Chapter 13
Amy grimaced. If she’d just waited ten minutes, the Police would have taken care of the man she’d just killed. Alive, he would have been interviewed and able to dish the dirt on others. She’d messed up. She shook her head with shame, she should have listened to Jack. She glanced over at Maggie. If the bosses ever found out it could cost her her place in the Unit. She wasn’t ready to leave, she hadn’t found him yet. Her eyes focused on the screen, ignoring Jack’s scolding glare.
“My work here is done…finalised,” smiled Pyke, high on success. He waved a hand over the screen and made the files disappear. “I soooo lurvvve my job. I’m playing with the best game apps ever.”
Another file popped up on the screen, awaiting his attention.
Maggie shouted across the room. “Pyke, this is not a game. How many times do I have to tell you? We’ve got a change of plan. Check out eight.”
Pyke obediently skipped to screen eight. “Now, what have we here?”
With the skilful hands of an orchestral conductor, he opened a dozen files. The screen lit up with maps, images, and lines of unfathomable text.
“Err…we haven’t got time for Soho Sid right now.” His tattooed fingers ran across a keyboard.
“A radical cell has just activated. You’re off to Belgium. The Belgian Unit is a little stretched; they have six major incidents kicking off around the country, so they’ve asked for us, France and Ireland for backup. I’ve sent the intel for the job we’re sorting, and you should be receiving it, just about…” He hit the keyboard with a flourish. “Maintenant…that’s ‘now’ in French.”
Jack raised an eye brow.
Pyke spun around and beamed at Jack. “This is high risk, so you have permission to TM8 all involved. Then you can give Soho Sid a visit afterwards. We have a short window of time before he starts. I’ll delay his kick-off.”
Pyke trotted to another screen and busied himself with lines of script, sliding effortlessly between websites, servers, and databases, the radical cell and child sex ring forgotten.
Jack and Amy closed their eyes for coordinates and images to light up in the back of their eyelids. Amy brushed crumbs from her suit lapel with a sigh.
“No peace for the wicked.”
She spun around, walked towards the door, grabbed a handful of small white feathers from a bowl on her desk and stuffed them in her jacket pocket. She raised her fingers to her forehead and threw a salute in Maggie’s direction. “See you later boss,” she hollered as she strode out of the office.
Maggie shouted after her. “Report back to me later, Amy. I need to review your performance files.”
“Will do, boss.” Amy scrunched her face and shoulders with dread, as the pushed through the office door. No one enjoyed the boss’s reviews. Shit, what have I done now?
Jack sneaked up beside Pyke, leaned in, and teasingly pointed a wriggling finger at a precious piece of screen text, pretending to touch it. Pyke froze in mock horror, tilted his head to the side, and gave Jack a Pyke-special death stare.
Jack grinned. “Just kiddin’…my little shoe.” He backed off.
No one touched Pyke’s stuff.
“In here you may be the boss, Pykey boy, but out there…we all know I am.” Jack teased, giving Pyke a playful punch in the shoulder.
Pyke, not moving from his position, expertly flicked his leg out sideways, just missing Jack’s kneecap. Jack leapt backwards in mock horror.
“Whoa! Careful, big boy,” he teased.
“I’ll come out with you one day, mon petit chou,” grinned Pyke. “Then we’ll see who’s the man, who’s the big bollocks, who’s the mighty pair of shoes.”
Maggie, watching the banter from behind her desk, smiled at them.
“Handbags down, gentlemen, please. Back to work! Chop chop!”
Jack nodded, sauntered towards the door, scrunched his biscuit wrapper into a ball, and aimed a throw into the wastepaper bin beside Maggie’s desk. He punched the air with childlike glee as it hit its mark.
“Yes! Je suis un superstar. That’s French for the dog’s bollocks, mate.”
Giving Maggie a winning smile, he sauntered past and blew a cheeky kiss.
“Later’s, babe,” he winked.
