Shrike (Book 2): Rampant (33 page)

I'm only just now realising that we have a common goal, Granger and I. We both want Britannia stopped. Or at the very least, she wants her son back, and I'd be willing to aid her in that. The memory of the red light blossoming on Edmund Granger's chest, tucked into wires and explosives, makes me shiver.

It doesn't take me long to change route and make for Waverley Station. 

Thirty four minutes later, I'm at Grahamston, and I change into my Shrike costume. It's not that I don't want her to know my identity — she and the rest of Scotland knows that now — but that I'd rather not ruin my trousers and blouse climbing onto her roof. 

I clamber up onto her roof a few short minutes later, and already I can hear her voice, along with her now-familiar stumping footsteps as she paces back and forth. The drizzle today is icy, and here in Falkirk away from the tempering coastal breezes, it varies between sleet and snow, gathering in the hidden zippers and seams of the spandex on my outfit. 

"Whatever it takes, Ed. Just tell him I'll do whatever it takes. I know Church took care of the stragglers, but—"

My skin chills, and it has nothing to do with the precipitation.

"Mum, it's all almost over." Again Edmund's voice sounds tinny through the phone line and roof, but I'm thankful to be able to hear it this time.

Over. I wonder if he knows what he's saying. If I have any intuition at all, whatever Britannia's planning with York is anything but an end to justify their murderous means: it's a starting point.

It also means my worry for Taog has just increased a thousandfold.

I must be catching just the tail end of their conversation, because after a minute of small talk, I hear Granger sigh.

Dropping down to grab the roof, I kick in the window and bulldoze her to the floor in one smooth movement, enjoying the feeling of my hand closing around her throat. I can feel her pulse. It's fast. Maybe she's human after all, because a fast pulse means I've scared her.

I look her in the eyes. "Hello, Rosamund."

She stares up at me, dumbfounded. There's something akin to respect in her eyes, though, and whatever it is seems to make her feel comfortable enough to shift her weight under me.

"Move and I'll rip your head off," I tell her in as conversational a tone as possible. "Actually, I might just start with your right leg, since a friend of mine lost his in an explosion last night, and I'm in an eye-for-an-eye sort of mood right now."

Her eyes widen. Probably because my hand is blocking her air flow. I release my grip enough for her to breathe, which is about as much charity for her as I can muster.

"How did you find me?" she gasps. Rosamund Granger is not one I'd peg for gasping anything, but I chalk it up to the air thing.

"Secret. So, riddle me this. A bunch of people I love are penned up at ERI, and I just overheard you telling your surviving son Ed that you'd do just anything to get him away from Britannia. If you were me, and you thought there was a possibility that said hospital would suffer a similar sort of explosion to the one that took my friend's leg yesterday, exactly how long would you let yourself live?"

As I watch her unravel my sentence, I can almost see the wheels clunking in her head. I don't really intend to kill her, but she doesn't need to know that. She is, however, not a stupid person. I decide to make myself clearer.

"In case you're lying there thinking I won't really rip any of your limbs off or kill you, try to remember that I've spent the last month watching you bloody up my city and get away with it. Because of you, people I love are dying in hospital beds. Because of you—" I emphasise my point with a hearty squeeze of her throat that makes her eyes bulge, "— I've lost any chance whatsoever at having a normal life after your little failed bomb attempt in September, and let's not forget also that I probably shed more tears over your son Andrew's death than you did. When the time comes to kill you, I won't hesitate."

I release my grip again, allowing her to breathe, then I continue thoughtfully, "Your life's work has been to rot everything you touch."

I'll have to thank Magda for that line.

"I'm not blowing up the hospital," Granger rasps at me. 

"So that's your line. I wondered where it was."

The murderous glint in her eye at that tells me that it's more of a soft line than a hard one, and I make a mental note. I don't bother to try and get her to promise, because I wouldn't trust a promise from her even if she signed it in her own blood.

"I mean it. That's not even what they want."

"Then what do they want? Because if it's an excuse to send my friends flowers and puppies, they could have done that ages ago."

We're not going to get very far if I keep letting my tongue flap at her. 

I try another angle. "I'll help you get your son out from under John Abbey's thumb if you help me take him down."

I very carefully do not ask for her assurances about Taog or the hospital, because they would be worthless to me. But if she's willing to help me take out Abbey, I'll help rescue Ed. I might still fling her into a gaol cell down at St Leonard's, but at least Ed would be free. Assuming he hasn't murdered anyone lately.

I hear a barking noise and realise the noise is coming from Granger's throat. It makes my hand tickle, and I think it's her laughing.

Nice to know she's capable of that.

"You want to help me?"

"I want John Abbey dead."

She sobers at that, and I see that appraising look in her again, looking me over like she's assessing my value for tax purposes.

"I'll help." 

Her words seem to shock her as much as they shock me. She lies there for another thirty seconds, just staring up at me as if her own tongue has betrayed her. Maybe it has. 

"Are you going to let me up or not?"

thirty-three

I sit with Granger in an uneasy peace, cross-legged on the floor and facing her. Both of us are clearly trying not to make any sudden moves, and the way she keeps licking her lips suggests she would really like some water but doesn't trust me enough to go downstairs and get some.

"If you're going to take out Abbey, you need to know where to find him," she said. "He's slippery."

"Aye, I've noticed that on occasion."

She looks at me as if she wants to ask, but doesn't follow through on the impulse. Granger makes eye contact and slowly reaches into the front pocket on her trousers, pulling out her mobile. She unlocks the screen gingerly, with fingers both deliberate and decisive, never going near the call function. Instead, she pulls up maps.

