by S. T. Boston
Reaching the end of the corridor, and almost slipping in his socks, Sam arrived in what must have been a booking-in area. The one detention officer on duty looked half asleep, but he jumped up and grabbed for something on his belt.. Rushing around the detention officer as quickly as he could, he yanked open the first door he came to. Two men, both built like the proverbial brick outhouse jumped to their feet, eyes bulging at the sight of Sam on the loose and making a break for it. They were dressed in identical long black trench coats, and their stone-grey eyes seeming to drill holes right through his chest. This was who'd been sent to collect him, no introductions needed. Sam slammed the door again before they could reach it, and span around, only to find the desk officer behind him, arms raised in a shooting position. Sam recognised the weapon and glanced down at his chest, a familiar red dot held steady between his pecs.
“Get on the floor, hands on your head!” the officer shouted in accented English. “Do it now, monsieur, or I will Taser you!”
Strangely, Sam found himself thinking how good the officer's English was. With the red dot fixed on his chest, Sam took a few drawn-out moments to consider his options. He glanced around the room desperately, searching for a way out. The only way to go was the way he'd come, or there was the other corridor, which could prove fruitful. Not for the first time that night Sam found himself at shit-or-bust stage. Gritting his teeth, he went for it.
The detention officer was quick to react, and Sam heard the rapid click,click,click,click of the Taser before he felt the fifty thousand volts slam through his body. He'd seen it done during testing, but he'd never experienced the pain for himself. It was indescribable, every muscle in his body went into spasm, his legs gave way and with a thump, he hit the floor, convulsing as the merciless officer kept his finger on the trigger. Sam wasn't sure just how long the lightning was pumped into him, it seemed like hours. In the end, a veil of unconsciousness slid over him, and he didn't try to fight it. Although he knew ultimately it would spell the end of his life, at this point all he wanted was for the pain to stop.
When Sam came around the first thing he wanted to do was claw at the sore area on his chest, where the barbs from the Taser had bit into his skin like some vicious insect. He could feel it healing, but it still hurt like a bitch. Someone had slid his coat over his fleece before securing him in restraints. His arms and legs were still numb. The limb restraints were binding his legs so tightly together, he suspected his balls were close to popping like a pair of ripe grapes.
Blinking against the lights, which seemed to amplify the pounding headache raging behind his eyes, he could just make out the slightly rotund figure of Inspector Ackhart standing over him. One of his eyes was rather purple and swollen. Seeing Sam open his eyes, Ackhart planted a swift foot into his gut and Sam doubled over in agony, the cuffs biting further into his already-bruised skin.
“Nice try, Monsieur Becker,” spat Ackhart, his voice laced with fury. “When you come back to us, I'll be sure to add one count of assault on a police officer, one count of assaulting a detention officer and one count of trying to evade lawful custody – not that it will matter much when you're facing a murder charge!”
“I won't be coming back,” groaned Sam, rolling onto his side, the air still reluctant to refill his lungs. The two men wearing the trench coats were standing next to Ackhart, watching Sam curiously.
“Once you have been interviewed by these agents at the US Embassy in Paris, you will be brought directly back to this police station.” Ackhart paused. “You're going to wish you never came back,” he grinned, revealing stained yellow teeth. “I might have to let poor Claude have a few minutes with you alone in the cell.”
“He won't be walking out, I can promise you that,” Sam retorted, and the inspector planted his foot into Sam's gut a second time. Coughing and spluttering, he felt heavy hands lifting him to his feet, way before his legs were ready to take his weight. The two men trench-coated men had him, one under each arm, and the cuffs bit further into Sam's skin, hard enough to have blood running down his hands. With all his strength gone and his body beaten, Sam had no fight left. By the time his millions of little caretakers had cleaned this mess up and put him back together, it would be too late.
“We will return him to your custody by ten PM tomorrow,” he heard one of the guys say. He'd heard that accent before – deep in the Pyramid whilst just clinging on to consciousness with a bullet lodged in his chest – and his blood ran cold.
