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“Well,” John explained, “You’re obviously with the government. I know a real badge when I see it.” He paused and shuffled through his thoughts.
“Therefore, in a time of crisis you may confiscate transportation, and since time was tight I ended up coming along for the ride.” He looked at her beautiful face and smiled. “How’s that?”
Catherine smiled back. “That’s correct. Media right?”
“Canada-World News. I assume the set up in the back gave me away.”
“The spaceship. You bet’cha.” She smiled again.
John felt his breath catch and quickly turned away.
Catherine watched him closely.
“What were you doing parked back there?” she asked evenly. John was silent for a moment. “I didn’t realize the trailer park was closed, and I was too tired to drive back to Sudbury. So I camped out.” He risked a glance. “I’ve been on the road for a while now. I’m on my way to Toronto.”
John looked back at his coffee mug. “I own a house about an hour east of the city.”
“So you hopped in this mobile studio and drove here from Vancouver,”
Catherine said flatly.
John looked at her, “How did you know I was from Vancouver?”
She nodded toward his licence fastened on the sun visor.
“Oh, right.” John’s gaze drifted off into space. “My fianceé and I inherited a place from my parents.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s—” He couldn’t finish.
Catherine picked up on it instantly. “I’m sorry.”
John was silent for a moment, then went on. “After the funeral I needed time to think. So I packed up my life and drove across the country.”
“Have you finished thinking?”
John looked at the woman sitting next to him, “Excuse me?” Her eyes scrutinized him. John felt them peer deep into his soul and peel away the lies he told himself.
“You can’t mourn forever,” Catherine’s voice hardened. “People die. As a journalist you should know that as well as I do. Her life ended, yours didn’t.”
John was aghast. He found he could do nothing more than watch his reflection in the eyes of the lovely stranger who had just told him to wake up and get a life.
“I see I struck a nerve,” Catherine said softly.
John clenched his jaw and turned away. “More like blown it away.” He 47
DAVID A. LLOYD
found himself drawn again to her eyes. “Who are you?”
“Catherine Wildman. I’ve already told you that.”
“I know. I also know you probably won’t tell me who you really work for or what exactly is happening. That’s fine. I can understand that. What I want to know is, who is Catherine Wildman? The person. What makes her tick?”
John closed his eyes and ran his fingers across his scalp. “I don’t know why but I just told a complete stranger about a traumatic event in my life and was shot down in mid-pity.” He bravely looked into her eyes, “I’ve never met anyone like you before. Who are you?”
Catherine glanced away and subconsciously bit her lower lip. Do I do this? Do I tell him? I don’t know him, but something about him makes me feel so… comfortable. Catherine looked back at John and was surprised at the sudden urge— passion? —she felt. If I do this and I’m wrong I’ll be slitting my own throat. But something about that man felt right. Catherine made her decision. She straightened her back and laced her fingers together on her lap. “Just a few years ago I was assigned with Vice in Metro. Due to my age and appearance, I was often placed undercover in schools.”
John silently watched her talk. He observed the flicker of her eyelids, the quiver of her lips, and the rise and fall of her chest.
“There was an increase of the new designer drug Ink coming out of one of the schools in the Projects. I was sent in to find the dealer and within a week I shut ‘em down. It turned out that I stumbled across an organization that the RCMP and DEA have been after for five years. Five years, and I stumble in and cap it. The feds freaked because outta’ nowhere this rookie chick cop popped the biggest ring since the Quebèc City bust in ‘07.” She leaned back and cradled her head on the neck rest. “The rest of the year with Metro was a blur. Paul, my partner, and I were transferred to the Mounties. We were there for six months before Paul transferred to CSIS and I was recommended for Special Operations. Man, I don’t even know who recommended me.”
“Special Operations? Was that Operation Arctic Snow?”
“That’s right.”
“I read about that. It was one hell of an achievement. A handful of Canadian and Russian police officers working together to bust a ring shipping Ink.”
Catherine’s eyes started to mist as memories slowly drifted back, “There were four of us working as the core team. Nikita Triska and Vladimir Zadneprovsky, from the Russian Federal Security Service, and Gene Hatton 48
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and myself representing the RCMP.” She turned and stared past her faded image in the glass. Catherine was no longer talking to John but to herself, as if trying to make sense of Gene and Vladimir’s bizarre murders and the events that lured her to this point. “The rest of the team are dead, or missing. I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t help them. I couldn’t do anything but watch him die.” A single tear rolled down her cheek. She batted it away, “All my life I watched people close to me… drift… shouldn’t get involved with anyone… the danger… Gene….” her voice drifted away as a thought flickered across her eyes. Then it was gone.
John, not sure what he should do, cleared his throat.
Catherine jerked in her seat. “Oh God!” she looked at John. “Did I just do that? I’m sorry Mr. Riel. I’ve never done that before.”
“It’s the adrenalin rush,” John said, “You’re coming down. When I’m like that I tend to ramble myself.” He flashed her a lopsided grin. “Or maybe I just have one of those trusting faces?”
Catherine was surprised when she laughed aloud and found herself enjoying his company. There was something about this man that she could not place her finger on and, regardless of the situation, she was relaxed. They both slid into their own thoughts. All seem to have been said.
