by Simon Harrak
“My mother used to wear too much of it,” said Ida, shaking her head disapprovingly.
“Tina, I want Ida to design me something,” declared Claudia. “Please connect her with my agent.”
“Of course,” said Tina, smiling politely and stepping forward after having had her attention somewhere else. “Oh, Ida, darling, you have something on your cheek.”
“Do I?” said Ida. “One moment.”
She pulled her handbag forward and began digging inside for her makeup mirror. Her motor skills felt off from one too many cocktails. Maybe it was best to slow down. Why though? She was having such a good time.
Her hands latched onto a round object inside her handbag, and she pulled out her pocket mirror and snapped it open, raising it to her face to see what Tina meant. There was a tiny, barely noticeable black speck on her face. She cleaned it off with her fingertip, wondering why Tina would even bother pointing it out. Maybe Tina had meant something else. She moved the mirror to the other side of her face but saw nothing. Her attention shifted temporarily to the background, and she felt her gaze drawn to the plants beside the elevator. There was someone there, standing by himself and staring in her direction. He was wearing a black turtleneck. Her arm flinched hard when she finally recognised him, and she gasped as a violent pain exploded in her chest.
15
While Ida had her attention on her pocket mirror, the rest of the group’s focus had shifted away. Only Tina remained watching her with a curious expression.
“Got it?” asked Tina.
“What?” said Ida, looking up from the mirror and shaking her head.
Tina leaned over and inspected Ida’s cheek.
“Yes, it’s gone,” she said with a tight-lipped smile. “Another drink?”
How the hell did he find me?
“Ida?”
“Yes,” said Ida. “Let’s get another drink.”
“Ok,” said Tina, already walking in the direction of the bar. “The girls had to go to the bathroom. They said they’d join us later.”
“Ok,” said Ida.
“Are you ok?” asked Tina. “Have you had too much to drink?”
“No, I’m fine,” said Ida.
Keep it together.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” said Ida. “I need to go to the bathroom quickly. I’ll meet you at the bar.”
“Ok, hurry back. My friend just texted me. He’ll be here any minute.”
“Ok, great. I’ll be right back.”
Ida walked to the bathroom while trying to not appear in a rush, doing her best to avoid looking in the direction of the plants. Inside she ignored Claudia and Sophie standing at the sink and went straight into the cubicle, where she broke out into a sweat and began shivering. What was she going to do? Should she tell Tina about Vidrik? Should she call the police? Should she try to escape? Could Tina even help her? Probably not. They were on a rooftop, thirty-three levels above ground. He would easily hunt her down. The police would be no use against him. Or would they? She felt helpless, unable to think straight, unable to escape the feeling that Vidrik was going to find her and kill her.
The shivering would not stop. Ida wanted to scream out loud or kick something. Oh, God. Think! What else could she do? She dug into her handbag and found her wallet, searched between her receipts and business cards until she found the paper that Frederich had given her. She could scarcely believe what she was about to do. There was no other choice. She reached into her handbag again and took out her phone, ready to dial the organisation which months earlier had tried to kill her.
The adrenaline had caught up with Frederich once he made it back to the Stern and Dolly. The driver’s seat felt claustrophobic now. He was acutely aware of the sound of his breath, could feel every micro-droplet of sweat covering his body. He knocked his fingertips continuously on the dashboard, unable to hold back the raw energy inside him. The seconds seemed to pass slower for him than they did for the outside world. He resorted to deep breathing and tapping his foot while intently watching the inside of the pub, ready to pounce on the tiniest movement Bibby made.
The last surviving group member was perched on a stool, leaning back on the bar with an arrogant grin, unaware of the fate of his friends. It was 1:43 am, and the crowd inside the Stern and Dolly had barely thinned out. How were they still open, wondered Frederich? The door of the place had listed the closing time as 11:30 pm. It was evident from Bibby’s body language that he had something to do with the lack of curfew. The patrons inside the pub seemed to orbit around him. Frederich had to think back on his fight with Scheffler, how difficult it had been to battle against such raw strength. He was hoping that intoxication would again prove a helpful handicap.
