The Bloodline Cipher (25 page)

‘Who are they?' Con shouted.

‘What do we do?' Patch looked terrified. ‘Mot, what the hell do we do?'

Jonah jammed the radio up against his ear. ‘Tye! Tye, for God's sake, come in!' But he knew that even if she were there he wouldn't be able to hear her now.

‘They got us, big time,' said Motti bitterly. ‘They got boats, they got a chopper –'

Patch flipped up his eye patch and pointed to his glass eyeball. ‘And I got this. A socket full of BANG. Maybe we can take 'em out!'

But then a second sleek copter swept up into sight beyond the railings and hovered alongside. It looked to Jonah like a Blackhawk or something, flown in from some hi-octane blockbuster. Only this was real – this was right here and now, on some godforsaken speck in an ocean of blackness, and Jonah wanted to bury his head and scream. Spotlights and rotors combined into a near-solid force, a hurricane of dust and whiteness pinning him to the wall. Then someone was grabbing his wrist and pulling him away.

It was Motti. Jonah saw Con and Patch ahead of him, pelting over the tangled deck for the stern. No chance of escape, no hope of safety. Just running into the dark like animals, the howling of the rotors like a monster's hunting roar close behind. Too close. And growing louder.

As he ran, Jonah chanced a couple of backward looks. Squinting through the glare he saw a door in the side of the copter slide open. There were figures inside. Soldiers? The copter banked towards them. And beyond it, Jonah saw the first helicopter was rising up into the dark, swooping overhead, heading
astern as if to try and cut them off.

He opened his mouth to warn the others, as if there was anything they could do. Then he heard a fresh hubbub ahead over the maelstrom of noise, saw fleet shadows rushing over the deck towards them and felt his heart bang fit to burst. The crew of the cargo ship was coming for them now, shrieking threats in broken English, still wielding their clubs and machetes.

‘Take 'em!' Motti hollered, first to meet the mass of nimble bodies. He clubbed one aside with his baton, kicked another. Con dealt with one more, tossing him to the deck, using his chest as a springboard to leap on to a further two. One man got past her – the same man Jonah had fought before, a steel bar in one hand and hate in his eyes.

Already panting for breath, Jonah dodged a swing and landed a punch himself; throwing his whole body into the blow, he floored his opponent. ‘Mot, maybe we can take them hostage!' he yelled wildly. ‘Maybe we can deal?'

But Motti was looking past him. ‘Patch!'

Jonah swung round. The Blackhawk was getting closer, hovering port side just above the safety rails – five or six men in gas masks and black jumpsuits jostling in the wide doorway, armed with automatics. Were they loaded with simulated ammo or the real deal?

But something looked to have snapped in Patch. He was screaming at the soldiers, his words lost in the gale as he reached under elastic and velvet and yanked out his glass eyeball. Jonah's heart caught in his throat:
He's going to do it, he's going to blow them
out of the sky
. Patch drew his arm back to hurl his customised grenade –

But then he stumbled, lost his balance and fell on his side. The jolt of his landing knocked the eye bomb from his fingers. It rolled away towards the middle of the deck, vanishing from view amid a pile of rusting debris and oil drums barely fifteen metres away from where Jonah was standing.

‘
Down!
' shouted Motti. Further aft there was a large cargo hatch, the cover of which protruded a half-metre from the deck. He grabbed Con and dragged her towards it.

Jonah started to run too, took a couple of steps and glanced back to check Patch was behind him. But Patch wasn't getting up. Jonah froze – how long was the timer, ten seconds? How many of those had passed already? Was the bomb even primed? Should he risk trying to find it and throw it overboard?

While the questions kept firing uselessly in his mind, Jonah sprinted back to where Patch lay between copter and bomb, flat on his back, clutching his leg. Now he saw the blood on Patch's hands, black as tar but flowing like milk from his shin.

‘Shot!' Patch hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Wax or not, they bloody hurt. Sorry, mate.'

Jonah said nothing, hauled Patch up by the armpits, started to drag him away. Rust kicked up around his ankles as the deck beside him was raked with gunfire. The men in the copter were still shouting, maybe warnings, maybe threats. Fresh adrenaline kicked in as Jonah quickened his step. But then the other copter overhead trained its lights on him, blinding him. It felt
like bullets were whizzing everywhere. For a moment Jonah was disoriented, his thoughts racing faster than the gunfire. Was he staggering towards the bomb? How much time could there be left now?

