Free A Symphony of Echoes by Jodi Taylor

the basement, treating the others. They won’t let him bring them up here for treatment until we tell them.’
    And that would be their undoing. If they’d shown a little common decency and compassion and brought the wounded up here, then they’d have caught me as soon as I walked through the door. If I did the next bit right, we really might have a chance.
    I was silent so this could be thought over.
    ‘OK, Katie, I’m going to leave you and have a look around.’
    ‘No, you can’t go. Not now.’
    Poor Katie. She didn’t want to be alone again.
    ‘Yes, I must go, Katie, but I’ll be back, I promise. Look after yourself and your patient for me, will you? I will come back.’
    I opened the door, checked the corridor, waited a few minutes for my night vision to come back and set off again.
    They were waiting for me at the end of the long corridor. I felt a bit silly – they’d watched me inch my way along in the dark, taking nearly five minutes to get from one end to the other, and then, just when I thought I’d made it, they switched the lights on.
    Nobody shouted, ‘Surprise!’
    I blinked a bit, and then had a good look round. ‘Only five of you? I’m disappointed. I thought I’d warrant a lot more.’
    No response. They took my guns, vest, and helmet.
    ‘You do know who I am, don’t you?’ I said, carrying on like some petulant celebrity. I got a rifle butt in the kidneys for my pains. The next hour or so wasn’t going to be pleasant, but all things pass.
    I straightened up and they pushed me along to the hall. I tried to move as slowly as possible, exaggerating my injury and using the time to have a good look around. There had certainly been a battle here. Scorch marks up the walls and bullet holes everywhere.
    Waiting on the stairs was a familiar figure. Clive Ronan. Ex St Mary’s historian. And murderer. He looked older than when I last saw him. Possibly the arse-kickings he’d had from us had aged him considerably. His dark hair was nearly gone, his thin face even more creased and lined. A nasty-looking burn puckered one side of his face, and it looked as if his ear had melted. So we hadn’t been wasting our time when we took him down in Alexandria, then.
    He stood in my face. No greeting. No gloating. He never did. I’d get no helpful information here. I knew he hated me and I knew he hated St Mary’s. St Mary’s because he held them responsible for the death of his partner and lifelong love, Annie Bessant; and me simply because whenever things went wrong for him, I was never far away.
    ‘Where’s your pod?’
    I looked around me as if expecting to see it in the corner. ‘Um …’ and his backhander knocked me to the floor.
    Now that was personal. Maybe there was a chance after all.
    Get up, Maxwell. If you don’t want a good kicking, get up. I staggered to my feet. He was already turning away.
    ‘Start waking him up. I want him conscious and aware as soon as possible. Take her downstairs. Give her some special attention. I want them both to know what’s going to happen to her if he doesn’t cooperate.’
    No, no, no. This was too quick. Bloody hell, Maxwell, think. Think, think, think.
    Then, suddenly, I didn’t have to.
    I knew she wasn’t dead. I’d told Leon she wasn’t dead. I always knew she would be back one day. And just for once, I was pleased to see her.
    Isabella Bitchface Barclay.
    Another former member of St Mary’s. Strolling down the stairs as if she owned the place. Which, actually, at the moment, she did. Deliberately parodying the way I did it on the day I broke her nose. The day I exposed her for the treacherous bitch she was.
    All right, I disliked and feared Clive Ronan. He was a bastard. But Barclay I loathed. Loathed and detested. And she loathed me. And it was personal. When I thought of what she had cost me … One day, it would be her or me. She’d already told me so. And if it was today – then all well and good.
    I could see what was going to happen