The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  “Nothing that I can tell, sir,” he replied, sheepishly.

  “You mean you missed him,” Kaplan spat.

  “It could just be a test...”

  A DHL van sped through the industrial estate, a moment later passing the Bentley and Bravo Team’s two nondescript white vans, disturbed air buffeting their vehicles to rock slightly. Shocking them further, tyres screeched as the van tore into the car park being observed, a hubcap detaching from the front wheel and bouncing across the road to crash harmlessly against a set of large wheelie bins stationed ahead by the side of the road a short distance away.

  The DHL van came to a halt outside the warehouse.

  “Hel-lo,” Jack intoned to himself, refocusing his binoculars on the vehicle. He watched the back door of the bright yellow van burst open and three heavily armed men dressed in dark clothing jump out. From the front of the vehicle a smartly dressed man climbed down from the passenger seat. He spoke to the three armed men, clearly the man with the power, calling the shots. The Bravo Team leader recognised him from the mug shots sent to his phone earlier. The man’s photo had not done him any justice. He looked every bit like the all-American jock often seen gracing the TV or silver screen, chiselled good looks, cropped sandy-blond hair and an outfit that could easily have been tailored for James Bond.

  “Tell me you are seeing this?”

  Wyatt sighed. “I am sir,” he replied. “Looks like the welcoming party has arrived.”

  “Is that…”

  “The American. Brayden Scott…, yes it is sir.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Nothing, yet; appears they are just waiting around.”

  Indeed, the armed men kitted out in black and Brayden Scott were just standing around a short distance from the warehouse entrance, looking casual. Between talking to the men, Brayden was turning away to talk some more into a mouth piece Wyatt had spotted attached to the collar of his shirt. Further scrutiny highlighted an earpiece snugly placed in his left ear.

  “What are your orders?” asked Wyatt of his superior seated in the car two vehicles back.

  Kaplan was quick to respond. “We watch… and we wait. You will know when it is time to act.”

  A couple of minutes passed and the sound of a muffled –

  BANG!

  – sounded over the din of ringing sirens.

  A moment later Wyatt watched the American speak further to the three heavily armed men, making a number of hand movements, gesticulating directions, no doubt backing up verbal instructions. Even without hearing what was said, Wyatt could tell by the sign language that they were about to go in. Brayden held up a hand displaying three fingers. Wyatt guessed the American was carrying out a countdown, confirmed when he started closing his hand one finger at a time.

  “They’re going in,” the Bravo Leader said, sounding like an amateur commentating a swimming competition. The three heavily armed men entered the warehouse. Brayden Scott hung back watching his associates disappear into the building. He walked to the driver of the van and spoke briefly with him through the rolled down side window. He indicated something and for a split-second appeared to look directly at Wyatt.

  “Okay Jack; prepare your men. There are two ways this is going to play out. They are either going to capture whoever it was who triggered the security hullabaloo. Or, they will end up like Alpha Team this morning – either way, we go in and clean up the mess. Synchronise your watches and begin countdown to two minutes.”

  In the lead van, Jack Wyatt orchestrated the synchronising of watches between him and the seven other men, all wearing identical chronometers, sitting in the two white vehicles parked up across from the warehouse. Timepieces began to count down from two minutes.

  “Okay, ladies,” started Wyatt, “you know the drill. When it gets down to zero we go in. Tag’ em and bag’ em gentlemen. Oorah!” No one repeated the Bravo Leader’s war cry which made him feel (and look) stupid. His team shared disparaging looks, shook their heads in embarrassment or smirked at their leader’s behaviour.

  A glance through the binoculars saw the American agent head into the warehouse. It was now just a matter of waiting out the final minute and thirty seconds.

  On the horizon, in the night sky, a bright light fast approached from the east. Wyatt noticed it but gave it no serious thought – just a helicopter, probably the police tracking a joy rider wreaking havoc along the highway or an air ambulance on its way to the Norfolk and Norwich University hospital.

  What he didn’t notice was the convoy of black vans that had appeared in the road behind him, their headlights off, their movement slow and deliberate. They had manoeuvred stealthily and strategically to block off the entire road.

  Four vans in all.

  Almost in a blur the side doors of the vans flew open, spewing forth a mini army of heavily armed personnel, all dressed similarly to those who’d moments earlier entered the warehouse, clearly members of the same organisation. They formed a line as they advanced on the three vehicles parked to the side of the road, M16 rifles aimed ahead in battle ready pose, fingers caressing triggers. Submerged in shadow, they crept up on their unwitting targets. Wyatt and his team, oblivious to the danger, were too busy mentally preparing and plotting their mission to notice that they were being stalked like the prey of a pack of black-backed jackals.

  Chapter Forty

  Sophie

  Sophie had reluctantly turned her back on her father, feeling his eyes on her invisible back as she ran deeper into the warehouse towards the small room from which the GPS signal continued its transmission. Had she known that he was about to be taken captive she may have abandoned the mission, instead focusing her attention on breaking open the barrier that had separated them. Instead she continued forward, her weapon drawn, her mother almost in touching distance. In the corner of the corridor, just below the ceiling on the left side, a small surveillance camera monitored the hallway, oblivious to her advance. Being invisible had its advantages.

