by S. T. Boston
“His book talk begins in twenty five minutes,” came a soft female voice from the rear seat.
“You're certain that he will return here tonight?” Asked Chris Grogan, craning his tree trunk-like neck round from the driver's seat to look at her.
“We tailed him from here to the hotel half an hour ago,” Maya snapped impenitently. “He won't risk driving back to London tonight, even if he makes it before curfew the streets are not a good place to be.” Rico cranked the door of the 3 Series BMW open, allowing the cool, coastal air to flood the previously stuffy cab, the smell of the sea instantly noticeable. In the distance the sound of waves breaking on the stony beach melted into the brisk night.
“We go in through the rear door, just like planned,” croaked Rico, his Eastern European accent sounding harsh. “As soon as he comes in Chris will hit him with the tranq-gun, then it's a swift run to the airport, a short flight to France where he will be re-united with his friend and sister, before …” Rico smiled, relishing the thought of turning both Fisher and Becker over to him, the great one. “Let's just hope they packed some sun lotion, it's a bit warmer where they're going.”
“Enough chat,” cut in Maya. “Let's get inside, it's freezing out here.” They jumped out of the car and hurried down the brick paved drive, the wind was bitingly cold, late September was promising a hard winter. Since the seven day storm the seasons has seemed to shift a little, earlier summers and earlier winters. Keeping their bodies tightly against the half brick, half-timber clad wall one by one they rounded the back of the bungalow. Chris rushed in from the right, his massive hulk of a body powering through the flimsy larch lap gate as if it were soggy paper. The gate swung open with a CRACK as the latch broke and it swung back hitting the fence hard. Rico watched Maya winced at the noise, however it was likely that a good few of these houses were empty, and besides in these uncertain times people had learned to keep themselves to themselves. With a last tentative glance around for prying eyes they slipped into the back garden.
At the rear door Rico dug a small cloth tool roll out of his jacket pocket, he uncoiled it on the rear door's concrete step and fished what looked like a pair of long thin needle-like pliers out. Expertly he slipped the implement into the lock and began to feel his way around the barrel, feeling for how the key to this lock would work the mechanism. In less than ten seconds the latch clicked, pressing a little weight onto the door it swung inward, bathing his chilled skin in warmer, but slightly stale smelling air. Rico leaned his body aside and let Maya and Chris slip past him. Neatly he placed the lock picking tool into his kit roll and secured it safely back in his jacket, making his way in, just a few seconds behind them, only pausing to close the door quietly behind him.
The kitchen was a decent size, a modest breakfast bar stood like an island in the centre of the room, the breakfast bar had a built in coffee machine, and it looked like it hadn't been used in a good few years. Despite the tidy appearance the surfaces were covered with dust. “I'm guessing he doesn't holiday here much!” Mused Rico, running a finger through the dust on the espresso machine and rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “It's not bad round here,” he continued, surveying the kitchen and squinting through the gloom into the lounge, which was accessible through a large open arch. “Pity this will all be wasteland in a few days' time, I could see myself retiring here.” He grinned smugly at Maya who rounded the arch and disappeared into the lounge. Had he been able to see just what she was doing on the other side of that thin plasterboard wall, things might have been somewhat different.
As Rico scanned the room, hopeful of finding some food in this otherwise deserted house he saw Maya rush back into the kitchen, the sound of gunfire followed, whipping round in confusion he saw Chris grab at his chest frantically, muzzle flash lit the room again like summer lightning, in horror Rico watched as a slug tore into Chris's neck. In an instant he disappeared behind the breakfast bar as if a hole had just developed in the floor and swallowed him up. Not wanting to suffer the same fate Rico broke left, trying to reach the lounge, Maya was faster, he felt the weight of the gun as she aimed the muzzle squarely at his chest with deadly accuracy. He froze, threw his hands up and looked her, her pretty face looked grim and deadly. “Why?” he spat angrily.
“I'm sorry, Rico,” she replied, and for a second he almost believed her, for there was a hint of regret in her voice. The muzzle flashed again and Rico felt a fire explode through his body, darkness engulfed him before his body hit the floor.
