Edge. Part 52

There were voices in Suzanne's head, howling self-accusation. She was a neuropsych therapist and supposedly good at her job. It would not have taken expert verbal technique to short-circuit Josh's reaction, then lead him into a psychological s.p.a.ce where he could grieve as he needed to.

Ou es tu, Josh?

When her thoughts reverted to her native French, she was in trouble.

Calme-toi.

She needed to breathe, to calm down. There must be some way she could help Josh.

Call Tony.

She paused, thinking it through. Tony Gore had helped during last year's infiltration of the Knife Edge final. If the authorities were targetting her for surveillance... but she was not engaged in illegal activities now, and neither was Josh. She needed to make that call.

When she picked up the phone it showed a message waiting, but the pane read Message from: Adam Message from: Adam. She minimized it.

"Call Tony," she told the phone.

"Which Tony, please?"

Merde.

"Call Tony Gore, urgent."While she waited, she pointed the phone at the wallscreen, transferring the display. When Tony appeared, his face was larger than lifesize.

"Suzanne. Hey, doll. What's wrong?"

"I don't know for sure that it's bad."

"But you're ringing me at three in the morning, flagged urgent."

"It's Josh.... Sophie died today."

Yesterday, technically. Was it really three a.m.?

"Hang on." Tony turned to one side. "Am? Josh's daughter died."

There a swing of motion, and Amber, Tony's wife, was on screen, rubbing her face.

"Josh? Oh, Suzanne. Awful news. How is he?"

"He's distraught. It's why I needed to talk."

Amber blinked. As an ex-soldier's wife, she was used to hearing about tragedy and people going off the rails. The image tilted, then Tony was back on.

"What's he done, Suzanne?"

"Ran off into the night in thin clothes. Hours ago. Without his phone."

"s.h.i.+t."

Civilian phones were DNA-tagged and GPS-linked, but people like Josh and Tony were not so easily found. Their handsets broadcast subversion code that altered the data inside the surveillance nets. Ordinary police could not have found Josh, even if they tried which they would not, unless Suzanne used her authority to declare him at risk of self-harm.

Irrelevant. Josh had left his phone behind.

"Running is therapeutic," said Tony.

"It's been five hours."

Josh might still be running. During Tony's time inthe Regiment, he had been able to run for longer than that. Josh had kept the discipline on leaving the army, that was all."What about his state of mind?"

"He was on the edge of losing it," said Suzanne. "Presenting all the signs. But how that might manifest, I couldn't tell."

Five hours ago.

"I'll call you back." Tony's face tightened. "Try to rest, sweetheart. Our Josh is a survivor."

"Yes..."

"Out."

The screen blanked out, as did her thoughts, leaving only feelings: sadness and fear, swirling together, corks.c.r.e.w.i.n.g through her body, unnerving her.

The Regiment was not perfect, but they had soldiering skills that others lacked for two reasons: training and resources. They could spend hours firing the latest weapons, using ten thousand euros worth of smartsh.e.l.ls or nanoflechettes in a session. They could slip through enemy forces, because guile was a primary focus of their discipline, along with extreme physicality.

With hands like steel claws, he remained beneath the bridge.

Listen.

No one remained above, no humans, but spyb.a.l.l.s and motion sensors were something else. He had escaped immediate capture; now it was time to evade the enemy.

Police. Not hostiles.

For his own sake, he needed to get clear, to think. Treat it as an exfiltration exercise through enemy territory, provided he remembered not to harm anyone who tried to arrest him. Things were bad enough already.

How could I screw up like that?

The answer was: reflex-fast, no conscious thought involved.

Shut up.

Pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he stilled his mind.

When he moved, screams sounded, but only along his sinews as they cracked into motion. Then he was crawling to the end of the bridge avoiding spycams where he hung in place for minutes, before using counterpressure to climb around the end struts, then clamber onto the stairs.

He was in a surveillance blind-zone.

