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7 Days in May


Day 7
=02:22 hrs=
Private Matthew Adams staggered from the club, looking at his watch with bleary eyes. It swam in and out of focus
and he couldn’t make out what time it was. Shaking his wrist, he held the watch to his ear and gave a grunt, studying it
again under the dim street lighting. Feeling suddenly sick, he steadied himself against the building and bent over, spewing
the contents of his stomach onto the road.
Feeling a little better, Adams wiped the sweat from his forehead with his beret and tried to remember the way back to
camp. He’d only been on the island for a day and was already bored by the operation. Shooting cats wasn’t half the fun he
thought it would be when his platoon had been posted here.
Operation „KatKill’ was dead in the bleeding water, he thought.
Chuckling at his joke, Adams staggered across the empty car-park into the quiet back streets of Ryde. Spotting a dark
alley he headed towards it, tripping on the kerbside as he crossed the road.
“Bleeding beer always goes straight through me,” he muttered kicking a tin can out of his way.
The tin can rattled along the pavement, bouncing off a large wheelie bin before coming to rest alongside two dark
figures watching him from the shadows.
Entering the ally, Adams undid his trousers and spread his hands on the wall, relieving himself with a satisfied groan
of pleasure. As Adams’ urine splattered over his boots unnoticed, the two shadows turned into the ally behind him.
Finished, Adams did up his trousers and gave a long, loud burp. Then turning around, his bloodshot eyes widened
when he saw the two figures standing behind him. Alarmed, he looked down the ally for somewhere to run, but it ended in
a high brick wall.
The first kick landed between his legs and Adams went down to his knees. The second kick landed on the side of his
head and he dropped to the floor, rolling over onto his back.
The bigger of the two dark shadows stomped on the soldiers head, then kicked him in the ribs. When Adams didn’t
move, the shadow squatted down, rifling the soldiers pockets, pulling out a scuffed wallet. He smiled, holding it up to his
companion.
But before the wallet could pass from one hand to the other, the ally was filled with a cacophony of loud hisses that
seemed to come from everywhere at once. For a moment the mugger thought a nearby car must have blown a tyre, but
then, through the gloom, he saw a line of yellow eyes watching him. Others moved along the ally towards him, hugging the
walls.
The mugger’s companion moved deeper into the ally, feeling behind her with an outstretched hand, her face drawn
into a terrified mask. As the two teenagers were forced deeper into the ally, the entrance filled with more and more cats of
all shapes and sizes.
The clowder had come together for one purpose only - to relieve the rage that filled their minds like hot coals.
=08:09 hrs=
Gonzalez dropped the throw -away razor in the waste-bin and washed his face. He felt a little better after the shower
and was looking forward to eating, even if it was the crap that the English served up as breakfast.
It had been a long night and he’d got little sleep. The hotel was small and didn’t have an internet connection so he
couldn’t pick up his messages, and anyway, the internet was down. Just one more petty irritation with which to start his
day. He’d have to report in on his secure radio later. Right now he needed some food.
The waiter took his order for coffee and a full breakfast. They weren’t serving waffles so he had to put up with toast.
As he ate Gonzalez went over yesterday’s events in his mind, making sure he’d miss nothing that could bite him in the ass
later.
He had spotted Doctor McKenzie talking to a policeman, which hadn’t registered for a few minutes. Those moments
of inaction had cost him dear because when he realised who it was, she had already disappeared. And wouldn’t you know
it, PC plod didn’t have the faintest idea who she was or what car she was driving, let alone the numberplate. So much for
the great British bobby!
After tearing a new asshole in the constable, Gonzalez had tried contacting Sir Craig Holland but had been told by his
snotty PA that he was unavailable at present, and no, he didn’t know when he would be. Using a secure line Gonzalez had
contacted his employer in America and updated him on events. As expected his next assignment was to tie up any loose
ends and get out. When he enquired whether Holland was considered a loose end, he was told that the man had already
been taken care of.
Ordering more coffee Gonzalez turned his mind to Doctor McKenzie. He wasted no energy on worrying how she’d
managed to escape, that was fruitless. He needed to find her again and quick. Why had she turned up at Area 7 and not
gone straight to the police? At least if she’d done that, the good doctor would be in his hands right now.
Gonzalez toyed with his half-empty cup, thinking. McKenzie must suspect something bigger was going on. The
quicker she was silenced, the safer they’d all be. The laptop hard drive was already on its way back to the States, as were
the papers he’d recovered from Area 7 and Booker’s study. With the doctor out-of-the-way, his employer would have sole
ownership of the virus and Gonzalez would get his nice fat bonus.
 
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