Relapse (The Vs. Reality Series Book 2)

by Blake Northcott

  Brodie holds his discovery up to the light, shooting Franco an accusing glare. “So, it looks like I missed something when I checked you at the airport. Wanna explain this to me, bro?”

  “What do you mean?” says Franco, holding his hands open at shoulder level as if to offer himself in surrender. “I don’t know how that got into my phone. I don’t even know what that is.”

  “It’s an explosive,” Brodie explains, squeezing the rubbery substance together in between his thumb and index finger. To Franco it looks more like an old piece of chewing gum than a dangerous weapon.

  Cole moves in to get a closer look. “Shit, is that C4?”

  “Naw,” Brodie replies, pointing to some barely legible text printed along the side. “It’s Semtex, a more powerful version used by the British Military. So whoever wanted to get the drop on us was trying to do it with an ounce of plastic explosive? What is this, kindergarten?”

  “So what could that much Semtex do?” asks Franco nervously.

  Brodie shrugs. “This is probably just enough to blow your head off, but not much else.”

  “Oh,” he replies. “That’s a relief.”

  “Whoever did this must be an amateur, because this is some really weak shit. What would this even accomplish, besides splattering our kitchen with Italian brain matter?”

  “So he’s the guy,” says Cole, glaring at Franco. “The one Mike warned us about.”

  “I’m thinking he is.” Brodie begins to riffle through the kitchen cabinets, tossing bags of flour and cereal boxes aside as he searches. “I scanned him at the airport for any type of tracking device, and I thought he was clean; but after what I just found I can’t take any chances.” He digs to the back of the pantry and pulls a white plastic box from the cupboard, placing it on the kitchen counter. “There’s only one way to be sure, bro. We’re gonna have to zap you.”

  Franco stands so quickly that the bar stool beneath him topples over. He suddenly appears awake, and all too alert. “What is a zap? That doesn’t sound so good.”

  Brodie pops open the case and pulls out a toaster-sized box, fitted with a small monitor and several buttons and dials. There is a pair of metal paddles attached to it by long wires. “This is a defibrillator. I’m gonna send an electrical shock into your body, temporarily stopping your heart.”

  Franco’s eyes grow wild with fear. “How is torturing me going to help? I don’t know anything!”

  “It’s not torture,” Brodie replies with a reassuring smile. His upbeat demeanor is somehow more unsettling to Franco than the prospect of being electrocuted. “The shock will destroy any tracking device that’s been implanted in your body. Once we fry anything inside you I’ll zap you again, restart your heart, and boom – we’re finished. You’ll be watershed in no time.”

  “There’s nothing inside me!” Franco shouts.

  Brodie lets out a short chuckle and shakes his head. “Well there was something inside your phone and you didn’t know about that, right? Come on, don’t be such a baby. It probably won’t hurt much. Just think of it like a flu shot. Except that it won’t be a tiny needle – it’ll be a powerful electrical pulse.”

  Franco continues to backpedal, circling the island in the center of the kitchen to put as much distance between himself and Brodie as possible. His eyes dart around the room, searching for the quickest possible escape route.

  “Come on, man.” Brodie scowls, growing annoyed by the histrionics. “Cole, will you please grab him and hold him down? This is gonna be more of a hassle than I thought.”

  Franco lunges to bypass Cole but he’s cut off mid-stride and tackled to the floor with a painful thud. Squirming to escape Cole’s clutches, he’s as powerless as a newborn trying to avoid a diaper change, and looks just as ridiculous as he kicks and thrashes.

  “Does it matter if he’s wiggling around this much?” asks Cole, looking concerned. “I don’t want to hurt the little guy.” Franco begins to scream and curse in Italian as he’s being restrained, making a feeble attempt to free himself from Cole’s constricting grip.

  “No,” says Brodie dismissively. “I don’t think it matters.”

