First published in Great Britain in 2019
by Urbane Publications Ltd
Unit E3, The Premier Centre, Premier Way, Romsey, Hampshire SO51 9DG
Copyright © James Silvester, 2019
The moral right of James Silvester to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to
actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-912666-33-1
MOBI 978-1-912666-34-8
Design and Typeset by Michelle Morgan
Cover by Michelle Morgan
Printed and bound by 4edge Limited, UK
BOOK 2 IN THE LUCIE MUSILOVA SERIES
SEALED WITH A DEATH
JAMES SILVESTER
For the Three Million
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Acknowledgements
About the Author
ONE
It was a squalid place for a murder. The forest, cold, damp and its air permeated with an almost supernatural sense of unease, stood across from the remnants of what had once been contemptuously dubbed ‘the Calais jungle’; ostensibly a migrant camp for refugees but in reality a box into which civilised society could funnel the desperate while patting itself on the back for its compassion. The camp had long since closed, but the stench of fear and despair it had birthed remained, clinging to and perfuming the trees. Lucie Musilova watched and waited, hoping against hope that she would be spared the task of killing. The camp’s legacy was one of cruel abandonment, with pockets of the dispossessed and the neglected, many of them children with nowhere else to go, now calling these very trees home. It was these children she had come to protect.
Unmoving and with her long hair tied back, her trusted black overcoat enveloping her, she was invisible to all but the nocturnal animal life which scurried cautiously away from her position alongside a proudly ancient oak. She had waited long hours for her quarry, and though her body was motionless, her mind had begun to ponder, as it so often did, on the morality of her mission. The mark deserved to die, there was no question of that in her mind, but her years as a military Chaplain were hard to shed, and her struggle to reconcile her faith with her chosen profession brought a constant anxiety, perhaps even more so this time. She was alone in the Field without her mentor, Kasper Algers; to the public merely an outspoken Independent MP, but in reality, an operative of ‘The Overlappers’, the reclusive branch of the security services to which Lucie also belonged.
She had tackled marks without him of course, and she had taken lives long before her association with the Department, but in even these early days of their partnership, she had learned to rely on him, and he on her. But with him engaged in the Parliamentary business necessary to maintain his cover, and with their superior, the aberrant ‘Mr Lake’, eager to own the information the mark possessed, Lucie had been entrusted with carrying out the hit alone. She was several hours into her forest vigil before she appreciated how naked she felt without him.
Alone with her thoughts, she pondered how darker hues of the sex industry had brought her here, yet people back home in the UK were getting used to the daily acceptance of its arguably lighter shades. The government’s trialling of legalised brothels, while increasing its tax receipts, had in truth had a negligible impact on the problems of human trafficking, forced prostitution and sexual abuse it had been trumpeted to end. In her darker moments Lucie wondered if they had even worsened them. Certainly these ‘establishments’ had done nothing to counter the objectification of women that so infected society, with groups of young men openly making plans in the country’s workplaces for boozed up weekends ‘paying their dick tax’; a phrase that had both very quickly and very regretfully entered the vernacular.
The brainchild of Adam Butcher, an aggressively ambitious darling of the Hard Brexit extremists, the venues had provoked massive controversy that Lucie firmly believed was planned to distract the public even momentarily from the disaster of Brexit. Algers had agreed and pointed to Butcher’s own love of his reputation as a ‘scourge of feminism’; a badge Algers believed he wore simply to cover his misogyny with a more acceptable label.
In theory the new venues were staffed only by those women and men who wanted to be there; clean from any habitual drug use, happy to ply their trade in a safe environment and content to be classed alongside other self-employed professionals in any other regulated industry. That still left those outside the ‘system’, those living hand to mouth, those desperate for their next fix and those whose poverty was so extreme that the risk of performing more dangerous activities in unsafe environments, was more attractive than the notion of losing a cut to line the government’s pockets. And wherever the service was offered, it was taken advantage of, usually by the hypocritical, the violent and those with more unconventional tastes.
