by Maynard Sims
The rear door of the limo was opened, and Jacek and Miranda, still handcuffed together, were pulled out and bundled to the elevator. The driver pressed the down button, and within seconds they had left the basement.
Holly turned to the other driver. “Toby, please escort Miss Spur to the visitor suite on the second floor.”
“John?” Alice said. “Visitor suite? What’s going on?”
Holly smiled. “Nothing for you to worry yourself about, my sweet. I want to show our guests the facilities. Then I have a surprise for you. There are drinks and food in the suite until I join you. I won’t be long.”
Worry.
Surprise.
Neither were words she wanted to hear John Holly say to her.
Jacek and Miranda were taken from the elevator through a maze of white sterile corridors until they were in a laboratory.
“Are they going to experiment on us?” Miranda asked Jacek.
Jacek shook his head. “I did wonder, but now we’re here I doubt it. I think he wants to show us something.”
“What?”
Before Jacek could answer, the driver told them to be quiet. Neither had the courage or the opportunity to argue.
While they waited and Miranda worried, Jacek tried to make sense of their surroundings. The lighting was bright and white, from ceiling strip lights to under-desk up lighters. On clean white surfaces computer equipment buzzed gently. Next to each computer was a white plastic box about two feet square, and in each box were test tubes, some with lids and some without. Beyond the room, connected by thick glass screens, was a smaller room.
In the other room were what looked like fermentation tanks for alcohol. They were smaller than that, but they had wires and tubes running into and out of them.
Before he could see much else Jacek was addressed by name. Holly had joined them. He indicated that the driver should unlock the handcuffs, and as they rubbed their sore wrists, both Jacek and Miranda realized how Holly was completely absorbed in the room.
After a few moments Holly gathered himself. “Forgive me,” he said. “I always feel overwhelmed when I come here. To see the near culmination of my father’s work and the fulfillment of his father’s dream before him, is a true honor for me.”
“Why are we here?” Miranda said.
“Come, let me show you what I have created. Here are the gestation tanks.” He pointed to the room beyond the screens. “In there the new breed lies. Safe in the artificial wombs until their birth. In here”—he spread his arms in an expansive gesture to take in the whole room—“the eggs and sperm are mixed in perfect conditions so that each individual sperm is used. Not quite so wasteful as the human reproductive process you see.”
Jacek looked him in the eye. “So this is your goal? An artificial strain of your kind.”
“Far more than that, Mr. Czerwinski. A strain that can survive on its own terms without need for your kind.”
“Except you need my kind. Miranda and me, for example. Otherwise why bring us here?”
“I need you as a failsafe. It is Julia I need, and Julia I have.”
Jacek lunged at him, but the movement was anticipated and with one raised hand, Holly propelled Jacek against the cold metal edge of a work surface.
“If you behave, Julia will remain safe. If she does as I ask, you will remain alive. That is why you are both here. To show you how high are the stakes.”
Holly pressed a button by the screen door and almost immediately a white-coated man appeared. Gray haired, bespectacled, with a distracted air.
“Herr Klimdt, you have the specimens ready for me?”
“Naturally.”
He handed Holly a small refrigerated steel container.
Holly gave the container to the driver, ushered Miranda and Jacek to the elevator, and nodded a farewell to Klimdt.
In the basement, Jacek and Miranda were placed on the rear seats of the limousine. The container was secured in the trunk, and the driver stood by the hood.
Holly made a call on his cell phone, and moments later Toby, the second driver, came down.
“Wait here, both of you. We shall only need one limousine on the return home, so one of you can have a few days in Switzerland. I’ll leave you to decide.”
In the visitor suite, Alice hadn’t had anything to eat or drink.
Something was very wrong, and she knew there was nothing she could do about it. Her chances of escaping this room before Holly returned were zero. Her likelihood of escape from the clinic was even less.
The door opened, and he walked in.
“You wonder,” he began without preamble. “You worry and you speculate.”
“Is this because of the auto crash, John?”
“I always admired your perception. You must believe that. If there could have been another way. Regrettably I no longer need either you or your artfully created double.”
He was undressing.
Her mouth was dry. Her legs were trembling. It was fear, not excitement.
When he was naked, he punched her so hard in the stomach that she fell to the floor, unable to breathe.
Then he kicked her in the head.
“You killed my father. Killed. Killed. Killed.”
With each word he kicked her. In the back, the ribs, then between her legs.
She curled into a ball and tried to regain her breath.
The attack ceased.
She lay still for a while, then raised her head to see what he was doing. Instantly she wished she had not.
The body was huge, bulging with muscle, the sinews and veins visible beneath the thin skin. In places on the stomach, small openings breathed as if they were mouths seeking air. The skin was gray and scaly, almost reptilian, with a translucent property that made the creature seem to shimmer in the moonlight.
When he grabbed her arms, the movement was almost graceful, the powerful legs economic but insistent.