He shook when his phone vibrated in his pocket and kept his eyes on Bibby while he answered.
“Abel,” said Gerricks. “Listen, there isn’t much time. Your girlfriend called. Ida.”
“Ida?” said Frederich, sitting up in his seat.
“Yeah. She’s in trouble, said Vidrik is after her.”
Frederich’s grip around the phone tightened. Vidrik.
“Where is she?” he said.
“In Paris. I’m going to send you a web address where you can follow her coordinates. I’ve got her GPS connected to our server.”
“Ok. I’m still in London. Can you send someone in the meant—”
“No fucking way,” Gerricks interjected. “You know we can’t do that. Everyone’s tied up. I shouldn’t even be wasting time telling you this.”
“Shit,” whispered Frederich.
“Gotta go. Good luck.”
The call ended abruptly.
Frederich stopped breathing. A suffocating pressure clamped down on his temples like a vice, grinding against his skull, pushing him deeper into the abyss where the fires of hell had blown wide open. He burst out of the car, leaving the door open, and stomped across the road. The front door of the Stern and Dolly was held open by a pair of men preparing to go home, and Frederich forced his way past them.
Bibby was still on his stool, but the grin had left his face. He lifted his head, staring directly at Frederich, who had reached into his pocket and drawn his pistol. Screams broke out, and people scrambled in every direction. As Frederich prepared to pull the trigger, a mysterious hand pushed his arm up from the side, causing the bullet to fire into the air. Frederich began tussling with the invader, while Bibby sprang up and ran in his direction before roundhouse kicking him in the stomach with such force that his guts exploded with pain and he went crashing through the front window before his head smacked into the concrete, leaving him temporarily disoriented. He rolled to his side over the broken glass and groaned, trying to focus on the enormous figure emerging from inside. Bibby was thick all over, with large chunks of muscle creating an armour over his entire body. He had a wrinkled forehead, a long angled nose and uneven eyes accompanied by thick, slanted eyebrows. He grunted and stepped forward, now holding a crowbar. Frederich struggled up onto his feet, lightheaded but oozing with adrenaline.
Bibby approached and Frederich shuffled to the side, dodging the crowbar which came toward his head. Bibby swung over and again, grunting each time. Meanwhile, the crowd had emerged from inside, emboldened by Bibby’s offensive, and they encircled the pair as they stood locked in battle. The smartphones came out immediately, with at least a dozen cameras suddenly pointed in Frederich’s direction. One of them flashed in Frederich’s face as someone took a picture, momentarily blinding him, followed by another swing of Bibby’s crowbar. Frederich felt the metal brush against the top of his head as he scurried to dodge it, falling to the ground in the process. Bibby tried to stomp on his hip while he was down, forcing him to roll to the side. He scrambled back to his feet, panting loudly, his attention scattered by the chaos around him. The shouting grew hysterical, as each person vied for an unobstructed view of the fight. An attack could now come from any direction if someone was feeling bold enough. Focus, came Kraas�
�� voice, just like it always had when Frederich’s senses got the better of him during an especially challenging training sequence. He clenched his fists tight enough for them to ache then pushed his feet into the ground and bent his knees, breathing deeply into his core. Bibby snickered and approached, while a woman pushed her smartphone out to film closer to the action. Frederich snatched it from her and tossed it at Bibby, hitting him in the forehead.
“Hey!” yelled the woman.
Bibby scowled and raised his hand to touch the place of impact.
“You dirty bastard!” he yelled, a mark appearing where the phone had hit him.
“Get him, Bibby!” said the woman whose phone now lay smashed on the ground.
“Teach that flog a lesson!” someone else yelled out from the crowd.
Frederich narrowed his focus further, filtering out everything but the monster in front of him. Once he weaved out of the way of another crowbar attack, he went on the offensive, landing punch after punch into Bibby’s body then jabbing him in the nose and landing a stiff hook into his chin. He went deeper inside himself, channelling his rage into each attack, landing them with more and more ease as he lost himself in a furious flow. Bibby was unable to keep up, and his attempts to block Frederich’s attacks fell further out of sync as Frederich exposed every vulnerable area he could find. A point came when Bibby stopped resisting, swaying to the side, straightening up again, then finally collapsing to the ground, his face bloodied. By now Frederich was too far gone, leaping onto Bibby and piling a flurry of punches into the barely conscious man’s face. He momentarily lost touch with his body as it came, before he blacked out.
