The World Walker Series Box Set

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Joni opened her eyes. The train was gone. She was sitting in her bedroom on Innisfarne. It was morning, not early afternoon - she could tell by the light which had only just begun to creep up the far wall toward her bookshelves.

  On the quilt, carefully folded, was a newspaper. An advertisement had been ringed with green pen.

  Creative writing course for under 18s. Led by novelist Rae McCall, students will discover the tools needed in the craft of writing, improving their technique through a series of exercises followed by group and individual critiques. All within the stunning setting of the Winterbourne Hotel, Haltwhistle, on the edge of Northumberland National Park.

  Joni stood and drew a few shaky breaths. She looked out of the window, registering the unbelievably ordinary sight of the yard. Then she looked back at her room. She had done it. She had actually done it. What was she, a time traveler? She snorted in disbelief. Time travel was too riddled with problems to ever be feasible - Mum was fairly hot on science, and she’d ripped apart that concept one night when they’d been discussing HG Wells.

  Joni picked up the newspaper with trembling fingers and dropped it into the trash.

  11

  France

  The Broker lived in a chateau in northern France. He lived alone, protected by a handsomely paid security team, a hand-picked mixture of Manna and non-Manna users. A helipad on the croquet lawn meant he could receive visitors from anywhere in the world. The Broker himself had not left the grounds of the chateau for almost fifteen years. Technology had offered him a painless way of growing his business from anywhere in the world, and he had delicately slid his virtual fingers into the lives of hundreds of influential individuals from his satellite-linked lair.

  He had chosen his contacts carefully over decades, amassing information and storing it in his purpose-built databases. Then a series of creatively programmed algorithms connected the dots between the individuals, their associates, and their business interests. Criminal activities carefully concealed from view were dragged into the light of the Broker’s scrutiny.

  To his clients, the Broker described his business using a simple metaphor: he ran a currency exchange. His exchange wasn’t the largest in the world, but it was certainly one of the most useful, and powerful. And the only currency it accepted was information. Ten years ago, with the sudden disappearance of Mason, who—up to that point— had been his only real rival in the information business, he had unexpectedly found himself the market leader.

  The Broker had no price list for his services, but his Swiss account—the details of which he was always happy to supply to new clients—was regularly topped up with amounts he would have been embarrassed to ask for. It was almost as if his clients were competing with each other to prove their gratitude for his unique service.

  The Broker treated the occasional assassination attempt as a backhanded compliment, as well as an occupational hazard. Those behind the attempts were given a lesson in how assassinations should be carried out. For these specialist assignments, the Broker used the only person who made him truly nervous - the only person about whom he had been able to discover nothing, despite his best efforts. But the risk of using this invisible individual, a man who didn’t appear to have left a single trace of himself anywhere on or offline, had been more than compensated for by his remarkable skills in getting the impossible done. Killing the un-killable. The Broker suspected that one day, Adam—his first name was all he had—would want to erase all trace of their dealings. He just hoped that day would come far into his opulent future. His prediction about Adam was correct. Unfortunately, his hopes regarding the timescale were as inaccurate as they were optimistic.

  Adam waited patiently, the night scope pressed to his eye. If patience was truly a virtue, it was the only one Adam possessed. It had been six years since the hit in Rome. Since then, he had only made himself available for one or two jobs a year. During that time, he had become indispensable to the Broker.

  Gaining access to the Broker was a four-part operation taking forty-one days in all. Staking out the chateau had been first. The location was known in certain circles - it was impregnable, so the Broker felt little need to conceal his whereabouts. Adam had watched the comings and goings from a tree on a neighboring hillside. He set a camera to record while he slept or fetched supplies. After sixteen days, he found what he needed. A small Citroen approached the gates, where the first security team checked the vehicle and its occupant. The security operatives were first-rate, one keeping a safe distance, his weapon cocked and ready while his partner asked the questions. The car drove inside at 11:17pm and did not re-emerge until 5:14am. Adam was ready, his belongings packed and the immediate area cleared of evidence. He dropped out of the tree and made for the car he had concealed nearby. Part two of the operation began.

