by A P Bateman
“All right,” Stone held up his hand. “I’m just an innocent country boy. Apparently.”
“People bet on everything and anything. Big money too. Live internet feeds, live gambling. And then there’s the pay-for-acts. The winning bid gets what they wanted to see performed.” Kathy waved a hand. “It was always going to go this way. But Edwards found a whole new scene. We started with snuff movies, but it escalated. Pay-for-murders and executions. The winning bid gets what they want to see performed. Live.”
“Jesus…” Stone said. He wasn’t usually blasphemous, but he was at a loss for words.
“It started in Syria. There was a group, I suppose they fought as ISIS or ISIL. They were pretty savvy, tech wise. Many of them were from Europe. They used the dark web to film beheadings, and then it evolved into killing people in a certain manner requested in return for money. They raised serious funds, but not all of it went on equipment and resources and fighting their cause. Much went to Russian mafia and Saudi sympathisers, weapons dealers mainly. The people they were in fact working for. Half the Islamic extremists are just thugs working for some organised crime ring or another.” She shrugged. “What better way to get your weapons sold than to keep a war going? A huge amount of this money went out to Swiss and off-shore accounts and appeared to stay there. Whether it was going to be used for their cause, or whether they decided it would be a better life for them, I don’t know. Edwards has…” she paused. “Or had the information.”
“It needs to get to the Pentagon. That information is crucial.”
“That was always the plan.”
“And now Edwards’ technology is missing and there’s nothing to point to this information.”
“It would appear so,” she said. “But the whole Syrian thing shut down suddenly. It’s not happening now.”
“Air strike,” Stone ventured. “That or they were killed in battle. But an airstrike would seem the most logical answer. No survivors to carry it on and nobody to start up a new venture.”
“That would make sense.”
“But you found out more,” Stone prompted her. “The details of missing veterans.”
“Exactly.”
“But I don’t get it. I don’t understand why the woman who came to me, who impersonated you, threw all of this out there to me.”
“To reel you in?” Kathy said quietly. “To get your trust. Was she flirtatious?”
“A bit.”
“Did she come on to you?”
“A bit,” Stone felt himself flush around his neck. “Nothing too much,” he lied. For a moment he pictured the woman naked in front of him, the things they’d done. He’d been a fool.
“I bet she tried it on,” she said. “I bet she got close enough for you to smell her, make you want her…” Stone didn’t reply. She studied him, looked as if she was going to say something, but shook her head. “But what didn’t she already know?”
“She needed to find Edwards…” Stone said flatly. And he’d led her right to him. Not directly, but through the corruption of his cell phone. The missed calls, the deleted messages. “Now he’s dead and everything he had is missing.” He bunched his fists. “Shit! This is all on me!”
Kathy remained silent. She started to pace around the lounge. “There has to be more. There has to be another angle.”
“With Edwards out of the picture and his findings gone, there is no story. But she had details, she showed them to me.”
“If she was among the people who are behind it, then she already had enough information to appeal to you. This could have just been a carrot. They could have lifted the details, enough to entice you, and reel you in. Finding Edwards was their intention.”
Stone nodded. “But there has to be more,” he said, then looked at Kathy and closed his eyes. “Oh, no…”
“What?”
“Hand me your landline,” he said tersely. He took out his cell phone and looked up Max’s number. Kathy handed him the handset and he dialled, tucking his cell phone back into his pocket. The phone rang once and was answered immediately. Stone thought it unusual. “Max? Rob Stone. I’m on a landline at the house on Calvert Cliffs.”
“For goodness sake!” Max snapped. “It’s all gone crazy here. I’ve tried to call you, but your number has been disconnected. A virus has wiped out practically everything the Secret Service has on our database. Security protocols, lists of security threats – organisations and individuals who have threatened, or pose a threat to the President, intelligence from other agencies, both domestic and overseas. But treasury accounts were emptied first,” he paused for breath. “Millions of dollars in operating capital, ring-fenced fund accounts and special project money. As well as treasury assets. You’ve got to come in, Rob. Like yesterday.”
