One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [85]
“Two.”
“You really don’t understand, do you?” said the Stiltonista in a voice that now carried an echo of uncertainty. “It doesn’t have to end for you like this.”
I didn’t have a plan of action, but that didn’t seem to be a problem, for the plan of action had me, and before I knew what had happened, I had the barrel of my pistol pressed hard against the Stiltonista’s throat and the man with the spade was flat on his back unconscious. The goon next to me had managed to get his hand to the butt of his automatic, but no farther. The rest were just blinking stupidly. Oddly, I didn’t feel nervous in the least. It felt like I was someone else. Someone else inside me.
“You see what happens when you’re impolite?” I said. “And don’t struggle. This an armor piercer. Once it’s gone through, only Exxon will be able to retrieve it—or you.”
He stopped struggling.
“Tell them to drop their weapons.”
He did, and they did.
“Right,” I said, unsure what to do next. “This is the plan. . . . ”
If there was a plan, I never found out what it was, for a voice rang out from one corner of the warehouse.
“Armed police! You are surrounded. Do exactly as we tell you. Carefully and slowly, put your hands behind your heads.”
The Stiltonista’s goons did as the voice asked and seemed to know the drill, as they also lay flat on their faces without being asked.
“And you, Next.”
I set my pistol on the floor, kicked it away and then obediently placed my hands on the back of my head and lay on the ground quite close to where Potblack now lay.
“I’ll get you for this if it’s the last thing I do, Next.”
He said it without looking at me, his voice a low growl.
“Really?” I replied evenly. “Try to get me or my family and I’ll happily ensure that it is.”
He grumbled and faced the other way.
I heard the patter of feet, and within a few seconds I felt my arms pulled behind me and bound with a plastic tie. They weren’t rough, though—they were almost gentle.
“Got a weapon here,” said a voice, quickly followed by, “Got several weapons here.”
“Thursday, Thursday,” came the voice that had been behind the bullhorn. It was deep and earthy and was exactly how I expected Spike to sound. He was one of Thursday’s SpecOps pals—someone who had been more than happy to feature in the series. It was the only recognition he’d ever got.
“Spike?”
“Hello, old friend,” he said. “What have you got for us?”
“Keitel Potblack, head of the Swindon Stiltonistas,” I said,
“threatened to kill me, wanted to bribe me to block the repeal of prohibition and is also guilty of putting three of Goliath’s synthetic Thursdays under the Savernake Forest.”
“You’ve nothing to connect me with the Stiltonistas,” said Mr. Potblack. “I happened to be here pursuing a potential property development when I was set upon by this madwoman.”
“We’ve got a trunkful of Gorgonzola here,” said one of the armed officers. “At least fifty kilos.”
“For personal use,” said Potblack in an unconvincing tone of voice.
“And your armed associates?”
“I employed them as decorators this morning. I am shocked, shocked to discover they are armed.”
Spike helped me to my feet and walked me across to the front of the Rolls-Royce.
“It’s good to see you again, Thursday. The Cheese Squad will have a field day with this lot. How in heaven’s name did you nail Potblack of all people? We’ve been after him for years.”
“Let’s just say I have a magnetic personality.”
Spike laughed. “Still the same. Tell me, do you want to do some moonlighting? The undead are about to be culled again, and there aren’t many with Class IV zombie hunters’ licenses about—or at least none who don’t drool a lot and mumble.”
I thought carefully. “If I’m around tomorrow, I’m totally up for it.”
It was quite fun being her. I had a sudden thought.
“Spike, if you weren’t here to arrest Potblack, what were you here for?”
“We’ve been