Stiletto (The Checquy Files #2)

“Understood,” said Felicity. “How long do I have?”

“I’ll trust your judgment. I want the standard information — layout, traps, presence of any living entities, anything unusual. All right, I’m going to do your face now.” She smeared some mentholated ointment under Felicity’s nose and then under her own. “This will help you not throw up on yourself. It isn’t really a smell you get used to.” She briskly applied some specially blended military-grade filth to Felicity’s face and blotted off the excess with a tissue.

When it came time for the promised application of the urine, it was something of a relief to find that she wasn’t to be sprayed so much as lightly misted. It wasn’t a huge relief, though, and there was another startling, somewhat unwelcome revelation.

“It’s my urine?” Felicity said incredulously.

“Don’t think of it as urine,” Pawn Odgers advised her. “Try to think of it as an olfactory disguise.” Felicity tried and was not measurably comforted.

“But where did you get my urine?” she asked.

“The Checquy has samples of everyone’s everything,” said Odgers cheerfully. “Remember, during your time at the Estate, they kept taking specimens of your every fluid and solid?”

“That was for scientific research!” exclaimed Felicity. “And it was years ago!”

“Would someone else’s fresh urine be better?”

Felicity could think of no dignified response as she tugged her greasy forelock (Odgers had combed something like vegetable oil into her hair). She wiped her hand on her jeans, cringed at the result, and then left through the back door.

*

And now she was returning through the back door with Pawn Cheng. She noted that while the past four hours had left her looking even more disheveled (if such a thing were possible), the kitchen had been transformed into a cramped little command center. The cooker had been manhandled out of the room, and there were floor plans tacked up on the walls. Laptop computers glowed on the counter and the kitchen table. A flat-screen TV sat precariously by the sink showing camera feeds from around the outside of the house.

The main difference, however, was that there were now people bustling around. Some were examining the plans on the walls, some were perched on whatever surface they could find, staring at screens, and others were bent over plastic cases, checking the guns that glinted in their little foam beds. Felicity scanned them all, automatically noting their locations, but she was really looking for six specific people. It wasn’t hard to identify them: four men, two women, all dressed in the menacing black coveralls that Odgers had been wearing, although theirs fit. They were all possessed of excellent posture and spoke in quiet tones. One of the men was in a corner doing the splits with his ankles raised up on stacks of phone books.

Everyone looked up as Felicity entered the room. There was a moment of appalled silence, and then a wave of laughter and hooting filled the kitchen. She ducked her head, blushing under her grime.

“Clements, you look fab!” one of the women called. “Are you coming from a date or going to one?” Grinning, Felicity raised a brisk two fingers in reply.

“You’ll never make it to the Barghests if you show up to work looking like that,” a large man tsked.

“Jennings, don’t be hard on Fliss,” said one of the men, “just ’cause she looks like she raided your wardrobe.”

“Ah, he’s just doing his best to flirt,” said Felicity. “After all, this” — and she gestured at herself — “ticks all his fantasy boxes, doesn’t it? We all know he’s into that hobo porn.” She paused as a short redheaded woman came over and stood in front of her.

“Pawn Clements, I note no difference in your appearance or smell from that of any other day,” said the woman flatly.

“Nice one, Cordingley, that was an amusing remark,” said Felicity. The woman nodded. She’s been working on her humor, Felicity thought fondly. Someone pressed a cup of tea into her hands, and the team members continued to chaff her and one another as she moved into the room.

It was all comfortingly familiar. She knew these people as well as she knew herself — better, really. She’d been working with them for two years now, since she’d graduated from combat training, all innocent-eyed and nervous-shouldered and hesitant-voiced. They’d helped her gestate into a real soldier. Pawn Gardiner had held Felicity’s hand while she pulled herself together after shooting her first eel-man hybrid, and she in turn had held Pawn Moore’s head and left foot while he pulled himself together after confronting a man made out of scythes. With them, she had battled bunyips in the Barbican, hunted horrors on Hampstead Heath, been air-dropped into Acton, sloshed through the sewers under Soho, and served as sentry at Sandringham House.

They had all seen one another at their best and their worst. She’d seen them covered in spilled blood (mainly other people’s) and spilled beer (mainly their own), and she’d stood as honor guard at Barnaby’s wedding and as godmother to Jennings’s daughter. They weren’t just colleagues; they were her brothers and sisters in arms.

Odgers entered the room and the noise died away as everyone stood to attention. The chief was followed by someone Felicity did not know, a tall, strapping Indian man about her own age or perhaps a year or two younger. He looked vaguely familiar. I suppose I might have seen him at the Estate, she mused.

“Welcome back, Clements. Was your reconnaissance successful?”

“For the most part,” said Felicity.

“That sounds half promising,” said Odgers. “Oh, before you report, this is Pawn Chopra.” She gestured to the Indian man.

He’s rather more-ish, thought Felicity appreciatively.

“Sanjay,” he said, stepping forward. Felicity shook his hand. Although he had long eyelashes and smooth elegant features, his grip was strong and his hands had a fighter’s calluses on them.

“Chopra’s been added to the team as of today,” said Odgers. “This is his first mission; he’s just graduated from combat training. Now, Clements, what did you find?”

“I went through the whole place, and of course there’s the bad news, but there’s also actually some good news. It turns out that we don’t need to worry about witnesses, at least not inside. The whole row has been completely stripped. There’s no furniture, no carpets, no lighting fixtures, no people in any of the houses.”

“This is not license for us to cut loose with guns and gifts,” said Odgers severely, and there were some disappointed noises from the team. “Not unless it’s appropriate. Clements, the inevitable bad news?”

“Well, sir, the preliminary inevitable bad news is there have been some substantial modifications. Hallways have been blocked off, doorways have been cut between the houses, there’s a few places where rough holes have been made through the floors and ceilings. It looks like something has created a little warren for itself in there.” She moved over to the maps on the walls. “There’s only one entrance that hasn’t been walled up. The whole thing is a labyrinth with booby traps scattered throughout. I found trip wires hooked up to boxes containing mechanisms and vials of chemicals that I didn’t recognize.” She quickly marked up the floor plans, showing where the changes had been made and the traps laid.

“Little boxes of stuff...” murmured Odgers. “Chopra, what does that suggest to you?” she asked suddenly in a schoolmarmish tone that perfectly matched her schoolmarmish face and figure.

“Um, well, it implies that the source of this malignancy is probably an actual entity rather than some sort of geographical phenomenon,” said Chopra.

“So what is the source of these booby traps?” mused Odgers. She turned to Felicity. “What did you see?”

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