22
Simon and Mr Mac had used an amphibious microlight to get to Gruinard, all stealth materials and micro-jets. It sat bobbing on the swell just off the craggy northern flank of the island, requiring a short but bone-chilling swim. I was obliged to sit double with Mr Mac, wedged in behind him and shivering as Simon climbed into the pilot’s seat. “Got a mini-drone overhead,” Mr Mac said, holding up his smart. “Shows another squad sweeping the island from south to north.”
“Vargold’s being thorough,” I chattered.
“Let’s hope they didn’t think to bring any anti-aircraft stuff.” He raised his voice as Simon fired up the jets. “How’d he know where you were, anyway?”
“Wallace said he was a prisoner. Vargold probably gets an alert every time someone pays a visit.”
“You cut it pretty fine this
