Mutilated (DP, DIC02)

by Will Patching

  Fortunately, his holdall contained the very thing required for a rapid forced entry.

  ***

  The needle pierced Fiona’s carotid artery and she felt her world tumble and spin as these latest drugs flooded her brain. Abimbola’s face hovered over hers, in focus then blurred, rotating and then leaping back to where it started, again and again.

  Her belly was wrenching in spasms and she felt her bowels squirting into her pants, fouling her clothes, the nauseating stink assaulting her nostrils, her throat automatically gagging in response.

  ‘Not an unusual side effect, Sergeant.’ The man’s head disappeared for a couple of seconds, then returned with a surgical mask covering the lower half of his face. ‘That’s better. Camphor and eucalyptus helps with the smell.’ After neatly folding his suit jacket, he rolled his sleeves to the elbow, slipped off his tie, undid his collar button and pulled on some surgical gloves.

  Fiona began to focus again, the world no longer topsy-turvy, her mind crystallizing, though she was already in severe pain. She tried to take an audit of how her body was responding to the chemicals in her bloodstream, determined to keep the panic from blotting out her thought processes again. This new found clarity, she thought, was possibly assisted by the concoction Abimbola had just administered.

  She could feel her ribs against the steel table, as if a great weight was crushing her, driving her into the unyielding metal slab, squashing soft tissue, bruising bone. The backs of her legs and buttocks were similarly distressed and she sensed all her millions of nerve endings, as if her consciousness had only just become aware of the multitude of sensors now feeding her fears. She had little control over her muscles, could barely twitch her toes or fingers, could not rotate her head, but her nostrils flared and her eyes were moving. Even her mouth felt better, her tongue had shrunk back to normal size and was moist as she swallowed. Her heart had been racing before the syringe had emptied its contents into her, but now it pounded steadily, though faster than normal.

  Should she speak? Perhaps if she pretended not to be able to, it might delay his plans to hurt her. Why would he torture her for information if she could not respond? Could she fake a reaction to the chemicals, winning some precious minutes of life in the hope someone would come to her aid?

  It was a distant prospect, but her natural optimism kept her buoyed. Even in these appalling circumstances Fiona Fielding would not give up.

  Decision made, she rolled her eyes back into her head and managed to dribble some spittle from her lips as Abimbola leaned in, scalpel in hand.

  ‘Nice try, Detective. But I’m afraid your acting skills fall rather short of Oscar standards.’

  Oh shit!

  Just then, an alarm sounded, a beeping that warned her tormentor of an intruder. Abimbola disappeared from view and she heard him cursing, then he wheeled a video screen into her field of vision.

  ‘It seems your uniformed friends are looking for you. Their car triggered a sensor at the entrance to my driveway. Let’s watch what happens. Perhaps you’ll give up your pretence of being allergic to the drugs.’

  Fiona stared at the screen, her mind trying to send psychic signals to the two coppers strolling round the exterior of the house. Hidden CCTV cameras on each corner of the building were transmitting the images now displayed on the four quadrants of the large LED screen Abimbola had swivelled into view.

  He laughed playfully as he asked her, ‘Are you able to scream, Detective? Or are you still planning to convince me you are mute or that you have a vow of silence? Like a nun. We’ll soon break that.’

  Fiona gagged and pretended to try to shout, but nothing coherent left her lips as she waited until one of the uniforms descended to the cellar door. Then she let rip.

  ‘HE-ELP! HELP ME! I’M IN HERE!’

  The bobby at the door’s grinning face and chatty attitude remained undisturbed by her shouts, the reality on the screen denying her the relief of a suitable response. As she yelled again and again, her words blurring into a mess of screams, pleas and whimpers, Fiona’s optimism and self-discipline finally abandoned her.

  Abimbola was back, his eyes triumphant, peering down at hers, his head partially blocking the view on the screen as the policemen got back in their car and left her to her fate.

