Proxy, page 28
A chill that had nothing to do with the cold of the old, rambling house worked its way beneath Stacy’s skin. “So there’s only me and you here?”
“Not quite,” the proxy said over her shoulder. “As I mentioned last night, I hired specialist proxies, fearing a possible armed confrontation. Some are here already, including the one you’re speaking to now, and others are still on their way.”
Stacy wrapped her arms around her chest for warmth. “These people you saw in the woods. Do they work for Markov? Has he found us?”
The proxy didn’t reply. Instead, she pushed the window up and leaned outside, peering in the direction of the road that led through the woods to the mansion.
“There’s been another incident,” the proxy said, stepping back from the window. “Please go to the kitchen and remain there for now, Miss Cotter.”
“I want to know what’s going on,” Stacy demanded, unable to hide her growing alarm.
“Please, Miss Cotter,” Zero replied with typically maddening patience. “It’s for your own safety.”
Stacy thought of insisting, but instead she did as Zero asked, making her way down through the strangely quiet house to the kitchen.
This time, there were no proxies to cook or wash for her, and so she made herself breakfast from a loaf of supermarket bread and some butter that had been left sitting on a counter. It helped that the kitchen, with its wood-burning stove, was also the warmest part of the house.
As she chewed on buttered bread and sipped at lukewarm coffee from a pot that had been left on the stove, Stacy peered through a gap between the boards covering the windows to where she could just make out the trees surrounding the house. She glimpsed another proxy in military-style clothing. It carried a rifle and stood with its back to her.
She was about to step back once more from the window when the proxy burst into sudden motion, running to the left and out of sight. Stacy listened for a moment, her mouth full of half-chewed bread, hearing the sound of boots running across gravel.
She put the remains of her buttered bread down, her hunger vanished. Had Isaac and Ray been hurt? Was Markov finally on his way to finish the job he’d started when she arrived in London?
Even the thought they had been found was enough to make Stacy’s heart feel as if it might seize up, her lungs somehow not able to suck in enough air.
Slamming the door of the kitchen open, she ran across the echoing hall and outside, seeing two more proxies, also in camouflage, coming through the trees towards the house and supporting a third man between them. Dirt and blood streaked the man’s skin and clothes, pain and exhaustion showing in the lines of his face.
Elijah.
Stacy hurried over, taking one of Elijah’s arms from a proxy and pulling it over her shoulder.
“What happened to you?” she asked, as she helped him inside the house.
“Somebody shot at my car,” Elijah gasped. His head lolled on his shoulders as if he could hardly keep it upright. “It happened maybe half an hour after I left. I veered off the road and into a tree. The car was a wreck, so I figured the only thing I could do was run for it.”
Stacy kicked the kitchen door open with one boot, then, with the aid of the other proxy, guided Elijah over to a chair next to the kitchen table.
“You ran for it?” she asked, incredulous. “With a twisted ankle?”
“I didn’t say it was easy,” he grunted, his voice heavy with fatigue and pain. “Been walking all damn night. Not even sure how I figured...how I figured the right way back here.”
They got him onto the chair and he slumped into it like a rag doll. He leaned forward, burying his head in his arms on the kitchen table.
“Tell me what happened,” Stacy said to the proxy who’d helped her get Elijah indoors.
“He didn’t get more than twenty miles from the house,” the proxy told her. “He’s very lucky to be alive.”
“It’s Markov, isn’t it?”
“Most likely, yes.”
“Then what about my father?” she demanded, her voice trembling. “And Ray Thomas? They left not long after Elijah did. Are they still alive?”
“There’s a fork in the road a few miles from here,” said the proxy. “Mr Waits took a different route from your father and Mr Thomas. One of my proxies is riding along with the two of them and, rest assured, they’re very much alive and well.”
The proxy leaned over the table towards Elijah, who looked up with bleary, tired eyes.
“Mr Waits,” asked Zero, “were you able to see how many your attackers numbered?”
Elijah shook his head. “The first shot hit the windscreen, and that’s when I hit a tree. When I got out, I could hear them moving through the undergrowth towards me, but I couldn’t see a thing. I found a place to hide next to a brook. I stayed there until I couldn’t hear them any more.”
Two more proxies entered the kitchen, both muscular and clad in the same fatigues as the rest.
One handed Elijah a flask and he gulped its contents down. The other got to work putting a pressure bandage onto Elijah’s ankle. It looked ugly and swollen as hell. Stacy felt a sympathetic twinge in her healing arm.
Elijah regarded the three proxies with a wary expression. “These don’t look like the proxies you had before.”
“Military-grade,” said Zero, speaking through the proxy working on Elijah’s ankle. “If you recall, we discussed them last night.”
“Smart,” said Elijah, nodding his head. “I lost my guns when the car crashed. If Markov’s coming for us, I want one of yours.”
“It’s unnecessary for you to be armed at this time,” said Zero, this time speaking through the proxy that had helped Stacy get him inside.
Elijah’s expression darkened. “Like hell it isn’t!”
“Elijah’s got a point,” said Stacy. “We’re helpless if Markov sends his own proxies in here, or there’s more of them than there are of you. Neither of us have any way to defend ourselves if it comes to it.”
