“Been there... done that,” interrupted Sophie nonchalantly.
“On another file, you’ll find a formula. Get it to a bio-geneticist, pronto. The ingredients are to be strictly adhered to and the method of distribution is subcutaneous.” Which Sophie understood meant: it needed to be injected below the skin. “How you administer it to potentially thousands of children could be a concern, but it’s imperative for the safety of mankind that it is done; no world power should have an army of such capability... What I am giving you is a permanent antidote to the DNA enhancements I’ve made to their genetic makeup. It will strip out all the modification and by and large, they will then just be normal, weirdly similar looking kids.
“I just wish... I’d had the strength... to refuse my superiors... never creating them in the first place...” He slumped his shoulders and, for a moment, George looked forlorn and traumatised, looking down towards the floor, finding it hard to grapple with something more. He looked like he was about to cry. “That’s the problem with having a conscience... and being emotionally attached to something or someone. It makes you weak.” He looked back up. “No matter what has happened to me, whether I am alive or now dead... know this: I’ve always loved you, Meredith, Stanley and Charlie. And your mother. And I always will. I only did what I did to keep you safe...
“Before I go, you’ll see that I’ve written an address on an old photograph. Keep it safe. If you ever need a friend, someone you can trust, or someplace to go and just properly ‘disappear’... that’s the place. Now, be a good girl. Drink the serum.” George smiled lovingly. “Say hello to your mother, sister and brothers for me...” Now he was crying. “Goodbye Sophie.”
“Goodbye dad,” Sophie whispered.
On the screen, George stood up from the seat and walked towards the camera and then stepping to the right of it, out of shot. A second later and the image on the laptop went black and the video ended.
“He doesn’t know...” reacted Sophie, sounding stunned.
“Your poor, poor father... all that time they had led him to believe that you were all okay, even though your mother was dead.” Emily shook her head in sorrow.
“Maybe it was a blessing,” said Sophie unhappily. There was no way to know that George had been given the news that his wife had died, although that didn’t happen until several weeks after the video was made (the AVI file had a date towards the beginning of September). “Who wouldn’t want to leave the world of the living knowing that everyone they held dear was going to be just okay without them...”
“I guess,” murmured Emily, not so certain. She exhaled dishearteningly, asking: “So, what now?”
“I drink this I guess.” Sophie snatched up the vial of blue liquid from the centre of the table, the glass bottle disappearing in her grasp. Emily heard the seal on the cap snap as Sophie twisted the lid anti-clockwise, followed by the sound of liquid sluicing around in the young woman’s mouth like it were Listerine, then an audible swallow.
What happened next didn’t seem very out of the ordinary to Emily having witnessed Sophie’s transformation a few times, but it felt extraordinary to the person holding her father’s biochemical concoction.
“Oh God...” exclaimed Sophie, physically beginning to appear. “Oh my...”
“What is it?” A look of concern flashed across Emily’s face.
“So... warm...” said Sophie, starting to laugh. Although her body was taking on form, Emily could still see through her. “Tingly!” Sophie was standing up as a feeling of intense pleasure engulfed her.
“Should this be happening?” Emily was embarrassed and slightly concerned. Maybe the antidote was a euphoriant, she considered, and Sophie was now in the midst of a ‘trip’.
“Oddly peculiar... in places!” her eyes were closed, but the lids flickered rapidly.
“I should call for help,” said Emily abruptly, moving away from the table and setting forth for the room’s exit.
As Sophie’s metamorphosis concluded, she thumped the dinner table in triumph, anger or relief. The laptop and the few items placed about it jumped up a couple of millimetres and clattered back down. The empty glass vial toppled over noisily and rolled a little, stopping just short of the table’s edge.
“Wait...” Sophie was smiling and still clearly elated, but the feeling was lessening. “Emily. It’s over...” How could she explain it? “I’ve never had a feeling of such pleasure... not like that before.”
