Judas (The Iscariot Warrior Series Book 1)

by Roy Bright

  Newspapers and rubbish dance around them, driven by a silent waltz. They stand in silence, alone; the alleyway’s inhabitants having withdrawn deep into their castles.

  The Angel is the first to move. He turns to retreat from where he came leaving Judas to comprehend the revelation that has him stunned, staring at the ground.

  “Get to the orphanage, Judas, time is running out!” His words are commanding, words that only have one meaning: get the job done, no excuses. He stops and glances over his right shoulder, “Oh, and one last thing.”

  Judas looks up.

  His face turns wicked as he delivers his final directive, “You are unshackled. Whatever it takes!”

  A wide smile opens up on Judas’ face. “Whatever it takes?”

  The Angel nods. “Whatever it takes.”

  With that he is gone, newspaper and trash thrown outward in a perfect circle from where he stood.

  His smile turns to a grin, “Whatever it takes.”

  He takes a deep breath then moves off down the alleyway, off into action. He moves to gear up.

  Two

  Mid-afternoon in the city; the ground still wet from the beating it suffered earlier that day.

  A figure moves with purpose through the streets of New York, not bothering to step around the large puddles that have formed; indifferent to the soaking his feet and legs are receiving. Street names pass him by in a blur as he darts from one location to the next. Drivers scream and curse at him as he bulldozes over roads without a care, causing many to slam on their brakes.

  A cab driver leans out of his window. “What the fuck is your problem, you fuckin’ asshole? You got a fuckin’ death wish or summin’?”

  The abuse reaches his ears but it has no effect on breaking his stride; the task presented to him by the Angel the only thought driving his every step.

  Could it be true? Will I finally be rid of this place if I protect this child? No way would the Angel lie; it’s just impossible for him to do so, therefore it must be true. All I have to do is protect this child for three days and I’m done. I’m free from this bullshit. I can go to where I belong with a clean slate.

  The final thought spurs him on. He quickens his pace; his destination a priority. Block after block of mammoth buildings roll past in a never-ending parade of twenty-first century consumerism as hordes of people bar his way, forcing him to push and barge his way through them. They are all too busy to care or pass on even the smallest indication of apology, each with their head fixed forward, grunting their dissatisfaction. He is now far from the alleyway where his destiny may have changed forever; the meeting with the Angel feeling like it was almost days ago, not just under an hour.

  He muses on the duty passed down to him, the importance of what he must do, remembering the words spoken, the revelation of terrible things yet to be. ‘They are coming for her, Judas, and they are coming in grave numbers and of high rank.’

  I’m gonna have to be sharp, gonna have to get my mind back to battle fitness, need to be ready for these fuckers.

  His gaze never shifts from the road ahead.

  High rank? Fuck me, I hope there ain’t loads of them at high rank. This could get real ugly, real fast. Be tricky, get out of hand. I need to be sharp. I need to sort my shit out. Fuck me. I need weapons!

  Aware that time is running out, he quickens his pace; he needs to get to his destination.

  He looks to his right, out over the East Bay. He has always hated walking over the Brooklyn Bridge especially at night, too many fucking weirdos and jumpers, his thoughts wander. Always feel compelled to talk the stupid fuckers down. Well, at least I won’t see any in the day. Gotta get to the yard. Come on, for fuck’s sake, walk faster.

  He returns his attention ahead, continuing south-east over the bridge and into Brooklyn. He passes more rows of buildings in the unforgiving American urban jungle. A place where walking alone even in the daytime would be ill advised by any who know the area well, and he did.

  His journey eastward does not go unnoticed. Local inhabitants eye him with suspicion as groups of men stand on street corners, drinking, R&B music blaring from their stationary cars, wondering who this man is walking their streets, alone. His luck holds. They are too busy to bother chasing him down, too busy drinking; too busy planning.

  Good thing as well, as killing them would waste time; time he does not have.

  More blocks, more jungle; more time.