A car approached, and its headlights drew closer before veering slightly away as the driver twisted his vehicle into a halt, the crunch of rubber on stone and bracken announcing his arrival. The click of the handbrake on the modest and unspectacular car confirmed the driver’s intent to remain, as did the sudden quiet of the engine.
Lucie remained still and stiff, waiting with churning stomach and aching knee for what she feared would come next. She did not have to wait long.
From the trees bathed in the headlights’ glow, shuffled a tiny, awkward figure. No more than three feet high and dressed in filthy jeans and a t-shirt inadequate against the cold weather, the figure hesitated for a moment and made to turn back towards the relative safety of the all-enveloping branches. The car door opened, the creaking metal halting the youngster in its tiny stride. As it turned back towards the car, Lucie caught a first proper look at the face of the betrayed innocent caught in the beams: thick, black hair, matted and knotted with dirt, over a little girl’s wide-eyed features, the light brown of her skin stained by the woods she lived in and the remnants of the scraps she ate.
A heady cocktail of anger and revulsion bubbled up inside Lucie, as she watched the tiny one turn back towards the car, before being obscured from view as she disappeared on the far side and drew closer to the driver, waiting in his seat.
Lucie’s rage would not allow her to wait any longer. She slipped noiselessly from her position in the trees, traversing the rough ground. Reaching the passenger side of the vehicle, and crouching down, she slipped her hand beneath her coat and closed it around the unsettlingly comforting handle of the gun
she carried. Pulling it from its position, Lucie eased her head up to peer through the passenger window and check the position of her quarry.
On the backseat of the vehicle sat a paper takeaway bag, spilling its contents partly on the seat beside it. Salty fries lay around an open box of deep fried portions of what was claimed to be chicken; a small plastic toy, wrapped in a branded cellophane bag had been jammed in alongside the meal, and a small paper cup with plastic top and a straw, stood pathetically in the holder between the front and back seats. Partially covered by the snacks, lay what looked like a Smith & Wesson .45.
The driver was a man, heavy-set and with his back to Lucie. He had twisted around to sit with his legs out of the still open driver-side door, his broad shoulders stretching the material of his suit jacket as he struggled to turn his frame into whichever position he was trying to adopt. Berlioz was romanticising voluminously to the night through the car radio; normally a beautiful sound to Lucie, but only serving to add a macabre accompaniment to the actions unfolding before her, though the crescendo allowed her to click open the passenger door unnoticed. She climbed as softly and deftly into the passenger seat as the music would permit her, inching as close to her perverted target as possible, and felt her fury build as she peered over his shoulder to see the youngster, terrified and shivering, staring at the ground while the man began to reach inside his pants.
She wasn’t to kill him. Lake had been insistent on that. Instead, she was to break him and bring whatever information he held back to the Overlappers for analysis. After that, once they were sure they had everything, he was to be dragged through the press as a public warning to others in the ring, that they would be next. Lucie understood the mission; understood it and resented it. Yes, this bastard deserved humiliation, but didn’t he also deserve death?
He was struggling with the tightness of his trousers against his waist, and as he twisted further, Lucie swallowed back sufficient of her rage to retain self-control, hooking her left arm under his chin and dragging him backwards onto the seat where she pressed down onto his chest. The Target’s right hand and wrist were still stuck inside his pants, and he clawed uselessly with his left, in vain search of the gun on the back seat.
“What’s the matter?” Lucie hissed as she pressed the barrel of her own gun, a subtler Browning Hi Power, to his temple. “Having trouble finding your weapon?”
Stepping backwards from the car, she dragged her quarry with her, his legs flailing uselessly until she dumped him on his backside in the mud, where she ordered him onto his knees.