When he came back he had multiple hands holding him tightly in place. He looked around and noticed that he was in the grip of four men, while Bibby lay motionless on the ground. Frederich’s rapid breathing gradually seeped back into consciousness, his shoulders dropped, and his body returned to him. The crowd was silent now, all eyes were on him, with half a dozen smartphones still trained in his direction.
“Is he alright?” said someone, as a man crouched down to check on Bibby.
Bibby groaned on cue.
“Yeah, he’s alright,” said the man.
A young guy with blonde spikes, grey jeans and a white t-shirt lowered his phone, grinning widely with his eyes ablaze.
“Holy shit, that was awesome!” he yelled out.
Frederich’s captors loosened their grip, leaving him free to stand on his own. Frederich looked around, studying the incredulous, slack-jawed faces of the crowd.
“Who is this guy? Anyone seen him before?”
“Nah, never seen him.”
“What’s your name?” asked the excited young man with the blonde spikes.
“Shit, Liam’s calling the cops,” said a voice in the crowd.
Frederich shook himself out of his daze and broke away. He picked up his pistol from the ground then staggered across the road and returned to his car, remembering what had caused him to snap in the first place. He switched on the engine and drove off. When the adrenaline subsided further his knuckles began throbbing with pain. Dammit. Bibby was still alive, he realised. That was out of his control now. The killing window was gone. The priority was Ida. He took his phone out and dialled her number but got no answer. He tried again with the same result. Then he tapped into his messages and opened the web address Gerricks had sent him. The map of Paris appeared, along with a blue dot on the west side. He closed the screen then dialled Gerricks.
“Yeah,” said Gerricks, after the phone rang for a long time.
“I need to get to Paris right away,” said Frederich.
There was a short pause.
“We’ve got a plane at London City Airport. I’ll tell them you’re coming.”
16
The tip of Ida’s finger rubbed against the edge of the cocktail glass in a circular motion while she ruminated about the danger she was in. The League Of Reckoning had not been as helpful as she had hoped. The man who answered her call said he would ‘see what he could do.’ ‘No promises,’ he had declared before hanging up. For now, Ida had to assume she was alone. A throbbing pressure drummed in her ears, and her legs felt weak. What was Vidrik doing in Paris, and how had he found her?
Tina had her arms crossed and was facing away while a severely drunken Claudia chewed her ear off. She sighed and abruptly excused herself with a raised palm and approached Ida.
“Time to go,” she said curtly. “He’s here. He’s waiting for us downstairs.”
Ida’s finger froze on the edge of the cocktail glass. The floor beneath her fell. Oh, no. How could she have missed it? There was no time to ask why; she only knew that if she went downstairs with Tina, she would be dead. She looked around frantically without moving her head, and spotted Terence standing in the distance alone with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a lit cigarette. She walked away from Tina without saying anything and placed her glass on the bar before approaching Terence, who looked up as she came near.
“I think it’s time to go home,” she said.
Terence held her gaze for several seconds then tossed the cigarette away. He rotated his body and held his elbow out, and Ida clasped onto it. Together they made for the elevator, during which Ida turned in Tina’s direction. What she saw almost made her jump. Tina’s entire face had changed to the point that Ida could not recognise it. Terence pressed the elevator button while Ida remained gripped by Tina’s fiery stare. The door opened, and Ida and Terence got in. Tina stood in place, her glare so penetrating and hateful looking that it choked the air out of Ida. The door then closed shut, finally allowing Ida to release herself from Tina’s grasp, and she was able to breathe again.
“What the hell was he thinking!” yelled Scheffler, slamming his fist on the desk.
