Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined

by Cooper, Ricky

  'So I want the systems scrubbed, all data on them synced to hard drives then pulled from the system, and anything left on them wiped clean. I do not want anything left—not one word file, data packet, or jpeg left on any system connected to our severs.

  'From now on, we are hard data only. Paper files will be held in the vault under twenty-four hour guard and only removed by an authorised clerk. That goes for all invoices, inventories, deployment rosters, flight manifests—even the amount of ink in our printers. Am I understood?'

  They nodded with annoyance and mild anger simmering beneath a layer of stoic perseverance as they turned and moved off to their desks and offices to begin the purge.

  Over the next three hours, the hum of a thousand computers fell into a silence so filling that it smothered everything it touched. Colinson's ears rang, a high-pitched keening squeal reverberating through his skull as he stood in the now tomb-like room. The corpses of a hundred steel towers standing sentry over the desolate remains of the now eviscerated hard drives.

  The heavy scent of static-filled ozone and recycled air invaded his lungs as he drew a deep breath. The room once so alive with the flickering of LED lights and the hushed hum of cooling fans was now little more than a tomb for the ill-gotten gains of evil men.

  Stepping from the room, he paused momentarily at the keypad by the door. Sliding his fingers over the heavy chromed siding, he searched, poised for any sign of deviation or variance in the otherwise flawless block of machined aluminium. He felt a sharp tugging at the pads of his finger as they slipped over the curled and damaged edge. The split seam of brushed metal bit into the tip of his finger, a fine line of scarlet slipping through the ridges of his fingertip as he pulled his hand away.

  'Hmm, thought as much; sloppy, whomever it was.' Lifting his finger to his lips, Colinson gently sucked the blood from its tip. With care-filled ease, he tapped in a code and set the room to automatic cleanse, watching as the casings filling the room began to smoke and bubble, the heavy acid eating through the remains of everything in the room.

  The echoing clatter of retreating feet filled the small anterior room as Colinson moved towards the stairs and up into the bitter August sun.

  ****

  Derek stared at the disc in his hand, the twisted hole in the top a testament to the arrogant and callous disregard with which the man was treated even after death. Baker sighed as he dropped the dog tag onto the desk in front of him, an overwhelming sense of fatigue and anger boiling through him as he watched the shimmering dance of the metal tag as it slowly settled against the veneered desktop.

  He stared at his reflection as it danced in the light playing off the steel circle; the shifting wave of letters and numbers seized his eyes, slithering into his mind like water as he gazed upon them.

  'It's a message, ain't it?'

  Baker nodded as Shaw stepped partially into the room, stopping just inside the doorway, his hands clenched inside the pockets of his jeans. The light streamed around him, casting an incandescent, almost ethereal halo of white about Shaw making Derek's eyes water slightly as he stared at the man.

  His footsteps shattered the silence as Shaw made his way forwards, the rough threadbare carpet doing nothing to mute his passage as he reached the desk and stopped. Rufus' eyes lingered on the dog tag as Baker shifted and turned to face the window. Shaw reached forwards, plucking the tag from where it sat on the desk.

  'So, whose is this, anyway? Name's been carved out of it. It's a naval number; other than that, it's not one I recognise.'

  Rufus stared at Baker, watching as Derek's shoulders slumped forwards and his head fell into his waiting hands. His reply was muffled, the words nothing more than a jumbled hiss of baritone noise as he spoke. Shaw frowned intensely as his ears strained to pick out the words. 'It's my tag number; it's a part of my old set of tags. Only one person I know could have gotten his mitts on them and that bastard has been dogging my footsteps for well over twelve years.'

  Shaw nodded as he twisted the piece of steel through his fingers. 'So, you're saying that Ridgmont's picking off my boys because of you?'

  Shaw watched as Baker spun his chair away from the window and looked directly at Shaw. 'How do you know about him?'

