‘What about the lockdown?’
‘I’ve restored power to Stonehenge and our satellite arrays. We’ll have to risk it; you need to get above ground and we need to stay in contact. The future of our civilization could depend on it.’
Holly felt the weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders. This future of our civilization thing was happening more and more lately.
CHAPTER 3: ON ICE
En FIN, KNIGHTSBRIDGE
THE sonic blast from Butler’s grenade had crashed through the kitchen door, sweeping aside stainless-steel implements like stalks of grass. The aquarium had shattered, leaving the flagstones slick with water, perspex and surprised lobsters. They skittered through the debris, claws raised.
The restaurant staff were on the floor, bound and saturated, but alive. Butler did not untie them. He did not need hysteria right now. Time enough to deal with them once all threats had been neutralized.
An assassin stirred, suspended halfway through a dividing wall. The manservant checked her eyes. They were crossed and unfocused. No threat there. Butler pocketed the old lady’s weapon just the same. You couldn’t be too careful – something he was learning all over again. If Madame Ko could have seen this afternoon’s display, she would have had his graduation tattoo lasered for sure.
The room was clear, but still something was bothering the bodyguard. His soldier’s sense grated like two broken bones. Once again Butler flashed back to Madame Ko, his sensei from the Academy. The bodyguard’s primary function is to protect his principal. The principal cannot be shot if you are standing in front of him. Madame Ko always referred to employers as principals. One did not become involved with principals.
Butler wondered why this particular maxim had occurred to him. Out of the hundreds Madame Ko had drummed into his skull, why this one? It was obvious really. He had broken the first rule of personal protection by leaving his principal unguarded. The second rule: Do not develop an emotional attachment to the principal was pretty much in smithereens too. Butler had become so attached to Artemis that it was obviously beginning to affect his judgement.
He could see Madame Ko before him, nondescript in her khaki suit, for all the world an ordinary Japanese housewife. But how many housewives of any nationality could strike so quickly that the air hissed? You are a disgrace, Butler. A disgrace to your name. It would better suit your talents to get a job mending shoes. Your principal has already been neutralized.
Butler moved as though in a dream. The very air seemed to hold him back as he raced for the kitchen doors. He knew what would have happened. Arno Blunt was a professional. Vain perhaps – a cardinal sin among bodyguards – but a professional nevertheless. Professionals always inserted earplugs if there was any danger of gunfire.
The tiles were slick beneath his feet, but Butler compensated by leaning forward and digging his rubber-soled toes into the surface. His intact eardrums picked up irregular vibrations from the restaurant. Conversation. Artemis was speaking with someone. Arno Blunt, no doubt. It was already too late.
Butler came through the service door at a speed that would have shamed an Olympian. His brain began calculating odds the moment pictures arrived from his retinas: Blunt was in the act of firing. Nothing could be done about that now. There was only one option. Without hesitation, Butler took it.
In his right hand, Blunt held a silenced pistol.
‘You first,’ he said. ‘Then the ape.’
Arno Blunt cocked the gun, took aim briefly and fired.
Butler came from nowhere. He seemed to fill the entire room, flinging himself in the bullet’s path. From a greater distance, the Kevlar in his bulletproof vest might have held, but at point-blank range, the Teflon-coated bullet drilled through the waistcoat like a hot poker through snow. It entered Butler’s chest a centimetre below the heart. It was a fatal wound. And this time Captain Short was not around to save him with her fairy magic.
The bodyguard’s own momentum, combined with the force of the bullet, sent Butler crashing into Artemis, pinning him to the dessert trolley. Nothing of the boy was visible, save one Armani loafer.
Butler’s breathing was shallow and his vision gone, but he was not dead yet. His brain’s electricity was rapidly running out, but the bodyguard held on to a single thought: protect the principal.
Arno Blunt drew a surprised breath, and Butler fired six shots at the sound. He would have been disappointed with the spread had he been able to see it. But one of the bullets found its mark, clipping Blunt’s temple. Unconsciousness was immediate, concussion inevitable. Arno Blunt joined the rest of his team, on the floor.