by S. T. Boston
“I had her in my sights!” Richards protested. “I'm sure she was hit.”
“Well, evidently fucking not,” Peltz screamed. Richards offered no reply, although his mouth opened and closed a few times, as if he was trying to decide what to say. “What room is the third body in?”
“Straight up the stairs, first on your right,” Richards answered, trying to sound helpful. The distant sound of sirens was drawing closer.
“Okay, I'll check it out,” sighed Peltz. “We don't have much time, and we still have one outstanding target to find.” Police attendance didn't really bother him, but it would make the situation messier. Peltz thumped his way up to the top of the stairs, careful not to pick up a splinter from the shattered bannister which had been peppered with automatic rifle fire.
The bedroom door was open, but he pushed it further back against the hinges, clicking the bedroom light on. He looked expectantly toward the bed. The grey duvet was soaked in crimson, as were the pillows and the sheets, but much to his horror, the bed was empty.
* * *
Lying on his side in the pitch-black roof space above his room, Taulass gripped at his shredded flesh in silent agony, gritting his teeth to stifle the cries which longed to escape. Just six feet below where he lay, he'd heard one of the men storm into his room. This was the third such visitor. The first two had rushed in to check the small bedroom and stood by his side, staring down at his bullet ridden body. Taulass had waited, played dead, certain one of them would discharge a round into his skull to be certain. Thankfully, their lack of attention to detail, and the sheer amount of blood on his face had seen them leave, believing him dead. In those vital few minutes Taulass had managed to roll his pain-soaked but already repairing body out of the bed and with nothing other than a strong urge to survive driving him on, he'd reached up and dislodged the small square access hatch located in the roof of his room. Standing on the antique oak desk he'd found the strength to haul himself up and into the small cavity between the ceiling and the grey slate roof, managing to wipe away a tell-tale print of blood he'd left on the rim of the hatch. Thankfully the carpet in his room was black, and hid any blood which dripped from his body as he'd crossed the room. Sliding the hatch silently back into place he rolled onto his side, wrapped his arms around his bleeding torso and lay there, shaking with pain.
The person below, the one intruding in his private quarters, was taking an age to leave, obviously fixated by the perplexing image of an empty bed, where not two minutes previously what he'd believed to be a corpse had lain. Unfortunately for Taulass, the perpetrator would understand the reasoning for his sudden resurrection. Where any normal Earth-Human would be running from the house in fear of a zombie attack, this one knew the truth. Despite suffering enough bullet wounds to kill the strongest of men, the head shot which was needed to dispatch an Elder had been missed. A clean heart shot would also have proven slowly fatal, but Taulass was confident the vital organ had been missed.
Just a few feet below his position he heard footsteps pacing the room, a cupboard being flung open, sounding as if it were done in a fit of rage rather than the need to search. Then the sound of his bed being upturned echoed up from below. Closing his eyes, Taulass prayed the intruder wouldn't look toward the ceiling and see the hatch, which would undoubtedly give away his hiding position. After the sound of the bed tipping over, an unearthly scream of frustration was followed by the sound of heavy feet stamping out of the room, onto the landing and down the stairs. In the distance, the wail of sirens drew closer; a neighbour had obviously heard the ruckus and called the authorities. Taulass hoped those responsible would be well clear of the house before their arrival. He had no doubt that if they were still at the scene, they'd dispatch the attending police officers and paramedics with no more regard than a person might swat a pesky fly. Rolling onto his back and trying to find a comfortable position, his mind raced, wondering what had happened to the other three. Were they dead, their bodies crumpled in pools of blood two floors below? Was he the only one left?
“The fucking bedroom is empty!” came a furious voice from the ground floor. Despite the distance and the timber and masonry between them, it echoed throughout the house, as if through a loudspeaker.
“Impossible,” he heard a quieter voice defend, catching a definite tinge of panic to it.
“So now we're missing the girl and one of the males.” Silence. “Do you know what they'll do when they find out about this cluster fuck?”
