The Deal (The Fallen Angel Series Book 1)

by S C Cunningham

“I know, but how can I trust that Miss Tinkerbell would do her job right?”

  “Miss Lollypop,” corrected Jack.

  “What?”

  “Miss Lollypop04. That’s her name.”

  “OK, Miss bloody Lollypop04, for fuck’s sake, whatever…”

  She stuck her leg out at a passing male; he tripped and fell to the floor, his face smashing against stone. “We need more time. Six months is not enough. It puts pressure on us. I wouldn’t need to go it alone if I had time to wait for consent. Can we ask for an extension?”

  She reached down and eased out a small handgun from the male’s coat pocket. He writhed in pain as blood trickled from his forehead. Unaware, passers-by assumed he was a drunk and stepped over him.

  The male slowly rolled over onto his back, panic stricken, frightened to move, his haunted eyes staring down at his stomach. Blood seeped from his face. His coat fell open, exposing rows of dynamite strapped to his waist. Someone gasped with horror and a circle opened around him. Fear whispered through the hushed crowd.

  A voice shouted the words they didn’t want to believe.

  “BOMB… RUN!”

  Bedlam erupted. Screams filled the air. People threw chairs and meal-laden tables crashed to the ground. Bodies scrambled over each other to the cries of, “Run…run!”

  Throughout the crowd, people called out for their loved ones, searching for each other in the mayhem.

  Jack and Amy remained calm, unflustered by the panic. Just another day at the office. They continued to move slowly through the street as frightened Erthfolk rushed past them, looking in doorways, scanning body language, checking skylines, turning in slow circles, hawk-like eyes searching out their prey.

  “I don’t know what the time policy is. Take it up with Maggie,” suggested Jake. “Maybe she can extend it. I know for sure Pyke has been here for more than 12 months, but I guess he is a bit special, a formidable one-manned tracking, hacking, killing machine.”

  Peering over terrified civilians’ heads, Jake’s eyes locked on a third male striding into a café. The man produced an AK47 from his backpack. As he stood in the doorway, lifting the gun to fire at the faces of shocked diners, Jake snuck up behind him, hooked an arm around his neck, and yanked him backwards, hard.

  The thug tumbled back into the street. His gun spiralled over his head. As it flailed to the ground, Jack reached out and gently flicked the trigger. A round of shots filled the air, hitting a fourth gunman from across the cafe, his outstretched arm aiming a handgun at a group of hysterical teenagers huddled behind a billboard. His body flinched and jerked as he fell to the ground, writhing in agony.

  “He doesn’t do any hands-on deactivating. We do.”

  “But he sources who, how, and why, then tracks which stone they’re under and sends us out to tidy up. We’re lucky. He and Maggie are a good, fair, supervisory team. Apparently, our Unit’s deactivation figures are above average.”

  While the street slowly emptied, Jack and Amy continued walking, chatting, and ignoring shouts and screams, nonchalantly stepping over falling runaways.

  “I’ve got a review coming up. Shit,” Amy grimaced, walking around a huddle of students helping an old man into a doorway.

  “It may not be bad. She may be patting you on the back.”

  “No, it’s bad. I think she’s found out I’ve been moonlighting.”

  “You don’t have to do the kiddie-fiddlers on your own, you know. Have a bit of patience,” Jack sighed. “Why do you always have to steam ahead without thinking?”

  “I’m Aries with Taurus rising. What can I say? We don’t do patience,” she twinkled at him.

  He shook his head, ignoring her. “Besides, how would Maggie know? Pyke manages to cover for you, most of the time…for both of us.”

  “Why, what do you get up to?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  He gave her a side on look. “As if I’d tell you,” he smiled.

  “Hey that’s not fair. You can’t slag me off for going solo when you’re doing it.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a difference. You get caught and I don’t,” he sighed. “Hopefully.”

  He stretched out his right arm and landed a punch to a bemused fifth gunman’s face, who was staring at the scene, wondering what the hell had happened to his colleagues.

  “Who do you go after? Are you going to tell me?”

  “Nope.”

