Plugged - Eoin Colfer [58]
I feel a powerful urge to sit up and explain to Faber that even a child knows you can’t send an internet signal without a wireless transmitter, but I swallow it down and keep spasming.
A good thing too, because a couple of seconds after I hit the floor, things start happening pretty fast.
The first sign of trouble is the elongated whip snap of a pistol shot echoing down the corridor.
That’s Wilbur gone to meet his maker, I reckon.
So what? That arsehole shot Goran. Maybe he killed Connie too, so I won’t be shedding any tears.
Faber jumps up on his toes like a ballet dancer.
‘What the hell was that?’
‘Gunshot,’ says one of his guys, answering literally what he was asked.
Even though a shell has just popped outside, Faber takes time to turn on his own guy. ‘I know it was a goddamn gunshot, Abner. I fucking know that much.’
Abner? Abner and Wilbur? You cannot be serious.
Abner has his gun in a two-handed grip, pointed down between his toes. It’s a big gun and he’s a big man, but his brow is twisted like a child’s.
‘I guess you prob’ly did know that, Mister Faber.’
And predictably the pointing starts. ‘Go find out who fired that shot.’
Abner scoots out the door, and I am guessing he’s not coming back.
I take all of this in from my low vantage point. I’m not bothering to shake any more, but no one notices. I shift my gaze to the freezer and see the needle is way down in the blue.
There isn’t much time left.
A couple more shots crack outside the door and the wall thuds and buckles like a rhino ran into it.
That’s Abner gone.
Two left now, including Faber. I could probably take them, but then I’d have to take whatever’s coming in from outside. Better to move myself out of the equation.
I flip on to my elbows and crawl quickly towards the freezer head down like I’ve been taught. Faber is shouting something but it’s just panic. You would think a lawyer would know to dial nine-one-one, but he’s not capable of putting a plan together. I almost feel sorry for what I’ve unleashed on him.
Footsteps thunder along the corridor outside, moving towards the door, inevitable as a tidal wave. I pop on to my haunches and thumb the thermostat into the red, for all the good that will do. It will take minutes for this old freezer to shake itself awake. But it’s better than nothing.
I snap the steel handle open and roll inside through the hiss and steam. Two seconds later, the weighted door clunks shut behind me. The sound makes me wince, but it’s for the best. Inside is definitely better than outside for the moment.
Ronelle is strapped on the trolley, white as a marble statue, frosted like a birthday cake, parked carelessly in a forest of frozen carcasses.
So she’s a marble statue birthday cake . . . in a forest.
Not now, Zeb. Really.
The buckles holding her down are cold and unnecessary. The detective is alive, but weak as a newborn and vibrating gently with the thrumm of deep cold. I throw off her straps and cover as much of her torso as I can with my jacket. Any bits sticking out, I rub briskly with my hands.
‘Don’t get any ideas, Ronnie,’ I tell her. ‘Just warming you up. No funny stuff.’
I move around the trolley and bump it over to the door with my hip so I can peek through the window. There is an emergency intercom set into the wall, and I lean over to press the switch with my forehead. Noise floods the freezer like a wave.
The porthole is frosted with crystals and streaked with grease, and it feels like I’m watching the outside world on an old gas-tube TV.
Four men have crashed into the kitchen beyond, securing the room for the arrival of the fifth. These men look good, but not great. Not ex-military, that’s for sure. There are holes in their positions that a five-year-old basketball player could dribble through.
Still. In their favour, they have a pretty fair selection of guns between them. Mostly automatics, but I spot a couple of old-fashioned revolvers too.
‘We’re