The Codex File (2012)

by Miles Etherton

  Table of contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  Miles Etherton lives in Hampshire, England, with his wife and two children. He trained as a journalist before getting into broader communications and marketing. The Codex file is his first novel.

  Miles Etherton

  The Codex file

  Copyright (c) 2012 by Miles Etherton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Miles Etherton online: http://milesetherton.tumblr.com

  First Printed: 2012

  For Ethan, Milo and Joanna

  CHAPTER ONE

  The flick-knife snapped open with frightening ease, its serrated edge glinting in the light of a passing streetlamp. The weapon was standard issue for CODEX operatives, along with most of the contents of the canvas bag that sat in John Kennedy’s lap.

  Pulling each item out one by one, he scrutinised his equipment - preparation was vital, and nothing could be overlooked. The first object was a transparent bag containing an assortment of plastic ties, designed to restrain his victim and viciously bite into her flesh if she struggled. A length of rubber tubing was next, followed by duct tape, and finally a can of spray paint - everything he required for the job.

  Vincent Trevellion sat next to Kennedy in the driver’s seat, navigating the blue Mercedes through the dark, quiet streets of Hersham. Turning right into a long tree-lined road that stretched round a gentle corner, the 1930s pebble-dashed house they sought came into view.

  Trevellion pulled the Mercedes up alongside the pavement a few houses down from their destination. Apart from a few parked cars, the street was deserted, intermittent streetlamps illuminating the darkness.

  Reaching into his jacket pocket Trevellion pulled out a handheld electronic device. The screen blinked and a menu of options appeared. Sliding a finger purposefully across the screen an intelligence file on their ‘target’ containing a photograph of a woman appeared on screen, smiling, walking hand-in-hand with her husband, their daughter running along behind. The photograph had been taken on a long-lens camera several weeks before. He didn’t really need to look at it again. He knew what she looked like - it was burned into his memory.

  He scrolled down past the photograph to the text below about Colette Robertson, a technical director at a leading web technologies company. Past the biography his eyes scanned the final line of text accompanying the picture: “Objective: Colette Robertson to be eliminated under Phase 1 of CODEX operation OP09/ST”.

  Closing the file, Trevellion opened a second intelligence report attached to the data on Colette Robertson. A picture of her eight-year old daughter, Clare Robertson, flashed up on screen, a pretty girl with long blonde hair that fell over her shoulders and down her back. Once more he scrolled past the image to the biography and objectives below. And again, the same order had been issued: “Objective: Clare Robertson to be eliminated under Phase 1 of CODEX operation OP09/ST”.

  Trevellion closed the files and placed the electronic device back in his jacket pocket. The murder of a child might be distasteful, but it would guarantee the necessary nationwide media coverage.

  Even if their car was spotted, the registration plates wouldn’t lead an investigation anywhere meaningful. The stolen plates would only lead to a long deserted warehouse in rural Scotland, and whilst the police were chasing their tails, they’d be long gone.

  Trevellion tapped his opposite jacket pocket to confirm the two high capacity flash drives were still there. They were special issue for CODEX operatives, not the standard multi-gigabyte versions you could buy on any high street. These could handle terabytes of data and weren’t for public consumption.

  Kennedy nodded silently, a slight sneer crossing his face. Replacing his equipment in the bag, he used the vehicle’s mirrors once more to be sure their entrance wasn’t overlooked.

  Satisfied they were alone, the two men exited the Mercedes and began their approach to their victim’s house.

  Colette sneezed for the umpteenth time that day and reached for yet another tissue. She winced slightly as she dabbed her nose, red and sore from wiping away the non-stop proof of her cold. She really must buy some of those balmed tissues that were always being advertised she thought, gingerly stroking her nostrils.

  She hated being ill and this was the third cold she’d picked up in as many months. She was starting to think that maybe it was flu since she’d begun feeling progressively worse as the day had gone on. Her muscles ached, the throbbing headache was pounding now more than ever, and her streaming nose showed no sign of stopping. Tossing the damp tissue in the general direction of the bin she watched as it bounced off the side and landed next to her cat. He eyed her suspiciously, awoken by her latest sneeze.

  She hoped she’d be well enough to return to work tomorrow. But secretly she doubted it as she felt her head, bunged-up with cold, start to throb again.

  Reaching for the TV remote control she began to channel-hop, looking in vain for something half-decent to watch.

  Maybe she ought to do some work she wondered. There were always meetings to prepare for, reports to compile and strategic IT problems to solve. Particularly at the moment. Yet the thought of sitting in front of her high-powered tablet device just seemed to make her aching head throb further.