  “No worries. I’ll work it out,” she remarked, grinning, her eyes scanning the buildings around her, looking for movement. “Pyke has a thing for drug addicts, me, child abusers, you…I will work it out…and I wonder what Maggie’s secret passion is, her reason for being here.”

  “She can’t be seen to have any. She’s one of the hierarchy. They have to be squeaky clean, whiter than white.”

  “Well, that counts me out ever getting a job as a Supervisor. I’m a sort of grey tinged,” she giggled, looking over at Jack.

  “A shade of grey,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning upward. She loved his smile.

  “Did you read the books?” she questioned, not able to imagine Jack reading a book, particularly a sexy one.

  “What books?”

  “Did you see the film?” She wasn’t letting up.

  “What film?” Nor was he.

  “50 Shades.”

  Silence.

  “Just asking,” she teased. “Maybe you should, you might like it, learn something.”

  “You think I’m a prude,” his voice turning cold.

  “No…just saying.”

  “I like sex, just like anyone else. It’s just not on my priority list at the moment.” He turned to her. “And it’s none of your business.”

  She’d touched a nerve, again. Why did she always manage to make him angry?

  Silence.

  Time to change the subject.

  “I know you laugh, Jack, but I am being watched. I’m not making it up. Someone’s following me. I’m sure of it.”

  “You’re paranoid,” Jack shook his head. “We’d know. Besides, we’re invisible. No one knows we’re here…except other Units, and why would they want to follow us? They have enough on their plate... unless...” He glanced back, over his shoulder.

  “Unless what? Why are you looking over your shoulder?”

  He shook his head. “Nah.. I would know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Something that we don’t get too involved in at our level, the bosses deal with them.”

  “Who?”

  “The Witnesses.”

  “What would they want with me, us?”

  “Exactly, we are small fry to them. Trust me Amy, you’re not being followed.”

  They got to the end of the road and turned to study their handiwork. Tables, chairs, billboards, garbage cans, bodies lay in the once calm sunny street. People came out of hiding, scrambling from bars, cafes, and doorways and scurried down alleyways away from the terrorists.

  Amy waited for the street to clear. Five gunmen lay strewn across the cobbles, two groaning in pain, three dead. No civilians were hurt. Police sirens rumbled in the distance.

  “Forensics are gonna have fun sorting this lot out,” grinned Jack.

  Amy caught herself staring at him. She loved to see his smile.

  “Yep. You’re getting slack, Jack. How’re they going to understand that broken neck?” She raised the handgun and aimed it at her sweating suicide bomber.

  “What do you mean? He…err…tripped…err…hard…very hard,” Jack gave a sheepish grin.

  “Tripped hard? Are you joking? It must have been bloody hard to snap a head clean off its spine.” Amy steadied her outstretched arm. “Maybe this will help confuse them.”

  She squinted at her target and pumped three bullets into his stomach. The suicide belt exploded, shattering windows, spitting fireballs, and silencing the wailing gunmen. She javelined the gun high in the air to join the scorching mess. They turned and walked down a side street.

  “An
d how do you think the forensic boys will understand today’s death-by-coffee-mug?” teased Jack.

  “He tripped…err…hard…very hard,” giggled Amy, mimicking Jack. “We can’t always give it to them on a plate. They have to have some unsolved mysteries.”

  “Yeah, but if they have good evidence, they can make things stick in court. Without it, the bad boys get off.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah…I know. Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this job,” she sighed. “I haven’t got the patience.” She looked across at Jack for comfort.

  “Don’t look at me, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. You have to play by the rules…and if you don’t,” he chided. “Don’t get caught.”

  She leaned her head to the side and studied him. He is so fucking handsome.

  Jack, feeling uncomfortable with her gaze, ran his hand over his scarred cheek.

  “Right,” he barked, checking his watch and changing the subject “Where next?”

  “Soho Sid, a whorehouse in Greek Street, London. We have such nice clientele, don’t you think?”

  She looked back over her shoulder at the plumes of black smoke, the sirens getting louder as they neared.

  “Don’t you just love the sound of a police car? It does it for me every time. Gives me goose-bumps.”