*****
A gray stretch limousine slowed to a stop some fifty meters away and blinked its headlights twice.
“Flash your high-beams three times,” Catherine instructed. She was relieved, yet disappointed, at the arrival.
“I guess this is your ride,” John said as he followed her instructions.
“Oui. You know all that we have talking about is…”
John held up his hand, “I understand. I may be a journalist, but I do know the value of discretion. I establish my facts before I do damage.”
Catherine looked at him for a moment. “Merci,” she said. They have reached an understanding and she knew he would respect that. Then suddenly, not sure what to do, Catherine decided to act on the first thought that came to mind. She leaned over and kissed John gently on the lips. “For everything,”
she said, and then was gone.
The inconceivably lovely creature was halfway to the limousine before the kiss registered.
“Bye....”
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*****
A man in a dark suit climbed out of the limousine and greeted her at the door with his identification in hand, “I’m Marsden. Curtis sent me.” He motioned to the van, “Who’s that?”
“A… friend. He knows nothing,” Catherine said. The bell in the back of her head started to ring. She mentally shrugged it off. Relax chick, it’s almost over.
The man held out his hand. “Do you have anything for me?”
“Non. St. James’ eyes only,” Catherine replied. She stepped around the man and climbed into the limousine.
The bell rang louder.
Marsden climbed in and sat next to her. A little to close. Is he smi
ling?
The bell rang ever louder.
The driver, out of sight behind the opaque partition, turned the limousine out onto the highway and pointed the big car north, to Sudbury.
“A chopper is waiting for us. It’ll take you to Ottawa,” Marsden informed her.
“Trés bien, merci,” Catherine replied absently.
“Right.”
The bell was now deafening. Catherine could no longer ignore it. How many are in the front? Two maybe? It looks like two shadows. I should’ve checked before I committed myself. Marsden. Something about him. From the corner of her eye she studied the big man. He was in his late forties, maybe early fifties, and a head and a half taller than her. He had a dark blond mustache and light sandy hair with gray roots. Dark glasses covered his eyes and a cheap after shave lotion concealed something else. It was a moment before Catherine identified the second scent: Spirit-gum. Catherine grabbed the mustache and yanked. The big man yelped as the fake hair tore away from his upper lip.
“Toi!” Catherine cried.
“How’s it hangin’ Sweetheart?” Raymond Smyles said as he grabbed her wrists with one hand and peeled the fake skin from his cheek with the other. For the first time Catherine clearly saw the fierce scar that ran down his face right to the corner of his mouth, forcing his lips to seem turned up on one side in a grotesque grin.
Catherine’s response was her knee to his jaw with a tooth grinding crunch. 50
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Eyes wide with shock, Smyles’ head snapped back and he lost his grip. Catherine fumbled for the door handles. There were none. Stupid chick, really, really stupid.
A Smith & Wesson gun barrel that appeared in her face halted her from any further action. DeTully grinned down its length at her from the front seat. “Don’t even think about it,” he advised.
Smyles scraped the remaining make-up from his scar and snarled, “Where is it?”
“Where is what?” Catherine shot back. She knew it was not wise to mock him, He killed Vladimir and Gene, but she was too angry at him and at her own incompetence.
“The fucking disk you little bitch!”
Catherine spat in his face.
His eyes burnt with rage. Smyles wrapped a large calloused and tobaccostained hand around her face and shoved her into the limousine door. Lights exploded behind Catherine’s eyes as a crimson haze filled her vision. The unheeded bell ended its chime and with it the world grew dark and silent.
*****
Catherine. Even the name was beautiful. It means pure one. He envisioned her in his mind’s eye, her solidly sculptured symmetry. John shook himself from his fantasy and revved Baby. He steered the van out onto Highway 11 north to find the gas station he passed searching for the phone booth. After a few kilometers he spotted the gray stretch limousine ahead. It slowed and turned off the highway onto a dirt access road. Without really knowing why, John yanked on the steering wheel and followed. “Catherine,” he whispered under his breath.
*****
Sam DeTully had a dilemma. Smyles gave him strict orders. He was not to be interrupted while he was interrogating the fresh meat. Yet, even through the partition, DeTully could hear moaning and grunting noises. Noises he knew well. But the girl had remained silent throughout the ordeal. She was out cold when Smyles issued the order. What the hell is he doing to her?
DeTully chuckled with sudden realization. The sly old bastard. Then he 51
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remembered the dilemma. Shit. DeTully pressed the intercom switch, “Boss.”
“Fuck! What?” Smyles rasped over the tiny speaker.
“I think we’re being followed.”
“By who?”
DeTully glanced in his rear view mirror. “The guy in the van.”
“Crap,” Smyles grunted.
DeTully could hear him lower the window. The roar of the wind crackled over the speaker. Then Smyles spoke again, “Damn it! Don’t stop.”
DeTully looked at the driver. “You heard the Man.”
*****
“Shit,” John cursed under his breath. He had caught up to the limousine and was just repeating to himself how stupid he was acting— She’s fine—
when somebody appeared in the window and pulled a gun.
