Watchers

by S. T. Boston

  The agent at the door greeted Finch with a very formal, “Sir!” and a nod of the head as he stepped into the hub, a place where his tech team monitored not only the hotel's CCTV system, but all the city cameras for a two block radius. All incoming and outgoing calls were also screened. There was no privacy for anyone within a mile of the hotel. Teams of technicians stared at screens, flicking between cameras whilst others were seated at listening stations, no doubt relishing the ability to eavesdrop on every call, be it landline or cell phone. A few of the staff noticed Finch and offered up nods in greeting, all too busy to stop and chat, which was fine by him. Passing through the room and down a small corridor, he entered the break room designated only for the President's close protection team. Four agents were inside enjoying their break, as a live football game between the Washington Red Skins and the Denver Broncos played on the small TV in the corner of the room.

  “Sir!” Agent Michael Blake noticed his boss first, prompting the other three agents to react in a flurry of taking feet off tables and trying to look as if they hadn't been caught off guard.

  “Gentlemen,” said Finch, inwardly smiling at their reaction. “Agent Blake,” he continued, “sorry for disturbing your rest, but I've been called away to revise some of the security detail with the local authorities for our morning trip to the airport. I need you to cover my post outside the President's suite.” The disappointment on Blake's face was apparent. No doubt the football game was heating up and he didn't want to miss the end.

  “Of course, sir, no problem, I'll just get my gear,” he replied, looking rather dejected. It was likely that Blake would be the one to discover his Commander in Chief in the morning when Remy failed to rise with the six thirty wake-up call. Blake was in for a long night, and an even longer day.

  Finch gave the other agents a curt nod and left the room. Pacing down the long, drab and slightly musty-smelling corridor, he stopped by the communal bathroom, unclipped his tie pin and threw it into the hand towel bin. The pin contained a small tracking device which allowed the hub to monitor every Secret Service Agent. If he left the complex wearing it, they would know immediately that he was off plot. At least now if they checked on him, it would appear he was taking a quick bathroom break. He only needed five minutes to get clear; after that he didn't care.

  Slipping out the back of the staff quarters, he made his way to the rear gate. Pausing for a few moments Finch watched as the guard went to the back of the hut and lit a cigarette, before fiddling with his mobile. Satisfied that his attentions were elsewhere Finch slipped by, completely unseen. Had he actually cared about the security of his president, a gaping hole in the site integrity such as this would have been inexcusable. As it was, the lacklustre attention to detail found in many of the local police and security firms suited him just fine.

  Pacing quietly down the back of the hotel, Finch followed an alley that ran behind the Starhill Gallery. The upper market shopping centre was in darkness; Finch had studied the camera layout in depth and knew exactly how to leave the site without being detected. As he followed the tree line, the looming towers of the Ritz Carlton came into view. More sirens and horns sounded far off in the city, almost lost in the constant drone of traffic. Jumping a small wire fence, Finch landed in the car park of the Bintang Garden Hotel. Even their cameras were being fed back to the Ops Centre at The Marriott. Finch knew every system well; he'd studied the angles and view of each camera in detail for weeks before even arriving at the summit.

  Striding across the grass verge and out of camera view, he watched as a pair of car headlights lit up in the far corner of the small parking lot. Sticking strictly to his pre-planned route, he walked briskly to the rather battered-looking Toyota Avensis. The car sported a dull red metallic paint job on the sides and trunk; the bonnet and roof were a pearlescent white. It looked exactly like the thousands of other tired taxis crawling around the city. Opening the back door, Finch slid onto the cool faux leather seat. The air-conditioning causing the sweat to chill instantly on his face.

  “You're late,” the driver commented in an annoyed voice.

  Finch checked his watch, “Yes, ten minutes. My apologies.”

  “The pickup time was two am,” the driver protested, “not ten past two.”

  “Listen,” Finch snapped, “it took me longer to get away than I would have liked. It had to look natural.”

  “Is it done?” asked the driver, turning his bulky body in the seat. Finch knew him well. The man behind the wheel was Roddick Laney, an overweight grunt in his forties, with scruffy, unkempt, greying brown hair. It looked as if his hair hadn't seen a comb or barber's shop in a good while. The smell of BO poured from his body, despite the vehicle's air-conditioning; the putrid stench caught the back of Finch's throat, making him want to gag.

  “Yes, it's done; now let's get out of here.” Laney's attitude was enraging him. The driver was far below Finch on the food chain. How dare he question him for being late to the RV point? Roddick put the Toyota into gear and guided it out of the hotel parking lot. Almost immediately, they melded into the countless other dirty and battered cabs packing the city streets.

  “How far out are we?” Finch asked after almost fifteen minutes of stop-and-go traffic. So far, they had barely managed to achieve more than fifteen miles an hour.

  “Two miles,” came the curt reply from the front.

  Satisfied, Finch pulled his phone from his pocket. Despite it being secure, he hadn't trusted that the monitoring station wouldn't be able to decrypt it within close proximity of the hotel. He had the number ready to go; it was answered in less than one full ring. “It's Finch,” he began, “the matter has been dealt with as planned. I'm on my way back now.”