“It wasn't our fault,” the other voice piped up, the panicked tone more evident. The loudest of the team didn't reply, and there was a brief second of eerie quiet before a gunshot rang through the building.
“Croaker, I swear, if we don't fucking find those two, we'll be headed the same way.” There was no reply from what Taulass guessed was the third member of the team. It was apparent that the weakest link had been disposed of. Sucking in his lips and biting at them to prevent a much-needed gasp of pain, he heard the voice say, “They can't have gone far. We'll take the car and do a street-by-street search. If we have no luck, we might need to call the other team. Once they've secured the Becker girl, they can help.” Heavy feet tramped across the old timber floorboards on the ground floor, and even from his hiding place he could hear the aged wood creaking in protest. The two intruders reached the front door and departed, slamming it shut with such force that Taulass suspected the whole building shook.
Finally allowing himself a gasp of pain, grief and relief flooded Taulass' body simultaneously, both sensations juxtaposing against each other. Oriyanna was alive and probably escaped from the house and out of harm's way. Sadly, that meant both Bliegh and Rhesbon had been killed.
In the darkness of the roof space he felt for the hatch, his trembling fingers finding the plywood lip and prying it open. The dim light from the room below cast shadows into the small space, and for a few long drawn out moments he listened, ensuring no one had stayed behind. The house remained still and silent. The wail of sirens was drawing closer, and Taulass knew the police and forensic teams would examine the house from top to bottom. He couldn't allow a certain item to fall into the hands of people who didn't understand it. Lowering himself painfully onto the desk, he staggered out onto the landing, taking in the utter devastation caused by the volley of automatic gunfire which had peppered the building. He paused, one hand clutching the bannister and supporting his weakened body. He had at least five puncture wounds in his torso and two in his left leg; another round had sliced open his right calf, making it excruciating to walk. The bleeding was subsiding, albeit very slowly. He had no idea how long it would take for the multitude of wounds to heal, but guessed it would more likely be hours than minutes. What he did know was that he needed to rest and let the Gift do its thing.
On the move again, he half walked and half stumbled into Oriyanna's room. Reaching the built-in wardrobe, he flung the sliding door to one side, letting it glide smoothly on the runner. Dropping to his knees, he located the safe and keyed in the combination – 240113. Opening the door, his eyes immediately fell on the item he was after. The recall tab. It was small, around half the size of an average mobile phone and half as thick. Grasping it, the device felt like a well-polished piece of black glass, tactile and expertly bevelled on its four sides. There were strict rules set out by the council about what Arkkadian technology could be stored on the planet, and this little device was it – nothing else was permitted. Alongside the recall tab was a Glock G42. He collected it up and closed the sliding door, not worrying about shutting the safe. The police were just minutes away and he needed to take care of his fallen colleagues; couldn't have their bodies taken by the authorities.
Using his free hand for support he traversed the stairs and hobbled into the lounge and over to the main computer, which much to his surprise, seemed to have survived the gunfire. Taulass pushed a combination of buttons which set a program designed by him into motion, one that would wipe the hard drives, leaving them as clean and
blank as the day they'd rolled off the production line. The room would soon be destroyed, but computer hard drives often survived fire damage and he couldn't take that risk.
Taulass left the Swiss-cheesed lounge, not stopping to investigate the body of the executed intruder who was bleeding out on the carpet. He went through to the kitchen and spun the dials on all six of the stove's gas hobs to maximum. The invisible and noxious gas began escaping eagerly from the appliance with a gentle hiss, and for good measure he also turned on the oven's gas supply and opened the door. Leaning against the back door, he was aware that the sirens had arrived outside the front of the house. Soon they would enter the building, and if that happened, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to do what was necessary. He slid out of the back door, flashing blue lights illuminating the ground floor and making his movements appear epileptic and erratic. Taulass had no idea if there would be enough built-up gas in the kitchen to have the desired effect, but he didn't have time to spare. Moving back into the garden he raised the Glock, released the safety and aimed the weapon through the window, the muzzle lined up with the stove. Gritting his teeth and turning his face away, he squeezed off two rounds. The effect was instant, although it didn't have the impact he would have liked. A massive whhoommppp blew the windows out and forced the back door open, it slammed back against its hinges as it hammered against the wall, the top pane of glass smashing and showering the concrete path in a million jewel-like crystals shards.