  He feels an invisible clock ticking, banging against his forehead. More time.

  “Finally,” he snorts as he rounds the corner of Flushing and Franklin onto Wallabout Street and he breaks into a small jog, completing the final block to his destination; a storage yard just off the street itself. The large red brick building, reminiscent of an old fire station looms up in front of him, beckoning him in. He grins. Now he can get down to business. Turning the handle of the large glass-paneled wood-framed door, he enters, his footsteps echoing as he crosses the concrete floor to the reception desk.

  A young woman hurries around, putting on her jacket whilst attempting to search for her keys, a job made all the more difficult as she is forced to scramble through mounds of loose paperwork and stationery cluttering the surface of her desk. She is muttering to herself in her thick Brooklyn accent. “Where the fuck did I put those goddamn keys?” She tuts as she reaches around to her blonde hair, tied in a ponytail, half caught in the collar of her jacket that she has still not just quite put on. Her coat opens up to reveal a yellow boiler-suit type uniform that bears the logo of ‘JACK’S U STORE’. She fails to notice the man standing at the desk. “Fuck!” she cries out in anger “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu—”

  He coughs.

  “Aww no, no, no.” She is waving her finger at him. “It’s after three, we close at three on a Friday and I have been trying to lock this goddamn door for fifteen minutes now. We’re closed.”

  “There.” He motions to the opposite corner of the room across from the woman’s desk. “On the copier, those are the keys you’re looking for, yeah?”

  She glances over. Rolling her eyes, she slumps and trudges over to the photocopier. “Jesus Christ, I goddamn looked there I know I did.”

  He smirks at her choice of cursing.

  She grabs the keys and turns to him. Smiling, she traipses back to the reception counter, her demeanor changing from that of anger to appreciation.

  “Look, it’s after three and we’re supposed to be closed,” she says, her voice now soft, her eyes searching his face.

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve had to walk here and it’s taken me much longer than I would have wanted. I am in desperate need to pick up some gear from my storage, not least my transportation and I’ll be out of your hair for good. Can you spare me fifteen minutes?”

  She sighs and moans, bobbing up and down. “Oooooh, fifteen minutes? But I’m already late for meeting my friends.”

  “Fifteen minutes, and I’ll be gone. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” His eyes dart back and forth over her face looking for a sign that she’s going to cave and give in. He’s hoping his little game of diplomacy works as he has no desire to hurt her; but he needs that gear, no matter what.

  “Oooooh, please don’t be any longer than that,” she begs.

  He smiles and nods. “Thank you. I swear, fifteen minutes is all I need.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he reaches inside his jacket into his left breast pocket, and pulls out a key with a red tag and a white card inside it. Written on the card are the letters H13.

  “Can you buzz me in and also bring the back shutter doors up?”

  She now notices how odd his accent is, that she is unable to place it. She also notices how much he looks like a bum. She decides to say nothing to either point; she just wants him gone.

  A buzz echoes around the reception and a white painted metal door opens to his right.

  He once again nods at her and makes his way over, stepping through, and entering a large warehouse cham
ber with a multitude of units lined up in rows through the center of the vast space.

  In the distance, he hears the sound of an automatic shutter door rising, the clanking of panels folding over one another.

  Picking up the pace, he moves down the walkway that separates the units from the outer wall, passing large letters stuck to the wall of each of the first units, starting from A. He calls out the letters to himself as he passes them, continuing onwards, checking each plaque, the sound of his footsteps reverberating around the chamber. The letter H slides into view and he checks his movement left, moving down the row, counting the numbers in ascending order from one.

  A light flicker’s above as it clunks and buzzes, trying to fire itself into life.

  He glances at it whilst still marching down the row and then stops in front of a door with large white numbers painted on it.

  Thirteen, he mutters to himself.

  An electronic coded lock protects the door.

  Stepping forward, he taps seven buttons and a quiet buzz emanates from the panel. The door swings open.

