Endgame (Agent 21) (6 page)

The bottom line was that Ricky owed Felix. Big time.

He watched dawn creep over the London skyline as cold air blew in from the open window, giving him goose bumps. He always kept this window open, even when it was very cold out. It made him feel like he had a way out. He felt strangely uneasy as he stood there. His days were normally so filled with training exercises that he barely ever had time to himself. Now that the day stretched emptily ahead of him, he didn’t quite know what to do. At 7 a.m. he glanced over at the free weights sitting on the floor in the corner of the room.

– You could do a workout.

There existed in Ricky’s mind a little voice, which was always questioning and – more often than not – arguing with him. Ricky had even given the voice a name: Ziggy. And Ziggy was about to be overruled, because Ricky’s stomach was rumbling.

– Yeah, I
could
do a workout. Or I could eat a big breakfast and go back to bed. I’m on holiday, remember?

He walked to the fridge. It was crammed full of food, as always. But after a few seconds he swung the door shut.

– I thought you were hungry.

– I am hungry. But maybe I’ll go out for breakfast. That’s what people do on vacation, right?

Ricky was just grabbing his coat when his mobile – still sitting on the coffee table – started to buzz. It shifted along the glass table top with each ring. Ricky’s eyes narrowed. Nobody ever called that number apart from Felix, and he’d gone ‘under the radar’, as he put it.

Ricky stepped over to the phone. The screen said ‘Number withheld’.

– Probably just a junk caller.

– What if it’s Felix?

– Felix just told me he has to go under the radar. I hardly think he’d be calling so soon after that. Anyway, I’m starving, let’s go.

The phone was still ringing as Ricky locked the apartment door behind him.

At the front of the building in which Ricky lived there was a large plaza. It was busy. Ricky pulled his hood over his head, hunched his shoulders and started to cross it. He was halfway across when something made him stop. He’d seen something from the corner of his eye that didn’t make sense. He looked back at the apartment block.

A building like that had a lot of windows that needed cleaning. From time to time, a large cradle lifted the window cleaners up the entire height of the building. The cradle was there this morning. It was about halfway up, but there was nobody in it.

– That’s weird. If there’s nobody in the cradle, who’s operating it?

– Maybe it’s just malfunctioning.

– Yeah. Maybe.

He turned again, and continued on his way. At the far side of the plaza, he noticed a man sitting on a bench, reading a copy of
The Times
. For the briefest moment, their eyes met. The man immediately pulled his gaze back to the newspaper. Ricky felt a little uneasy. This was turning into an odd morning.

Ricky had a bit of a problem with cafés. Last time he’d been in one, exactly a week ago, a man had died and Ricky had been lucky to escape with his life – thanks to a kid his own age who went by ‘Agent 21’. Agent 21 had got him out of there by smashing the whole glass frontage of the café to smithereens.

But surely something bad couldn’t happen
every
time he went into a café. There was a greasy spoon just five minutes’ walk away. He reckoned today was as good a day as any to try it. What could possibly go wrong?

It was steaming and busy inside. Rihanna was playing on the radio in the background. There was only one table left, next to the window. Ricky took a seat and, two minutes later, had ordered himself tea and breakfast.

Ricky had always been observant. But since he’d met Felix, his observation skills had improved tenfold. So much so that he found himself recording minute details of everything around him without even knowing it. He noticed how the old man by the window had his knife and fork in the wrong hand, but his watch still on his left wrist. He noticed how the girl at the table opposite, with a sleeping child in a pushchair, had two ear studs in her left ear and only one in her right. She looked exhausted, and her purse was lying on the table, teetering on the very edge. He noticed how three guys in their early twenties, sitting together with mugs of tea, had newspapers open on the table, but weren’t reading them. They were all looking in different directions: one towards the kitchen, one towards the door and one directly at the young mum’s teetering purse . . .

– They’re casing her. They’re going to try to steal her purse.

– Very observant. It’s her own fault for leaving it on display like that.

– She looks knackered. I bet the last thing she needs is for her purse to go missing.

