Made of Fire

1. Electricity

1

Electricity

JIZZAKH REGION, UZBEKISTAN

“I thought we had a rule about singing on missions,” Philippe said in my ear as I bombed it through a pine-fresh, fir-tree forest.

“Singing what?” I asked. “This? Get you baby, gonna get you baby, yeah … ”

I couldn’t help laughing as I sped out of the forest on a blue and white dirt bike, across a field of wild, lime green grass rising steadily to a peak in the distance.

“It’s in my ear. I’m trying to concentrate,” Philippe said.

“I can’t help it,” I said, revving the bike harder to make the climb. “It’s this song on the radio. Can’t get it out of my head.”

“It sounds like a cat dying,” Philippe said through the earpiece; the sound so crystal-clear it was like standing next to him while he talked. Way better than the old ones we used to use. And all thanks to the JPAC technology depot we’d raided three weeks earlier.

I brought the bike to a sudden stop at the top of a ridge. My motorbike skills were a damn sight better than my first lesson, when I steered a moped straight into a canal. The cellular muscle memories were doing their stuff and I could pretty much handle anything on two wheels. Though Philippe insisted I wasn’t ready for a 1000cc just yet; the canal memory scarring him a lot more than me.

“Okay, I’m at checkpoint one.”

“Tell me what you see,” Philippe said.

I took a pair of digital binoculars from the pocket of a small, black rucksack strapped to my back. I moved them right to left across a sweeping, grassy valley below, with snow-capped mountains rising behind rolling green hills and a tarmac road winding its way up to a metallic, hexagonal building . The building itself was surrounded by a forty-metre fence we knew was electrocuted.

“I see a man in a van,” I said watching Philippe drive a red delivery truck towards the front gate of the complex.

“What about the perimeter guards?” he asked. “Did you take care of them?”

“Chill,” I said. “One down. One to go. The first was sleeping on the job. Didn’t even see me.”

“Copy that. I’ll meet you in the middle,” Philippe said. “Don’t be late.”

“When am I ever?” I asked. “Wait, don’t answer that.”

I tucked the binoculars away and pulled on the accelerator handle of the bike. I zipped along the top of the ravine, watching Philippe’s tiny speck of a van arrive at the front gate, where he’d be greeted by a pair of grey-suited security guards who’d search the truck and him, before accepting delivery of the package we’d prepared earlier.

And if I sound like a know-all, it’s because we went through the plan in mind-crushing detail on the plane ride over.

A half mile further on, I came across another patrol. A four-by-four sprayed camouflage to blend in, with a dark, wiry man behind the wheel. He was dozing too; eyes closed and mouth catching flies, with the window open and the radio playing naff music quietly in the background. He was dressed like the other man I’d passed by on the way into the forest; a green short-sleeved uniform and a peaked cap on his head; a Russian-made rifle propped up on the passenger seat and a pair of binoculars around his neck.

Another one asleep. Was this my lucky day, or what?

I left him to his snooze, preferring not to kill or injure if at all possible. Philippe wasn’t so particular when it came to moral chew-overs, but I’d managed to talk him into being a little less trigger, stab and strangle happy in our few months together running missions.

When I’d made it far enough along the ravine, I skidded into a righthand turn and rolled down a steep hill at ridiculous speed. I levelled off and rode towards a section of fencing running around the rear of the complex.

They didn’t have guard towers around the building. Didn’t need them. There were cameras everywhere. And the place was almost impossible to break into.

Almost.

I brought the bike to a stop a few feet from the fence and killed the engine so I could hear the hum of the fence. To the guards inside, I hopefully looked like a curious teenage biker checking out a remote private facility.

I unstrapped my rucksack, zipped it open and took out a lightweight grappling gun with a fat magnetic pad on the end, rather than a hook or spike. I checked my watch and waited for 08:00.

Bingo. The high-pitched hum of the fence dropped off. The pulse-fire weapon inside the package delivered by Philippe must have worked.

I had twelve seconds to get up and over the fence before the emergency generators kicked in and the fence charged back up to a bazillion volts.

Already down to nineteen seconds, I fired the end go the gun at a seventy degree angle. It stuck to the building. I clipped it to my belt and went for it, four seconds in already.

Five.

Six.

Seven.