  Paige shuffles into the kitchen wearing slippers and a long black house coat, her eyes half-closed. She looks down to find Franco pinned to the ground by Cole, with Brodie kneeling next to him making adjustments to his defibrillator. “So...what’s going on here, boys?”

  Brodie replies casually as he continues to fiddle with the dials. “We’re about to electrocute Franco.”

  “Okay,” she says dryly before letting out a short yawn. “Did you pick up any of those little flaky donut thingies with the fruit inside?”

  He nods. “Yup. They’re on the counter. Help yourself.”

  “Nice.” Paige circles the island, flips open her laptop, and takes a few bites of a pastry.

  As Brodie rubs the metal paddles together in small circles the defibrillator hums with electricity. Without warning he plunges them into Franco’s chest, sending a powerful charge into his nervous system.

  Franco’s back arches violently as a sound that’s something between a screech and a gurgle gets caught in the back of his throat. When Brodie pulls the paddles away his body falls limp, his narrow limbs bent awkwardly in every direction.

  “What the hell, man!” Cole screams, letting go of Franco and shaking out his hands. “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘clear’ before you do that? So no one is touching the person you’re going to electrocute?”

  “Oh, shit – sorry about that man.” Brodie picks up the manual and starts flipping through the pages. “I never thought about that. It doesn’t really say in here if you’re supposed to yell something out before you get started. There are just some instructions about not getting the paddles wet, storing the unit in a dry area...huh, apparently this is still under warranty. Good to know.”

  As Paige continues to munch on her breakfast, she makes a passing suggestion without looking up from her screen. “If Franco’s heart isn’t beating at the moment you might want to get it going again. You know, sometime before lunch.”

  “Oh, right,” says Brodie, smacking himself in the forehead with a crooked grin. He recharges the machine and rubs the paddles together once again. He smirks at Cole before saying, “Clear.”

  “Thanks for the head’s up.” Cole sarcastically lifts his hands away from Franco as the paddles make contact with his chest for the second time, sending another jolt of electricity into his body. A mild convulsion ensues, but he doesn’t seem to be breathing. A third shock causes Franco to jolt upright, hyperventilating as he clutches his chest.

  Cole offers to help Franco to his feet but he angrily refuses, jerking his arm away as he continues to shout in Italian. No one in the kitchen can understand what he’s saying, but by the expression on his face he has to be swearing.

  Satisfied that Franco is no longer a threat, Brodie offers him a stool at the breakfast bar and a can of beer. He reattaches the battery to his cell and returns it to him.

  Taking a sip from the warm can, Franco’s arm shivers slightly, and his right eye flickers involuntarily.

  “See?” says Brodie with a beaming smile and a friendly pat on the back. “That wasn’t such a big deal, now was it?”

  Chapter Nineteen – Smash

  Barcelona | August 30, 2011 | 6:35 am, Central European Time

  Richard Steinberg has the best seat in the house. Sitting courtside he has the perfect view of his client, the top-ranked female tennis star in the world, practicing her serve. It’s beautiful to watch, but also humbling; just a teenager, but in the prime of her career, Allison Smith has spent the last twelve months shattering records and setting the sports world on fire. And for just a modest ten percent commission, Richard has been with her through thick and thin, managing her career every step of the way.

  In some ways Richard began to think of himself as somewhat of a surrogate father over the last four years. Not that he’d ever actually consider having a child of hi
s own; between press junkets, shopping for exotic cars and taking the occasional trip to the Caribbean, who has the time? But there is definitely a strong bond that he’s formed with Allison as they’ve traveled the world together. And even though she has a hard time expressing her feelings, Richard knows that deep down, she feels the same way.

  Which is going to make the next few moments of his life that much more painful.

  He finishes checking his voicemail and drops his cell phone into his pocket. He exhales deeply and closes his eyes, preparing himself mentally and emotionally for the words he’s about to say. “Allison?”

