by Matt Stark
He rubbed his hand across his balding scalp. The Home Secretary had told the British Public the changes were, “to improve the efficiency and effectiveness of our security services in the fight against an ever-changing terror threat.” It was bollocks of course. Well, not completely – there had been and still was a clear and present danger to the British State from terrorism – and the terrorists had become more sophisticated and dangerous than anyone including the Home Secretary could have ever imagined. But the terror threat wasn’t the reason for the restructuring. It was money, or rather the lack of it. Since leaving the European Union in 2016 the UK economy had tanked. The time when it could spend 2% of gross domestic product on defence had long since gone. UK plc was broke.
Peter poured himself another whiskey, then looked at the opaque glass wall to his office, and smiled. It was ironic. The government had concentrated what resources they had on protecting the UK from cyber-attacks. Mainframes in power stations, central government, the military and Intelligence service were protected by layers of firewalls, which had to be constantly updated to be effective against an army of ever more sophisticated hackers. And the buildings themselves were shielded from remote attacks. The most secure section of Vauxhall Cross, where Peter now stood, was encased in a wall of glass. It was a safe zone, theoretically protected from electronic surveillance and sabotage. But the predicted cyber-attacks never materialized. The real threat came from somewhere no one had expected.
Peter took a sharp breath in. Sometimes the knowledge that he possessed threatened to overwhelm him. He was one of probably only three people in the UK who knew how close they had been and were to disaster. Not just a few dead bodies on a bus or some soldiers killed on the other side of the world, but anarchy – the breakdown of order and civilization. Sometimes he just wished things were simpler, the way they used to be.
He sipped the Tobermory trying to ignore the taste. The new terror threat had taken everyone by surprise. The government had put all its resources in the wrong place. Because the threat wasn’t technological, or even biological. It was genetic. A section of humanity had evolved in the last few years developing mental capabilities no one had believed possible – telepathy, telekinesis, the stuff of science fiction. The scientists told Peter it had been due to a random mutation – a chance in a billion. And now, because it gave those who had it such an advantage, it would spread until it was dominant. So unfortunately but not surprisingly this development threatened the existence of everyone without it. In other words, 99% of the human population.
A group of these new humans, post-humans they called themselves, had become terrorists – demanding recognition. And that’s why Peter needed Sam Barrick. Because he was also a post-human, and the only one who could stop them.
He opened the safe and pulled out two manila A4 size files. Then he took them back to his desk, picked up an old leather attaché case from the floor and slid both files inside. He clipped the case closed, then sat down.
New Dawn, as they called themselves, were responsible for four bombings in London in the last twelve months. Peter and his team were stretched trying to stop them, so debriefing Sam might seem like a misuse of resources. But Peter knew different. So far JIS hadn’t stopped a single attack. And although he would never tell his subordinates, he didn’t think they ever would. They were going to lose the war unless Peter could get Sam Barrick back up to speed.
And he didn’t have much time. At 8 p.m. tonight, just over eleven hours from now, New Dawn would strike again. Somewhere in London a bomb would go off and hundreds of people would die. Many more would have their lives ruined by horrific injuries, like they had four times before in London. Peter had seen the results of such explosions many times, and didn’t want to see them again.
He’d already briefed the team. They were out there right now chasing up leads. Internet chatter on the dark web had led them to a cell, and a name, Serina. But even if they found her Peter knew it wouldn’t be enough.
Gritting his teeth he pushed himself upright.
It was time to see Sam.
Chapter 8
“No!” Sam jerked awake, and jack-knifed upright – his scream ringing in his ears, his breathing fast and ragged. As it gradually slowed he became aware of his surroundings. He was in the dark, sitting on something soft. The air was warm and dry and smelt of disinfectant. Above him there was a whirring sound. How had he gotten here, wherever here was? He shook his head. He couldn’t remember. He just had the feeling something very bad had happened. He felt his brow crease as he tried to remember. Then he had it. He’d been with a girl. They’d been in danger. They’d... the thought slipped away.