  The intruder alarm, a blaring horn filling the corridor, continued its discordant cry, reverberating loudly within her head, threatening to rupture her eardrums. So loud, the alarm would continue to echo inside her head and haunt her dreams for many weeks after.

  Outside the room from which the Nexus had guided her, the signal pulsed stronger, leaving her in no doubt that the transmitter − and her mother − were within. She tried the door but obviously it was locked. Why wouldn’t it be? A swipe card reader was affixed to the wall to the right of the door. A small LED lamp glowed red, signifying a confirmation that it in deed was locked. A glance around the corridor indicated half a dozen other doors were all secured by the same method, except for one.

  Across the narrow hall was a room with a swipe card reader that glowed green. She moved stealthily to it and without pause or hesitation kicked the door open.

  The door catapulted back revealing a startled man, in his fifties, round-of-belly, and balding with a white dressing attached to his head. He was sitting behind a cluttered desk that stretched along the wall, an array of CCTV screens flickering black and white images in front of him. The room was no larger than a store cupboard or utility room.

  Although Sophie could see him, Mitch Youngs was not wearing suitable eyewear to see her, so it was a further shock to feel the butt of an invisible gun connect with the side of his head, the force of which knocked him sideways – he slumped over the desk in a heap, his elbow connecting with the empty soup cup, knocking it off the desk to shatter on the floor.

  Considering the wall of monitors, Sophie focused on the one which paraded her mother. The others that were on displayed sections of empty corridors. The room in which her mother was secured was brilliant white and sparsely furnished. Her mother was pacing, agitated. Oblivious to the sirens beyond her room, her distress was essentially due to he
r confinement.

  “Okay mother, I’m coming. Let’s get you home.” Slipping the handgun into the waistband of her trousers, Sophie looked for a way to unlock the door to her mother’s cell. There were no obvious buttons to press to override the door locks. She kept searching.

  Around the unconscious man’s neck was a royal blue lanyard attached to which was a security pass card, the face of the man outward facing. Without disturbing the man further, Sophie pulled the lanyard out from under him and slipped the card out from its holder. She briefly studied the card, reading the man’s identification credentials:

  Mitch L Youngs. Central Intelligence Agency.

  The photograph was unflattering. The image looked like it had been taken on a pathologist’s table, the face appearing lifeless; Mitch’s eyes were closed and his skin tone and complexion were ashen and gaunt. Not wasting any further time she left the CCTV room and crossed the corridor back to the door behind which she knew her mother was being detained. No longer needing the Nexus, she switched it off and placed it into her backpack.

  A swipe of the card through the card reading slot turned the LED lamp from red to green in an instant, the bolt securing the door retracting with a ‘click’. She laid her hand on the door handle. It was refreshingly cool to the touch. She applied pressure and almost held her breath.

  The door opened and she stepped into the holding cell.

  Harriet Jennings was on the other side of the room as Sophie entered, her back to the door. When she heard the click of the door, she’d jerked round to confront the newcomer, but there was no one to face – just an empty void where she knew there ought to be someone.

  “Hello mother,” said Sophie, swiftly adding: “I know our last meet up didn’t go so well...” She was recalling her birthday back in April when they’d last hooked up; when Harriet had balked at Sophie’s appearance, aghast at how swiftly she’d grown − Harriet had turned and fled without so much as a birthday greeting. “...but I don’t hold it against you.”

  The room was soundproofed so with the door now open Harriet became aware of the security alarm blaring from the corridor beyond where she knew Sophie was standing, although she couldn’t see her. She said nothing in acknowledgement. In truth, she’d barely heard Sophie over the din of the alarms.

  “I hope you don’t mind me coming to get you out?”

  Stunned, Harriet shook her head. When she found the ability to speak, all she could muster was:

  “Where’s your father?” she almost shouted it to be heard.

  Before Sophie could answer, silence and darkness descended upon them without warning. The searing bright fluorescents above ceased to burn and the sirens that were so deafening came to a sudden end. The instant silence hurt Sophie’s ears more than the clamorous sounds that she felt had announced her and her father’s presence.

  Someone somewhere had cut the power – intentionally or not. So sheer was the blanket of darkness, Sophie felt an overwhelming fear that she had gone blind. Now, not only could anyone not see her, she was no longer able to see them.

  “What’s happening?” Harriet whimpered fearfully.

  Sophie took a moment to reply, carefully removing the backpack off her shoulder and unfastening it.

  “I can’t be sure, but I think someone has deliberately cut the electric power to try and make themselves appear invisible. Levelling the playing field at a guess.”

  Sophie was aware of her mother shuffling towards her. Before the lights had cut out she’d noticed the injuries − mostly superficial, but the haematoma on her left leg looked nasty, the swelling no doubt causing some difficulty with movement.

  “What are we to do?”