‘Quick, Jonah!' Patch yelled.

‘We're gonna do this,' Jonah promised him.

But then Patch was jerked out of his arms by the impact of another bullet. The boy screamed as he slammed against the deck. Jonah stooped automatically to lift him up again.

‘Can't make it,' sobbed Patch, tears streaking down his cheek as he looked up at Jonah. ‘Sorry, mate.'

‘I said, we're doing this!' Jonah shouted back at him.

‘Come on, Jonah!' Motti's hoarse cry sounded close. Jonah looked behind him to his right and saw Motti crouched behind the cover of the hatch, just a few metres away.

Jonah hauled Patch to his feet. ‘Lean on me,' he gasped. The light shifted and the drone of the copters upped urgently in pitch as they lifted into the air. The firing stopped.
They're getting out of range
. Patch slipped and stumbled again, fell to his knees. Jonah saw fresh blood on his friend's thigh and hip, felt his insides turn.

‘Can't,' Patch panted. ‘Can't …'

Jonah looked back, saw Motti scrambling up to help them. ‘Jesus, geek, it's gonna –'

‘
Go!
' Patch shoved Jonah hard in the chest.

Caught by surprise, Jonah staggered back and knocked into Motti. Both fell sprawling on to the hatch. Con reached up from hiding and grabbed for
them. ‘Patch!' shouted Jonah, as Con's fingers scrunched up skin and shirt and she heaved him over the lip of the hatch out of range of –

The explosion was colossal. Blood-red flames roiled up from the pile of oil drums and a wave of fierce heat beat across the deck. Jonah felt it searing his back. But inside he was frozen.
Patch?
Over the thunder of the blast and the heavy thrum of the copters above, he heard Con scream Patch's name as loudly as he was shouting it inside his head.

She started out from behind the hatch cover, choking as thick black fumes blew over her. The smoke and ash diffused the fierce white searchlights above, lent an unreal haze to the scene.
This isn't happening
, thought Jonah as he stumbled after Con to where a small, ragged figure lay sprawled and still on the deck.
We win. We always win
. The noise of the copters seemed hushed by the smoke, the light was growing fainter. Jonah realised dimly that one of the craft must be touching down.
Maybe we can still slip away in the smoke, if Patch isn't hurt so bad. Maybe –

‘You were too slow, man!' Motti seized Jonah by the shoulder and spun him round, furious. ‘Why were you so damn slow!'

‘You could've helped me sooner!' Jonah bawled back. ‘You saw, he pushed me away, I couldn't help –'

‘Shut up, both of you,' Con snapped. She was kneeling beside Patch, holding his gory hand. His tattered clothes had been black to begin with and hid most of the blood, but there was no hiding the burned mess of his face. He'd lost his eye patch along with
most of his skin. He was shaking. His good eye flickered open and he tried to smile.

‘You're OK?' Patch whispered.

‘You're gonna be OK too,' Jonah insisted, crouching beside him.

‘Flames again …' Patch coughed, and his face twisted with pain. ‘
Told
you that bloody grimoire thing was cursed. Bad luck …'

‘We gotta get that leg elevated. Help stop the bleeding.' Motti jumped up, staring round frantically through the smoke, then pulled off his jacket, and tossed it at Jonah. ‘I – I'll find something. You make a tourniquet. Con, you could maybe slip away before –'

She shook her head, kept hold of Patch's hand. ‘I'd never make it.'

Jonah was pulling frantically at one of the filthy denim sleeves, trying to tear it into a bandage. ‘Patch? Patch, listen, don't go to sleep. Stay with us.'

‘Stay?' Patch was shaking harder. ‘'Course. Not gonna leave you.' His eye started to flicker shut. ‘Not ever …'

‘Come on, Patch,' Jonah begged him. ‘Please, just –'

‘
Look!
' With her free hand, Con frantically wrestled with her top. ‘I'm going to take my bra off! Are you going to miss that? Well?' She sobbed, tears pouring down her face. ‘Look at me!'

Patch tried to focus. ‘Bloody hell, Con!' he breathed. But his gaze quickly flicked from her chest to her eyes and lingered there as he managed to smile. ‘Now I know … I died and gone to heaven.'

His head rolled back.

