Combustion Page 6

  Alvy sprints ten metres to the lab’s door, the bullet wound on his shoulder stinging like crazy. He reaches for the doorhandle. Thank God Jacob was the last person to use the door. He always forgets to lock it. Alvy wrenches on the handle -

  The door is locked tight.

  No! Is Jacob in on this? Is he on the other side, waiting to see if the execution has been a success, ready to act if it hasn’t? There’s only one way to find out. Alvy punches the five-digit code into the keypad, raises the pistol and pulls the door open.

  There’s no one there. The walkway is empty. Maybe Jacob isn’t in on it after all -

  Thud. A bullet rips into the wall in front of Alvy. He turns. Behind him a groggy Kilroy aims a smaller pistol at him and fires again.

  Alvy pivots clear and runs backwards along the walkway, pistol raised and aimed at the door he just exited. Kilroy pokes his head out from behind it and Alvy fires, too low to be anything but a warning shot. Alvy’s never consciously hurt anyone in his life so the idea of actually shooting Kilroy doesn’t cross his mind, in spite of everything that just happened. Kilroy pulls back into the room and disappears from view.

  Alvy’s back thumps into the door that leads outside. He turns, taps five numbers into the keypad and it unlocks. Gun raised, he yanks the door open and steps into dazzling sunlight -

  Bam. A gunshot rings out. Alvy feels hot pain in his hip as he swings the pistol around, fires in the direction he thinks the bullet came from.

  It is silent.

  Alvy blinks through the sunlight, looks down, sees he’s been shot in his left thigh. Stunned, he turns and sees Jacob, slumped on the ground in front of him, a pistol in his hand, a bullet wound to the chest. Dead.

  ‘No.’ Alvy feels sick to his stomach. He just shot and killed a man he thought was a good friend - a man he has eaten lunch with every day for almost three years. Unfortunately, he’s also a man who just tried to end Alvy’s life with the bullet now lodged in his hip. Just thinking about it is doing the scientist’s head in. Everything Alvy thought was true is a lie.

  ‘Gotta move.’ That’s what he must do if he wants to live. He needs to get away from here as fast as possible, before Kilroy reappears. He takes a step - and instantly feels lightheaded, wants to lie down.

  ‘No!’ He pulls in a deep breath, grits his teeth, looks right, to the car park. His old blue Toyota Corolla is fifty metres away. He moves towards it as fast as he can, which isn’t very fast as a bolt of pain shoots down his left leg with every step. He ignores it, keeps going.

  *

  Kilroy likes Alvy, couldn’t help but be impressed by his outsized intellect, knew that Bunsen’s plan was not possible without it. Unfortunately for Alvy, that outsized intellect is also the reason he must now be put down.

  Grey ponytail swishing behind him, blood on his face from his still-throbbing nose, Kilroy reaches the end of the walkway, works the keypad and shoulders the door open, weapon raised, finger tight around the trigger of the .38 he kept strapped to his calf in case of emergency.

  There’s no sign of Alvy but Jacob is down. Jacob wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier but he’s still surprised Alvy managed to get the better of him. Kilroy scans the area, hears an engine running in the car park, focuses on the exhaust that puffs from the tail pipe of Alvy’s old blue Corolla.

  Clearly the scientist planned to make a decidedly unstylish getaway in the sun-faded rust bucket. Kilroy’s best guess, and he tended to guess right, is that he, or Jacob, had hit Alvy with at least one bullet and the guy had collapsed in the driver’s seat before he could clunk the transmission into reverse.

  Of course, it’s only a guess so Kilroy approaches the car cautiously, pistol raised. He has privacy. The compound is boarded on all sides by a dense, tightly packed line of two-metre-tall shrubs in front of a high chain-link fence. Bunsen had them installed to protect the compound from unwanted guests and prying eyes when it was built.

  Kilroy creeps forward, just five metres away from the Corolla. He glances down, scans the asphalt below his feet. A drip of red blood glistens in the sun. Then another. Alvy is hit. The next step is simple. Line him up and pull the trigger. Kilroy crouches low and moves on. Two metres from the Corolla he peers in through the left rear window. The tint is so dark and blistered he can’t make out a goddamn thing inside. His finger tight on the pistol’s trigger, he glides onward, reaches the open passenger window.

