Interquels

by Macalister Stevens

  Diðrik reached the top of the gangway and disappeared into the ship. ‘He’s aboard,’ Örn said. ‘Brynja, stand by.’

  Just like the night before, Diðrik was patted down for weapons and his currency checked and counted. He was directed to a small bar and told to wait. Sessions on the brothel deck were thirty minutes apart—there was a small discount for double sessions—and on the hour and the half-hour, batches of customers were escorted to the entertainment cabins; the next session began in five minutes.

  Örn checked his watch. ‘It’s time.’

  Through binoculars, he watched Brynja stomp towards the bottom of the gangway. Via her comms gear mic, he heard her angrily shout: ‘Is my husband in there?’

  Brynja’s mic picked up one of the guards shouting back: ‘We don’t fucking know, and we don’t fucking care.’

  As she strode towards them, Brynja demanded to go on board to find her no-good, lying, cheating man.

  ‘Fuck off woman, no way.’

  Three strides from them. she upped the colourful language.

  Two strides away, her right hand dropped to her side.

  One stride, the blade in her sleeve slid into her hand. And into the closest guard’s throat. Brynja spun, and the blade was in the other guard’s chest. She left it there and sprinted up the gangway.

  ‘Go,’ said Örn.

  The guard at the top of the gangway fell forward.

  ‘Target down,’ said Jökull’s spotter.

  At the top of the gangway, Brynja grabbed the guard’s submachine gun and stepped over his body.

  Diðrik trailed behind five other customers. Their escort, who kept to the rear of the group, called out. ‘Okay gentlemen, that’s far enough. You’ve got your cabin numbers, and …’ He glanced at a clock on a wall. ‘Twenty-six minutes. Enjoy.’

  The five customers scanned the numbers on the cabin doors.

  ‘Oh shit.’ Diðrik said. ‘I’ve forgotten the number.’

  The escort scowled. ‘You shitting me?’

  ‘Sorry. Do you kno—’

  ‘No I fucking don’t. You’ll have to go back to the bar and ask. Asshole.’ Shaking his head, the escort turned. ‘And—’

  A kick to the back of the knee and the escort was down; then his neck was snapped. Diðrik pulled the handgun from the corpse’s shoulder holster and spun to face the other five men.

  ‘Do you know what is meant by collateral damage?’

  A few nods and a mutter.

  ‘Then you’ll know why you should wait in here …’ Diðrik opened a cabin door. ‘And be very, very quiet.’

  The ship was now in Víkingasveitin control. At the time Diðrik had been walking up the gangway, a Bravo Squad team had been in the water. During diversions by Diðrik and Brynja, they’d boarded the ship, secured the bridge, then worked their way down the decks, clearing the vessel of all white-uniformed threats. Now Diðrik sat at a blackjack table, opposite a man who had once been a Second Mate, making him the highest ranking of the press-ganged crew liberated by the Víkingasveitin.

  ‘We keep it or we sink it.’

  The Second Mate stared at Diðrik. Then he nodded. ‘I understand.’

  If Diðrik left the cruiseferry operational, the ship would be reclaimed by the Boston cartel—or another outfit—who would force another crew into service.

  ‘We have our own ship, along the coast.’ Diðrik wouldn’t be revealing that location. ‘But we don’t have the manpower to crew this vessel too, so if you and your men don’t want to come with us, we’ll take what we need and scuttle her. You’ll all be welcome to take what you can carry from the ship’s supplies. If you choose to deliver the ship to our home port, you can stay with us, or we’ll return you to this coast, or further south, on our next sailing.’

  The Second Mate stared at the small circle his finger was making on the green felt. ‘The boys either have no family to find, or those that do will be looking to reach a port a long way from Nova Scotia. I think you’ll get your crew.’

  Brynja, Örn and Ari watched from a few metres away, Örn dipped his head towards Brynja. ‘Looks like we just became a fleet.’

  Ari’s face scrunched into an I-don’t-get-it face. ‘Why do we want a cruiseferry?’

  ‘When are we at our most vulnerable?’ Örn asked.

  ‘When Ernir is docked. When we’re loading.’

