metallic exteriors of hundreds of exotic vehicles, all of them ready for use at a moment’s notice. Provided you could show the garage chief all the proper paperwork and a chit personally signed by the Matriarch.
I shut down the Bentley’s engine, wrestled my way out of the seat belts, and got out of the car. I leaned back against the long green bonnet and waited for someone to notice me. I really should have gone through proper channels and bowed down to the mechanics and engineers until they were satisfied I had a right to be there, and then let them summon the garage chief . . . But I didn’t trust my self-control. All it would take was one wrong word, or even a look, and there would be harsh language, arse-kickings, and bad temper all over the place. Goodwill and cooperation would go right out the window. No. Much better to start as you mean to go on—stubborn and intractable, with a side order of pigheaded.
I looked around me, taking in rows and rows of cars and motorbikes, rescue vehicles and attack craft, tanks and field ambulances and camouflaged surveillance trucks. We’ve got at least one of everything you can think of because you never know from day to day just what the family is going to need in order to stay on top of everything. My family has always worked on the principle Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.
But the garage isn’t there just for the field agents; the family is always ready to hire out specialized vehicles and equipment to other people and organisations in our line of work. For a suitably eye-watering fee, of course; along with secret information, or the promise of future favours. We could afford to do it for free, out of the goodness of our hearts, but then no one would respect us.
The garage chief came striding through the parked rows to join me. Frowning so hard it must have hurt her face. Sandra used to be one of my uncle Jack’s lab assistants, until it became clear she was interested in working only on things that went really fast. So the then Matriarch made a virtue out of a necessity and promoted Sandra sideways, to work in the garage. It took only a few years before Sandra was garage chief, and very much in charge. Tall, statuesque, and burning with far more nervous energy than was good for her, Sandra had a face that would have been pleasant enough if she ever stopped scowling, under an unrestricted mop of curly red hair. Her dungarees were covered in fresh and old oil stains along with a great many other less easily identifiable discolourations. She believed in running things from the ground up, and positively delighted in getting her hands dirty. She planted herself in front of me, stuck both fists on her hips, and glared at me meaningfully.
“You’ve got some nerve, Eddie.”
“So they tell me,” I said pleasantly. “Hello, Sandra. You’re looking . . . very yourself. Blown up anything interesting recently?”
“What do you want, Eddie?”
“Just dropping off the Bentley.”
“You haven’t broken her already?” Sandra pushed past me to look the car over, like a mother whose child has just returned from school in the company of an axe murderer. “Jack should never have left you this car! You don’t appreciate her! I would have looked after her properly. Respected her! You’ve never respected anything in your life!”
“That is one of my more appealing qualities,” I murmured. “Unclench, Sandra, before you strain something. The Bentley’s fine. She just needs a good look-over. I did push her pretty hard, racing back here for the funeral.”
Sandra sniffed loudly, to make it clear I was not in any way forgiven. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten the mess you made of the Bentley the last time the Armourer let you drive her. Took us weeks to beat the dents out of the bodywork.”
“Cars are meant to be used,” I said. “And the world can be a very unforgiving place when you do the kind of work I do. If it was up to you, none of these vehicles would ever leave the garage in case someone breathed on them the wrong way.”
“You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days,” growled Sandra. She patted the Bentley’s bonnet encouragingly. “Don’t worry, baby; Mama’s here to protect you from the nasty man.”