by J. D. Weston
“I’m aware-”
“Don’t stand there and tell me what you’re aware of. What are you doing here anyway? The last time I looked, she was out there somewhere, not in here.”
“We’re searching the area,” said Jones. “It’s like she vanished into thin air.”
“If you don’t find her, Jones, it’s game over for all of us. You, me, and every single one of your men.”
“We’ll find her, sir.”
“This isn’t the military now, Jones. We don’t have the luxury of the government on our side. We crossed that line a long time ago. All she has to do is point us out.”
“I’m aware of who we are, sir, and what we’ve done. And so are the men.”
“Exactly how far are you willing to go?” said Kane. “And your men? How many of them would die for the cause?”
“Every single one of them. I can vouch for them.”
“We’re riding a thin line. If we succeed, we’ll have a future. But if we fail, it’s game over for all of us. We’re talking life in prison here, Jones. No parole. No visitors. We’d all vanish like farts in the wind. We wouldn’t even get an extra pillow if we asked for it. Do you understand the gravity of the situation?”
“I understand, sir. I remember the deal,” replied Jones. The vein on his temple stood proud and blue as he cocked his head to one side. “You fund the project. We keep it secure.”
“And have I funded the project, Jones?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have you kept it secure?”
Jones sucked at his top lip, which accentuated his lean features.
“No,” said Kane. “No, you haven’t.”
“It would help if we had a few more details, sir,” said Jones, meeting Kane’s stare.
“Details?”
“What are we up against here?” said Jones. “We found two of our men with their throats torn out this morning.”
Kane’s eye twitched at the news.
“And it wasn’t dogs, sir,” said Jones.
“It’s just a girl, Jones,” said Kane, planting his hands behind his back and pacing the length of the room.
“Sir, we need to know the truth. We know it’s some kind of drug. If it was just a girl, two of my men would still be alive.”
“Do you have any idea at all where she went?” asked Kane, ignoring Jones’ whining and performing a relaxed turn to set his pacing off in the other direction.
“All we have is a pile of her clothes. The smart little bitch tore them off to throw the dogs off her scent,” said Jones.
Kane stepped across to the window. His silver hair appeared almost blonde in the reflection, but the lines beneath his eyes were clear as the daylight now hovering over the horizon, where in the distance, the town of Saint-Pierre sat peacefully beside the calm waters of the Mediterranean.
“I want her alive, Jones,” said Kane. He felt his eye twitch once more. “I’ve worked too hard to clear our names. I won’t let this little French tart ruin it for us.”
“It’s freezing out there. No-one could survive the night without clothes. If we do find her, there’s a good chance she’ll be dead already.”
“You don’t know who we’re dealing with here,” said Kane.
“It’s just a girl, you said.”
“It’s a girl alright. It was you who kidnapped her. I just enhanced her,” said Kane. He smiled at Jones in the window. “Doctor Farrow has been pumping her full of chemicals for a month. She’s high as a kite, charged like a battery and, by all accounts, doesn’t die easily.”
“Pumped her full of what?” said Jones. “What is she capable of? She tore the throats out of our team, sir, two fully grown men twice her weight and size.”
“She’s just getting started,” said Kane. “But she’ll hit withdrawal soon and come begging for more.”
“Just getting started, sir? We only have fifteen men. We’re down to thirteen and the prime minister arrives in two days’ time. If I’m sending men to get her, I want to know what she can and cannot do. Know your enemy, sir. The first rule of war. You taught me that.”
“She’s not superhuman, Jones. This isn’t some miracle drug that Doctor Farrow has been concocting like some mad evil genius.” Kane paused to ensure he had Jones’ full attention. “But it is close.”
Jones cocked his head to one side, a trait that annoyed Kane.
“Do you work out, Jones?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied, with a subconscious glance at his body.
“How far can you run?”
“Before failing?”
“Yes,” said Kane. “How far can you run before your legs collapse and your insides feel as if they’re hanging by threads?”
“I’ve done a marathon, sir. I did it a couple of years ago,” said Jones. “Aside from that, the army made me run every day.”
“But to do that marathon, you had to pace yourself, right? You didn’t just run flat out for twenty-six miles, did you? And even the army doesn’t make you sprint until you collapse.”
“No, of course not.”
Kane nodded. “You lift weights?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jones, with another glance at his arms. “I stay in shape. You know I do.”
“And what happens when you hit the end of a session? You can barely lift your own arms, right? Your legs feel like jelly and your body screams for protein to repair the damage you’ve done.”
“That’s an accurate assessment, sir.”
Kane nodded. “Chess,” he said.
“Chess, sir?”
“Do you play?” said Kane.
“I’ve never really been one for board games, sir.”
“Do you read, at least?” said Kane, unsurprised at the lack of intellect displayed by his second in command.
“Yes, sir. I read.”
“And what do you read? Please tell me it’s not the Beano.”
