Foresight

by EJ McBride

  The needle was inches away from her skin when Clara screamed out.

  'I have money, millions of dollars, I'll transfer you all of it!'

  The thug stopped, as if he was half-expecting her to say something, but wasn't necessarily expecting her to say that. He went to stick her with the needle again, before thinking better of it, deciding to spare a moment to follow the conversation a little further.

  'What money?', he asked in his broken English.

  'My Father is a wealthy businessman, a Billionaire. I started robbing casinos as a way of getting his attention and it just kind of escalated. I haven't spoken with him in years and he'd pay you, he'd pay you millions if he knew I was safe, I swear!'

  Robin waited under the bed, poised and ready to strike, to grab the man and take him down by his ankles, punching, kicking, biting if he needed to. But he wanted to see how this panned out first, and willed the thug to believe her story. The 5 or 10 seconds of no movement felt like a lifetime. Then, without saying anything, the thug dropped the syringe, and left the room, saying something in Russian, out loud. And just like that, the pair were alone again, silent and still, together but separated by the bed, waiting to work out their next move.

  Chapter 22

  Gorshkov entered, his pace decidedly more hurried than before, stopping near the bed, the other man immediately behind him. They spoke Russian with one another, the tracksuit-wearing thug occasionally shrugging his shoulders and pointing in Clara's direction. Robin didn't need to speak Russian to know that Gorshkov was not amused.

  'Money? You expect me to believe that you have money? A rich Father? Why rob my casino if Daddy can give you everything you ever wanted?', he demanded.

  'It was the only way to get his attention', insisted Clara. 'You think a man like that comes home and spends time with his kids? He was too busy signing merger contracts in China or fucking his whore secretary to spend time with us. I just wanted to make him notice me', she said, shedding real tears, albeit tears for a different situation to the one she was describing. Gorshkov paused, as if he'd already made his mind up about her, but her story had caught him off-guard. He seemed to be almost pondering her situation, weighing up the pros and cons. After all, it was probably worth at least an attempt at extortion, even if he had no intention of letting her go. She read him, and could see that, to an extent, he believed her, or at least he wanted to. She felt a rush of relief, knowing that how she played the next moment would be crucial. She went to speak, but was cut off by Gorshkov, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his cellphone.

  'Number', he demanded.

  'Number?', Clara quizzed.

  'Father. What is number? I will talk to him. Arrange deal with him'

  Clara froze. A fake number would throw him into a rage, but all she had were fake numbers, and nobody to answer the call and play along.

  'I uh, I don't know it. But if you just let me go, I could go and speak to...'

  Gorshkov flew into a fit of rage, hurling his phone against the wall and shrieking an almost animal roar at the top of his lungs, the sudden crescendo of sounds making Robin jump so hard and so high, he worried that he might have knocked Clara in the bed above. Gorshkov lunged to the bedside table, grabbing the needle and plunging it into Clara's side, pushing down on the syringe. Clara screamed, a loud, deafening, tragic scream that became more sombre and defeated as he yanked out the needle, tossing it to the floor. Robin, realising he'd missed his opportunity to save Clara, balled his face up into his hands and cried. He watched as the pair headed for the door, the thug first, being berated by Gorshkov as they left.

  Then Clara spoke the crucial words, as she lay broken, drifting slowly into unconsciousness on the bed above.

  'I know about Helen Berghaus'

  The two men reacted very differently to the words. The tracksuit wearing thug, perhaps unaware of his boss' involvement in the murder, continued babbling on in Russian, only falling silent when he noticed Gorshkov, a look of cold, pure hatred across his face, staring at Clara. He tried to say something to Gorshkov, who shoved him hard, knocking him off his feet and out into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him. Gorshkov moved slowly, quietly back to the chair, calmly taking a seat. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and began to speak.

  'I knew something not quite right about you', he said. 'I didn't know what. I feel as though I still don't. But something about you, something told me you were more trouble to me than just a fucking rat who steals money from me.'