He ripped the clothes from her body. Not caring whether he tore her flesh as well as the clothing, both were shredded with fingers that were long, at least ten inches, and tapered to points. They twitched, each moving independently of the others, as if with a life of its own.
When she was torn and bleeding, he pulled her legs into the air and thrust inside her. The penis was thin but long, about twelve inches, and barbed on both sides; and she bled where it tore her until it too was covered in blood.
He reached for her mouth and pushed his tongue deep inside. The tongue probed and pummeled until it had forced itself down her throat, farther still until it blocked her airway. Then it continued on until it began to burrow out of the back of her neck.
When he removed his mouth from what was left of hers, there was blood smeared around the bloated lips. The tongue was long and black, and flicked back into his mouth. It was split, like a snake’s tongue, but covered in tiny, sharp points, each facing toward the mouth so if it caught on something it would grip it and tear it. As it had with Alice’s throat.
As the penis pulled out of her, it felt as if her insides were being ripped out with it.
Alice was barely alive.
Holly fell upon her, his talons burrowing deep beneath her skin, seeking out the vital organs, the fullness of her.
By the time he was dressed, back into human form, and driving away in the limousine, Alice was a jumble of limbs and flesh, strewn about the room as if she were a model for the abstract paintings in the lobby.
Chapter Fifty-three
Who will tell whether one happy moment of love or the joy of breathing or walking on a bright morning and smelling the fresh air, is not worth all the suffering and effort which life implies.
—Erich Fromm
Faircroft Manor, Hertfordshire, England
“Time for some fun.”
Holly had made a call to the security men at Faircroft. “You can have the girl,” was all he said.
The man who took the call wasn’t known for his kindness. A bully at school, he had survived in the world by using th
reats of violence backed up by a knowledge of how to inflict pain when it was needed. All he had to decide now was how much pain to inflict and how many of the other men he would share that pleasure with.
Holly had made it very clear that the girl he had groomed as an exact replica of Alice Spur should die a painful and violent death.
The man decided there should be four of them. He made a call on the internal system and went to tell the other chosen ones.
“Time for some fun.”
By the time they reached the concrete windowless room in the basement, Karolina was already there.
When she saw the four men and the looks on their faces, she backed against the rough unpainted wall. There would be no escape.
The four men fanned out as if hunting prey.
One grabbed her left arm, another her right. They hoisted her arms against the wall, twisting the joints, making her cry out in pain.
Her breasts were seized and roughly groped, the material of her shirt ripped and pulled away, exposing her bra.
Hands pulled at her skirt, lifting it to her waist as hungry fingers scratched her thighs.
The men holding her arms let them go. One of them punched her in the right temple, the other punched her on the left. Both hit her hard in the face, breaking her nose, closing an eye, splitting her lip as teeth broke.
Her bra was cut away with a knife and the blade was used to cut tiny nicks in her nipples, the breasts then kneaded and pulled. A mouth grasped a torn nipple and teeth bit and chewed at the flesh.
Her skirt was cut off and she was forced to her knees by repeated kicks to her shins. When she was kneeling, the kicks were aimed at her back and stomach until she fell to the floor.
Like a pack of hyenas they fell upon her. Her panties were torn away and thick fingers inserted into her dry vagina. They pushed and opened inside her until one had four fingers hurting her.
She was lifted like a doll and fingers were thrust into her anus.
Momentarily the attack paused, but then the fingers in her vagina were replaced by a penis. Another pushed at her lips and she was forced to open and take it as her hair was pulled so hard tufts came out at the roots.
She was lifted upward and thrust upon an erect penis that penetrated her anus. Shoved backward her legs were forced wider as another penis forced itself into her vagina. Yet another pushed itself down her throat until she choked.
One by one the men satisfied themselves.
Karolina lay on the floor.
The four men stood over her.
They urinated over her.
Three of them began to kick her while the fourth stuck the knife in at random parts of her body.
Death was a relief.
Chapter Fifty-four
Department 18 Headquarters, Whitehall, London, England
Carter was sitting with Martin Impey, their third pot of strong coffee on the desk beside them.
Impey had spent nearly two hours filling Carter in on everything that had happened. Impey read from his notes and consulted the computer files when he needed to.
Carter made no notes. He had already thought long and hard about what they were up against, and he was convinced he had the answer.
“Shall we get some more coffee?” Martin Impey asked.
Carter shook his head. “No, I’m all coffeed-out. Does Crozier still keep that single malt in his bottom drawer?” He stood and started fiddling with the lock of the discreet filing cabinet against the wall.
“Robert, he won’t like it.”
“Won’t like what?”
Martin Impey and Carter both stared into the doorway as Simon Crozier entered.
Carter moved away from the cabinet slightly, one hand still resting on its top. “We’ve run out of coffee and thought a drop of the hard stuff would help us with our research.”
Crozier looked immaculate. He had changed into a blue pinstripe suit, with wine red tie and cuff links. He had showered and although it was the middle of the night, he looked as if he had rested for a week. He made a show of pulling the chair out from behind his desk and brushing the seat; almost as if he knew Carter had been sitting there before him and wanted to remove all traces. He leaned over and rubbed at an imaginary mark on the desktop.
