Free Angels of Vengeance: The Disappearance Novel 3 by John Birmingham Page B

tale to entertain a pretty girl, Jules had wandered down there the following day and noted that the cottages lining the ancient passage were all empty, undergoing renovation by the Department of Housing. It was one of the few streets in the centre of Sydney that wasn’t seething with life. That made it perfect for her purposes now.
    The revelry faded quickly as she hurried on. From the unseen docks up ahead, the sound of shipping containers impacting on steel decks boomed up through the winding, narrow streetscape. She was pretty sure she had a follower.
    At the next turn Jules increased her pace, giving her some distance but, as she’d intended, not enough to shake the tail. Another turn, a burst of speed, a few more metres between them, and then she was into Ferry Lane – thankful she had worn her Doc Martens instead of the Fendi FMBs she’d earlier considered. The heels would’ve been murder on the cobblestone surface. Instead, sure of her footing, she raced now, counting her steps, before taking cover behind a huge metal skip full of trash from the building site. From her shoulder bag she retrieved an M26 mil-grade taser and crouched down out of sight, gathering a handful of pebbles while she waited.
    He was not long in coming. She heard his footsteps crunching towards her as he hurried to catch up, undoubtedly surprised that she’d slipped ahead of him. He faltered momentarily at the laneway entrance, before continuing.
    Julianne counted his footsteps, compensating for the longer strides she had taken when running. When she judged him at range, she tossed the pebbles off to her left, where they plinked against a broken window. Not waiting to see if the distraction had worked, she committed herself to action. Standing. Levelling the weapon, and triggering it as soon as she recognised the squat outline of the man in the leather jacket.
    For a half second she panicked, worried that his poxy pretend-leather coat might shed the prongs. But she needn’t have. The charge from the M26 could arc through two inches of clothing. And anyway, he was reaching for the pistol in his shoulder holster, exposing most of his centre mass. The darts struck him in the chest and channelled a solid hit of high-voltage arse kicking directly into his body.
    The effect was . . . well, electric.
    The Romanian grunted and dropped to the road surface, falling heavily onto broken bricks and rusted steel pickets. Jules had paid nearly five hundred bucks to have the M26 modified, removing the five-second limit on the charge. She let him have a good, long taste of the juice until she was certain she’d crippled him, at least temporarily. His gun had clattered to the ground and lay somewhere underneath him; a small problem she solved by hitting him again with brief bursts from the taser, interspersed with solid kicks into the back of his head. It was enough, after a few seconds, to move his body clear of the weapon. Jules stunned him once more as she darted in to retrieve it.
    Holding the gun on her would-be assailant, the Englishwoman suffered just a second’s doubt. What if she had just zapped a completely innocent man?
    ‘Bullshit,’ she muttered, hefting the pistol for reassurance. ‘Who sent you?’
    Another taste of the taser, a quick one.
    ‘Was it Cesky? Did Henry Cesky send you?’
    Zap.
    The only answer she received was more grunting and panting as the voltage slammed into him. She took a length of heavy steel rebar from the skip, checked up and down the empty laneway, and broke his kneecap with one vicious swing. He would’ve screamed had she not cut him off with another burst of crippling taser-fire.
    ‘Did someone send you after me?’
    She backed away a few feet, still holding both weapons. The man had soiled himself. The stench was foul. His whole body was shuddering involuntarily. As he recovered, slowly and marginally, he began to moan.
    ‘I’m really not interested in your sob stories,’ said Julianne. ‘Unless you want