“No idea,” said Gerricks, cowering slightly and leaning away before straightening again. “But it’s going viral over social media. A hundred million views and counting. The way he tore that Bibby guy up got people talking. I don’t blame them. Look at how quick he’s moving, how crisp his punches are. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“You done?” said Scheffler, giving Gerricks a hard stare.
“It’s not a good look for us,” said Gerricks, lowering his head.
“No, it’s not,” said Scheffler while massaging his temple.
Scheffler was already on edge after Barcelona. Now this. Damn it, Abel.
“We’ll have to deal with it later,” he said. “What’s happening on the radar?”
“Our lieutenants sent word that they’re ready and in place,” said Gerricks.
Scheffler peeped at the clock. 2:57 am. He began pacing from side to side while watching the surveillance screens, which were flicking between suburban houses, mansions, apartment blocks, hotels and warehouses. Most locations remained eerily motionless. 2:58 am. He stopped pacing and started bouncing on his toes, then ran his hand through his hair. I should be out there. 2:59 am. The first soldiers appeared on the screen, creeping forward from their positions, dressed in black and armed with rifles. Scheffler clenched his jaw.
Piotr gripped the knuckle duster tightly. Ralph’s battering ram weighed more than fifteen kilos, and Ralph was a natural brute, so it was in the right hands. Ralph turned to Piotr and they exchanged nods in the dark, before Ralph swung his arms back and smashed into the door just below the lock. The porch quaked beneath Piotr’s feet while sections of the door cracked open. Ralph immediately swung the red tube of steel back again and this time managed to smash the door open.
The battering ram fell to the ground and Ralph pulled out his pistol. He stood out of the way and nudged the destroyed door open then waited for Piotr to enter first. Piotr took off, turning into a dark hallway. The bedroom was the first door on the left. He went straight in and found an empty bed illuminated by moonlight with the sheets pulled to the side, revealing the crease of the body that had been sleeping there. He turned around quickly and saw Ralph lookin
g at him from the doorway with his pistol pointed down the hall. Piotr shook his head, and Ralph took that as a cue to continue forward. The bathroom across was empty. Piotr checked the kitchen with the same result. Ralph came out of the living room without finding anything. Piotr then pulled the door open for the crammed storage room and shut it again. Where are you, you slippery bastard? After a short pause his feet led him back to the bedroom. He listened carefully in the silence until it occurred to him there was one place he had not yet looked. Got you! he thought, ducking below the bed.
There was nothing, only a build-up of dust.
A gun went off outside and Piotr rose up with a violent jerk. He plucked his knuckle dusters off his hands and tossed them onto the bed then fumbled with his pistol as he took it out of his pocket. Two more bullets fired outside. He bolted out of the room and into the hallway. His heart was thumping like a drum. Moonlight was now coming through the laundry door, and a breeze blew inside. Outside had fallen eerily silent. It was too dangerous to go out that way, he figured. He turned back for the front door and carefully stuck his head outside, looking both ways. With agonisingly slow movements he stepped out onto the porch and went right in the direction of the gunshots, ducking below the windows as he passed them. At the corner of the house he stopped again and listened. The sheer adrenaline made him suddenly dizzy, and he had trouble focussing his eyes. The thought of going out there caused his hands to begin shaking uncontrollably. He pushed his back against the wall and tried to take a calming breath with no effect. The shaking spread to his entire body and his teeth began chattering. He worried that if he stayed there any longer, he would pass out. He remained frozen, paralysed by fear. Only the even greater fear of death forced him to act.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered.
He sprinted out from his position and into the open. The gunshot that immediately came from the back fence was terrifyingly loud but he continued forward, propelled by pure instinct. The man was crouched in the corner between the shed and the fence, shrouded in moonlight and pointing his gun forward. Piotr went out of his mind and fired a flurry of bullets. The man seemed to jerk, and Piotr fired one final shot as he came near. The man slumped over to his side. Piotr slowed to a halt and lowered his gun, gasping for air, barely able to feel his body. The man remained motionless on his side, wearing only shorts. It occurred to Piotr then that he had been running at an angle the whole time, which had probably saved his life. He also had no idea which of his bullets had struck the man, or how many shots the man had fired during that time.