INVASION: UPRISING (Invasion Series Book 3)

by Dc Alden

  He kicked off the eiderdown and stood, working the blood back into his muscles. He retrieved the Beretta from under the cot, checked it, then slipped it into the back of his trousers. Outside, the morning sun barely penetrated the alleyway. The air was heavy and silent, muffled by an overnight snowfall. He let the curtain drop back into place. He reached for his gun and held it low behind him as the floorboards creaked outside his room.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Yeah?”

  Hays poked his head around the frame. “Morning, Frank. You decent?”

  Frank tucked the pistol away. “Sure. Come on in.”

  Hays carried two mugs of steaming coffee over to a battered table in front of the equally battered sofa. “Here you go. Black, no sugar.” He straightened up, pulled his Mets sweatshirt down over his large belly. “You sleep okay?”

  “I did, thanks.”

  Frank sat on the battered sofa, cradling the coffee in his hands. “I thought I might start on the hallway today. Paintwork’s a little tired, and you’ve got a few loose boards out there.” He’d fix them all in due course, except the ones outside his room.

  “The work isn’t compulsory, Frank. You can stay as long as you like.”

  “I gotta earn my keep. I’ve been here nearly two weeks.”

  “And the church is better for it,” Hays admitted, his eyes wandering around the recently painted walls. “Oh, I have something for you.” He reached into his back pocket and held out a crumpled leaflet.

  “What’s this?”

  “A support group, run by veterans, right across the river in Brooklyn.”

  Frank smoothed out the leaflet and gave it the once-over. A soldier on the cover, his head in his hands, silhouetted against the Stars and Stripes, the letters PTSD liberally sprinkled throughout the text inside. It was close enough to the truth.

  “Thanks,” Frank said, and he meant it.

  Hays got to his feet. “I’ll leave you be.”

  “I’ll see about that hallway if it’s all the same.”

  Hays smiled and closed the door behind him. Frank stood there in silence, the air stuffy and heavy. He felt restless, uneasy. He snapped on the TV, the screen flicking into life as he pulled on socks and sneakers. On the screen, a MSNBC anchor stared earnestly into the camera as he ran through the headlines at the top of the hour.

  As usual, it wasn’t good news: the economy was back in the toilet, there was civil unrest in Europe, and a massive cyclone in Bangladesh had made tens of thousands of people homeless. The stark images reminded Frank of the early seminars, where the speakers had likened humanity to a plague of locusts, multiplying, devouring, laying waste. He fingered the faint scar on his right shoulder, a natural reaction whenever he thought about them.

  He ran the hot tap in the bathroom and shaved. Raised voices drifted in from the TV, the muted roar of a large crowd, a reporter’s breathless monologue, then another voice, the dull, nasal tones of a blue-collar Brit.

  “ — Working for TDL Global in Iraq. Officially my brother went missing in Baghdad but the Iraqi authorities claim they have no knowledge of the incident in question — ”

  Frank’s hand gripped the edge of the sink, the razor frozen in mid-air.

  “That was three years ago, and my brother has been conveniently forgotten by everyone, the British government, his employers, even my local MP. How can a man, working for a giant corporation like TDL, simply disappear without trace? And why won’t anyone hold an inquiry?”

  Frank stepped out into the room, chin lathered with foam.

  TDL Global. A huge building block in the pyramid of power. Frank had run black ops under the banner of their Security Division for years. Including the Iraqi operation.

  “What is it you hope to achieve by coming here today?”

  The reporter thrust her mike beneath the guy’s mouth. The man with the homemade sign looked tired, beaten. He watched him turn away from the reporter and stare into the camera.

  Into Frank’s eyes.

  “If there’s anyone out there who knows what happened in Iraq, please come forward. My brother’s name is Jimmy Sullivan — ”

  Frank jolted as if he’d been Tasered.

  He reached for the medallion around his neck, felt the smooth metal between his fingers, remembered that young face frozen in death.

  Jimmy Sullivan.

