“Yeah, dishing out a little payback on a few bullies. They’re a nice bunch, the Irish Unit.”
“Gabe’s a good boy. He’s another ex-hacker. We have our uses. Not sure how I’m going to sort a dead person’s Twitter account kicking butt, but hey, glad we were able to help. Now can you make me a cuppa? I’ve nearly got this sorted.”
Amy smiled to herself with a feeling of accomplishment. If the systems were down, Pyke may not have witnessed what she’d actually posted to the trolls. She’d been a little cruel and had chucked a few people under the bus. But hey, they deserved it.
“Don’t know how you understand all that stuff. Looks like spaghetti to me,” she commented, tapping Pyke on the shoulder. “Cup of tea?”
“And a custard crème, please.” He placed a screw in the box’s back panel and closed it. “Nothing to it. Love this old fashioned stuff. I’m installing backup to counter any future failures. Didn’t like being caught on the hop like that. Not good for my hacker image.”
Amy wandered over to the kitchen, prepared two cups of tea, and noted how funny it was she’d become addicted to tea since her arrival on the Unit. On earth, she’d been a coffee drinker through and through. Something about tea calmed her and set her up for the next job. Mimicking and holding onto human habits had become a psychological pastime there, all make-believe, as they didn’t really consume anything. A soul sometimes needed something soothing to hang on to.
She noticed how empty the office felt without Jack. His powerful energy ignited the room with so much drive, she loved being around him.
“Where are the others?” she asked, as she placed the steaming teacup on Pyke’s table.
“Maggie’s in a meeting. Jack and Mara tended to a job, but I haven’t seen them.” Pyke gave her a side look, debating whether to tell her or not? Jack and Amy were his friends.
“What are your thoughts on Mara?”
“Well, she’s not someone I would normally hang out with. She’s a little up herself for me, but we don’t have much choice up here, do we?”
Pyke looked at Amy. She had a right to know. “She and Jack are married…were married…but you know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know,” Amy muttered, looking at the ground. “I just wish he’d told me he had a bird.”
“Well, I’m not sure they’re still together. She killed him, apparently.”
“If that’s the case, she’s a murderer, so how come she is up here with us goody goodies?” Amy questioned.
“I’m not sure. The police report says suicide. Allegedly, she came home and found him, but from the angle of the knife, the fact he was having sex at the time, and the fact that the knife had been found outside his body, none of it rings true for me.”
“She may have pulled it out when she found him.”
“Yeah, I’m probably barking up the wrong tree. Jack will tell us the details if he wants to. Suicides don’t normally make it here, not when their energy is spent. They just don’t have the passion for it. But hey, you never know.”
Amy sipped her hot tea, enjoying the warm feeling in her hands as she cupped the delicate china teacup. Pyke placed the black box on the floor and connected his laptop to it. Amy continued to drink as she watched his deft fingers scramble across the keyboard, typing lines of code to complete the setup.
“You’re brilliant, Pyke. They can’t ever let you go. You’re too indispensable,” she said.
“Oh, there’ll be other geeks after me, much better ones, I’m sure.”
She stared into her cup. She couldn’t imagine the Unit would be the same minus Pyke. His humour and passion, his easy mood and attitude, and his willingness to go beyond the call of duty made the Unit a fun place to work.
“I’m a bit in love with Jack, you know.”
“I know.”
“Do you approve?”
“He’s a nice guy…a little complex…but hey, aren’t we all?” Pyke’s diplomacy always diffused the mystery and added the fatherly touch.
“I realised something today. I spent so much time rushing around when I was alive, I didn’t stop and smell the roses. I took everything for granted. A person always puts things off until tomorrow, never thinking there may not be a tomorrow. I don’t want to do that up here, with whatever time I have left. I want to spend time with Jack. I want him, Pyke. I love him.”
Pyke looked at her and nodded.
“I know. I get it.”
“We had sex, and we didn’t die…so I guess, the answer to my question is it’s OK to fuck up here,” she giggled.
