarette.
It was instinct, more than anything else, that made him freeze.
And then it was there, his worst nightmare.
Cold metal, pressing against the back of his skull.
'No,' he whispered.
He started to turn, but a warning jab halted him. Slowly, he crouched and
placed his sub-machine gun on the deck.
'Move.'
Scott started to walk ... everything ahead of him was blurring and he
realised that he was crying - not from fear, fear was no longer an option,
but from sheer rancid frustration. Of all the fucking ways to be caught, of
all the fucking ways to die-
The crack echoed dully against the howling wind.
A limp figure toppled from the railings and disappeared in the boiling black
sea below.
Copper eyes watched coldly as it fell.
And, an instant later, the Nex had gone.
DemolS-4: sniper squad: Australia
Rain swept across Sydney Harbour Bay, deluging from towering iron-coloured
cumulonimbuses into the churning, raging waters. Rivulets poured down the
slick black contours of the bullet-pocked, shrapnel-scarred Harbour bridge,
dripping into the chasm below as the lights of distant buildings glittered
through the darkness. One half of the Sydney Opera House shimmered,
ghostlike, looking almost silver through the sheets of wind-blown rain, its
orange-segment sails raised as if in defiance against the elements
themselves. But the crumbling, recently bomb-blasted section was open to the
storm - the Opera House was wounded, torn, betrayed. To the people of
Australia it was a symbol of their world gone mad.
Rex squatted, rain pounding his Gore-Tex wetproof; he listened to the radio
and glanced at the ECube in his hand. Digits flickered blue. A voice in his
ear said, 'They're on the move.'
Rex edged forward, then glanced down, checking the magazine of the Bergmann
7.65mm sniper rifle. He raised himself, peering from the top of the forward
segment of the Opera House. The bridge was hazy in the gloom of the storm,
the harbour spread out before him like some majestic oil painting. Rex
reached out and steadied himself on the narrow galvanised walkway - he felt
like the King of the World up here, wind and driving rain buffeting him. He
felt alive. He lifted the rifle and touched the ECube to the side of the
electronic sight; there was a tiny click, and a buzz as the ECube integrated
with the advanced sniper weapon. For a second Rex watched the scope rotate
and focus; then he placed his eye against it and the world seemed to spring
into clarity.
The bridge was daylight-clear, bathed in a gentle purple tint; he zoomed the
scope quickly forward, until he could see each rivet in the steel sections,
each bullet hole and shrapnel scar. Then he pulled back and swept left and
right, searching for the vans that he knew were coming-
'You OK, Rex?' said a sultry voice in his ear.
'Sure thing, sugar,' Rex said softly, picturing Amber's beautiful lashes
fluttering at him over the lip of the telescopic sight on her own weapon. He
shifted his weight, sighting on the distant tower block and the position
that he knew Amber had secured. She waved, and he returned the signal. 'Is
Scope set up?'
Scope grunted over the communication link. He rarely spoke, and Rex's
comment was obviously below derision.
Rex moved his own sniper sight back to focus on the bridge, the top of the
huge arch. Scope was there, all in black, ready and steady. He had picked
the most dangerous positioning of the three, on the Sydney Harbour r itself,
and despite being clipped securely in place himself Rex shivered
involuntarily. But then, he thought, Scope was a wild fucker, untamed. Some
said he was insane; Rex decided that the man probably was.
'Game on.'
The words came from the supporting ground soldiers, Australian
Anti-Terrorist Special Forces led by a huge ex-marine named Callum, who were
waiting in the wings as the scene unfolded. They were monitoring the
suspected terrorist vehicles from the ground. The Spiral DemolSquad was
positioned as sniper support.
'Tracking two vehicles: black Ford vans, six occupants. ETA four minutes.
Over.'
Rex waited.
There was little else that he could do ...
Amber went over her drill for the tenth time, checking her weapon, scope,
ECube integration, body armour, hair and nails. 'Damn fucking rain,' she
muttered, and shifted her weight slightly to ease the cramping in her calf
muscles. The crumbling bullet-marked parapet was low, but not quite low
enough, meaning that she had to support her weight at an odd angle. After an
hour, cramps were inevitable.
Amber swept the scene with her scope. Through the audio link she was
listening to the ground soldiers tailing the suspect vans.
The tip-off had come from an extremely reliable source: an ex-KGB agent
turned arms dealer who was about to be tried for numerous crimes. He had
given them reams of information on terrorist activity - as one of the main
weapons suppliers to the Middle East and South America he was in a good
position to do so. So far everything had checked out fine and the Australian
government had high hopes for this gig. Six Egyptian terrorists were going
to blow up Sydney Harbour bridge. They had schematics for the structure and
knew exactly where to place the charges.
'Fucking terrorists,' snorted Amber, and swept the site once more.
No vans.
Come to think of it, no ground troops.
'GF 10 through 30, call in. Over.'
No response.
'GF 10 through 30, call in. Over!'
Again, no response.
'You hear me, Rex?'
'I'm here.'
'You see anything?'
'Not a donkey.'
'There's something wrong,' came the sibilant whisper that was Scope's rarely
heard voice; both Amber and Rex felt a chill course through their souls. And
yet on ChannelJ they could still hear the tail - the pursuit - of the vans.
'Heading east away from the Circle Bay area, down Alfred Street, heading
towards-'
Amber swept the area once more. There was a movement of air beside her, a
mere parting of the rain - and then the garrotte was around her throat
before she knew what was happening. Her gloved hand slammed up beneath the
cheese-cutter wire as her eyes suddenly widened and pain sliced into both
sides of her throat - she felt blood sluice down her neck and over her
breasts beneath her armour as her rifle clattered to the parapet.
