Better Than Human Page 2

  “Are you listening to me, Barrick?”

  Sam’s gaze shifted from Deep Throat to Fast-Talker. With a shock he realized he was working out the best way to disable them. An elbow in the face of the guy behind him, then one short sharp punch to Deep Throat’s larynx, a knee in Fast-Talker’s nuts, and it would be all over. He’d done it automatically, unconsciously. He felt nauseous. What was wrong with him? He would have to be crazy to take on these guys in his current state. But some part of his brain didn’t think so.

  Deep Throat gave Sam a hundred-watt smile, found Sam’s cervical plexus again and ground his thumb onto it.

  Sam screamed again.

  “You think you know what suffering is, Sam, but you don’t.”

  Sam forced himself to take deep breaths trying to control the pain. How did he know this maniac? They’d been close. But not friends – no. Jesus, definitely not friends. He’d hurt Sam. That was it. And not just physically. He’d gotten inside Sam’s head, and over time, over months and years, broken him down.

  Deep Throat blew stale breath over Sam’s face, moved his thumb around like he was kneading dough, and smiled some more. The sick bastard was really enjoying himself.

  “We’ll have fun back in Beijing, Sam.”

  When Deep Throat said Beijing, Sam felt a door in his mind begin to open. He couldn’t see what was behind it, not yet. But he knew it was something bad – very bad. Something he hadn’t wanted to remember.

  An icy breeze blew over Sam’s body and he shivered again.

  “That’s more like it,” crowed Deep Throat, “the snivelling, weak Sam Barrick I know so well.”

  Sam hardly heard him. His attention was on the door inside his mind. He was fascinated by what was behind it – but at the same time terrified.

  “Beijing wants you alive, but there’s nothing to say you couldn’t get hurt in transit.”

  The threat of more violence pulled Sam back to reality. He tensed his body, but knew it was useless against this expert psychopath. Still holding Sam’s jaw with one hand, Deep Throat punched him hard in the face with the other. Pain exploded in Sam’s cheek. Deep Throat pulled his fist back for a repeat performance, then stopped and met Sam’s eye.

  “We’re going to be good friends again, Sam.”

  Anger ignited inside Sam’s chest. He’d had enough of this bollocks. He might not know who he was. But he wasn’t weak. Not weak at all. He hadn’t let them break him while he’d been in prison. That was it. He’d been in prison. He’d let them think he was beaten. But he hadn’t been. Not for one moment.

  Sam didn’t make a conscious decision to do what he did next. It was automatic. Deep Throat’s fist was moving toward his face in slow motion, but this time it wasn’t going to connect. Sam caught it, and easily held it back. Then as Deep Throat’s eyes widened, Sam threw his head back into the goon behind him. Hard skull smashed into cartilage, the poor sod behind Sam grunted in surprise and pain, and his vice-like grip turned to jelly. For the time being he was incapacitated. Now it was Deep Throat’s turn. Pivoting at the waist Sam smashed his forehead into Deep Throat’s squat nose. Deep Throat’s eyes glazed before his knees buckled and he fell to the ground. Sam used his momentum to dive over Deep Throat’s prostrate body, turned the dive into a forward roll then quickly stood up. He couldn’t afford to be caught on the ground with Fast-Talker somewhere behind him.

  When he turned around Fast-Talker had his Glock on him. He knew the third goon was still a danger, but only Fast-Talker and his Glock mattered now. Sam didn’t have time for a plan. So he just threw himself forward, his eyes never leaving Fast-Talker’s Glock. His hand slapped the barrel to one side, just before it went off. The bullet missed, but Fast-Talker deadened Sam’s leg with a kick to his thigh. Struggling to stay upright Sam grabbed Fast-Talker’s shoulders, and kneed him hard in the bollocks. He fell to the ground like a stone.

  Bulky hands grabbed Sam’s shoulders. He drove his elbow back as hard as he could and heard a pained, shocked wheeze. He must have got lucky and hit number three’s solar plexus. When Sam spun around the man was bent double retching, looking like he’d much rather be back in China. For a brief moment Sam felt sorry for him, but he had to finish the job. He brought his boot into number three’s face, and watched him crumple to the ground. Then he did the same to Fast-Talker and Deep Throat, kicking each attacker in the guts and face until he was gasping for breath. It wasn’t nice, but he wanted to make sure they wouldn’t follow him anytime soon.