“Yeah, I know. I was tuned in for a second and saw you…very traumatic,” he said with a playful smile.
Amy blushed.
“I’m worried about Mara. She seems to have a hold over him.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
Pyke turned away, looking sheepish. “I just do.”
“What’s wrong? Tell me.”
Pyke scrunched up his face, not wanting to reply.
“You’re hiding something, what?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Urgh… I’ve just watched Jack and Mara at it in the street, down there, on a job.” There, he’d told her. Lying didn’t suit him, even if white lies served to protect feelings.
“What do you mean ‘at it’?”
“At it, you know…fucking.” He winced, knowing the truth would pain her like a blade slicing her heart.
Amy felt every muscle contract in a protective defence. Her gaze dropped, studying the golden liquid in her cup as if it offered solace. Deliberately and carefully, she lowered it to the table for fear of dropping it and making a mess. She dared to gaze up at Pyke, examining his features and creases for signs he was joking. His sad eyes and tight lined mouth indicated it was not a horrible joke.
“Are you sure?” she questioned, not willing to trust her impressions of his honesty, wanting it to be false, waiting for another punchline.
“Sorry, Amy, but there are no hidden truths here. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
The devastating news triggered waterworks. Tears spilled down Amy’s face with convulsive sobs. Dizziness swept through her as her body swayed left then right. She pressed her hand against the table for support. Pyke opened his arms and let her gratefully fall into them. They didn’t speak.
Amy rested her head on his shoulder as he rocked back and forth.
“Sorry, I forgot the biscuits,” she mumbled, trying to stop the tears.
“No worries.”
“I guess you don’t have any remedy to harden a heart, do you, Pyke? Life would be so much easier without being able to feel all this emotional crap.”
“No, and I wouldn’t even if I could. Your heart is what keeps you here, keeps you kicking the shit out of the idiots down there. Keeps you looking out for the vulnerable ones.”
“Why is he with her?”
“I’m not sure he knows. Sex is a weird one. It’s one of those powerful energies that makes everything else disappear, a drug that reduces resolve and takes risks.”
A clicking sound drew Pyke’s gaze toward the door.
“Hey, we have a visitor. I think you’re needed.”
Amy lifted her head and turned around. Connor stood in the doorway, staring at her, stepping from one foot to the other, anxious to go somewhere. His claws clicking on the flooring. She smiled, wiping her tears.
“Whoa…Connor, what are you doing here?”
“Go, Amy go,” Pyke ushered her out. “He wouldn’t come here unless it was urgent. I’ll follow on your eye camera, and we’ll get whatever it is authorised as we go.”
Amy wiped her eyes, gave Pyke a kiss on the cheek, knocked back the rest of her tea, and followed Connor out of the door.
Chapter Forty-Four
Alice
Brighton, UK
Alice lay very still in her prison, curled up on her bed with her back facing the door. Watching the locked barrier had driv
en her anxieties into overdrive, and she screamed in her head, wanting to get out. She played games in her mind, creating scenarios based on wishful thinking. If she didn’t move, he might ignore her. He might walk past her door and move on to the next person. She prayed he would, prayed he and his friends had grown tired of her.
She buried her head in the mattress, trying to hold back the retch caused by the acrid stench of urine, vomit, sweat, and fear.
She had no one to hold on to, with whom to share her fear. Loneliness affected her, the isolation becoming unbearable. Initially, she’d felt relieved to be in a room on her own, but now she wished she had someone to share with, someone to talk to.
Depression in all its misery beat her down relentlessly as equally as the physical abuse. The windowless room suffocated her, locked her in darkness, filth, deafening silence, and hopelessness. Every day she battled anxiety attacks, sucking in putrid, heavy air, succumbing more and more to panicky breath and overwhelming fear.
She could hear others in adjacent rooms cry out at night, some calling for their mother, some for their god, and some in languages she didn’t recognise. No other English voices apart from hers slipped through the corridor. She cried out the name Maria, but no one replied.
