by S. Burke
He set her on the sofa and she curled into a tight ball. The lightening cracked overhead and she screamed. Quentin grabbed the lamp and the candles, switched the lamp on and a warm light filled the room. Not harshly bright. “Sheila, open your eyes, baby, I have light here now, c’mon open your eyes, look. See? That’s better, isn’t it?”
Sheila opened her eyes and blinked in the comforting aura. “Y-y-yes.”
Quentin stood.
“Where are you going? Don’t go!”
“Easy, honey. I’m gonna fix us both a stiff drink. It will help settle you. I’ll only be a few steps away, and the light won’t go out. I promise.”
Minutes later, she was still shaking as she reached for the drink, gulping it down and holding her glass out for another.
“Whoa, easy. That’s straight Jack Daniels you just tossed back. Slow it down until we have something to eat or you may make yourself sick.”
“Just get me another one. Please, Quentin. I need it.”
He wasn’t happy, but she was so pale and still shaking, he fixed her another. “Sip it this time.”
She nodded. Then lit up a smoke. “I need this, and I’m not going out in the storm to smoke it.”
“Go ahead and smoke inside. I have no problem with that.”
The lightning cracked close by and Sheila screamed again. Quentin sat next to her and pulled her into the curve of his arm. “Hush, I’m here, nothing is going to hurt you, easy, honey, hush now.”
The woman snuggled into the warmth of his body and he could feel her trembling. Whatever had started this fear of storms must have been bad. She was terrified. He stroked her hair, and she leaned into him, close.
After a while he could feel her beginning to relax, her breathing slowed, so much he thought she was asleep. He moved, intending to put her feet up on the sofa and cover her with a blanket.
“I’m sorry I was such a baby, Quentin.”
“Hush, you were afraid. It’s okay.”
“I hate storms.”
“Yeah, I kinda gathered that.”
Sheila laughed. “Thanks.”
“Welcome. Are you hungry?”
“Mm, not really. Not yet. I’d like another drink.”
Quentin hesitated, about to suggest she wait a while, but the look on her face told him that wouldn’t go down well. He fixed her a drink and this time brought the bottle back in with him. If she wanted to get smashed, he wouldn’t try and stop her again. He was in no mood for an argument this early in the relationship, especially since he was still waiting on her answer to him joining her on the road.
Sheila drank down the third JD like it was water, and poured herself another.
“Do you want to talk about the storm, Sheila?”
“No.”
“Okay, is there anything else that scares you that way, in case I’m with you, just so I know?”
“I’m afraid of small dark spaces. Claustrophobic as hell. I can’t breathe and I panic. So I avoid lifts, and cramped rooms full of people. I haven’t been in a situation like that since I was a kid, those things are easy to avoid. I hate flying for the same reason, but I can force myself on a plane, can’t travel and not fly. Storms aren’t something I have any say in. If I know a storm is coming, I make certain I’m in company. I’m not as scared when other people are around.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Thanks for being so understanding, I appreciate it. Are you afraid of anything?”
“Me? I hadn’t really thought much about it. No, nothing in my life so far has made me afraid, for myself.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Yeah, I guess I am. I’m gonna fix myself some cold chicken and salad. You hungry yet?”
“No, but thanks.”
Quentin got up, and she didn’t protest this time, her nerves steadied by the alcohol. He smiled at her and went into the kitchen to fix some supper.
He brought it back with him into the living room and sat nearby hoping the sight of the food would make her hungry. It didn’t. He was amazed at the amount of alcohol she was tossing back, and apart from the fact that she was clearly more relaxed, there was no outward sign that it affected her at all.
Quentin couldn’t sleep. Waiting on Sheila’s answer was making him edgy. He didn’t respond well to being on edge. He expected a no yet still hoped for a yes. Even if she placed a time limit on him accompanying her, it would mean longer in her company.
Women didn’t usually have much power over him. Nobody did. He had been a loner all his young life, except for when he got the jagged scar- that was as close to teamwork as you could get. He admitted grudgingly it had worked out well, surprisingly well. His conscience didn’t trouble him that much. As long as he didn’t think about it. The fact that he was unable to discuss what happened suited him fine.
He turned as he heard Sheila in the bathroom. He’d thought the booze would have made her sleep through till morning.
Chapter 10
Present Day
Mike Matheson and Nigel Cantrell sat in ‘Kelly’s’ bar. The undercover operative was to meet with them there.
“Do you know this guy, Mike?”
“No, I left before he joined as an operative. He’s supposed to be very good at what he does.”
“Quantico version of very good?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
Both men laughed. They were developing a fairly comfortable relationship. Mike was getting past his aversion to ‘head doctors’ as he called them. He decided he liked this Cantrell guy; he wasn’t an egghead like some of them. The man knew his stuff, and had no problem communicating without condescending. The team worked in a more unified way now, and Mike knew damned well it was Cantrell’s influence that achieved it.