– Not your problem, Ricky. Isn’t Felix always saying you shouldn’t use your skills to get involved with things that aren’t your concern?

This was true. Felix was like a stuck record about stuff like that. The Rihanna song finished on the radio, and a news bulletin started. Ricky felt his ears tuning in.

‘
Reports are coming in of a shooting in Hyde Park. Two men are suspected dead, and police are actively searching a teenage boy to help them with their enquiries . . .
’

Ricky frowned. Right then, his food and tea arrived. As the guy serving him walked away, he saw the three young men nod imperceptibly at each other. They stood up. And as Ricky cut into his sausage, they walked over to where the mum and her child were sitting. One of them started making a real fuss of the kid. The little boy cooed delightedly at him. Another loitered a metre or so away, while the third engaged the mum in conversation.

‘He’s very cute,’ the guy said in a pronounced London accent. ‘What’s his name?’

Ricky ate, but his eyes were firmly on the woman’s purse.

‘Andrew,’ said the woman.

‘Hey, that’s
my
name!’ said the young man. He turned to the baby. ‘All the best people are called Andrew,’ he said.

Ricky had to admit grudgingly that it was a good take. Just as the woman looked proudly at her cooing baby, the guy deftly took the purse. He immediately passed it on to the guy loitering by the door, who slipped it into the right-hand pocket of his coat. Then he straightened, making ready to leave.

Ricky stood up.

– Mate, stay out of it. It’s nothing to do with you.

– Trust me. I can deal with these jokers.

– Ricky, what is it with you and cafés? You’re on holiday, remember?

But Ricky was already stepping towards the door. ‘Excuse me, mate,’ he said to the guy who had the purse.

The pickpocket’s expression changed. His eyes looked wary, and as Ricky stood right in front of him, he could feel the guy’s muscles tensing up. Flight or fight.

‘What?’ The guy raised his arms, palms outwards, as if to say:
I didn’t do anything.

‘You left your newspaper at your table. Mind if I take it?’ As Ricky spoke, he looked over the pickpocket’s left shoulder, knowing full well that the guy would follow his gaze. It gave him the fraction of a second he needed. Ricky slipped one hand into the guy’s pocket and retrieved the woman’s purse.

‘Whatever.’ The guy shrugged.

Ricky smiled at him. ‘Thanks very much, mate,’ he said brightly. He pushed past the others and retrieved one of the newspapers. By the time he was walking back past the woman’s table, the three guys were outside, striding hurriedly away. Ricky bent down and pretended to pick up the purse. ‘I think this fell off your table,’ he said, and he handed it to the woman. She looked a bit flustered, but grateful.

– Very flash.

– Thanks. I thought so.

– Any chance you could stop looking quite so smug? It’ll put the other diners off their food.

Ricky took his seat again and started wolfing down his breakfast. As he ate, he saw the three guys on the other side of the street. Two of them had turned on the third – the one they expected to have the purse – and were shoving him in the chest. Looked like he was in for a bad morning.

Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy
, Ricky thought.

When he’d finished, he folded up his newspaper, shoved it under his arm and wandered up to the counter to pay. Then he made to leave the café. Just as he was stepping outside, however, he froze. The three guys were no longer on the other side of the street. They had crossed over, were standing just a few metres from the entrance to the café, and they seemed to have made up their differences.

They also seemed to have worked out what had just happened.

Not good news for Ricky. He’d just broken the first law of the street: don’t mess with someone else’s job.

Ricky gave them his most winning smile. ‘All right, lads?’ he said, holding their gaze so that they didn’t notice how he was tightly rolling up his newspaper.

‘What’s your game?’ the guy on the left said.

All three of them stepped a little closer to Ricky.

Ricky thought about Felix. His handler was always telling him to be careful how he used his recently acquired skills. That if he found himself getting into street fights, he was turning back into the boy he once was.

But Felix wasn’t here now, surrounded by three pickpocketing thugs who wanted to teach him a lesson.

