by Chris Lofts
‘Two hours, eight minutes.’
That was plenty of time for Wheeler to cover the distance from the village back to the castle, assuming that was where he’d gone. The overnight snow would make it slow but not impossible. The depth of the snow ranged from ankle to knee with occasional energy sapping plunges to the waist. They found the tree where Sofi had left the unknowns, but like them, the halo-cuffs were missing. ‘Wheeler knows all about halo-cuffs. He must have taken them off,’ Helix said, rubbing his hand over his lips, catching his breath.
Retracing the route was easy enough when following one. With multiple prints it was like tracking a herd of elephants. They followed their route from the previous night. ‘Did you get anything useful out of the other two? What’s the deal with the castle, Wheeler’s contacts?’ Helix said, pulling himself out of another snowdrift.
‘The castle’s not as impressive as it looks. They only use the gatehouse. Wheeler lives in the left of the two towers. The others sleep in the stables with the horses.’
‘Anyone else live with them? Cook, butler, chambermaids? Nothing would surprise me with that twat.’
‘Issy was the cook apparently, Walt supplemented their hunting and pillaging with fish.’
‘Oh dear. I guess they’ll be going hungry then.’
At the foot of the hill, sixty yards from the bridge, Helix gestured to Sofi to slow and keep low. He wasn’t taking any chances. If Wheeler had contacts in Bristol there was no telling what they might have supplied him with. Visibility was good, the light reflecting from the snow. Grey smoke rose from the chimney of the lean-to stables with a parallel plume rising from the jagged crenelations of the tower. Helix zoomed into the large window set about halfway up the wall of the tower. Cycling to thermal, he wasn’t surprised to get a heat signature attached to the source of the smoke inside. A human-shaped signature flashed across the window. He switched to the stables, finding two figures squatting in front of the fire, hands held out towards the flames.
‘Satellite phone,’ Sofi hissed.
Helix swung the bergen from his shoulders. Unzipping a side panel he yanked out the sniper rifle and unfolded the stock. ‘Who’s he talking to?’ he said, popping the covers from both ends of the scope.
‘Working on it. Standby.’
At just over 350 yards it was an easy shot. He didn’t want to kill Wheeler, just put the wind up him. Helix had never fired at medieval architecture but he was sure that when the 43 gram projectile, travelling at 2650 feet per second, entered the window it was unlikely to come back out or go through the walls. One thing was certain. Wheeler would feel the effects long before he heard the shot. Helix cycled the bolt, chambering the high explosive armour piercing round.
‘He’s talking to someone in London,’ Sofi reported.
‘That narrows it down,’ he said, steadying his breathing. ‘Not for much longer.’ He took the pressure on the trigger, waited for the pause between heart beats and squeezed. The blowback from the muzzle brake spattered his face with snow. Lifting his head, he zoomed in to the window just in time to see a cascade of sparks ricocheting around the room’s interior. A dark burgundy drape, carpet or whatever knobs like Wheeler hung on the walls of their castle, had caught fire. Black smoke billowed from the window.
‘Call dropped.’
‘Oops.’ He cycled the bolt again about to take aim at the stables when Wheeler’s head appeared from another window, above and to the left of the first. ‘Christ,’ Helix said, settling his chin back on the stock. ‘Didn’t see that one. There must be a second level.’ He laughed to himself as Wheeler’s head bobbed in and out of the window. Maybe he fancied the jump onto the stable roof.
Helix switched his attention to the two men sprawled on the floor of the stable. They’d heard the shot but had no idea what they were dealing with and had taken refuge behind the flimsy half-height wooden walls either side of the door. Helix estimated their position relative to the opening. He placed the centre of the illuminated reticle three feet left from the edge of the door. Waited a beat. Squeezed the trigger. The wooden wall exploded into a cloud of splinters. Straw and gore spattered the stone wall sixteen feet behind where the first man had lain. He cycled the bolt. Aimed right. Paused. Waited. Beat. Waited. Beat. Waited. ‘It’s for Ethan.’ Squeezed. Same result. Setting the safety, he folded the stock. ‘Who was he talking to?’
Gabrielle’s face stared back at him. It wasn’t her.
‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘It will take a while to get the recording and the exact location but it was somewhere in South West London. Not a million miles from where I picked you up after your encounter with Lytkin.’
‘Can you narrow it down?’ he said, zipping up the bergen and heaving it back over his shoulder.
‘Should be able to.’ She nodded. ‘By the way, I’m having trouble getting hold of Mace to arrange the return trip.’
‘That’s weird. It’s not like him to drop off the grid. Keep trying and stay out of sight until I call for you. I want some quality time with Wheeler.’
23
An agonised scream, barely muffled by a nondescript grey door, ripped through the shadows and lightless recesses of the basement. A voice, heavy with an eastern Slavic accent, pleaded: ‘Please, I beg you, no more—’ The plea for mercy was futile. Another scream. The malevolent power tools relentless in their torturous task. Calls for compassion turned to hatred and futile threats. ‘You bastard, I’ll kill you—’
Beyond the door, Ethan clamped his hands to his ears. He braced for the next outpouring of agony. There was no relief. The holographic screen playing the video stalked him across every inch of the 81 square foot polycarbonate box containing him. Respite came only when the victim on screen was overwhelmed by unconsciousness. The hiatus was short, each chapter of carnage looping back on itself. A woman’s voice, a foreign tongue, the tone suggesting words of admonishment laced with hate, provided a sinister introduction to the terrifying torture that followed. Ethan could escape the images by closing his eyes, but not the sound, which seemed to increase in volume whenever he did. Seizing control of his breathing, his thick, muscled arms and hands shook as he dared to ease their vice-like grip over his ears.
Drowsiness washed over him. Sleep deprivation was a common technique used in interrogation or torture often supplemented with deafening heavy rock music and strobes. Rock wasn’t his thing but he would have exchanged it for what he’d been subjected to for the last God knew how many hours. Running his tongue over his dry lips, he followed his breathing in the silence. His eyes blinked open and snapped shut in the dazzling light. He rested his head on his arm. Tried again. The contrast was better: the white floor, the taut pale skin of his arm, the black material of his t-shirt. He heaved himself upright and recoiled at the sight of Dmitri on the other side of the transparent partition. The broken, faeces-streaked man hissed. Saliva spattered the partition.
There was no way out; Ethan knew that much within minutes of waking from a drug-induced sleep. This place was modern not medieval. He rubbed at his sore wrists, glad to be free from the chains and electrodes, glancing at Dmitri, torn between pity, revulsion and panic. Was he seeing a reflection of his future? He focussed on his own glassy image in the polycarbonate. He’d lost limbs but at least he’d been spared most of the pain. He rubbed his forehead, his eyes heavy. Were they watching? Would they let him drift off, only to drag him back to this haunted reality?
Nate would find a solution. Together they were greater than the sum of their broken bodies, but his brother had overcome bigger challenges. Hope shone in the despair. Sofi. Had she found him?
How the fuck had this happened? Well, it had happened. Suck it up. Find a way out. ‘Any suggestions, Dmitri?’ he said towards the partition. The Ukrainian’s eye widened, his lips moved. The language was indecipherable as the words issued from his mouth between laboured breaths.
‘Can you hear?’ Ethan asked, pointing to his ear.
Dmitri grunted, nodde
d his head.
Ethan clutched his hands to his face, his skin taut. What kind of sadist leaves someone with nothing but their senses? He worked his jaw, grinding the despair. He had to stay positive; without hope there was nothing. His eyes wandered over the concrete box, encasing the polycarbonate walls. Either on its own was impregnable.
A solid metallic click came from the grey door. It swung into the narrow gap between the wall and the cell. Archer loomed out of the shadows like a minotaur from its labyrinth. He carried two bottles of water and a bulging paper bag. The light reflected from his domed head as he leaned down and replenished Dmitri’s drip feeder from one of the bottles. The Ukrainian rolled across his floor with an extraordinary turn of speed, hissing and growling at his tormentor. A hollow thud reverberated across the front of the cell as he made contact. Archer didn’t flinch.