“I'll take your word for it,” Ackhart replied. “Be careful, he can be a bit feisty, as you have seen.” There was no reply from his new captors, they escorted him swiftly through the door which would have been his escape if they hadn't been sitting in there. His feet were trying to walk but failing to do much more than peddle the air and occasionally scrape across the ground.
Faster than he'd expected, Sam's chest started to recover from the brutal beating he'd been given. The Gift did have its uses, although the eternal life thing Sam wasn't so keen on. As they hauled him silently down one last corridor and out into the brisk early morning air, he decided that someone on Arkkadia needed to come up with a Half Gift – the ability to heal but not live for ever. That one he'd take.
Offering up little resistance, choosing instead to preserve his energy should another opportunity raise its head, Sam found himself bundled into the rear of a shiny black X5 BMW, another sign that this was exactly who he'd feared.
Chapter 14
Five minutes after Sam had left Inspector Ackhart's custody he was sitting at his desk, a fresh cup of black coffee steaming at his side. Wincing, he held an ice-cold towel to his eye, which seemed hell-bent on swelling even further. With his free hand, he knocked back two painkillers, swallowing them dry. His face throbbed and he gritted his teeth. Becker's actions had taken him by surprise – he'd been caught napping and it enraged him. In a pointless effort to take his mind from the throb of his swollen eye, he picked up the clear zip-tied bag which had Becker's mobile phone inside, noticing there was a message waiting to be read. His interest piqued, he navigated to the inbox, pushing at the buttons through the plastic. It was from a contact Becker had saved as 'AF', and the single message read WILTSHIRE – nothing to help him understand this perplexing situation. He closed the phone down in annoyance and turned his attention to the computer, opening his emails. He scanned and deleted various junk messages, informing him of upcoming duty changes and pending court cases the was required to attend. Staring blankly at one such email, his computer bleeped politely, informing him a new email had arrived. Closing the current screen and hitting the delete button, he cast the semi-read message to the trash folder, collected up his coffee and took a gulp, enjoying the warm, bitter liquid when it hit his tongue. With his one good eye, he squinted at the new email, which had an FBI.GOV address. Cursing at the impatience of the Americans he thought about sending this email the same way as the previous one, straight to the trash, but thinking better of it, he opened the message.
Scanning it, he froze, his blood pumping erratically in his veins. It was an automated response, but the message amplified the thread of doubt he'd experienced earlier, during his illegal, but informal and unrecorded interview with the crazy Englishman.
The message came from the international enquiries centre, thanking him for his contact and promising that someone would be in touch within twenty-four hours. It went on to say if his enquiry was of a more urgent nature he should call a number supplied at the bottom of the message, quoting their reference number.
After taking Becker into custody and searching the Interpol database for persons with a similar modus operandi, he'd come across three cases in the States which matched the events at the Laurett Chateau. Cases had also surfaced in England and Germany, and in his excitement at uncovering what he believed to be the work of some crazed serial killer, or a black ops government assassin, he'd sent Sam's details to the respective authorities.
Hands shaking, he scanned the email a second
time, grabbing his pen to write down the phone number, noting the enquiry reference number as well. Becker's words echoed through his pounding head like the tolling of a bell. 'If you let them take me, I will disappear off the map.' And when he'd lain on the floor in the custody block. 'I won't be coming back.' Becker had honestly believed he'd be on a plane and out of the country within an hour of being handed over. Doubt growing with each passing second, the inspector began to wonder if Becker had been as crazy as he'd imagined. Ackhart still believed his story of human-like aliens and an ancient battle for Earth was nonsense, but his gut said something was going on, and he hated not knowing the full story. Shakily he grabbed the receiver from the cradle and began to dial. If the Yanks didn't have his prisoner, then who the hell did?
