Blood War (The Bloodeaters Trilogy Book 1)

by Rees, Kevin

  Matthew was waiting with the phone in one hand and a cup of steaming coffee in the other. Aquino took both and sat at his desk.

  ‘President Aquino. Who am I speaking with?’

  ‘Sir! My name is, Sir Richard Clive — Head of Department 38. Are we secure?’ The other man paused before continuing.

  Aquino motioned to Matthew, who nodded. ‘Yes, Sir Clive, this line is secure.’

  ‘What I have to tell you, President Aquino is highly embarrassing to His Majesty’s government.’ He paused, as if the news he was about to give was causing him personal pain. ‘It seems our liaison with Commander Felton may have gone missing.’

  Aquino digested what the man was trying to say before replying, ‘Do you mean he’s been killed by Bloodeaters, or by my troops? Or are you saying he cannot be accounted for at this time?’

  ‘The latter, sir.’

  ‘Sir Clive, maybe it would be best if you could tell me exactly what it is you’re trying to tell me?’

  Tork signalled for the team to get low as he scouted ahead. He entered the car park from a concealed position and remained still amongst the conifers lining the white-painted bays. In front of him, the yellow half-truck was still parked close to the copse shown in the pictures. Tork poked his head up and looked into the cab. The keys were still inside, waiting for a hand to twist them into purpose. Instead, Tork quietly opened the door and took them out of the ignition. As he backed out a strong hand clamped itself over his mouth and nose. He tried to bring his weapon up, but another arm quickly encircled his chest.

  ‘Quiet, man, its Karl.’

  Tork stopped struggling, feeling a little embarrassed his commander had restrained him so easily.

  ‘Get your team to rendezvous here,’ Karl ordered.

  Tork acknowledged the order and began weaving his way back to the others. Karl watched him disappear before sitting down heavily on the dew-covered ground. It seemed Father had anticipated everything: even the team working out where the likely exit for the tunnel would be. To gain an advantage, he rigged a number of anti-personnel traps — Karl stumbled into one in his blind quest to find him. It was a simple spring trap, concealed on a contrived path that saw the great Karl Felton reduced to making a rookie mistake. The trap snapped shut on his ankle. He pushed off the jaws, inspecting the teeth for poison — or worse. The trap had easily penetrated his boot, and tore jagged holes in his leg, which was still saturating his foot with blood. Karl re-tied the laces, pulling them as tight as the leather would go to splint the joint.

  ‘Commander, the team is ready for you, sir,’ Tork whispered, appearing silently behind him.

  Felton considered his next move. The path was probably false, and there to lead them away from the tunnel entrance. He could set up a skirmish line, but that would give their presence away. Using Tork and two others to scout the area would also take up time. He had so few choices left to him, and sometimes that was an advantage, providing he took the right course of action.

  Tork’s sensitive nose detected blood on the air. He looked around and saw thick lines leading to Karl. ‘Commander, you’re hurt.’

  ‘Father!’ Maya came around Tork and knelt down beside him. She saw the ragged cuts in his boot where the vicious teeth had punctured his flesh.

  ‘Maya, there’s no need to fuss — help me up,’ Karl said, offering his hand to his daughter.

  She hauled him to his feet, nearly overbalancing as she did.

  Karl stood, testing his makeshift splint and found he could put his full weight onto it with only a little pain to remind him of his stupidity. He still wasn’t certain if his next order was the right one, but it was the only logical option he had.

  ‘I will take command,’ Karl said, addressing each member — especially Tork, who stepped back into line without question. ‘We lost a good man today — in fact, two good men, as I will not forget how well Roman fought. But we have a greater mission to complete. One that will honour their memory and sacrifice.’ He paused, causing his daughter to unconsciously reach out a hand to support him. His eyes spoke loudly enough to send her arm quickly back to her side. ‘Father has used this place as a hunting ground, to feed and turn humans into his puppets while the rest of his Brood cower in the shadows hoping we would be dissuaded from taking them on. They laid traps for us.’ Karl slapped his leg and laughed. ‘With a stupid old fool who should know better stepping into one.’ The lightness of the last few words lifted the battle-weariness, replacing it with low grunts from the team. ‘Let’s end this. If Father hasn’t run away, I say we make a present of his head to Aquino.’