“Are they recalling agents?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
There was a long pause before Max lowered his voice. “The virus was spread when you logged into the mainframe from an outside network. It’s been pin-pointed. I’ve been sequestered to work on specifics, all of the tech boys and girls have jobs to do. But it’s finished. Nobody knows what this virus is, but it’s eating things up. I think it’s too late, I think the Security Service’s technology side has been irreparably crippled.”
“But Max, I haven’t logged in,” Stone tensed. He reached for his wallet, flipped it open and looked for his log-in card. It wasn’t there. He felt a shiver up his spine and a wave of heat wash over his face at once. “My card’s gone.”
“We used it to log on. When you were here with Kathy.”
“She wasn’t Kathy,” Stone said, thinking of the passionate encounter with the woman in the kitchen, the bedroom. Then she’d left while he was in the shower. “My card has gone, she must have stolen it,” he said lamely.
“You’d better come in,” Max said. “They’ve asked me to inform them if you call me.”
“Who are they?”
“The whole top floor.”
“Shit,” Stone paused. “I need time. I need to look into this further.”
“Agent Stone, I can give you an hour or so. But this is as big as it gets. Effectively, Parks and Recreation have more computer processing ability than the Secret Service right now. The NSA and CIA are here, and they’re taking over.”
“Have they put out a clear indication that they suspect me, that I’m wanted?”
“Reading between the lines, they’re dropping this on you whether you did it or not. It’s been a pleasure working for you, your reputation is legend around here. But that’s also enough reason to be unpopular as well. With the upper floors. The lower ones too. I know you haven’t done anything, but getting a good lawyer lined up before you come in wouldn’t hurt your prospects,” he paused. “There’s more. One of the other technicians was given the task of looking into your bank accounts. There’s a lot in there, seven figures. I know it’s none of my business, but I imagine you’re not aware of that kind of balance.”
“No,” he said adamantly. “There’s always a months’ salary in there at the lowest, two months’ worth at the highest. I’ve also got ten-grand in a savings account.” Stone was sweating. He felt nauseous. He was silent a long while. “Thank you for the heads-up, Max,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you sometime. Good luck with your computer virus.”
“Thanks, I’ll need it. We all will. I’ve never seen anything like it. A ruthless son-of-a-bitch. Named after the Greek god of war…”
“Ares…” Stone said, looking up.
“The very same. You know your Greek mythology.” Max remarked.
“No,” Stone said. “But I know about Ares.” He ended the call and placed the handset on the coffee table. His blood ran cold. There was something about this, something personal. Using his card to log into the computer mainframe pointed the finger at him. He could prove his innocence, he was sure of that, but it seemed a personal affront. He would have a task ahead of him explaining the money. He’d bee
n on those teams, and he’d played real hard ball. Again, he could argue through the set up, but he could be looking at years to prove his innocence. But it was the fact that the virus released into the mainframe had been named Ares. It was a step too far.
The Ares Virus was designed as a weapon of mass destruction, a hypothesis into what a fast-acting, violent flu-like virus could do in a military arsenal. What predominantly came from the Ares project was Aphrodite, the cure or anti-virus. A medical breakthrough had been made and Aphrodite’s application into other areas of medical science meant cures for the common cold and every known strain of flu. It also drew cures for AIDS decades closer, as well as Ebola. It was as close to a cure for cancer as medicine has come. A rogue CIA agent hatched a plan to steal both virus and anti-virus and release Ares while a partner within a pharmaceutical company marketed Aphrodite. A plan worth billions. Isobel Bartlett, a senior researcher on the project, stole the formula and was hunted by an assassin working for the rogue CIA agent. The case Stone was investigating, a disbanded assassination program, crossed paths and he managed to keep Isobel alive and keep the virus out of their hands.
“Trouble?” Kathy asked, her expression one of concern.