Emily stopped and turned back towards the younger woman. Sophie was now fully visible, fresh-faced, flawless and looking almost how she remembered her back in the hotel room in Washington, before they had evaded capture at the airport and the battle to destroy GYGES in Nevada.
Except she now looked a little older, wiser and world-weary.
The cuts and bruising picked up during the battles, skirmishes and run-ins with her pursuers had all swiftly healed.
“You look...” Emily couldn’t grasp the word.
“Amazing? I know!” Sophie ran a hand through her shoulder-length blonde hair. It looked silky and framed her head impeccably. “Another gift from my dad,” she replied breezily. “Like my aging; turns out my cells regenerate at an elevated rate too. I first noticed it back in California... a bullet grazed my ear... but didn’t think much on it.”
“Fascinating.” Emily had moved back towards the table and stood facing the younger woman. Studying her unblemished face she immediately became aware of another change. “You’ve grown too.” Before, Emily had stood an inch taller. But now these aspects had switched over. Sophie’s shoulders were also slightly broader.
“Stop!” lamented Sophie. “You’re imagining things. Besides, I can’t have grown. I’ve not eaten in days... which reminds me,” changing the subject, “I’ll let you order that food now.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Barry
The whiter-than-white walls and the strong smell associated with medical facilities helped Barry pinpoint his whereabouts, even without the sounds associated with ECG and other equipment monitoring his vitals.
Lying on a narrow bed with metal bars to either side of him, he slowly became aware of all the drips and wires stuck to or pinned into his body. An oxygen mask was secured over his face. He figured that he was recovering in some hospital somewhere after some accident, momentarily forgetting the actual fate that had befallen him. That soon changed when he discovered the handcuffs fastened about his wrist, restraining his right hand to the bed railing.
Oh, I remember some of it.
He was surprised to find that he was actually still alive.
Numbly, he tested the cuffs by lifting his arm and giving it a quick, hard tug. The little slack between the railing and his wrist allowed minimal movement and the metal clasp locking him in place jangled noisily as he jerked about.
A nurse walked into the private ward busying over something − Barry assumed it was a nurse, based on how she was dressed and moved. She walked purposefully and hurried about her duties, oblivious to him being awake behind her. He guessed the nurse was in her mid-thirties, although he had only seen her face fleetingly. Her short black hair was neatly tied back and she wore dark blue scrubs that hung loosely from her tall, gangly frame.
“A-hem!” Barry cleared his throat in an attempt to draw attention.
“I know you’re awake... Mister Abney.” The nurse turned from the side of the room and stepped towards him. Barry looked her over, noticing the scar running the length of the left side of her face; it ran from her cheek down to her chin, though faint it was quite prominent. He couldn’t help staring. For a second he hadn’t realised she’d used his surname. “Mister Barrington Abney,” she repeated, “of British descent...”
The woman saying his full name felt like a face slap, snapping his attention away from her disfigurement. “How do you know...?�
� The question sounded muffled, a little sinister. To Barry, he sounded a little like a villain from a famous space opera.
“What? Your name?” The nurse stooped down, her face level with his. Even with the mask on, Barry caught a whiff of a slight scent, a subtle fragrance that reminded him of a gentle spring day back in England. “The Feds told me,” she said softly.
“I don’t see how...AHH... that...OOO...is... Poss...Ah!” Barry was trying to shuffle up the bed into a sitting position, stabs of pain piercing his body in various places all at the same time, the effect dizzying, bringing tears to his eyes.
“Whooa, hold your horses. No sudden movements, okay. We’ve only just finished stitching you up!”
Barry closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain, and relaxed, settling back down on the bed. Almost immediately the throbbing, stinging sensations seemed to subside, along with the dizziness.
“What happened?” he wheezed, no longer bothered about how his identity had been discovered. He had some memory of what had transpired before the ‘lights’ went out, but things were a little fuzzy around the edges.
