The Deal (The Fallen Angel Series Book 1)

by S C Cunningham

  “Where the bloody hell have you two been? This isn’t a holiday camp you know. We’ve got Erthfolk to deactivate. Chop chop! Soho Sid is at it again. Pyke has the details. He’s been given enough warnings. It’s time to close him down.”

  Maggie, Margaret Delia Smithers, ran the office with a hand of steel. At 62 years of age, she died of a heart attack, a workaholic spinster; she’d given her life to a successful career in MI6 and was not ready to down tools just yet. On her hospital death bed, she’d asked for the deal.

  Pyke, a lanky, cheerful, fun-loving internet whizz-kid had hacked multi-billion corporations with the best of them. A regular Robin Hood, he stole from the rich and gave to the poor—after funding his lavish lifestyle of surfing, fast cars, wine, women, and song. He didn’t touch drugs, ever.

  Crack cocaine had taken his younger sister, so Pyke had a thing for destroying those in the industry by accidently ploughing their ill-gotten gains into drug rehabilitation projects or alerting authorities when deals were going down. Until, one day, at the age of 28, his luck ran out.

  He found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, looking down the barrel of a gun belonging to the minion of an angry wannabe drug baron. Whilst waiting for his sobbing mother to turn off his life-support machine, he’d asked for the deal. So much knowledge, surely he couldn’t waste it, not yet…besides, hacking was fun.

  “Mon petit, Chou, bonjour,” greeted Pyke, happy to see Jack and Amy.

  He waved them over to the middle of the room where an impressive Stonehenge-esque circle of eight rotating glass screens surrounded him; twelve-foot wide by five-foot high, each hovering three feet off the white marble floor.

  Enclosed within his gladiatorial wall of glass monitors, he ran from one job to the next, from one screen to the other, putting out fires and causing chaos for offenders.

  He preferred being on his feet, working on a large touchscreen, rather than being stuck to a chair and hunched over a desk. He worked best in visuals, like an artist, striding up and down, painting stories with his sweeping hands. He sometimes used a skateboard to add to the mix. The energetic workout kept his genius mind clear and agile…and it was fun, Pyke’s favourite word.

  Pyke liked being busy; he worked on all eight screens at once. Each contained the intelligence files of a current job Maggie had authorised; people or situations needing to be deactivated.

  Running backwards and forwards between screens was his idea of heaven, like playing eight, life-size computer games. As each job finalised, Maggie would push forward the next, in order of high risk importance from a long list of awaiting targets.

  The majority of jobs he could handle on his own, but some needed help on the ground. That’s where Jack and Amy came in.

  Screen three tracked the current file in his queue, displaying a collection of ten message boards, with chatroom conversations running on each. He darted to and fro between conversation threads, exchanging lines of dialogue. He was ‘Cooldude888,’ flirting with each member.

  “Oh, this is fun, like playing 10 games of chess at once. Love it! I won’t be a minute…am just waiting for one of these wankers to get overexcited and sloppy and show an IP address. Then I’ll be with you. I keep crashing their internet at sexually frustrating moments; one of them will get careless in a minute.”

  He pressed a button and ‘PirateJack’ disappeared from a dialogue box.

  “What is this case?” asked Amy, striding over to take a closer look. “These are children, aren’t they?” Her eyes narrowed as she peered at the screen.

  “Yes, but nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about. This is mine, all mine,” he smiled, knowing she would jump at the chance to work on anything to do with children.

  “What is it?” Insisted Amy, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

  “Well, what we have here is a selection of nine to 13-year-olds talking to each other, but a few of them are paedophiles, dirty old men pretending to be kids, grooming, befriending, taking pictures, then blackmailing them into doing disgusting things. I just need one of these dirt bags to log on and join the conversation without taking precautions…and I don’t mean a condom. Hello, here he comes,” he beamed.

  ‘PirateJack’ re-joined the chat, his IP number identifying ownership of his hardware flashed onto the screen. In his eagerness to re-join a crucial part of the grooming conversation, he’d taken the risk of logging on without using a safe dark web server.

  “Gotcha!” Pyke, fist punched the air with excitement. “Yesss! Come on my beauty. Come to daddy,” he cheered.