Maggie beamed up at him, proudly watching him walk out the door. She caught herself staring, blushed, and distractedly tucked a slither of hair behind her ear. Jack was too deliciously handsome for his own good.
“Cougar,” teased Pyke, peering around a screen.
Maggie flushed rose pink.
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s far too young. I don’t do embryos. I haven’t got time to teach.” She smiled, waving him away with a dismissive hand.
“Later’s, babe.” She mimicked Jack’s deep voice and swagger of hand on hips. “What the hell is that? Doesn’t anyone speak good fucking English anymore? For goodness’ sake, the place has gone to pot.”
Giving Pyke a conspiratorial look, she tapped the side of her nose with a pencil. “Methinks our Jack has a big soft spot for Miss Fox. Romance is in the air and heaven help us, if the feeling is mutual.” She shook her head with mock displeasure.
“Oh, its mutual all right. It’s just that neither of them realises it. Both don’t think they’re good enough. Jack’s got to grow some balls and get over his scars, and Amy’s got to know her value and jump on him. Their pussy footing around is driving me nuts.”
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with their work.”
“No, I think it enhances it. They show off to each other. She’s trying to impress him, and he’s trying to impress her, although he’s a bit overprotective of her, which drives her mad.”
“Mmmmm… we don’t need any bleedin drama in this office,” sighed Maggie.
Pyke adored Maggie; she was formidable and quaint in one package. She could kill a man with a glance; but show her some affection, and she’d fold into a coquettish, blushing puppy.
Pyke put it down to not having had enough affection in her life, which was understandable with her career history; there’d been no time for it. Getting snapped up straight from the University at the tender age of 21 by MI6, she’d given her time, body, and soul to the wellbeing of her country. Dying at 62 years was way too soon for a matriarchal lioness such as Maggie. She didn’t mention children; he guessed she didn’t have any. Her caring for others went some way to making up for it.
Pyke understood her passion for the job, once a person had seen what humans were capable of doing to each other; it was all hands-on-deck to protect the innocents.
They were a strange mix; Pyke with his cheeky East London accent, hard knocks street education, skinhead haircut, body smothering tattoos, and cute little boy twinkle. And then there was Maggie, more than double his age with her crisp Queen’s English, privileged education, immaculate mother of the bride suits, hairspray, and pearls. They couldn’t have been more different.
On earth their paths would never have crossed. If so, they would have gone overboard to avoid each other. But here they were, a formidable team. Maggie loved his cheeky, speedy intellect, and he loved her ruthless sniffing out of bastards.
But what Pyke loved most, was that Maggie, with all her airs and graces, was totally non-politically correct. The word ‘polite’ was not in her vocabulary. She had no boundaries, said it as it was, and swore like a trooper.
When she said ‘fuck’ it sounded so posh, it made it difficult for him to stifle a giggle. You couldn’t take offence; it was as if HM The Queen had blasphemed, so it must be OK, right?
Pyke loved his work. He’d nicknamed the office as Cloud 9 and it had stuck. His work colleagues were fun and feisty, and he and Maggie made a good supervisory team. They respected each other. Both loved the chase and the fight for righting wrongs or ‘getting the shitty fucking bastard arseholes,’ as Maggie had put it. And both had a penchant for a cup of tea and a custard cream biscuit.
“A cup of Rosie Lee before we start our next plan of attack, ma’am?” Pyke asked in his best Sergeant Major voice. Ever in a hurry, he ran to the kitchen galley and put the kettle on.
The fictitious taste of food and drink remained as one of the few pleasures Fallens were allowed to keep as they mid-surfed earth and the afterlife. A disease-free body, increased sensory input, and amplified perception had been offered as important pleasures.
Maggie smiled. “Yes, dear, an army can’t run on an empty stomach, and we’ll need a biscuit to go with that, don’t you think?”
Maggie never used instant beverages. She insisted on a teapot, tea strainer, tea leaves, and porcelain cup. They could offer her all the hi-tech-fangled gadgetry in the world, but some things you don’t meddle with. Tea was one of them.