“You don’t have firearms training, Miss Cotter. You’re more likely to hurt yourself or one of us than anyone else. And our hope is to avoid hurting any proxies whatsoever if we can possibly avoid it.”
“Then train me,” she said to the proxy nearest her, her tone insistent. “What else is there for me to do?”
The proxy shook his head. “I can’t spare any weapons,” he said. “Not until we know just how much of a threat we’re facing.”
“Give me a gun and I’ll teach her,” said Elijah. “If Markov’s out to kill her, she might as well be able to shoot back.”
All three proxies fell silent for a moment, their expressions eerily blank.
“All right,” said the proxy next to Stacy. “It’ll be tricky, but perhaps I can allocate something you can use. You should practice in the basement—it’s reasonably dry and intact and should provide some natural soundproofing. Please give me five minutes.”
Stacy dropped into a chair and waited. Another of the proxies gave Elijah several painkillers and more water.
Ten minutes passed before a new, female proxy, dressed in the same tactical gear as the rest, entered the kitchen. She looked thirty-something, but might equally have been a well-preserved fifty with hard, angular features.
She dropped a heavy-looking canvas backpack onto the table with a thump. Unzipping it, she withdrew a pair of snub-nosed pistols that looked utterly lethal to her untrained eyes and handed one to Elijah.
“You can use these,” said Zero, speaking through the proxy.
Elijah picked one up and turned it this way and that, studying it closely. “Nine millimetres,” he said, pulling something back on top of each one before releasing it with a metallic snap.
He looked back up at the proxy. “Got anything more powerful?”
“We are trying to avoid hurting David Markov’s proxies,” Zero replied. “We hope to wound at most, and would prefer not to kill if at all possible.”
Elijah looked dubious.
“The magazines are preloaded,” the proxy continued, taking more things out of the bag and placing them down on the table next to the second gun. “You’re familiar with sidearms from the Korean War, of course.”
The way the proxy said it, it was a statement, not a question.
Something glittered deep within Elijah’s eyes. “Seems you know a few things about me.”
“I’ve placed adequate lighting in the basement,” the proxy said by way of reply. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do under the circumstances.”
“I’m sure it’ll be more than good enough,” said Elijah, standing stiffly and slowly. “Hey,” he said to the proxy. “Give me a hand?”
The basement smelled even worse than the rest of the house. Stacy made a conscious effort to breathe through her mouth rather than inhale the stink of mould and rotting wood.
The walls and floor were made of scarred concrete, and Zero had placed portable battery-powered lamps in each of the basement’s four corners. The AI had even scratched a crude target comprising three concentric circles into a sheet of plywood and leaned it up against the far wall.
Stacy went down first, carrying the various items of deadly weaponry in the rucksack belonging to the proxy. Elijah followed behind, taking the basement steps one at a time and leaning heavily on the mercenary proxy who had brought them the guns.
Once he was down, Elijah took the rucksack from Stacy and took everything back out, carefully placing it all on a shelf near the steps.
“Cartridge,” he said, holding up something about the size of a cigarette packet. “This is where your ammunition is. You load it like this.”
He slid the cartridge into the grip of one of the handguns.
“Always keep the barrel pointed at the ground unless you’re intending to fire,” Elijah told her. He handed it to her grip-first. “Have you used a gun of any kind before?”
“Nope,” she said.
“Just try aiming it,” he said, nodding towards the crude target.
Obeying, Stacy raised the gun one-handed and pointed it at the far wall.
“Use a two-handed grip,” said Elijah, stepping awkwardly around behind her on his busted ankle and peering over her shoulder towards the target. “That way you can keep your aim more steady. Like this.”
Elijah then stepped up next to her and aimed his own weapon at the target, angling it slightly so she could see the way he’d arranged his fingers around the pistol’s grip. She did her best to copy it.
“Almost,” said Elijah. “Keep the first finger of your right hand lying against the barrel so it’s just above the trigger guard. See?”
Stacy tried again and Elijah nodded his approval. “Now take a breath and let it out slowly. Try to keep your body relaxed.”
“I know the next bit,” said Stacy. Her hands were already tired from trying to keep the gun level. “Squeeze, don’t pull. Right?”
Elijah laughed under his breath. “Not quite. Here.”
He put his gun down, then showed her how to wrap her fingers around the handgun. “Pull back on the slide,” he instructed her.
She did as she was told. A kind of metal sleeve on top of the barrel slid back, then sprang back into place when she released it.
“Now you’ve chambered a round,” he explained. “Try taking a shot. And remember, use a two-handed grip. And take your time.”
Stacy nodded, suddenly nervous. She sighted along the barrel, not sure at all if she was doing it right. When she tried to picture herself confronting somebody with such a weapon, the thought terrified her a lot more than it reassured her.
Stacy let out a shaky breath, steadied her aim as best she could and squeezed the trigger.
The handgun kicked in her hand with sufficient force to jerk her wrists to one side. It made a sound like a baseball bat hitting the side of an empty oil can.
A hole appeared a few inches from the outer ring of the target, the plywood sheet trembling under the impact.