  The men of the team nodded their approval and began preparing for the next phase of the mission. Tork watched Maya take a step back from the group. Her eyes hadn’t left her father, and in there was a look of pained abandonment. Tork had served many times with Karl and knew the man to be driven in battle, and a savage killer of Bloodeaters. Tork saw in her face an uncertainty growing — Maya hadn’t expected the professional detachment of his leadership, especially towards her. She had learned a lot about her failings on this mission. Her haughty arrogance had been excised the moment Lars sacrificed himself. Tork knew she was blaming herself for his death; that she was responsible. Perhaps there was some truth in that. The delays she’d caused, the disruption and petulance, had given the enemy time to convert many Jaik’s, and to set up reasonable defences. Had they lived up to their reputation of a quick, clinical strike team, perhaps Lars would still be alive? The guilt was something Maya would wear like a second skin for a while. The small part of him that still retained a faint glow of emotion felt a little sorry for the woman.

  ‘Trooper Felton, over here.’ Tork’s rigid tone cut through the chatter. It smacked of an order that required an action from her. The group fell silent and watched. Even Karl stopped to see what his second-in-command was up to.

  ‘Yes, Tork,’ Maya said.

  ‘Stand to attention when you address me. Your father is in charge, but I still outrank you.’ Tork delivered his words with a hardness he reserved for the drill square. Immediately, the girl straightened and looked forward. Tork walked up to her and put his face close to hers. ‘Are you a member of Alpha team, or are you not?’

  She could feel his spittle peppering her cheek. ‘I am a member of this team, sir.’

  ‘Then act like a member of this team, and not some snivelling, precious, little girl. Things go wrong in battle, and we sometimes make terrible decisions that cost lives. We do not resurrect the dead, Felton, we immortalise them here.’ Tork slapped his chest. The team behind him looked inspired themselves by the power of the man’s words. ‘You have two choices... fight with us, or go home, make soup and become pregnant. Well? Which do you choose?’ His voice trailed off, waiting.

  ‘I am part of Strike Team Alpha, sir!’

  ‘Correct answer. Join the others and prep.’ Tork watched as she walked with a renewed purpose to the men. He caught Karl’s eye, who tilted his head in approval.

  ‘One minute and we move. Tork, we don’t have time to disarm booby-traps, so be vigilant.’ Karl’s next words were cut off as a body crashed through the bushes.

  Kat Merunkova staggered into the clearing. Her exposed flesh was cut and torn wherever skin had come into contact with the sharp blackberry thorns. She was covered with blood that was being added to by a strip of torn flesh hanging down from the side of her scalp. Tork rushed to the girl and picked her up before she collapsed. He made a quick assessment. The injury on her thigh gaped where the stitches had ripped open, but the artery was intact. The skin on the side of her head looked as if it had been peeled back like an orange down to the white bone, and it was bleeding heavily. One of the men quickly applied a field dressing while Tork held her.

  ‘Get her back to Keagan. Stephen, you take her,’ Karl ordered. A young man stepped forward and took the girl from Tork, ‘I want you to stay with her. If she can give us any information where Father is, radio it through immediately.’
>
  For a moment, the young man looked mortified, but a glance from Karl silenced any protest. He set off at a quick pace, hoping he could return with any information in person and be part of the capture.

  ‘The rest of you... let’s get the monster.’

  Aquino put the phone down and contemplated his next action. ‘Matthew, get me Karl Felton.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Aquino watched his aide go out of the office to the radio room. He sighed, knowing in the next few minutes he could lose a valuable friend and ally. It would also put his motives into that stagnant, slimy pool politicians crawled out of covered with lies and deceit. If Karl decided to make public his next order, at the very least, it would place his presidency at risk, if not make it completely untenable.

  His aide appeared flustered when he returned. ‘Sir, it seems Commander Felton is not answering the radio. No-one is answering.’