  Close by, a smouldering cigar dropped to the ground. The tip of a shiny black patent shoe stepped on the butt and slowly twisted left and right, scrunching it into the dirt. The shiny shoes calmly followed Jack and Amy into the side street, their smart ‘click-click’ resonating on the cobblestones.

  Amy glanced over her shoulder, but couldn’t see anything.

  Chapter Nine

  JACK

  Six months earlier, Fulham Road,

  Chelsea, London

  Clutching a black briefcase and holding his raincoat tightly closed at the neck, Jack stood still in the cold, dark torrential rain outside his home. A streetlamp lit up his pained face as he stared into windows, watching the beautiful woman he felt nothing for excitedly preparing for his arrival. Becoming soaked, he felt numb. He simply didn’t care. He wondered if he ever really had.

  He watched Mara move from one room to the next, setting the table for supper. He knew what she would be doing; repeatedly realigning objects into perfect position. Knives, forks, flowers, candles, chairs: everything had to be just so. Everything had to be flawless. To the outside world, she mimicked the perfect wife.

  His eyes closed with sadness. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t love this woman. He lived a lie.

  With a heavy heart, he trudged to the front door, inserted the key into the lock, and forced himself to cross the threshold. Perfect Mara rushed towards him: stunning, willowy, immaculate. Her long brown hair in a loose Rapunzel plait flowed down her back. She wrapped her tanned, jewel-laden arms around his neck and draped herself across his chest.

  “Hey, I’ve missed you, lover boy.” Her heady, cloying perfume hit the back of his throat. The scent used to turn him on, before he knew the truth, before the shedding of the first layer of snakelike skin.

  Jack gently pushed her away; she smarted at his reaction, but pretended not to notice.

  “I’m soaking wet. I don’t want to ruin your outfit. let me go and change.” He stepped away from her, avoiding eye contact.

  He dropped his briefcase to the floor, slipped out of his raincoat, hung the damp garment over the banister, and lumbered up the stairs, his head low, his shoulders hunched with resigned acceptance.

  With Cleopatra arrogance, Mara stood at the bottom of the stairs and held her head high. Eyes sly, she watched him ascend, knowing the truth but refusing to accept it. He will love me…he will.

  She lifted his briefcase and placed it on the hallway table, exactly in the centre of its highly polished mahogany surface. She took time to nudge it backwards and forwards until all four sides sat equidistant to the table’s edge.

  It was important that everything she touched, everything she had control over, was always in its place, in an exact place for no particular reason. It was just so.

  The obsession was exhausting and time-consuming, but for a few moments, whilst making things perfect, her fears took a back seat and the blissful escapism relaxed her.

  Her peace was short-lived. Staring down at the shiny brown leather, she placed her hands either side of the briefcase, spreading her fingers wide across the glossy table top.

  Slowly at first, then building in speed, she absentmindedly drummed her fingers, over and over, as if playing piano keys. Long red talons rhythmically rose and fell, repeatedly pounding the wood, getting louder and louder, until she abruptly stopped. She lifted her hands to the top of the case.

  She gently stroked her fingertips across it, methodically and erotically, backwards and forwards, tracing the leather’s cool softness, enticing it to open for her, to reveal its secrets.

  Suddenly impatient, she gripped the sides of the case and ran her thumbs across the numbered locks, willing them to open, but she didn’t know the combination.

  Time stood still as she accepted defeat. She would have to wait.

  Her glazed eyes wandered up the wall, to look at her reflection in the hallway mirror.

  The briefcase forgotten, she tilted her head, admired her ethereal beauty and smiled.

  “OK, darling,” she trilled. “I’ll pour you a drink.”

  Seeing the raincoat behind her in the mirror, she closed her eyes, lowered her head as if in prayer, and slammed the fingertips of both hands against her temples, pressing, kneading, and dragging the skin of her face to ease the anger building inside.

  Then, with the flick of a switch, she stopped, dropped her hands to her side, straightened up, poised her head high, and feigned a fake smile. Mara, calm and in control.

  She turned her attention to the raincoat and sauntered to the banister. Fussing with its material, she flicked rainwater from the lapels.