The explosion might not have wiped out the ground floor, but it would stall the police until the London Fire Service arrived, and by then the whole place would be an inferno.
Pain stabbing every part of his body, Taulass headed deeper into the overgrown garden and scaled the rear fence. Painfully, he dropped into the back garden of his neighbour's property, and contemplated his options. He needed to rest and heal, and that was all he could focus on.
Scaling another fence and a brick wall, he found himself standing on a surprisingly well-manicured lawn. A grouping of three plum trees sat in the far corner of the garden, all three clinging to the last of their summer leaves as if attempting to deny the approach of autumn. By the gnarled trunks was a green summer house. Crossing the garden, Taulass forced open the door and slumped into a well cushioned sun lounger, his body singing in relief as the soft fabric enveloped him. Trying his best to relax, he closed his eyes. In a few hours, once fully healed, he would need to get mobile and to the safe house. He just hoped Oriyanna would be there.
Chapter 13
There weren't many times in his life when Sam felt completely out of control of a situation; on the day he'd been shot rescuing Adam from the Afghan village, and even during the ordeal which had seen him almost die in the bowels of the Great Pyramid, there had been an element of control, the idea he was driving his own destiny. Here however, locked in a cell he had zero chance of escaping from, and with god-knows-who on the way to take him out of the inspector's hands, despair gradually crept over his body, like a cold and unwelcoming blanket. He knew things worked a little differently in this new and uncertain world, but he was damn sure the American Government couldn't have gotten an order to take him to the US Embassy for questioning past the French authorities. Not without a few well-placed people in the background, to oil the hinges of an otherwise drawn out and protracted procedure. Closing his eyes, Sam just hoped the thread of doubt he'd seen flicker across Ackhart's eyes was enough to make the man dig a little deeper and find out what was really going on. The wire-clad clock hanging above the thick metal door told him the time was almost two am; doing the math Sam worked out that it would be around eight pm in Washington, likely too late in the day for the inspector to get in touch with any of the nine to five, shiny-bummed, desk-driving agents who would handle such a case. Maybe he'd call the embassy in Paris, but then again, it was just as likely he wouldn't. Time was growing ever shorter, and if the people collecting him were on time, as he knew they would be, he was down to his last ten minutes. Sam felt like a man on death row, hopelessly awaiting a last-minute stay of execution.
The inspector just needed to make that one call; a quick trawl through the FBI's system by any agent would surely be enough to advise Ackhart the papers were fake. But then again, there was a chance they were only far too real, sped through the system by some highly-positioned Earth-Breed contact, still working away like any other member of the community, just pensively waiting for his position to be of use to them once again.
Watching the clock, Sam saw the ten minutes gradually tick down to nine, then eight, then seven. Somewhere around the four-minute mark he heard the sound of the cell door at the entry to the corridor creaking open, and he noted that it never clunked shut. With mixed emotions, he waited for whoever it was who'd come for him. Would it be the inspector, and would he actually have managed to tell those 'fucking Americans' as he'd put it, to turn around and go home? It was a slim hope, but a hope nonetheless.
Footsteps clicked their way down the cell-lined corridor before coming to a stop outside his less than comfortable accommodations. The lock was turned and the door opened. To his relief, Inspector Ackhart was standing there with the ever-faithful, yet seemingly silent Claude, who appeared to almost be Ackhart's own personal minion.
“Monsieur Becker,” began the inspector, frustration still brimming in his accented English. “The men who are to collect you have arrived, they are awaiting you at the holding cells. The documents and ID are in order, I personally checked them myself.” The last ounce of hope Sam had held onto seeped away. Maybe they hadn't even needed someone on the inside; he remembered only too well how Oriyanna had gotten out of the United States on a stolen passport, accompanied by an airline ticket in a different name.