  He picked up the Citroen on the main Paris road and followed it to a small, exclusive housing estate in the suburbs. Adam watched as the driver locked the car and limped into his house. A couple of nights later, he broke in and questioned the driver, whom Adam’s research had revealed to be a high class escort commanding eye-watering prices for his services. There was no need to threaten the man - he was glad to give up the information Adam required. The bruises, cuts, and burns he showed Adam had been carefully placed in order to be hidden when he was clothed.

  Adam thought it unlikely the Broker would use the same prostitute twice, and bugging the offices of every high-end escort agency would be inefficient. Instead, the third part of his operation involved bringing in a little help. He hired a local petty criminal to watch the Paris road at the junction with the smaller lane leading to the chateau. Visitors other than shift changes for the security detail were rare, so any car containing a single occupant prompted an empty text being set to Adam’s burner phone. It happened twice in eleven nights. The first time, on the ninth night, was a false alarm - a laborer working in a neighboring vineyard had taken a wrong turn after a night of heavy drinking. A very brief conversation with security led to him weaving his way back to the main road.

  The car that turned in on the eleventh night was an anonymous Peugeot, new, slightly sporty. Adam picked it up in his night scope from his perch in a tree three-quarters of a mile further up the hill. Silently dropping to the floor, he jogged down the hillside, his night-vision goggles making the otherwise treacherous descent easy.

  When he reached the road, Adam looked for the tree he had marked. Finding it, he took off the goggles and reached behind a nearby bush. He dropped the goggles beside the bag containing his next outfit and picked up a large metal sign and a cap.

  He placed the sign on the road. It read: Halte, Gendarmerie. Adam ripped away velcro patches on his jacket and pants, revealing hi-vis ‘police’ badges. He turned on his flashlight and waved it slowly as the Peugeot appeared and slowed to a stop a few feet away. The window slid down as Adam approached.

  “Is everything ok?” said the driver. Adam shone the flashlight on the man’s face. Mid-twenties, quite heavily made up, dark red wig, a smart three-quarter length emerald dress and a silk shawl.

  “Get out of the car.” Adam could speak four languages fluently besides his native German, and he cultivated a neutral accent, trying to sound as bland and anonymous as possible.

  “Was I speeding?” The driver did his best to appear unconcerned as he swung his legs round and slid from the seat. He was already opening his purse. A small bribe was occasionally necessary to placate over-zealous members of the local gendarmerie.

  Adam didn’t go to great lengths to conceal the escort’s body. He just dragged it into the bushes along with the police uniform and the sign, making sure they weren’t visible from the road. By the time they were discovered, he would be long gone. He took the clothes from the concealed bag and dressed quickly. Part Four of the operation was reliant on his own abilities, and he was at the height of his powers.

  The guards were expecting ‘Chantelle’. The pair on the gate let Adam through without a problem.
They searched the Peugeot quickly and thoroughly, then did the same to Adam. They asked his name, the name of the agency plus a four-digit code that had been texted to the real escort’s cellphone while he drove. Adam had the phone now, as well as the silk shawl, which added a classy touch to his own black cocktail dress. The escort had given up all the information he needed immediately - it had only taken the police uniform to persuade him. Adam had been prepared to get more physically persuasive but was glad when it proved unnecessary. It meant he didn’t arrive later than expected.

  There were two more guards on the front door. That only left the Broker’s personal bodyguard, Katrina. Adam had done his research. She was a truly exceptional hand-to-hand fighter, trained to a high level in knife work and a skilled Manna user. She met Adam in the huge marble-floored lobby. The other two guards were sent to patrol the exterior of the chateau, with instructions to report back in two hours. Now it was just the three of them in the building.

