by Dc Alden
‘Sounds good.’
‘Can I make a suggestion? Marshall will want to remain anonymous, keep his head down. That means frequenting less affluent areas of the city.’
‘If he’s still in town.’
‘True, but until we’ve established otherwise, we have to assume he is. So he’ll be staying in cheap accommodation, paying cash for everything. A man like that will stand out, especially an American. Once we’ve established his destination I’d recommend distributing his profile to local hotels and B&BS. The tactic’s worked before.’
Josh hesitated. ‘Frank knows he’s being hunted. If he gets a sniff of the dogs he’ll bolt. We may never find him.’
‘He has to stay somewhere, and low-rent establishments like cash payers. It’s your call but trust me, whenever we offer a substantial cash reward for information these hotel managers become dedicated surveillance operatives overnight. That money also buys discretion.’
Josh considered it for less than five seconds. ‘Okay, do it. Anything else?’
Villiers shook his head.
‘In that case we’ll wrap it up for now.’ Josh got to his feet and approached the contractors. ‘Get prepped and ready to deploy. When you’re done, hit the racks. Unless we get any hard intel the next briefing will be at seven am.’ They filed out of the room.
‘Heavy-looking team,’ Villiers observed. ‘I was told this would be a bag job. A rendition.’
‘Things have changed.’
Another lie.
He handed Villiers a file. ‘Frank has an extensive background, both military and as an ops commander with TDL. If he wants to bring it, he will.’ Josh helped himself to another coffee, stirred in cream and sugar. ‘There’s no room for complacency on this one, Dave. I’ll coordinate the intel, authorise whatever assets we need, but locally I’ll need you to keep things tight. We locate him, box him in, then take him down clean. I can’t afford a single fuck up on this one.’
‘I understand.’
Villiers fingered the intelligence packet, withdrew the black and white still of Frank leaving the bank in Manhattan. ‘I’m guessing you two know each other. Can you tell me something about him? Something personal?’
‘He’s a former Navy Seal, extremely smart and highly capable. If he sniffs you out, he’ll end you. That’s all you need to know.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘That’s not important. What’s important is finding him.’
Villiers got the message, got to his feet. ‘I’ll crack the whip. Anything comes through I’ll be in touch.’
The Brit left the room and Josh drained his coffee. He was tired and edgy, the last seventy-two frantic hours taking their toll. He needed sleep, but it was a race against time now, and the clock was ticking.
He crossed the room and peered through the heavy drapes. The street below was devoid of life, no cars or pedestrians, just empty roads and sidewalks. Even though they were in the heart of London it felt as if the Transition had already passed. What would it be like, he wondered, after the clean-up, after the regeneration? The thought had consumed him when he’d attended his first orientation seminar at Turner’s private ranch in New Mexico. Those first few nights troublesome ones, the enormity of what lay ahead denying him sleep, the knowledge that the civilised world simply had no choice. Now the only thing keeping him up at nights was Frank Marshall.
But why England? Why now?
So many goddam questions.
Josh let the curtain drop back into place. He had to file a report to Beeton, the first of his daily dispatches to Denver. One a day, until Marshall was caught and rendered unto Caesar.
He headed down into the basement. Despite the pressure he was under, part of him was looking forward to the hunt. Frank had to be flushed from his bolthole, and once he was out in the open, Josh would unleash his dogs.
When that happened, Frank Marshall wouldn’t have a chance.
Chapter Eight
It was just past noon when the insistent tapping on the hotel room door woke Frank from a deep sleep. His eyes snapped open and he grabbed the hand-held CCTV monitor on the nightstand. The tiny screen glowed, a high-definition image of a white-shirted waiter outside the door, a tray balanced on the palm of one hand, the other raised to knock again.
Behind him the hallway was empty.
‘Be right there.’
Frank rolled off the bed. He removed the chair wedged under the door handle, unlocked it.
‘Your midday call, sir.’