“Can’t remember, no? That’s probably the effects of the morphine.” The nurse didn’t know either, though she had seen some of the news footage. She had also been in the operating theatre for sixteen hours whilst surgeons worked to fix his liver, remove his spleen and extract the nineteen bullets from his body, most puncturing his body from the waist down; but some had taken him high in the chest or about his shoulder, perforating a lung and just narrowly missing his heart. “By all accounts, you’ve been a very lucky man,” she added. “From the looks of you, the PD used you for target practice.”
“Feels like it too,” Barry tried to smile.
After the operation, the nurse had carried the metal dish used to deposit each bullet, away from the theatre and passed them to the agent who appeared to be in charge. Without smiling, Brayden Scott had made it clear that Barry was under federal arrest, and shortly after that was applying the cuffs to ensure, with absolute finality, no risk of escape.
The nurse mentioning the police department returned him back to the setting where he’d sacrificed himself to provide Sophie cover to aid her escape.
He recalled raising the gun − a Glock, Sophie’s gun of choice which she’d given to him during their escape − and firing off a couple of rounds. Pain had exploded in various points about his body simultaneously, a long second before the accompanying sounds of gunshots deafened his ears. Like a sledgehammer to the chest, he was knocked to the ground, and still bullets rained down around him. No one was taking chances.
Immediately after, whilst lying there on the dusty road, he remembered seeing feet running towards him, then a face leaning in.
“You just hold on, d’you hear me? I’m not letting you off this lightly...”
He had tried speaking, to tell the man something... Let me die... was what he had wanted to say, but only blood slipped from his lips.
“Hush... save your energy,” the man said just as Barry closed his eyes. The last thing he heard before darkness relieved him of pain and all his senses was:
“I’M LOSING HIM!”
Coming back to the present, Barry sighed in dismay, turning his head slightly away from the nurse. It wasn’t due to him lying in a hospital chained to a bed, his body pierced like a hock of meat straight from the oven, or even the fact that he had grown tired of seeing the woman’s scar. He knew that, even in the face of all that he had gone through, it was likely to pale against what would befall him soon, once his body had adequately recovered to allow the FBI or the CIA to interrogate him. He worked for MI6, he knew how it worked.
A knock at the door − a quick ‘one two’ with bony knuckles − shortly followed by the sudden appearance of a tall man in a suit who Barry had first observed at Fresno Airport, walked in confidently. An agent or someone in command, the same one he had seen at the shootout, kneeling next to him, placing his jacket carefully under his head. It was the same jacket which the man was now wearing.
“Barrington Abney... back in the living.” Brayden Scott strode to the hospital bed and stood towering over Barry, a knowing smile appearing across his face. A slight shift of his arm revealed a gun beneath his jacket. It looked like a Smith and Wesson to the injured man. “We’ve learnt a lot about you these past couple of days... Mr Abney. Or should I address you Agent Abney of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service?”
Barry didn’t react or show any emotion.
Brayden turned to face the nurse and communicated for her to leave just by a slight turn of the head, a raised eyebrow and a facial expression.
“Two minutes. I’ll be at the nurse’s station if you need me,” she said haughtily, leaving the ward, though lingering just outside.
“I’m Agent Scott,” Brayden said once the nurse had closed the door behind her. “I’m sort-of your equivalent here in the States...” he said, adding, “...only... a few pay grades higher,” he chuckled. “Britain and America are allies... MI6... CIA... We regularly collaborate, share intel. There’s a lot of give and take.” He emphasised the word ‘take’. “We have common goals... and common enemies. You and I, we are cut from the same cloth. Two legs to a pair of trousers. Hell, we’re practically brothers...”
“Okay, okay. I get it. We’re one big happy bloody family. Thanks for the stirring speech.” The oxygen mask weakened the sarcasm in his voice.