Resting the second bottle on the floor, Archer folded back the top of the paper bag. Reaching inside, he paused, and tilted his head at the Ukrainian. Dmitri panted, saliva dripping from his glistening teeth. Archer pulled a large apple from the bag, closed his eyes and smelled it. He weighed it in his hand like a dog owner about to throw a ball. Dmitri grunted. The smile dropped from Archer’s face. The apple dropped back inside the bag. Ignoring Dmitri’s howls of protest, Archer turned to Ethan’s cell and stepped inside. He dropped the bag and the bottle next to Ethan.
Ethan swallowed. Taking the bag, he looked inside. ‘You’re a cruel bastard,’ he said to the unsmiling giant. ‘There’s three in here. Give him a couple. My appetite seems to have deserted me.’ He nodded towards the neighbouring cell. ‘Come on. Don’t be a dick. He’s hungry.’
‘What Dmitri gets to eat depends on your brother,’ a female voice said from somewhere.
Ethan leaned over, trying to see past Archer. The big man obliged and stepped back to the door, passing through the holographic rendition of Ulyana Lytkin. At least, that’s who Ethan assumed it was. The voice was the same. The chosen avatar this time was a blonde woman who wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.
‘Knowing my brother, my money is on him feeding you to your starving husband first, followed closely by Chewbacca over there.’
Lytkin laughed. ‘Levity is good. Helps to counter the fear of death,’ she said, toying with the gold chain around her neck.
‘It’s not death I’m afraid of,’ Ethan lied. He glanced across at Dmitri. ‘We’re not getting out, are we? Once you’ve got what you want, you’ll—’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ Lytkin interlaced her fingers. ‘I have several objectives. How easy or difficult your brother and Gabrielle Stepper make them will determine your individual fates.’
‘But our fates are inevitable.’
‘Everyone’s fate is inevitable, but fate doesn’t necessarily mean death.’
‘Immortality? I was going to say death and taxes. At least the first one is still true. Thanks to Gaia and her magical money tree, we don’t have to worry about the latter.’ Ethan shook his head. ‘I get it. I’m the leverage you need to get my brother to deliver Gabrielle.’ He pressed down with his fists, pushing himself back to the wall. ‘Then you can finish what your sick sibling started.’
‘You have no idea what you’re dealing with,’ she said, her hands on her hips. ‘I have eluded everyone, even you, the legendary Ethan Helix. What Valerian started was simply that – the start. You know nothing.’
‘So, go ahead. Show me how clever you are. Start with yourself. The real you.’ He folded his arms. ‘You’re going to kill all of us, what’s to lose?’
‘There is nothing to lose and everything to gain.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘More, more, more. That’s all it is with your sort.’ He spread his hands apart and turned his palms up. ‘Gaia, the cyber Santa Claus, ask and you shall receive.’
She turned towards the door. ‘I can’t remember who said it, but they believed cynicism is a self-imposed blindness, a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt or disappoint us. In this world, disappointment is the least of your worries. As for hurt…’ She turned her eyes on Dmitri. ‘Well. We’ll see about that.’
24
24 Hours
Brambles snagged at Helix’s trousers as he edged through the weed-strewn car park at the side of the castle grounds. A cursory scan of the tower showed no signs of movement, save the steady drifting of the smoke from the fireplace in the stables and Wheeler’s apartment. The fire that had started courtesy of the Raufoss round he’d put through the window had gone out. Drawing his P226, he jogged up the path towards the towers.
Stone spiral staircases were a practical solution for limited space. Their design also made hand to hand combat difficult. Climbing them with a modern military bergen was impossible. Helix lowered his pack to the ground and mounted the first step. Canting his head to one side, he listened. Nothing. Three steps further up, he paused, listened and pressed on. The acrid stench of burnt material slid down the steps to meet him. Around the next turn, daylight seeped around a worm-eaten door that stood ajar. An arthritic creak filled the stairs as he pushed the bottom of the door with the muzzle of his weapon. A movement inside. Stifled breaths. Somebody trying but failing to keep quiet. Helix checked his footing. Raised to his full height, he leaned around the stairs above before bobbing at the door, scanning what he could of the circular room. A movement visible in the gap down the back edge of the door caught his eye. A foot.
