Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1)

by Simon Jenner

  “If you’re gonna puke then make sure it’s on the outside of the car where no one will notice.”

  The rare joke from the tall agent didn’t have the desired effect. Johnson thumbed the key which released the door locks and lit up the interior. “Get in. We’ll talk about it on the way to the hotel. We’ve got a busy day ahead, and we need to grab a few hours’ sleep.”

  Without further discussion, both men got in the vehicle. Johnson started the engine and turned to his partner.

  “Something I should know?”

  Wilson snapped his seatbelt into position, faced Johnson and shrugged his shoulders. “Fisher’s pissed off at losing his job. If he goes after Whitehall, what do we care?”

  “Can you hear yourself?”

  His partner shrugged again. “What?”

  “It’s our job to protect people from terrorists. Do you think letting some disgruntled soldier steal a nuclear-powered weapon and exact revenge is doing our job?”

  “Maybe there are higher powers at work?”

  Johnson reversed the Mondeo, wheels screeching, mirroring the stress his face refused to accommodate. He wasn’t sure how much more of Wilson he could take.

  “Your job is to protect Smith and Jones and take down Fisher. If you’re not up to it, then tell me now and I’ll find someone else in the private sector to protect your precious Savannah.”

  “I’m good,” Wilson said.

  “I thought so.” Johnson shook his head. He doubted very much that Wilson was good. He wondered if their controller would sanction Wilson’s demise or whether he’d have to carry out his first unauthorised kill.

  *

  Back at the prestigious hotel, Wilson sat on his bed and opened the folder on Fisher. Put it away, he told himself. Lie down and go to sleep. But a stronger voice was guiding him. He shuffled through papers until he found what he was looking for. There was still time to change his mind. He held the page and stared at it, caught between conflicting loyalties for the first time in his career.

  There was no such thing as coincidence. There was no change there. He had always believed that. Too many signs were rearing their heads today for it to mean anything but a divine hand at work. He understood and wished he could have believed when Julie was alive. He had a chance to make a difference by doing the work of God. Picking up the hotel phone, he obtained an outside line and dialled. A tired voice answered on the seventh ring.

  “Yes?”

  Last chance, Wilson, last chance. He cleared his throat.

  “Sasha Fisher?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a message for your brother. Get a pen.”

  22: Monday 26th September, 08:45

  Twickenham was a hive of activity fifteen minutes before most people started their working day. The pavements were bustling with pedestrians and the roads crammed with slow-moving buses and cars. It turned out that Justice Investigations was above a coffee house on the busy London Road, opposite Twickenham Railway Station.

  Horns sounded so frequently that the sounds overlapped each other as motorists took their frustrations out on vehicles in front that they couldn’t even see. The tension generated by the need to be somewhere was clear on virtually every face John observed. Many pressed phones to their ears or spoke into Bluetooth devices wrapped around their ears as they attempted to sip boiling hot coffee from takeaway cups. Even Wilson looked tired and ruffled today.

  Upstairs in the small, brightly lit office, John and Savannah made themselves at home. Two desks were pushed together in the centre of the room, directly between the door to the back office and the entrance. Savannah would have her back to the window and face John. A rectangular table with three chairs was beside the main door. Wilson assured them, not convincingly, that he could be out in a second, and he would be perfectly positioned to take Fisher down. Wilson could hear and see the stairwell and the main office by way of hidden microphones and cameras in the ceilings.

  John found himself watching Savannah in her supplied office clothing of knee-length black skirt and white buttoned blouse which Johnson had brought to the safe house earlier. It seemed a little stereotypical but apparently it was the best Earthguard could do on such short notice - more like he’d had to go and buy it himself.

  John wore a smart charcoal grey suit, light blue shirt and yellow tie. Savannah said that he looked important and sexy. John blushed. Occasionally he would catch her looking back at him, and her whole face would light up, and he would question the reality of the night they had shared. It was surely an omen of the disaster to follow. Today, one or both of them would die a most grisly death, and last night was God’s way of softening the blow, a last mortal treat sort of thing. Nothing good lasted, not that he had much by way of comparison to this sort of good.

  Wilson wandered about like a bear with a sore head, occasionally glancing at Savannah and muttering to himself. The agent approached John with a scowl that etched lines deep into his forehead like the cracks of a crumbling conscience. “Smith, stop staring at Savannah and get ready. If Fisher shows we need to be ready.”

  Not even on first name terms anymore? The agent looked every bit as stressed as the hundreds of frantic commuters outside. Either Wilson reckoned that they were in grave danger or maybe Johnson had been wrong and his interest in Savannah was not as innocent as the tall man had suggested.

  John sat down at his desk and went through his drawers as he’d been instructed.

  “What are we supposed to do other than sit at our desks and look busy?” asked Savannah, staring wide eyed in apparent disbelief at the agent’s attitude. Her hands were on her hips and John knew that aggressive stance well from their discussions at the Ritz. Boy, but what gorgeous hips they were. Every part of her, which had already looked perfect before, was amplified tenfold by feelings he could only guess at being part infatuation and part lust. He was tempted to consider love, but he was too much of a cynic and death was too close around the corner for him to allow it room in his thoughts. Maybe if they were together next week?