  Jack joined them, watching the screen, popping the last of a biscuit into his mouth.

  “But with all your kit, you can easily see who it is? Why would you need an IP address?” he asked through a mouthful of crumbs.

  “Because, my old friend, ‘misslollypop2004’ here,” he said, pointing to a name on a neighbouring chat screen, “is a member of the Child Abuse Crime Team working undercover, pretending to be a 12-year-old, trying to close this sex ring down.” He pointed to the floor.

  “Down there, they still need the IP address to track offenders. They haven’t quite caught up with tracking in the deep dark web yet. So, I’ve helped nudge her in the right direction. She’ll have clocked this and be sending the cops in as we speak.”

  Jack caught Amy’s eye and pointed at a one-sided chat that had been going on a while. ‘Sienna2006’ asked ‘PrincessB07’ if she was still there.

  Amy grimaced. If she’d just waited ten minutes, the Police would have taken care of the man she’d just killed. Alive, he would have been interviewed and able to dish the dirt on others. She’d messed up. She shook her head with shame, she should have listened to Jack. She glanced over at Maggie. If the bosses ever found out it could cost her her place in the Unit. She wasn’t ready to leave, she hadn’t found him yet. Her eyes focused on the screen, ignoring Jack’s scolding glare.

  “My work here is done…finalised,” smiled Pyke, high on success. He waved a hand over the screen and made the files disappear. “I soooo lurvvve my job. I’m playing with the best game apps ever.”

  Another file popped up on the screen, awaiting his attention.

  Maggie shouted across the room. “Pyke, this is not a game. How many times do I have to tell you? We’ve got a change of plan. Check out eight.”

  Pyke obediently skipped to screen eight. “Now, what have we here?”

  With the skilful hands of an orchestral conductor, he opened a dozen files. The screen lit up with maps, images, and lines of unfathomable text.

  “Err…we haven’t got time for Soho Sid right now.” His tattooed fingers ran across a keyboard.

  “A radical cell has just activated. You’re off to Belgium. The Belgian Unit is a little stretched; they have six major incidents kicking off around the country, so they’ve asked for us, France and Ireland for backup. I’ve sent the intel for the job we’re sorting, and you should be receiving it, just about…” He hit the keyboard with a flourish. “Maintenant…that’s ‘now’ in French.”

  Jack raised an eye brow.

  Pyke spun around and beamed at Jack. “This is high risk, so you have permission to TM8 all involved. Then you can give Soho Sid a visit afterwards. We have a short window of time before he starts. I’ll delay his kick-off.”

  Pyke trotted to another screen and busied himself with lines of script, sliding effortlessly between websites, servers, and databases, the radical cell and child sex ring forgotten.

  Jack and Amy closed their eyes for coordinates and images to light up in the back of their eyelids. Amy brushed crumbs from her suit lapel with a sigh.

  “No peace for the wicked.”

  She spun around, walked towards the door, grabbed a handful of small white feathers from a bowl on her desk and stuffed them in her jacket pocket. She raised her fingers to her forehead and threw a salute in Maggie’s direction. “See you later boss,” she hollered as she strode out of the office.

&
nbsp; Maggie shouted after her. “Report back to me later, Amy. I need to review your performance files.”

  “Will do, boss.” Amy scrunched her face and shoulders with dread, as the pushed through the office door. No one enjoyed the boss’s reviews. Shit, what have I done now?

  Jack sneaked up beside Pyke, leaned in, and teasingly pointed a wriggling finger at a precious piece of screen text, pretending to touch it. Pyke froze in mock horror, tilted his head to the side, and gave Jack a Pyke-special death stare.

  Jack grinned. “Just kiddin’…my little shoe.” He backed off.

  No one touched Pyke’s stuff.

  “In here you may be the boss, Pykey boy, but out there…we all know I am.” Jack teased, giving Pyke a playful punch in the shoulder.

  Pyke, not moving from his position, expertly flicked his leg out sideways, just missing Jack’s kneecap. Jack leapt backwards in mock horror.

  “Whoa! Careful, big boy,” he teased.