  “Very good, Mr. Finch.” The man at the other end spoke in a flat and emotionless tone. The voice belonged to Buer, the head of the whole operation. Finch both feared and envied Buer simultaneously; if he'd failed in his task, Buer would have seen to it that he was disposed of, no questions asked, despite his long years of faithful service. “You've done well,” Buer continued. “It's time to leave your old life behind now – Agent Robert Finch is no more.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand,” replied Finch, his heart pounding so hard, he could feel it pulsing in his throat.

  “On your return to the States, we'll see to it that your appearance is changed and your new identity issued. It's all waiting for you. Even though it will appear to all that President Remy died of a heart attack, there will be questions asked about the sudden disappearance of his top Secret Service Agent. You'll no doubt be hunted.”

  “I understand. And what of The Gift?” Finch heard his own voice grow a little shaky.

  Buer laughed. The sound boomed down the phone and Finch held the echoing device away from his ear until the noise subsided. “You never take your eye off the prize, do you, Mr. Finch?”

  “I just want what was promised to me!” he interjected, wondering if he was pushing too far.

  “You will receive all that has been promised to you – you have my word. In a few weeks' time, the world is going to be a very different place. Your success is merely the start, there is still much for you to do.”

  Before Finch could reply, the line went dead.

  Chapter 3

  Adam Fisher turned uneasily in his sleep, caught in one of those strange dreams where he knew he was dreaming, but couldn't seem to wake up. He was in the passenger seat of the RV; trees lined each side of the road, the dark foreboding pines briefly illuminated by the headlights that sliced through the darkness like twin daggers. Rain was pouring down, smacking the window with rhythmic thuds accompanied by the mechanical whine of the wipers as they struggled to keep up with the deluge. Sam was driving; he could see his best friend talking, but no sounds came from his lips. It was like watching TV with the volume down. For some reason he could hear the radio. 'Annie's Song' by John Denver was gently drifting through the cab.

  Adam became aware of the RV slowing down, the ind
icator light blinking bright orange against the night as plump raindrops reflected back, giving a strobe-like effect against the dirty, wet darkness.

  Sam swung the lumbering vehicle onto a gravel track. A rest area sign lit up briefly as the headlights cut to the left. Dread swept through his body as the front tyres found the rough surface of the unkempt road. Back in his bedroom he fidgeted uneasily, clutching the covers, small murmurs and whimpering sounds coming from his lips. He wanted to wake up, but the dream held him like a prisoner.

  The RV bounced its way slowly down the track, wallowing on soft suspension as the wheels seemed to find every pothole. Without warning, a large stag darted from the bushes. Sam jammed on the brakes and the pressure of the seatbelt bit into his shoulder as it locked, preventing his body from lunging forward. Glancing at Sam, he saw him speaking more words noiselessly, his face fixed with a concerned expression.

  The stag, who'd spent a few seconds transfixed by the headlights darted off into the trees, claimed by the forest. The RV started to move again, creeping forward. The lane opened out into a large turning area, a giant redwood standing proud in the middle of the makeshift roundabout.

  The melodic and soothing sound of John Denver's voice, and the sweet tune of his acoustic guitar did nothing but fill Adam with dread.

  Just as the first chorus ended Adam saw her, and from the depths of his uneasy sleep, he stopped breathing for a few long moments, as if an unseen entity had covered his mouth and nose. Her white clothing juxtaposed against the blackness of the night, and drew his attention completely, as if she were a beacon standing out against the storm. Sam had seen her; he hit the brakes hard for the second time in quick succession. The RV skidded to an abrupt halt, the tyres grinding in protest against the gravel, Sam already reaching for the door.

  At the far end of the gravel car park the river rushed by, bubbling and angry from the deluge. She was lying on the bank, on a small gravel beach no doubt popular in the warmer weather with bathers and children. Her legs swept back and forth in the current of the raging water, her tangled blonde hair obstructing her face. Blood flowed freely from a wound in her thigh. The dark red liquid contrasted brightly against the whiteness of her clothes, which despite being wet and dirty, seemed to glow brightly in the headlights.

  The scene changed, like a poorly edited movie. They were both out of the RV now; Sam looking back and shouting more silent words urgently. Rushing across the rain-soaked gravel, Sam reached the body first.

  Back in the safety of his room, Adam groaned and twisted beneath the covers. “No, no,” he whispered.

  Sam's hands were pulling at the girl, dragging her away from the river bank. Adam watched as Sam turned her over. His sandy blond hair was plastered to his face, his clothes soaked with water. When her limp body turned, Adam saw her face, pale, almost lifeless, but so beautiful his heart ached and his head spun. Transfixed, he watched her face start to distort, transform, the skin growing darker, younger. Her whole appearance was changing, right before his eyes. His horror was complete when a bullet hole appeared on her forehead, accompanied by a trickle of blood that seemed to defy the pouring rain. He found himself staring at the young girl he'd seen executed during his time with Sam in Afghanistan, six years ago.