  “And don’t be too long, darling,” she shouted up the stairs. “I have your favourite for supper. We don’t want it to get ruined.” The ever attentive, perfect housewife.

  “Did you see her today?” she asked sweetly, slipping a searching hand into the raincoat’s pockets. “Did you see the bitch today?”

  Chapter Ten

  Present Day, Cloud 9

  Pyke and Maggie settled down to their tea and biscuits with the comfortable silence of age-old friends. Sharing the deep, leather-worn sofa, they kept their eyes on the screens of Pyke’s Stonehenge storyboard world. He’d spun each screen to face the sofa. He liked to take a moment of free time, to stop and smell the roses every now and then, and to take a precious moment of mindfulness in his 24/7 work marathon.

  Something he’d been unable to do when alive.

  Like Amy, a brave soldier of depression, his mind had never let him stop, to relax and enjoy a moment. Destructive thoughts ruined any moments of quiet. Fear, shame, panic, self-loathing, and loneliness would rush to the surface whenever he stood still or relaxed his defences.

  Beating the sadness was a daily battle, but he knew now it didn’t need to be. He wished he’d reached out for help, had taken less meds and more therapy, learned a few mental tricks on how to manage the illness. But the thought of leaving his apartment and the safety of his computers to come face-to-face with those who didn’t understand had kept him a prisoner.

  Depression was one thing he didn’t miss about his earth life, but he shouldn’t knock it. Living his life through computers had made him what he was today; a genius and techno geek with the ability to multitask mercurial problems. Everything for a reason, he was a crucial member of the Unit.

  Today, free from illness, he lived and relished every precious second to its fullest, especially intervals where he idly supped tea with Maggie. Today, he was all about enjoying his time, the now, making it count, having fun, mindfulness.

  They sat quietly for a few minutes, happy in their solitude, lost in thought. With his cup of tea h
eld mid-air, Pyke tilted his head this way and that way, viewing his work as if in an art gallery.

  “We have some more help on the way for you. You can’t keep up with all this on your own. I know you don’t like help, but try…for me…will you?” Maggie nudged Pyke in the ribs.

  He shrugged, gazing into his cup. “Maybe.”

  “Give this one a chance…OK? If nothing else they can make us tea.”

  Maggie smiled and shook her head, knowing the conversation didn’t change his mind. Pyke hated sharing his precious walls. He preferred to work alone, but with their increasing workload he did need help.

  A calm silence fell between them. Few people could sit together comfortably in silence, one or other would always try to fill the gaps with chatter. Maggie loved Pyke for that.

  She sipped gently from her teacup, her little finger cocked as she raised the fine china to perfectly painted coral lips. The screen furthest away attracted her attention. She spied it with wolf-like eyes. Files and images were open across it, lighting it up with the face of a smiling young woman beaming at them.

  “What are you working on, on number five? I don’t remember authorising it,” she asked.

  Pyke followed her gaze.

  “Oh…that,” he said, giving a quick shrug. “It came in when you were at the departmental meeting. Thought I’d take a look for you. Alice Chambers has been missing for 31 days. Her family and friends have been searching for her. Her parents are frantic. It’s hit the news headlines and is trending on social media…hashtag FindAlice.”

  Maggie nodded for him to continue.

  “They have no body, no witnesses, no lines of inquiry. She could be alive, in need of help, or she could be dead in a ditch somewhere.”

  “We’re overrun with misspers. Why are we…or more to the point…why are you interested in this one?” she asked with a wily smile.

  “Well, she’s cute,” beamed Pyke.

  Maggie raised an amused eyebrow. He shrugged and continued.

  “Honestly, it’s a strange one. Everyone likes her. She has no enemies we know of. She works with children’s charities, loves saving lives, and has just returned home after a six-month stint in Africa. She has no previous criminal history, no charges, no reports, no intelligence anywhere on her. She lives with her mother. The day she went missing, as normal, she’d taken the bus into town to do a bit of shopping but didn’t return. Her local Police force is overstretched with funding cuts and no men on the ground. After four weeks with no leads, their focus is moving on to other more pressing cases. She’s drifted to the back of the pile.”