Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

A half-naked woman crackled into existence as Will passed, asking him if it wasn’t about time he treated himself to a new head of hair. ‘…years younger! You…’ Fzzzzzzzzzz, pop, ‘…fin time for that big date!’

The holo followed him to the edge of the emitter’s range, then she blew him a kiss and vanished back into nothingness.

He followed the winding pathways, not taking the most direct route, just drifting in the general direction of Sauchiehall Street. Plenty of time to spare, and it wasn’t as if he could actually get any wetter. He heard Mrs New Hair fizz back into life as someone else daft enough to be out in this weather passed too close to the sensor.

Three days enforced compassionate leave-what did Director Smith-Hamilton think he was going to do with all that free time? Take up knitting? Put his feet up and let that nasty little bastard Ken…

There was a sound on the path behind him-footsteps, then the unmistakable click of a safety catch being disengaged.

…Peitai.

Shit.

He’d been set up. SHIT. How could he be so bloody stupid? He’d thought he was being unpredictable, taking a walk across the park, instead he’d made a target of himself.

Will kept going, pretending he hadn’t noticed anything, ears straining for some hint of how many were coming for him. But the rain did too good a job of drowning things out.

Trying to look casual, he checked his watch, using the motion to cover a quick glance back the way he’d come.

There were two of them. One was wearing a long, black cloat with the hood up, hiding his features, the other a thick maroon scarf and wetjacket.

There would be others-lurking in the dark somewhere up ahead. Waiting for him to get far enough into the park to make sure no one saw what was about to happen. Following the signal from the transmitters they’d buried under his skin.

Yeah, way to be unpredictable.

Four against one-if he was lucky-and the bastards would all be Black-Ops trained. Professional killers.

Will forced himself to slow down to a stroll. He still had Brian’s Palm Thrummer, at least that was something. And it was fully charged, so the first one to try anything would get their face thrummed off…Then it’d be three to one, and they’d kill him.

Will faked a cough and triggered his throat-mike.

‘Control this is Hunter,’-keeping his voice low-‘I need you to get a pickup team to Kelvingrove Park, now .’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but the Director has asked us to make sure you’re not bothered by Network business today.’

‘I don’t care what she says: get me a bloody pickup team!’

‘No can do, sir. I have been specifically ordered not to patch through any more calls to or from you while you’re on compassionate leave.’

‘It’s Lucy isn’t it?’ He paused under one of the sodiums, his eyes flicking across the trees and bushes. ‘Listen up, Lucy, I’ll be on terminal leave if you don’t get someone here right now. I’m getting set up for a hit.’

‘Bloody…Right: sorry, sir. All active Dragonflies are out on jobs…’ There was a burst of staccato keystrokes. ‘Looks like Delta Three Sixer is nearest. Connecting you now.’

He picked up the pace, trying to put a little distance between himself and the people behind him. It wouldn’t be long now. They were already halfway across the park; Kelvin Way was getting closer with every stride and beyond that Sauchiehall Street. They couldn’t make their move then; it would be too public.

Lieutenant Emily Brand’s voice crackled in his ear, curt and businesslike. ‘Talk to me.’

‘Halfway across Kelvingrove Park, heading southwest towards Kelvin Way. Two on my tail, probably another two up ahead.’

‘Is it a hit?’

‘I’m kind of hoping it’s a miss.’ In his earpiece he could hear the Dragonfly’s turbines changing pitch, followed by the roar of a chaingun. ‘Where are you?’

‘Firefight, corner of Scotland and Carnoustie.’

‘Damn.’ There was no way they could abandon a combat situation-not even for him. He was on his own.

‘We’ll get there as soon as we can. I’ll-’

‘Don’t worry about it. Been nice working with you, Emily.’

‘Will, don’t you dare-’

He killed the link before she could say anything more. He needed to concentrate on what was happening now .

Something moved in the bushes up ahead and Will felt for the Palm Thrummer in his pocket, struggling to twist it open one-handed. The tines extending up his sleeve as he flicked the switch to warm the weapon up.

A voice cut through the rain: ‘Oi, Grandad. Any last requests, like?’

This was it.

Will didn’t turn around. The taunt sounded amateurish, but he knew what would happen if he took his eyes off the shadows on either side of the path: he’d never see the other pair sneaking up on him. Clever.

‘Who the hell are you calling “Grandad”?’ He set the Thrummer to full bore, maximum dispersion. ‘Thought you were supposed to be professionals?’

The man laughed. ‘Aye? Well how’s this for fuckin’ professional?’ There was the metallic snickt of a power switch. Something big and clunky: modern weapons didn’t make noises like that anymore. Maybe it was the same antique P-750 that punched a hole in Private Floyd’s shoulder? Didn’t matter how old it was, it would still be deadly.

‘So what you going to do?’ Will slowed to a halt, moving his weight forwards onto the balls of his feet. ‘Talk me to death?’

‘Am gonnae blow a great big hole in yer arse an bugger aff wi a’ yer cards and yer housecode. Then me an some mates are gonnae nick everythin’ ye’ve got. An if yer girl or boyfriend’s aboot we’ll shag the shit ootae them an fuck’em in the heid wi an ice-pick.’

Will frowned. He knew they were the bastards from the Sherman House ‘project’, and they knew he knew-otherwise they wouldn’t be here. So why the play-acting? Maybe they were filming it? Maybe this was one of the few bits of the park where the CCTV actually worked? No one would go looking for a conspiracy, not when they had it all on tape. A mugging gone wrong. His own fault really, should have known better than to cut across the park. A tragic indictment of today’s society. Small state funeral. No questions asked.

Ken Peitai gets away with murder.

Will spun around, bringing the Palm Thrummer up. The one in the cloat was there, but there was no sign of his friend.

‘Cloat’ wasn’t holding a P-750, what he had was even older than that: about as long as the man’s arm, all rust patches and visible wiring. It looked more likely to blow up in Cloat’s face than do Will any damage…Probably a decoy: something to distract him.

A nuclear family strobed into life at the side of the path, the rain rippling through their holographic bodies as they launched into a song and dance about having pizza for tea. Someone must have set off the advertipod’s sensor.

Jacket-and-Scarf came out of nowhere, swinging a thick metal rod. Will didn’t have time to duck-it slammed into his forehead. Ringing in his ears, bright lights flashing inside his skull. He stumbled and fell, face thudding into the wet tarmac path.

Get up. GET-UP!

An animated dinosaur joined the musical number, telling everyone that on Monday nights kids ate for free.

Will forced himself to his knees, the world roaring in his ears as it span. Jacket-and-Scarf took a run up and kicked him in the ribs, hard enough to send him sprawling across the rain-sodden grass, through the blue triceratops and into the middle of the advert-mushrooms and peppers and chunks of cloned meat swirling all around him, making his skin flicker and glow.