John yanked the wheel hard to the right as his side mirror exploded into a billion glass and metal splinters. A shard of glass nicked his chin. “What the hell are you doing John?” he said rolling up his window. John heaved on the wheel again as a headlight burst into fragments.
*****
Pain...
An explosion echoed through her skull. She could feel something sticky on her breasts and throat and the back of her head throbbed. Pain...
Catherine eased her eyes open and saw the sheen on her chest. Her mind instantly absorbed what had happened to her. What he had done to her. Non... non... son-of-a-bitch...
Smyles was in the window leaning out with his weapon in hand. She knew.
The bastard...
Her eyes flamed.
The fucking bastard...
Her pulse raced and her hatred flared forever, branding the experience into her being. There he is! With her jaw set Catherine braced her naked back 52
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against the leather seat and brought her feet up.
Sensing something was amiss, Smyles glanced back. What he saw chilled him to the bone. “No.”
Her face twisted in a feral rage Catherine snarled and slammed both feet into Smyles’ side. The blow contained such force he was propelled out the window and across the road.
*****
John watched the man bring the gun up to bear one last time. He knew there was no way he could avoid him this time. John braced himself for impact. Then suddenly the man was no longer there, but spiraling across the dirt road.
John gleefully scooted past him.
*****
An escape plan had started to jell in her mind. Catherine collected her Beretta from the limousine floor, shoved it into her purse, and threw it over her shoulder; however, her dress was nowhere to be seen. She then popped her head out the open window and waved at John.
“Hello there,” he whispered and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The van screamed in distress as John forced it alongside the limousine.
“What the hell?” DeTully cried as the van jounced the big car.
“Shit!” The driver cried. “Who’s the hell is this guy?” he winced as sparks shot past his window.
Catherine reached through the open window, mindful of the spray of sparks, and yanked on the van’s side door handle. Inertia pulled it open. This is not the smartest stunt you’ve ever pulled chick! Only one shot at this!
“Open the Goddamn window!” DeTully screamed at the driver who was hard at work trying to keep the huge car on the narrow dirt road.
“You fucking nuts?” the driver cried, straining to keep the car on the road.
John risked a glance over his shoulder. The wind roared through the back of the van. Loose papers spun madly around before getting sucked out the open door. Through the maniacal whirlwind and the wrathful shower of sparks, John spotted Catherine. “Jump!” he cried out.
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Now!
Catherine ignored the searing agony as the white hot pokers of light bounced off her naked flesh and grabbed the side of the van. No thoughts crossed her mind. She just acted.
DeTully raised his weapon and fired a round into the glass partition. Catherine was thrown back into the leather seats as the car jerked. The partition spiderwebbed, but did not shatter. “Merde!”
“What the fuck are you doing!?” the driver screamed. “That’s bulletproof glass!”
DeTully pressed the smoking barrel to the driver’s temple. “Open the fucking thing!”
“Oh? That window!”
John risked one more look back then fixed his eyes on the road
ahead,
“Oh shit,” he swore as a single lane bridge appeared on the horizon. The driver fumbled and found the button for the partition. Catherine closed her eyes for a split second and placed both hands on the open edge on the limousine window. Do it! She pushed with her legs and shot herself through the open window.
DeTully’s jaw dropped as the naked woman disappeared. “Uh…”
Catherine struck the floor of the van and rolled. Her back and shoulder collided with the metal shelving.
“Catherine!” John cried out.
“Brakes!” she screamed grabbing the base of the rack, “Hit the brakes!”
John obliged. Dirt and gravel was thrown forward as the anti-lock brakes protested. With a whine and a sigh, the van ground to a halt and stalled. Catherine lost her grip and rolled into the bookshelf. The strap on her purse snapped and it, with her gun, vanished from sight, “Merde!” Catherine pulled herself to her feet, “Do you have a weapon?”
“In the closet by the bed,” John called over his shoulder, “Whatever it is you’re planning, you better make it fast. They’re trying to turn around.”
“Start her up but hold this position,” Catherine cried.
“I’m trying!” John called back, twisting the key until it was ready to snap.
Catherine flung open the small closet door, shoved his obtrusive floral print shirts to one side and found in a polished oak case. A Japanese made SKB M-7300 Slide Shotgun with a 762mm barrel was inside, “Whow,” she blew out. Catherine tore open a box of shells, “Where are they now?”
“About two hundred meters and closing fast,” John cried as the van 54
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sputtered to life, “Find the shotgun?”
Catherine grinned wickedly to herself and popped four shells into the magazine, “You bet’cha.” The sound of smoothly oiled metal on metal told her the weapon had never been used. “Put the van in drive and wait for the word.”
John glanced down at his hands. His palms were soaked with sweat. He wiped his hands on his shirt. Then with his foot on the brake, John placed the van in gear and firmly took hold of the steering wheel, “Ready,” John whispered. He watched the approaching limousine, “There is someone hanging out the window,” he said, “He has a gun.”
Catherine yanked the curtain aside and mentally judged the distant between them and the charging limousine, “That would be the bad guy,” she said and then whispered into his ear, “Standby.”
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