  Wilson approached his girlfriend. His GIRLFRIEND!

  “I’m sorry, Savannah,” Wilson said, throwing a case file onto John’s desk. “I’m tired and I’ll be glad when this is all over. Don’t worry yourself unduly. Fisher won’t turn up.”

  John guessed that the agent sounded sincere, but he was definitely spooked about something and getting tetchier by the minute. Wilson wasn’t finished.

  “This is a single office with only one entrance and one window. A sniper has clear sight from the roof across the street and will fire if I give the order. This won’t happen because I’ll have already taken care of Fisher from here.”

  “But why aren’t you expecting him to come?” John pressed, pleased to be distracting Wilson’s gaze from its constant focus on Savannah. “I thought you and Johnson put the word out that Savannah had been seen here?”

  “Just a hunch, Smith. Now mind your own business and get on with your work. I’m not to be disturbed until I’m sure Fisher isn’t turning up. Got it?” With his outburst over, Wilson marched into the back office and slammed the door behind him so hard the partition wall shook.

  John didn’t reply. He’d have felt better if Johnson was here.

  Savannah sat at her desk and looked up at the ceiling before grabbing a pen and note pad. She scribbled and tore out a page, showing it to John while taking care to tilt it enough to be hidden from the camera above. It read: ‘What’s up with Grumpy?’

  John pulled out an identical pad from his fake in-tray and wrote back: ‘I think he loves you.’

  Savannah chuckled and began to write a new note.

  A booming voice came from behind the door of the back office. “It’s not a game.”

  John and Savannah eyed each other like naughty school children. John considered talking to Wilson but decided against it. Perhaps he was right - maybe they should be taking it more seriously. Savannah screwed up her face at the camera, pulled out the started page fro
m her pad, crumpled it and tossed it in the bin beneath her desk. They sat in silence for an hour and a bit before things became incredibly strange.

  *

  In the back office, Wilson nibbled on his fingernails until he reached skin. Had he misinterpreted God’s signals? He was hardly an expert in such matters. If Smith wasn’t around, he could have talked to Savannah. What she saw in the layabout, he had no idea. By now Fisher should have found where he’d hidden the gun and be on his quest for justice. Wilson could do no more. It was out of his hands.

  What if Fisher directed his anger against innocent people? It would be his fault and he would be damned to hell for eternity. No. It was wrong to doubt his new found faith. Everything would be fine and Savannah would be kept away from harm thanks to him. How could Johnson have tried to put an innocent girl in danger for the sole purpose of protecting his treasured job?

  Soon Johnson would arrive at where they had buried the gun, only to find it missing. Despite the tiredness from three days without more than a catnap, the thought brought a smile to his lips. The last three days had brought many revelations, not least the downright selfish nature of his partner. How he hadn’t picked up on it before was a mystery. He wouldn’t take a bullet for anyone again. As far as he was concerned, he only answered to one man from now on, and he could take care of himself.

  Once Johnson called to confirm the theft of the gun, he would effectively end his own career. Wilson would call it in and Johnson would be history, blamed for whatever retribution on the government Fisher carried out. Johnson should have never allowed Wilson back on the job. There was no evidence to suggest that Wilson had stepped outside of protocol at any time. It was all in Johnson’s head and the senior agent had messed up royally. He picked up his phone from the table where the surveillance equipment sat and dialled the Earthguard laboratory. A voice simulator answered.

  “Code please.”

  Wilson entered the code for the laboratory.

  “Simpson here,” a male voice replied. “How can I help you, Agent Johnson?”

  Wilson smiled. How easy it had been to switch phones with Johnson. Picking pockets was part of their training and when Johnson had put on the headphones during the turbulent flight from SAS headquarters, Wilson had seized his opportunity. As soon as he had made the switch, he was certain he had felt the hand of God on his shoulder. Wilson pressed in the code to disguise his voice. On this setting, he would sound like the computer that had answered the call, and there would be no chance of the call being located.

  “Simpson, I’ve got the gun here in front of me. What settings result in the most powerful explosion?”

  “Why are you using voice disguise, Agent Johnson?”

  “Just a precaution.” He shouldn’t say too much. Bradshaw’s young assistant was sharp. “Tell me the settings.”

  “The chances of that one exploding are over a hundred to one. Aren’t you supposed to be taking it for disposal?”

  That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Fisher had to be after the gun’s explosive qualities. It sounded like Bradshaw had lied about the ease with which this might be triggered. “I thought the fault wasn’t fixed?”

  “The odds are still unacceptable which is why we have instructions to dismantle the remaining prototype and send the power pack to be destroyed.”

  “You have another prototype in the lab?”

  “Version 6 of the first one. Bradshaw wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Only if you clip on the nuclear power pack, turn both dials to full and pull the trigger.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, don’t point it at the ground or they’ll bury your remains in a matchbox.” Simpson laughed at his own morbid joke for a moment. “I’m just kidding. Not that you’d want to fire the original prototype without checking your life insurance, but the general rule with these babies is not to fire on full power unless your target’s over a mile away.”