  Clara writhed on the bed above, trying desperately hard to keep her eyes open, the drugs in her system fighting hard against her, dragging her down into a cold, icy darkness of unconsciousness. Gorshkov leant forward and slapped her hard, grabbing a glass of dirty water from the side-table and throwing it over her face, neither having little effect.

  'What you think you know about Helen Berghaus?', he asked, his tone becoming less patient.

  Clara, struggling to focus her eyes, her head awash with noise and blurred vision, forced herself to respond, Robin under the bed, his phone held out of sight, but close enough to record everything. He pushed the red record button just in time to catch the entire conversation above.

  'You,,, you killed her', she said.

  'Fucking American. What are you, a spy? FBI? CIA?!' He yanked up Clara's dress aggressively, running his hand from her groin up to her chest and out the other end, her back as well, looking desperately for a wire, some kind of recording device. 'You Americans think you know everything!', he shouted. 'Well let me ask you this? What would Russian businessman like me want with Helen Berghaus dead?'

  Clara heard the words, but couldn't even piece together a sentence to respond. She just stared, dead-eyed back at Gorshkov.

  'You think I kill her?', he asked. 'You think I ordered my men to kill her?', giving the skilled Agency audio workers more than enough ammunition to piece a confession together. 'There is no blood on my hands my dear', he said, brushing her greasy, knotted hair away from her sweat covered face. 'That was James Friedman's murder. He may not have got his hands dirty, but it was his money that paid for Helen Berghaus to die'

  Robin lay under the bed, his body numb with shock, unaware that his disbelief at the situation could hit him any harder than it already had. 'Mayor Friedman', he thought, his mind darting back to the day he joined the Agency, Boal taking him on the same bullshit 'induction tour' he took every new recruit on, the almost 'shrine-like' photos of Mayor Friedman, Chief Commissioner of the Agency. His stomach flipped, the realisation that this had all been one huge setup. That Boal wanted his confession, not in some noble act of kindness to a fallen comrade, but as an insurance policy for his boss. He felt himself sink into the filthy carpet as he realised that they both knew far too much now to ever be rescued by the Agency, that the men with guns wouldn't be bursting through the windows anytime soon. He clung onto the one, minuscule, microscopic glimmer of hope that he had left; that nothing would alert Gorshkov to him being under the bed, allowing him the chance to make good his escape, and try to, somehow, take Clara with him.

  Then, just as he finished his thought, his phone rang in his hand.

  Loud.

  Chapter 23

  There was no name or number on the screen, just the words 'Remote Activated', and a screeching noise, unlike any ringtone he'd heard before, louder than any ringtone he'd heard before. This wasn't designed to get his attention, it was designed to get the attention of every other thug in the building. Robin panicked, hopelessly attempting to muffle the noise, as if the goons, as if Gorshkov hadn't heard enough. Before Robin had even been able to fully understand what was happening, he was being dragged out by his feet, two of Gorshkov's men laying into him with a savage attack. Fists punching his face, feet stamping on his head and ribs, Robin curled himself up into a ball and tried desperately to limit the damage, aware that if he was lucky, he'd die right now, and not face a more painful end when Gorshkov had calmed down.

  'Motherfucking,
FBI rat, Police snitch informant!', Gorshkov screamed, storming out of the room, returning seconds later with a claw hammer in his hand. 'Hold him, hold him down!', he screamed, the two thugs making easy work of Robin, prying his bloodied arms to his side, his head dangling as he tried to focus on the scene playing out in front of him. Gorshkov spat in Robin's face, before lifting the hammer, ready to swing.

  'Bang!'

  Shot fired.

  'Bang!' 'Bang!'

  Two more.

  Gorshkov froze, his arm, hammer in his hand, still in mid-air, turning slowly to the door.

