London Rules полностью

Oh shit had been his reaction when he saw the paint can hit Gimball. It hadn’t been pretty. But what he mostly thought now was how swiftly he’d got his act together; nearly as quickly as tattoo guy, who’d been away faster than a cat could blink. Even having to climb down two ladders, Coe hadn’t been far behind; collecting Cartwright, who was cartoon-stunned; propelling them both to the car. He was pretty sure nobody had seen them emerge from the alley. Which didn’t mean they were in the clear, but at least he’d won some breathing space.

And Cartwright thought they were on borrowed time, but Coe knew that one thing the Service liked tightly wrapped was a fuck-up. London Rules meant build your walls high, and the order in which you chucked your people over them was in inverse proportion to their usefulness. So as long as he was more useful than Cartwright, he’d not be first in line to be pitched over the wall. Coe didn’t feel great about thinking this way, but he did feel alive, and that was the first priority. You were all in this together until you weren’t. That was also London Rules.

And another thing he wondered about was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed: was that how he’d come off this evening? When he’d joined the Service he’d been in Psych Eval, which had involved evaluating operational strategies for psychological impact – on targets as well as agents – but had also meant carrying out individual assessments; who was stressed, who’d benefit from a change of routine, and who was a psychopath. Every organisation had a few, usually at management level, and it was handy to know who they were in case there was an emergency, or an office party. J. K. Coe had become adept at recognising the signs, but perhaps he should have been taking a hard look at himself, especially since his own trauma. Maybe that had opened a door into his dark, one never since closed. And that was why he reached for his knife every time he was startled; why taking a life left him feeling buoyed, and in control. If he’d been writing a report for his own Psych Eval folder, half of it would have been in green ink.

But J. K. Coe thought that was probably okay. Everyone needed an edge. This was his.

The car had gone; the street was dark and quiet. His blade was where it ought to be.

Behind him, in Ho’s house, something clattered and someone shrieked.

A floorboard creaked again, and Kim readied for flight.

On her first approach to Ho’s house, there’d been activity; a black van, and serious-looking men loading Roddy’s computer equipment into the back of it. There was broken glass on the pavement, and a couple of chunks carved out of the brickwork. From the back of last night’s cab she’d called Shin and said He’s home alone and Make it quick? He’s harmless. Had she really thought it would be painless? The important thing was that it hadn’t been happening to her. Those were the rules of the game: number one came first and foremost.

And just for insurance, she’d tended Shin from the outset.

You’re in charge, aren’t you?

The others have to do what you say.

You’re not like them …

None of them were ever like anybody else. That was what men liked to hear about: the many ways in which they were unique.

Kim had walked straight past the black van; found a café to nest in for the afternoon, and had returned to find the house in darkness. She’d let herself in with the key Roddy had given her, then lain on the bed, planning her next move.

He was probably dead. They’d probably killed him. Would have killed her, too, if she hadn’t played Shin. You’re in charge, you’re not like them. This had been necessary, not least because she was frightened of Danny, who had a dangerous look. And it had paid off, because Shin had let her leave; had watched her drop through the bedroom window, visibly swelling with the promises she’d made him. They’d be together, once this was all over. She would wait for him. They would fuck happily ever after.

But for every trick that paid off, there was another left you in the dust. So here she was, crouching in a wardrobe, and there was somebody out there – any number of somebodies. If it were Shin and co., the same ploy wouldn’t work twice. Shin on his own, she could shape like putty. Shin with the others watching would be a different story.

But she didn’t think that was who was in Ho’s house now.

Waiting, ready, she tightened her fingers round the wire hanger; reshaped and wrapped around her fist, its hook straightened to a jabbing point.

If someone else’s eye was the cost of her freedom, that was fine by her.