  There’s no one inside.

  *

  Alvy’s plan has worked beautifully, leading Kilroy right to where he wants him. Now he must finish the job. Camouflaged within the tree line that rings the compound, he stands just five metres from Kilroy. Through the foliage Alvy aims the weapon at Kilroy’s chest and squeezes the trigger.

  He can’t do it.

  Jesus H! He can’t pull the trigger! This bastard is trying to kill him and Alvy’s hesitating. Hesitating! He’s about to hesitate himself into an early grave. He must make the most of this moment because he knows Kilroy will keep coming after him.

  Alvy pulls the trigger. The gunshot rings out - and Kilroy slumps to the ground beside the passenger door. Alvy moves fast, pulls open the driver’s door, slides inside, doesn’t look at Kilroy, just wants to get out of there as fast as possible.

  Alvy doesn’t feel any better sitting down. He actually feels worse. His arm and leg scream in pain and his head goes light. ‘Wake up!’ He shouts it, widens his eyes, wills himself to stay conscious. He thumps the Corolla into reverse and hits the accelerator. The car jerks backwards and he points it towards the main gate. He clunks the transmission into drive, floors it and presses the button on his gate remote.

  Thud, thud, thud. Bullets thunk into the Corolla. Alvy instinctively ducks but has no idea where the fire is coming from so doesn’t know if it will do any good.

  Smash. The back window explodes, showers the interior with glass. Alvy looks in the rear-view mirror. Kilroy sit up from his position on the ground, shirt open to reveal the bulletproof vest he wears. He turns and aims his pistol at the Corolla again.

  Thud, thud, thud. Three more bullets pepper the car’s boot as it speeds through the gate. Alvy steers onto the empty street and accelerates away, tyres screeching as they scramble for grip.

  ‘Christ almighty.’ He takes a breath, tries to process what just happened. It’s inconceivable and yet here he is, on the run with two gunshot wounds. He needs medical attention but first he must tell a cop, or someone in authority, about the Swarm and what is planned for today.

  He wonders if anyone will believe him.

  *

  9

  Bunsen paces the heliport, iPhone in hand. He doesn’t feel good about ending Alvy’s life, but there was no choice. Alvy is one of maybe three people on the planet who understands this nanotechnology well enough to create the Swarm, and is the only man who can disable it.

  Bunsen’s iPhone rings.

  He sees it’s Kilroy calling and knows it can’t be good news. If everything had gone to plan he would have received a short text from the old man such as: ‘it’s done’ or ‘it’s over’ or something equally pithy. But Bunsen just heard gunshots from the opposite side of the compound and now the phone is ringing. He fears the worst.

  He answers with a short ‘Yes?’ then listens. The update from his 2IC takes less than thirty seconds and is worse than Bunsen could have imagined. Jacob is dead and Alvy has escaped. It’s a screw-up of epic proportions.

  Bunsen keeps it simple. ‘We continue Phase Two as planned. Find him. Deal with it. If he talks to anyone, deal with them too. Call me when it’s done. Be quick.’ He waits for a ‘yes’ then hangs up. This is not the time for recriminations or Monday morning quarterbacking, and it’s not like there’s anything else that can be done. Bunsen can’t replace either Jacob or Kilroy. His crew is small for a good reason - it’s extremely difficult to find people who are dedicated to such a cause, have the correct skill set and are trustworthy.

  This is the first
time Bunsen can remember Kilroy screwing up. The old man has been completely reliable over the years, not only for Bunsen but before that, as his father’s general ‘fixer’, doing everything that needed to be done to keep his myriad productions running smoothly. Kilroy persuaded whoever needed to be persuaded, made sure the actors and directors were on time and in good health (that is, not high), and quietly and efficiently cleaned up any mess they made along the way. Though Bunsen’s father wrote and produced light and fluffy sitcoms for a living, it took a surprising amount of strong-arming, bribery, wire-tapping and, yes, even the occasional ‘accidental’ death, to keep the shows on track and profitable. It never occurred to Bunsen that Kilroy would have trouble dealing with Alvy. Granted, he is getting older but, still, he’s only sixty-four and he’s been dealing with these kinds of issues since his twenties.