  Adam knew he would only have one chance to get this right. He felt a small surge of adrenaline - not so much because of what he was about to do, more what he was about to learn.

  Katrina led Adam into a bathroom as big as most living rooms. She turned to face him.

  “Strip,” she said. “Naked. Now.” She waited until Adam had wriggled free of the dress and the panties beneath. He folded them and placed them behind him by the door. Katrina examined his body thoroughly, starting with his feet and slowly working up. Then she pulled out a latex glove and lubricated one finger, Adam feigned shock and reluctance before allowing her to check every orifice.

  Katrina raised an eyebrow at the hairless scalp beneath the wig but said nothing. She was a little taller than Adam’s five feet eight inches, but their physique was remarkably similar . Both were lean and wiry, muscled more like dancers than fighters. Professional killers had no room for vanity in their fitness and training regimes. They trained for speed, strength, and stamina. Of the three, stamina was the least important. Ideally, there would be no prolonged fighting. One blow, properly placed, should be enough. Sometimes two, if your opponent was experienced, lucky, or both. Speed meant you stood the best chance of winning. Surprise increased your chances significantly. Katrina, by the time she had finished examining Adam’s teeth and looking under his tongue, was finally satisfied. She relaxed a fraction, concluding there would be no surprises from the hairless, naked man in front of her. Her confidence was misplaced.

  Adam winced. “There was no need to be so rough,” he said. “I think you broke my filling. It hurts.” He put a finger into his mouth, exploring the area gingerly.

  “Poor baby,” said Katrina, flatly. “Now get dressed. He is waiting for you. Upstairs, first door on the right. Knock and wait until he calls you in. When you are finished, ring the bell on the table in the lobby.”

  Five years ago, Adam had helped a skilled dental surgeon avoid losing a kneecap to a local mobster collecting gambling debts. The mobster had gone home with three fewer fingers, and the dentist had agreed to do anything Adam wanted. Particularly when Adam explained that his debt, far from being paid, would now be personally handled by Adam himself. He paid the first installment by performing some specialist dental work.

  Adam slid his fingers back to the first upper molar, twisted it forty-five degrees clockwise and pulled it down, tilting it as he did so. The blade attached to it, concealed in a narrow hollowed-out chamber in the two teeth behind, was razor-sharp. Adam groaned a little to cover any sound, then pivoted on his toes and swung his right arm in a scything arc, catching Katrina’s throat and opening her jugular in one blur of motion. Her eyes widened, but her reflexes were incredible. Adam could see why the Broker had singled her out. Even as the fatal wound opened and sprayed crimson jets through the fingers she had instinctively jammed onto her neck, her right leg snapped up to deliver a kick that would have stopped Adam in his tracks, had it landed. It didn’t. Another advantage of surprise was the fact that you were one move ahead of your opponent during the crucial first few seconds of an engagement. Adam had dropped into a squat just as Katrina moved. He used his right leg to sweep her off her feet, just as her kick passed harmlessly over his head. As she fell, he pushed her backward, hard, and there was a satisfying crack as the back of her head made contact with the substantial free-standing bathtub.

  While Katrina bled out, Adam checked himself in the mirror. Only a few flecks of blood. He dabbed at them with some wadded tissue, careful not to smear his makeup. He replaced the tooth and retrieved his clothes from near the door. As planned, they were free of stains. He put the wig back on and smiled at himself in the mirror.

  “Showtime,” he said.

  12

  The Broker woke up slowly, in some discomfort. The last thing he remembered was the thrill of anticipation as the lithe, trembling escort had approached him. Now he was disoriented and confused. His shoulders hurt. He opened his eyes. Then he shut them quickly, before trying again, hoping he had just imagined what he had seen. He hadn’t.