He looked hard at Carter and came to a decision. He opened a drawer in his desk and threw a small key at Carter. “Careful, it’s a Macallan.” He said the word reverentially.
“I’ll treat it as if it’s my own,” Carter said as he pulled open the bottom drawer.
“That’s my concern.”
Carter arranged three crystal glasses on the desk and poured generous measures into each.
“Good health,” Martin said.
Crozier breathed in the aroma before sipping delicately. “Speaking of health. I thought you were in hospital, Robert?” From his lips the name sounded like an insult.
“I’m touched by your concern, Simon.”
“Don’t mistake professional necessity for personal interest in your health. I’ve had to bring in people who probably weren’t ready because you’ve been laid up.”
“Injured on department business, Crozier, not on a rest break. That team at Dunster House were ill prepared, and that’s down to you.”
Martin sipped his drink. “None of us knew, to be fair, Robert, what we were walking into there. It’s what we’ve been discussing for the last couple of hours, Simon.”
His intervention slowed the natural antagonism between the other two men. Both looked into their drinks before locking eyes.
Crozier broke the link first. “All right. Are you fit for duty, Carter?”
Carter noted the change from first to last name. “I am back at work. The question is what the next step is going to be.”
Crozier let out a gentle sigh. That was about as much emotion he allowed to be visible, outside his disagreements with Carter. “I have to assess the current situation. Martin, what developments have there been with Dylan and the team in Hampstead?”
“They made initial contact with the Grey woman. Using Jason Pike as the conduit proved important as he and Grey have a certain respect for one another. Dylan and Bailey haven’t reported in for over two hours. I am worried.”
Carter poured himself some more whiskey without being asked, though he did lift the bottle to Crozier, who accepted some more, and to Impey, who declined. “Putting Holly’s two rivals in one place at the same time might be a mistake.”
“In what way?” Crozier said.
“It might give Holly too big a target, make him strike to try to take out the leaders. If he was able to kill Pike and Grey, it would make his aim of taking over that much more achievable.”
Crozier steepled his fingers over his glass. Carter, he was reluctant to admit, had a good point. He was concerned Bailey or Dylan had not been in touch. It might be they were busy with the Grey business, but it might also mean they were in trouble. After the Clerkenwell ambush, there was no telling which route Holly was taking.
“Robert,” Crozier said, all too aware he was back to the first name, and was inveigling. “Is there anything you can do to locate Harry and Michael?”
“They’ve gone to Grey’s house in Hampstead?”
Martin Impey nodded. “With Pike to cut a deal with Rachel Grey.”
“That’s not how I would describe the activity of two department operatives,” Crozier said. “Investigating the possibilities of an alliance of need rather than choice.”
“However we put it,” Carter said, “we don’t know what, if anything, has happened. Martin has brought me up to speed, so I know how we got where we are.”
“We just don’t quite know where that is, do we?” Crozier said, and raised his glass in a silent salute.
Carter drained his glass, ignoring Crozier’s wince at his lax etiquette with such a delicate whiskey. “I’ll try to locate Bailey and Dylan.”
He walked to the window and pulled it down a little. The night air was crisp rather than cold. He
looked out at the dark discreet buildings in Whitehall. An up market part of London, all was quiet at this time of night.
As he stared out he let his mind relax. There was no danger here, he sensed that, so he was free to open completely.
Pain.
He felt it immediately.
Familiar faces.
Head, aches, tearing at my eyes.
It was both Bailey and Dylan. He didn’t know either man that well, but he could feel the two different emotional wavelengths. Both were under attack.
“They’re in trouble,” Carter said quietly.
Crozier picked up the telephone. “The Hampstead address. Get a team over there immediately. Code Red. Three of ours.”
“Three?” Impey queried.
Crozier wrote something on a pad. “I’m counting Jason Pike in for the purpose.”
Carter let his mind close down again. There was nothing to be gained by sharing the suffering. He had enough of his own to manage.
It was getting crowded in Crozier’s usually neat and sterile office.
Martin Impey had left to coordinate the assault team and the administration afterward, leaving Crozier and Carter with the others.
Jason Pike looked old and drained. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin sallow and drawn. The efforts he had used in defending Rachel and the others had left him exhausted. After the attack on Milton, he wasn’t surprised at the lengths Holly would go to achieve his aims, but to attack two senior breathers as he had spoke of an ego out of control.
Bailey had been examined by a doctor at the scene and been pronounced in no serious danger. The cuts to his neck and shoulders were deep, but they weren’t infected. Tufts of hair had been pulled from his scalp but the skin where broken was disinfected and bandaged so he could heal quickly. He too was tired.
Michael Dylan was dead.
The assault team had fanned out around the property, gaining access at various points and sweeping each room and each floor to ensure all was clear. By the time they reached the interior of the house, all that remained from the attack was broken furniture, blood, and the dead and injured.