  When he’d finished Sam bent over sucking the cold air in as fast as he could. The whole fight had taken less than thirty seconds. He had to recover quickly and get the hell out of there before anyone else turned up looking for him. He took Fast-Talker’s Glock, and turned it over in his hand. It felt familiar – like he’d held one many times before. On an impulse he pointed it at Deep Throat’s chest. In his mind’s eye Sam saw himself firing a double-tap into Deep Throat’s heart. It was the logical thing to do. Deep Throat and his friends weren’t the kind of people to give up easily. If he left them alive they’d find him eventually – and want revenge.

  Sam stood over Deep Throat, the cold wind howling in his ears, the Glock in his outstretched hand trained on a point a few centimetres to the left of Deep Throat’s sternum. He stayed like that for a long moment, like a waxwork assassin. Then abruptly he let his arm fall to his side. He didn’t know who he was yet – but he didn’t want to believe he was a killer.

  He was about to turn away when a flash of silver on Deep Throat’s wrist caught his attention. He bent down and pulled off a Rolex from Deep Throat’s limp wrist. He’d noticed he didn’t have a watch, and felt keeping a close track of time was going to be important for some reason. He checked the time: 3.15 a.m. Having another solid fact to hold onto, however small, made him feel better.

  Slipping the silver bracelet over his wrist he turned and disappeared into the darkness, limping down the hill towards the city lights, his heart racing and his breath coming in gasps. Either he was out of shape or the beating had taken more out of him than he’d thought. His mind was racing. He’d known exactly what to do. How to kick the shit out of three guys. How? Who the hell was he? He didn’t know, but he was incredibly lucky to have got away from Deep Throat and his friends without a serious injury. He could have…

  A deep ache in Sam’s left thigh made him stop dead. He thrust his hand down and felt warm, wet blood.

  Shit shit shit.

  Fast-Talker must have hit him after all. Trying not to panic Sam sat on the grass, pulled out the Maglite and shone it on his thigh. The upper third of his jeans was ripped open and red with blood. The flesh beneath looked like raw steak. He must have been too full of adrenalin to notice it before. He bent closer. A three-inch gash oozed blood. That was lucky. If the bullet had hit his femoral artery the blood would be jetting into Sam’s face. He pushed down above and below the wound – it hurt but not as bad as it would if the bullet had hit his femur. Another piece of luck. He checked the back of the leg. No exit wound. That meant the bullet was still somewhere inside his thigh, but there was no way he was going to fish about in there to get it out.

  Sam blew out a breath. It was time to stop fucking about. The two main risks from a gunshot wound were blood loss and infection. There was nothing he could do about the infection risk right now – but he could try to put the brakes on the bleeding.

  Holding the Maglite between his teeth, he ripped off a piece of the tee shirt he was wearing, and wrapped it several times around his thigh as tight as he could, then tied it off. Then he got up and tested his leg. It hurt but he could manage, for now. But he was very far from being out of the woods yet. The main problem was ongoing blood loss. Each step he took meant more bleeding and risked causing further damage. Sam looked down the hill toward the city lights. For a man who’d just been shot in the leg he was a very long way away from a hospital. And that’s what he needed. A hospital with a good trauma unit. He knew getting there by foot was a ri
sk but he had no choice. At least it would take his mind off all the other shit that was happening.

  Clenching his teeth Sam headed down the hill towards the city lights.

  Chapter 3

  4 a.m. Monday, 26th January; Tottenham Court Road, London

  Forty-five minutes later Sam was in the city, on Tottenham Court Road staring through the window of The Court pub. It was the only one he’d seen still open. Inside a few diehards nursed their drinks next to an open fire. Sam watched them imagining he was warm and dry instead of freezing his bollocks off outside. He was so entranced by the cosy view inside the pub he barely registered the loud footsteps and giggling behind him.

  “Hey, shitface, why don’t you get yourself cleaned up?”