Dammit.
Sam’s gut had clenched tight. His body remembered even if his mind didn’t. For an instant he got an impression of a face. Youthful, blond hair, bright blue eyes that were somehow older than her other features. Then it vanished. He strained trying to bring the image back, but couldn’t.
He clenched his fists. Fuck.
He tried again but his thoughts were sluggish, like he was wading through treacle, but after a few minutes a mental video started. He was outside Euston Station. The girl – Suzie, that was her name – was holding him up, helping him. He turned to thank her. Then Bang – a gunshot, the sound of glass shattering. She pulled him down. Then Bang. She let go of him. When Sam turned around she was lying on her back, a red stain on her shoulder, saliva running from her mouth.
“No!” Sam jolted out of the trance he’d fallen into.
He didn’t know who that girl was or why she’d helped him, but he knew one thing. She’d saved his life. He had to find her and make sure she was okay. The first step was working out where the hell he was. He reached down and found cotton sheets, a blanket, and beyond that cold metal rails. He was sitting on a bed. Probably in some kind of institution – hopefully a hospital, not a prison.
It was time to get moving. He twisted around, slid his legs over the side of the bed, and got up, then walked forward on unsteady legs, hands out in front of him. His head ached and he felt dizzy and weak, and his left thigh was throbbing. Several frustrating minutes later he found a switch on a wall and flicked it. There was a cracking noise, then light hit his eyes, blinding him. He squinted and held his hand up to his face, until his eyes adjusted to the light.
He was in a windowless room about the size of a large office, with concrete walls painted a sickly green. A single florescent tube, spanning most of the ceiling, provided the light. It was flickering slightly, adding to the feeling of nausea he already had. Opposite Sam was a single bed; at the foot of that a steel sink with a mirror over it. There was a Formica table in the middle of the room with two plastic chairs facing each other. Up above, a ceiling fan spun noisily. Otherwise the room was empty. Depressingly it looked more like a prison cell than a hospital room.
He heard the sound of a key being inserted in the door behind him. Sam backed away from the door, just as a large woman dressed in hospital greens came in.
“What are you doing up? You’ll break open your stitches.” Her voice was stern, but kindly.
“Where am I?” said Sam.
She pushed him back toward the bed. He tried to resist but couldn’t. He hadn’t realized how weak he was.
“Somewhere safe,” she said.
“How long?”
He was back on the bed now. She was pulling the covers over him, tucking them tightly under his armpits like he was six years old.
“Never mind that, Mr. Barrick.”
Then she pulled out a hypodermic from her pocket, and before he could protest injected the contents into Sam’s arm. The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was the nurse’s voice.
“You’d best get some rest, Mr. Barrick. You’re going to need it.”
***
When Sam next woke the light was on. He didn’t know what the nurse had given him – if that’s what she was – but it had knocked him out like a hammer. He felt like he’d been un
conscious for days. Unfortunately the video nasty of Suzie’s shooting was still playing in his mind.
Trying to ignore it he looked around the room. Someone had left clothes hanging over the back of one of the plastic chairs. And on the table were a water jug, two glasses and what looked like a plate of food covered by a plastic lid. The chairs and table, Sam now noticed, were screwed to the floor. It was definitely more of a prison cell than a hospital room. The impression was confirmed by a hatch Sam hadn’t seen before, halfway up the heavy metal door to the room. Maybe he was locked up but the good news was his headache had gone, and he was ravenously hungry.
As he sat up, a sharp pain shot down his left thigh. Frowning he pushed back the blanket covering him. Then he pulled down hospital-style pyjama bottoms to reveal a white bandage wrapped around the middle of his left thigh. He pushed down on it, winced, and it all came back to him; waking up in Regent’s Park with no memory, being attacked by Deep Throat and his chums, kicking the shit out of them, getting shot. Then watching Suzie take a bullet for him. The image of the red stain on Suzie’s shoulder burned in his mind. She’d been shot because he’d fucked up. He never should have let her help him.