He took a grenade, cycled through the functions, selected stun and tossed it through the door. Flash-bangs did what they said on the tin. The ear-splitting explosion and blinding flash induced panic amongst the occupants of any space they were thrown into. The device detonated. Helix stormed the door. Spinning through 360 degrees the muzzle of his weapon pointed low at the whimpering heap of rags beside the four-poster bed. ‘On your feet.’
Office-soft hands swept the tattered material away from the mud-streaked face. ‘I’m unarmed, Major,’ Wheeler said, a ripple of winks erupting from his left eye.
Shuffling back towards the window, Helix kept the gun on Wheeler. Down below, Sofi, her face and head wrapped in an improvised shemagh, made her way up the path towards the gate. With the Glock held steadily in her hand, she froze and looked up at the window as he spoke to her. ‘I told you to stay out of sight. Don’t come up here. Wait for my call.’ Helix wrinkled his nose. ‘Jesus, Wheeler, you stink.’
‘Very amusing, Major,’ Wheeler said, climbing to his feet. ‘I was about to shower and change.’
Helix’s eyes swept around the room. Apart from the damage the Raufoss round had caused, it lacked the dusty rustic charm of a medieval gatehouse and looked more like one of those makeovers that were the gossip fodder of the chattering classes in the cities. ‘Not exactly integrated with the local population I see. Apart from the rags,’ he said. ‘Where did all this come from? I can’t imagine you getting your hands dirty with manual labour.’
Wheeler stepped away from the bed, halting as Helix raised his gun. ‘What’s the expression?’ he said. ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’
Helix was tempted to smash the smug grin off of his face. ‘Where’s the satellite phone?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, Major.’
‘Upstairs, I take it.’ Helix said, pushing a poker into the red-hot base of the fire. He turned to Wheeler. ‘Is there anyone else up there that I need to know about?’
Wheeler shook his head.
‘OK. Good. Time to talk. Otherwise, the methods of persuasion are going to get as old-fashioned as the architecture. Who were you talking to?’
‘I’d be surprised, given your resources, if you didn’t know the answer to that question already.’
‘We’re working on it.’ Helix checked the tip of the poker. ‘But you could save me some time and yourself some discomfort if you just spat it—’ He stood, tilting his head, listening. He sighed. ‘OK, Finch. Your choice,’ he called out, swinging his weapon towards the open doo
r. ‘Toss your guns down the stairs and join us. If you choose to go back down, you’ll just get yourself shot. Your call,’ he said, taking a double-handed aim. ‘Don’t look so surprised, Wheeler, I knew you couldn’t have got out of that pit on your own. Plus I doubt tactical boots that leave those kind of prints are standard issue to your ragtag army.’
Wheeler swallowed and shifted back towards the bed.
Helix had no idea where Sofi was hiding but was grateful for the warning that Finch was on his way up the stairs. Finch was an idiot, but even idiots got lucky when they had guns.
‘Make it snappy, Finch, unless you want a frag grenade down there to help you decide.’
A heavy clatter echoed up the stairs.
‘And the other one.’
A second clatter followed. ‘OK. I’m coming up,’ Finch called.
Elias Finch’s face bobbed around the corner of the narrow stairwell. Helix placed the point of aim on his forehead and relaxed the grip on his weapon. The smart-ammo would do the rest. ‘Hands. Let’s see ‘em.’
Finch complied, ducking through the door, looking past Wheeler, behind the door.
‘What are you looking for?’ Helix said, waving him next to Wheeler.
‘Her Royal Highness, Dame Gabrielle Stepper,’ Finch said. ‘What happened? The old Helix charm not working? Couldn’t persuade her to return to London to face the music?’
‘She’s somewhere safe.’
‘So, it’s not her waiting downstairs to shoot me.’
‘Hardly. She wouldn’t shoot anyone, even a piece of shit like you.’
‘Oh of course. Your secret weapon,’ Finch said, feigning fright.
‘Secret enough to see you coming a mile off.’
Finch folded his arms. ‘But is it secret enough to see the extraction force approaching to take you and the good Doctor back to London?’
‘Nobody will be taking us back to London. Are you picking anything up, Sofi? If we go at all, it’ll be on our own terms.’