  ‘We are totally soundproofed so that little exercise did nothing more than demonstrate your perfectly adequate powers of speech. Now, where were we?’

  ***

  Harding moulded the plastic explosive into a conical shape round the door lock. While he did so, he tried to remember the short briefing SAS boy had given him about how to use the stuff, warning him that it was more powerful than anything he would have used a few decades before.

  Unfortunately, Harding could not recall exactly what he had said… How much it would take to blow a door open, how much to blow it right off its hinges. All he knew was that the full batch was enough to knock down an entire house if positioned correctly.

  The plan had been to demolish his second target’s home, with the bastard inside, but Harding had other ideas of his own about that little job. Meanwhile, the obstacle he needed to overcome right now was like a prison cell door, possibly even heavier, so, to be sure it would be blasted open he used a third of the amount he had been given.

  That should sort it.

  It wasn’t that important, as long as he could get inside, so he armed the electronic fuse by rotating the end exactly as he had been shown, plugged the cigarette sized charge into the rubbery compound, scampered up the steps and jogged to the side of the house, taking shelter there in case he had miscalculated.

  If he had been a religious man, he would have said a few words to his maker, but he was not, so, instead, took a deep breath and pressed the red button on the remote control.

  ***

  The scalding touch of a scalpel lacerating the back of her wrist left Fiona breathless, as if the surgical instrument had been attached to electric terminals before being applied to her body. Agonised beyond words, her breath panting, sweat trickling from every pore as the blade seared her flesh, she lay there, powerless to resist.

  The alien object invading her body, slicing into her, finally ripped away her last remaining shred of resistance. The animal howl of anguish, a sound like a demented foghorn, shattered any coherent thought she had at the precise moment the figure of a man appeared on the screen behind her tormentor’s head, unnoticed by either of them.

  ‘Yes. The sensations you feel are rather enhanced, so I’ll do a deal with you. Tell me everything you know and I’ll spare you a prolonged death.’ Abimbola held the bloody scalpel for her to view, the blade weaving in the air before her eyes, like a snake about to strike. ‘But if I think you are holding back, keeping secrets from me, I will dance the pain through your nerve pathways until you cry out for the release of death. And then I will dance some more.’

  Fiona had to use all her willpower to focus on his words, and tried to nod her head to show she understood, but her neck was still paralyzed. Her rapid, shallow breaths were making her light-headed, so she tried to control her chest muscles as she grunted a reply.

  ‘Any-anything. Tell… You…’

  The words trickled out just as she saw it.

  The CCTV cameras had to be playing tricks on her. The man who had escaped from Broadmoor early this morning, a convict whose image she had become familiar with over the last few days, was now standing at the cellar door where a policeman had been just a few moments before.

  It can’t be true. I’m imagining things… The drugs!

  She let her eyelids droop then reopened them.

  Harding was still there.

  ‘Look at me!’ She did as he bid. ‘A word of warning, Detective. The drugs you have swimming through your veins encourage a degree of honesty, so why resist? Do we have an understanding? Complete disclosure on your part is essential.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She let her eyes wander, left and right so as not to alert Abimbola to what was happe
ning on the screen behind his head. The pain had receded somewhat, though the after effects were still brutally alive, grinding into her senses. By channelling these sensations she tried to remain fully aware of everything around her.

  What is Harding doing? Why is he here?

  Abimbola was oblivious as Harding ran up the steps and loitered round the corner of the house, still in full view of the cameras.

  Nooo! Come back! Don’t leave me!

  Even a crazed killer like Harding was welcome in her current desperate state.

  ‘Sensible decision, Detective. Now that I have your attention, I need to know why you came here, to determine how urgent my departure will have to be. I was planning to leave the country for good next month anyway, but now I’m wondering if my departure will have to be sooner. Was it really because of an artefact I sold, the Atlas bone from so many years ago? Or is there something more?’

  ‘Only… bone.’ The words stuck in her throat but she managed to squeeze the lie out through her terror.