  Wilson had to have the original prototype. “Interesting stuff,” he began. “We’ll have to have a chat about it some time. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is that the controller has asked me to check and see what prototypes are left and take them to be disposed of with this one here.”

  “But he knows we just have the one. Why would he ask you to check? I should call him.”

  “That’s why he asked me to take care of it. You’re not in his best books. He blames you for letting Bradshaw take this one out. I wouldn’t bother him if I were you.”

  The call went quiet. Wilson rested the phone on his shoulder and put his hands together in prayer. Then Simpson asked, “When can I expect you?”

  “I’ll send Wilson, he’s closer. I think he can be with you in fifteen. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Simpson said. “Tell your controller I was helpful, will you?”

  “Sure thing,” Wilson said, ending the call and making for the window. He had to get to Kingston upon Thames before Johnson found the gun missing. It was doubtful, given his partner’s keenness to mop up messes without involving their controller, but if Johnson called HQ when he discovered the gun was gone, Wilson would be walking into certain disaster.

  *

  John winked at Savannah for at least the tenth time when the sound of the buzzer on Savannah’s desk sucked the romance from the air. Fisher was here. Savannah stared at John and took three deep breaths before pressing the intercom button.

  “Justice Investigations, do you have an appointment?” John could detect the slightest tremor in her voice which hopefully the intercom would disguise.

  “My name is Fletcher. I would like to hire your firm’s services.”

  Savannah released the door lock remotely and the door swung inwards.

  Fisher wore blue jeans, a red sweatshirt under an unbuttoned black Donkey type jacket, and newish black Adidas trainers. He was a good inch taller than John, at about six feet two, with a slim but solid build. He had short, light brown stubble for hair, grey eyes and a fairly everyman face which wouldn’t have stood out but for the paleness of his skin. It wasn’t that the man was an albino but he looked like the skin under a newly removed sticking plaster. It wasn’t a healthy look.

  But for his body type and height, the man was nothing like the scarred figure John had spotted at Waterloo station. Fisher’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and his mouth broke into a crooked smile. John’s eyebrows shot up even higher. He had seen the smile before. It was the man from outside Aphrodite’s Angels.

  “Varushkin!” Fisher exclaimed.

  John braced himself, expecting Wilson to burst through the door or a shot to smash through the window spraying glass and parts of Fisher around the room. Fisher approached the desks slowly, warily looking from side to side. No Wilson, no glass, no brains. John glanced at Savannah who stood up. Fisher turned his attention to her.

  “Sit down Jones,” he said, barely moving his lips. “Varushkin and I have business to discuss.”

  Savannah looked at John and John nodded. What was Wilson up to? John resurrected Varushkin’s speech patterns in his head.

  “Yes, time to make business,” John said, hoping his accent would hold fast under greater stress than before. “The girl can go into back office, yes.”

  Fisher waved his hand in uninterested agreement. Savannah didn’t need asking twice and quickly jumped up and headed to where Wilson would remove her from harm’s way. As she turned the handle, John tensed uncontrollably, preparing to take any necessary action, but when the door opened, it was apparent that unless Wilson was behind the door, he was no longer in the back office. Once Savannah was behind the closed door, John looked back to Fisher.

  “Are you nervous, Varushkin? What were you expecting behind the door?”

  John needed to think fast. This wasn’t supposed to go down like this. He remembered his premonition of disaster. If they were to survive, he had to dig deep into previously unreachable depths of confidence. He laughed out l
oud, a deep throaty laugh which might befit the toughest of Russians.

  Fisher’s mouth turned down, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s so funny?”

  John rocked back on his chair.

  “I think you are with Earthguard and have agent in back ready to take me in, but I recognise you now.”

  “You do? You know who I am?”

  “Sure, you are Fisher, no?”

  The surprise on Fisher’s face was as obvious as if he’d been attacked physically. His eyes darted about the room as if he’d been trapped and needed an instant escape route. Seemingly satisfied, he rubbed his head with his knuckles. John stayed still, his forced smile starting to ache deep in his jaw bone. He had no idea what to expect. Finally Fisher sighed and patted John on the shoulder.

  “I knew you were no pimp,” he said. “But how do you know who I am?”

  “I know many people,” John said. “I hear you are good at the combat and the explosions.”

  “Who told you about me?”

  John swung his legs up onto the desk. Where the hell was Wilson? He hoped to God that if Wilson had climbed out of a window that Savannah had the sense to do the same.

  “Earthguard of course, who else?”

  “You’re with Earthguard?”

  “I’m with whoever can get weapon. Can you get weapon?”

  A flash of anger crossed Fisher’s eyes. “Don’t mess with me, Varushkin. If you’ve talked to Earthguard, then you know they have the weapon.”

  John felt the familiar speeding of his heart, and he fought to keep his breathing even. This man would kill him in an instant if he messed up. This was the man who had killed his best friend and attempted to blow up Savannah. Fear and hatred fuelled his resolve. “No amount of money was enough. They are, how do you say, incruptable.”