“No. Books, sir. I like books.”
“Good. What was the last book you read?”
“I don’t know,” said Jones, cocking his head once more and staring at the ceiling as he tried to remember the name of a book.
“Okay. Okay. Enough of the mental challenges, Jones.” Kane pushed off the window sill and stepped back to his desk. He picked up his phone and scattered papers, then began to arrange them into a neat pile. “What if I told you that Doctor Farrow’s creation could make you run a marathon flat out? No stopping.”
“Sprinting?”
“Sprinting, Jones, from start to finish. And those training sessions when your legs feel like jelly and you can barely lift your arms? You could go for another hour at least.”
“Respectfully, sir, that’s not possible.”
“Au contraire, Jonesy. You see, the drug is split into two separate chemicals. The first one, when taken individually, can push your body to the maximum. It finds those resources your body stores away, and when those are depleted, it’ll eat away at things the body doesn’t need and transform them into energy.”
“Like what?”
“Like fat, Jones. Like tumours. Even muscle if you push hard enough. It becomes a living thing inside you, stealing resources from anything that uses your body’s energy. If you push too hard, it’ll start using the body’s organs. That’s what Farrow was testing.”
“That’s why three of the girls died?” asked Jones, his voice hushed as if they could be overheard and were disclosing secrets.
Kane nodded and glanced at him before lowering his eyes and steepling his fingers.
“They were on an early formula. Farrow has perfected it now.”
“What about the second chemical?”
Pleased to move on, Kane looked back up at Jones. “What happens when you push too hard? If you’re running and your body can’t keep up?”
“I slow down.”
“Why do you slow down?”
“I don’t know. I guess my brain tells me to.”
“What if that line of communication was bl
ocked?” said Kane. “What if there was a drug that could push you harder than ever before and your brain was unable to receive messages telling it to stop? What if the harder you pushed, the greater the effect? The harder you’d run, the more energy you’d have. The more weights you’d lift, the easier it would become to lift more.”
“I’d be superhuman.”
“Not quite, Jones,” said Kane. “But you’d be damn near unstoppable. You’d be in a self-fulfilling state. It’s called SFS.”
“Why did you ask about the reading?” said Jones. “I don’t get what that has to do with it.”
“Okay. Imagine this. You’re pumped full of SFS. You’ve entered a state where every muscle in your body is running at full whack. It’s not just your body that is heightened, your brain is a muscle too. You’d remember everything you’ve ever read, heard, seen, and smelled. Even the finest detail could be recalled.”
“So we’re talking about people with self-fulfilling states of energy essentially fuelling themselves, with no switch to turn them off, and who can remember the smallest detail. And we made that here?”
“Exactly,” said Kane, leaning back in his chair and allowing himself a smile, despite the circumstances. “You’re imagining what it would be like, aren’t you? You’re imagining how big those arms of yours would be. How fast you could run. How smart you’d become.”
“It’s hard not to imagine the possibilities,” said Jones, running his hand across his shaved head, embarrassed by his selfish imagination.
“That’s where you and I differ, Jones,” said Kane. “While you are picturing how many girls you’d get and how they’d admire your body and possibly even your brain…” He leaned forwards onto his desk, linked his fingers and fixed Jones in his stare. “I’m imagining an army.”
3
Gallows Pole
Two men armed with automatic weapons dropped to the ground. Gabriella peered through the grass, her eyes flicking between the helicopter and the man she had thought was one of them. They took up defensive positions, scouring the field. A man wearing all black stepped down. His face was concealed by the grass but Gabriella recognised him, the way he stood with his back ramrod straight, as if he’d spent his entire life on military parade. He ducked low until he’d cleared the still-turning blades. Then he strode towards the jogger, who met him halfway to avoid drawing attention to Gabriella’s hiding place.
Anxiety triggered a pulse of adrenaline through her body. She searched for an exit but saw only the road and more fields.
She wouldn’t stand a chance.
The man in black showed the jogger a printed picture of Gabriella, gesticulating the direction from which she had run. The jogger seemed to remain calm with his arms folded across his chest. He appeared unfazed by the armed men who surrounded the chopper. The interaction seemed to take an age. Jones was asking questions, probably trying to trip up the jogger. But he responded only with shakes of his head.
Following the conversation was simple.
The man in black asked the jogger if he was sure he hadn’t seen Gabriella.
The jogger confirmed with a shake of his head, while the man in black described Gabriella, holding his hand up at her approximated five-foot-six height.
The jogger shook his head.
The last question asked the jogger why he was covered in mud, with a gesture to his knees and running shirt.
From where Gabriella was hidden, the jogger appeared not to answer, only offering a shrug response and closing off the conversation.
The questioning finished with the man in black offering the jogger a card with a number to call if he saw someone of Gabriella’s description. The jogger pocketed it without looking at the printed details then nodded, and the man in black signalled to both the pilot and the guards to wind it up and enter the helicopter.
