friend, Alice De Luca, for trying to help Danny and his daughter escape.
For now he had to be a machine with a heart of stone. Like Spartak. Like the twins. Later, this could be personal.
Would
be personal. But not yet. This was nothing but work.
Danny used the amplifier again. Still nothing. He slowly turned the handle until it clicked, then began to force the door open, using his shoulder to pile on pressure, tension ratcheting inside him as the rusted hinges squeaked in protest, every bit as excruciating as the bark of the lock-buster’s gears.
No gunfire. No voices. Was nobody home? He pushed the door another inch, then two more, raking the growing gap with his unblinking eyes for alarm wires. Five inches, ten . . . enough to peer through properly into the dark space looming beyond, his finger poised on the AK-9’s trigger.
His goggles picked up nothing. No heat signatures. Danny kept on pushing until the gap was big enough for him to slip through. He glanced back at Spartak, who was already creeping up silently behind.
Dropping into a crouch, he edged through the gap, scoping the room once more, just to be sure. An administration centre, it looked like. A row of ten windows to his left. Thirty or more desks. Antique, pre-digital equipment. A thick layer of dust lay across the floor. No footprints. Two doors led off, one dead ahead, the other to the right.
Sheet lightning flashed outside, illuminating the opaque, grime-smeared windows. Details leaped out: telephones on desks, staplers, stacks of paperwork, left undone. Danny pictured a different time: he heard the sound of typing and people talking, smelt cheap coffee in the air.
But now there was nothing. This place was as derelict and rotten as the station waiting room he’d hurtled through earlier.
He signalled Spartak to go ahead.
‘Vvodty,’
he told the twins, ordering them to abandon their wait outside and enter the building.
Danny moved in on the door to his right, went through the process with the amplifier and turned to see Spartak doing the same at the other. A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. The twins had now entered the room.
He tried the handle of the door he was at. It moved easily. Wasn’t locked. He waved the nearest twin to him. The younger man crouched, covering the door from an angle that would allow him to see into the room beyond as it came into view.
Danny flattened himself against the wall on the hinge side, stretched out his arm and began pushing the door open.
A long, drawn-out creak.
Then silence.
The watching twin edged forward, stopped and signalled that the next room was clear. Danny waved him through, then followed.
He found himself in what looked like an old delivery bay. But even as he was looking round, the twin’s hand shot up in warning, and Danny dropped into a dead-still crouch. A shiver of electricity rippled across his shoulders as the twin pointed at the floor.
There were boot prints everywhere, fresh, like astronauts’ prints on the moon. And not just one shape, grip and size. Several. And not just leading in one direction, but many.
Apart from the doorway through which Danny and the twin had just entered, the only way out appeared to be through a closed set of double wooden swing doors ahead. To Danny’s left, there was a smoked, bevelled-glass window at waist height, against which the rain battered and raged.
His goggles picked out more signs of life and recent habitation. A row of cigarette butts stood on the windowsill, which was wet and slick with water – the window must have been recently opened. A plastic bottle of Coke stood on the floor, a couple of inches of black liquid still in it, with carbonated bubbles rising.
A rustling. Danny spun, pumped up, ready to fire. A black rat scuttled across the area. Its sharp eyes glared fearlessly at him, before it buried its snout in the remnants of some food inside a crumpled, discarded plastic package.
Another burst of adrenalin. Danny
For now he had to be a machine with a heart of stone. Like Spartak. Like the twins. Later, this could be personal.
Would
be personal. But not yet. This was nothing but work.
Danny used the amplifier again. Still nothing. He slowly turned the handle until it clicked, then began to force the door open, using his shoulder to pile on pressure, tension ratcheting inside him as the rusted hinges squeaked in protest, every bit as excruciating as the bark of the lock-buster’s gears.
No gunfire. No voices. Was nobody home? He pushed the door another inch, then two more, raking the growing gap with his unblinking eyes for alarm wires. Five inches, ten . . . enough to peer through properly into the dark space looming beyond, his finger poised on the AK-9’s trigger.
His goggles picked up nothing. No heat signatures. Danny kept on pushing until the gap was big enough for him to slip through. He glanced back at Spartak, who was already creeping up silently behind.
Dropping into a crouch, he edged through the gap, scoping the room once more, just to be sure. An administration centre, it looked like. A row of ten windows to his left. Thirty or more desks. Antique, pre-digital equipment. A thick layer of dust lay across the floor. No footprints. Two doors led off, one dead ahead, the other to the right.
Sheet lightning flashed outside, illuminating the opaque, grime-smeared windows. Details leaped out: telephones on desks, staplers, stacks of paperwork, left undone. Danny pictured a different time: he heard the sound of typing and people talking, smelt cheap coffee in the air.
But now there was nothing. This place was as derelict and rotten as the station waiting room he’d hurtled through earlier.
He signalled Spartak to go ahead.
‘Vvodty,’
he told the twins, ordering them to abandon their wait outside and enter the building.
Danny moved in on the door to his right, went through the process with the amplifier and turned to see Spartak doing the same at the other. A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. The twins had now entered the room.
He tried the handle of the door he was at. It moved easily. Wasn’t locked. He waved the nearest twin to him. The younger man crouched, covering the door from an angle that would allow him to see into the room beyond as it came into view.
Danny flattened himself against the wall on the hinge side, stretched out his arm and began pushing the door open.
A long, drawn-out creak.
Then silence.
The watching twin edged forward, stopped and signalled that the next room was clear. Danny waved him through, then followed.
He found himself in what looked like an old delivery bay. But even as he was looking round, the twin’s hand shot up in warning, and Danny dropped into a dead-still crouch. A shiver of electricity rippled across his shoulders as the twin pointed at the floor.
There were boot prints everywhere, fresh, like astronauts’ prints on the moon. And not just one shape, grip and size. Several. And not just leading in one direction, but many.
Apart from the doorway through which Danny and the twin had just entered, the only way out appeared to be through a closed set of double wooden swing doors ahead. To Danny’s left, there was a smoked, bevelled-glass window at waist height, against which the rain battered and raged.
His goggles picked out more signs of life and recent habitation. A row of cigarette butts stood on the windowsill, which was wet and slick with water – the window must have been recently opened. A plastic bottle of Coke stood on the floor, a couple of inches of black liquid still in it, with carbonated bubbles rising.
A rustling. Danny spun, pumped up, ready to fire. A black rat scuttled across the area. Its sharp eyes glared fearlessly at him, before it buried its snout in the remnants of some food inside a crumpled, discarded plastic package.
Another burst of adrenalin. Danny
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