  “I’ll come out with you one day, mon petit chou,” grinned Pyke. “Then we’ll see who’s the man, who’s the big bollocks, who’s the mighty pair of shoes.”

  Maggie, watching the banter from behind her desk, smiled at them.

  “Handbags down, gentlemen, please. Back to work! Chop chop!”

  Jack nodded, sauntered towards the door, scrunched his biscuit wrapper into a ball, and aimed a throw into the wastepaper bin beside Maggie’s desk. He punched the air with childlike glee as it hit its mark.

  “Yes! Je suis un superstar. That’s French for the dog’s bollocks, mate.”

  Giving Maggie a winning smile, he sauntered past and blew a cheeky kiss.

  “Later’s, babe,” he winked.

  Maggie beamed up at him, proudly watching him walk out the door. She caught herself staring, blushed, and distractedly tucked a slither of hair behind her ear. Jack was too deliciously handsome for his own good.

  “Cougar,” teased Pyke, peering around a screen.

  Maggie flushed rose pink.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s far too young. I don’t do embryos. I haven’t got time to teach.” She smiled, waving him away with a dismissive hand.

  “Later’s, babe.” She mimicked Jack’s deep voice and swagger of hand on hips. “What the hell is that? Doesn’t anyone speak good fucking English anymore? For goodness’ sake, the place has gone to pot.”

  Giving Pyke a conspiratorial look, she tapped the side of her nose with a pencil. “Methinks our Jack has a big soft spot for Miss Fox. Romance is in the air and heaven help us, if the feeling is mutual.” She shook her head with mock displeasure.

  “Oh, its mutual all right. It’s just that neither of them realises it. Both don’t think they’re good enough. Jack’s got to grow some balls and get over his scars, and Amy’s got to know her value and jump on him. Their pussy footing around is driving me nuts.”

  “As long as it doesn’t interfere with their work.”

  “No, I think it enhances it. They show off to each other. She’s trying to impress him, and he’s trying to impress her, although he’s a bit overprotective of her, which drives her mad.”

  “Mmmmm… we don’t need any bleedin drama in this office,” sighed Maggie.

  Pyke adored Maggie; she was formidable and quaint in one package. She could kill a man with a glance; but show her some affection, and she’d fold into a coquettish, blushing puppy.

  Pyke put it down to not having had enough affection in her life, which was understandable with her career history; there’d been no time for it. Getting snapped up straight from the University at the tender age of 21 by MI6, she’d given her time, body, and soul to the wellbeing of her country. Dying at 62 years was way too soon for a matriarchal lioness such as Maggie. She didn’t mention children; he guessed she didn’t have any. Her caring for others went some way to making up for it.

  Pyke understood her passion for the job, once a person had seen what humans were capable of doing to each other; it was all hands-on-deck to protect the innocents.

  They were a strange mix; Pyke with his cheeky East London accent, hard knocks street education, skinhead haircut, body smothering tattoos, and cute little boy twinkle. And then there was Maggie, more than double his age with her crisp Queen’s English, privileged education, immaculate mother of the bride suits, hairspray, and pearls. They couldn’t have been more different.

  On earth their paths would never have crossed. If so, they would have gone overboard to avoid each other. But here they were, a formidable team. Maggie loved his cheeky, speedy intellect, and he loved her ruthless sniffing out of bastards.

  But what Pyke loved most, was that Maggie, with all her airs and graces, was totally non-politically correct. The word ‘polite’ was not in her vocabulary. She had no boundaries, said it as it was, and swore like a trooper.

  When she said ‘fuck’ it sounded so posh, it made it difficult for him to stifle a giggle. You couldn’t take offence; it was as if HM The Queen had blasphemed, so it must be OK, right?

  Pyke loved his work. He’d nicknamed the office as Cloud 9 and it had stuck. His work colleagues were fun and feisty, and he and Maggie made a good supervisory team. They respected each other. Both loved the chase and the fight for righting wrongs or ‘getting the shitty fucking bastard arseholes,’ as Maggie had put it. And both had a penchant for a cup of tea and a custard cream biscuit.

  “A cup of Rosie Lee before we start our next plan of attack, ma’am?” Pyke asked in his best Sergeant Major voice. Ever in a hurry, he ran to the kitchen galley and put the kettle on.