* * *
Grimacing, Rico pushed himself up onto his elbows, fighting against the inertia of his body which wanted to slip in the blood and plant him painfully onto his back. Why did she cross us? He thought as he finally managed to sit. “Chris, Chris, you alive over there?” he called, there was no reply. His mind raced through the possibilities and circumstances that could have led to this bizarre situation, however no matter how hard he tried, he could not think of one single reason as to why she had done this. In a panic he surveyed the blood that lay around him like a wet red carpet. He had lost a lot of blood, the crimson life-giving liquid still oozed from the wound in his chest, his heart both working to keep him alive and killing him at the same time. Rico's head began to swim uncontrollably making the room pirouette around him in some insane dance of death. Losing the battle to stay sat he crashed painfully to the cold tiled floor, his hands clawing frantically at the hole in his body. With his mind still working at a hundred miles an hour he felt death's warm blanket slide over his body and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
* * *
With a little regret and sadness she eyed the two dead bodies of her fallen comrades, slain by her own hand. Slowly Maya unscrewed the still warm silencer from her pistol and cast it aside, even when she'd nailed Rico the device had started to deteriorate. She had liked both guys, Rico had been a little flirtatious toward her, but he trod carefully, and respected who she was, never pushing the boundaries too far. Tucking the gun into her coat pocket, Maya slid her phone out and snapped a couple of pictures, making sure to get enough of the room in for Adam Fisher to be able to see where they were taken. Briefly she thumbed through the shots, nodding to herself in approval before fishing the car keys out of Chris's pocket. Reaching the back door she slipped silently out of the property and paced down the drive to the awaiting car. After the short drive to the hotel she would dump it, the BMW was easily traceable and she needed to be well and truly of the radar. The dashboard clock told her Adam was due to start his book talk in twenty minutes, with a little luck she would get there in time to hear it all. She was very interested in what he had to say.
Chapter 8
Sam took a long swig from the second plastic beaker of warm metallic-tasting water, eyeing the inspector with earnest over the rim of the throwaway drinking vessel. His seemingly tall-tale had taken just over an hour to tell, to his surprise the inspector had not interrupted once, just sat there, silent, not in a judging manner but in an unsettling way that made it impossible for Sam to read just how he was taking it all. If this guy could remain just as stone faced during a game of cards he was not the kind of opponent that Sam would want to face. The only words to pass his lips during the whole story were the occasional nonchalant, “I see,” and “Huhhm.”
“That's quite a story, Monsieur Becker.” Inspector Ackhart finally said with just a little more than a hint of doubt in his voice. Sam wasn't quite sure what to expect his first line to be, he wouldn't have been at all surprised if the inspector had howled with laughter and packed him straight off to the crazy house. “I have heard some strange accounts and what people believe to be reasonable excuses for their crimes, but that has to top the list!” Much to Sam's dismay his last words were spat out with a hint of anger. His heavily accented, yet perfect English seemingly highlighting his contempt.
“Believe what you want,” sighed Sam, placing the beaker back onto the flaking laminated table, “I never expected you to believe it, not for a seco
nd. I lived it and I'm not even sure I believe it all.” He chuckled with a nervous tension that he wished he could reel back in. “I am at the stage now that I call shit or bust. I have nothing left to lose, no sorry or sordid excuse for why I was at that property, or as to why I killed Monsieur Laurett as he lay there in his bed, or to why I killed the others in that file. And let me tell you inspector, there are more cases than you have there.” Ackhart leaned back in his chair, the faded orange plastic protesting against his weight. Running a hand through his slightly greasy looking hair he moved his palm across his well weathered face and rubbed his eyes.
“I will get Claude to escort you back to your cell, I will come to interview you officially in a couple of hours so we can get you before a court in the morning, I would encourage you to tell me the truth, unless you plan to plead insanity. I can see no other outcome other than you being remanded in custody until the trail. After court it is likely you will be permitted to make that call you so desperately want. I can see no point in continuing this discussion any further. I don't know of any man of sound mind that would find a shred of truth in your story, and that's what it is, Monsieur Becker, a story! Nothing more.”
