Free Payback by Graham Lancaster

Holloway.’
    ‘ That’s enough of that!’ snapped Chrissie, who was also a zero-tolerance gay rights activist. ‘I don’t need to hear any sexist, homophobic crap. The only person I have a problem with right now is you.’ Emboldened, the two others—Tony, a mid-twenties student-drop-out, and Joan an odd, intense woman in her late fifties—murmured their agreement with Chrissie and turned their eyes as one on Thrower.
    Lydia nodded a thank you to her, and then stood up, pulling back on her coat.
    ‘ Where the hell are you going?’ Thrower asked, a hint of panic now in his voice.
    ‘ I don’t do anything on a majority vote. I’m out of here,’ she replied, making for the door. Her volatile temper had got the better of her again.
    ‘ No. Wait. We can work this thing out.’
    ‘ Work it out? Like, you apologising?’
    All eyes were still fixed on Thrower. It was a showdown that everyone knew had been inevitable. He consistently taunted her and she was on a short fuse. One of the two had to back down or leave the group. That had been clear for months.
    Thrower shifted in his chair, sweating. Then he laughed nervously. ‘Sure. I want you in. But this is serious stuff. I needed to be sure. That’s my job.’
    Not good enough.’ She was now at the door.
    The older woman, Joan, knew that Lydia had just gone too far. She had already won, but with her last salvo had foolishly called for Thrower to humiliate himself. Bad manners. And bad politics. She tried to defuse the situation. ‘I think we’re forgetting the mice, rats and monkeys in all this. I think we need to put them before our own petty squabbles, don’t you?’
    But Lydia, still fired up, was now in no mood for anything less than a crushing victory. ‘I simply need to hear Sam say he, personally, wants me on this raid. That’s all.’ She held his eyes, and waited for him to break.
    After an agonising silence, he finally blinked and broke off eye contact. ‘Lydia. I want—you—on—the—raid,’ he said, enunciating his words slowly, as if talking to a child.
    Suddenly Lydia felt foolish. She had won, she had avenged his class-ridden carping. But at what price? ‘Apology accepted,’ she responded, relief in her voice.
    ‘ Let’s forget about all of that now, and get on with the planning.’ Joan again tried to help defuse things. ‘All right, you two?’
    Thrower looked up , cold, controlled anger welling inside. ‘Sure,’ he said, sniffing, fighting to regain his dignity. ‘Why not? Let’s run through the plan. We’ll do it once. Twice. And then ten times more.’ Reaching into his bag he took out copies of a large-scale Ordnance Survey map, a selection of long-range photographs he had taken, an aerial shot, and a DVD of the inside of the plant shot by the temp he had got in there a month earlier. As ever, a militarily thorough approach, reflecting the many weeks of surveillance and intelligence gathering that he had co-ordinated. It made Lydia feel sheepish over her attack on him. ‘How many people work there?’ she asked, trying to normalise the situation.
    ‘ Fifty-three. And a few temps.’
    ‘ And what animals do they use?’ Chrissie probed, also trying to clear the air.
    ‘ Rats, mice,’ Thrower replied. Then, looking again at Lydia, he added, ‘And pigs.’
    ‘ What exactly are the pigs being used for?’ Joan asked.
    ‘ Human transplant research. Xenotransplants,’ Thrower said. ‘They’re having some “success” with porcine organ donors, animals specially bred for hypochondriac mil-lionaires. A breed of genetically modified pigs is created specifically to match their personal DNA profile. So, any time they need a xenograft—new liver, heart or kidney—well, Hey Piggo! Look no further. There’s a little herd of porkers just dying to oblige. Cute, eh?’
    Lydia felt sick. Until she had seen the magazine article a few weeks earlier, she had no idea her father was involved in this side of genetic engineering.