Nigel Cantrell was satisfied that things were progressing as he’d hoped.
The focus now must be on connecting all the dots to the woman they knew as Sheila Eileen Harrington.
The concern now was her being part of- more than likely the leader of- a family group, a team of killers.
Mike glanced around the bar. “Pick anyone yet, Doc?”
“No, if the operative is here, he’s good. I haven’t been able to see him.”
“He’s late.” Mike glanced again at his watch.
“Checking us out more likely; what about the tall guy sitting at the bar?”
“The one with the earring?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nyah, he’s a regular.”
The two men checked out anyone entering the bar. They waited an hour and then left, both unhappy at losing valuable time.
The phone rang as Mike approached his office. Trish Clayton called out, “For you, Mike. It’s the Director.”
Mike hurried to his office. The director of the FBI didn’t ring every day. “Yes, sir?”
“Mike. How are you?”
“Fine, sir.”
“The task force is being increased; I’m getting a lot of pressure on this one, Mike. We are sending down four new recruits from Quantico to assist. They are the pick of the bunch. Utilize their skills. Any I.D. on the new victim?”
“Not yet, sir. We have fielded over two hundred possibles from the hotline. Still checking. We could use more folks to work that end.”
“Okay, I’ll contact the D.A. and get you some uniforms to handle those calls. Did you meet with our friend?”
“He was a no show, sir.”
“What? That’s not like … very well. I’ll look into it. That’s all for now, Mike. I want results. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The call ended. Mike headed into the meeting area. “Trish?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Do you know where Cantrell is?”
“He left when you were on the phone. Said he’d be back soon.”
“Call in the team, please. Meeting in the conference room in …” He checked his watch. “Make it an hour.”
“Okay.”
“Than
ks, Trish, I appreciate it.”
Trish Clayton stopped in her tracks and grinned at her superior officer. “You sickening for something?”
Mike caught the sarcasm and laughed. “I may be coming down with a case of the ‘Doctor Cantrell’s’.”
“Good. I hope it’s a bad dose.” She was still laughing as she left the room.
Sheila Harrington was restless; she paced the room and decided to make a move. Let the folks following her earn their pay. She smiled to herself. This was fun. She retrieved one of the new cell phones from the bed. Paid for in cash, before she was detained. She had six of them in assorted colours. She laughed out loud, knowing full well that the room was bugged.
Dressing carefully in a business suit and blouse, she checked her look. She swept her hair up and secured it with a pearl clip, fastened matching earrings and bracelet, highlighted her large blue eyes, and sprayed a touch of her signature perfume ‘Giorgio’ on each wrist. Then she made a call on the room phone.
In a vehicle parked outside the agents listened in.
“Hello?” a deep male voice answered the call.
“Hi, it’s me. I’m leaving now. Meet me at ‘Shenanigans’ in half an hour.”
“Make it an hour.”
“Caught you at a bad time?”
“Yes.”
She hung up.
“Goddammit, that was too short to trace.” The young female agent was disgruntled. This was the first call the woman had made in twenty-four hours. “Get someone over to Shenanigans restaurant. Tell them to dress appropriately; it’s a high class place.”
“How soon?” the other agent asked.
“She’s meeting someone there in an hour.”
“Okay.”
Sheila left the hotel room and made her way down to the lobby. She smiled at the receptionist and headed into one of the large bars off the main foyer. She ordered champagne and waited until the waiter had poured her a glass and returned the bottle to the ice bucket before using the new cell phone.
“Hello.”
“Did they buy it?”
“I think they would be sending someone there right about now,” she laughed.
“Do you have a tail?”
“Not yet. They will be outside waiting for me to leave.”
“Having fun?”
“You know it.”
“Enjoy your evening. Be good.”
“Darling, I’m always good.”
“Yes, yes, you are.”
“Kisses.”
“’Bye.”
Sheila disconnected the call, relaxed back into the luxury of the leather chair, and sipped at her champagne. The evening was beginning to look promising.
She had the waiter organize the valet to bring her hire car round front, waited until he told her it was ready for her and left the bar.
The agent who had just come on shift was surprised when she left the building. He was certain he’d been told she was dining earlier at Shenanigans. He’d been watching for her to return, why hadn’t she already left?
She climbed in and drove off in the flow of traffic, drove two blocks, made a left turn at the lights and disappeared into the parking basement of another hotel. She parked and exited through the back entrance, making her way on foot to yet another hotel on the same block. She walked down through the parking area and travelled up in the lift to the 22nd floor. Humming happily, she knocked on room 2210’s door.
The man opened the door and pulled her roughly into his arms.
Agent Jeff Simmons was not a happy man. He’d followed her three cars back, got caught at the lights and when he’d made the left turn the hire car was nowhere in sight. He’d lost her.