“As I said, inspector, Laurett told me something that may mean in the very near future you may have no choice other than to believe what I have said. I pray that I'm wrong but …” Sam paused and looked longingly out of the small, barred window which sat at ceiling height to the right of the inspector. “I doubt it!” Before Sam could offer anything further an urgent wrapping sound came from the door.
“Enter,” called the inspector, sounding slightly put out by the sudden intrusion. Right on cue the door swung open, a guy wearing an untucked shirt and greatly loosened tie entered the room. Sam was good with faces and this was a new one into the equation. The guy quickly scouted the room, seemingly ignoring Sam who was taking in his every detail in earnest. He spoke to the inspector in a flurry of French that once again Sam had no chance of understanding with his less than average GCSE D grade in the language, that he'd earned more than half his life ago. He watched the inspector's face scowl in anger, “Fucking Americans,” he spat in his accented English before firing a torrent of French back at the visitor who almost seemed to shrink into his tardy looking clothes at the outburst. Coming from a rank and file structured background Sam knew immediately that the inspector was this guy's superior officer. For the first time he acknowledged Sam with a curt nod before sloping out of the room, leaving the door open. The inspector stood up, regarded Sam for the briefest of moments before saying, “It would seem,” his voice still brewing with frustration, “that the FBI is pushing for your immediate extradition.” Sam felt a dread well up in the pit of his stomach. “They are arguing that they have the most cases against you and they seem to have gone far above my pay grade, and the extradition paperwork is on its way here now. It's likely to begin with you will be taken to their embassy for initial questioning.”
“Wait!” cried Sam, “Don't those things take an age to get authorised?”
“In the old world, yes. Things operate a little differently now, I don't know who's strings have been pulled to get this one through but I am less than happy with it.” He turned his back to Sam and began to leave the room, the fury almost smouldering off his shoulders as he went.
“Inspector!” Called Sam, Ackhart stopped and spun round on the spot. “If you turn me over to them I'm dead.”
“It's likely you will be given the death penalty, yes. But not before they ship you back here and let me have my, how do you English put it? … Pound of flesh!”
“No, you don't understand,” retaliated Sam urgently, “This is not the FBI, this is them!”
“Spare me,” scoffed Ackhart.
“It's the truth. Do some digging, inspector, please! If you hand me over to them you may as well put a bullet in my head now. I promise you that once I leave with whoever is coming I will disappear of the map, forever.” Sam studied the inspector's face, for the briefest of moments he thought he had him, not many people would have picked up on it but Sam could read people like a book. There was a hint of doubt on his face which was undeniable. “I can prove what I said is true,” persisted Sam, the inspector looking at him through doubtful squinting eyes. “When I was on Arkkadia they changed me, I never mentioned it before but it's true.”
“Please, monsieur, spare me the drama, I have wasted enough time on you fantasy already.”
“It's true, look – my lip.” Sam pilled his bottom lip down, “When I was there they gave me The Gift,” Sam had chosen to leave that little detail out of the account, he felt it was hard enough to swallow without claiming to the inspector that he was some kind of immortal. “It's nanobot tech, there are millions of them in my blood stream, and they heal any wounds I get almost instantly.” The inspector eyed his bottom lip with a blank and disinterested look that told Sam he'd had enough. “When you arrested me my face hit the stone beach, it got all cut up, do you remember?”
“As it happens, monsieur, I do not.”
“Then let me prove it to you, cut me with a knife, fuck it, even shoot me in the leg once you see it you will have no choice other than to believe.” Sam nodded encouragingly, well aware that he was sounding nuttier than a rat stuck in a tin shit house with every word.
“All you are doing, monsieur, is making your case for insanity all the stronger, which, if that is your goal, you are doing very well.” Sam sensed an uncertainty in the police officer, he felt sure that he'd planted a seed of doubt in his experienced brain, he just hoped he'd fed it enough to grow.
“Just double check the papers, inspector, please. These people have a very long reach, they had an operative in the presidential protection team for fuck sake, this - this extradition is nothing for them to arrange, if it's even genuine. I told you before that they are pretty fucking shit hot at influencing people into seeing whatever they want them to. All I ask is for you to check.”
“I plan to, Mr. Becker, however they have a field team on their way to us now, and you are being collected in an hour, and from here you will be either flown to the USA or taken to their embassy in Paris.” Leaving no further room for debate the inspector crossed the small room in two lengthy strides, leaving Claude to take the prisoner back to his cell.