  ‘With this ship we can drive trucks straight on board. Quicker. Safer.’ Örn nodded towards the blackjack table. ‘Diðrik wants you.’

  As Ari escorted the Second Mate back to his men, Diðrik joined Brynja and Örn.

  ‘I take it we’re extending our trip,’ said Brynja.

  Diðrik nodded. ‘Ernir drops us off on the Maine coast. I’m thinking Rockland. Then she returns home with this trip’s cargo. This ship hides out somewhere, maybe off Swans Island, while we take our incursions further south than we’ve gone before. There, we steal the trucks and fuel we need to transport supplies back north to a prearranged pick-up point.’ Diðrik looked from one to the other. ‘Thing is, Ernir will still need a security detail. I need one of you to be in charge of it.’

  Brynja took a few steps to a roulette table, picked up the small white ball, and spun the wheel. She grinned at Örn. ‘Loser goes home. Red or black?’

  Örn chose.

  Brynja spun the ball.

  CODA

  10 months ago

  She woke. But stayed still. She sensed someone was close by.

  ‘Good morning Darcy.’

  She opened her eyes. A man sat in a chair next to the bed she lay in. His features were hidden by a paperback copy of Giddiness of the Non-frequent Flyer held in front of his face.

  He lowered the book, and she recognised him instantly. But there was an ugly scar at his right eye; she'd never seen his face like that before.

  A finger tapped at the photo on the back cover of the book. ‘Been a while since I was this pretty.’ His face creased into a wide smile, and the scar blended into laughter lines.

  The smile faded, and the scar returned. He tossed the book onto her bed and placed his hands, palms down, on his knees. Where she could see them.

  ‘Left wrist,’ he said.

  She sat up and read her tattoo. She reached for Giddiness of the Non-Frequent Flyer and flicked through, quickly finding hand-written notes; in her hand-writing.

  He waited a few minutes, then he said, ‘This is a GatComm. A super-sized gated community. They sprung up all over the place after the Six Cities were hit.’

  She held up Giddiness. ‘So it seems.’ She waved the paperback around at the room’s pink wallpaper. ‘I wouldn’t have expected a dystopia to be so girly.’

  He glanced at the walls. ‘We both know you can be quite resourceful.’ He nodded at the book. ‘Anterograde amnesia for example. Clever. I might use that.’ He grinned.

  ‘And why would you need to use that?’

  His grin faded. ‘Because, just like you, I belong on a different world.’ He looked down at his hands for a moment, then up into Darcy’s eyes. ‘And when you slip from this one, I need you to look out for me.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to Chantal Cooke from Panpathic Communications and The Book Booster, Sue Richardson from SRA (Sue Richardson Associates), Sarah Williams from The Book Consultancy, and playwright Jeff Thomson for their advice, encouragement and expertise.

  Thanks also to the beta readers.

  And thanks to cyber security expert Jim Stickley for showing me how to steal a car.

  Preview of THE HUNTING COMMAND

  No good deed goes unpunished pretty much summed up Sammy Kincade’s take on life. Altruism had no place in his world. But Kincade was Virginia born and bred, and southern hospitality still swished around his veins. ‘You hungry?’ he asked the Colombian. ‘I can send one of my guys. You want a burrito?’

  The Colombian glared at him. ‘Do I look Mexican?’

  Did he look Mexican? Of course he fucking did. The spic had
been a moody son-of-a-bitch from the get-go, but this was a well-paid gig, so Kincade kept his hell yeah to himself. However, machismo demanded some kind of retort. ‘Have a corn dog, have a slice of pizza, go fucking hungry. No difference to me. Only trying to be mein fucking host.’

  The Colombian lobbed a nod behind Kincade, towards the wooden stairs leading up out of the basement. ‘You are not needed here.’

  Kincade turned and climbed. ‘No need to be all gushy.’ Old, loose wood protested at each sullen stomp. ‘You’re welcome. No trouble at all. Happy to help. Mi casa es su casa. Or is that too fucking Mexican for you—’

  The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, cutting off Kincade’s carping.