“Fuck,” she swore under her breath, lowering the gun again. Her heart beat in her chest like a drummer playing a fast roll.
“You’re thinking too much,” Elijah said from beside her. “Like this.”
Elijah shifted his balance so that most of his weight was on his good leg and fired three evenly spaced shots almost directly into the centre of the target. He stood with his body at a slight angle relative to the plywood sheet. The sound of each shot made every muscle in Stacy’s body twitch.
Elijah dropped the gun back down and grinned at her. “Want to try again?”
“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” she asked. “Korea?”
His expression sobered slightly. “That’s not something I like to talk about.”
“I was just thinking if we’re going to be stuck here waiting to see if we’re all going to be murdered, I should at least know something about you.”
“Does it matter?” he said, his voice now edged with irritation.
“Look,” said Stacy, “if anything happens to your skin, you’ll just wake up back in your cell. But for me, it’s forever. I’d like to know something about you.” She shrugged. “You tell me something, I’ll tell you something.”
Elijah stared levelly at the target for several seconds, then nodded. “I was part of the international peacekeeping force. Let’s just say it was a clusterfuck of epic proportions and leave it at that.” He nodded to her gun. “Try again.”
Stacy raised the weapon until it was once again level with her eyes. This time she was determined to do better.
“Breathe, relax and aim,” Elijah said from beside her, his voice low and calm. “Don’t think about anything else.”
Breathe, relax, aim. The way he said it, it almost sounded like a mantra.
This time, her shot landed closer to the centre of the wooden target. Much closer.
“Improving,” said Elijah when she lowered her gun.
“Only because the target isn’t moving,” she pointed out. “I’m not sure an actual person is going to stay still long enough for me to shoot them.”
“They might,” said Elijah, “if they don’t know you’re there.”
The words carried a sense of intimate knowledge, and she pictured Elijah slipping through a jungle, tracking and killing people from a distance.
“So how do you go from being in a war zone to dealing proxy?” she asked.
His eyebrows knit together in an angry scowl. “I’ve said as much as I want to say.”
She turned until she was facing him. “Aren’t you even the least bit curious how a stupid little rich girl gets so low she ends up proxy hooking?”
“No,” he replied, although Stacy heard the hesitation in his voice.
“I was the daughter of one of the most famous—and rich—men in the world. That,” she said, “made me desirable to certain kinds of people.”
“You don’t need to tell me any of this.”
“See,” she continued regardless, “I ran away a couple of times when I was a kid, but I had enough sense to keep my background—who I was—a secret from anyone I met. When I was sixteen, I wound up living in a squat and met a proxy dealer. He knew people, who knew people, who had more money than they knew what to do with, and he liked to help them spend it.”
She turned back to face the target, shifting her stance. “So I had a plan,” she continued. “Back then I still thought Raphael Markov was my actual, biological father, and I couldn’t understand why he wanted nothing to do with me. I blamed my mother, then I blamed myself. If I couldn’t get his attention the usual way, then maybe one day I could get close enough to Raphael while I was proxying with these rich arseholes to ask him why.” She glanced sideways at Elijah. “I just wanted to know what I’d done wrong.”
Elijah’s face twisted up in what might have been sympathy, but was more likely pity. “You didn’t really believe that would happen, did you?”
“No,” she admitted. “It was just a story I told myself.” She aimed at the target once more and squeezed the trigger, but heard only a hollow click.
“Maybe that’s enough practice for now,” said Elijah. “At the very least we ought to try and conserve what ammunition we have until we need it.”
The tough-looking female proxy, who had been silently watching them from the steps, took their weapons back from them.
“Wait,” said Stacy, following behind Elijah as he limped towards the steps. “I want to hear more about Korea.”
He stopped with one foot on a step and looked back at her. “So if I tell you something, you’ll stop asking questions?”
She thought for a moment. “Probably.”
A beat passed, and then another. “Fine,” he said at last. “All you really need to know is that the NK’s used nerve gas towards the end.” A muscle twitched in one of his cheeks. “Some friends of mine got hit with it. The ones who survived wished they hadn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“After we all got back home, they treated the ones who got invalided like dirt when they should have got help. So I helped them out any way I could.”
“Proxy?” she guessed.
Elijah nodded. “Then I got busted.”
“Even though you were trying to help people?”
He shook his head. “Things were different back then. Anyone who used it was treated like a potential terrorist.” He sighed and leaned heavily on the wall beside him for support. “After I got out of prison the first time, I set up a small proxy factory with a friend. And now I’m back inside again.”
“Elijah, Stacy,” said the proxy, “There’s renewed activity in the woods much closer to the house. I recommend you stay down here for the duration.”
“No,” said Elijah, steel in his voice. “We’d be trapped down here if they got in. We’d have a better chance upstairs.” He looked at Stacy. “Bring those guns, please.”
Stacy stepped back over to the proxy, who handed her back the two handguns with clear reluctance. “I recommend not using them unless absolutely essential,” said Zero.
“We won’t,” Stacy replied, passing one of the nine millimetres to Elijah. “You’ve seen people out there?”