  Sam jerked woodenly and turned around. A very drunk twenty-something was leering at him. A blond girl held onto his shoulder, giggling. The idiot was probably trying to impress her with his bravado. Sam stared at the guy until he looked away and walked off head down.

  When the couple had gone Sam took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, his stomach tightening as he realized what had happened. He’d lost it. Daydreaming. He actually owed that idiot a debt of gratitude. He was hypovolaemic – suffering from blood loss and probably still hypothermia. If Mr. Shit for Brains hadn’t turned up, Sam would have stared through that window until hell froze over or he collapsed. He clenched his hands and jaw hard for a few seconds, and took in a few more deep breaths trying to wake himself up. He could not afford to let himself drift off again like that. What he really needed were fluids to treat his blood loss. He considered going into the pub to buy some bottled water but decided it would be quicker to head straight for UCH. It could only be minutes away, and a few bottles of water wouldn’t make that much difference, considering how much blood he’d lost.

  He looked down Tottenham Court Road trying to get his bearings. Aside from The Court every shop and bar was closed up for the night. The street was deserted apart from a few partygoers and student types. Some of them gave Sam furtive glances as they staggered by, but no one else challenged him. He probably looked too dangerous, or crazy.

  After putting on the tourniquet Sam had limped down toward the city heading toward the Telecom Tower. It was so central he guessed there had to be a hospital nearby. It had taken twenty minutes to reach tarmac, and discover he’d been in Regent’s Park. Then another fifteen to reach Tottenham Court Road, following the signs for University College Hospital. He’d picked up a duffel coat complete with fur-lined hood from a dumpster on the edge of the park. It was dirty and smelled very bad, but kept out the worst of the cold and hid his bloodstained leg.

  But it hadn’t all been plain sailing. Halfway down the hill Sam felt blood seeping down his leg into his shoes and realized he’d messed up the tourniquet, or the bleeding had gotten worse. He’d decided to wait until he got to hospital rather than risk more bleeding by reapplying the tourniquet. But as he stood on Tottenham Court Road now he realized that had been a mistake. His left shoe had been squelching with every step for the last ten minutes. And the ongoing blood loss had probably caused his zoning out in front of The Court.

  Sam pulled his hood up so he could avoid making eye contact with anyone else. He supposed he could have asked them for help but he didn’t think there was much point. He needed a surgeon, not a pissed-up student. Plus if they got leery – which they looked like they might – he wasn’t sure he could handle it in his current condition. He looked left and right along Tottenham Court Road. He’d seen a sign for University College Hospital a few streets back but couldn’t see one now. He realized his thinking was getting muddled, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t gone off in the wrong direction or missed any signs. Anyway he couldn’t just stand here getting colder, staring through pub windows.

  Clenching his jaw as if he were attempting to reach Everest Base camp he crossed Tottenham Court Road, getting beeped at by the few cars on the road. On the other side he saw a red sign with A and E written on it and an arrow pointing down a street leading off Tottenham Court Road. He breathed a sigh of relief and took the street, but before he’d gone ten yards had to stop to rest, leaning his hands on his knees and breathing deep. He wondered if his tourniquet had come off. Was that why he was so knackered?

  Panicking again he slid his hand under his duffel coat up to the top of his thigh where he’d tied the tourniquet. When he found it still in place he breathed a sigh of relief. But the relief was short-lived. He could easily get his finger between the shirt fabric and his thigh. It was way too loose, and not restricting the flow of blood into his leg sufficiently. That’s why he was still losing blood, and felt so shit.

  Dammit. The tourniquet was slowing the blood loss but not stopping it. The tee-shirt material was too stretchy – it wasn’t keeping enough pressure on his leg. He needed a new tourniquet – and as his tee shirt was all he had, it would have to do; even though it would stretch again it would buy him some time.

  He ducked into a side alley next to another pub called the Jeremy Bentham, which thankfully was closed. After a few yards he stopped and leaned against the wall, exhausted. He was only a few feet from the road but at this point he was too far gone to worry about being seen. Breathing hard he forced his numb fingers to undo his coat, then pulled up his shirt. He shivered as an Arctic wind hit his bare skin. Then he ripped off another strip, bent forward and began to wind it around his thigh, as tight as possible – wincing involuntarily at the pain.

