Christopher Brookmyre Read Online Free PDF

accompanied by some vocal surprise that the resident Canadian and 'expert in all things wintry' should never have ridden a skidoo before. She admitted that she hadn't skied before either, politely explaining that no amount of snow could make eastern Ontario a downhill winter sports paradise due to the place being as flat as a pool table. To this she added that if you gave her a pair of skates and a hockey stick, she'd kick all their asses, but by that point Bett was calling them to order with the outfit's most peremptory command.
    'A-fag, children. A-fag.'
    It was time to get serious.
    They rode in darkness.
    The ZX Rev-Ups, or whatever Nuno had called
    them, were fitted with powerful headlights, but such luminosity was 'contraindicated', as Bett put it with understated technicality, when attempting to approach undetected. The noise, he claimed, would be less of a concern as they'd be pulling up a quarter of a mile short, and in darkness no one would be able to determine whether the sound wasn't motorbikes on the nearby road through the valley. 'That's if anyone's listening,' he added. It was pretty easy, even if viewing by infrared made the sense of velocity seem all the greater. Like their aquatic equivalent, it was hard to imagine a lot of people owning one of these for everyday use. Lex guessed the majority of sales of such machines were for hiring out to tourists, who didn't want to spend a day and a half learning how the thing worked. They just wanted to push a button, twist a handlegrip and go. She got a real fright the first time the sled fully left the ground (range-finder or no, her night-goggles failed to distinguish whether the white blobs of her colleagues in front were gliding on snow or air), but after a couple more such bumps it became a real rush. Her only concern was for her laptop, stowed in a compartment beneath her seat, but with the others setting an unrelenting pace there was no option to ease off. She was already in the rear of the group, trailing even Armand who was dragging a cargo sled behind him. They had left a lot of kit back at the truck, Bett changing arrangements at the last minute as usual, so Lex wasn't sure what the cargo sled was actually transporting, but it was having far less of a braking effect than her caution.
    Before folding her laptop closed, she had noted and reported that there was still no response from the PC she'd shut down back at eight o'clock. Bett had nodded dismissively in response, like he always did when you were telling him something he already knew.
    They pulled up, as specified, about a quarter of a mile short of the compound, dimly lit against the foot of the mountain by the glow from a few overhead lamps. There were maybe a dozen cars lined up in a tight grid, close to where a counterbalanced barrier and a wooden hut blocked access from the snow-dusted road. The buildings were low-rise and cheap-looking: windowless warehouses, a prefab site office with darkened wire-mesh windows, chemical toilets, an electrical sub-station. Nothing to see here, they were saying to any passers-by. The compound was delineated by a wire-mesh fence, about two metres high. Lex could see a couple of white blobs on top of the wire that she plausibly estimated to be sparrow-sized, meaning it wasn't electrified. Nothing else in her sights appeared to be giving off much heat, apart from the sub-station.
    They parked their bikes at the foot of a small undulation, barely a bump on the landscape, but enough to render the vehicles invisible from any range beyond ten yards the other side of it. A heat signature belatedly ambled into view: a guard on patrol, the sight of which prompted Lex to crouch until she noticed that she was the only one doing it.
    'Have a look without your night-sight,' Armand reassured her. She did. The compound became little more than glow and shadow. Behind her there was blackness. 'That's what he sees.'
    'Gather your goods and chattels,' Bett instructed, and they each