* * *
Special Agent Joshua Simmonds sat at his terminal on the other side of the Atlantic, reading the details of the Russian Navy's latest deployments in the Bering Sea with interest. The Washington Post website was painfully slow to load, the internet a shadow of what it had been before the solar flares which crippled the globe and left the planet in a state of disarray – at least, that was the official story. What intrigued him was how all the satellites had somehow managed to survive undamaged. Surely a solar flare would have fried those as well? Simmonds wasn't a scientist, but he felt sure there was a cover-up going on – maybe some military experiment had gone wrong, and no government would want to 'fess up to that little cock up. Whatever the truth, he knew it was way above his security clearance. Shaking his head in disbelief, he almost didn't hear the phone ring, he had the volume turned down to its lowest level, the shrill ringer had always offended his ears. Rubbing his eyes he looking away from a heading which read, 'PRESIDENT HILL IN TALKS WITH RUSSIA IN EFFORTS TO AVOID SECOND COLD WAR.'
“FBI international enquiries, how may I help?” he asked when he picked up the receiver. Dealing with these calls used to fall under the header of civilian duties, but with times as they were, it was all hands to the pump. The odd shift stuck in an office was bearable when mixed in with his other, more interesting investigation work, but only just. The fact it was also double time on one of his days off was both a bind and a bonus; even on his salary, trying to live above the breadline was an uphill struggle nowadays.
“This is Inspector Franck Ackhart, from Le Police Nationale, France, stationed at Le Havre. To whom am I talking?” The heavily accented English was unmistakably threaded with tension.
“This is Special Agent Josh Simmonds, what is your enquiry?” The call had disturbed his reading, and he hoped that whatever the issue was, he could deal with it swiftly and get back to reading the news.
“Agent Simmonds,” the person at the other end of the line barely waited for him to finish the sentence. “I sent over a case file regarding one of your wanted, missing, identify reports – reference F2453.2025.”
Simmonds changed screens and pumped the number into the search bar on the FBI's intranet. “Arrest of a male by the name of Samuel Becker, possibly connected with three unsolved homicide cases, currently in French custody,” he read back from the original email.
“Oui, that is the one,” Inspector Ackhart agreed urgently. “Tell me, Agent Simmonds, have you raised papers to have the prisoner handed over to your authorities for initial questioning at your embassy here in France?”
Simmonds scanned the actions attached to the file; it was only a few hours old. A contact request had been added to the notes, but it was being held over for the morning team. “Not that I can see. It's likely we would seek permission to do so if there are similarities between the cases, but there are no notes on the action yet.” Extradition was becoming rarer, with countries choosing to deal with initial enquiries either at the prisoner's place of detention, or if the matter warranted it, the prosecuting country's embassy. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “Inspector, did you hear me? I said we have made no applications to speak with your prisoner.”
“Merci,” the Inspector responded, and even though the call quality wasn't great, Simmonds thought the man sounded distracted.
“Is there something I can help you with, sir?” questioned Simmonds. There was no reply, the phone went dead. Returning the handset to its cradle, Simmonds read the case file report. There was no doubt it was an interesting case, but it was in a queue for the morning, and that made it someone else's problem. Closing the report, he re-opened the Washington Post story and went back to reading the grim news about the USA bringing its nuclear defence systems back online, and how the world would once again be in a state of nuclear standoff.
* * *
Ackhart placed the phone down, his hands shaking uncontrollably. For a few long seconds he stared into middle space, contemplating what he'd learned. Sliding his drawer open he eyed a fresh bottle of brandy longingly – it had been twenty long years since he'd searched for the answer at the bottom of such a bottle. The answer was never there, but it did make life easier to deal with. Those days lost in the bottle had come at a cost; his military career, his pilot's licence and his marriage. Despite all those losses, the booze still called to him. He'd stayed dry for twenty years, and yet he still felt the need to keep a bottle of poison close by, in case things went sour – for days such as this. Deep down he knew it wasn't a matter of if he went back to the booze, but when. Pushing the growing temptation to one side, he slammed the drawer, the action making his cooling coffee slop over the brim of the mug and onto the desk.