He pulled the pyjama bottoms up, swung his legs over the bed, walked to the door and banged on it, ignoring the ache in his leg.
“Hey, let me out of here.”
His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it for a while. He banged again. There was no answer.
“Hey!” He thumped the door until the skin started to come off his knuckles. Eventually a voice came over the intercom. It sounded like the fat nurse who’d tucked him in and given him the goodnight injection.
“Mr. Barrick, please calm down. Mr. Stone will be with you shortly.”
He wanted to get out of here, make sure Suzie was okay, and start trying to find out what the hell had happened to him, but he wasn’t in charge right now. The fat nurse was. And there was no point in exhausting himself. Sam would just have to wait for Mr. Stone, whoever the hell he was.
But he’d like to know how long he’d been here. The more facts he had the better. Anyway it would give him something to do. The state of his leg wound should give him an idea. He went back to the bed, sat on it, pulled off his pyjama trousers, and then unwound the bandage. There was a four-inch scar across the front of his thigh. The bullet had ploughed a tunnel through the fat and muscle. But it had been neatly sutured up, and there was no sign of infection. Sam wrapped the bandage back around his leg. By the look of the wound he guessed he’d been laid up for maybe five days.
That explained his hunger. His stomach grumbled. Time to eat. Pulling the pyjama trousers back on he got up, walked over to the table, and took the lid off the plate. Mashed potatoes, some kind of meat in gravy, and cabbage. Standard hospital or prison fare – but right now it looked delicious. He cleared the plate in less than a minute. Then he washed it down with a glass of water, sat back and sighed.
He’d been lucky, very lucky. Someone had operated on him, removed the bullet and sorted out the wound. He’d also probably been transfused. Five days wasn’t long enough for him to have regenerated the red blood cells he’d lost. Without blood he’d be knackered and out of puff just pottering around the cell.
He got up and walked over to the sink. He’d been washed at some point, but probably not for the last twenty-four hours. Might as well clean up – and see what state the rest of him was in. When he was standing in front of the mirror he pulled off his pyjama top and trousers. The half-starved scarecrow staring back at him looked better than the tramp he’d seen reflected in the pub window near Euston. But he was still about a stone underweight. The look was made worse by his white, almost blue skin. Like he’d spent a long time away from sunlight.
There was a bar of soap on the sink, and a worn-looking towel hanging on a rail next to it. Trying to ignore the video nasties of Suzie still playing in his mind, he ran water into the sink. The water from the hot tap was scalding. He had to mix in cold to get it to an acceptable temperature. When the sink was full he lathered up the soap in the hot water and gave himself a strip wash, concentrating on his armpits and groin. He avoided the bandaged area of his left thigh, making sure the soapy water didn’t run down under the bandage. Washing mightn’t seem the most important thing to do in the circumstances, but it helped calm him. Afterwards he towelled himself off. When he’d finished he was pink and warm and a little calmer.
He grabbed the clothes from the back of the chair. Blue jeans, a shirt, some kind of pullover, socks and shoes. In the back pocket of the jeans he found Deepthroat’s Rolex. Someone was looking after him, maybe the fat nurse. Everything was the correct size if not to his taste. But after what Sam had been through he didn’t care as long as the clothes were warm and dry. He dressed quickly before sitting down at the table to wait and think.
Unfortunately being still didn’t help. He had nothing to distract him from the video nasty of Suzie. He kneaded his temple with his knuckles so hard his head ached, but couldn’t stop the film playing over and over. In a way it was odd he was so worried about Suzie. After all he’d only met her once. But on the other hand she was the only person he knew. Whatever life he had before was gone – at least for now. Plus he owed her. She’d taken a bullet for him. Right now Suzie’s safety was more important even than getting his memory back. He needed to find her, make sure she was okay. And the best way he could do that was to keep calm.