She stiffened, contracting every muscle in her body, even clamping her eyes solidly closed in rebellion, when the muffled classical music piped into the corridor with its ebbing announcement: He was coming. The squeaking wheelchair screeched, a dissonant contrast to the music. Her ears perked in high alert, listening to the noise seeping through the gaps in the doorframe. She could picture his controlled body sauntering down the corridor, humming to the music. His lemon fragrance wafted through the air. That smell of Summer she had so liked in the beginning now made her retch with disgust.
Holding her breath, she waited to see whom he would choose, if he would pass her door. He hadn’t come for her in two days—two short days. Was it her turn?
Her fellow prisoners’ whimpering told her each of them prayed as hard she did not to be chosen.
Whoever quietly returned after one of his sex parties took a strange comfort in knowing she would be free from sexual assault for at least a short reprieve. Some would return days later, crying, mumbling, going out of their minds.
Some would not return at all, their room left empty for a few days until he hunted and snared new prey. God only knew what had happened to them in this living hell. The energy of death was palpable. All of them begged for the end to come, for the living hell to be over: Alice included.
She jumped as a bolt slid and snapped, sighing in relief to realize he’d stopped at the room next to hers. Thank God it was not her turn today, but she cringed in empathy for the other poor victim.
She whispered a prayer for her safety, although it may be kinder to let her die.
She lay rocking on her bed, the squeaking springs giving her comfort. Silent tears rolled down her face. She now dreaded tomorrow. It may be her turn. She begged for God or someone to save her.
Chapter Forty-Five
Wye Valley,
Monmouth, South Wales
Connor darted across acres of lush green grazing fields with the speed of a hungry tiger, making it difficult to keep up. Pyke tuned into the scene via Amy’s eyes; neither he nor Amy had a clue where Connor was leading them.
As they cleared the field and halted on a road in front of a farmer’s property, they passed three teenage boys running, laughing, pointing at an old wooden barn at the end of the lane. Amy and Connor peered at black smoke billowing from the roof. Connor tore out, hurrying to reach it, Amy at his heels. As they neared, Amy heard horses neighing wildly. It was a stable.
The barn’s four walls and roof sat ablaze with angry red flames reaching for the sky. Black smoke fogged the air, making it difficult to see or move around the monstrous bonfire. Connor and Amy stood in front of the imposing barn doors, untouched, but for how long?
Connor nudged Amy’s leg, as if to say ‘follow me,’ and leapt through the doors. She followed, instinctively hiding her face behind her arm as she charged through, uncertain what awaited on the other side.
Inside, sixteen occupied stalls lined the walls, eight on each side. Frightened horse battered their stalls with bloodied hooves, trying to escape the heat, smoke, and flames. Neighing and whinnying with loud roars of fear. Amy spotted a young boy stretched across the entrance of the tack room. Amy tended to the boy while Connor ran to the stalls.
The boy’s chest barely rose and fell with faint breaths. Amy noticed he had a bloody nose. His clothes had been torn and discoloured with blood. Amy rested a hand on his forehead and tried to give him energy, but she hadn’t mastered this technique yet.
“Where’s fucking Jack when you need him, Pyke?”
“I’ve let him know, and I’ve put in an anonymous call to the services. Can you get him up and out of there? It’s going to blow any minute. I noticed gas cylinders at the back of the tack room.”
She searched for Connor and found him running from one stall to the next, kicking his paws at the bolts, opening them. Skittish horses darted about the barn’s central area, panicking with nowhere to run. She needed to open the barn doors.
After pulling the boy to the relative safety of the tack room, she raced to the doors, and realized they’d been locked from the outside. Shit! The teenage brats had obviously trapped the boy before they ran.
She stepped through the door and turned to face it, flames licked its sides. Summonsing all her strength, she pulled on the bolt, but it wouldn’t budge. She kicked and swore, trying to get it open. Empty, feel, build, and throw.