  He can’t dwell on it. Whatever the reason for Kilroy’s slip-up it doesn’t change what Bunsen does next. He gestures for Enrico to follow him and they enter the main building through the locked heavy steel door, move along the well-lit walkway and enter the laboratory. Bunsen directs his pilot to use the large trolley to move the black rhino drums containing the Swarm to the helipad while he deals with Jacob’s body.

  Bunsen drags the poor bastard inside the building and deposits him in the coolroom amongst the chemicals and lab supplies. Once the mission is completed he will dispose of the body appropriately. It strikes Bunsen as he closes the door behind him that Jacob is the mission’s first collateral damage.

  Bunsen moves back into the lab and on the central table finds the three aluminium canisters that contain the counteragent. Each flip-lid contains a small numeric keypad with an LED screen built into it. He slides them into his backpack then heads to the helipad.

  He arrives as Enrico pushes a long hose from a four-horsepower electric pump into one of the drums of Swarm he brought up from the lab, then attaches another hose to the chopper’s empty water tank. He switches on the pump and it whirs to life, transferring the contents of the drum into the tank. He turns to Bunsen. ‘How much do we want on board?’

  ‘One thousand litres.’

  Enrico nods.

  Bunsen knows that will be more than enough for today’s mission, though it will use only a fraction of the water tank’s ten-thousand-litre capacity. It will also leave them with two thousand litres of the Swarm to use later.

  Bunsen moves to the front of the chopper and unscrews the Tyrannosaur’s heavy fuel tank cap. The Air-Crane is currently full to the brim with 5114 litres of av-gas in its tank. He reaches into his backpack, pulls out one of the large aluminium canisters and thumbs 612 (his birthdate) into the keypad. The flip-lid unlocks with a burst of compressed air and he pours the contents of the canister into the fuel tank. He screws the fuel cap back on and turns to Enrico. ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  Bunsen nods, then draws in a deep breath. He needs to prepare himself for what comes next. He pulls earbuds from his pocket, slips them in place, hits play on his iPhone’s screen - and lets the recorded screams of those tortured plants fill his world.

  *

  10

  Judd strides down the passenger bridge from the 787 and steps into the LAX terminal. He glances at his watch then scans the crowd of people nearby.

  ‘Sssuuup, Mandy?’

  Judd turns. It’s the Australian, with a crooked grin that’d make a Chimpanzee envious.

  ‘See what I did there? Made it sound like I’m a local.’

  ‘Excuse me, have you seen Corey Purchase? I believe I’m meant to meet him here.’

  They embrace. Somehow shaking hands just doesn’t seem like enough. They hold it for a moment, then part.

  ‘How are you, man?’

  ‘Mate, never better. How’s it hanging?’

  ‘Low, but with a curve to the left.’

  ‘That’s right, I saw the pictures on the Tweeter.’

  ‘Ha. And it’s “Twitter”. Where’s the puppy?’

  ‘In the car with Bowen. They’re circling. We should haul arse.’ Corey points the way and they move off. ‘We’ll hit CNN first and do the interview, then drop by Spago for a feed, then head over to Fox for the announcement. They want to film it then release it to the networks for the news tonight.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ Judd studies the Australian for a moment. There’s something about him that doesn’t seem quite right. ‘So, how are you?’

  ‘Travelling beautifully, like I said.’

  Judd’s not buying. ‘So what’s going on?’

  ‘Actually, I’m remembering how much of a pain in the arse you can be.’ Corey tries to grin it out but Judd is undeterred.

  ‘Fess up, Blades.’ Blades is Corey’s nickname, after Blades of Corey, the heli-services company he ran in Central Australia. Mandy is Corey’s nickname for Judd, because he dances like Barry Manilow, who had a big hit back in the day with a ballad called, unsurprisingly, ‘Mandy’.

  Corey takes a breath. ‘Well, there was this girl. I liked her. Thought she liked me. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. It was embarrassing. Boo-hoo. The end.’

  Judd’s about to say something ‘there’s-plenty-of-fish-in-the-sea’ glib, then sees Corey’s actually cut up about it and changes tack. ‘Sorry to hear that. Who is this lady?’

  ‘She works at Bowen’s agency. She’s great - funny and interesting and clever and . .. she gets me.’

  Just not enough. Judd doesn’t say it. He stays positive. ‘Well, if you feel that strongly, you’ve got to fight for her, pursue her - without being a stalker about it, of course.’