  The Colombian accepted that there were advantages to using Kincade and his men rather than importing his own crew, and the Americans had been well-organised and capable—they had hijacked the prisoner transport effectively and their local knowledge had yielded this abandoned farmhouse for the Colombian to work in—but useful gringos were still gringos.

  Sunlight speared through a trio of mesh-covered windows along the top of the wall behind the Colombian, stretching his shadow across the floor to a leaning tower of detritus. Timeworn dolls huddling in a split cardboard box, assorted paint-dribbled tins, and rusted, busted tools were piled on top of the tattered grey upholstery of a now three-legged sofa that Kincade’s men had pushed against the far wall. The centre of the basement was now clear, apart from a sturdy wooden stool and the gringo kneeling next to it.

  The Colombian stepped forward, reached down and pulled the hood from the gringo’s head. He squatted and studied the anxious blinking that was corralling moisture into the corners of the gringo’s eyes. ‘How are you liking the irony?’ the Colombian asked.

  The gringo—silenced by duct tape—responded by dropping his chin to his chest.

  ‘You know the word Lugarteniente?’

  The gringo looked up and shook his head.

  ‘It means deputy. I am Lugarteniente to a powerful man. That man is also my friend. My friend has many Sicarios and Halcones. The Sicarios are our soldiers. The Halcones are our eyes and ears. Our Halcones tell us that you and your friends tried to do a very bad thing to my friend.’ The Colombian shrugged. ‘But your friends are your friends no more. They want you dead.’ The Colombian waved a finger in the gringo’s face. The gringo recoiled, bringing his hands—still in US Marshal handcuffs—up for protection. The Colombian gently pushed the hands down. ‘You need new friends,’ he said softly. A wide grin spread across the Colombian’s face. ‘I could be your friend.’ The grin melted. ‘Or not. Up to you.’ The Colombian straightened and gazed down at the gringo. ‘Would you prefer we were friends?’

  An uncertain nod.

  ‘Good.’ The Colombian reached down, hauled the gringo to his feet, and guided him to the stool. ‘Sit.’

  The gringo sat.

  ‘You have provided the FBI with information about your former friends and their involvement in the abduction. You will share that information with me. I also want to know everything you have not told the FBI.’ The Colombian ripped the duct tape from the gringo’s face. ‘If you do this I will be happy, and we will have a beer to toast our new friendship.’ The Colombian bent down and pulled the shoes and socks from the gringo’s feet.

  ‘What …’ The gringo cleared his throat. ‘What are you doing?’

  From a back pocket, the Colombian produced a set of secateurs. ‘If I am not happy with what you tell me, you will need smaller shoes.’ He raised his free hand and studied the gap between forefinger and thumb. The gap was the length of the gringo’s big toe. ‘About this much smaller.’

  The gringo’s eyes widened.

  The Colombian sniffed. He crinkled his nose and waved the secateurs at the gringo’s crotch. ‘I see we will not need a toilet break for a while. Let us begin.’

  Preview of SLIPPING

  Engines roared, tyres squealed. I opened my eyes. A white sports car hit a ramp, flew into the air, rolled 360 degrees, slammed onto tarmac and somehow executed a screeching turn. A man spilled from the spinning car, came to rest on one knee and squeezed off a half dozen shots from a Glock he seemed to produce out of thin air. Shards of black rubber erupted from the tyres of two pursuing black sports cars. The vehicles veered, skidded and smashed into each other, the impact sending them careering in opposite directions, slewing either side of the man with the Glock as he casually rose to his feet.

  ‘Wow!’ breathed someone to my right.

  ‘How awesome was that?’ from a couple of rows in front.

  ‘Shhh!’ behind me.

  Clearly the cinema was packed with horseshit lovers.

  I checked my pockets. Found a phone. Selected the calendar icon … I was at a test screening of Kai Degen 4: Quantum Suicide. That wasn’t the title of any novel I’d written. A sly joke perhaps. I thumbed the Paperclip icon and scanned the notes that had been left for me: I had a writing credit for the screenplay, but so did the director. He was a talentless arse, which explained the drivel on the screen, and why I’d fallen asleep. I knew I shouldn’t grumble. I’d woken to much worse—people trying to con me, or lock me up, or kill me—so sitting through a shitty movie shouldn’t register much on whatever crankiness was measured by (a Grrr-o-meter perhaps), but my ability to stick to an even-keeled perspective had been a little lacking of late. Slipping between different universes will do that to you.

