‘My Ben,’ Harry says, offering the other.
‘Never going to live it down,’ Ben says. ‘Cheers, mate.’
Miri checks her watch and feels the irritation. This is why civilians are no good in missions.
‘Come on,’ Ben says, heaving himself up to his feet at seeing the look on her face. ‘We’ll get ready.’
Changed. Dressed. Shirts on to cover pistols holstered on belts. Weapons made ready. Radios into pockets. Earpieces in. Comms checked, and all while they finish the drinks Harry made.
‘Milwaukee, 2010,’ Miri says, holding them in the portal room next to the shimmering blue light. ‘Time is synced to here, currently twenty-one fifty hours. It will be dark with urban lighting. Opposition is not expected. Blue is in a van at the edge of a parking lot across from the mall. You have all seen it. Questions? Good. Safa on point. Locate and extract. We are not drawing attention. Go.’
Safa walks through to the van and pushes aside the curtain. She looks back, seeing Emily coming and not seeing the white, shabby-chic low chest that her shinbone rams into. Instant pain. She swears under her breath.
‘What’s up?’ Emily whispers.
‘This fucking thing,’ Safa says, kicking the chest.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Emily says. ‘Is it a chest? I like that.’
‘What’s up?’ Ben asks, coming through the portal.
‘Oops,’ Harry says, behind Ben. ‘Hold up?’
‘Fucking chest,’ Safa says, still rubbing her shin.
‘It’s nice though,’ Emily says. ‘Shabby chic, I think.’
‘Shabby pile of shit,’ Safa says.
‘Hold up?’ Miri asks, coming through behind Ben and Harry.
‘Chest,’ Harry says.
‘Shabby chic,’ Ben says.
‘It’s nice,’ Emily says.
‘Ria there?’ Miri asks.
‘Is Ria there?’ Ben asks.
‘No, just a chest,’ Emily says.
‘No, just the chest,’ Ben relays. ‘Shabby chic, apparently.’
‘Go over it,’ Emily says to Safa.
‘I am . . .’
‘Don’t stand on it,’ Emily says.
‘How the fuck do I get over it then?’
‘Just step over it.’
‘It’s too big . . .’
‘Why are we still here?’
‘Miri wants to know why we’re still here?’ Ben asks.
‘Step over it,’ Emily says.
‘I’ll kick it out the fucking door in a minute.’
‘Stand it on one end,’ Harry rumbles.
Silence.
‘Should do that,’ Emily says.
‘Yep,’ Safa says.
The chest is moved to stand on one end. They go past it to view the front and a mostly deserted car park. Streetlights glow here and there. Lights on in the mall and the late businesses still open.
‘Clear,’ Safa says. She goes to open the passenger door and drops out to land deftly. Emily follows. Ben comes out. Harry drops down and holds position to offer a hand to Miri, who glares at it for a second before accepting the assistance without a word said.
‘I said we should use the back doors,’ Safa grumbles.
‘Welded shut,’ Miri says.
‘Unweld them then . . . This air stinks,’ Safa says, pulling a face.
‘Does,’ Emily says.
‘If one of you stays with the van, I’ll check the launderette,’ Ben says.
‘I’ll stay,’ Harry says.
‘Two stay – looks more natural,’ Miri says.
‘I’ll stay,’ Emily says.
‘Lead on,’ Miri says, looking at Ben.
‘Mind if I smoke?’ Harry asks Emily as the others head off over the parking lot.
They reach the launderette. Lights on. People inside. A sign proclaiming the facility is self-service after 10 p.m.
‘Wait outside,’ Miri says to Safa. She goes in behind Ben, who walks through looking over the tops of the machines. Miri goes along the front to view down the aisles formed by the rows of washers and dryers. People folding clothes into baskets, loading and unloading machines. Low music from hidden speakers. No Ria anywhere.
‘Hi, do you work here?’
The old lady stands, grimacing at the pain in her lower back. She looks at Ben, then behind to Miri. ‘The British girl, right?’ the old lady asks.
‘Er, yes, that’s right,’ Ben says, charming, easy and super-concerned all at the same time. ‘Black hair, er . . . sort of medium build.’
‘Curvy,’ the old lady says. ‘She didn’t come back. Went into the mall. Clothes all folded in the bags over there.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Did she seem okay?’
‘Seemed fine to me,’ the old lady says, walking off. ‘Saw her with a black kid. He works in the mall.’ She stops to turn back. ‘Nice kid, not a gangbanger.’
‘Thanks,’ Ben says. ‘These bags?’
‘Yep,’ the old lady calls back. ‘What are ya? Soldiers?’
‘Soldiers?’ Ben asks.
‘Clothes,’ the old lady says, making a few heads turn to listen. ‘All black, like soldiers.’
‘Er,’ Ben says.
‘Laser-quest,’ Miri says with a laugh that animates and brings sudden warmth. ‘Damn kids running about playing. Vacation from the UK – they don’t have it over there. Whole family doing it now.’
‘Damn kids,’ the old woman laughs. Ben looks round to see a few of the other women tutting and shaking heads as they go back to folding clothes.
‘Owe you for the wash?’ Miri asks, pulling a small clutch of notes from her pocket.
‘She paid,’ the old lady says.
‘Thanks,’ Miri says.
‘Hope you find her,’ one of the other women calls out. ‘Ain’t safe here late. Too many damn kids with guns.’
‘Thanks,’ Miri says. ‘We’ll find her.’
‘Wow,’ Ben says softly once outside. ‘That was very good.’
‘Mall,’ Miri says. ‘Safa, take the washing back to the van.’
‘On it.’
Ben and Miri walk in through the main doors of the mall to see a uniformed security guard marching towards them. ‘Closes at ten-thirty,’ he says quickly, his accent thick. Miri takes him in. Nigerian, maybe Ghanaian.
‘Looking for a girl,’ Ben says.
‘Cops?’
‘No, family. Black hair, this tall, curvy . . . Speaks with a British accent.’
‘No, not see. I not see her. Close at ten-thirty. Two minutes, I lock doors.’
‘We’ll have a quick look,’ Ben says, walking off.
‘Two minutes.’
‘Yes, you said,’ Ben says. ‘We’ll be quick.’
‘I get trouble if late. Ten-thirty.’
‘What’s his problem?’ Ben asks, walking up the main aisle with Miri.
‘Jobs are scarce,’ Miri says. ‘He’s worried.’
Ben looks back to see the concern on the security guard’s face as he glances at his watch.
‘Emily, you still at the van?’ Ben says into the discreet transmitter fitted under the collar of his shirt.
‘Confirmed. With Harry. Safa walking towards us.’
‘Check that chest in the van. See if it’s got a receipt or something.’
‘Doing it now, over.’
‘Good idea,’ Miri says.
‘Place is deserted,’ Ben says. ‘They’ll have cameras though. Worth checking?’
‘Won’t let us look. We’re not cops.’
‘We’ve got a time machine – we don’t need to ask.’
Shutters going down. Staff making final adjustments and preparations to close for the night. They pass McDonald’s to see a group of kids eating burgers at a table while an Indian woman mops the floor round their feet.
‘Ben, receipt says Terry’s Treasures.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Afraid so.’