‘Thanks.’
He gave the guy a bill in exchange for the tray. He kicked the door closed, set the tray on the sideboard and rechecked the monitor. The waiter was retreating down the corridor, shoving the five-pound note into his pocket. The mini wireless CCTV system was a smart move. It bought him a little peace of mind, and the tiny remote camera, secured to a ceiling tile a little further along the corridor, gave him with a clear picture of movements outside his room.
Frank’s stomach growled with hunger. He demolished the scrambled eggs and toast and washed it all down with juice and coffee. He took a shower and got dressed into jeans, baseball cap and a dark waterproof jacket. He left the hotel without passing anyone in the lobby.
He’d spent the last three days familiarising himself with the area, walking the streets, the narrow lanes, the path along the Thames that led into central London. He’d walked the main street once, cap and scarf obscuring his features, using the cover of other pedestrians to avoid the CCTV cameras. He’d bought some clothes, running shoes, a torch and several other items he thought he might need, including a hair dye that had transformed his recently trimmed red fuzz into some kind of chestnut brown. Or so the label had promised. He traded with cash. He had plenty of that.
Physically, Frank felt revitalised, but spiritually he was restless. As he headed for the towpath that ran alongside the Thames he reached for the travel Bible in his pocket. It felt good to touch. Comforting. The same hand crept towards his armpit, felt the sheathed knife secured in its holster there, upturned for immediate and deadly use. That felt reassuring too. He’d bought it in a camping shop over the river in Twickenham and that was where he was headed today. He’d found a church on the hotel’s Internet PC, a Baptist one, where he could sit and pray, and maybe listen to an afternoon service. He needed a spiritual fix, before his mission truly began.
As he put Richmond behind him the towpath changed from tarmac to hard-packed dirt. A freshening wind stirred the river, the trees around him. It was hard to believe he was so close to London. There wasn’t a soul around.
He recalled the dark days, the loneliness he’d felt after escaping into that Texas night, the umbilical cord that had bound him to The Committee for the whole of his adult life finally severed. He knew they would come for him, knew they’d never stop looking, so he’d faked his death. He had to take other precautions too, drastic measures that would set him free, allowing him to continue on his journey unmolested…
He’d found her in a homeless shelter in Odessa. She was a former army medic, an Afghan vet who’d become dependent on drink and drugs. She’d performed the procedure on the promise of two bottles of vodka, using a stolen key to enter the hostel infirmary after dark and removing the RFID chip in Frank’s shoulder by flashlight. She did a decent job, never asking about the chip nor curious as to why it was implanted in her patient’s body. All she cared about was the booze. Frank gave her five hundred dollars instead.
From there he travelled north, crossing the state border into Arkansas then Tennessee, travelling light, staying in remote trailer parks and cheap hostels. He drank heavily but found no answers. Every move took him further north. Frank knew why, even if he was too scared to admit it—he was heading back to New York, where the tear in the heart of the city still lay exposed, where the tourists came to take pictures and the bereaved to remember. He was drawn to that wounded city as surely as a thirsty man staggers toward a distant oasis. He was desperate to unload the weight that
was crushing him. He needed closure, redemption, something.
Frank believed he’d find it in New York.
He stiffened as a dog bounded towards him along the towpath, feet scrabbling on the gravel as it circled Frank’s legs and raced back towards his owner. Frank studied the man as he approached; sixties, wispy grey hair, small frame lost in a bright red parka. Threat assessment, zero. Frank nodded as they passed each other.
The river flowed around a small island. It was thick with tall trees, its banks clogged with reeds and rushes. A slender-necked bird peered above the vegetation, eyeing Frank as he passed.
He recalled the first time he’d laid eyes on the island of Manhattan since that terrible morning…
The snowstorm was tracking across the eastern seaboard when he rode the bus from Edison to Jersey City. The air was frigid, the streets thick with snow. He’d stamped along that same boardwalk, the one where he’d stood all those years ago and watched the North Tower burn. He’d stared across the black waters at the hole in the New York skyline and trembled, not from the cold but from fear. He wasn’t ready to venture across the water, not yet.