Brayden walked around the bed and crossed to the window, pushing open a couple of slats in the venetian blind to peer out. The view offered was dull compared to the hospital room he had been standing in just a few days earlier. Owing to its setting, the Community Regional Medical Centre in Fresno, though offering exemplary health care which ultimately saved Barry’s life, wasn’t as pleasing to visit as the hospital facilities at Guantanamo Bay had been.
A concrete car park, beyond which North Clark Street could be seen, looked mediocre compared to the crystal blue waters and the white sand south of the island of Cuba.
Thoughts of George came to mind. Brayden could still see his lifeless body lying there in his bed, suffocated with his own pillow by the man who had once been his partner. He allowed the slats of the blind to fall back into place and returned his attention to Barry.
“I have you to thank for delivering George Jennings’ killer to us, an act which has earned you a little gratitude from me. That’s a perfect example of inter-agency-collaboration.” Brayden smiled. He manoeuvred a chair so that it was facing Barry, the legs scraping the floor noisily, and sat down, his expression hardening. “It is my job to help protect the United States from external threats − great and small − at all costs.” Brayden went quiet, as though considering his words carefully.
“What do you want?”
Brayden’s eyes sparkled like quartz under ultraviolet light. “The girl for starters,” he said, “and... Dominic Schilling.”
“What makes you think I –” Barry was shaking his head apathetically.
“Cut the crap Abney!” Brayden interrupted, jumping up from the chair and placing a hand upon Barry’s shoulder, across an area that was bandaged and obviously sore. He lightly applied pressure knowing that directly beneath the dressing was an angry bullet wound. A small dot of blood appeared on the bandage.
Barry tried not to cry out in pain, to brave the torment through gritted teeth. He grunted involuntarily as Brayden dug his fingers in a little deeper, his teeth gritted. The look on the CIA agent’s face seemed to be one of pleasure.
“Don’t think I won’t carry on,” declared Brayden, pushing down harder. The dressing was now dark red with crimson beneath his hand, the spot now the size of a five-pence-piece. “Reminds me... I need to stick a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in the fridge...”
Barry squeezed his eyes shut, white stars dancing behind them; once again consci
ousness teetered, threatening to desert him and the acidic taste of bile bubbled at the back of his throat.
“Okay! Okay! Stop... stop... STOP!”
Brayden removed his hand and started to laugh. “I haven’t even gotten started yet! Call yourself MI6! You’re a disgrace to your profession and your country.” He ‘tsked’ loudly as he laid his hand back on Barry’s shoulder, squeezing again. He didn’t care that the man was weak and about to answer some questions.
“Ahhhh, no... no... Nurse! Nurse!”
Before the nurse came in to admonish Brayden, the CIA agent lessened his pressure and removed his hand. “Okay, Abney. I’ll stop... seeing as you’re now wishing to be compliant.”
Barry was whimpering a little from the pain continuing to burn above his chest. “Before I talk...” he grunted, “go get me a coffee. I need a caffeine fix.”
“I’ve already told you once, cut the crap.” Brayden moved menacingly forward, a hand half-reaching for the man’s shoulder again.
“Wait! I’ll tell you EVERYTHING... just get me a bloody coffee. I need a coffee. I want a coffee!”
“All right! ... don’t have a coronary.” Brayden withdrew reluctantly and stepped out of the room, passing the nurse’s station as he sought a coffee machine. He didn’t notice the nurse he’d ordered out walk from a neighbouring room and enter the corridor behind him as he headed to where he knew a drinks’ machine was stationed.
Using a stethoscope pressed up against a wall, the nurse had listened into Brayden’s questioning, hearing everything. She wanted to step in, to end the man’s torment, but couldn’t; there was something she needed to know first. Now that the agent had momentarily left her patient, she swiftly reappeared at Barry’s bedside.
“Are you okay Mr Abney? Your dressing...!” The nurse noticed the growing dot of blood on the bandaging secured over the man’s shoulder.
The Whisper of Persia (The Girl in the Mirror Book 3) Page 19