An automated street-cleaning drone moved like a giant louse along the kerbside, its lights strobing orange. It would have anti-vandal countermeasures, but for urban infiltration the Regiment's training was allinclusive: he knew how to avoid tripping the detectors.

Pre-dawn was smearing turquoise to the east. There was no foot traffic, no vehicle in sight besides the drone.

Now.

Two lunging steps and a shoulder-roll, and he was inside the carapace, clinging once more, squeezing his eyes to slits against the grit and noise.

Phase one of his evasion was under way.

There is an insomniac state of mind where someone thinks they are awake, while in fact tumbling through a series of micro-sleeps: undetected, unsatisfying, a safety mechanism for avoiding breakdown. Suzanne flitted in and out of grey drowsiness, worrying about Josh, her knowledge of neurology no help at all.

When the door chime sounded, a rush of acid filled her stomach.

Jos.h.!.+

But the wallscreen, switching to building surveillance, showed three bulky men on the landing outside her door. They had already pa.s.sed through the locked ground-floor entrance. Two wore police uniform, while the third was dressed in a suit and overcoat.

"Adam?"

He had left a message on her phone, hadn't he?

"Oh, G.o.d."

She pressed the release, and electromag locks clicked open. When she pulled back the door, she blinked her sore eyes, unable to read their expressions.

Bad news?

Adam said: "Can we come in, Suzanne?"

"Of... course. Yes."

She was panicking, but she could not speak freely in front of the uniformed officers, not unless she could be sure they knew who Adam Priest was: not a civil servant in the Department of Trade and Industry as his ID declared, but a serving officer in MI5.

"I'm Inspector Edwards." The larger officer held up his phone, showing the official sigil. After a second, it echoed on the wallscreen. "And this is Inspector Calvin."

The smaller man showed his ID the same way.

"Is Josh all right?" said Suzanne.

Inspector was a high rank; she was almost sure of it.

"Ma'am?"

"My... boyfriend. He's in a state of distress his daughter died and he went out running. I'm worried about him."

"And his name is Josh?""Josh c.u.mberland." She nodded towards Adam. "You can tell them, can't you?"

"I already have," said Adam. "I could tell you I'd just b.u.mped into the officers by chance, but you probably wouldn't believe me."

Suzanne had no answer. There were implications here, but she was too tired to unravel them.

"Coffee, ma'am?" asked Inspector Calvin. "I could make some all round."

Suzanne said, "I'll just"

"I'll do it." Inspector Calvin nodded towards the kitchen alcove. "No problem."

"Do you think he's in danger?" asked Adam.

"I'm afraid" Suzanne blew out a breath. "He might turn that violence inwards."

Then she wondered whether she had heard correctly. Had Adam said he's in in danger, or he's a danger? She closed her eyes, her nostrils feeling odd as she inhaled, dragging alertness into her mind. danger, or he's a danger? She closed her eyes, her nostrils feeling odd as she inhaled, dragging alertness into her mind.

Something was wrong, but not what she had feared.

"Where would he run?" said Adam. "Any particular place?"

Inspector Edwards was checking his phone. He was behind Suzanne, a gloomy reflection in the now-dark wallscreen. He looked up at Adam? and shook his head.

Adam's eyes gave the tiniest flicker.

Do they know each other?

"He likes exploring new routes," said Suzanne. "No special place."

"So is Josh very fit?" asked Adam. "I mean, the way he was in the military."

There had been a time, after last year's Knife Edge Knife Edge final, when Josh had been recuperating from cut- and stab-wounds: a snarling patient who was h.e.l.l to live with as he forced himself back to full activity. final, when Josh had been recuperating from cut- and stab-wounds: a snarling patient who was h.e.l.l to live with as he forced himself back to full activity.

"He ran fifty kilometres last Sunday," said Suzanne.

"Some kind of marathon race?" Inspector Calvin was working the coffee machine. "I've always wanted to try that."

"Longer. But just a training run."