Stone looked at her, then caught the sight behind her of the two armed men moving tactically through the gateway. “Yes.”
30
“We have you online. Good work. Multiple cameras ahead, above and to your right. Good visibility.”
Stone, dressed in The Saracen’s robe and head dress stooped down and picked up the quiver full of arrows. The body on his shoulder weighed about one-sixty-five. He could bench press and squat more, but he was exhausted and dehydrated. He wobbled, but steadied himself in time. The Saracen’s body was dressed in Stone’s black trousers and the olive military jacket. He had fashioned a hood from The Saracen’s vest and wrapped and fastened it around the head. The body’s hands were behind its back, fastened with two pairs of plastic cable ties.
The woman spoke again in his earpiece. “Is the target dead?” she paused. “Look to your right if he’s still alive.”
Stone looked to his right. He looked back to the single banyan tree in front of him and carried the body over to it. He eased it off his shoulder and stood it upright. It took all of his strength, rigor mortis was yet to set in and the cadaver was still pliable, but awkwardly soft to handle. Stone used the spare bowstring and tied the body in place by its shoulders, threading the string under both armpits. He backed away, turned and walked fifty-feet before pulling an arrow from the quiver.
“What are you doing? Death in the field is one thing, but bidding is coming in for an execution! Wait! I’ve got Miami on here for a quarter million for you to cut both of his arms off. London wants to see him castrated first, they’re up to a hundred grand. Go for castration, he may bleed out if you take the arms first. Either way, there’s enough smaller bets on the slate to make beheading the conclusion. We’ll see if there’s a raise from enough bidders to make it a slow one.”
Stone looked at the bow. It had been a while since he had used one. His whole adult life in fact. He fixed the arrow to the string and pulled back. A searing, stab of pain tore through his left shoulder, he could feel the wound seeping. The bow was powerful and he was surprised how difficult it was to draw. He aimed, released, then cursed as the arrow sailed past his target, missing by inches and travelling sixty-metres before dropping into waist-high savannah and pampas grass.
“Stop what you’re doing!” The woman hissed, her accent was distinct. Stone thought Australian or South African. “Can you hear me?” She changed tack. “All units, all units. The Saracen has a coms fault. Stop him from killing the target. We have commercial obligations to fulfil. Somebody give him a new headset.”
Stone fixed the second arrow and drew it back again. It was tipped with a wicked-looking head, both serrated and grooved in what looked like a titanium double-edged blade. He was steadier aiming this time, but the stiff draw still hurt his shoulder to the point of nausea. The arrow left the bow and found its mark dead centre in the corpse.
“No! Stop! We need to honour the bidding! All units, stop him!”
Four men appeared from savannah grass at the foot of the hill. They were waving and shouting animatedly. All were armed with side-arms in belt holsters, two carried pump-action shotguns. They were dressed much the same as safari guides in khaki and olive coloured shorts and short-sleeved button down shirts.
“Yo! Saracen! Take a chill-pill you rag-head prick!” the nearest man drawled. He was deep-south. Grits, biscuits and gravy for breakfast. “You’ve messed up bigtime!”
Stone fixed another arrow and walked forward.
“She’s really pissed with you,” another chided. He had the shotgun held in one hand, the barrel skywards, the butt resting on his hip.