  Rufus smirked, the sarcastic sneer twisting his lips as he flicked the steel disk at Derek. 'Every squaddie here knows about that mother fucker and his band of scum. Division fucking Twelve; bunch of sadistic bastards.'

  Derek picked the steel disk from off his desk, turning it through his fingers as he dipped into the wells in his mind, his gaze never leaving the battered and dented piece of steel that slid over his palm.

  Anger blossomed within him, glowing like a ball of flame as it swelled; the searing sphere of boiling rage flowed from his deepest depths, sweeping aside all reason as he slammed his hand against the desk. Pain lanced through him, blood seeping through his fingers, pooling around his hand in a crimson print. The thick, gelatinous mess sealing his hand to the desk as the burred edge of the steel disk sliced deep into the palm of his hand.

  Lifting his hand away, he stared at the glinting lump of metal as it ran alive with his blood. Derek gritted his teeth as he teased the two-millimetre-thick piece of steel from his palm, letting it fall to the desktop with a dull thunk. With an agitated grunt, Derek pulled open one of his desk drawers, took out a wad of tissues, and stuffed them into the rent in his palm.

  Pushing himself to his feet, Baker stepped past Shaw, heading for the door as the wad of snow-white tissue slowly bloomed red.

  21

  August Thirtieth

  Askham,

  Nottinghamshire

  Tony sat at his kitchen table, the cheap melamine surface cold against his age-worn skin. Lifting the cup to his lips, he drank the warm sugarless tea. With a deep, heavy sigh, he set the cup on his plate and pushed himself up from the chair. Carrying his plate to the sink, he set it in the bowl before lifting the blue dishcloth from where it was draped over the tap and wiped up the crumbs of his breakfast.

  Staring out the window, he watched the morning sun flirt with the slowly paling sky as sparrows and bullfinches flitted from branch to bush in his garden. The water poured over his hand, chilling him to the bone as he rinsed out his cup. The dishcloth pulled at the skin of his knuckles as he scrubbed out the cup; he set it onto the draining board before beginning the tasks of the day.

  Stepping from the kitchen door, the sun bathed him in its warm glow as the new day slowly began to awaken; the cool, crisp breeze blowing in from the fields around him filled him with a vigour he had thought long lost to the youth he once held. As he stretched, his back clicked and popped, then he settled onto the back step and slipped the dark-green Wellington boots onto his feet. He walked across the rutted and damp ground towards the paddock and the small stable and stall next to it.

  The morning's dew clung to his boots, making the green rubberised fabric shimmer in the sunlight. Setting the bucket under the outside tap, he set the ice-cold water crashing into it, relishing the sound of the torrent as it collided with the hollow plastic tub. Tony approached the gate to the paddock, the bucket of feed and pail of water held loosely in each hand as he shunted the latch up with his elbow and pushed the gate open with his hip.

  Reaching the stable, he called out before entering the slightly gloomy interior. 'Hey, old girl, how are you this morning?'

  A heavy whinny greeted him as he stepped through the door. The heady scent of warm straw and hay filled his nostrils as he made his way towards the only stall in the building. A large chestnut-coloured nose peered out from the stable door as he approached.

  A set of large brown eyes watched him approach; the clopping of hooves and a shaking head greeted him as he raised his hand and patted the side of her face.

  'Hello, old girl, hungry today?' A heavy snort made him smile as she pushed against his hand, urging him to empty the bucket into the trough on the door.

  'Patience, Llamrei, we will go for a run when I get b
ack.' He pressed his head to the side of her nose, feeling her push back as he stroked her neck. 'There's a good girl.'

  Turning, Tony headed back towards the house; his pace quickened as he neared the back door, the sharp ache in his knee and hip drawing him as he kicked off his Wellington boots and sat down at the kitchen table. Lifting his hand, he flicked open the cabinet by the door; the rows of pills and boxes of bandages and plasters stood in a regimented line.