  He found the TiVo remote and rewound the segment. There was desperation in the Brit’s words. He was seeking the truth, swimming against a tsunami of bureaucracy, lies and disinformation. He paused the segment, the Brit’s face frozen on the screen. The man had no idea what he was up against. The evil that had taken his brother was unchallenged, unstoppable —

  Frank’s legs felt weak and he sagged onto the sofa. It was so clear now, like sunlight bursting through the clouds.

  This wasn’t a coincidence.

  And right there on the TV screen, was a man adrift, battling against an unseen evil, his desperate plea a last throw of the dice. And his brother Jimmy, the seed, the genesis of it all.

  Frank grabbed a pencil and paper from the table and scribbled some hurried notes. Then he gathered his things.

  Frank stood in the doorway of Hays’ office, hands in his coat pocket.

  The reverend was sat behind his desk, punching numbers into a calculator and scribbling on a pad. He looked up.

  “I think I’ve found a way,” Frank announced.

  Hays leaned back in his chair. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s a mighty quick decision, Frank.”

  “It’s hard to explain. There’s a man I can help. He doesn’t know it yet but I can ease his suffering.”

  “You know this person?”

  “No, but we’re connected. I need to find him. Give him some peace.”

  “I understand you need to right some wrongs, Frank, but this is kinda sudden, don’t you think?”

  Frank shook his head.“It feels right. I have to do this.”

  “The path to salvation can be a long and difficult one. Evil is out there, watching and waiting, looking to foul things up for righteous men.”

  “I know all about evil, reverend. We go way back.” He pulled the Beretta from his coat pocket and laid it on Hays’ desk. “Could you take care of this for me? For the record, I’ve never used it. I took it from a kid in Phoenix one night. A desperate kid.”

  Hays hesitated. “Sure,” he said, wrapping his handkerchief over it and placing it in a desk drawer. “You need money? I don’t have much but — ”

  “Thanks, I’m good.”

  Frank pulled his beanie hat over his ears, tucking his ponytail up inside.

  Hays walked around his desk. “You sure about this, Frank?”

  “Certain.”

  The Reverend held out his hand. “Then good luck to you, son. Never forget that Jesus will be with you every step of your journey. And we’ll be praying for you too, right here in Harlem.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Wait a sec.”

  Hays walked over to the coat stand in the corner. “I want you to have this. It’s my personal travel Bible. I’ve had it since I was a young preacher.”

  Frank turned over the small, leather-bound book in his hands. “I can’t take this. It’s too personal.”

  “Nonsense. It’ll be there for you on your journey, like it was on mine. My card’s in there too, in case you need to talk. Call me anytime, day or night.”

  “Thank you.” Emotion squeezed Frank’s throat.

  “Come back to us, when you’re ready to start your life again.”

  Frank nodded. “Sure.”

  He stepped forward and gave the pastor a warm hug. “Goodbye, reverend. And thank you.”

  He left without another word, through the back door and out into the alley. The cold air felt good on his skin, the sound of fresh snow crunching underfoot as he reached the street. The crippling remorse, the fear and panic that had plagued hi
m for years, was gone. He paused for a moment, watching the pavements, the roads, the sky above. Then he took a deep breath and set off, heading south, towards Manhattan.

  Frank Marshall was back from the dead.

  And back on the grid.

  Football Violence

  He woke in a cell inside Belgravia police station.

  He swung his legs off the mattress and stood up, blinking beneath the harsh strip light. The chaos of the previous day was a distant memory, the slamming of doors, the stomp of standard-issue boots, the shouts. All he heard now was the drip of the stainless steel toilet pan in his cell, the faint rumble of early morning traffic out in the street.

  And the jangle of keys outside his cell. The inspection flap scraped open.

  “Take a step back, chum.”

  Roy did as he was told. The door swung inwards. “Duty sergeant wants a word,” said an overweight gaoler. He pointed to Roy’s feet. “You can put your trainers on.”

  A few moments later Roy was standing in front of the custody desk, his personal possessions sealed in a clear plastic bag in front of him.

