Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(71)

So, in the midst of such a sweep, it was all the more surprising to see a newcomer appear.

He wore a dark bandana stretched across his mouth and nose. He moved carefully but quickly, slipping from machine to machine, zigzagging across the floor, constantly glancing back and forth. On his shoulder he had some piece of machinery. I couldn’t get a clear view. Rocket launcher? Bazooka? I felt a jolt of fear. Was he going to use military weapons? I watched him climb one of the machines, standing on the seat, one leg braced against the screen, a sniper taking up position. He swung the instrument around, panned left and right— A camera.

The guy was carrying a camera.

A power pack was slung around his waist. He wore a photographer’s vest, the pockets crammed. His manner was astonishingly calm, as if his very concentration shielded him from any danger, and from the chaos all around.

“Silverman . . . ?”

This, it struck me, was the way that he had always seen himself, deep down: guerilla filmmaker, pioneer, adventurer . . . His nervousness was gone. He glanced around himself, checked his monitor screen. He focused for a moment on an incident I couldn’t see, then climbed down, headed for the café, where a fierce punch-up was in progress. The invaders had cornered a group of security men. I heard the snap of a Taser, the shouts, the screams— No sign of Angel. That bothered me. It didn’t matter just how smart she was, how capable. I had to know she was OK.

I caught the eye of the officer. I begged him for my phone.

“This will be over soon,” he said.

“I’ve got to find my girlfriend. I need to know she’s safe.”

I leaned towards him, tried to get his sympathy.

“You understand that, don’t you? You’d feel the same?”

“Sit back,” he told me. “Wait it out.” Then, “Be glad you’re not the one he really wants.”

His eyes flicked to McAvoy, but McAvoy said nothing.

A loud hiss filled the air. A familiar sound—curiously English, like a downpour on a summer’s day . . .

The sprinkler system had kicked in.

A thin rain glimmered through the hall. The smoke curled lazily under its impact. Water drummed against the leaves of potted palms. It bounced on gaming tables and on chair seats. The slot machines began to wink out, bank by bank. I watched a lone croupier stumble out of hiding, his mouth open, pulling at his wet shirt—more baffled by the downpour, it seemed, than the assault which had preceded it.

McAvoy’s head bobbed nervously, a harsh, insistent tic. I tried to speak to him, to calm him down, but he would not respond.

Then Silverman was back.

He saw me now. His hand came up, he waved. He pulled the wet bandana from his face, mouthed something I couldn’t hear. He picked his way towards me, skirting an upturned rubbish cart, stepping round a fallen palm. His hair was plastered to his skull. He swung the camera left and right.

He got to within ten feet. Then the officer said, “OK, buddy. Close enough.” He raised his billy club in warning.

“It’s all right!” Silverman fumbled in his pocket, held out a crumpled piece of paper. It bounced and shook under the downpour. “See? I’m with you. I’m official!”

Twilight had fallen on the gambling hall. A dim halo of emergency lights turned Silverman into a silhouette before us.

“Switch the camera off.”

“I’m here to film. That’s my job, that’s what I was hired to do—”

“Switch it off.”

He lowered the lens. And the soldier beckoned him inside.

He wiped his mouth. He peered at me.

“Chris—you look roughed up . . .”

“What the hell is happening?”

“Yeah. Bit lively, isn’t it?” He glanced back at the devastation, shook his head. “Great cinema. At least, I hope it is . . .”

“What’s happening? These guys won’t tell me anything!”

“Ah.” He ran a hand over his scalp. Water dribbled down his face, dripped off his nose. “I suppose it’s what you’d call a hostile takeover. Bit more hostile than expected, to be honest . . .”

He’d been watching McAvoy. Now he looked a question at me.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s him.”

“Serious?” He raised the camera, but the soldier glared at him, and he put it down again. To me, he whispered, “Is he ill?”

“They jumped him. He’s pretty shaken.”

“I was expecting somebody more . . . you know.”

“Proactive?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Perhaps he was, once. You seen Angel?”

“No.”

“Shit. She might have got out, I don’t know—”

“It’s not as bad as it looks. I don’t think anybody’s seriously hurt, and . . .”

“Tell me what’s happening.”

“Well, it’s . . . sort of complicated. And I thought you’d be, you know, informed . . .”

The sprinklers stopped. Water gleamed in beads over the slot machines, slithered down the screens. It dripped from ceiling fixtures and the leaves of potted palms, it dribbled down the walls. A gentle pattering sound filled the air. The fighting, too, had ended, as suddenly as any barroom brawl. We were taken from our refuge, led into the hall. The air felt damp. It stank of smoke.