Simon Green - Live and let Drood

A drive-by shooting, I growled. I hate them. I mean, come on. Is there anything more cowardly than a drive-by? Drive up at speed, spray bullets in every direction, hope you hit the right target among all the innocent bystanders and then run away. I want the creeps behind this, Molly. I want to explain to them the error of their ways. Let s take a look inside the bus.

Let s, said Molly. I feel we should have words with these scumbags.

Harsh words, I said.

We walked along the side of the big red double-decker bus. The windows remained darkly tinted and very firmly closed. Not a sound or a movement from inside. I came to the cab door, well above the ground, reached up with one golden hand, and casually tore out the whole door and threw it aside. The sound of rending metal was very loud in the quiet, followed by an equally loud reverberating clang as the door hit the ground. A massive gun barrel protruded from inside the cab, aimed directly into my face mask. I didn t give the gun s owner time to fire, just grabbed the long barrel and jerked the whole thing right out of his hands. There was a howl of pain and upset from inside the cab, from the gun s owner, who hadn t let go of his gun fast enough.

I looked the gun over. Cheap Kalashnikov knock-off piece of shit. The assassin s gun of choice when he hasn t enough money for anything decent. I broke the thing in two and threw the pieces aside. Cheap guns and a drive-by shooting on a London double-decker didn t really tie in with the sophistication of time control. Devices like that are hard to find, and they never come cheap. I peered into the cab, but there was no one at the wheel. The driver had retreated into the bus s gloomy interior and was hidden among his fellow would-be assassins.

It s not like we ve any shortage of enemies, Molly said behind me. But I can t think of anyone dumb enough to organise such a low-rent attack on us. I say we board the bus and bounce people off the walls until someone feels like telling us what s going on here.

Sounds like a plan to me, I said.

And me, said Diana, stepping elegantly out of a nearby shadow. She didn t look in the least troubled or disturbed by what had just happened. Molly and I both made a point of not jumping even a little bit when she reappeared, just on general principle.

Regent of Shadows, said Molly. Much suddenly becomes clear. I take it you re one of his Special Agents?

Of course, said Diana. One of his first, in fact. We go way back, the Regent and me. You think he d entrust your safety to just anyone? I am rather annoyed at the crudity of the attack, though. I m used to better, quite frankly. Fiendish master plans and complicated death traps; that s more my sort of thing. I say we go inside the bus and kick bottom!

All right! said Molly. I m starting to like you.

So pleased, said Diana.

I hauled myself up into the driver s cab, looked into the gloomy interior and was immediately met with the roar of a heavy electronic cannon, one of those customised jobs that can pump out thousands of explosive fl chettes a second. Being a sporting sort, I braced myself and just stood there and took it. The bullets slammed into me like a solid mass, and the whole front of the bus, behind me, just disintegrated, blown away by the sheer concentrated firepower. My armour wasn t bothered in the least.

The problem with this particular kind of gun is that by its very nature it goes through a hell of a lot of bullets really quickly. The gun fell silent abruptly, and someone said, Oh, shit. I stepped quickly forward into the bus s interior, grabbed hold of the massive cannon, and ripped it right off its floor mounting. I then crumpled the heavy gun in my hands like it was made of paper, wadded it into a ball and let the metal mass drop to the floor with a loud and disquieting thud.

The man who d been firing the cannon retreated quickly towards the rear of the bus, making choked noises of distress. All the bus seats were full, with row after row of hard-faced men in flak jackets, carrying all kinds of guns. They started to aim them at me and then had a rush of common sense to their heads and changed their minds. Seeing Drood armour up close will do that to you. Which is, of course, the point.

The hard-faced fighting men lowered their guns to the floor and then put their hands as high in the air as they could get them. Which was only sensible, if a bit disappointing. It isn t nearly as much fun to beat the crap out of people who aren t fighting back. It wouldn t necessarily stop me, though. I was still pretty annoyed about the whole driveby thing. And then a voice at the very rear of the bus spoke up, saying:

Take him down or you don t get paid!

Just when everything was going so well There s always one. There was just the briefest of pauses while the gunmen looked at one another, and then they all reached inside their flak jackets and produced any number of magic amulets, glowing handguns, pointing bones and enchanted brass knuckles. The gunmen all surged forward at once, clearly hoping to achieve close up what they hadn t managed at a distance: bringing me down through sheer weight of numbers. I could have told them that was never going to work.

They punched and kicked at me, hitting me with every weapon they had, shouting fierce war cries to encourage themselves and one another, falling on me from every side at once and none of them could touch me. Their various toys just broke and shattered against my armour, and in the limited space of the bus s aisle they were more a threat to each other than they were to me.

I finally lost my patience and waded into them, slapping weapons out of their hands and striking the gunmen down with swift, efficient punches. I knocked them down and trampled them, bounced them off walls, picked them up and slammed them against the low ceiling. I was careful to control my armour s strength. I wanted living prisoners capable of answering questions. So while they did their very best to kill me, I didn t kill a single one of them.

Because I, not my armour, was in control.

Molly was quickly there with me, darting back and forth, smiling happily as she threw shaped curses that made guns blow up in their owners faces and punching in the odd head here and there, for the good of her soul. She whooped loudly as she ducked wild punches, kicked the legs out from under people and trampled them viciously underfoot. She dispensed much-deserved beatings to the ungodly, and loved every moment of it.

I laughed and fought alongside her, and that seemed to upset the gunmen even more. Especially when Diana joined the fight, darting in and out of the many shadows inside the bus, appearing and disappearing with bewildering speed as she dispensed elegant karate blows and fierce savate kicks and the odd elbow to the back of the neck to a victim who didn t have the sense to hit the floor fast enough. Diana was a graceful, efficient fighter, her tweed skirt swirling about her as she moved with surprising speed for someone her age. And not one of the gunmen was able to point a weapon at her fast enough to save himself.

Eventually, the three of us just ran out of people to hit. We stood together, none of us breathing particularly hard, and looked around us. The inside of the bus was littered with battered and bloodied would-be assassins lying in piles, draped over the seats, gasping for air and staunching bloody mouths and noses and occasionally crying bitter tears. As professional assassins went, this bunch hadn t travelled far. They never stood a chance, and they knew it. Molly and Diana and I looked hopefully around for someone else we could teach the error of their ways, but everyone kept their heads well down and avoided our eyes, hoping not to be noticed.

Well, that was fun, said Diana, adjusting the silk scarf at her throat and brushing herself down. I was hoping I d get the chance to see the two of you in action, and I have to say, you re everything the reports said you were. I m really quite impressed.