The screen zooms in on Pitlochry, or just north of town. "Get out your phone. I'm going to give you coordinates."

I obey, thinking that I'll jot them down even if I think she's setting a trap for me. She rattles off the coordinates, and I punch them into my mobile's notes app. I don't thank her.

As if the information she's just given me cemented a contract, Granger begins speaking, first jerkily and then more smoothly. I don't think she's used to having conversations with anyone besides her son, and me less than anyone.

"Abbey is the key to Britannia. The head of the proverbial snake. I was planning to try and hit him, but he knows I want him dead now."

I wonder if she's referring to the incident at the pub when she broke the window. I'd break a window too if someone strapped explosives to my people. Except that has already happened, vice-versa, and instead of windows I broke skulls.

"The rest of Britannia's members will give up once he's gone. He's the money, the brains, the plan. He holds everyone together because he knows all of our — their — secrets. Enough that he could put every single member of Britannia into Guantanamo for the rest of their lives if he aired them, and they all know it. Most of them want out as much as I do."

"That's a new song for you to sing, Granger. I'm not going to sing along. They want out as much as you do? Not particularly. You all are too much of a cult for me to believe that."

She snorts. "The older members, perhaps. John, Craig MacLeod, Rand Park — they're the real believers, if you're dead set on the cult analogy. But Craig and Rand would happily leave Scotland for Tahiti or Malta given half the chance. Abbey's kept them both here for the last year, preparing for…" she trails off, and I fill in the blank for her.

"Bombing my country's capital?"

"Your capital is London."

"Oh, I forgot, Scotland's not a country at all. Carry on." I keep my voice as even and deadpan as I can, but I can't stop the crawling feeling at the base of my spine and the little voice in my head that tells me I ought to have turned this woman into the police when I had the chance. Of course, I could do that now, but she's being awfully forthcoming, and I don't want to spoil it.

I do wonder at her forthrightness. Replaying our brief conversation in my mind, I see again how she twitched at my mention of John Abbey. Perhaps he's the reason she's spilling secrets; she doesn't know the only reason I know his identity is that he told me. She thinks if I know that, I know more. 

"Where is Grant Church?" I ask suddenly.

Her eyes narrow, and the corner of her mouth gives a small twitch. She knows why I'm asking this.

"He's probably either at the lodge or left the country by now."

The lodge. I guess it's more innocuous than Top Secret Supervillain Lair.

It also gives me a hint of what to look for in when I go up there.

"That's all moot," she says after a beat. "If you want to catch all of them together, go Thursday night."

That gets my attention. "The day before the York plan."

Now I've really surprised her. Her hands go still on her knees, and she has the look of someone who's just stepped out on a frozen lake without bothering to check how solid the ice is. "Yes," she says.

Crack, crack, crack, Granger.

I don't give her time to recover. "So they're meeting the day after tomorrow. To what, celebrate some more death they caused?"

"Something like that."

"And your plan was to assassinate Abbey there? With all of them around him?"

"That's when he'll feel safest."

"That's when he'll
be
safest, more like."

She adjusts her hair, which is pulled back in a bun I knocked askew when I knocked her over. "I know John Abbey. You don't. The best time to hit him is when he's basking in the glow of all his powerful friends pulling off powerful plans that will make him more powerful. There is nothing he likes better than pulling strings."

I recall his theatrical gesture just before Magda collapsed, and Granger's words erase the last of my doubt in my own memories for that night. "Very well. So you put a bullet between his eyes, snag Edmund, and trot off into the sunset?"

"Yes."

"And you think Craig and Rand and the others will just let you."

"If they don't, I have more than one bullet."

Why do I find that unsurprising?

I leave Falkirk an hour later after discussing the plan in a bit more detail. I'll drive up to Pitlochry separately and come at the lodge from a wooded area on the opposite side from the road. Granger promises she'll leave a top floor window open for me, because they meet in a large salon on the second floor of the lodge.

The thing I don't do is give her my mobile number — or tell her I stuck her with a tracer. I think that might undermine our shaky trust. 

I don't feel much better on the return trip to Edinburgh, but I do feel the solidifying resolve that comes from having an end in sight. Just a few more days. Just a few more days. Just a few more days.

I find Miranda Heinlein's card in my pocket on the train, and I turn it over in my hands. What would Trevor want me to do with the information about York? I could always ring his room at the hospital and ask him, but the last thing I want to do right now is disturb him. I think I already know what his answer would be.

I dial Miranda's number, wondering if she'll answer.

She does, after only two rings. "Sergeant Heinlein."

"Sergeant, this is Shrike."

I anticipate the the stunned silence that follows, but she recovers quickly, and I remember the newspaper. Damn it.

"Shrike. Do you prefer I call you that?"

I sigh. "I guess it doesn't matter now, does it?"

"I don't exactly know protocol for this, Ms. Maule."

"Gwen's fine." Bloody hell.

"Gwen. What can I do for you?" Her voice holds that same tinge of awe I heard in Francis's this morning. I certainly didn't hear it in Granger, and that thought is oddly refreshing.

"I have a tip for you, and it's a big one. But it's vague. I don't know what you'll be able to do with it."

"That doesn't sound good. I'm listening."

"I don't know how or exactly when, but I heard that Britannia are planning an attack on York. Their MO has been to plant bombs and blow them up, but in my experience they like to lull people into a false sense of security." I think of Granger and again feel trepidation about having any contact with her whatsoever.