In the hallway outside Ackhart paused, Becker's panic at the news had taken him off guard, whilst he could never bring himself to believe what Becker had told him a small worm of doubt was at work, squirming away in his stomach. Something was not right, Ackhart had done this job long enough to trust his gut and his gut didn't like this case, not at all. He checked his watch, he had just under an hour to get to the bottom of it.
Chapter 9
As the night raced in to claim its hold over the Peruvian dessert it set a brilliant fiery red sunset ablaze in the eastern sky, the light tendrils of high level cloud dyed orange by the sun as it slipped helplessly over the horizon.
With his hands clamped together behind his back, in a way you might see a military guard standing on post, he raised his face to the sky and enjoyed the last of the sun's warmth on his skin, yet still, despite the warm desert air he felt a shiver of cold run through his ancient body. A light breeze tousled his angelic blonde hair, a sensation he had not felt for many years, for in the bowls of Sheol there was no breeze, just an unnatural stillness. Closing his unearthly amber eyes he remembered a time when this place looked very different, when a mighty city had stood on this spot, his city. He mused over the way the Earth-Humans had worshipped him, and how at his command they had worked tirelessly, creating the massive land drawings that had been the only thing to have survived the long millennia, ancient monuments carved into the very Earth itself. Following the Great War the Arkkadians had seen to it that every trace of the magnificent buildings that had once stood here had been wiped clean from the Earth's surface, like every one of his territories had been, many now nothing more than fabled accounts in various religious texts.
Trying to soak up the last of the warmth, whilst enjoying the wonderfully clean and un-stifled, un-purified air he remembered the day it had all changed, the day that should have seen the end of the Earth-Humans, the day that should have seen Earth pass into Arkkadian hands. For once he had been Arkkadian, and had loved his planet and its people. He felt anger begin to broil inside of him, like a fierce sea hitting a rocky shoreline. He managed to quell it by recalling that glorious day when the massacre had begun, a massacre that should have spread planet-wide and seen every last Earth-Human killed, wiped from the face of a life sustaining planet that was never theirs, for they were not a native species to this rare pearl in the never-ending void of space. Had they been he would never have sanctioned the killing of its population. No – real life, evolved and natural life needed to be preserved, and that was just what he had planned to do, secure the future of the Arkkadian race against another extinction level event, like the one that had almost seen the end of his kind. Why should a race of people biologically engineered to work and serve be given such a gift? For a brief moment he mused over his own genetic tampering with the human DNA strain in the days before the war. Disgusted that an inferior race had ever been created in the image of his people he'd set about changing that, elongating the shape of the human skull, deforming it so there was no doubt who was Earth-Human and who was Arkkadian. It was a trend that spread throughout his territories. When Buer had first returned to Earth with the handful of Elders from Sheol, he'd sent back some of the studies that Earth-Humans had done over the years following their extradition to that bleak, sun scorched planet. Remnants of those cone-headed kind still echoed through the modern world, relics that now took pride of place in museums and the personal collections of rich enthusiasts. However, the Earth-Humans had never learned the real truth behind that particular mutated strain of human DNA, they didn't even know the painful reality about the real origins of their kind, many still foolishly looking toward the glut of religions that had developed as a result of his and his ancestors' intervention. He felt a new anger rise like bile in his ancient, yet perfectly preserved and youthful looking body, for they should have known better. Many were now looking to science for answers, many suspecting the awful truth behind who they really were, but these were not the kind of people that mainstream science took seriously. Some of the developments he'd learned of astounded him, how they anticipated harnessing interplanetary travel within a hundred years. He'd read with interest details of the Hundred Year Star Ship program which had been gleaned from NASA by some well-placed Earth-Breeds. Amazingly Earth-Humans had managed to theoretically design an engine that was very similar to the ones used in their craft. Of course they were still many years from being able to put theory to practise, but time ticks by relentlessly and the day would come when that theory became reality. It had angered him to think that this imposter race could be so close to such powerful knowledge, and there was no doubt that the Arkkadian people would welcome them with open arms the moment they perfected the technology.