Amber was lifted into the air, her legs kicking. She slammed her head
backwards, once, twice, three times, hearing a crunch every time. The grip
slackened but did not let go. 'Rex!' she managed to scream into the ECube,
then slammed her elbow back into the breastbone of her assailant with all
her strength. The garrotte slackened and Amber stumbled to her knees,
coughing, scrabbling at the wire that was biting into her flesh-
Rex sighted on the parapet at the summit of the dimly lit building. He could see Amber struggling, but her attacker was too close for a clear shot and the rain was falling, obscuring his aim. Then Amber struck back. The assailant stumbled in the gloom and Rex squeezed off a shot into the night, then three more in quick succession. He grinned nastily just as the silenced pistol touched the back of his head and blew his brains and face all over the fine stonework of the Sydney Opera house.
Amber heard the hiss of the bullets as they flew past her. She whirled, crouching low as she drew her Beretta 9mm pistol. The figure flew at her, a kick smashing the handgun from her grip and out over the parapet. Confusion spread through her brain - she had heard twin thuds behind her, knew that Rex's bullets had smashed home. Kevlar? The question flashed through her mind as reflexes took over. One kick, two - she blocked with her forearms, then smashed a straight right that the figure dodged as it circled. Amber met the stare of her assailant - the eyes were copper, bright - and she hammered out a front kick, connecting. The figure twisted, rolled, and kicked Amber's legs from under her. She hit the ground with sudden shock, the back of her head cracking against the parapet. Stars of concussion flooded her vision - she swung out blindly, but hit nothing. She felt suddenly weightless - and realised with horror that she had been lifted from the ground again. 'No!' she yelled, her arms and legs flailing. But wind rushed up past her as her eyes widened and she screamed in terror and despair. Then she hit the ground and the scene, the act and the play were finally over.
Scope was considered a reptile by those who worked with him. He had no
friends and was - or seemed to be - emotionless. He was dedicated,
professional - and damn near the finest sniper in the whole of Spiral.
Rumour had it that he could clip the tip from a mouse's dick at ten thousand
paces and could thread cotton through a needle's eye with an aimed bullet.
He was appalled that he had not seen them coming. Four figures in black had
climbed the war-torn bridge below him without being seen. Impossible!
screamed his mind as they closed in for the kill. He swung the Bergmann and
shot the first figure in the face - there was a hiss, a spray of blood and
teeth, and it fell back limply and bounced its way down through the bridge's
structures into the gloom below.
Lightning crackled across the sky. In the glow, Scope grinned nastily.
The three figures pulled silenced pistols in fluid movements and everybody
started shooting at the same time. Flashes flickered atop the Sydney Harbour
bridge, an accompaniment to the lightning. Another dark-clad shape fell,
hurled backwards like a rag doll, and pitched towards the narrow strip of
tarmac below. Then a bullet hit Scope in the shoulder, spinning him round as
a second smashed into his groin and a third into his throat. Blood spewed
from his crimson slick lips. He groaned 'Fuckers' as he started to topple,
but the security harness that held him whirled him round and he jerked to a
halt on the line where he slowly rotated. Blood dripped from his limp
corpse. The two remaining dark figures crept closer and put five more
bullets into Scope's body. Copper-eyed stares met for the briefest of
instants. Then the shadowy beings sprinted away across the dizzying heights
of the bridge.
The truck screeched to a halt, its headlights slicing through the heavy
downpour. Callum stared hard past the thumping wipers, then barked 'Out.'
Ten men leaped from the cab and the truck's tailgate. They spread out, SA80s
covering each other's arcs of fire. Callum crept back and crouched by the
body of the dead soldier. His throat had been cut. Callum swallowed hard,
glancing around at the other six bodies. Not a bullet had been fired. 'They
hit them hard and fast, boys. Let's spread out, see what the score is.
Albert, you got that fucking comms up and running yet?'
'The whole net's dead, sir.'
Callum nodded, then motioned for the men to move out.
They moved purposefully through the downpour. Lightning flickered overhead,
and Callum strained to see the sniper atop the bridge. He could see
something, some sort of movement briefly illuminated - but then it was gone
to be replaced by a haze of rain and confusion.
And Callum knew. Could feel it.
They had been fucked, hard and proper - but to what purpose? Had the
terrorists planted the explosives? Was the bridge about to go the same was
as the Opera House?
Twenty minutes later, Callum was leaning against the bridge, a soggy
cigarette between his lips, smoke pluming around his face. At his feet, on a
stretcher, lay the very dead body of Scope. The sniper's face was a mess,
his head shot to pieces, most of the rear of his skull missing. Callum
stared at the dead eyes and shuddered.
Albert approached. 'Comms are back on-line; the other two snipers are dead
as well. No sign of any assailants - except for the fucking bullet casings,
of course. Boss, I just don't get what the fuck went on here.'
'Decoy,' said Callum softly from around the bedraggled cigarette.
'Decoy? What about the bridge?'
'This wasn't about the bridge,' said Callum. Reluctantly, he took the
cigarette from between his lips and tossed it over the railings, into the
black, oily bay below. He faced Albert and their stares met.
'Somebody wanted those snipers dead.'
'So this was a hit?'
Callum nodded. 'Oh yes, my friend. And of one thing I am certain: whoever
did this, whoever killed this Demolition Squad - I'm sure as hell glad
they're not looking for me.'
'How do you know they're not looking for you?' whispered Albert.
Callum shrugged. 'I'd already be dead,' he said simply.