  ‘Keep trying, Matthew. Also inform Sir Clive it may be too late to stop Karl.’ Aquino sank into his chair. It would be the easy way out of this mess if communications were blacked out. Then Sir Clive’s government would have to accept his apology that he couldn’t acquiesce to their request to call off the assault and allow Father safe passage to leave the country. As soon as news reached them of patients being turned into half-dead monsters they — the UK government — wanted no part in trying to eradicate the cause. The cancer could spread to somewhere else. Sir Clive was more concerned that if news got out to the press it would threaten the Prime Ministers re-election.

  ‘You could patch through to his personal radio, President Aquino.’ Standing in the doorway was Cruz-Smith. He leant casually on the frame, looking at the man sat in the high-backed chair.

  ‘Mr Cruz-Smith, you do have the most annoying habit of appearing out of thin air at the most inconvenient time.’ Aquino leaned forward, placing an arm on his desk, staring intently at the man. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Because I think you are going to kill me,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘You could be right.’ Aquino leant back in the chair and brought his other hand up. In it was an automatic pistol aimed expertly at Cruz-Smith’s head. ‘Your move, I’d say.’

  21

  Thoragan was mouthing words to the invisible, while his eyes held the vacant look of someone who had lost contact with the physical world. He wasn’t conscious of the bedroom, or how much time had passed since his elaborate party ended in his humiliation. Inwardly, all he could see were his own dark, murderous plans to bring down a president. If Aquino thought his was the last action, then Thoragan was going to spit right back into his face and tell him it wasn’t. Aquino attacked him publicly in front of his guests, and for that there would be a consequence. He whispered his plan urgently to the empty room, waving his arms and pointing at an invisible audience. They should know it was he, Praetor Thoragan, who really ran things in Parliament City, and not some jumped up figurehead in a fine-cut suit. Aquino didn’t even hold with tradition, and yet he sat in a seat that should be occupied by someone worthy — and no one was more worthy than he.

  His movements became grander as he orchestrated a giant hand that appeared out of his mirror. It began plucking up people and moving them like pieces on a political chessboard into strategic positions. Thoragan began to mouth aloud instructions he wanted carried out by his supporters, while the weaker members of parliament gratefully accepted any small morsels of power he threw at them. His body twitched and jerked with each of the powerful images he was creating. Saliva dripped from his chin and hung down in silvery threads. He saw himself appointing his most trusted allies into key seats made vacant when his new order came to power. Gone would be suits. He would strip the current incumbents of their expensive cloth and burn it publicly for everyone to see how much he valued old tradition. Aquino’s would be last. He would personally rip the coat from his body, haul down his trousers and grind them into the embers. The sight of the ex-president in his underpants and socks heaved the sides of his mouth from a quiver into a smile.

  ‘Praetor?’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ he shouted angrily, snapping out of his fantasy.

  ‘Sir, two Presidential guards are here with lawmen.’ The voice hung, waiting for a response.

  Thoragan froze. What the hell would Aquino’s men be doing here with the law? ‘Tell them I’m getting dressed and will be down shortly. And Wicks? Seat them in the library.’

  He hurried to his wardrobe where his robes of office hung majestically alongside the fashion faux pas that took up the rest of the space. Thoragan dragged out the heavy costume and flung it over his head. He wanted to convey his position and authority, placing the guards at a disadvantage when seeing him dressed officially. He slipped his feet into a pair of shoes whose backs buckled immediately along a well-worn crease. Thoragan swore as the hard lip of the leather bit into his flesh. Angrily, he dropped onto his bed and poked a thick finger between the leather and his heel. Bending sent his face purple with the effort of overcoming the mounds of flesh between him and the shoe. Sweat broke out all over his body, sending a malodorous smell into the garment, igniting countless other equally offensive smells. Thoragan found bathing a chore and didn’t see what the point was of sitting in a tub or being sprayed by water either too hot or too cold. Occasionally his servants would stand him on a sheet and rub his body with damp cloths. His lack of hygiene had the advantage at times of clearing a whole bench in the senate room as nobody would sit by him, especially in high summer.

