Jimmy Coates: Blackout. Joe Craig

      Two security guards strolled back to their booth, sharing a joke.

      “All clear,” said one into his walkie-talkie, still chuckling.

      “Thanks, beta station,” came crackling back. “Next patrol at 0400.”

      “Just enough time for a brew,” muttered the other guard in a soft Irish accent.

      They clicked off their torches and hurried into the booth, eager to get out of the wind. The two men could have been built from the same Lego set: a square block from the shoulders all the way down to the ground. They wore blue uniforms with peaked caps, which revealed only the greying edges of their hair.

      The booth was only just big enough for them to sit side by side, but they settled in and inspected the line of CCTV screens in front of them. From here they could watch the whole perimeter of the building they’d just been patrolling: a small glass office block set within its own walls on London’s South Bank. From here a man called Christopher Viggo had been running his election campaign – the only legitimate opposition to the British Government – and it would have been impossible for anybody to approach the main gate from the street without being in clear view of the booth window.

      “What’s that?” muttered the Irish guard. He reached forward and tapped his finger on one of the screens. “Which camera is that?” The image was grainy, enhanced by the camera’s infrared night mode, but there was one spot of brightness showing two broad silhouettes in a hut.

      “That’s us,” replied the other guard.

      “I know that, you idiot, but what’s that?” He jabbed his finger on the screen again. “This booth doesn’t have a dome on the roof.” They both leaned forward to examine the screen more closely.

      “Is someone crouching up there?”

      The end of his question was cut off by an ear-splitting crack. Suddenly they were showered in splinters and a black figure crashed through the roof. It landed on top of the older guard, instantly twisting to send the man’s cap spinning across the booth. The peak of it struck the other guard precisely between the eyes. His whole body went limp and he slumped in his chair.

      The first guard was pulled to the floor and rolled over until he was underneath his assailant, the centre of his chest pinned to the ground by the attacker’s knee. Only now did the guard see a face.

      “Jimmy!” he gasped. “You’re—”

      “I’m not here,” Jimmy cut in with a whisper. He forced his hand over the guard’s mouth and fixed him with a calm stare. The green in his eyes glinted like alligators in a swamp. “I’m inside, asleep.” He jerked his head back towards the building. The top floor had been converted into basic living quarters where he’d been staying, with his mum, his sister Georgie, and his best friend, Felix. Viggo himself lived there too, but the lights in the offices below indicated he and some of his staff were still working.

      “Nobody knows I’ve slipped out,” Jimmy whispered, “and it’s going to stay that way. Got that?”

      The guard nodded, his cheeks turning white under the force of Jimmy’s grip.

      “I’m going to release you now,” explained Jimmy softly. “When I do, you make no sound unless I tell you to, OK?” The guard nodded frantically again. “You fix this roof with the board I’ve left behind the booth. In four minutes you revive your mate and explain everything, then when the time comes, you both go on your patrol as normal.” Jimmy’s tone was flat, but there was a burning urgency behind the words. “And I need to know that you two will let me back in later tonight. Got that?”

      Jimmy slowly eased his grip and uncovered the man’s mouth.

      “Yes, Jimmy,” wheezed the guard. Jimmy’s knee was constricting his lungs. “But shouldn’t I let Mr Viggo know?”

      Jimmy narrowed his eyes and dug his knee in harder.

      “If I wanted Chris to know,” he hissed, “I’d have spelled it out in his alphabet soup.”

      “I have instructions. Rules I have to follow. Otherwise Mr Viggo will—”

      “The rules don’t apply.” Jimmy forced out his words between gritted teeth. “Nothing applies. Got that?”

      Jimmy heard the harshness in his own voice and reluctantly let off some of the pressure with his knee. These men were on his side, he reminded himself. They were there to protect him. They didn’t deserve any serious pain.

      “And please don’t tell Chris about this,” he added.

      “Please?” spluttered the guard. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

      “Whatever,” said Jimmy, with a small smile. “Just keep it to yourselves or everybody will know how sloppy you two have been. What if this had been a real attack? What if someone had tried to kill Chris again?”

      A darkness shivered across Jimmy’s face. His words had brought back vivid memories. The first time the Government had sent anybody to kill Christopher Viggo, they’d sent Jimmy himself. That seemed so long ago now – when Jimmy had only just discovered the truth about himself: that he was genetically designed by the Government to be an assassin.

      Back then, the Government hadn’t allowed any opposition to exist at all and Viggo’s protests had made him a target. Since Jimmy had changed sides, he and Viggo had forced the Government to change their position.

      “Who’s going to attack?” protested the guard. “Viggo’s legitimate now. There’s an election starting in a few hours. A real election, Jimmy! The first one for years. If there was still a threat, do you think Viggo would have been out speaking in public like he has for the last six months? Or living and working in a grand place like this and not hiding in some sewer?”

      Jimmy was hardly listening to the man. He picked himself up and dusted the splinters from his tracksuit trousers and hoodie. His extraordinary abilities were still well hidden in the wiry frame of a twelve-year-old boy.

      “If Chris is so legitimate now,” Jimmy mumbled, “why does he have ex-military security guards? What’s he afraid of?” His eyes flicked across the bank of CCTV screens as if the dark patches of blue hid the answer to a puzzle. “What’s out there?”

      “It’s just shadows, Jimmy,” said the guard. “It’s more dangerous for you than for Mr Viggo. You’re still on the NJ7 hit list. You’re lucky they haven’t found out you’re here.”

      Jimmy let out a low growl of disgust at the mention of NJ7. It was Britain’s new breed of Secret Service agency. They were the best in the world: the most efficient and the most vicious. It was also the organisation that Viggo had once worked for himself, before he decided the Government was becoming too extreme. Jimmy glanced at both the guards. They’d been NJ7 agents too, but now they shared Viggo’s views.

      “You haven’t exactly stayed sharp, have you?” said Jimmy, noticing three empty packets of pork scratchings on the floor. The conscious guard opened his mouth, but had nothing to say. He looked so embarrassed that Jimmy had to shake his head and look away.

      “Just let me back in later,” Jimmy sighed. “And don’t let the others find out I’ve been gone, OK?”

      “OK, Jimmy,” said the guard, sheepishly. “But where are you going?”

      He got no reply. Jimmy was already disappearing out of the door, into the darkness.

      Eva Doren frantically pecked at the keyboard. She checked over her shoulder every few seconds now, terrified that someone would come in. The NJ7 technical computers had state-of-the-art encryption, and getting round it was taking longer than she wanted. She was no hacker, but she’d picked up a lot about NJ7 security in the months that she’d been working there, and she had clearance for