Becker had tried to escape, and he'd given Ackhart a black eye and a pounding head which would no doubt rival the worst hangover after one of his heaviest binges, but he'd been wrong about the man. He'd released a prisoner to people who had no right to take him.
Even though the papers and IDs had looked as genuine as any he'd seen, Ackhart would be held responsible for the monumental fuck up. For a high profile murder like Laurett's, that would mean both his balls and head on a stick. Immediate dismissal and no chance of receiving the pension he'd been paying into for the past twenty years. Ackhart was certain that bottle, which had laid for years in his desk, would soon see the light of day, but not yet – first, he had things to do. Later he would drink, later he would drown his sorrows for not trusting that moment of doubt. Maybe Becker had good reason to fight for his life, to ensure those who had him didn't get the chance to do whatever it was they'd planned. Ackhart wasn't certain – it all seemed a little fuzzy – but he seemed to recall Sam Becker apologising to him, just before hitting him a second time. It was likely his imagination, but it seemed frighteningly real.
Glancing at his watch, he realized Becker had already been gone for fifteen minutes. Ackhart had to act now and he needed to act fast. Grabbing his Sig Pro SP 2022 from the locked gun drawer, he headed for the door. What was it Becker had said again? 'I'll be on a plane and out of the country within an hour!' The city's airport was less than twelve kilometres away, meaning Becker was probably already there. Ackhart might be too late, but he had to try.
Chapter 15
A single monotone sound, which reminded her of a droning air-conditioner, was the first thing Lucie heard when she blinked her eyes open. She was tired and achy, the kind of throbbing which went right down to the bones. Moving her neck and arms, Lucie discovered her joints were stiff. She tried to adjust her position but was held firmly in place and a momentary burst of panic welled in her chest. Managing to force herself upright, using her elbows as support, she discovered she was lying on the back seat of a car, and the droning noise was nothing more than the sound of tyres as they hummed along the concrete of the motorway. For a second fear gripped her, freezing her body to the spot. The last thing she remembered was flying down the small slope and into the orange glow of the Blackwall Tunnel; after that, there was nothing. One thing was certain, this wasn't her car. She'd kept her little Mini spotless, and the rear foot well of this vehicle was littered with snack packets and half-crushed Coke cans. Fighting the desire to avoid the answer, she craned her st
iff neck around to discover who was driving. Seeing Oriyanna's glossy blonde hair flowing down the sides of the grey cloth headrest, she laid back on the rear seat and released a long, relieved sigh.
“You're awake,” Oriyanna noted, keeping her eyes on the road. “And not a moment too soon. I know I'm headed in the right direction, but I have no idea when I need to get off this massive road!”
Having stolen a few extra moments to steady her nerves, Lucie found what she called the 'clunk clicker' on the seatbelt and released it, giving her full movement and the ability to swing her legs around and sit up. Initially she was a little dizzy and her head swam. Taking slow, deliberate breaths she forced herself back on an even keel. She'd found that lately she was prone to such episodes; the odd dizzy spell here and bit of sickness there. She'd put it down to nothing more than exhaustion and a bit of stress; certainly, this evening's little wobble could be blamed on either of those things.
“How long have we been on the motorway?” she croaked, “And where the hell is Mavis?”
“Who is Mavis?”
“My Mini, the car I seem to remember you blasted the back windscreen out of.”
“You named your car?” Oriyanna sounded surprised and amused by the human idiosyncrasy of naming inanimate objects.
“Yeah, I did. Sam used to rib me about it, too.”
“You Earth-Human's never fail to amaze me – how funny!” A little giggle escaped Oriyanna's lips, and the sound made Lucie relax a little. Underneath that tough and alien exterior, she was human after all – in a manner of speaking, anyway. “We have been on this heading— on this road,” she corrected, “for just over half an hour, and my speed has been a constant eighty miles an hour.”