  Then a flash of dazzling white, and an explosion so loud Robin lost all ability to hear anything. As he slowly lifted up his head, a man in all black military fatigues, with a gas mask and a silenced weapon, put down the two thugs, before walking casually over to Gorshkov, who'd been knocked a few feet away by the force of the Flashbang's blast, and was by now returning to his feet.

  'Do you know who you're fucking with?!', he asked, as the masked man raised his weapon to the side of Gorshkov's temple and pulled the trigger, emptying half of Gorshkov's head onto the floor below.

  Robin stared on in disbelief, his mouth open, eyes dull and worn, as much from the beating and the explosion as anything else. He watched the man walk over to Clara, unconscious on the bed, checking for a pulse, before heading back over in his direction.

  'Who are you?', mumbled Robin, his words abruptly ended by the butt of the man's weapon knocking him quickly and cleanly unconscious.

  Chapter 24

  As Clara's eyes slowly began to open, as her vision began to come back to her, between the bouts of vomiting and the unbearably painful headaches, she tried to make some sense of where she was, how she'd got there, and whether or not she was actually alive. Her instinct of course was to assume that she was, and when she first woke up, she had no real reason to believe she wasn't. But as the memories began rushing back, the image of Gorshkov furiously lunging at her, syringe in hand, the feelings of the putrid drugs taking over her system, Clara became aware that she may actually have died, and that this may be something more than just waking up somewhere unfamiliar. After all, she'd never died before, nor had she ever met anyone who had, so how was she to know?

  She twitched, moving her head as much as she could, the darkness of the room making the task of getting her bearings near impossible. She pulled her right hand toward her face but made it a mere inch or so before it was stopped, handcuffed to something solid. 'Nothing new there', Clara thought as she began to remember the diseased bed Gorshkov held her prisoner on at the Russian safe-house. But as Clara began to feel around her surroundings with her left hand, she realised she was sat upright, not laid down, but instead locked to a large metal radiator. She looked for a way to remove the cuffs, failing to find one, but ultimately feeling some light relief that she was no longer in Gorshkov's place, although for all she knew it could have been somewhere far worse. There was little to hear, but the room had an overwhelming smell of damp, as if the place she was being held hadn't been used for anything for a considerable amount of time.

  Then suddenly, a 'clicking' sound in the distance, followed by footsteps. Clara, beaten mentally and physically from the events of the last 24 hours, did her best to curl up into a ball as the shadowy figure approached her, leaning over her and speaking.

  'Hello Clara'

  Clara stared up, her mouth wide open, gasping for breath. The face she could see was almost unrecognisable to her, but as she stared into the man's eyes, those same beautiful eyes she'd seen before, there was no mistaking who she was speaking to. She began to cry heavy-hearted tears, and reached out with her left hand, the pair holding hands for a moment.

  'Nick', she gasped. 'My beautiful brother! Is it really you?'

  'Easy now little sister', said Nick, leaning down and gently stroking her hair. 'You need your rest. I swear I won't let anyone hurt you now'

  'Am I dead?', mumbled Clara, her eyes as wide as Nick had ever seen them, tears rolling down her face.

  He laughed gently. 'No, you're not dead', he replied.

  'Although you came close a couple of hours back', said Robin, appearing from the darkness behind Nick's left shoulder, a mug of coffee in his hands. Nick smiled softly.

  'There's a lot of shit in your system', he said, 'if you'll pardon the expression, ya know, the drugs. We need to get it out of you. Luckily it was one injection, so it's not like you're an addict coming off cold turkey, but the down is going to pretty much suck. Which reminds me', he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a key, unlocking Clara's cuffs. 'I'm sure you understand, I couldn't risk you waking up and freaking out on me'

  Clara mustered up a smile, and Nick leant forward, holding her close for a moment.

  'I was told you'd died', said Clara.

  'I know', replied Nick. I promise, I'll explain everything, but you need your rest' As he pulled back from the embrace, Clara had already lapsed back into a deep sleep. Nick grabbed some blankets, and lay her out gently, as Clara's aggressive detoxification continued.