  I sighed: a Q&A was scheduled after the screening, followed by a dinner with representatives of the Japanese manufacturer of the pony car that the (miscast) actor playing Kai Degen had just shrugged off several laws of physics to roll out of. Apparently the boys from Nippon had paid a hefty fee for the product placement, and a similar sum to have their Italian rival’s model trashed during the chase. I was expected to be charming at both events.

  Screw that. I’d already had a day dealing with dickheads.

  I closed my eyes. Inhaled slowly … exhaled slowly … inhaled for a count of six … exhaled for a count of six … … in for six … out for six … breathing in … breathing out … sound faded … the world slipped away ...

  13 hours earlier

  Abducting four career criminals had been tricky, but the real challenge was listening to their shop-worn tough-guy bluster.

  ‘I’m going to motherfucking fuck you up you fucking ... motherfucker!’

  I sighed. ‘Tell you what, I’m going to buy Mister Vocabulary a thesaurus. That’s if all of you get out of here alive.’

  All four men strained against their shackles. I casually brushed dust from my coat sleeves, giving them a moment …

  Muscles admitted defeat. Eyes didn’t. But at least the basement was rant free.

  I said, ‘A literary agent once told me that I gave good exposition. She’d had a few drinks, so I can’t be certain she wasn’t just flirting. However, I have just given you two very important pieces of information.’ I held up a finger. ‘Leaving here alive is a possibility.’ Two fingers. ‘But ...’ The fingers pointed, playground-gun style, at each of the four men in turn. ‘All of you make it. Or all of you die here. Imagine you’re a really scummy version of D’Artagnan and the Three Musketeers.’

  ‘Motherf—’

  My fist slammed into Mister Vocabulary’s face. His head snapped backwards, propelling an arcing spurt of blood into the air between us. ‘Don’t interrupt,’ I said evenly.

  The other three glared. Silently.

  A gooey mix of blood and snot landed between my feet. I studied Mister Vocabulary’s face, tutting disapproval. Blood flowed from the swelling, wrecked nose, ran over his lips and dripped from his goatee. ‘That’s nasty. But you weren’t exactly pretty to begin with.’

  I stepped back and adopted a chirpy tone. ‘Returning to exposition. It comes in many forms. One technique is The Lecture. It’s not very subtle, but as you’ll have noticed …’ I gestured at the chains linking their ankle and wrist restraints, ‘subtlety isn’t exactly part
of the curriculum. Don’t worry, I’ll be brief.

  ‘Gentlemen, you’re here because I know your plan. Stage one, break into my home. Stage two, terrorise my family. Stage three, use the threat of extreme violence against them to coerce me into electronically moving a substantial amount of money. Stage four, carry out the extreme violence anyway to ensure there are no witnesses.’

  One jaw dropped. One pair of eyes widened. Mister Vocabulary glanced at the biggest of the four. And the big man maintained a poker face.

  The dropped jaw started to speak, ‘How d—’

  ‘Quiet!’ The big man quickly controlled the flare of anger across his wide face, and he slid a deadpan gaze back to me.

  I pitched him a wink, and continued. ‘As your current predicament suggests, I’m not especially pleased about the leave no witnesses part of the plan.’ I dropped the light tone. ‘That was an exceptionally bad choice.’

  Their chains clinked and clanked as they shifted uneasily, even the big guy. From the moment hoods had been pulled from their heads, the four had radiated white-hot fury, but that emotion had just been tempered. Now they knew the why, and that knowledge had cracked the armouring provided by anger, letting in a little fear. I had their attention.

  ‘Choices, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘that’s the theme for today’s lecture.’

  I held a beat.

  ‘Parallel universes. Alternative realities. Hugh Everett’s Theory of the Universal Wavefunction, also known as the Many Worlds Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics. Anyone know what I’m talking about?’