  He steps inside and it closes behind him.

  Lights spark and clunk into life to reveal a room around three hundred square feet in size with scores of weapons hanging on the gleaming white walls. Automatic rifles and handguns adorn every surface. Weapons from every corner of history, creating a veritable museum of chaos throughout the ages.

  A bench stands at the far end of the room and on it, two elegant, curved and slender single-edged katana swords with squared guards and long grips sitting atop curved wooden pedestals.

  He eyes the room and a gleeful spirit dances in his eyes.

  “Unshackled, indeed,” he says, smiling.

  He moves towards the swords, taking his time, paying them respect, a respect for the power they hold over him, a power that makes him near invincible when wielding them. He stops in front of the bench and bows; then reaches out, taking hold of each blade with great care. First with his right hand and then with his left. He eases his arms to his side and steps away from the bench and into the center of the room, his head bowed in reverence.

  The blades flash and swish through the air as his arms spin and cut an invisible foe. His feet twist and turn, fluid and without sound, changing direction, coming together and moving apart as his arms circle and slice. He changes direction, swift and thrusts the swords forward. Rotate. Another direction change as he arches his back, slicing the air. Changing again, he spins both blades out in front of him then brings them down past his head in an outward arc to the sides of his body, dropping to one knee, swords outstretched. Drawing in a deep breath, he lifts up his head and stands, then places the swords back onto their pedestals. He bows once more. Dropping down to both knees, he slides open a panel on the face of the bench doors. Another coded lock presents itself and this time he enters four numbers only: 1971. He pauses and smiles as the memory of what the numbers hold springs forth. He shakes his head, pushing it from his mind as the lock beeps and he pulls open the bench doors to reveal three large duffel bags, two full one empty. He pulls out the bags and drops them onto the bench surface just to the left of the katanas. Reaching down again he pulls out a harness, in which to house the swords on his back and dumps that on the bench next to the bag. He unzips the first bag revealing it to be full to the brim with money. Notes of all denominations stare back at him. He smiles and zips it back up. He opens the second bag; ammunition, lots and lots of ammunition. Another smile and bag number two is closed.

  He darts around the room, picking weapons off the wall, cocking them, checking their ability to still function and places them onto the bench; two Robinson Armament XCR assault rifles and an M234 Riot Control Launcher modified to fire canisters filled with holy water instead of tear gas. He moves again repeating the process only this time gathering handguns. He checks them then lays the two Beretta PX4s, followed by two Springfield XD 40-45s with under-seated laser sights next to the rifles. Another shopping trip. This time the bench makes a loud thud when he heaves an M249SAW Light Machine Gun onto it. He drops down to his knees once again, reaches into the locker and retrieves the empty duffle bag then zips around the room, repeating the picking process; only this time filling the bag with grenades, flash-bangs and canisters filled with holy water, then places the bag on the bench.

  The bench is almost full, brimming with a cache of the deadliest order.

  He reaches into the locker for a final time and pulls out a key. Looking to his right, he stands and walks over to a large metal door, places the key inside a silver doorknob, unlocks it then opens the door and steps through.

  Overhead, strip lights commence the same start-up operation as in the previous room to reveal a car covered with a black tarpaulin. Striding over, he grabs the cover, yanks it and it slides off to reveal a pristine jet-black 1970 Ford Mustang Mach 1; a white stripe running down the center of the hood from air intake to grill.

  He grins. The last time he saw this car was in the autumn of 1991. He has missed her; he has missed her a lot.

  He busies himself over the next five minutes loading his horde into the car’s trunk, the sound of metal clattering against metal ringing out, as he drops in weapon after weapon after weapon. He throws in all three duffle bags on top of them followed carefully by the swords, snaps the trunk shut and moves back into the first room. Striding over to where he first came in, he reaches a tall silver locker with round vent holes covering the top third. He opens it, reaches inside and pulls out yet another duffle bag. Throwing the bag to the floor, he kneels down and unzips it to reveal clothing and sanitary items.