  ‘Oh dear. I thought we had an understanding. Let me remove your left hand and then we’ll talk again.’

  ‘No! No — puh-lease…’ Fiona could feel a plastic tie, similar to the cuffs she used, being tightened around her arm above her wrist joint. It was excruciating, just the unearthly pressure, but the reason he had applied it came to her just as he informed her.

  ‘Unfortunately my surgical guru is at work today so I’ll have to operate on you by myself. He’s taught me a great deal over the years, so don’t worry, you’re in capable hands.’ A deep chuckle followed as his eyes crinkled with dark humour. ‘Even so, I’ll have to use this makeshift but effective tourniquet. It’ll prevent the arteries in your lower arm from bleeding out before we finish our little chat.’

  ‘Stop! I —’

  The scalpel carved into her wrist, deeper this time to separate sinew from the joint, eliciting another demented bellow. The noise filled the chamber and vibrated into her own ears, magnified as it echoed off the walls, then a massive blast further overwhelmed her senses.

  Fiona’s last conscious memory was the sight of Abimbola being launched across the room in a shower of debris a fraction of a second before her world blossomed with bright light and then smothered her, suffocating her in darkness.

  ***

  ‘Fuck me!’

  Harding chuckled as he reappeared at the rear of the building and observed the devastated doorway, then hesitated, wondering whether to enter. Perhaps he had damaged the structure and would be risking his life by heading into the cellar. The target was probably dead anyway.

  Nah, it’ll be alright.

  The remaining funds would only be paid to him if he confirmed the kill by sending a photograph using the smartphone he’d been given. SAS boy had warned Harding he must also follow all the instructions if he wanted to be paid, though making this look like suicide might be a bit of a problem. And he still had to access the computer his employer had indicated was in the man’s office. Although the building was pretty remote, that explosion might bring unwanted attention, especially after those coppers had been lurking only minutes before.

  The petrol canister was behind the perimeter wall where Harding had left it, so having retrieved it and another fuse from his holdall, he trotted back to the cellar and stepped inside, his gun leading the way.

  The blast had shattered the door, the frame and much of the surrounding brick and stonework, and sent a shower of steel and rubble into a room. The place reminded Harding of a war torn hospital, but there was no time to loiter, he had to get the job done and be away. He ignored the woman spreadeagled on the steel table, covered in debris with a screen above her hanging on its cables, though he did note the video feed and the view of the property’s exterior.

  Much more important was the big man, sprawled on the concrete floor, propped in a sitting position against the wall, blood dribbling from a gash on his scalp — a direct hit from a chunk of brick, from the look of it.

  Dead already?

  Not that it mattered, though Harding checked and felt evidence of life throbbing into his fingers as he probed the man’s neck.

  Strong as a bleedin ox. Glad I knocked him cold already.

  A Colt revolver, its silver handle engraved with the initials AA, was one of the items in the holdall, so, using a rubber glove from the same treasure trove, Harding tugged the medical mask from the unconscious man’s face, placed the weapon in his unresisting fingers, the barrel to his throat, leaned back at arm’s length and pulled the trigger.

  The handgun was not particularly powerful but, at this range, the bullet was devastating. A gout of grey matter and blood erupted like a giant red rose on the wall behind, accompanied by a fine mist of human DNA that landed on Harding’s sleeve.

  Bollocks!

  His leather jacket was ruined.

  Too bad.

  Satisfied with his handiwork, Harding let the gun fall to his victim’s lap, index finger still entwined round the trigger, giving the appearance of suicide. With a photograph on his smartphone for proof, he had almost completed his first task, though things had not gone quite to plan.

  I ain’t lugging him upstairs to his office. He’s too bloody heavy. And two bodies…

  The petrol had been supplied to burn the place down once the suicide had been staged. It didn’t matter why to Harding, though he realised it would confuse the investigators once it had done its work. Hopefully he’d get paid on the basis of the photo before the anonymous boss discovered the screw up.