The need to talk to someone, anyone, was building. There would be others out there just like him, real citizens, still grieving, still confused and angry. Frank needed to hear their stories, to be able look them in the eye and not flinch.
The Nine Eleven victims’ group was located in the nearby city of Hoboken. It took him three attempts before he finally summoned the courage to enter the public library building on Park Avenue. Outside the meeting hall a middle-aged man in an NYPD T-shirt called him ‘brother’ and gave him a leaflet. Frank took a seat at the back. He remembered his heart pounding, the dryness of his mouth, as the speakers were introduced. He was in a lion’s den of pain. Sweat ran down his back. He made ready to bolt from the hall.
It was a girl called Rachel that kept him in his chair. He remembered the wide smile that battled the sadness of her eyes, the love for her dead brother, a firefighter who’d made it up to the sixty-eighth floor of the South Tower before it was brought down. She remembered him with a love and pride reserved for one who’d died saving others. His blown-up portrait in fireman’s blues stared right back at Frank as she spoke of a man she’d never speak to again, a man whose empty plate was set at every Thanksgiving and Christmas by parents still mourning his loss. Nine Eleven had devastated her family. Her words were like knives in Frank’s heart.
He’d approach her when the meeting broke for coffee. He told her about the fear, the guilt, about the never-ending nightmares. She’d been confused, her smile fixed, her eyes uncertain. She’d been about to walk away when he’d grabbed her hands. Then he was begging her for forgiveness, for her brother’s death, for the grief he’d inflicted on her parents. His hands shook and Rachel had snatched hers away. She’d demanded to know what he meant. Her voice had risen. Heads had turned. She’d searched his grief-stricken face, finally understanding the terrible truth of his words.
And she knew.
He’d barged his way through the crowd. He’d heard her shout, her voice echoing down the fire escape, chasing him across the snowy parking lot, the angry calls of the men who spilled into the lot behind her.
He never went back.
The following weeks were long and torturous. Rachel had robbed him of redemption. Guilt plagued him, beckoning him to rooftops and bridges and subway platforms. Somehow he’d resisted the whispers that urged him to join them in the abyss.
It was a blustery January afternoon when he’d stood on the corner of 7th Avenue and West 135th. He’d been unsure where he was headed, only knowing that he had to keep moving. As the traffic rumbled by he saw the poster flapping on a light pole beside him, an African villager bent double beneath a huge sack that dwarfed his tiny frame. The man’s face said it all—pain, not just physical, but a soul encumbered by the sheer hardship of life. Beneath the image the swirly text read, ‘Come to me, those who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest’ - Calvary Southern Baptist Church.
It had been instinctive. A moment without hesitation.
And quite possibly the smartest move he’d ever made.
The rusted iron footbridge carried Frank over a foaming weir and into Twickenham.
His path was clearer now, that burden partially lifted, enough to allow him to finish what he’d begun. Today he would pray for the continued strength to right the wrongs, to save the lives that could be saved. Everyone else was in God’s hands.
The air felt sharp and the sky threatened rain. He found the church after twenty minutes, a red-bricked building with a small steeple squeezed between a row of convenience stores and a gated park. There was no afternoon service but the pastor was happy for Frank to stay. He took a seat in the front pew and spent an hour or two thumbing through his Bible, thinking, praying. South Whitton Baptist Church was a lot smarter than the one in Harlem. The walls were brightly painted, the wooden pews polished, the altar bedecked with fresh flowers. There was money here, an affluent congregation that donated to the church’s upkeep. He wished he could say the same for Reverend Hays’ place. That was a different world altogether.