  She stops mid-serve, letting the fuzzy green ball bounce off the clay surface at her feet. She’s furious already, and Richard hasn’t even begun his sentence. The way he said her name – soft and tentative – already tipped her off, and she knows this isn’t going to be good news. A diminutive teenage girl with a blonde ponytail isn’t an especially intimidating figure, but her stare alone is enough to send chills up Richard’s spine.

  “I’m sorry Allison...um, that was the editor over at Sports Illustrated.” He stammers with a familiar nervousness, wringing his hands. “They just left me a message, and again, let me preface this by saying that I’m really, really sorry... but they’re not going with you for the cover this month. There was a big mixed martial arts fight in Toronto last week, and you know how popular that sport is getting, so...”

  “Again?!” she screams, cutting him off mid-sentence. Before he can react Allison launches her tennis racket like a spiraling metal boomerang, bouncing it off Richard’s forehead with a metallic ping. His head rocks back and he groans in agony. A bright red welt starts to form, not far from the stitches he received last month from a flying laptop, and the scar from a soaring iPhone the month before that.

  “This is ridiculous!” Allison shouts, balling her tiny hands into tightly clenched fists. “Maybe if I was some big-breasted Nubian princess named ‘Mercury’ or ‘Saturn’ I could get some goddamned respect in the tennis world, but apparently my parents were complete retards, sticking me with the name ‘Allison’. No one wants to buy a pair of tennis shoes or a protein bar from Allison Smith, the flat-chested white girl from Oklahoma! Are you getting all this, Richard?”

  Stumbling a bit and clutching his head, Richard checks his hands for any signs of blood. Luckily there only seems to be a welt, so he can avoid a trip to the emergency room on this occasion. “Yes, Allison, yes I am. I hear you. I just...I don’t really see what we can do about your name. I mean, you’re only fifteen so I don’t think it’s the best idea to change it. Plus you just won the Australian Open and the French Open, so people already know your name. And about the other thing with your...you know. The thing about your...br...”

  “My tits?” Allison raises her eyebrows, pointing both fingers at her chest. “Yes, I know there isn’t much I can do about this because my parents – who I pay you to talk to, by the way – haven’t signed off on the surgery.” Allison massages her forehead and lets out a loud, exaggerated sigh of disappointment. “I don’t even know why I’m asking their permission, because I can hop a private jet to Brazil and get these up to a full D in twelve hours from now if I wanted. In fact, yes, let’s do that Richard. Book me a jet and let’s go. Pack up my stuff.”

  Allison’s training partner stands across the court, impatiently tapping the side of his racket into his palm. It’s obvious that he’s less than impressed by her latest tantrum. “Maybe we can actually get some practice time in before booking cosmetic surgery, no?”

  She points her finger accusingly and stomps her feet. “What are you trying to say, Marcos? Is this about Wimbledon last month? I only lost in the finals because we were playing on grass. This is 2011 for God’s sake; who the hell wants to play tennis on someone’s lawn? Richard, didn’t I tell you I wanted them to change that? Is a hard surface too much to ask for?”

  “Well, it’s been that way for a hundred and thirty-four years, so...I’m not sure they’re going to change it now just because I ask them to.”

  Allison sarcastically claps her hands together three times as she scowls. “Well bravo, Richard. That’s a fantastic little piece of information. Maybe if you spent less time on Wikipedia looking up these fascinating facts and more time calling Bob Wimbledon or whoever the hell is in charge over there, you could get some shit done for a change.”

  “Yes, Allison…I mean Miss Smith, definitely. I completely understand.” He fumbles through his pocket to locate his phone. “I’ll call someone on the board of directors right now and make sure that it’s a hard surface from now on.”

  Marcos spins his racket, impatiently bouncing from one foot to the other. “Alright, are we finished with the soap opera? Can we play some tennis this morning?”