‘Think you can stick your nose in where it’s not wanted?’ said the guy in the middle. And as he spoke, he pulled a flick knife from his pocket. A click, and the blade shot out.

Ricky eyed the weapon carefully. The guy was holding it low, like he knew how to use it.

Ricky raised his rolled-up newspaper. The guys sniggered. He didn’t blame them. A flick knife against a copy of the
Daily Mirror
? That was no contest, was it?

But these three lads hadn’t been trained by Felix. They hadn’t learned that sometimes the best weapon is the one that doesn’t look like a weapon at all.

Ricky didn’t wait for the others to attack. With a sudden sharp swipe, he whacked the stiff end of the rolled-up newspaper against his assailant’s wrist. The force was stronger than the guy expected, and it caused him to drop the flick knife, which clattered onto the pavement. Now Ricky raised his arm and slammed the stiff end of the newspaper directly into the knife guy’s face. Blood spurted from his nose as he cried out and staggered back. Ricky took his chance. Shoving one of the other surprised lads out of the way, he sprinted off down the street.

– That was a great start to the New Year.

– If you could spare me the wise-guy comments, I’m trying to run away here.

But Ricky knew that the chances of anyone catching him up were non-existent. He was fast, he was lean, he was clever. And he’d been taught well by his Guardian Angel . . .

He was damp with sweat when he arrived back at the plaza outside his apartment block, but scarcely out of breath. There were fewer people here now that the morning rush hour had passed. Instinctively, however, his eyes picked out the guy he’d noticed sitting on the bench reading
The Times
.

– He hasn’t moved.

– Maybe he’s reading an interesting article.

– Sure. Or maybe he’s not reading at all.

Ricky strode past the guy. As he walked, he looked up at the apartment block. His eyes narrowed. The window-cleaning cradle had moved to the very top.

Halfway across the plaza, he suddenly looked back over his shoulder. The guy reading
The Times
was watching him, but immediately looked down again.

– Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?

– I have now.

He took the elevator to the penthouse and let himself back into his flat. For some reason, it felt very good to lock the door behind him. As he stepped over the threshold he heard his phone buzzing again. Striding over to the coffee table, he saw that the phone had shifted to the very edge of the glass. That was weird. It must have been buzzing a lot.

The phone fell silent just as he picked it up. A banner on the home screen read: ‘17 missed calls’.

Ricky frowned. He’d barely been gone an hour. Who needed to get hold of him so badly?

– Something’s going on. A weird call from Felix. The cradle. The guy with
The Times.
Seventeen missed calls . . .

And as Ricky was holding the phone, it buzzed again.

This time he answered it.

‘Who’s this?’ Ricky demanded.

‘Your friend from the café.’

A puzzled look crossed Ricky’s face. How could the guys from the café possibly know his number? He opened his mouth to ask exactly that question.

Then he stopped. He realized that he recognized this voice, and not from just now. The caller was referring to a
previous
incident in a café. An incident exactly a week ago.

It was Agent 21 – Zak Darke.

‘You need to meet me,’ said the caller.

‘I don’t take my orders from you,’ Ricky said uncertainly. He felt out of control, and it wasn’t a feeling he liked.

‘Where Regent Street meets Oxford Street, zero nine hundred hours.’

Ricky looked at his watch. It was 8:15 exactly. ‘That doesn’t give me much time,’ he said.

But the caller had already hung up.

Ricky had been warm from running. Now, for some reason, he was ice cold. There had been a strange, strained tone to the caller’s voice. It did nothing for Ricky’s nerves.

– Do we meet him?

– I don’t see that we have a choice. Not if we want to know what’s going on.

He decided to grab a coat before he left. ‘This is insane,’ he muttered as he turned towards his bedroom.

‘Tell me about it,’ said a cracked voice from behind him.

Ricky’s muscles tensed up. Someone was in his flat. Who? How? The answers to both questions came quickly. ‘You got in using the window-cleaning cradle, right?’ he breathed.

‘The other entrances are being watched.’

Ricky turned slowly. There, standing in the middle of the room, which had been empty just seconds before, was a figure he recognized.