  “It’s your lucky day,” the sergeant said, pushing the bag across the counter. “You’re being released without charge.”

  “That’s because I didn’t do anything.”

  “You say so. I’ll need your autograph.”

  Roy signed the paperwork, slipped his belt on, and was escorted off the premises.

  He was glad to be out in the fresh air. He found a coffee shop near Victoria Station, bought a latte and a newspaper, the first few pages splashed with lurid pictures of yesterday’s riot. He pointed to the TV in the corner and asked the waitress if they had MSNBC. She shrugged her shoulders. He finished his coffee and headed for the station.

  Roy was back on the Fitzroy by mid-morning. He dropped his clothes in the washing basket and stepped into the shower, soaping away the memory of his overnight accommodations. He changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt and fired up his laptop. He scoured the internet for his segment but found nothing. He collapsed onto his bed, frustrated.

  He read his paper.

  He dozed.

  The musical chime of a text message woke him from a deep slumber.

  In future, don’t make promises you can’t keep.

  Roy rolled off the bed. Shit. Max’s football match.

  He hurried into the hallway, hopping into his trainers and tugging on a jacket. He was out of the door in less than a minute, wheeling his decrepit racing bike down the stairs and pedalling for the main road.

  The school was a private one, a couple of miles to the west of Kingston town. It had walled grounds and impressive spires, and a boating club with private moorings along the Thames. Roy whizzed through the wrought-iron gates and headed towards the green chessboard of sports pitches at the rear of the school. He bounced onto the grass, skirting the half-dozen rugby matches in progress, and headed for the soccer pitch at the far edge of the playing fields.

  He propped his bike beneath the branches of a large oak tree and took a moment to catch his breath.

  Two teams of energetic kids chased a football up and down the pitch while a group of well-heeled adults shouted encouragement from the touchline. Roy spotted Max almost immediately, and not because he was on the pitch impressing the others with his skills: instead he played alone, clumsily kicking a ball around behind the grown-ups, his small body swamped in oversized shorts and shirt, his mind lost in a world of its own.

  Roy hesitated.

  No one had seen him yet. He could turn around and head home, send a text, make some sort of excuse. As he wrestled with his options he saw Vicky peel away from the touchline and march across the grass.

  Busted.

  She came to a halt in front of him, her pretty face furrowed in anger.

  “You made a promise.”

  “I know, I — ”

  ”He’s six years old. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  She looked great. Dark brown hair expensively cut, tanned skin and perfect teeth, a smart black overcoat with a silver faux fur collar, black knee-length suede boots. A long way from the cute graduate he’d met way back when. He felt long-buried emotions stirring, then reminded himself that Vicky wasn’t that same person anymore.

  “A real father wouldn’t desert his son like this.”

  “Here we go.”

  “It’s not Max’s fault.”

  “How many time have I told you, it’s not about Max.”

  “Liar.”

  The wind ruffled the collar of her coat in tiny silver waves. “It doesn’t have to be this way, you know.”

  Roy raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  Vicky stared at her designer boots. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Where’s whatsisname?”

  “Nate’s working.”

  “Nate,” Roy muttered. “Stupid name.”

  “Grow up, Roy. Go say hello to your son.”

  He watched her stamp off towards a clutch of well-groomed women, their cold eyes appraising Roy’s rusted bike, his mud-speckled sweatpants and tatty combat jacket. He could read it in their faces; he was that Roy, Vicky’s mistake, poor Max’s indifferent father. The loser. He gave them a sarcastic wave.

  Max was toe-poking the ball around, floppy brown hair bouncing as he ran. His movements were clumsy, his tongue protruding between his lips as he focused on kicking the ball at his feet.

  “Hey, Max!”

  Roy squatted down and spread his arms wide. The ball ran past him, quickly followed by an oblivious Max who puffed after it. Roy caught his arm and scooped him off the ground. He held him in a gentle embrace.

  “Sorry for being late, Max,” he whispered in the boy’s ear. Daddy had a bit of trouble.”