‘No, Patch!' Jonah shouted, leaning forward and
shaking him by the shoulders. ‘Wake up! You can't –'

He broke off as Motti shouted out in pain somewhere close by. He stared into the smoke, trying to see – but then suddenly two dark figures in gas masks were looming over him. Another was already dragging Con away into the smoke.

‘Get off me, you bastards!' she yelled. ‘You did this! You did this!'

‘Our friend needs help,' Jonah added, gasping with pain as his captors yanked his arms behind his back and cuffed his wrists. ‘You've got to help him!'

‘Oh, I think he's beyond help now, Jonah.' Another man breezed up to him out of the thick smoke like he was taking a stroll on a fine day. ‘Pity. But at least we've secured the rest of you.'

‘Wait …' Jonah stared in horror. This man wore no gas mask. He was wearing a
face
mask, brass with three twisted circles at the eyes and mouth. It was the man who had killed Sorin. The man from Nomen Oblitum. Jonah struggled desperately to break free. The man reached out with finger and thumb and pressed them carefully against Jonah's neck.

‘Dim Mak,' the man explained, a slight Germanic edge to his voice. ‘Sensationalists call it the black martial art of the “Death Touch” … but a more accurate translation might be “Touch Point”.'

Jonah tried to speak, tried to move, but he could do neither. He couldn't even cry any more.

This isn't happening
. Jonah could hear and see and fear, but he was trapped – a prisoner in his own body.

‘Please, you must pardon my rudeness. This mask
doubles as a respirator, as well as providing a necessary disguise.' He pulled off the mask to reveal thinning black hair and a gaunt face; once-neat Asian features losing definition with age. Jonah had seen the man before in a photograph, taken long ago.

‘I'm Karl Saitou,' said the man, smiling. ‘Thanks to Coldhardt, I own you
and
your friends.' He was still smiling as he jabbed a knuckle into Jonah's wrist.

Then, like a plug had been pulled in Jonah's head, Saitou and everyone else were lost in blackness.

I should be dead
, thought Tye, waking up to find she couldn't move. For a moment she almost panicked; then realised she was in some kind of stretcher that held head and body rigid, the kind they used to lift people out of war zones. That would maybe fit with her hazy memories of a helicopter, carrying her through the darkness.

With her limited vision, Tye could see she was in some kind of cave. A hole in the rock wall was letting in daylight through thick metal bars. Outside she could hear the surge and hiss of the sea hammering the shore. The warm moistness in the air matched that in Zamboagna, so she didn't imagine she'd travelled far.

But Tye was imagining all kinds of other things as she lay there, wondering why she was still alive. She heaved out a sigh.

‘Who's that?' came a sudden voice from the other side of the cave. ‘Tye, is that –'

‘Jonah?' Tye could've cried with relief. ‘You're OK?'

‘I think so.' There was a deadness to his voice that suggested otherwise. ‘Where are we?'

‘I don't know. I was attacked on the boat, Heidel got me. What happened to you – are the others here?'

‘Coldhardt's been tricked,' said Jonah hoarsely. ‘That can't be the real Heidel we met, whatever he thinks – and Nomen Oblitum's a fraud. The
Aswang
was empty, a lure to reel us in. Karl Saitou arranged the whole thing.'

‘Saitou?' Tye tried to process the rush of information, as a cold sense of foreboding built inside her. ‘Jonah, where are the others?'

‘I – I don't know.' Emotion edged into his dull tones. ‘There were helicopters, smoke … Con and Motti were taken away by men in masks, but Patch …'

‘Patch?' Tye swallowed hard. ‘What is it, Jonah?'

‘Kendall is dead,' came a woman's voice as cold as the metallic echo that tinged it. Bree's voice. ‘He bore the brunt of the blast of his own explosive.'

‘No,' Tye whispered, as a key turned noisily and a metal door clanked open. ‘No, he can't be. Jonah, tell her –'

‘He … he was in a bad way,' said Jonah hoarsely. ‘But if he's dead it's because her friends just left him there.'

Tye closed her eyes tight. God knew, she was no stranger to death, but … Patch? ‘We were talking about the future, about his new eye, so many plans …' A sob wrenched its way past her twisting mouth. ‘He was only fifteen,' she whispered. ‘He
can't
be dead …'

‘I'll give you a few minutes,' Bree muttered, stalking to the other side of the cell.