Simon Green - The Man with the Golden Torc

"We can’t stay here," I said to Molly. "I can armour up, but that won’t protect you."

"I don’t need protecting," said Molly. "I’ll arrange a diversion, and then we both run like hell for the nearest street exit. Sound good to you?"

"Sounds like a plan to me. What kind of diversion?"

"Close your eyes and put your hands over them."

I did so, and a moment later came an incandescent flare that hurt my eyes even through tightly squeezed eyelids. Raised voices cried out in shock and pain, and Molly grabbed me by the shoulder and hauled me out from behind the bullet-riddled fast-food stall. I forced my eyes open as I stumbled after her. Black spots blurred and jumped in my vision, but at least I could see. The armed men were staggering around, tears streaming from half-open eyes, firing their guns at any sudden sound or movement. And since most of the civilians were gone, that mostly meant they were shooting at each other. I could live with that. I passed right by one gunman as I followed Molly to the nearest street exit, and I paused just long enough to break his neck with one blow. Never involve civilians in our wars, you bastard.

I would have liked to kill more of them, but there wasn’t time. I’m not an assassin, but sometimes the only right thing remaining is to just kill the bastards until there aren’t any left. I hate it when innocents get caught up in my world. That’s why I became an agent in the first place: to protect innocents from what lives in my world.

The gunmen had to be Manifest Destiny. My family would have been more subtle. And, I still believed, more sparing of the innocent. But how had Manifest Destiny found us so quickly? Maybe they had all the railway stations staked out, just in case. Made sense. My bad arm yelled at me as I ran after Molly, and I told it to shut the hell up. I was busy. A few bullets flew past me, not even close. Some of the gunmen were getting their sight back. I could have armoured up, but I couldn’t trust the stealth factor to work under these conditions, with so many watching eyes, and I was still reluctant to expose my family’s greatest secret to public gaze. Unless I had to.

I caught up with Molly as she stumbled to a halt halfway up the steep slope that led out into the main traffic. We were both breathing hard. Cars and vans roared past unknowing, as though it was just another day. I looked at Molly.

"What do we do now? Hail a taxi?"

"I wouldn’t. You can never be sure whom the drivers are really working for. I’ve got a better idea."

She bent over and hiked up her dress, revealing a dainty silver charm bracelet around her left ankle. She snapped one of the charms free and held it up: a delicate little silver motorcycle. Molly muttered a few Words in a harsh language that must have hurt her throat and breathed on the charm. It wriggled eerily on her palm, and then leapt off, growing rapidly in midair until standing on the slope before us was a Vincent Black Shadow motorbike. A big black beast of a bike, and a classic of its kind. I was impressed.

"I’m impressed," I said to Molly. "Really. You have excellent taste in motorcycles. If a tad nostalgic."

"Don’t talk to me about modern bikes," said Molly. "No character."

More bullets flew past us. They were getting closer. I looked back down the slope. Men with guns were staggering in our direction, tears still rolling down their cheeks. Their aim wasn’t that accurate yet, but with automatic weapons it didn’t need to be.

"Get on the damn bike!" said Molly.

I looked around. The Vincent roared to life as she kick-started it, and then swung onto the leather seat.

"Hold everything," I said. "I do not ride pillion."

"My bike, my ride. Get on."

"I am not riding pillion! I have my dignity to consider."

More bullets whined past us. They really were getting closer. Molly smiled sweetly at me.

"You and your dignity can always run alongside, if you like, but I am leaving…"

I growled something under my breath, and swung aboard the seat behind her. Molly slammed the Vincent into gear and we shot off up the slope, pursued by bullets, and straight out into the main flow of traffic. Outraged horns and voices greeted us from every side as we appeared out of nowhere and just bullied our way in. Fortunately, the average speed of London traffic is rarely more than about ten miles per hour between traffic lights, so we were able to dodge and weave in and around the slower-moving vehicles and build up a healthy acceleration. I held Molly tightly around the waist with my right arm. I tried to use the left as well, but it was just too painful, so I let my forearm rest on Molly’s left thigh. She didn’t seem to mind. Even tucked in close behind her, the air still hit my face like a slap and tugged at my hair. I put my mouth next to Molly’s ear.

"Would it have killed you to conjure up a couple of crash helmets too?"

"Helmets are for sissies!" said Molly, shouting back over the roar of the Vincent’s engine. She laughed joyously. "Hold on, Eddie!"

"I’ll just bet you’re not insured," I said.

We weaved in and out of moving cars as though they were standing still, steadily building up speed. Taxi drivers shouted insults, and shop fronts blurred past on either side. We’d already taken so many turns I hadn’t a clue where we were any longer. A big red London bus pulled out in front of us, because London buses don’t give way to anything, and my heart practically leapt out of my chest as Molly gunned the throttle and shot us through the narrowing gap like a lemming on amphetamines. I may have screamed, just a little.

"Try to lean with me on the curves, Eddie!" Molly shouted back cheerfully. "It makes manoeuvring so much easier."

We howled across intersections at scary speeds and treated stoplights with contempt. The bike swayed this way and that, dodging and weaving as it plunged in and out of traffic, slowing for no one. It would have been quite exhilarating, if I’d been driving. As it was, I just clung on with my good arm and threw a series of hopeful prayers up to Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers. He’s been officially decommissioned these days, but no one asked my permission, so…

The first I knew that we were being pursued came when a bullet whined right past my ear. I grabbed Molly tightly and risked a look back. Two big black cars were coming up fast behind us. They must have been really heavily armoured, because they built up speed by just shunting and slamming aside everything in front of them. When there wasn’t any room, the big black cars would drive right over whatever was in front of them, crushing the lesser vehicle like a tank. Other cars were driven right off the road or intimidated into taking sudden side turnings they hadn’t intended to. The traffic between the black cars and us thinned rapidly, and men leaned out of the cars’ shaded windows to fire automatic weapons at us. Luckily, that’s a lot harder than it seems in the movies.

I turned back and yelled into Molly’s ear. "Manifest Destiny, right behind! And they’re shooting at us!"

"I had noticed, actually. You sure it’s not your family?"

"Positive. They wouldn’t use guns. They’d use something much more extreme."

Molly sent the bike flying around a tight corner, leaning right over. I did my best to help, leaning with her, but it was all I could do to hang on with just the one arm. The ground did look awfully close there for a moment. Molly wrestled the Vincent upright again and opened the throttle all the way. We roared down the street, flashing in and out of startled cars, sometimes close enough to scrape their paintwork with our wing mirrors, all the time dodging gunfire from behind. They were starting to get our range. I risked another look back, turning right around on the leather seat. The black cars were smashing through everything in their path, ramming cars out of their way. Skidding civilian cars slammed into each other, some overturned, and there were pileups the length of the street behind us. The black cars just kept coming, and the bullets got closer and closer, no matter how much we dodged and weaved.