  Chapter 25

  As Clara lay in the bed that Nick had prepared for her, she slept, her eyelids flickering and twitching as a dream played over inside her head. A dream that involved her brother, something that hadn't happened since she'd been falsely informed of his death so many years before. The dream played over a situation that she'd often remembered during her waking hours, when she'd drift off for a while and allow her mind to wander. She was young, not even in her teens, on a particularly cold winter's morning in New York. Her father had taken her and her brother out to buy groceries, and Clara had managed to cause an argument with a store detective whom she'd read, the guy convinced she was planning on stealing something from the candy aisle. Clara, with the attitude of a 16-year old despite her young age, had launched into a verbal attack, a crowd of shoppers stopping what they were doing to watch the young girl and the burly store detective trade blows with one another. Clara's father, despairing at his daughter's seemingly uncontrollable attitude and lack of respect, tried to diffuse the situation by pulling both his kids outside of the store, the altercation loud enough that a passing Police officer had stopped to intervene, making an already embarrassing situation for her Dad even worse. To most, it would be a story they'd sooner forget, and Clara had often regretted her naive aggression, nothing more than the result of a young person's inability to cope with their extraordinary gift. But as her father yanked on her arm, as he dragged her out of the store, Clara locked eyes with her brother, and saw him think something that she never forgot.

  'I know what you're going through - they'll never understand us'

  At the time, she'd chalked it up to a silly but well-meant comment, and even the sweetest of words from her beloved brother wouldn't have quelled her bad temper on that particular day, but as the days, months and years went by, the words held more stature. She'd often lay in her bed at night, looking for alternative meanings, trying to 'tick off' the options, almost hoping that her brother hadn't had to experience what she'd experienced in his short life. And then she'd wonder, 'what if he had still been alive, would my life have been different with him there to help me cope?' Clara never got her opportunity to ask Nick what he meant, as she would find out later that same day that Nick had been kidnapped and eventually murdered. The dream played through in her head, almost as vividly as the day it originally happened, and as she lay in the midst of her dream, she reached out to the young Nick and grasped his hand, smiling back at him.

  'It's OK Clara, you're safe', he said. And as she woke, a much older, much more real Nick was sat over her bed, and Clara smiled.

  'I don't know where to begin', said Clara, holding a cup of coffee in her hands, the reassuring warmth from the cup seeping through to her palms. The trio were together properly for the first time, Clara still groggy from the near-overdose that had been plunged into her body, and Robin had been trying to put some of the pieces together with Nick. Nick sat on a
chair, near the window of the dirty old factory they were sat in, close enough to see out but instinctively tucked out of sight. Nick had grown up considerably since Clara last saw him. About 6ft 1, thick brown hair and a muzzle of dark stubble with piercing brown eyes. He had the same olive-like skin complexion as Clara, and as she'd held his hand earlier that night, she'd noticed they were rough and choppy, the kind of hands that belonged to a man who used them in his line of work. He was still dressed in his military-style blackout gear, although he'd taken the stab-proof vest and jacket off, wearing a tank-top that highlighted an impressive physique that looked more like it had been picked up through years of gruelling labour than a few weeks of stomach crunches and pushups. Clara stared at him for a few moments, not reading him, instead using her new-found self control skills to allow him to do the speaking.

  'What happened to you?', Clara asked.

  Nick smiled, leaning forward in his chair, wringing his hands together nervously.

  'Essentially, the Agency got me', replied Nick.

  'Boal?', asked Robin, a question that earned him a dark look from Clara, clearly not finished with her time with her brother and not grateful for Robin's interjection.

  'Not Boal', replied Nick. 'I know Boal though, but he came later. I've seen a few'

  The pair both looked at him, uncertain of what 'few' he was referring to.

  'Agency Directors', said Nick, the pair nodding understandingly. 'Boal was far from the first, and however much he's told you about the Agency, even if what he told you was true, you probably only know a tiny percentage of the actual truth'