  What she really needed was a bit of TLC. But instead, everything seemed to have gone wrong. On today of all days. It was their wedding anniversary after all. But where were all the people she cared for?

  She began to well up again as the bitter exchanges around breakfast that morning came flooding back. Deep down she knew it hadn’t been Michael’s fault that his company’s Managing Director had invited him to an important corporate dinner.

  “Look, you know what these work functions are like, I really have to go. I can’t get out of it. I’m really sorry,” he said.

  “If you were sorry, you would have said no and made some sort of excuse,” she yelled angrily back at him. “I can’t believe you didn’t realise what day it was on.”

>   “I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he replied sheepishly before returning to his toast.

  Attendance hadn’t been obligatory. They never were, were they? You only didn’t go if you were happy to stay in the same old job for the rest of your career. Michael hadn’t mentioned the fact that she’d done the same many times in the past on her way up the career ladder at SW Technologies. She’d remembered though, and had kept that fact to herself.

  It hadn’t mattered this morning. It was their anniversary, and she’d been pissed off about it. Particularly since she’d gone down with a heavy cold as well. It seemed like the whole world had been conspiring to ruin their special day.

  She couldn’t even seek comfort in their daughter. She was at an important ballet rehearsal. The performance was on Saturday after all. The mother of one of Clare’s friends would be picking her up after the rehearsal tonight. Normally it would’ve been Michael. But not tonight, all because of that bloody dinner. It just wasn’t fair.

  At least she had Harry with her she thought with a little more comfort when he jumped onto her lap and began purring softly.

  Closing her heavy eyes again she let her thoughts drift slowly away to happier things. Before they reached very far she became aware of a distant ringing, somewhere in a different consciousness.

  Have I started dreaming? Am I asleep or awake?

  She didn’t really care until Harry leapt from her lap, clawing her thigh as he used it as his launch pad.

  The ringing was much louder now, and much nearer. Opening her eyes with a start it took her sleepy mind several moments to realise the doorbell was ringing. Maybe Michael had forgotten his key in the heat of their argument in the morning?

  Casting a quick glance at the antique clock on the mantelpiece she knew it was too early. Unless he’d decided to skip the function after all. Had he come home to surprise her on their anniversary?

  In the hallway she could see two figures through the glass of the front door. One tall, and one shorter and stockier. The shorter man was carrying some sort of case.

  Reaching for the porch light switch she blinked with surprise as the figures on the doorstep remained in darkness.

  Slowly opening the door, the men who had been looking away turned to face her. For a long moment all she could see were their silhouettes and the slight outline of their faces. Just before the taller man spoke she noticed the porch light bulb was missing.

  “Mrs Roberston? Mrs Colette Robertson?” the low, unfamiliar voice asked.

  She’d barely confirmed her identity when the stocky man’s fist crashed into her mouth and nose. A ring tore into her top lip. She felt herself career backwards and impact heavily on the oak floorboards. Sinking into unconsciousness she was aware of the tall man closing the front door and bending over her.

  There were times when she would have a particularly bad nightmare and wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Clinging to Michael for security she’d soon breathe a huge sigh of relief that she’d been dreaming. Colette knew this wasn’t one of those times.

  Even through the semi-consciousness of waking she could feel the intense burning of her chest, although she felt slightly cold and restricted in her movement. Before she opened her eyes she knew she’d been bound to something.

  Her eyes shot open as the rasping pain burned into her waking senses again. Through bleary eyes she could see a figure hovering above her. The flash of metal, the strangely white hands, the pain getting unbearable, as sleep was rapidly replaced with frightening consciousness.

  Her eyes were fully open now and she could see everything. A stocky man in dark blue overalls.

  Blood.

  The blade of the flick-knife snapping shut.

  It’s my blood.

  The white surgical gloves were coated in her blood, and it was running everywhere.

  She tried to scream but her mouth was unable to move.

  Duct tape.

  Her panic threatened to escalate out of control. Lifting her head she looked at herself. Her feet were taped tightly together around the ankles, and her hands were tied to the bedstead with white plastic restraints.

  It wasn’t that which most concerned her. It was the pools of blood running from her chest, staining the white sheets of the bed. Her screams were only heard in her head as through wide, frightened eyes she looked at the bloody mess which had once been her chest. She felt sure she could make out a handful of individual wounds as her eyes rapidly switched between the blood and the man in the dark blue overalls as he circled menacingly above her.