Sam took a sharp breath in. He needed something to focus on. Trying to work out who the hell he was – that was as good a distraction as any other.
He’d been in prison in Beijing. Had he escaped? Reached London before being caught? But that didn’t help him much. Had they done something to screw with his mind in prison? Deep Throat looked like he was capable of it. If only he could remember what he’d been doing in Beijing in the first place.
Sam’s fist hit the table. Shit. Why couldn’t he remember? He glanced at the door – wondering how long he was going to be left in here. Then he poured himself a glass of water from the jug on the table and drank it, wishing it were a good malt. He put the glass back on the table empty and checked Deep Throat’s Rolex – 8 a.m., five minutes later than when he’d last checked it.
Then suddenly it hit him. He was completely alone. He didn’t know who he was or had been. He had no family or friends – no connections in this world except Suzie. As sadness welled up in his stomach Sam gave himself a mental kick. Self-pity wouldn’t help him either.
There were faint yellow bruises on his knuckles from punching the Chinese goons. How had he beaten ten kinds of crap out of them? They were professionals, soldiers, maybe even Special Forces. And he’d beaten them without breaking a sweat. Sam saw himself head-butting Deep Throat. He heard the man’s nose break. Was Sam a soldier? No, that didn’t feel right. But he was an expert in unarmed combat – the nasty kind, not the just-for-show martial arts crap.
What else did he know about Sam Barrick? He had medical knowledge. Even though he’d never gotten the chance he’d known exactly how to treat the gunshot wound. But he wasn’t a doctor. That didn’t feel right either. It was more like he had some medical training – enough to get by in the field, enough to help him do his real job. He was also fluent in Mandarin. What kind of man had that skill set? He searched his mind for any memories – anything that would feel more solid than all this guesswork. But it was still blank.
But he had remembered one thing. The expression on Deep Throat’s face when he’d first got eye to eye with Sam. He hadn’t known what it was then. But he did now. Fear. Deep Throat had tried to cover it up with aggression but failed. He was terrified of Sam.
Chapter 9
The door opened and a middle-aged man walked through. There were dark rings under his eyes, his cheeks had started to turn into jowls, and all that remained of his hair were a few wispy strands. He wore a dark Saville Row suit and tie that looked in much better condition than he did, and was carrying a dark leather attach�
� case in his left hand. But despite his jaded appearance he had an air of authority and calmness. He looked like someone who was used to giving orders. It had to be Stone.
“About fucking time,” Sam said, getting up.
Stone grimaced like Sam had farted in church. He gestured at the seat Sam had just vacated.
“Please sit down.”
Sam did as he was told. Stone might have the answers he needed. There was no point in antagonizing him. Stone sat down opposite Sam, put the case on the table, opened it, took out an A4 manila file, and an iPad. Then he snapped the case shut and put it on the floor. Finally he placed both hands palm down on the file, looked at Sam, and pushed his lips up into a smile.
“It’s good to see you again, Sam.”
Sam chose the first two of his million questions.
“Who the hell are you? And why have you locked me up in this dungeon?”
Stone’s big forehead creased for an instant. Then he smiled again and stretched out a fleshy hand.
“I’m Peter Stone – Head of Joint Intelligence Services. And you, Sam, are one of my best Intelligence officers. I can’t tell you how good it is to have you back.”
Ignoring the still outstretched hand Sam stared at Stone’s face to see if he was being bullshitted or not. Was he really a British Intelligence officer? Did Stone know why he’d lost his memory? Could he give Sam his life back? Sam still had his million questions, but right now only one mattered.
“What happened to Suzie?”
Stone pulled his hand back.
“I’m sorry?”
“There was a girl with me. She was shot.”
Stone picked up the case, opened it and took out another file, before closing the case and placing it back on the floor. The new file was A4 manila like the first, but slimmer. He pushed the first file and the iPad to one side, replaced them with the second file and opened it, then took a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on.