‘Now, Sergeant Madden,’ Miri orders. Harry responds to the tone. Dropping to grab Roland, flailing and screaming. He rolls him easily. Pinning him face down.
Miri doesn’t hesitate. She drives the point of the needle into Roland’s backside and pushes the plunger down halfway. Roland cries out, trying to buck and get free.
‘How much did you give him?’ Doctor Watson asks in shock at the half-empty syringe.
‘Hold her,’ Miri says, moving towards Tango Two.
‘Miri, let the doctor do it,’ Ben says quickly as Tango Two twists her head to follow the action. She looks back to Roland. Already his voice is losing volume. Whatever they gave him is working fast. She knows she is next.
‘I’m not a threat,’ she says quickly. ‘I don’t know that man. I don’t know any of you.’
‘Stay still, please,’ Doctor Watson says, moving towards the woman.
‘No, please . . . please,’ Tango Two says. ‘I’m no threat . . . I want to . . .’
‘It’s just a sedative,’ Doctor Watson says, trying to sound soothing and professional but coming across clipped and terse.
‘Do it now, Doctor,’ Miri orders.
‘No, please,’ Tango Two says, gritting her teeth as the needle pushes through her trousers into her backside. She feels the jab and the hotness of the liquid going in, and knows it’s too late to say or do anything. She breathes calmly, easing her heart rate. Miri watches her, seeing that lack of panic and the control exerted.
Tango Two goes quietly, closing her eyes to relax and let the drugs take her down. The voices around her grow softer, fainter, further away. It’s warm here. Safe. She feels nice. Sleepy. Her eyes close, heavy and drugged, as she sinks down into darkness.
Ten
An austere, sterile room. Concrete walls. Concrete floor and ceiling. A single metal-framed bed. A metal shutter on the wall indicates the placement of a window.
Tango Two stirs, rising through the layers of sleep to open heavy eyes that snap shut from the glaring light overhead. She winces, lifting a hand to shield her eyes that slowly open to peer out. She feels dizzy and slow-witted, as if hung over.
She sits up too quickly and a wave of nausea sends her sinking back down with a groan. She breathes it through, forcing her mind to work. Cavendish Manor. The gunships. Mother ordered me to be killed. I shot Echo. I shot other agents. The portal. I went through it. They injected me. I was sedated.
Injuries?
She tenses muscles and checks for sensation and feeling. Arms okay. Legs okay. Head okay. Sore and fatigued, but everything seems to be working.
Senses?
She clicks her fingers to hear the sound while sniffing at the trace of antiseptic hanging in the air.
She opens her eyes again, just a crack at first and then slowly wider while her pupils adjust to the light.
She can see, hear, smell and move.
Sitting up, slower this time, she looks round the concrete room. Like a cell, but not a cell. She has sheets. Sheets can be used as a weapon or for self-harm or to aid escape. She leans over to see if the bed is bolted to the floor. It isn’t. Cells normally have the beds bolted down so they can’t be used to barricade the door.
Why did Mother order them to kill me?
She hears a drip and freezes to listen. Another one. She looks down to see blood on the sheet covering her body and only then gains the sensation of hot liquid in her nose. Her hands come away smeared in blood. Nosebleed. She starts feeling her head again, grunting, tutting and wincing at the feel of her swollen eyes, cheeks and the sore points all over her skull. That was some scrap in the house. Flashes of memory come back. Safa Patel fighting five of them on her own. The big bearded guy called Harry lifting Alpha off his feet.
She pinches the fleshy bit underneath the gristle on the bridge of her nose and looks round again. A metal shutter on the window and a solid metal door are the only other features.
With her hand raised to her face, she spots her bare arm and only then looks down at herself and the plain black vest top she is wearing. She pushes the sheet away to find her legs covered in soft cotton, grey tracksuit bottoms. A pull cord on the waist of the jogging bottoms. That can be used as a weapon. A ligature for suicide or to use to strangle someone from behind. Someone changed her. She sniffs again and lifts the top to look at the cuts and bruises on her body that smell of antiseptic. She was cleaned too. They’ve given medical aid, changed her into clean clothes that have a pull cord and placed her in a room with a bed that isn’t bolted down.
The dizziness comes again when she tries to stand. She braces, closing her eyes and seeing if it will pass or get worse. It eases off. At the door, she listens, expecting to hear something. Nothing. She pushes the handle down and blinks in surprise when it opens. The next room is bigger. Three ugly blue chairs at the end underneath the exposed window set under a rolled-up metal shutter. Daylight outside. A quick glance at the blue sky before she turns to scan everything else.
Two more doors stand open opposite her. She walks out gingerly, peering through both to see metal-frame beds, clean and unused. Two more doors. One looks like it leads out. She checks the other one and finds the bathroom. It looks brand new. Stainless steel fittings and with three plastic cups, three toothbrushes and three towels placed neatly on the side.
Thirsty. Hydrate.
She fills a cup from the tap on the sink and takes a testing sip before guzzling it down in one go. The water is cool and refreshing and a tiny step towards being revitalised.
Why did Mother want to kill me? What did I do?
Toilet. Toilet paper. Shower. Towel. She picks up one of the toothbrushes. It’s solid plastic and not one of the flimsy things they use in detention centres. This could be a weapon too. She grips the end with the bristles and holds it up ready to stab out. Pressure on her bladder. She puts the toothbrush down, moves over to the toilet and discovers she is not wearing her own knickers. That’s disgusting. These are plain black and similar to hers but not hers. Something about not wearing her own underwear repulses her. She sits down and urinates while looking round. No noises. Nothing. It’s so quiet.
She flushes and moves to the sink to rinse her hands, freezing at the sight of herself in the mirror fixed to the wall. Her whole face is battered, bruised and swollen. She reaches back to pull out the hairband and runs her fingers through her shoulder-length brown hair to untangle the knots. She fixes her hair back into a ponytail, grimacing at the sight of herself, but knowing it looks worse than it is. She is walking unaided, which is incredible after a fight like that.