  John Kennedy looked down blankly at Colette’s bloody, restrained body as Vincent Trevellion watched impassively from a chair to the right of the bed. Kennedy was quite pleased with his handiwork, although the full effect wouldn’t be visible until the she was dead and the bleeding had stopped. It was good enough for his purpose. Trevellion’s suggested mutilations had been inspired and would send out a chilling message.

  He studied the bloody mess and smiled wryly. It wasn’t bad at all considering it was the first time he’d carved a message in human flesh.

  His eyes slowly moved across her exposed, blood-drenched breasts. Above them he read: ‘Fuck the Net’ in violently jagged letters. His gaze rose above her stained body to the message he’d smeared on the wall. ‘Reclaim the World’ was daubed in her blood.

  Seeing his colleague had finished his task Trevellion stood up from his seat and approached the bed, peering at the message carved in flesh, admiring the application of his own macabre suggestion. Their work was nearly done. Whilst his accomplice had been securing Colette Robertson to the bed he’d copied all of SW Technologies state network tender project data, and wider semantic web development information from her tablet. The priceless flash drive sat snugly in his inside pocket.

  Ransacking the house had also yielded a few more useful hardcopy files for him to study. The final satisfying act had been to format and infect her tablet device, removing all of SW Technologies data forever. It was too risky to steal the machine as it would doubtless be fitted with a tracking device given her line of work, and they didn’t have the time to locate and remove it. He smiled as he gently tapped a second flash drive in his jacket pocket that contained the virus that had forever wiped her computer clean of all its secrets.

  All that remained was for the others to complete their jobs. Breaking into SW Technologies’ premises would be a formality. Once the information had been claimed the building would be torched. And the anti-net activists would soon be hunted for her death. After tonight’s events there would be nowhere for them to hide.

  Trevellion turned to his right, checking the digital video camera erected on its tripod was still recording. He smiled as the red light continued to beam, the intrusive lens capturing the death of Colette Robertson.

  Turning to face his colleague he nodded slowly before returning to his seat to watch the last rites. As he sat he saw the flash of the flick-knife blade snapping open, blood sticking from its earlier work.

  Colette struggled violently as the bloody blade flicked into position. This couldn’t be happening. Surely she’d wake in a minute and wrap a comforting arm around Michael’s sleeping body. But she knew this was it. No waking up in a cold sweat. No relief at the vividness of her dreams. No escape.

  She struggled more violently than ever as the man leant over her, careful to avoid the bloody sheets, the blade moving towards her face.

  The tears streamed down her cheeks as for the first time she looked closely at his face and then to the man sitting nearby. She didn’t recognise the man in the overalls, but the other taller man was a different matter. The dark hair, well-defined features and high cheekbones probably made him about 40. It was difficult to be certain as his neatly trimmed black goatee beard made him seem older.

  She couldn’t be sure where, but there was something strangely familiar about him. She’d seen him before. As sheer terror overtook her senses, her heart pounding in her ears, she couldn’t
remember where or when.

  The blade was at her lips.

  She sank back into the mattress as far as humanly possible. It wasn’t enough. She closed her eyes and winced as the sharp blade flashed in front of her mouth. She waited for the intense burning pain, but instead all she felt was a slight trickle of blood seep into her mouth.

  Opening her eyes again she saw that the stocky man in his overalls had moved away into one corner of the room. Her wide eyes scanned across, stopping in alarm as she saw her digital video camera propped up on its tripod.

  All her muscles tightened involuntarily and she clenched her fists. Her eyes narrowed into tiny windows as her anger rose. As if what had been done to her already wasn’t enough. They were going to kill her. She was certain of that. But the sick bastards were filming their work for all time.

  What sort of fucking animals are you? What are you going to do when you’ve left me butchered on the bed? Go home and get a hard-on watching this?

  Her gaze once more fell on the taller man and her anger quickly faded as tears spilled down her cheeks. She was never going to see Michael or Clare again. That was the most painful thing. Not the wounds on her chest which would have healed in time. She was going to die alone, never having the chance to hold them again.

  Her sorrow evaporated as she looked back to the familiar-looking man, aware of him moving to her right. He was placing something in a leather-bound briefcase, open on the dressing table.

  Is that a flash drive?

  Her confusion at the situation rose even further. She attempted to think rationally as waves of terror and nausea continued to rush over her.

  The bastard must have copied something from my computer. But that’s all work-related, how that could possibly be of interest?

  Her thoughts trailed off rapidly. The bell in her head was ringing more loudly. So this is what it was all about.

  This is about my work. And the tender I’ve spent so many hours on.