  Without a thought for the woman lying inert on the steel table, Harding placed the canister between the man’s outstretched legs, twisted the second fuse to arm it then placed it inside the plastic neck immediately above the petrol and screwed the lid back on.

  The smell and the excitement made him giddy. He took a deep breath, savouring the chemical tang, and with a last glance round the room, he hefted the holdall, and headed for the steps in time to hear a siren approaching.

  Damn! How do I get the other stuff done if they’re coming here?

  The thumb drive was still in his palm, the job not finished.

  Maybe the client won’t know about that, either, until it’s too late, especially with the building in flames.

  If I finish the other target quick enuff, I’ll get paid anyway…

  These thoughts came and went almost instantly. He turned to leg it then heard a beeping noise, so glanced over his shoulder at the screen dangling over the woman. The video showed a BMW with blue lights flashing under the grill swerve into the front of the drive and slide to a halt in a shower of gravel.

  Time to go!

  Harding leapt up the steps, ran past the side of the garages, and dived over the wall. He was on a high from the adrenaline, the anticipation, the acrid fumes from the petrol still clinging to his hands. He desperately wanted to detonate his improvised explosive device but controlled himself.

  Barely.

  The reason for his delay? The delicious thought flashing like a brilliant neon sign in his mind.

  Maybe I can incinerate a couple of pigs before I finish my work here...

  He fished his remote control from his holdall and waited with his finger twitching, itching to press the red button again.

  ***

  ‘Her car’s still here.’

  Jack stated the obvious for his passenger’s benefit as they swung on to the gravel forecourt and skidded to a halt next to Fiona’s Ford. Before Doc could answer, his colleague was out of the car, the door flung shut with a force that shook the whole vehicle. Doc followed at a more sedate pace as Jack hammered on the door.

  ‘Can you smell that, Jack?’ There was an odour in the air that was out of place, here in this little slice of rural suburbia. Doc tried to place it, but could not. A burnt chemical smell, something he had not experienced for some years.

  ‘I can’t smell a thing. I guess it’s the fags.’

  ‘Smoking can do that to you. It’s… It’s like Gu
y Fawkes night.’ Doc took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. ‘No, that’s not it. Like the smell at a firework display but much stronger, sharper.’

  ‘Really?’

  Dammit! What?

  ‘I know! It’s like cordite. On a firing range.’

  Jack shook his head, discontinued banging on the unresponsive door and cursed. Doc started following his nose, making his way round the side of the building and heard Jack’s feet scrunching, jogging to catch up. They rounded the rear of the main house together.

  ‘Yeah, I can smell it now.’

  They surveyed the garages, locked and blindly silent, then came to the cellar steps.

  ‘Someone’s used explosives to get in here, Jack.’

  ‘Oh shit! Explosives… That’s all I need. We’ll have the anti-terrorist boys all over this place. Let’s have a look before I call it in. Maybe Fifi’s in there.’

  ‘Jack!’ Doc shouted as his friend started for the steps. ‘Don’t be daft. The ceiling might fall in! We should call the fire brigade for assistance —’

  It was no use, Jack was already inside. Doc dithered for a moment, then punched three digits into his mobile and got an immediate response. He told the operator that explosives had been detonated on site, asked for all three emergency services to respond at once. When she started to ask for more details he gave her Jack’s call sign and told her the detective may be in danger, mentioned that the Mitcham police had been here earlier and finished the call just as Jack’s panicky yell for assistance reached his ears.

  He calmed himself with a few breaths and followed the detective into the cellar.

  ***

  Harding was marvelling at how today was turning out, how much his life had changed for the better, and all in such a short space of time.

  The escape, the ruination of Broadmoor, the dead guards, the satisfaction of topping an ex-SAS man, the successful hit he had just performed here, the money he’d been given already, the prospect of much more to come, and now, this!