Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [133]
The bullet chipped the stone steps at Ricky’s feet.
Stinging fragments blasted past his ankles.
‘Correction,’ said the man. ‘I won’t kill you. But I’m authorized to blow your leg off and then patch up the femoral artery before you bleed to death.’ He kept the gun aimed at Ricky. ‘They’ll rebuild your leg but you won’t ever walk as good.’
‘Don’t, Ricky,’ begged Cynthia. ‘Don’t try anything. Do whatever they want.’ She sounded on the edge of hysteria.
‘Poor girl. Ears must be ringing,’ said the dog-handler.
‘How did you find me?’ said Ricky. He asked the question more to give his sister a chance to calm down than because he cared about the answer.
‘They tracked you with the bloodhound,’ said Cynthia.
‘They went to your locker in the school and the bloodhound sniffed your stuff, and then they came after you. They figured you were down town but they didn’t know where.’
‘He isn’t a bloodhound,’ said the dog-handler fondly.
‘Trotter’s one of the Agency’s trained narcotics sniffers.’ He smiled with a hint of pride. ‘Got a nose on him that can find one apple in an orchard. Trained for attack, too. Trotter will rip out your throat on command.’
‘I’m a bit disappointed,’ said Ricky. He kept talking to give himself time to think. He was almost at the bottom of the steps now. ‘They sent just one guy and a dog to get me?’
The man nodded his head towards the station car park.
‘There was a van full of us. The others just didn’t stay close enough to your sister here, I guess. They’re all sleeping on the ground back there.’
Ricky had reached the bottom step and now he stood staring past the man. ‘Looks like one of them just woke up.’
The dog-handler chuckled. ‘Nice try, kid. I’m supposed to turn around and look, and then you try something, huh?’
‘It must be terrible to be so untrusting.’
At the sound of the voice the dog-handler spun around.
A man had come around the corner of the building from the parking lot. He had pale skin and long straggly red hair and he was wearing a baggy suit that was at least two sizes too big for him. He ignored the dog-handler and smiled at the teenage boy.
‘Ricky McIlveen, I presume. My name is Jack. I’m pleased to meet you.’
‘Why aren’t you asleep like the others?’ said Ricky. He seemed to have forgotten about the man with the gun. He stared at Jack in fascination.
‘Because we’re two of a kind, I guess.’
The dog-handler didn’t seem to know how to deal with the new situation. He was trying to hold on to Cynthia and at the same time keep his gun on Ricky and the newcomer. But now he came to a decision. The black dog had risen to its feet, tense and alert, as soon as Jack had appeared.
The man slipped the dog free of the leash. He gestured towards Jack. ‘Trotter — kill,’ he shouted.
The dog trotted swiftly towards Jack and flung itself at his feet. The dog-handler stared in astonishment as the animal lay there, staring soulfully up at the pale smiling man in his baggy suit. ‘Kill,’ he shouted again.
The dog rolled over on his back like a puppy, exposing his belly to be patted. Jack obliged, kneeling to scratch the dog fondly. He glanced up at the dog-handler and smiled.
‘Oh boy, have you got the wrong guy,’ he said.
Now the dog-handler shifted his grip on Cynthia, raising his gun and taking aim at Jack. But the instant he did so, something subtle changed in Jack’s stance. His body tensed and his smile faded. And the tension seemed to instantly communicate itself to the dog.
The black animal rolled over and surged to its feet in a flying forward run. It was across the pavement and in the air before the dog-handler could fire.
It hit the man solidly, high on the chest, and drove him to the ground, ripping at him. His gun went spinning through the air.
Cynthia broke free and ran to Ricky. The dog handler’s gun clattered down on the steps just behind them.
Jack relaxed and smiled again. Instantly the attack-dog stopped tearing at the man. The man stared up