Two agents sat at Shenanigans dressed to kill and waiting. They made a handsome couple. They sat at the bar and waited, but the suspect didn’t show.
“What the hell do you mean, you lost her?” Mike Matheson screamed into the phone.
The task force members waited. Mike was clearly not a happy man.
He slammed the phone down and turned to the team. “We lost her. Someone get over to the hotel. I want people in the lobby when she comes back. If she comes back.”
“What happened, Mike?” Kevin Walters, the eldest of the team, asked.
“Simmons got caught in traffic; she made a left and disappeared. There are fifteen parking areas in that block alone. He’s checking all of them.”
“She’s playing with us,” said Trish. “The bitch knows we are tailing her and she’s deliberately playing with us. Shenanigans was a false lead. She knows we had the phone tapped.”
“Looks that way. Cantrell said she was clever. Where is he?” asked Mike.
“He said he had an errand and would be back later.”
“What do we have on the new victim?”
“Nothing yet, Mike. Whoever this guy is, nobody has reported him missing, and no one seems to know him. Same as all the others; this poor bastard doesn’t seem to exist either. The photo is out on all the wire services, someone out there must know who he is, I just hope it’s fast. Poor bastard. It must be the worst kind of terror knowing who has him and what happened to all the others.”
Chapter 11
Four Years Earlier
The 747 had been in the air for eleven hours. It was a rough trip, heavy turbulence ensuring the barf bags had a purpose to serve.
The passengers had been quiet for the most part. Strangers all, no real attempt at conversation was made. Each of the young men appeared to be deeply enmeshed in their own thoughts. The window shutters were down and locked, affording no one the benefit of identifying in which direction they were travelling. The plane landed in a storm, and taxied into a purpose-built hangar.
The travellers were split into two groups of fifteen. They were directed to two buses and once seated were blindfolded securely and handcuffed to ensure those blindfolds remained in place. This was not unexpected; they had been told that security was tight.
“Where do you suppose we’re headed?” one of them asked his seating companion.
“Don’t know, don’t care. Don’t feel like talking either,” was the surly response.
The guy who initiated the conversation shrugged. “Fine by me.”
The outside temperature felt much warmer than their point of departure had been. They had no idea where on the planet they were and didn’t care. This was about the money. More money than any of them had even dreamed of having. They couldn’t care less what they had to do to earn it.
The buses carried thirty healthy young men, with five things in common. They were all under twenty-four years of age. They were all capable of killing another human being if the conditions and the money were right. They each had olive skin and dark hair. They were all discards; foundlings who had never found parents who wanted to keep them.
All failed the parameters on entering law enforcement agencies due to their psychiatric assessments. The consensus reached by analysis was that they each had ‘sociopathic’ tendencies.
They weren’t the first busload of young healthy men to pass through the heavily guarded sentry gates. They would, however, be the last.
Recruitment required from a skilled team months of searching. This load consisted- as did the others- of young people that slipped through the cracks of society through their own skill and ability to manipulate others, and the capacity to survive at any cost.
They were all loners.
Detailed profile reports indicated they would be capable of offences ranging from assault to murder, with barely a thought to consequences.
They were exactly the types the recruiters of this particular unit wanted; healthy nobodies, who could be trained to be killers without anything other than a large cash bonus as the incentive.
The bus went through a long tunnel and entered an underground area, well lit and guarded. The blindfolds and handcuffs were removed and they all blinked in the harsh lighting. The uniforms of those standing in a tight group awaiting their arrival were no
t familiar.
They were directed through a set of electrified gates, a couple of hundred yards beyond what appeared to be accommodation huts. None of them attempted conversation. None had a wish to become even vaguely friendly with any of their suddenly inherited brethren.
A man, taller than most, exited a building with no windows, off to the left of the group. They watched him approach, each wearing differing degrees of testosterone charged body language.
The tall man spoke to the two other men wearing uniform, then turned and stood looking at them much as you would at cattle on display at an auction. When he spoke it was clear, and crisp.
“You have been selected from a number of possible people for a specific task. This is not a movie, people. There is no drill sergeant from hell with a secret soft side here. You can leave at any time, up to a certain point. You will be apprised of that point with enough time to make your decision. The training will be intense. Many of you will fail. Those of you that do their absolute best, yet still fail up to week twelve, will be paid well for the time spent here and returned to their city of origin. You are not here because of your unwavering patriotism. You are not here because you are the best and brightest America has to offer. You are here because you are survivors. You are here because you have a mentality suited to the job you will be trained for. Hear me clearly; refusal to obey an order in the first twelve weeks of training will have you removed from this place without payment. Refusal to obey a direct order after twelve weeks has elapsed will have you shot. There will be no court martial, no jury of your peers to appeal to. The sentence will be carried out immediately and your remains will be burned. Respond with ‘Yes, Sir’ if you understand.”