And about two minutes later—someone smashed the door in. Three of them. They were firing as they came barrelling in.
Fitz reacted as any soldier in HAR army would, under the circumstances. He froze to immobility—as the sudden hardening of his slowshield forced him to. He did see one of the men fall, as the other two emptied their pistols. And then—as the army-issue slowshield was no longer being fired at . . .
Fitz stopped being immobile just as the two paused to reload.
They never got that chance. Fitz dropped one with a marble-based lamp—which made a better club than a light—and in the semidarkness dropped the other attacker with a disarming kick to the forearm and a punch that flattened the man against the wall, knocked loose a fair amount of the plaster, and put an original Miró painting onto the man’s head. It was the best use the picture had ever been put to, in Fitz’s opinion, but Candy had liked it.
Kicking a pistol ahead of himself, Fitz stepped across to the overhead light switch and the wall-mounted telephone. Clicking the lights on, Fitz picked up the telephone and tapped in the emergency number.
“Police? This is Conrad Fitzhugh at 207 Kensington Mansions, Masden Boulevard. There’s been an armed break-in by some thugs. I’ve got a couple of them. You’d better get here quickly—and send an ambulance, too. One of them has been shot by his mates.”
Fitz put the phone down and ran to check on Candy. The bedroom was empty, and the bathroom door was soundly locked. Sensible girl! He knocked on the door. “Candy! Are you all right?”
There was a terrified whimper from inside.
She must be frightened witless. Getting involved with ultrawealthy Shareholders was one thing, but nothing could have prepared her for this. Their politics were dirty. No wonder she’d blamed him. “It’s all right. I’ve dealt with them. The cops are on their way.”
“Thank God!” she said.
“You’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Stay in there until the cops get here, Candy. I’ll call you when it’s safe.”
He ran back through to find one of the attackers determinedly staggering towards a pistol. Fitz dealt with him. Hard. He took some duct tape from the drawer under the telephone and did some trussing and gagging. Then he did some first aid on the gunshot victim.
He was busy with that when the ambulance and half a dozen uniformed policemen arrived. He stood up, allowing the two paramedics to take over. The police lieutenant looked at the two burly trussed-up men, and prodded one with his toe.
“Well done, soldier! These Vat-bandits are getting more cheeky by the day. Firearms! I’m tempted to shoot the bastards with their own guns and save the courts the trouble. It’ll be the organ banks for them, for sure,” he said, beaming. “Come on, boys. Take ’em away. Better put some cuffs on them, read them their rights and take ’em to the station. Simpson. Nygen. You two had better accompany the medics and keep that one under guard.”
Fitz tapped him on the shoulder. “Candy—my ex-girlfriend—sensibly locked herself in the bathroom when these guys broke in. Can we go through and let her out? She’s terrified, poor girl.”
The police chief beamed expansively. “Sure, soldier. Though why she worries with a guy like you around, I don’t know.”
They went through and the police lieutenant knocked cheerfully on the bathroom door. “Lieutenant Swiggers here, ma’am. You can come out now, ma’am. We’ve got the miscreants safe under lock and key.”
Candy emerged with her cell phone still clutched in her hand. “Lieutenant! Thank God you’re here.” She pointed at Fitz. “Arrest him! He’s wanted for attempted murder.”
Just at this point one of the uniformed cops came through. “Uh. Lieutenant. The paramedics just found this in the injured guy’s pocket.”
It was a badge. And an ID card. “He’s a Special Branch detective.”
* * *
Van Klomp shook his head at Fitz, who stood behind the bars of a holding cell in the GBS Central Police Headquarters. The big man sighed. “As my mother used to say: Lelik is nix, maar stupid! Fitzy, you’re so dumb it almost isn’t funny. As soon as I got home, and Meilin told me where you’d been thickheaded enough to go, I got hold of Mike Capra and headed here. We nearly beat you into the place. You moron! Of course Talbot Cartup had to stick to Candy’s story when he came around—or be the laughingstock of the town. Now, Capra will talk to you. I believe they’ve scheduled throwing the book at you for the morning.”