Free Identity X by Michelle Muckley Page B

gravelly, and belonged to nobody
that he recognised.  He spoke in a muffled tone, but Ben could hear his words. 
He was making a telephone call.
    “Sir,
he got away.”  Silence again.  It seemed like an impossibly slow wait for him
to speak again.  “Certainly.  We’re moving into phase two?  Yes Sir.”  And that
was it.  He saw the feet turn, dust flying up as he turned his heels to walk
purposefully away, the rooftop gravel crunching under foot as he did so.  For
the first time in what felt like hours Ben breathed again, relishing the relief
that he had achieved a stay of execution.  But yet he couldn’t understand it. 
There was nowhere for him to go.  There was only one exit from that roof that
didn’t lead to the end of his life.  Ben had been able to breach the door with
only his foot, pushing his body weight against it.  This guy had a gun.  Ben
knew this all too well.  He could have shot through it in seconds, yet he had
left him.  Why had he let me go?
    Ben
shuffled his left hand out through his jacket, then after peeling out his
injured right arm, began to inspect the wound.  His crisp white shirt had a
matching frayed hole at the level of his shoulder, stained with the deep red of
his blood which was seeping down the fabric in irregularly scalloped waves.  He
clumsily unbuttoned his shirt with his left hand to assess the damage further. 
There was a cut and it was deep enough to cause a reasonable amount of
bleeding.  It was serious enough to worry about.  He loosened off his tie and
wrapped it around the wound forming a makeshift bandage which he tightened with
a collaboration of his left hand and his teeth, feeling as if he was currently
somewhere between ridiculous and Rambo.  He wiped his bloody hands on the
lining of his jacket and fixed his shirt the best he could.  Putting his jacket
back on, he looked almost presentable.  He made his way through the dark and
empty corridors trying to recall what this building was.  He had a new sense of
caution that he had never felt before in his life.  He assumed that after
somebody tried to shoot you it was impossible to keep the same carefree
attitude.  Somebody wanted him dead.  Right now everybody was a suspect.
     

FIVE
     
     
    Passing through the stock room was easier than he had
anticipated.  He had expected at least some resistance or confusion, but found
none.  The rooftop ’ s lack of discernible
architecture had disorientated him, and as he hid in the shadows staring at the
boots of his would-be killer on the other side of a flimsy wooden door, he
hadn’t given any thought to what building he had concealed himself in.  All he
could think of was the proximity of his impending death and the wound that he
had already sustained on his arm, which was causing him considerable
discomfort.  As he inched his way through the stockroom containing rows of
clothes and coats there had been a single thought running through his mind, so
much so that he was struggling to focus his attentions on the more pertinent
need to find an adequate escape route.  Why didn’t the shooter break down
the door and assassinate me?   He must have known where he was.   There had
been nowhere else for him to go, and yet the man who had chased him into the
laboratory, shot at him, and risked his own life skirting around the edges of
buildings simply gave up.  And who was it that he called?   He was sure
he remembered hearing him say Sir.  There was a level of deference in that
voice that made him nervous.  He wasn’t a random maniac that had mistakenly
selected Ben.  He was following orders.
    Seeing
that the stockroom was clear he tucked himself in a quiet corner and removed
the sleeve of his jacket and shirt so that he could assess the wound on his arm
further, attracted to it as a result of the constant throbbing that was driving
him crazy.  It was worse than the headache and the gnawing emptiness in his
stomach combined, which he had at