  “That’s it then,” he says, nodding.

  He zips up the bag just as the woman’s angry voice calls out from outside.

  “Are you nearly done yet?”

  “Just a minute!” He yells, standing up. “Is the shutter door open? I wanna move my car.”

  “Yeah, it’s open. Hurry up, please. I gotta go.”

  Yeah, so do I, he whispers, looking around the room, it’s time to go.

  Three

  Beams of light filter through the windows of the classroom at the Sisters of Hope Orphanage, creating a slow, static laser show, colored by beautiful stained glass depicting the saints of old. They perform a steady march across the floor and over desks, as the setting sun brings the curtain down on yet another day.

  Sister Marie Anesta thumbs her way through the pages of a magazine, of which she had confiscated from one of the girls earlier that morning; its pages littered with half-naked, wafer-thin models with duck-like faces and haunted eyes in meaningless poses like abandoned animals. The parade of beauties is broken only by segments of textual ramblings depicting the woes of downtrodden celebrities attempting to rouse sympathy for whatever diet they were on; marital failure they were experiencing or baby they were adopting that week. Dressed in a nun’s traditional attire, the old woman sits at a large rectangular desk at the front of the classroom beneath a vast blackboard, the face of which is garnished with joined up words; their lesser equals written next to them by children put to the test in front their peers.

  Situated on the first floor of the east wing in the oldest part of the building, the classroom very much reflects its age, with a thirty-foot high ceiling crossed with dark oak beams, cream painted walls and desks that would be more at home in an old-time musical depicting pick pocketing children. Bookcases line the west and south walls of the room, filled with classic tales from hunting great white whales to running from prehistoric beasts on islands lost far from man, all interspersed with religious texts befitting a convent orphanage. A globe sits on a table beneath the windows running down the east wall and rays of light skim across its surface pointing out areas of interest.

  Charlotte Hope sits at the front of the class at a middle table of three, just in front of the desk occupied by Sister Marie. Her head rises from deep within her book, brought out of her transfixion by the old woman’s exasperation.

  “Deary, deary me!”
the Sister declares, tutting. “Do these young ladies have no shame? I mean, look at them.”

  She smiles at Charlotte, who lets out a playful giggle.

  “I hope you never dress in such a fashion my love when you grow to be a woman.” She winks at her, which only intensifies the giggling. Putting down the magazine, she peers over her bifocal spectacles.

  Charlotte has returned her head to the book, scanning the pages with her left index finger and then transferring her findings to a notebook under her right hand.

  She observes the child for a while, smiling, taking great joy at watching the six-year-old as she interprets the information from book to pad, scribbling with great haste yet fluidity and as neat as any scholar. She ponders how cute she always looks in her blue pleated pinafore skirt, white cotton shirt and short white socks school uniform. Her dark brown hair in pigtails, secured at each end with red bows that she tied for her that very morning.

  Since coming into her care eighteen months ago, Sister Marie has been like a mother to Charlotte; caring for the withdrawn child like her very own, tending to her every need, guiding her every step, cleaning and dressing every scraped knee, every cut elbow, holding and reassuring her following every bad dream. Yes, she has been like a mother to the child but soon all that must change.

  A minute passes and the Sister interrupts the ticking of a clock situated above her head.

  “Shall we call it a day, sweetie? You’ve been hard at it now for over an hour and I think even your wonderful mind needs a rest now and then.” She smiles and looks up and over her right shoulder at the clock. “It’s just a little after four thirty, my dear, and you’ve given up over an hour of your own playtime.”

  “That’s okay,” she replies, “I like to study. I’m not really bothered about playing with the other girls.” Her eyes cast back down to her book and she taps her pen against its pages, her face sullen.

  “Oh, sweetie, you should really try to get along with the other girls, they are nice girls so they are and Lucy has always tried to be friends with you, hasn’t she?”