  His eyes strolled along the neatly typed lettering that clogged the labels, dosages and chemical names makings his eyes lose focus momentarily. He then plucked a small white bottle from its post and snapped off its top.

  The bitter bite of chalk and powdered codeine filled Tony's mouth as he let the tablets sit on his tongue, their slowly dissolving plates of white pain relief doing little to alleviate the searing ache that descended from his hip to his knee. The twisted scar tissue that made up his outer thigh pulled and bunched as he hobbled towards to the kitchen sink.

  A wave of melancholy rolled over him as the cold water crashed into the glass in his fist, a deep-seated ache that bloomed out from his heart, drawing tears to his eyes. Downing the last of the frigid liquid, he strode as best as his leg would allow into the hallway and snatched the phone from its cradle. He lifted the black Bakelite receiver to his ear, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he drew in a deep, heavy breath before dialling. The heady rush of painkillers flooded his mind as he listened to the lilting voice that filled his ear.

  'Hello, Baker residence.'

  Her voice echoed through the line as he began to reply, his eyes widening as a shimmering female voice filled his mind.

  'Tony, how are you?' His head whirled as he fought to find a name for the voice, his memory falling at the first hurdle as her voice continued to ring through his mind.

  'Tony, you there? It's Janet, your daughter-in-law.'

  Her gentle nagging drew him out of the vortex that had formed in his skull. 'Janet, sweetheart. Yes, I'm sorry… the old war wound is playing up and I am currently golfing with Pavarotti, or so my pain killers would lead me to believe; how's my favourite daughter-in-law?'

  He heard the musical tinkle of Janet's laughter as he leant against the wall in the hall, his broad shoulder pushing against the smooth plaster as he felt the receiver grate against his chin.

  The salt-and-pepper hair that plagued his temples and scalp belied his age. A smile teased at the corners of his eyes, the skin crinkling like dried leather as he glanced at the pictures in the hallway. At sixty-five, he had the fitness and stature of a much younger man; the regimented life of a soldier and police officer had been something that followed him on into retirement, and his overtly active lifestyle made him as sprightly now as he had been thirty years earlier.

  'I'm great, thank you; just on break now and thought I would give you a call to see how my favourite silver-haired soldier is, but seems you beat me to it.'

  Tony laughed, his voice deep and raucous as he filled the near silent house with the sounds of his mirth. 'It always amazes me, my dear, at just how lucky my son is to have one such as you; why, if I were thirty years younger, I would give him a run for his money.'

  Janet giggled, causing Tony's smile to deepen as he scratched at the stubble on his chin.

  'I was considering popping down for a week, if that is fine with you and Derek. I don't have anything planned for the next few weeks aside from Llamrei's exercise and some light gardening, so, what do you say? Fancy seeing this old codger for a bit?'

  There was a slight pause as he waited for a reply; he could feel the wheels turning in Janet's head as she thought through the ramifications of his visit.

  'I don't see why not; Derek would be glad to see you, and Maria hasn't met her gramps yet… well, she has, but I doubt she would remember it or was even awake for it. So, yeah, come on down. When were you thinking of coming?'

  Tony leant back as he stared at the ceiling, the elasticated cord of the phone pulling taut across him as he sorted through his mental calendar.

  'Probably the ninth or tenth of September… gives me enough time to make sure Llamrei is taken care of while I am away and also allows me time to get my vegetable gardens covered over to avoid the crows pecking at my damned tomatoes again. Bloody things are a nuisance.'

  Pushing off the wall, he turned as the mail slot on his door rattled, the collection of white and brown envelopes clattering into the white enamelled cage on the back of the door.

  'Sounds perfect, Tony. I will let Derek know and get the guest room prepared. Oh, and just so you know we have a live-in helper now, as well. She helps me with Maria whilst I am working, so you behave yourself; I know what you're like. I married your son and the pair of you are as bad as one another when it comes to flirting with anything with boobs.'