  He took one cursory look in the mirror before descending the stairs to the library.

  Four people stood quietly in the small room waiting for the Praetor. The lawmen were looking in disgust at a picture of Thoragan holding what looked to be a pound of flesh cut from the breast of the President. The paint looked fresh and recently completed, especially, as one of the Presidential guards observed, their charge had just recently grown a beard as depicted in the painting. The two guards stood at the back of the room looking at the books shelved neatly in alphabetical rows. Thoragan’s passion for Shakespeare was obvious by the amount of shelf space devoted to the elaborate volumes, which ran along one side of the wall. In contrast, along another wall, other quite unremarkable works of fiction and paperback books by First Blood authors were stacked haphazardly on the wooden slats. Thoragan’s tastes were as bizarre as the man himself.

  Outside, the sound of heavy footsteps on the staircase indicated the Praetor’s approach. There was a slight pause as one of his servants asked if he should serve coffee. Thoragan was heard to say no, as they wouldn’t be here long enough.

  The four looked at each other and smiled.

  A second later the door opened, and in walked the fat man.

  ‘Gentlemen...Oh, my apologies and lady. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,’ Thoragan said, eyeing all of them in turn.

  ‘Praetor, thank you for allowing us to speak with you on a matter of great urgency.’ The first man to rise was Lieutenant John Duncan, a detective who was widely tipped to become the Commissioner of External Law — and someone Thoragan took an immediate dislike to, due to his incorruptible honesty. ‘May I introduce my Sergeant, Dole Kilnan? Those two serious-looking people at the back are Mr Jarvis and Miss Cotrane, who are senior members of the President’s guard.’

  ‘May I say, isn’t it a little odd to have two of the President’s guard working with you?’ Thoragan slid into a chair, watching the man and woman who remained silent at the back of the room, neither letting their steadfast gaze drop. He could feel the thud-thud-thud of his pulse quickening, and a swirl of heat threatened to evaporate more moisture from his body. He was trying to find a reason for them being here. A serving Praetor was above arrest, unless for treason. Perhaps that was why they brought the guards, who were the only body outside of the military to carry weapons in public. Had someone in his circle transgressed?

  ‘Praetor.’ The Lieutenant moved to the edge of the chair. ‘We want to inform you of a grave and unprece
dented incident that happened less than two hours ago.’ He paused, looking at all the people in the room, as if seeking permission before continuing. Thoragan leaned towards the man, his curiosity piqued. ‘Praetor Thoragan, the President has asked for your help in a delicate matter that concerns an associate of yours — Morgan Cruz-Smith.’

  With all the practice of appearing calm and in control he had cultivated over many years, the name Cruz-Smith made him stiffen. He felt all the eyes in the room sending waves of accusation and guilt his way. Yet Duncan was saying Aquino needed his help.

  ‘May I ask what the President would like me to do?’ Thoragan said, appearing to pause as if thinking deeply about the statement. He was fighting desperately to get his emotions back under control.

  ‘May I confirm you do know, Mr Cruz-Smith?’ Duncan pursued.

  ‘I am acquainted with him.’

  John Duncan glanced at his Sergeant, who leant over and whispered in his ear.

  Thoragan frowned. ‘Lieutenant, what is this about? Are you questioning me as some sort of a witness? If so, may I remind you that, under article ten, paragraphs thirteen and fourteen of the Judicial rights of a serving member of the Senate, I cannot be questioned by the law, especially in my own home.’ Thoragan got out of the chair and stood up. ‘Why question me anyway... hmm?’

  ‘Praetor, forgive me. I am trying to attend to a very grave matter, which goes against my better judgement. These people behind me have insisted I be involved, and that my duty as a law officer is one based on fairness and impartiality. However, I also swore an oath to protect the Presidency. I need to know who Mr Cruz-Smith was, and what type of occupation he had. Please, sir, could you help your President?’ Duncan looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. At the end of his speech his voice was ragged.

  ‘There seems to be a lot of talk, Lieutenant, of the President. May I ask if President Aquino is well?’