Jimmy Coates: Sabotage. Joe Craig

he get a message to Colonel Keays? And what would he say? He stopped and held his face in his hands, trying to force up those images he’d seen flash before him on the plane’s display station—the aerial photographs of Neptune’s Shadow. He had to remember. They only survived in his head.

      His programming seemed to buzz in his head. One by one, Jimmy started to see lines forming. He could remember. Despite only seeing the images for a fraction of a second, it might be enough. If he concentrated, he could piece parts of them together. They were taking shape now.

      Then he saw a flash of blue. Jimmy looked up. He swivelled to take in everything around him. There it was—a muddy white saloon car with POLICE in massive letters across the side and a flashing blue light on the roof. Jimmy froze.

      “Well, hello there, amigo,” drawled a lanky police officer, stepping out of the driver’s seat. “Welcome to Texas.” His accent was a thick Southern American. His uniform was dark blue, with a badge on his chest, and hanging off his middle was a belt stacked with every piece of hardware he might possibly need.

      Very slowly, his partner climbed out of the passenger seat—a fat man with no hair and a cruel smile all over his face. In his hands was a long, slim rifle.

      “We’re your ride back to Mexico,” he said.

       08 HAPPY RETURNS

      “I haven’t come from Mexico,” Jimmy said in a hurry. “I’ve come from New York. I’m…” He was about to say that he was British, but stopped himself. He didn’t want to say anything that could possibly attract NJ7’s attention later if it was reported. He quickly put on an American accent—imitating it almost perfectly. “It’s urgent that I speak to Colonel Keays or somebody in the CIA.”

      The two policemen shared a glance. The taller one sighed.

      “Sorry, my friend,” he said. “Your little American adventure is over. US Coastguard saw you washed up and radioed us.” Step by step he edged towards Jimmy. “To be honest, they thought you’d be dead. See, we don’t usually get ’em alive so far up the coast as this.” He lifted some handcuffs off his belt and held them out in front of him. Jimmy’s heart was pumping, but his eyes remained steady, taking in every movement.

      “Don’t make this mistake,” Jimmy insisted, keeping his voice low and calm. “Do I look like I’ve come from Mexico?”

      The two officers glanced at each other again. Jimmy couldn’t tell what they were thinking. For a second he doubted himself. Maybe he did look like he’d been trying to smuggle his way into America across the Gulf of Mexico. Thousands of people tried it every year—but obviously most of them didn’t make it this far alive.

      “Look,” said Jimmy, “all you have to do is make one call and you’ll get this cleared up. Radio whoever you have to. Ask anyone in the Secret Service about a plane that went down.” He held up his hands to try and calm the situation.

      “A plane?” mumbled the officer with the rifle. “I didn’t hear about any plane.”

      “Well, there was one,” said Jimmy. “We crashed.”

      “When?”

      “I don’t know. I don’t know what day it is.”

      “It’s April 4^th.”

      Jimmy froze.

      “April 4^th?”

      “That’s right. When did this plane of yours go down?”

      Jimmy didn’t answer. He wasn’t listening any more. All he could hear was the date repeating over and over in his head. Then at last it sank in. It’s my birthday, he thought.

      He was suddenly aware of his fists clenching by his sides and his eyes watering. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his head. He could only think one thing. It’s my birthday. The idea was so ridiculous it almost made him laugh, but at the same time it was tearing at his heart.

      Then he saw the scowls on the faces of the two officers. Jimmy had paused too long. There was no way he was going to talk his way out of this now. The lanky man stepped towards him, brandishing the cuffs.

      Should he give himself up? For a second Jimmy wanted to. But then he immediately dismissed it. If he let himself get arrested there was too much risk that he could be identified, even if the situation was cleared up later on. His face would be on camera at the police station. They might even take his fingerprints. And if the police had him on record it wouldn’t be long before NJ7’s electronic surveillance red-flagged the document for analysis.

      No. He couldn’t leave even the hint of a trail. To the British Secret Service, Jimmy Coates, the renegade assassin, was dead. And he had to stay that way.

      “Turn round slowly,” the policeman ordered, “and put your hands behind your back. You’re coming with us.”

      Jimmy cautiously started following the instructions. Then, suddenly, he ducked to the right, putting the lanky officer between him and the other man’s rifle. He rolled across the pavement, then leapt into the taller policeman’s chest, leading with his shoulder. He connected with the force of an avalanche and felt the man’s rib breaking on impact.

      CRACK!

      “Shoot!” the man yelled, the pain obvious in his voice. But Jimmy was too fast. He jumped up and landed on his back on the roof of the patrol car. He slid across the metal, his wet clothes greasing his way, and kicked out hard. He connected with the barrel of the rifle, sending it flying.

      There was no way to stop Jimmy now. He tumbled to the ground on top of the fat man, then rolled off and hurtled across the street, diving into the alley between two houses. His muscles cried out inside him, and it wasn’t just his face that was sunburned. His whole body was in agony. Within seconds he heard sirens. Already, his lungs were ready to implode, but Jimmy kept moving.

      He twisted through the streets, his head down and his legs pumping. Every corner brought new sounds and new dangers. He listened for the direction of the sirens, but they seemed to be everywhere and closing in.

      Every second that passed he could feel his body being drained of energy. The world was swirling around him. He was reeling from side to side. Water. Food. His body demanded it.

      At last he saw a row of shops. One of them was a place selling tacky gifts. The store window was full of T-shirts, caps, mugs and novelty pencils, all emblazoned with ‘Welcome to Port O’Connor’.

      Jimmy dived in. The teenage girl behind the counter stood bolt upright in shock. Jimmy headed straight for a fridge stocked with drinks. On the bottom shelf were bottles of water. He tore open the fridge door and grabbed the largest one.

      He knew he had no money on him, but there was nothing he could about it. It was stealing or dying. In one twist he unscrewed the lid of the bottle and took a swig. As the first gulp went down, he almost retched it straight back up again.

      “Hey!” the girl shouted in a thick Texan accent. “This ain’t a free bar, y’know?”

      Jimmy ignored her and forced himself to drink more. There wasn’t time to let his body recover slowly. Before the girl could draw breath to shout again, he grabbed another bottle of water and snatched a handful of chocolate bars from the rack, plus a packet of Mentos. Then he spun on his heels and burst out into the street. As he ran he poured water down his throat, not caring that it made his head dizzy and his stomach lurch.

      Finally, he found an alley and collapsed in the shadow of a doorway, his chest heaving. His stomach retched violently and eventually he produced a spatter of vomit. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and slumped against the building.

      He tore open a chocolate bar. He had to force down every bite as quickly as he could—he had almost burned more energy than he had left. The milky texture