  Tony chortled as he clutched the phone between his ear and shoulder whilst filtering through his post.

  'I suppose you're right there, my dear. I blame my father, as I don't doubt Derek blames his, but there we are. It's a Baker trait and one that we have no power over unless, of course, it allows us to land the woman of our dreams. It did so for me, and from what I understand, it did Derek as well. Just don't tell him I told you that or he would surely kill me. Anyway, my dear, I must go. I have some bills to pay and Llamrei needs her morning canter. I'll see you on the ninth.'

  With laughter plaguing her voice, Janet bid Tony farewell. The conversation ended with the chiming of a bell as he dropped the handset back into its cradle and moved on into his living room.

  A soft voice echoed in the back of his mind as he turned to drop his six-foot-six frame into the overstuffed sofa. Grasping with flailing arms, he stopped himself mere inches from the sofa, the bottom of his Deer Hunter coat brushing the cushion, the hem kissing it like the wing of a dove as he forced himself upright. 'Sorry, sweetheart.'

  Turning, he made his way back out into the hallway, peeling the coat from his shoulders as he reached out for the handle of the under-stairs cupboard. Tony stopped cold, pain gripping him as he caught sight of a picture on the wall. Reaching out, he softly drew his fingers along the portrait's cheek, a single crystalline tear rolling down his own cheek as he stared into the shimmering blue eyes.

  'You have no idea how much I miss you. You would be so proud of Derek, oh so very proud. I will see you again, my love. One day we will be together and we can go walk by the sea again.'

  Kissing his fingertips, he pressed them to the smiling lips of the picture before stepping back into the living room, heading towards the coffee table covered in bills.

  September Ninth

  North East London

  The rain fell, its cold pearls shimmering in the cold light of the moon. He listened to the drum of their relentless assault on the roof of his car as he stared at the shimmering wall of amber water sliding over the windowpane.

  His eyes glowed with a sweltering pall of malevolence and violence as he watched her move behind the window, her rippling shadow dancing across his face as he stepped from the car and walked slowly to the door. The nail gun in his hand made him smile, the red reinforced plastic and steel body sitting heavy in his palm as he pulled a small metal disk from his jeans pocket. A malicious grin played over his face as he approached the gloss black door atop the four-tread staircase.

  His hand rose, lifting the Fairbairn Sykes dagger and dragging it through the thick panelling in front of him, watching as he slowly carved out thick, curving lines of oak.

  The compressed air canister that hung from the sling over his shoulder pulled him into the floor, its weight making the strap bite into his skin as he pressed the nail gun to the door. Aiming the head of it at the hole of the dog tag, he squeezed the trigger, sending the nail into the door at over a hundred pounds per square inch, driving the steel rod deep into the timber.

  His smile deepened as he watched the woman behind the rain-lashed glass jump at the sudden noise. Flicking the tag with his finger, he sent it spinning around the
anodised steel nail and ran through the water-drenched street to his car, the idling engine filling the quiet night's air with a heavy guttural throb.

  His foot hovered over the accelerator like a fretful mother as he watched the woman shift and move behind the window, dragging clothing over her lithe frame and disappearing from view. A vicious grin slithered across his lips as he watched the door swing open, her silhouetted form bathed in the golden glow of the hallway light.

  She jumped as the engine roared across the street, its echoing primal growl filling the air as it ate the road and sped from view, a glowing trail of oil-stained water and shimmering red-tinged rain lying in its wake. Janet turned, watching, fear and trepidation filling her as she stared at the word carved into the door and the spinning steel disk slowly clinking against the door panel.

  ****

  Derek traced his fingers through the word gouged into his front door. The wood and paint was slashed and torn, leaving the pale scars of white oak standing stark against the black glossed door like blood on snow. Derek grunted as he wrenched the nail from the door, the rough neck hammer in his hand leaving a deep welt in the panel as he pried the three-inch long bar of steel from the centre of the door.