  His wrists were tied to large iron hooks screwed into the wall, stretching his arms uncomfortably. He was sitting on a high stool, facing the wall. He could only see straight in front of him - something was obscuring his vision on both sides. There was light in the room, but it was flickering. Candles. He couldn’t stop himself groaning when he realized where he was. He was in the Games Room. Next door to the master bedroom. He couldn’t see left or right because he was wearing blinkers, handmade to his specifications to fit a human head. He was naked. Naked, tied up, unable to see his enemy. In a soundproof room. This wasn’t good.

  He heard a noise behind him and tried to twist to see better. As he did so, the stool was jerked away from under his naked buttocks, and he fell. The sudden shock of pain in his shoulder sockets as the ropes abruptly stopped his fall made him hiss through his clenched teeth. His feet found the floor. He was only able to stand on tiptoe. Just as he had specified when he had commissioned the construction of the Games Room almost two decades previously.

  “Let the fun begin,” said a soft voice behind him. “That’s what you say to them, isn’t it?”

  For a few seconds, the Broker allowed himself the comfort of believing this was a simple act of revenge. Maybe he had injured one of the escorts more permanently than he had intended. Maybe this was a jealous boyfriend, or—. He stopped his own delusional train of thought. Just to get into the chateau, through his security team, was supposed to be impossible for anyone wishing him harm. Each pair of guards comprised one soldier and one trained Manna user. The Manna users could not be fooled, they could sniff out violent intentions a mile away. They had proved invaluable on a number of occasions. How had this one slipped through? Was it possible his team had been compromised? How? Besides paying them every year what most people earned in ten, the Broker had the power of life or death over their families. They could not be turned against him. What did that leave? There was no chance at all of betrayal from Katrina. She had been trained since the age of three to serve, unquestioningly, the master or mistress to which she was assigned. For life. He had been forced to sell a small Caribbean island to pay for her. She was worth it.

  He cleared his throat. “Katrina…” he said.

  “Was a Majji fighter,” said the soft voice behind him. No real accent, hard to place. No tension, either. A pro. Shit. Wait. Did he say was?

  “You know about…”

  “The Majji? Yes, of course. I make it my business to keep abreast of my peers. And the Majji feature heavily among them. Bred to kill. Impressive. She’s dead.”

  “I don’t think so,” said the Broker. Even now, hanging from the wall in this impossible situation, he didn’t believe Katrina could have been overcome.

  “I wish I could tell you that she put up a good fight, but I’d be lying. And I do think we need to be totally honest with each other in the short time we have together. I think it will expedite things a little if I explain who I am and why I’m here. Although, surely yo
u have guessed the answer to both of those questions by now.”

  The Broker could feel his mental processes coming back online as every second passed. The side of his neck hurt. That must have been from the blow that incapacitated him. He didn’t see it coming, and it must have been extraordinarily accurate to render him immediately unconscious. But who? And what did he want? The fact that his captor wanted something gave the Broker a sliver of hope.

  “I described the Majii as my peers, but that’s not quite true. I have no peers. I’m the best at what I do. You should know. I’ve allowed you exclusive access to my talents for the last six years.”

  Oh. Fuck. Adam.

  Adam chuckled. The Broker heard a tiny whining sound. Now he knew who was standing behind him, he started to picture some mechanical instrument of torture being prepared to inflict unimaginable pain on him. Then he heard the tapping of keys and realized the first sound had been Adam turning on the laptop.

  “You have a printer in your bedroom. I want to print some information, then delete all trace of the files. Username, password.”

  The Broker told him. After Adam had first contacted him, he’d sent him on a few impossible hits, suicide missions. Adam had succeeded where no one else had got close. As soon as he realized the value of the asset he had acquired, the Broker used Adam to consolidate his position, take out competitors, cement his reputation as the only serious source of illicit corporate and national information globally. Adam had enabled him to build his empire. He was unstoppable, a ghost, a nightmare. Once unleashed on a job, he didn’t get back in touch until blood had been spilled. And tonight, if he didn’t play this very, very carefully, the blood would be his own.