  The child responded with a faint whine of protest. He was a rag doll in Roy’s arms. Defeated, Roy let him down. “Go and play, then.”

  He heard the rustle of dry leaves behind him, heavy footfalls beating the ground.

  A flash of grey hair swept by, coat tails flapping, the ball scooped from under Max’s feet then dribbled around him with enviable speed and dexterity. Max squealed with delight.

  “Come on, son, show us what you got!”

  The man turned this way and that, running proverbial rings around Max who chased him with unbridled joy. Then he took a big swing and hoofed the ball into the distance. Max’s little legs pumped after it.

  “That’s it, son, go get it!”

  Roy’s stomach lurched.

  Sammy French smiled, watching Max chase the ball across the grass. “Look at him go. Like shit off a shovel.” He turned back to Roy. “You ever watch them Paralympics? I saw a mongoloid kid bench-press six hundred pounds once. Fucking amazing.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Been a long time, eh Roy? I’d say you look well, but I’d be lying.”

  Sammy French was six years older and four inches taller than Roy, with long grey hair that swept back from his suntanned forehead and nestled in gelled curls over the collar of his coat. He had ice-blue eyes and a sharp, angular face that men thought dangerous and women ruggedly handsome. His smile was Hollywood white, his athletic build always wrapped in expensive clothes. Even today, on a windswept playing field, Sammy French looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of an Armani winter catalogue, uber-cool in a fawn trench coat, designer jeans and brown suede shoes. He had the looks, the money, a big property portfolio, and a dangerous reputation. He was everything Roy wasn’t. No wonder some of Vicky’s friends eyed him from the touchline.

  Sammy cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “How old’s the boy?”

  “Six.”

  “A spastic from birth, eh? Must be tough.”

  Roy bristled. “He’s got a few learning difficulties, that’s all. Development issues. He’s getting treatment. We don’t say spastic anymore.”

  Sammy’s face darkened. “You trying to tell me how to speak, Roy?”

>   “No, I — ”

  “That’s what I thought. Hang on, it’s coming back.”

  Max puffed towards them, chasing after his ball. Sammy brightened.

  “Give it here, twinkle toes.” He trapped the ball beneath his shoe then kicked it into the distance again. Max spun around and chased after it.

  Roy cringed as Sammy moved closer and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I was sorry to hear about your brother.”

  “Thanks.”

  “A gobby little fucker as I remember. Shame what happened to him.”

  “No one knows what happened. Officially he’s still missing.”

  “So’s Lord Lucan, and he ain’t coming back either. I’ll say one thing about him, Jimmy had bottle. I could’ve used someone like him, ex-Para and all that. Went missing in Baghdad, right?”

  “He wasn’t in Baghdad. The official story is bullshit.”

  “Poor bastard. That’s one place you don’t want to go walkabout.” He turned his collar up against a fine mist of rain that swept in across the playing fields. “Anyway, it’s you I need to speak to.”

  “Me?”

  “Correct. I need a favour.”

  “A favour?”

  Roy paled. It’d been years since they’d spoken, although Sammy was a local face around Kingston, flitting between his many businesses in a white convertible Bentley. Sammy French lived in another universe compared to Roy, so what the hell could he want from him? Whatever it was, Roy had a feeling it wouldn’t be legal.

  “It’s a bad time at the moment, Sammy. I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

  “Haven’t we all.”

  The final whistle shrilled, signalling the end of the match. Roy watched the mud-caked boys on the pitch shake hands, a signal for the parents to hurry en masse for the car park as the fine mist strengthened into a steady rain. He saw Vicky pop up a Burberry umbrella and call to Max.

  “I’ve got to go,” Roy said, backing away from Sammy’s glare. “Sorry I couldn’t help.”

  Vicky was tugging a sweatshirt over Max’s head. Roy smoothed the boy’s hair down.

  “Hey, Max, you did really good today.”

  Vicky sheltered them both with the brolly. “He’s soaking. I have to get him to the car.” She glanced over Roy’s shoulder. “Who’s that?”