Even when the doors had closed, and the rotor began to pick up speed, the jogger remained standing between the chopper and Gabriella’s hiding place as if he was protecting her. He shielded his eyes, waiting for them to leave. Only when the helicopter had ascended, banked, and was well into its flight did the jogger turn and walk back to Gabriella. She stared at him with a mixed look of gratitude and uncertainty.
He stopped a few feet from the ditch, returning Gabriella’s stare until she broke away. There was something in his eyes. A confidence. A history. A fearlessness.
“Who were those men?” he asked, removing his sweater.
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
He tossed Gabriella the sweater and waited for her to pull it on before looking back. She tugged it down to her legs as far as it would stretch then gave him a grateful half-smile. Gabriella stood, but she said nothing.
The man pointed towards the beach road.
“If you go that way, you’ll hit a town. It’s about an hour’s walk. Keep to the tree line and stay out of sight. You can keep the sweater,” he said, then turned to leave.
“Wait,” said Gabriella.
The jogger stopped but didn’t turn. He took a deep breath as if he was aggravated. As Gabriella climbed from the ditch, the man remained facing the other way, defiant, as if nothing was going to change his mind.
“Aren’t you going to ask why they’re after me?”
“None of my business,” he replied. “If you’re mixed up in something, that’s your business.”
“They kidnapped me. I escaped. I don’t know who they are. That’s the truth.”
“The men with the helicopter and armed security kidnapped you?”
“That’s right.”
“And you don’t know who they are?”
“No.”
“How long ago did they take you?”
“I’m not sure. A month maybe. They killed my friends,” said Gabriella. She felt the tail-end of her sentence waver as the thought of Donna and the sound of her dying screams filled her mind. “They set dogs on us.”
“Where?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve been running all night. I don’t even know which direction. From Saint-Pierre, I think. But I can’t be sure.”
“Saint-Pierre is twenty miles away.”
“I ran all night.”
With visible reluctance, the jogger turned, giving Gabriella time to take in his strong features: a short crop of dark hair atop a lean face and piercing eyes. But she couldn’t make out the colour.
“So who are you?” He asked the question like it was a duty he could do without.
“I’m Gabriella.”
The jogger didn’t reply.
“Gabriella DuBois,” she said, hoping her full name might invoke some kind of response, some indication he would help her.
He looked as if he was going to respond, but instead, for the first time, he looked her up and down, sizing her up, until the stare became uncomfortable. Gabriella pulled the sweater down below her underwear.
“Two women are kidnapped. They escape. The captors set dogs on them, killing one. But the other one, somehow, manages to escape and run through the night, half naked. A private helicopter is sent out with an armed detail to find her?”
“That’s right,” said Gabriella.
“Then you’re hiding something,” said the man. “Kidnappers don’t usually have helicopters at their disposal. Nor do they have an armed security unit.”
“You have experience in such matters?”
The jogger didn’t reply.
“You’ll help me?” asked Gabriella.
Something in his voice had inferred that he might.
He looked back at the helicopter far off on the horizon and heard the series of barking dogs in the distance.
“No.” His voice was void of both emotion and empathy. “I can’t be involved.”
“Just help me get somewhere safe until dark,” she pleaded. “Then I’ll move on. Please.”
The man didn’t reply.
“Please,” said Gabriella. “If I stay out here, they’ll find me. Do you hear those
dogs? They have found my trail. I know they have.”
The man didn’t reply. He checked the sky again to make sure the chopper wasn’t returning then turned back to her. He was going to say yes. Gabriella could sense it. She bit her lower lip in anticipation.
“The next town is an hour’s walk. I’d get moving if I were you.”
“Wait,” said Gabriella.
The man stopped but said nothing.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
He turned to face her.
“It’s Harvey,” he said. “Harvey Stone.”
Steaming hot water rained down from the shower, filling the small bathroom with steam. Leaning on the wall with both hands, Harvey closed his eyes and let his head hang low, allowing the water to run across his skin.
The farmhouse he’d bought several years previously was his only possession, save for his beloved motorcycle. It was quiet, clean and simple, and exactly what he needed to escape the convolutions of his criminal past. Surrounded by his own few acres of land and the adjoining forests, it was a small pocket of peace where he could live out his retirement. The simple lifestyle required manual labour as he had to maintain the building. A cord of wood was stacked on one side of the house and his days were spent repairing the roof, painting the windows and tending the small plot of land. There was no television in the house and no radio, only his laptop and his mobile phone, which was ringing when he emerged from the bathroom wrapping a towel around his waist.
“Melody?” he answered.
“Hey, big man. How’s France?” said Melody, unable to disguise her smile even over the phone.
“Quiet.”
“Just the way you like it then?”
“Something like that,” said Harvey. “How’s London?”
“Cold and damp. Everyone’s getting ready for Christmas. You should see Oxford Street this year. They’ve done a great job with the decorations.”