  Allison retrieves a second racket from her duffle bag at courtside, unzipping it from a pink leather case. She pops the cap off of a fresh set of balls, pulling one from the can. Resetting herself at the baseline, she bounces the ball several times before tossing it into the air. She lets out a fiery scream as she leaps, smashing her racket into the target with pinpoint precision. As she serves her mind floods with the most clear and vivid sensation of rage she’s ever felt. It’s as if every horrible thing she’s ever wanted to do to anyone in her life is encapsulated into one furious swing.

  The ball rockets towards Marcos at over one hundred miles per hour, but as it passes the net it increases in speed. The fuzzy exterior catches fire and becomes a tiny black meteorite travelling at the speed of sound. It connects with the center of Marcos’s chest, tearing a perfectly round, cauterized hole through his entire body, exiting through his spinal column. It continues through the fence behind him and embeds itself into the field across the street, tearing a long path into the dirt and grass like an airplane coming in for a crash landing.

  Marcos has a brief moment to look down and touch the wound with one hand before teetering and falling face-first into the clay surface. A small puff of red mist rises around him as he lands with a soft thud.

  Allison drops her racket. Her jaw falls open as if she’s going to say something, but she remains silent. She turns her head to see Richard doubled over, looking equal parts white and a nauseating shade of green. He heaves and vomits, hacking while he struggles to remain standing.

  Not sure how to react, Allison stands perfectly still, staring at the empty husk lying across from her on the court that was, up until thirty seconds ago, the best professional tennis coach in Spain. Her trance is broken by the sound of rustling leaves. From the corner of her eye she notices a paparazzi photographer dart from behind some bushes, sprinting towards a small sedan parked down the street.

  “Richard,” says Allison, not taking her eyes off of Marcos’s corpse, “after you finish talking to the Wimbledon people about the grass, do you think you could make a quick call to my lawyer?”

  Chapter Twenty – Tarantula

  Paris | August 30, 2011 | 8:17 am, Central European Time

  Glued to her computer, Paige spends this morning like most mornings – sipping café au lait and surfing celebrity gossip websites. She’s halfway through a fascinating article about J.J. Kerrigan’s first wife and the details of her latest DUI conviction when she hears a resounding ping, indicating that her tracking program has a hit.

  Paige’s custom-designed software, called ‘Tarantula’, monitors over thirteen thousand major news portals and blogs, and archives any stories that might indicate a supernatural occurrence.

  If they’re going to get a jump on locating potentials they need to be fast, and Tarantula gives them a much-needed edge. Assuming that the Government is using satellite technology to pinpoint recent manifestations, Paige realizes that they’re already at a huge disadvantage, but they have no other method for locating possible recruits on a global scale. Their heat signature readers can triangulate a position when they’re in the immediate area, but from thousands of miles away they have to rely on the Internet.

  A Sp
anish tabloid website is running a lead story about American tennis sensation Allison Smith, who has been training all week with the best instructors in Spain to improve her serving speed. The headline roughly translates to ‘Tennis Goddess Shoots a Fireball’, accompanied by a photograph of a body lying face-first on the court with smoke coming from a hole in its back. In the background a charred opening in the fence is visible, possibly where the ‘fireball’ continued to travel after exiting the victim.

  “Everyone,” Paige hollers, “Get in here, I think we have something.” Within a minute the group is gathered around the kitchen counter, carefully inspecting the picture.

  “A fireball?” says Brodie with fascination, folding his arms. “That is pretty bad-ass. Do you think it was murder?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Paige replies, “First thing in the morning, in broad daylight? This was probably an accident; almost all first-time manifestations are. She might not even know what the trigger was.”

  “How do we know this is real?” asks Cole. “Couldn’t this have been Photoshopped?”

  “Possibly,” says Paige, “but I don’t think so. The website was shut down less than five minutes after this story went live. I would never have seen it, but Tarantula took a series of screenshots before it went dark.”

  “Someone must think this is legit or it wouldn’t have been censored,” adds Dia. “I think we have a hit.”