  As he was tying off the tourniquet another drunk idiot stopped at the alley entrance and stared at Sam, but moved quickly on when Sam glared at him. Sam realized he must have looked terrifying. At the back of his mind he wondered why he didn’t just ask for help – but that thought didn’t get to the surface. He was too focussed on fixing the tourniquet before he passed out. He had a wave of dizziness and reached out to steady himself on the wall. He really needed a hospital – he was shocked now from blood loss. He’d need IV fluids. Maybe even a transfusion. When he’d finished with the tourniquet, Sam put his hand over the wound. He blew out a breath. The bleeding had slowed, but he was running on empty now. He did the duffel coat back up and slowly straightened up. It would hold until he got to hospital – hopefully.

  He limped out of the alley, onto the street, and was halfway past the Jeremy Bentham when he stopped dead. He’d caught sight of himself reflected in the pub window. He didn’t recognize the shabby tramp staring back at him. The duffel coat wrapped around him was filthy, covered in a multitude of stains from its previous owners. But his face was even worse. A peach of a bruise covered his left cheek. His eyes were wild.

  For a second he felt sorry for himself. But as soon as he realized what he was doing he gave himself a mental kick. Self-pity was the last thing he needed right now. He had to find a hospital before he bled out. Despite the bullet’s having missed his femoral that was still possible – as was infection – but he’d worry about that later, along with the Chinese goons who he was pretty sure had recovered and were looking for him and the rest of his currently very messed-up life.

  He looked. Now where was the damn hospital? He frowned. He did remember this part of London. No, that wasn’t right. He didn’t remember it exactly. It was just familiar. He could tell he’d been here before. He recognized places he’d once seen like The Court pub and the Jeremy Bentham. But he couldn’t have said where they were in advance. It was the difference between recognition and recall, the second being by far the most useful.

  That made him think about his memory loss. It was strange the way he could remember some things. He’d retained some skills. He could speak and understand English and Mandarin Chinese. He knew how to disable a man quickly and easily. He instinctively knew how to treat the gunshot wound in his leg and he recognized the Glocks the Chinese were carrying just by the sound of the guns firing. But he couldn’t remember anything about his personal life. He couldn’t help checking every so often – to make sure nothing had changed in his mind. But
he still couldn’t remember anything about his life before he woke up a little over an hour ago.

  A car horn startled him and he realized he’d been drifting again. As he went to move off again he had another attack of dizziness, and bent over retching, then vomiting – wasting fluids he couldn’t afford to lose. He straightened up slowly this time to avoid the head rush. Come on, Sam, he thought. Only one thing matters now – finding that hospital. He knew it should have been a ridiculously easy task. He knew there was a major trauma centre a few minutes’ walk away. He’d just seen the sign after all, but he just couldn’t seem to find the building. Again he wondered why he just didn’t ask someone. They couldn’t all be wankers. But some instinct stopped him.

  Never mind; all he had to do was reach A and E and he’d be okay. That’s what he had to focus on. Then he could worry about working out what the hell had happened to him. His vision blurred. Despite knowing it was a waste of time his mind still spun with questions. What the hell had happened to him? Why couldn’t he remember anything? How had he ended up in Regent’s Park in the middle of the night, who were those guys who attacked him and how on earth had he kicked ten kinds of crap out of them?

  Stop.

  He heard the word loud and clearly in his mind.

  You’ve lost a lot of blood, you’re dehydrated. You need IV fluids, maybe a blood transfusion and you need to get that wound closed. Everything else can wait.

  It was his voice this time, not the girl’s, but it was making sense. He looked up and realized he’d wandered down a narrow alley, a gap of no more than six feet between two office buildings. Apart from a small pool of light coming from a street lamp on the main road, it was dark and deserted. Gasping, Sam walked a little further into the alley, into the dark, leaned against the wall then slid down it. His leg throbbed as he hit the ground. He sat on the ground panting, feeling the ice-cold pavement through his clothing, and shivering. He knew he should keep moving, but he had to rest, just for a minute – and he preferred to do that away from prying eyes.