Mr Hook's Big Black Box

Ferrari Delguessimo: Improvised Weapons

My heart was pounding as the truck turned down the lane to Creswell House. It was one of the university's older buildings, missing the 1980s concrete aesthetic that permeated most of the place in favour of timber-framed buildings, stone, and maybe some worn red brick. I'd heard the old farm was a listed building or something, the university's builders hadn't been able to knock it down. It was also supposed to be a building with character, which was why it had been chosen for the offices of a number of interesting ventures. Chief among them was the Business Advancement Centre, where local firms could meet with students with an entrepreneurial spirit, who might help the last generation's tradesmen embrace the magic of the twenty-first century, or whatever the marketers were spinning these days to make our local entrepreneurs feel special enough to part with their cash.

Right now, I was more concerned because it was a dead end. I'd not been to this building, but the campus map clearly showed a single short driveway connecting it to the rest of campus, and there were heavy blocks of white stone placed every two feet along both sides of the path, so we couldn't strike out across the sports fields if we were cornered here. I really hoped Marco didn't think this was going to be a good venue for a showdown, especially if he was planning to do anything stupid with the rifle he was trying to hide under his seat. As we came closer I saw that the old farm had quite a few low outbuildings that might once have been stables or sheds of some kind. Agriculture wasn't really my strong suit. I wondered if that was Marco's plan, to lure our pursuers down one of the alleys between the buildings and then loop round behind them, to get them out of the way.

Again, I hoped my friend wasn't that foolish. We already knew that the people watching us had at least four vehicles, with two men in each, and we knew they were prepared to wait rather than following immediately. I gripped one of the elastic cords across my lap more tightly, knuckles growing white as we turned down narrow cobbled alleyways. This wasn't a good place to get into a firefight with anyone who knew what they were doing, even slightly. We were outnumbered for sure, and there were too many places they could come around behind us.

The truck edged slowly through an archway, stone pillars only missing the wing mirrors by a couple of inches on either side. The sign at the end of that particular area advising that no motor vehicles should be brought this way, not even by the building's own janitors, was presumably there for a very good reason. I suppose they couldn't put in bollards if the historic preservation order applied to the cobbles as well as the walls, or something.

Then I finally saw why Marco had brought us this way – the lane leading off campus ahead – and let out about half a sigh of relief. Because as I saw the scattered cars parked in front of Creswell House, I also noticed the faint trace of exhaust fumes coming from one of them. It was about twenty past nine now, either too early or too late for most people who might have legitimate business here this morning. Someone was sitting in a car with the engine running, and there was no way I could warn Marco before the vehicle shot forward to block the gate and there were two men in badly fitting suits sauntering towards us, trousers sagging under a weight that I could only guess was a gun on each belt.

"Get down," the guy on the left jerked his thumb towards the back of the truck. He was half turned, trying to keep one eye on me and Monty while also looking through the windows into the cab. If they could get us off the back of the truck,it would be a lot easier for these guys, whoever they were, to keep control of the situation.

"Let me help you with that," I whispered to Monty, and started to loosen some of the straps around her legs. Really she could have scrambled out with just a little coordination, but there was no sense moving any more quickly than we had to. Like this, two guys were stretched to keep an eye on all of us, and I was just waiting for the smallest opportunity to do something. And then looking down to untangle where one cord had snagged on my boot, I saw how I could make an opening. It was just a matter of timing.

The other guy leaned toward Marco's window. He was reaching in to take the keys, like a cop at a traffic stop. But uniformed cops didn't wear suits, detectives didn't carry firearms without a holster, and his pose was sloppy and uncertain like he'd never done this before.

"Can we help you?" I asked, nodding towards him. I couldn't strike the confident pose I normally would, my hands busy with a knot of elastic cords around the Box, but maybe looking like I wasn't a threat would be the better option today.

"Special Agent Barton, CIA," the goon turned to me as he introduced himself, and reached into his jacket for ID. I knew before he pulled it out that it was going to be fake. The CIA has no official authority in the UK, and if he had legitimate reason to be here an agent would be supported and chaperoned by British police or SIS personnel. He wouldn't be coming here without backup to show a bunch of kids his badge, and he certainly wouldn't have a faint trace of a Norfolk accent.

I stepped away from Monty sharply, both hands going for the sword on my belt. He reacted pretty quickly, eyes locked on my weapon and one hand going for his gun. That was the wrong move; it meant that he wasn't looking at where my hands had just been. He didn't see one bungee cord stretched as tight as it could go until the plastic-coated metal hook on the end smacked him in the face. It was hard to tell when everything was moving so fast, but I think it managed to send a couple of teeth flying. He was still reeling when I leapt off the truck and landed beside him, sword drawn in my off hand just in case he needed something else to keep his attention, while I coiled around for a textbook sucker punch.

I didn't care about his gun. We were going to be out of there in seconds, and he would be on the ground for at least a minute. But I snagged the fake ID, in case we needed some evidence to deal with these guys. It was almost reflexive to hold the wallet by its edges, making sure that the smooth plastic on the inside would retain a couple of perfect fingerprints from Mr Barton. I ran straight to their car and leapt in, then yelled to the guys that they should get moving. I didn't like leaving Monty there, but I'd tightened the straps over her waist under the pretense of helping her out, so I knew she wouldn't be falling off or anything.

"I've got the key," I called out as an afterthought, so that even if the fake spooks were able to find another car in a hurry, they wouldn't know which of us to chase after. I drove out as quickly as I could, letting the gatepost slam the passenger door. I'd ditch the car as soon as I got a chance.

Author's Note: Sorry it's a day late. I've stressed out a lot lately, and haven't done such a good job of staying on top of things.