Double Cross

• Title
  
• By the Same Author
  
• Praise for the Noughts & Crosses sequence
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Epigraphs
  
• Prologue
  
• SIX WEEKS EARLIER
  
• The Rise . . .
  
  • Chapter one Tobey
    
  • Chapter two Callie
    
  • Chapter three Tobey
    
  • Chapter four Tobey
    
  • Chapter five Callie
    
  • Chapter six Tobey
    
  • Chapter seven Tobey
    
  • Chapter eight Callie
    
  • Chapter nine Tobey
    
  • Chapter ten Callie
    
  • Chapter eleven Tobey
    
  • Chapter twelve Callie
    
  • Chapter thirteen Tobey
    
  • Chapter fourteen Callie
    
  • Chapter fifteen Tobey
    
  • Chapter sixteen Callie
    
  • Chapter seventeen Tobey
    
  • Chapter eighteen Callie
    
  • Chapter nineteen Tobey
    
  • Chapter twenty Callie
    
  • Chapter twenty-one Tobey
    
  • Chapter twenty-two Tobey
    
  • Chapter twenty-three Callie
    
  • Chapter twenty-four Tobey
    
  • Chapter twenty-five Tobey
    
• The Fall . . .
  
  • Chapter twenty-six
    
  • Chapter twenty-seven
    
  • Chapter twenty-eight
    
  • Chapter twenty-nine
    
  • Chapter thirty
    
  • Chapter thirty-one
    
  • Chapter thirty-two
    
  • Chapter thirty-three
    
  • Chapter thirty-four
    
  • Chapter thirty-five
    
  • Chapter thirty-six
    
  • Chapter thirty-seven
    
  • Chapter thirty-eight
    
  • Chapter thirty-nine
    
  • Chapter forty
    
  • Chapter forty-one
    
  • Chapter forty-two
    
  • Chapter forty-three
    
  • Chapter forty-four
    
  • Chapter forty-five
    
  • Chapter forty-six
    
  • Chapter forty-seven
    
  • Chapter forty-eight
    
  • Chapter forty-nine
    
  • Chapter fifty
    
  • Chapter fifty-one
    
  • Chapter fifty-two
    
  • Chapter fifty-three
    
  • Chapter fifty-four
    
  • Chapter fifty-five
    
  • Chapter fifty-six
    
  • Chapter fifty-seven
    
  • Chapter fifty-eight
    
  • Chapter fifty-nine
    
  • Chapter sixty
    
  • Chapter sixty-one
    
  • Chapter sixty-two. Callie
    
  • Chapter sixty-three
    
  • Chapter sixty-four
    
  • Chapter sixty-five
    
  • Chapter sixty-six
    
  • Chapter sixty-seven
    
  • Chapter sixty-eight
    
  • Chapter sixty-nine
    
  • Chapter seventy
    
• The Reckoning
  
  • Chapter seventy-one
    
  • Chapter seventy-two
    
• Epilogue
  

Double Cross

www.rbooks.co.uk

By Malorie Blackman and published
by Doubleday/Corgi Books:

The Noughts & Crosses sequence
NOUGHTS & CROSSES
KNIFE EDGE
CHECKMATE
DOUBLE CROSS

A.N.T.I.D.O.T.E.
DANGEROUS REALITY
DEAD GORGEOUS
HACKER
PIG-HEART BOY
THE DEADLY DARE MYSTERIES
THE STUFF OF NIGHTMARES
THIEF!

UNHEARD VOICES
(An anthology of short stories and poems,
collected by Malorie Blackman)

For junior readers, published by Corgi Yearling Books:
CLOUD BUSTING
OPERATION GADGETMAN!
WHIZZIWIG and WHIZZIWIG RETURNS

For beginner readers, publishe
by Corgi Pups/Young Corgi Books:
JACK SWEETTOOTH
SNOW DOGM
SPACE RACE
THE MONSTER CRISP-GUZZLER

Audio editions available on CDs
NOUGHTS & CROSSES
KNIFE EDGE
CHECKMATE
DOUBLE CROSS

www.malorieblackman.co.uk
www.myspace.com/malorieblackman

Praise for the
Noughts & Crosses
sequence:

Noughts & Crosses

'Packs some powerful political punches to
which readers will undoubtedly respond. But Blackman
never compromises the story, which is dramatic,
moving and brave'
Guardian

'A sad, bleak, brutal novel that promotes
empathy and understanding of the history of civil
rights as it inverts truths about racial injustice . . .
But this is also a novel about love, and inspires
the reader to wish for a world that is not divided
by colour or class'
Sunday Times

'A book which will linger in the mind long after
it has been read and which will challenge children to
think again and again about the clichés and stereotypes
with which they are presented'
Observer