  The fictitious taste of food and drink remained as one of the few pleasures Fallens were allowed to keep as they mid-surfed earth and the afterlife. A disease-free body, increased sensory input, and amplified perception had been offered as important pleasures.

  Maggie smiled. “Yes, dear, an army can’t run on an empty stomach, and we’ll need a biscuit to go with that, don’t you think?”

  Maggie never used instant beverages. She insisted on a teapot, tea strainer, tea leaves, and porcelain cup. They could offer her all the hi-tech-fangled gadgetry in the world, but some things you don’t meddle with. Tea was one of them.

  Chapter Eight

  Adini Square,

  Brussels, Belgium

  “I’m gonna get a grip on that moving object thing if it kills me,” Amy declared as they marched down the centre of a quaint, cobbled, pedestrian street. “It’s empty, feel, build and throw. Easy peasy.”

  “You didn’t need to cut his throat. Pyke was on it.” Jack shot her a dark look as he scanned their surroundings.

  Busy café tables and chairs spilled onto the pavement, leaving a narrow channel of pathway for tourists and locals to meander through the beautiful Brussel’s architecture.

  “How could I have known? Anyway, I don’t care. The shit bag had it coming,” Amy snarled, her eyes scanning the sea of faces, searching for uneasy stares and anxious body behaviour.

  Young, old…mothers, fathers…children, lovers…tourists and work colleagues made use of the cheerful morning sun. She saw chefs popping out for a gasp of cigarettes, waitresses clearing tables, beaming smiles, waving menus for clients to sit. Students debated while some read books. Elderly neighbours drank black coffee, played backgammon, and read newspapers. Depicting the cheerful, friendly bustle of city life.

  “And he would have, if you’d been patient.” Jack reached out and placed his fingers over the hand of a young man wearing blue jeans and a black hoody, just as he was pulling a gun from his shoulder bag.

  Jack wrenched the hand up under the man’s chin and flicked the trigger. The guy seemingly shot himself. The bullet tore through his jaw and out the back of his head. Blood splattered those bustling around him. Unseen, Jack and Amy walked on.

  Bystanders stood open mouthed with disbelief. No one screamed for a full 10 seconds.

  “Patient,” barked Amy, annoyed at being ticked off. “I haven’t got time to be patient. Do you realise what those bastards
do to kids’ minds? How it affects them for life? How it has a ripple effect on everything they ever do from there on in? It doesn’t matter whether they find success or suffer failure. Their life plans are altered, fractured. It sets them up for an exhausting battle of shame, fear, loneliness, and disgust. It takes away their childhood, any chance of throwing back their heads with innocent laughter, of trusting another, of loving another, of living carefree. It haunts and ruins any sweet moments, any simple pleasures. It sets them up for a lifelong battle of mental health issues, issues that should never have been triggered, issues that steal lives…all so that dirty people like him can get their rocks off, can have sexual pleasure for a few moments, can have a wank and ejaculate a bit of spunk. How ridiculous is that? All for a squirt of sperm! And you want me to be patient? Are you joking? I’ve waited 28 years already.”

  They walked in silence.

  Jack bit his lower lip, angry at the thought of anyone touching her. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Anger tensed his body.

  “Hey, it’s not your fault.” She gave him a weak smile, realising she overreacted a little. “It’s OK, now. We leave all our ailments behind when we get here. But being here, without the weight of all that anxiety, has made me realise what a waste of energy I put into living with it, what a waste of a life. I shouldn’t have let his problem affect me in such a way, for so long. All for a fucking shot of spunk. He could’ve just had a wank…the selfish bastard. He didn’t need to involve a little girl in his fantasies. I’m sorry to go on about it. I’ll shut up.”

  “No, no, I understand. I wish I could have done something.”

  “Well, you are now. You and Pyke have my back whilst I stop a few of them ruining other kids’ lives.”

  Jack looked over his shoulder, a crowd had formed around the shot male.

  “Yes, but you have to have more trust in us, that they will be sorted, eventually. Pyke was on the job. If you’d trusted us and confided in us, you’d have known that.”