All Fall Down. Mark Edwards

      13

      Midday, on the San Bernardino Freeway. The sky was a sheer, metallic blue, the sun burning through the ozone, baking the earth, the air outside the vehicle lethally hot. Two women sat inside the car, protected from the scorching sun by the air-con that ruffled the golden hair of the woman in the passenger seat. She sat upright, sunglasses on, her beautiful face serene, while the driver thumped the radio with the palm of her hand.

      ‘Goddamn piece of junk.’ The driver stabbed buttons on the radio, eliciting one hiss of static after another, before punching it again, using the same move she would use to break a man’s nose. She switched it off, silence filling the car. She was solid and muscled, with a neck that bordered on bullish and a high colour in her wide cheeks, cropped curly dark hair and biceps like a Marine.

      Without moving her head, Angelica said, ‘Keep calm, Sister.’

      Heather made a low sound under her breath, putting both hands on the wheel and concentrating on the road. She was rarely calm. Sometimes, in the moments after orgasm, or after she’d killed someone, when their blood was still fresh on her hands, a stillness would come over her, like light filling her body, taking away the pain. But it never lasted long. She ran on rage. It was the fuel that powered her.

      The traffic was crawling in and out of the city, stretching across every lane. Horns sounded out like seabirds calling to one another.

      ‘Don’t see why I can’t get a decent car like Cindy’s, instead of this heap of shit,’ Heather complained. Angelica ignored her. She had heard it all before.

      Eventually, when she realised Angelica wasn’t going to say anything to mollify her, Heather said, in a quieter voice, ‘I’m sorry.’

      The corners of Angelica’s mouth lifted a millimetre. ‘No need to apologise, Sister.’ She reached across and stroked Heather’s hair with a crooked index finger. ‘We all feel anger. We just have to point it in the right direction.’

      Heather pressed her head against Angelica’s finger, but it was withdrawn quickly, and she snatched a glance at the woman beside her, looking for the same sign she’d been seeking for years. But Angelica had slipped back into neutral, and was gazing straight ahead at the backs of other cars.

      They drove in silence for a while. Heather gestured at the line of cars crawling out of the city, the faces of their occupants etched with stress visible even from the other side of the freeway. ‘Wonder how many of them are already infected?’ she asked.

      Angelica merely smiled enigmatically. ‘They have no idea what’s coming, do they? They’re worried now – but imagine the chaos in a month’s time …’

      Heather paused. ‘Dadi … we’re ready, you and I – we’ve been ready for years … but the other Sisters – are they?’

      Heather liked to do this; to elevate herself to the unofficial position of Angelica’s second-in-command by slyly casting doubt on the commitment of the others. Angelica knew it, but indulged it nonetheless.

      Angelica pretended to consider. ‘Sister, you know how hard we’ve trained to prepare for this. I believe we’ve all followed our instructions to the letter. Peak fitness, unquestioning dedication, limitless thanksgiving …’

      ‘Even Sister Preeti?’

      ‘Preeti isn’t a warrior. She has other skills we need. I will keep her at the ranch when the time comes. Simone, Cindy, you and I will handle the business. Brandi will drive.’

      ‘Good plan,’ said Heather, accelerating towards a stray dog that wandered dangerously across the freeway. ‘As always.’ The car hit the dog and Heather smiled as its mangy body somersaulted in the air beside them.

      They entered the city. The streets were bustling, life going on as normal, the beautiful people of LA shopping, scurrying between offices and lunch places, cruising along with their tops down, despite media reports of a killer virus ravaging their city.

      Angelica checked her phone. ‘We’re early. Let’s drive around for a while.’

      They cruised the coastline: Malibu, Santa Monica, Venice, down to Redondo Beach. Finally, when they had seen enough, Heather turned the SUV round and they headed towards South Central, checking the coordinates on the satnav.

      The two men were waiting in their own vehicle, a black Jeep only marginally smaller than Heather’s SUV. Lil Wayne pumped from the stereo, the two men nodding along almost imperceptibly. Heather drove past them once, taking a good look, then circled the block and pulled up behind them.

      The two women got out, momentarily stunned by the unseasonable heat. They waited for the doors of the Jeep to open. There was no one else around.

      This was South Central, the part of LA that tourists are warned, in block capitals, with exclamation marks, to avoid. It was Simone’s home turf, and Angelica had originally intended to bring her along. But Simone had started to tremble at the mention of it – something about some unfinished business, the reason that Simone had joined the Sisters in the first place – and Angelica needed someone with earthquake-proof nerves, someone who would be ice-cool anywhere.

      The men were younger than Angelica had expected. Barely nineteen, by the look of them, but tough, cooked hard by years on these streets. She looked them over, in their brand-new sportswear with diamonds in their ears. It didn’t matter how tough or rich they were. Neither of those things would offer protection from what was coming. What was already here.

      She spoke quietly and calmly, ignoring the wide eyes

      of the two men, the brute, lustful looks they gave her – and the sneer as their gaze turned to Heather. One of them, who stepped a pace further forward than his colleague, was way over six foot, wore a white-and-grey basketball top and had his hair in dreads. The other, half a foot shorter, was wearing a black jacket buttoned up against the heat and had a shaven head.

      ‘We all set?’ Angelica asked.

      ‘If you police, this is entrapment. My lawyer’s just waitin’ for my call.’

      ‘We’re not police.’

      This meeting had been set up through a chain of contacts. The two men should have felt one hundred per cent confident that they were not undercover cops. The question irritated Angelica. Made her want to put a bullet in this punk’s head.

      Basketball Top looked her up and down. ‘You sure don’t look like police. All right. You got the money?’

      Angelica nodded. ‘Let me see the merchandise.’

      The men – boys – exchanged a look of amusement before Black Jacket popped the rear door of the Jeep and unlocked a security trunk, then watched Angelica and Heather’s reactions, like two boys showing off their first car, expecting the women to be impressed.

      The guns were covered with a sheet, which Black Jacket pulled back. Angelica scanned the weapons, checking them against the inventory in her head. Half a dozen Glocks, a pair of Sig Sauers, two AK-47s, an Uzi, black and dull and deadly, plus enough ammunition to keep a National Rifle Association convention happy for a weekend.

      ‘Check