Golden Goose
Sam pelted down the
storm drain as fast as e could go, eyes peeled for the opening to the
sewer itself. Spotting it at last, e slowed just enough to lower
emself down, feeling with eir feet for the ledge. It was narrow, and
damp with the stinking, sloshing, dregs of the sewer water and e
scuttled along the memorised route.
Somewhere along here
there should be a suitcase containing the spare radio to contact eir
bosses - if e could find it before the hounds caught up with em. E
glanced back over eir shoulder, ears pricked for the telltale cry of
discovery, and then hurried on.
E had to get the
information through - and hope that the traitor didn't intercept it.
Only then would Upstairs know where, and when, and how to target
their precision strike.
The suitcase, when e
found it wedged into a tiny hole, was intact, as was the radio and
the coding pages. Sam took a moment to catch eir breath, and then
hurried on, finally clambering up through a manhole, and along a
different storm drain into the cellar of a wrecked safehouse.
Eir fingers shook as e
set it all up for contact, and e scrubbed grimly at eir tear-streaked
face. Once this was done the hounds would probably catch em and tear
em down like the rest of eir cell. Like the rest of eir friends. E
had survived the last attack only by sheer luck, and luck like that
couldn't last.
E took a breath, calmed
emself, coded the message with steadier hands, and opened the
channel. "Goose reporting in. Message is as follows..."