  At the time, he'd been following Sam's squad, covering the war for an article he was writing when they'd come under heavy fire from insurgents. Adam got separated from the squad during the attack and ducked into a house. Shaking with fear, he'd managed to hide in a wardrobe. Outside, the sound of the battle raged for what seemed like an eternity, until eventually the soldiers had needed to pull back, leaving Adam stranded. Through a gap in the wardrobe door he watched the rebels drag a family into the house. Forcing them to their knees, with hands tied behind their backs, the insurgents proceeded to execute them, one by one.

  Crack! The father's body slumped to the floor.

  Crack! The mother followed suit.

  Last was the daughter, who couldn't have been more than twelve. Her eyes filled with panic, she spotted Adam in the brief moments before her death. Those eyes, resembling a rabbit caught in the headlights of a fast-approaching car, had pleaded for him to do something. In all his life, Adam had never felt so helpless.

  Crack!

  Three hours passed, before the allied troops regained the village and rescued him. For three hours he'd been unable to draw his gaze from the girl; her lifeless eyes staring at him the whole time. She'd often haunted his dreams in the years since, but this time, it felt different.

  The scream started deep in his body, building like a steam train charging through a tunnel. His eyes snapped open, a scream sounding from between his clenched teeth. His hands gripped the covers like a vice, his whole body paralysed, as if unseen hands held him on the cold, clammy, sweat-drenched bed.

  Adam lay motionless for long moments, taking short, sharp breaths, allowing his body to relax. He was back in his bedroom; the house silent apart from the rhythmic ticking of the large clock which had hung on his bedroom wall for more years than he cared to remember. Steeling himself against the residual terror of the nightmare, he rolled to his side and brushed his hand across the screen of the iPhone Mini. 04:45 blinked back at him, the screen light illuminating the room for a second, casting shadows against the walls.

  Drawing a deep breath, Adam forced himself out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. In the darkness, he easily found the cord to the small mirror light and clicked it on, bathing the room in a dim, phosphorus-yellow glow. Greeted by his own tired reflection, he ran a hand through his hair, trying to ignore the dark shadows framing his green eyes. He turned on the cold tap and splashed water over his face, the freezing liquid instantly casting out the last vestiges of sleep.

  “Oh well,” he muttered, “it was almost time to get up anyway.” Turning off the tap, Adam dried his face on a towel which smelt sweetly of fabric softener, before padding quietly downstairs and into the kitchen.

  “Don't you ever sleep?” The groggy voice came from the lounge, as Adam filled the kettle and clicked it on. “What the hell kind of time is this anyway?” added Sam Becker, sitting up on the sofa and peeling back his green, army issue sleeping bag.

  “About ten to five, mate,” replied Adam, grabbing two cups from a mug tree on the bench.

  Sam had been his best friend since they were six, though after school, they'd taken very different routes in life. Adam had gone off to study media at the local college, then followed on through university before working as a freelance writer, selling his stories and articles to a variety of newspapers and magazines all over the world. Sam had fulfilled his childhood ambition by enlisting in the army. Sometimes, six or seven months would pass before they managed to catch up, but they always came back together, one way or another.

  Six years ago, Sam had secured Adam a position as a war reporter, following his squad on manoeuvres in Afghanistan during the second uprising. This had led to the incident in the village, the same incident which had ended Sam's military career.

  While Adam had been frozen with fear in that wardrobe, with only the dead family for company, Sam had been shot twice during the push to regain the village; once in the leg and once in the shoulder. The leg wound, unfortunately, had hit an artery, nearly costing Sam his life. He'd been lucky to survive. They had both been just twenty-six then… and it seemed a lifetime ago.

  Old habits die hard, and after returning to the UK and spending six months lodging with Adam, Sam had secured a close protection job with a private firm and found himself back in the Middle East, babysitting rich businessmen and construction teams. Sam often joked that his new line of work was a walk in the park compared to army life – not to mention the fact that the money was a damn sight better than the British Government offered for putting your life on the line on a daily basis.

  Five more years passed with only fleeting visits home, and Sam always stayed with Adam, since he had no family to speak of. As a child, he'd been taken into care and s
pent most of his childhood days being passed from pillar to post, living in a variety of foster and care homes. The well paid, close protection work meant he had more than enough cash to buy a small house outright, but Sam refused, saying it was pointless owning a property he wouldn't be living in. Besides, he had good lodgings for free whenever he was back in the UK.

  Eventually, as peace began to sweep all the regions of the Middle East, the work had dried up. Sam found himself back in London with no job and no real qualifications he could use on Civvy Street. He eventually got around to buying himself a small flat, but he was rarely there, opting to bunk down at Adam's whenever possible. Adam was fine with the arrangement and enjoyed the company. Following the death of his own parents in a car accident ten years earlier, he'd taken on the family home in Eltham, London, on the promise that he would buy out his younger sister, Lucie's, share of the legacy as soon as he was working and able to obtain a mortgage. She had been just eleven at the time of their parents' death, and while Adam attended university, Lucie had lived with their aunt and uncle in Brighton. In truth, she'd come out of the deal pretty well. At twenty-one, she not only had a tidy sum of money from her share of the house, but she'd moved back in with Adam and lived rent free. Of course, no amount of money or wealth could replace what they'd both lost on that terrible night.