  Corey’s face brightens. Judd knows this is new ground for the Aussie. He hasn’t had a lot of positive experience with the opposite sex so he’s looking for any kind of guidance. ‘Really? Do you think that could work?’

  He continues to stay positive. ‘I have no idea, but it’s worth a try. Who’s the boyfriend?’

  ‘Scott Ford.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘His name is Scott Ford —’

  ‘The Blue Cyclone Scott Ford? The actor? In the tights, with the body?’

  Corey nods.

  Judd turns serious. ‘I may have led you astray with the advice I just gave you.’

  ‘But you said if I feel strongly, I should fight for her —’

  ‘That was before I found out she’s dating the biggest movie star in the world. You kinda buried the lead on that.’

  Corey studies his feet, no longer trying to hide how miserable he feels.

  ‘Sorry. But that’s kind of hard to top.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’m just a bloody chopper pilot from the Alice.’

  Judd places a mollifying hand on his shoulder. ‘And it’s her loss. And, you know, plenty of fish in the sea and all that.’

  Corey takes this in with a half-hearted nod and they continue walking. Judd sees the usual spring is gone from his step. ‘Why didn’t you want to tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to feel sorry for me.’

  ‘Oh, come on, I wouldn’t do that. Last year I told you everything about, you know, my troubles with Rhonda.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you felt sorry for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now Judd is despondent - and it’s Corey’s turn to place a mollifying hand on his shoulder.

  They pass through the terminal’s sliding doors and step outside. The dry heat slaps Judd across the face. LA: one season, all year around.

  Corey searches the roadway.

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘A blue Bimmer, seven series - there it is.’ Corey points at the navy BMW as it approaches, Spike in the front passenger seat. It pulls up beside them and they slide into the back seat. Judd pats the ugly white dog on the head and takes in Bowen, who sits behind the wheel.

  The agent is on the phone, a Bluetooth gadget jammed in his right ear. He turns, holds up a single ‘one minute’ finger and continues t
o talk on the phone: ‘Why? ‘Cause my guy’s the one you need on this. Sure, his last movie was a hundred different cliches celebrating a reunion and yes, it was too long - I wanted to tap it on the shoulder and ask, “Hey, shouldn’t you have ended fifteen minutes ago?”, but it made six hundred and fifty million international.’

  Bowen pulls out from the kerb, turns and looks back at Judd, mimes a ‘nice to meet you’ that ends with a wink, then continues talking on the phone: ‘And that’s the point - it was awful and it opened everywhere because my guy is a star. He was a star thirty years ago when he started out, he’s a star right now and he’ll be a star the day the sun explodes and you can’t say that about anyone else. Think of him as insurance against that Russian first-timer you hired to direct.’ He listens for another moment, then, ‘It means this: you can’t polish a turd, but you can roll it in glitter - and my guy’s the glitter. I want your answer ASAP, as in www-dot-you-got-fifteen-minutes-dot-org.’

  Bowen hangs up and looks back at Judd and Corey with a grin. ‘Well, lookee here, I got me a car full of bona fide heroes! Oh my Lord. I’ll instagram it as soon as we get out.’ He focuses on Judd. ‘I must open with a heartfelt thank you. For what you did for our country. It’s greatly appreciated. It’s an honour to be on your team. It’s the highlight of my career.’

  Bowen keeps talking and Judd takes him in. With the exuberant overstatements, hollow platitudes and folksy inflection, the agent is just as Judd expected. In his late forties, Bowen is short but good-looking in that I-was-once-a-child-star way, which he was. Judd remembers him from First Son, a hit sitcom that ran for seven years on CBS during the eighties. He played James, a smart-mouthed, liberal-minded teen who had an almost Svengali-like control over Barry, his dimwitted, ultra-conservative father - who just happened to be the President of the United States.

  From what Corey’s told him, Bowen never considered himself anything more than a low-rent Michael J. Fox and despaired at the thought of being unemployed like all the other young actors he knew, except Michael J. Fox. So, when First Son was cancelled he started his own talent agency to represent those actors and give himself some career security. He was only twenty-four, but using everything he’d learned from his time on the sitcom, B&A. quickly became a premier boutique agency in Beverly Hills.