“Have you checked?” he growled. “You must check, we both know this is total bollocks!”
“Do not tell me how to do my job, monsieur!” fired Ackhart. “You are a criminal, you do not dictate to me what I will and will not do!”
“I'm no criminal,” retaliated Sam, shaking his head. “Deep down you know that! You were a military man, you told me that, you know I'm not lying. I understand that you find it impossible to believe me, but please… this is my fucking life!”
The final outburst was apparently Claude's cue to come lolloping into the room. He had to duck his head a little in order to fit his lummox-like frame through the doorway. He grabbed Sam roughly and pushed him against the wall, forcing his hands behind his back with one swift and well-practised movement. Sam tried to struggle against it, pushing back he managed to force his head back against Claude's chest, giving him a little room. With Claude's purchase on his wrists lost, Sam freed his hand and drove his elbow back hard into the guard's gut. Claude's foul, stale coffee-scented breath hit his cheek, and Sam grimaced when he got a lungful of it. Claude was big, more powerful than Sam, but he was on the back foot, untrained and much slower, all things which helped to level the scales. Spinning around, Sam brought his knee up, taking advantage of the fact that Claude was still doubled over, desperately trying to catch his breath. Sam's right knee contacted with the guard's nose in a satisfying, yet sickening crunch. The whole thing had gone down in a few short, game-changing seconds, but it seemed much longer. Sam spun around expecting to see the cell door closed, was surprised it wasn't. The inspector was blocking the door with his large body, eyes wide and seemingly unable to believe what he was witnessing. His body was large for the wrong reasons, too long spent at a desk eating fast food, and likely hitting the bottle. Sam knew he could take him out, but he didn't want to. Despite the disbelief the inspector had shown in his story, Sam knew he was a good man. They eyed each other for a few seconds, the way two cowboys in a sundown shootout might. There was no time for negotiations so Sam rushed at him, keeping low, like a rugby player going for the try. His right shoulder drove hard into Ackhart's gut and the inspector's body reeled backwards. Sam kept up the momentum, forcing Ackhart across the narrow corridor and into the door of the cell opposite
, knocking the wind from his sails. Had it not been shut, they'd have continued until they ended up in a heap on the floor. Pinned against the wall, Sam knew he had Ackhart; he swung his fist around and contacted with Ackhart's cheek. The punch was a game ender and Ackhart went down, his legs buckling under his weight. Stepping back, Sam swung around in time to see Claude, back on his feet and making his way for the door, blood flowing from his nose. It had spilled down his white shirt, resembling a bright red child's bib. In one swift movement Sam swung the cell door closed, trapping the massive guard and taking him out of the equation. He began hammering on the three-inch-thick metal pointlessly, as if mere frustration would unlock the door. Sam treated him to a mocking wave through the small glass window, only adding to the guard's frustration.
Surveying the corridor, Sam was relieved no one else waited to take him on. He'd been so compliant up to now, he suspected he was classed as low risk, a big mistake. The inspector was coming around faster than Sam would have liked, and he knelt by his slumped body. “It's not personal, Inspector,” Sam whispered in his ear. “I'm no liar; you left me no choice. I'm sorry.” Raising his arm, Sam drove his elbow down onto the back of Ackhart's head, knocking him unconscious for a second time. He quickly patted Ackhart's unconscious body down, cursing inwardly when he failed to find a gun. With precious seconds ticking by he got to his feet and rushed for the barred door at the end of the corridor. He didn't know what to expect or who he'd meet, all that mattered was he now had a chance. The odds had turned in his favour for a split second and he'd gone for it.
Sam burst out into the next corridor. Stopping, he looked right and then left, unsure which way to head. Deciding any decision was better than none he broke left, hammering down the seemingly never-ending corridor, each wall lined with unused cells. He wondered if the French were hedging their bets on a second revolution when they'd built this place; certain they could never fill this massive cell block, even on the rowdiest of Saturday nights.