It was late afternoon when he left the church. He stood on the steps and zipped his coat up against the cold, feeling much stronger than when he’d first arrived. The sky above was darker, and streetlights had flickered into life. He turned towards the river, taking a circuitous route back to the footbridge, passing the convenience stores where several hooded youths had gathered outside, swilling sodas and pulling on smokes. Before he knew it he was moving through them, through the pungent clouds of cannabis, his arm brushing against one of the teenagers.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.
‘Watch where you’re going, prick.’
There were a few laughs, then a can sailed through the air and exploded at Frank’s feet, spraying him with sticky soda.
‘Real smart,’ he clapped, walking backwards, ‘real clever.’
He kept moving, angry at himself for rising to the bait. He heard a shout, then the sound of running feet. Frank turned.
There were five of them, black and white kids, and they wanted trouble whether Frank liked it or not. They were young though, fifteen, maybe sixteen. They would be unaware of the value of psychological combat, inexperienced in the use of applied violence. Frank had to end this quickly, without causing serious harm. The first kid came running towards him, unafraid.
‘Who the fuck do you—’
Frank’s open-handed slap cracked across his face, sending him careering into one of his buddies. He used the momentum of another to hurl him to the ground and buried his fist into the belly of a third youth, all the while screaming at the top of his lungs. The kids scattered, bruised and shaken by the unexpected attack. Frank moved fast in the opposite direction, twisting and turning the length of four full blocks before slowing his pace. He cursed his stupidity; a grown man beating on a few kids would bring the cops in no time.
He’d lost his bearings. He cursed again, and kept moving. Ten minutes later he found himself passing a warren of shabby social housing. He saw a sign for the river, pointing down a dead-end street with an alleyway beyond, boxed in by orange-bricked houses that had surely seen better days and prouder, cleaner occupants. Beat up vehicles lined one side of the street and trash tumbled this way and that on the wind. He was halfway towards the alley when he heard the sound of a fast-approaching vehicle.
A dark saloon car shot past the street. He heard the screech of tyres and the whine of a vehicle reversing at speed. The car rocked to a stop and Frank saw a finger stabbing in his direction. He broke into a run but knew he wasn’t going to make it. He ducked between two parked cars as the vehicle roared past him. It slewed to a stop with a squeal of rubber, blocking his path to the alleyway. He turned to see another vehicle barrel around the corner and brake hard. Now he was trapped.
He stepped out into the road as car doors flew open. Several men piled out and formed a wid
e half-circle around him. Frank recognised one of them, the black kid he’d dropped with the body shot.
‘That’s the motherfucker!’ he yelled, his young face twisted with rage.
His companions were older, heavier, and clearly more experienced in the ways of street violence. They fanned out around him, six of them, their faces covered with bandanas and scarves. All held weapons in their gloved hands; a couple of short wooden bats, a screwdriver, three knives. As they inched closer Frank smiled—this was the evil that stalked him, manifesting itself into physical form, determined to stop Frank from doing God’s work. He would not allow that.
‘He’s laughing at you!’ screamed the black kid. ‘Fuck him up!’
‘Don’t do this,’ Frank warned. ‘It’s not going to end well for you.’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ bellowed the largest man in the group, a twenty-something black guy with a lock knife clutched in his fist. ‘You fucked up, bruv. You messed with my peoples.’
‘It’s people, singular, you dumb fuck.’
The man scowled, his yellowed eyes devoid of humanity. ‘Gonna cut you bad, bruv.’
‘He’s a Yank,’ said another, confused eyes above a red bandana.
‘Who gives a fuck! Do him!’
They were close now, ten feet and closing. Frank guessed they were used to people running, begging for their lives. That wasn’t Frank’s way. He reached for the weapon beneath his jacket and waved the six-inch hunting knife in a wide, well-practised arc, his eyes watching, waiting.
One of the bat carriers hesitated.
The other one screamed something unintelligible and threw his club at Frank.
The bat flew past him.
Frank dropped into a fighting stance.