Richard Morgan: Market Forces

‘I’ll call you back,’ she told the phone, and snapped it shut. ‘And Captain, if you could just give me a moment.’

The officer saw who was coming and stepped back. Notley reached Hewitt and stared at her. ‘Well?’

‘I expect you’ve heard.’

‘That’s why I’m here.’ Notley looked grim. ‘What have you got?’

Hewitt shrugged and nodded towards the crane and winch system at the edge of the Gullet. ‘We put in the tacs. Apparently they’re bringing them both up now. Not a pretty sight, is what I was told.’

Notley looked away, up and down the stretch of highway. ‘Four miles,’ he said. ‘Four miles from where Page went off. You realise that?’

‘Four?’ Hewitt frowned. ‘Oh, miles, that’s what, about six kilometres? Yeah, probably about that. And not far from where Barnes learnt to fly, come to that.’

‘Yes.’

‘Exciting stretch of road.’

The winch whined into action. Both partners turned to watch as it brought up a sheet-covered stretcher. Tactical-force corporate police swarmed around the load, swinging it in and lowering it gently to the road. The covering was white and blood had soaked through in small patches. A medic crouched, turned back the sheet and winced visibly. The winch swung back down. They watched the cable unwind.

‘Going to be a lot of questions,’ observed Hewitt when it stopped. ‘Lot of precedent to be hammered out.’

Notley grunted. ‘Good. Kind of thing that keeps us sharp.’

‘Keeps the lawyers sharp, you mean. They’re going to be arguing this one back and forth for months at our expense.’

‘While we go ahead and get on with doing things anyway.’

‘Ethics after the event.’ Hewitt offered him a crooked smile. ‘My favourite kind.’

Notley raised an eyebrow. ‘Are there any other sort?’

The winch swung up again. More activity, another stretcher settling to the asphalt. More blood stains on white.

‘Not in this world.’

‘I’m glad—‘

Amidst the weaving of the tactical-force uniforms, commotion. Uniforms milling. And Chris Faulkner, climbing off the stretcher like the living dead. Pushing his way clear. A ragged cheer floated over him like a banner.

Hewitt froze.

Notley blinked.

Then the senior partner was striding rapidly towards the new arrival, a grin broadening on his face. He only faltered as he got closer and saw the damage. Chris’s face was a mask of blood and bruising. One eye swollen almost shut, ribbons of torn flesh around the mouth and both cheeks ripped, blood from a nose that looked broken. The way he moved under the abused and bloodied suit screamed cracked ribs.

‘Chris! Jesus fuck, you’re alive. I thought. You had me worried for a moment there. Congratulations!’

Chris stared at him. Stared past him, like the zombie he so closely resembled. Notley grabbed his shoulders.

‘You’ve done it, Chris. You won. You’re a partner at thirty-three years old. Fucking unprecedented. Congratulations! You know what this means?’

Chris looked sideways at him. Focused.

‘What does it mean?’ he whispered.

‘What does it mean?’ Notley was almost burbling. ‘Chris, it means you’re at the top. From here on up, there’s nothing you can’t do. Nothing. Welcome aboard.’

He thrust out his hand. Chris looked down at it as if the gesture didn’t make sense. He made a coughing noise that it took Notley a moment to realise was laughter. Then he stared up into the senior partner’s face and off past it again. The Saab. Hewitt.

‘Uh, Chris—‘

‘Excuse me.’

He pushed past Notley, pacing a steady line for Hewitt. She saw him coming and tensed. A brief nod to the tactical captain, and the man was at her shoulder. Chris came to a halt a metre away, swaying a little.

‘Louise,’ he husked.

She manufactured a small smile. ‘Hello, Chris. Well done.’

‘This is for you, Louise.’

He held it out. The Shorn Associates card, Mike Bryant’s name engraved and streaked across with new blood.

‘I don’t think now is—‘

‘No, it’s for you.’ Chris took another, sudden step in and tucked the card into Hewitt’s breast pocket. He nodded to himself, already turning away. ‘For you. Because that’s the way we do things around here, right?’

Hewitt’s smile was frozen on. ‘Right.’

‘I’ll see you on the road, Louise.’

He walked away, dipping in his pocket for keys. The door of the Saab was still wide open. Driver Control personnel busied themselves around it, measuring and photographing. When he tried to get in behind the wheel, one of them barred his way.

‘Sorry sir, we’re not finished here ye—‘

He backed up as Chris looked at him.

‘Get. Out of my way.’

The man retreated. Chris eased himself into the seat, teeth clenching up as his hastily taped ribs grated with the move. The medics had shot him full of something warm, but the pain was still getting through in flinty little flashes. He sat for a while, breathing it under control. He thought it would probably be manageable.

He closed the door. Reached for the ignition.

The Saab fired up growling. Around him, up and down the Gullet, activity stopped at the sound. Heads turned. He saw people gesturing.

No one seemed interested in stopping him.

He moved his head, a little awkwardly. Coughed and tasted blood. Checked the rearview and cut a smooth circle in reverse, so the car was pointing southward, towards Shorn. He shifted gear, let the vehicle start to glide forward.

‘Sir, wait.’ Muffled through the seal of the closed doors and windows. A uniformed tactical hurried across and rapped on his window. He cranked it down and waited, foot light on the clutch, barely holding the Saab back. The tac hesitated.

‘Uhm, sir, it’s just. The shooting down there. Well, we arrived sort of in the nick of time, sir, so it was a bit rushed. Just trying to get them off you, you know.’

‘Yes.’ His voice still wasn’t working properly. It had taken him whole minutes, lying there on the concrete, to make sense of the thunder, the screams of men dying and then the urgent voices of the tacs as they circled him. The ring of concerned faces peering down. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Yes, well, uhm. Thing is, a firefight like that, you don’t always get everyone dead centre, and now it looks like at least a couple are going to live. I, well, I assume you’re going to be pressing charges, sir.’

‘Yes, alright.’

‘Well, I’ll need a number for you, sir. For the statement. Obviously, we can get you at Shorn, but we like to provide a full personalised service in cases like this. Victim support, one-to-one interviews, we can come out to you any time. And I’m the officer assigned, so. Do you, uh, have a home number, sir?’

Chris closed his eyes briefly. ‘No, not really.’

‘Oh.’ The tac looked at him for a moment, puzzled. ‘Well, anyway. I’ll get you at Shorn, then.’

‘Yes.’ He tried to curb a flooding tide of impatience. He wanted to be gone. ‘Is that all you need?’

‘Oh. Yes sir. But, uh, you know, congratulations. The duel and everything. My whole family were watching it. Well done. Fantastic driving. Uh, my son’s a huge fan, sir.’

He fought down the urge to cackle. Hid it in a cough.

‘That’s nice.’

‘I expect you’ll be on the screen a lot the next few weeks. Probably even get an interview with that Liz Linshaw, eh?’ The tac saw the look on his face and stepped back. ‘Anyway, I’ll. Let you go, sir. Thanks.’

‘No problem.’

He let the Saab roll forward. People got out of the way. He moved past Louise Hewitt and then Jack Notley, gathering speed. By the time he passed the last of the uniforms and the parked police vehicles, he was closing on ninety. The Saab took the curve on a rising growl. He hit a pothole, but the suspension and the onset of the painkillers damped it out. He reached for the phone, jabbed it on. Winced only a little this time as his cracked ribs jarred. He placed a forward call to Joaquin Lopez in Panama, ten minutes ahead. Then he dialled Shorn’s priority client operator and told them to get him Francisco Echevarria immediately.