  Sophie reached into the backpack and pulled out some items that her father had given her to carry back at the car less than an hour before.

  “We give ourselves an advantage,” she said, cracking one of the glow sticks she’d removed from the backpack, passing the chemiluminescent green stick to her mother, immediately washing the room with an effulgent green glow that provided enough light to be able to see. In her hand she held the large torch that she’d earlier used to signal her father the way had been clear at the entrance of the warehouse. She switched it on, the sudden brilliance of the halogen bulb washing the room in a dazzling reflective intensity, almost submerging the glow stick in gloom.

  “Sophie, look out!” It was instinctive for she could not see exactly where in the room her daughter was occupying, though she had to be close − the room wasn’t that big to offer up many places to stand.

  Beneath the reflected glow of the torchlight and the crack of the glow stick, not only was the total darkness penetrated and the ability to see restored, it had revealed the dark silhouette of a man, his face hidden beneath deep shadow, lurking at the entrance to the small room. In his hand he held a pistol, the muzzle aimed at the back of Sophie’s head.

  Chapter Forty-One

  George

  “Put this on.”

  The American tossed George a black hood that looked and felt like velvet and indicated for him to put it on over his head, his voice just audible over the still ear-splitting peal of alarms that continued to deafen from all around. The expression he wore was one of satisfaction.

  George complied, immediately feeling claustrophobic from the closeness of the soft cotton material draped across his face and obstructing his airways (despite allowing him to breathe through the material unhindered). Posing no threat, one of the heavily armed men grabbed George by the shoulder, proceeding heavy-handedly to manipulate his captive’s arms behind his back, forcing a pair of cuffs onto his hands. Now overtly subdued, George was guided forward down the dingy corridor, its one illuminated fluorescent seeming to lighten the passage to the entrance door less intensely – perhaps dulled by the number of bodies filling the narrow passage or a reduction in power drained by the alarms that rattled their brains.

  “Where are you taking me?!” George demanded, speaking loudly whilst walking blindly ahead, one of the armed goons shoving him forward in instant reply, causing him to stumble and almost lose balance. Resistance, he knew was pointless (unless he wanted to fall on his nose and likely break it, he thought).

  Brayden offered a steadying hand which George was unable to see to accept. Seeing that he had recovered his balance he answered the question cryptically. “Oh, somewhere quiet for us to have a little ‘heart to heart’ George. We’re going to get to know each other real good. PLUS, there’s someone back home who’s itching to see you again.”

  They closed in on the exit door.

  “What about my wife? What’s going to happen to her?”

  “You don’t need to worry about that anymore George. We have no further use for her… not now we have you.”

  “What’re you going to do with her?” persisted the cowled man.

  At the entrance/exit to the warehouse, Brayden readied to leave, hand poised on the door handle. He turned to the captured man. “It all depends on your cooperation George. It’s all down to you as to whether you get to see your lovely Harriet again,” adding as further emphasis, “Really, it’s totally up to you.”

  Before opening the door, Brayden talked into the mouthpiece of his radio. “Are we good to go?”

  The small voice in his ear (too low for George to hear) replied with the message, as he’d expected: “Affirmative. Extraction detail is awaiting your arrival at RAF Mildenhall.”

  “Excellent!” he said exuberantly.

  “Your flight is due for takeoff around zero-one-hundred hours, maybe sooner depending on airspace.”

  “Good.”

  Opening the door, Brayden’s senses became awash with sounds and sights not normally present at the Norfolk industrial estate. A Black Hawk helicopter hovered above the road, a more familiar sight on the battlefields in Kandahar or M
ogadishu, a spotlight from its underside aimed towards a line of three parked vehicles, the noise from its rotors deafeningly loud, competing with the still warbling sirens from the warehouse, dust and litter being fanned and gusted about from the air current produced.

  A group of men had been herded into the corner of the car park and were lying on their faces, six armed security personnel standing sentinel above them. One of the men lying down – the oldest – stood up and made a run for cover towards the left of the car park.

  “Stop!” warned one of the guards, turning his weapon, a hand already nursing its trigger.

  Not looking back, the man ignored the demand and ran towards the side of the warehouse (where George had waited whilst Sophie had tried the door). A volley of bullets from an automatic rifle, loud but easily obscured by the cacophony of other noises, peppered his back and halted his progress, his legs flailing out from beneath him as he dived in forced cover to the concrete; his last breath exhaled from his lungs like the air escaping from a half-inflated balloon.

  The driver of the DHL van was standing at the rear of his vehicle, the doors still open from when Brayden had arrived.

  Brayden shook his head in disappointment at what he’d just witnessed. He’d given strict orders: no fatalities! How difficult was it to follow orders?

  “I want that soldier’s name!” he demanded from someone in command close by. He had needed to shout to be heard. He turned to the van driver. “Okay Spencer, let’s get us out of here.”

  The driver ushered George into the back of the van as Brayden headed to the front of the vehicle. The three heavily armed men followed George in before the doors were closed behind them, sitting either side of the hooded man in a flesh sandwich.