Simon Green - Property of a Lady Faire

“You know, I could probably use my magics to convince the conductor we have reservations for a first-class sleeping compartment. How would you like to join the Hundred-Mile-an-Hour Club?”

“Nice thought,” I said. “But I am so full right now, all I’d want to do with a bed is sleep in it. My body is completely preoccupied with digestion.”

“Getting old, Eddie,” said Molly. “But we could just sleep, if you like. It has been a long, hard day . . . We could take it in turns, one sleeping while the other stays on guard. If we really are in any danger, this far from everyone and everything . . .”

“We’re in danger wherever we are,” I said. “And perhaps especially here. If word has got out that we’re going after the Lazarus Stone, they’ll expect us to go through Ultima Thule. So there are bound to be people lying in wait along the way . . . Hoping to intercept us, or follow us, or just pick us off from a distance. People who would just love to catch us napping . . . No, Molly, we can’t sleep, we can’t take it easy, and we can’t take our eye off the ball. Even for a moment.”

Molly looked out the window again. “There’s no one out there, Eddie.”

“No one we can see.”

Molly sniffed, and gestured rudely at the other diners. “I can’t see much of a threat coming from any of these overprivileged nostalgia freaks. Unless they plan to smug us to death.”

And then we both sat up straight, as shouts and screams and sounds of open violence suddenly exploded from beyond the closed door at the end of the restaurant carriage. The door we’d come in through. The other diners looked up, startled, and began to babble nervously among themselves. One large gentleman stood up, rather officiously, and started toward the door to investigate. He’d almost reached it when the door was smashed inwards with such force that the whole thing was blasted off its hinges and out of its frame. It flew down the aisle to slam into the large gentleman, knocking him off his feet and onto his back. He lay groaning on the floor, with the door on top of him.

One of the white-uniformed stewards came flying through the gap where the door had been, tumbling bonelessly down the narrow aisle between the tables, until finally he crashed to a halt. There was blood all over the torn white uniform, and it was suddenly horribly clear that the body had no head. The ragged wound at the neck suggested the head had been torn off by brute force.

Blood from the severed neck had been thrown everywhere as the body tumbled down the aisle, splashing the furnishings and fittings, and soaking into the expensive clothing of those diners sitting in the aisle seats. Their cries went flying up like startled birds, and they shrank back in their seats, away from the awful thing that had so violently invaded their comfortable lives. I looked at Molly, and we both got up from our seats and moved out into the aisle, to face whatever might be coming. We stood side by side, confronting the dark opening. Molly shot me a quick grin, ready for anything, and I had to smile back at her.

It would feel really good to hit something. To take out the day’s frustrations on whatever poor fool was stupid enough to interrupt our downtime.

The first man to step through the doorway was dressed all in red. Blood-red leather jacket and trousers, with a dark red mask covering his entire face, with just the eyes showing. There was something about the eyes . . . Too fixed, too fierce, too intent. He stood in front of the doorway with fresh blood dripping from his bare hands, his long lean body almost quivering with nervous energy. You had only to look at him to know that he was here to fight, and kill . . . and that he would enjoy every bloody moment of it. He wasn’t a soldier, or even a mercenary; he was a killer.

He stepped quickly forward, and half a dozen more men came quickly through the doorway after him. Six more lean and hungry men, dressed in blood-red.

“Why are they all wearing masks?” Molly said quietly. “Are they afraid we might recognise them?”

“There’s something odd about the way they all look,” I said. “The way they move. They all have exactly the same body language. Weird.”

And then we glanced behind us, as the rear door to the carriage slammed open. Two armed security guards, in much the same black uniform as the conductor, came running in. They shouted at Molly and me in Russian, telling us to get the hell out of their way. They were both big muscular types, carrying heavy machine pistols. They looked like they knew how to use them.

Molly and I moved hastily back out of the way, and they ran straight past us, training their guns on the men in red and yelling for them to surrender. One of the blood-red men stepped forward, raising his bloody hands, and both security men opened up on him at once. The bullets raked him from chest to groin and back again, but he just stood there and took it. I saw the bullets go in, but he didn’t bleed at all. Didn’t even stagger back, from the repeated impacts.

He came forward, incredibly fast, and hit the nearest security man in the head so hard it broke the man’s neck and sent his head swinging all the way round to stare over his shoulder with empty eyes. The body was still crumpling to the floor when the blood-red man turned on the other guard, who was still emptying his gun into the quickly moving target. The blood-red man snatched the machine pistol out of the security guard’s hand, reversed it, and smashed the stock of the gun into the man’s chest so hard, it sank half its length into his body. Blood flew out in a jet, soaking the blood-red man’s jacket. The security man let out a single agonised grunt. The blood-red man pulled the gun back out, in a fresh flurry of blood, and the security man fell to the floor. The blood-red man tossed the gun carelessly aside, and looked at me again. With those mad, fierce eyes.

And I just knew I’d seen them somewhere before.

The other passengers scrambled up out of their seats, screaming and shouting, and ran for the rear door. Molly and I stayed back to let them pass, not taking our eyes off the blood-red men. The passengers slammed into one another in the narrow aisle, fighting hysterically as they tried to make their escape. Molly and I stood together in the aisle, blocking the blood-red men’s way. I could hear diners struggling to force their way through the far door. Finally the last shouts and cries died away as they disappeared into the next carriage. Molly and I were left alone with the blood-red men.

I looked them over carefully, and the more I studied them, the more identical they seemed. Same height, same weight, same body language. The way they held themselves. And they all had the same intent, fanatic’s eyes . . .

“Who are these guys?” Molly said quietly.

“Beats the hell out of me,” I said. “But they’re not just uniformed thugs, like MI 13’s shock troops. They’re stronger than anything human should be, and faster, and from the way that one just soaked up bullets . . . Augmented men? Specially created soldiers? Clones?”

“Ask them,” said Molly.

“Worth a try, I suppose,” I said. I took one careful step forward, and all their eyes moved to follow me. “Who are you?” I said loudly. “What do you want with us?”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” said Molly.

“I have to ask,” I said, not looking back. “You know how the bad guys always love to boast. And it is always possible there’s been some terrible misunderstanding.”

“You think?” said Molly.

“Not really, no. But you have to cover every possibility . . . Look, do you want to come forward and take over the questioning? I don’t mind. Really.”

“No, no, you carry on,” said Molly. “Though I would just point out that not one of these arseholes has answered you yet. Which is just rude. I say we forgo further questioning and move straight on to the arse-kicking. Just on general principles. We can always ask questions afterwards, to whoever’s still conscious.”