“For fuck’s sake.” Tears streamed down her face as the horses cried in pain.
An arm reached over her. The bolt sprang out of its socket as if hit by lightning. She turned to find Jack standing behind her.
“You just have to remain calm. Put your hand on it and feel the heat go through you. No pressure, just thought. Empty your mind and feel…empty, feel, build, and throw. Got it?”
Amy spun round, punched him hard in the face, and rushed through the door to find Connor. Horses ran through her, galloping to safety.
She located Connor beside the boy, licking at his face and trying to wake him. The boy stirred and started coughing. Connor took hold of the boy’s jacket with his teeth and tugged at him, coaxing him to stand. Amy quickly assisted him and eased the boy to his feet. He staggered to the barn doors and fell against them, pushing them wider open, allowing the horses to scramble out unharmed. They cantered to the fields for safety.
The boy tottered into the lane as far as he could before toppling to the ground, his body heaving, coughing and spluttering, his lungs fighting for air.
Connor rounded up the last of the horses, nosing a small pony trembling at the back of the barn, too frightened to move. Connor snapped at its heels, making the pony run out of the barn before the main beams started to fall.
A fire engine’s siren reverberated through the countryside. Connor, Amy, and Jack stood watching the barn disintegrate to smouldering ashes. All were safe and unharmed. And the bullied boy would be hailed as a hero for saving the horses.
Connor gave a nudging lick to both Amy’s and Jack’s hands, a nod of his head, a toothy smile, and a swish of his tail before scampering off across the fields.
Jack rubbed his aching chin. “What the hell was that punch for?”
“Cos, you lied about your wife.”
Jack closed his eyes, bit hard on his bottom lip and clenched his fists, fighting to hold back a tart retort. He spun away from her and walked off down the lane, towards the oncoming fire engine.
“Have you got nothing to say?” she shouted after him, aghast, hands pressed her hips.
“Nope.”
“Where are you going?”
“To sort out the little shits. They can’t get away with this.”
She watched him trudge off and suddenly remembered the gas canisters. The fire crew would not know
they were there; they would be walking into a trap. Fuck!
She ran around the back of the barn and stepped into the burning tack room. A door led to the rear of the barn.
“OK, I can do this.” She followed Jack’s instructions. She hovered her hands on the door bolt just as he had and channelled the heat through her hands. Empty, feel, build, and throw.
Nothing happened. She tried harder, willing and pushing it to work. Empty, feel, build and fucking throw.
Nothing.
“For fuck’s sake.” The more she tried and the more she failed, the more upset she became.
She needed to calm down, reduce her stress, but the flames built around her, and the gas canisters were heating up. She could barely see through the smoke.
She kicked the cylinder. “Come on you bastard!” she shouted.
Nothing.
“OK, calm,” she chided. “For fuck’s sake…deep breath and feel.”
Using all her might to reduce the mounting panic, she closed her eyes and forced herself to relax, to empty her mind, to focus on the heat in her hands and build the energy. Black smoke swirled around her, flames licked her heels.
She scrunched her eyes tight, blocked out the noise, placed her hands on the lock, and just felt. Empty, feel, build, and throw.
The lock sprung open. The door burst ajar. Fresh oxygen gushed into the room, fuelling the flames. Elation hit her. She punched the air.
“Yes!” She could do it. Now to roll the canisters out of the barn.
She placed her hands on the first one, closed her eyes, and repeated the mantra. Empty, feel, build, and throw
It moved, falling on its side, allowing her to roll the heavy weight out onto the grass, a safe distance from the barn. She went back and did the same to the others.
By the time the firemen had reached the back of the barn, the canisters were safe. She sat on the ground and put her head in her hands.
“Fuck. This job is stressful.”
As paramedics lifted the young boy into the back of their ambulance, the lad clutched a white feather in his soot covered hand.
The Deal (The Fallen Angel Series Book 1) Page 19