Plugged (Daniel McEvoy 1)

‘Why don’t you lie down for a while?’ he says, which sounds rehearsed, and hits return.

The bracelet’s signal is activated, and on cue I fall to the ground gibbering. I feel embarrassed shaking and dribbling like that, but it should buy me a minute.

I feel a powerful urge to sit up and explain to Faber that even a child knows you can’t send an internet signal without a wireless transmitter, but I swallow it down and keep spasming.

A good thing too, because a couple of seconds after I hit the floor, things start happening pretty fast.

The first sign of trouble is the elongated whip snap of a pistol shot echoing down the corridor.

That’s Wilbur gone to meet his maker, I reckon.

So what? That arsehole shot Goran. Maybe he killed Connie too, so I won’t be shedding any tears.

Faber jumps up on his toes like a ballet dancer.

‘What the hell was that?’

‘Gunshot,’ says one of his guys, answering literally what he was asked.

Even though a shell has just popped outside, Faber takes time to turn on his own guy. ‘I know it was a goddamn gunshot, Abner. I fucking know that much.’

Abner? Abner and Wilbur? You cannot be serious.

Abner has his gun in a two-handed grip, pointed down between his toes. It’s a big gun and he’s a big man, but his brow is twisted like a child’s.

‘I guess you prob’ly did know that, Mister Faber.’

And predictably the pointing starts. ‘Go find out who fired that shot.’

Abner scoots out the door, and I am guessing he’s not coming back.

I take all of this in from my low vantage point. I’m not bothering to shake any more, but no one notices. I shift my gaze to the freezer and see the needle is way down in the blue.

There isn’t much time left.

A couple more shots crack outside the door and the wall thuds and buckles like a rhino ran into it.

That’s Abner gone.

Two left now, including Faber. I could probably take them, but then I’d have to take whatever’s coming in from outside. Better to move myself out of the equation.

I flip on to my elbows and crawl quickly towards the freezer head down like I’ve been taught. Faber is shouting something but it’s just panic. You would think a lawyer would know to dial nine-one-one, but he’s not capable of putting a plan together. I almost feel sorry for what I’ve unleashed on him.

Footsteps thunder along the corridor outside, moving towards the door, inevitable as a tidal wave. I pop on to my haunches and thumb the thermostat into the red, for all the good that will do. It will take minutes for this old freezer to shake itself awake. But it’s better than nothing.

I snap the steel handle open and roll inside through the hiss and steam. Two seconds later, the weighted door clunks shut behind me. The sound makes me wince, but it’s for the best. Inside is definitely better than outside for the moment.

Ronelle is strapped on the trolley, white as a marble statue, frosted like a birthday cake, parked carelessly in a forest of frozen carcasses.

So she’s a marble statue birthday cake . . . in a forest.

Not now, Zeb. Really.

The buckles holding her down are cold and unnecessary. The detective is alive, but weak as a newborn and vibrating gently with the thrumm of deep cold. I throw off her straps and cover as much of her torso as I can with my jacket. Any bits sticking out, I rub briskly with my hands.

‘Don’t get any ideas, Ronnie,’ I tell her. ‘Just warming you up. No funny stuff.’

I move around the trolley and bump it over to the door with my hip so I can peek through the window. There is an emergency intercom set into the wall, and I lean over to press the switch with my forehead. Noise floods the freezer like a wave.

The porthole is frosted with crystals and streaked with grease, and it feels like I’m watching the outside world on an old gas-tube TV.

Four men have crashed into the kitchen beyond, securing the room for the arrival of the fifth. These men look good, but not great. Not ex-military, that’s for sure. There are holes in their positions that a five-year-old basketball player could dribble through.

Still. In their favour, they have a pretty fair selection of guns between them. Mostly automatics, but I spot a couple of old-fashioned revolvers too.

‘We’re better off in here,’ I whisper to Deacon, who has one eye open and is glaring at me like I’m an alien.

‘McEvoy,’ she chatters, much to my relief. ‘I was wrong. We gotta call it in now.’

Now we gotta call it in?

‘No need for that. The cops are coming soon, one way or another.’

Outside, a man trots into the room like he’s coming on stage in Vegas. A big guy, face a road map of burst corpuscles, soft cap pulled down over one eye. I know who this is. We’ve had text.

‘Irish Mike Madden,’ I whisper to Deacon, who has managed to crank the other eye open.

‘Where’s my gun?’ is her response to this news. Reasonable in the circumstances.

‘Not here. Be quiet.’

Deacon wants to object, but she’s out of energy for the moment and it is all she can do to scowl at me.

Mike Madden does a little shuffle along the carpet, all the time smiling, and comes to a stop with an arm-waving flourish.

‘Counsellor,’ he says to Faber, who is doing his damnedest not to fall down.

‘M . . . Mike,’ he stammers. ‘Mister Madden. What are you . . . What brings you here?’

I love these guys. Still holding on to the civil façade when there’s men dying or dead in the corridor.

Mike taps his chin, like he has to think about Faber’s question.

‘One of my guys is missing, laddie,’ he says finally. ‘I sent him on a job to a pill shop and he never came back.’

Faber straightens his tie, breathing a little better. This is all a misunderstanding.

‘Mike. I know this is your town, everybody knows it. I would never . . .’

Madden talks right over him. ‘I sent him to a pill shop. And here you are with a couple of barrels. Full of pills, are they?’

‘Not your pills. Not yours, Mike. How stupid do you think I am?’

Mike sighs, like the trut

h makes him sad. ‘Money makes people stupid, laddie. That’s life.’

Faber scoops a handful of blue pills from the open barrel. ‘Steroids is all, Mike. Just steroids. Not your territory. No profit in them hardly.’

‘Is that so?’ Mike dances across to the barrel, casually slapping Faber’s final guy on the cheek on his way past. ‘Let’s have a little look-see.’ He tips the barrel, sending thousands of blue pills bobbling across the floor. Faber pulls one foot up, like it’s piranha-infested water coming his way.

‘Whaddya know. You weren’t lying. Just pills is all.’

And suddenly Madden’s smile disappears. ‘Open the other barrel, counsellor.’

Faber is a smart guy. He gets it then.

‘Oh, Christ. I see. There’s a . . . I got an explanation for you. Probably . . .’

Mike pulls out his cell phone, navigating through the touch-screen menus.

‘So I’m enjoying a late-night bottle of Jameson with my little colleen, when this text message comes through.’ He tosses the phone to Faber, who lets it drip through his hands a few times before he gets a grip. ‘Read it for me.’

Faber reads it to himself first, and whatever blood is in his face drains out of it.

‘Jesus,’ he breathes. ‘Oh God.’

‘Out loud!’ roars Mike, suddenly on his tiptoes. ‘Out loud, you crooked ginger bastard.’

He clicks his fingers and one of his guys drops Faber’s man with a single shot. The man dies quiet, sliding down the wall with no change of expression.

Faber drops the phone and starts crying.

‘Pick it up.’

This is difficult for Faber to comprehend. All his life he’s been talking people out of trouble, and now suddenly here’s this immovable object.

‘Pick up the goddamn phone.’

Faber falls to his knees and has to clasp the phone in both hands before he can steady it enough to make out what’s on the screen.