Stone was only twenty-feet away when he drew the arrow back and fired. The arrow hit the man just left and low of centre. It stopped penetrating as the flights met the flesh, the point a good twelve-inches out from his back. There was a look of shock and bewilderment on his face, but Stone barely registered it. He was already bringing the FN pistol up to the second man with the shotgun. He double-tapped the man centre-mass and moved on. The other two men were in shock, and had only just remembered their pistols. They were attempting to draw them from their holsters, but they were no Butch & Sundance. Stone fired twice more at the furthest man. He fell backwards. Stone charged forwards, the muzzle of his pistol just a few feet from the remaining man who had the butt of his Sig P226 pistol in his hand, but had still not managed to get it free of the holster. “Don’t do it! Stand still! Stand still!” The man did just that, raised his hands slowly above his head. The man who had been hit with the arrow was kneeling now, both hands clasped on the arrow shaft in front of him. He was grunting and sucking air in through clenched teeth. Stone moved his weapon quickly, fired at the man’s head from no more than a metre away and had it back aiming at the last man standing in an instant. The three men on the ground lay still. Stone lowered his pistol, shot the man in the fleshy part of his thigh, avoiding the bone and femoral artery. The man dropped like a heavy sack, screaming. He didn’t notice Stone take the pistol from his own holster as he held his leg and closed his eyes, sucking air through the pain. Stone looked down at the man and kicked his other leg. “Listen to me! Listen! You’re going to tell me what I want to know. If you don’t, I’m going to shoot every bone in your legs and work my way up.”
The man nodded. Stone pulled off the head dress and discarded it onto the ground, before helping the man to his feet. He then heard a burst of static in his ear. “Every available asset to the bunker. We have a security breach. Repeat, every available man to the bunker. We have a security breach. Switch to second emergency frequency immediately.” There was a long pause, but Stone could hear muted background noises. And then a man’s voice, deep and raspy filled the void. “Congratulations Mr Stone. You’ve made it to the next level…”
31
Stone shouted for Kathy to get down and went to push her to the floor, but she dodged him and made for a built-in floor to ceiling cupboard at the other end of the lounge. Stone drew his pistol and tracked one of the men, but he was too late and the man got away from the bay window and behind the wall. He took a chance and fired three shots, about ten inches apart, across the wall. The building was constructed from what appeared to be timber cladding and stucco. The chimney breast was made out of red brick, as were the gable ends, but Stone doubted that the brickwork extended any further, merely to have ended up being covered by wood. He was correct in his assumption, and the man staggered out clutching his stomach. Stone fired one more shot at the man’s head through the double-glazed bay window and the man went down amid a mist of crimson and shattered glass.
The second man had darted towards the back of the building and Stone noticed a figure sprinting from the gateway down the side of the boundary. That made three. One down, two to go. He ran to the window but tur
ned when the world erupted beside him. For a moment he thought one of the attackers had tossed in a grenade, but then he saw Kathy with the pump action shotgun and she racked another shell into the chamber. She had blown out the side window and was taking aim again. She fired and the recoil knocked her slight frame back at least half a stride.
“Got him!” she exclaimed. “He’s fallen behind my father’s old skiff!” The remaining part of the window pane shattered and she ducked down as the man she had shot at returned fire with a machine pistol. He was controlling his shots in bursts of three or four rounds. It was a professional response. Kathy crawled to the sofa and looked at Stone. “Damn, I thought I got him. He fell.”
Stone darted over to the window and peered out. The man dashed out from the upturned wooden boat and limped back towards the gateway. It was a bad injury – if he had favoured the leg any more he’d have been crawling. “You did,” Stone said to her. “He’s been injured; you’ve peppered his legs.” He aimed at the man’s back, but as he was about to fire he heard gunshots and the sound of wood splintering in the kitchen. He turned and was about to fire, but Kathy had stepped in front of him and was wheeling the huge pump-action shotgun around. She fired and pumped, fired and pumped. The person in the kitchen was scrabbling on the parquet flooring. Stone could hear them slipping on empty brass shell cases, glass and wood, and now loose balls of lead bird shot. Stone pushed Kathy down onto the sofa and fired a dozen rounds out into the kitchen. The 5.7x28mm bullets from the FN travelled a flat trajectory and had tremendous penetration, capable of defeating bulletproof jackets. Which was one of the reasons he had recently switched to it.
Stone eased forwards towards the doorway. He glanced at Kathy, who was pushing herself to her feet and scowling at him. She shouldered the shotgun and turned around, covering the windows behind them. She wasn’t a trained agent, but she was handy with the weapon and seemed to know the basics.