Knife Edge

'Devastatingly powerful'
Guardian

'A powerful story of race and prejudice'
Sunday Times

'Supercharged'
Scottish Sunday Herald

Checkmate

'Thought-provoking brilliance'
Funday Times

'Another emotional hard-hitter . . . bluntly told and
ingeniously constructed'
Sunday Times

'Complex but beautifully crafted . . . dramatic, intensely
moving . . . it truly ensnares the reader'
Carousel

MALORIE
BLACKMAN

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9781407044873

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

DOUBLE CROSS

ISBN: 9781407044873

Version 1.0

Published in Great Britain by Doubleday,
an imprint of Random House Children's Books
A Random House Group Company

This edition published 2008

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Copyright © Oneta Malorie Blackman, 2008

The right of Malorie Blackman to be identified as the author of this work has
been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

For Neil and Lizzy,

Mum and Wendy – with love.

And big thanks to Annie and
sue – what would I do without you?

Lizzy, this is the book you asked me for. Sort of!

'The mere imparting of information is
not education. Above all things, the effort must
result in making a man think for himself . . .

When you control a man's thinking you
do not have to worry about his actions.
You do not have to tell him not to stand
here or go yonder. He will find his
"proper place" and will stay in it.'

Carter G. Woodson

'. . . What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have?'

Hamlet
– Act II, Scene II

The Glock 23 felt heavy and seductively comfortable in
my hand. The pearl stock, warmed by my body heat,
fitted snugly against my palm. I now held McAuley's
custom-made semi automatic.

A real, honest-to-God gun in my hand.

A proper killing machine.

Or was that me? Where did I stop and the gun start? I
really couldn't tell any more.

Now what?

McAuley lay on the floor, the previous torrent of blood
that had been gushing from his nose now reduced to a
trickle. His once crisp, white designer suit and matching
designer shirt lay twisted in an ungainly manner around
him. The random splashes of red on McAuley's suit
resembled an abstract painting. I stared into one particular
bloodstain in the middle of McAuley's chest.

'It's more like a Rorschach ink blot than a painting,' I
thought inanely.

It reminded me of my own face in skewed profile.

Now what?

McAuley's blond hair hung like day-old spaghetti
around his face. It was streaked with random red highlights
which occasionally dripped onto his shoulders. Red
highlights donated involuntarily by McAuley's last victim.
The assorted blood splatters on his jacket alone would fill
at least a couple of chapters in a forensic science textbook.
I wondered whether the SOCO – scene-of-crime-officer
– lucky enough to be assigned to McAuley's body would
be an art-lover?

I glanced towards the office door. The heavy,
arrhythmic banging on it was beginning to get to me. The
noise vibrated straight through my head, making it hard to
think. Making a slow fist with my free hand, I dug my
short nails as deeply as I could into my palms. I had to
resist the temptation to let the frenetic drumming on the
door dictate the pace of my thinking.

Think, Tobey. Think.

There had to be a way out of this.

But even as the thought pushed its way into consciousness,
I knew I was deluding myself. Turn and face the
truth.

Time had run out.

'Durbridge, dig yourself a grave and crawl into it 'cause
you are
dead.
D'you hear me?'

I aimed a kick between McAuley's legs and allowed
myself a small, satisfied smile as the blood-spattered
scumbag howled, curling up like the letter C. Small
pleasures. There was nothing and no one in McAuley's
office to stop me getting a few kicks in. And if I was going
to die . . . The smile faded from my face as I watched
McAuley writhe on the floor.

At the sound of their boss's roar of pain, McAuley's men
pounded even harder on the office door. Luckily for me,
McAuley's paranoia had seen to it that the door was solid,
reinforced hardwood. It would hold for a while, but even
that door couldn't indefinitely withstand the kind of
punishment McAuley's thugs were dishing out. I reckoned
I only had a couple of minutes before it gave way
completely and then the door wouldn't be the only thing
in trouble.

Could I do it? Could I really go through with this?

Hell, yes.

There was a time, less than six weeks and over a lifetime
ago, when I'd thought a person could only sink so low.
Sooner or later, you went down just as far as you could
and after that, the only direction was up. But, just as
loving Callie had shown me that Heaven had no roof,
hating McAuley and the Dowds had taught me that Hell
had no basement.

McAuley started to laugh. Even though his hands were
cupped around his groin and he was still curled up, he
found this funny. Creepy McAuley, the hard man. My
finger stroked at the trigger. White fire blazed through my
veins instead of blood, burning away all thought, all
feeling. All fear. I had a gun in my hand, like a syringe
pumping one hundred per cent pure, unadulterated
adrenalin straight into my heart.

The frustrated hammering on the door was growing
more insistent.

'You're dead, Durbridge,' McAuley said again, 'and
there's nothing you can do about it.'

I pushed the gun barrel against the older man's head,
drawing small circles around his temple. McAuley froze.

'Then that makes two of us, you bastard,' I stated softly.
'That makes two of us.'