“Attends là, chéri,” she quickly said in as soft a voice as she could manage to the petrified child, still crouched by the driver’s door, hoping both that the little one spoke French and that Lucie’s attempt at the language was good enough to be understood. She turned back to the figure now knelt in the filth and levelled her gun at him.
“Pray,” ordered Lucie, coldly,
“What?”
“Pray,” she repeated. “You don’t want to meet your Maker with this shit on your conscience, you’ve two minutes to get what you need to off your chest.”
He stared back, wide-eyed and pale, his head shaking slightly, his fear obvious and emphatic. The temptation to pull the trigger was strong, and before it got the better of her, she wanted to be sure she did it right. She’d been tasked with getting information, and it was up to her how she got it; right now, a death row confession seemed as good a way as any. The righteous anger within her was unwilling to release its grip on her cognisance, but also blunted her senses to danger, so much so that as she turned back to check on the young victim, she failed to register the Target’s hand move slowly to his ankle…
Had Lucie not turned back when she did, the bullet which tore through her side would have embedded itself in her abdomen. Instead she dropped to the floor, clasping her hand to the fire raging in her wound and struggling to fill her lungs, her body refusing to cooperate as it processed the shot.
Her quarry giggled as he crawled through the slime towards her, pressing the now burning gun metal against the flesh of her cheek and licking his lips at her pain.
“I found my weapon just fine, thanks,” he gurgled into her ear, his breath on her skin. “And now the three of us are going to play with it for a while, understand?”
As Lucie’s distraction had been her undoing, so too was the Target’s overconfidence his. As he made to pick up the stricken spy, Lucie swung her left fist, charged with the sum of her pain, squarely into his groin; he emitted a loud scream as he fell back to the floor. Lucie had so little strength left, and her eyes were beginning to haze over, but she forced herself upright, ignoring the burning in her side, as to do otherwise would surely mean the death of herself and the little one she was trying to save.
The man was still clutching his gun, and Lucie grabbed his arm, twisting it upwards and back towards his head; his own strength having left him with his scream.
“Wait, wait!” he begged as the barrel touched his temple and Lucie’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t touch her, I swear I didn’t touch her!”
“Good,” Lucie breathlessly responded, “and now you never will.”
The echo of the shot rolled away through the trees; as it died away so too did Lucie’s adrenaline, and the effects of the wound began to slow her. The knowledge that there was still the child to consider was enough to convince her she couldn’t yet simply lie down and die. Her hand clasped to her side, Lucie smiled as best she could at the little one, who stared in frozen terror at what she had just witnessed.
“C’est bien,” Lucie said, holding out her hand to the infant and hoping against hope the blood on it did not frighten her further. “Je suis là pour vous aider.”
The first suggestion of a nervous smile began to appear on the youngster’s face, and she nodded as Lucie gestured for her to climb into the car. The engine was mercifully still running. Lucie slid painfully behind the steering wheel, and set off towards the port, leaving the Target in the mud; not to be found she hoped until the vermin infesting the place had had their fill of him. The drive was short, and the young girl was quiet throughout it, save only to confirm she had no siblings or friends left behind in the trees. The blood continued to leak from her and Lucie could feel she was on the verge of losing consciousness as the pair climbed from the car and headed towards the Eurostar.
Lucie knew she wouldn’t last long, and she had to be sure the child was looked after. Focussing all of her energy into keeping herself awake, she scanned the milling and scurrying passengers until her eyes settled on a young couple standing beside one of the white pillars beneath the upper walkways, sipping coffee and bickering in English. Holding the girl’s hand, Lucie staggered to the couple and gently pushed the little one towards them.
“This girl is homeless…” she began, the young man interrupting instantly.
“No, I’m sorry, we’ve no change right now…”
“Listen to me, dickhead!” Lucie shouted back, the couple looking at her in shock, both at her language and her pale and bloodstained appearance.
“I’ve just stopped some pervert from having his way with her, and now she needs to get somewhere safe. Take her to the authorities and keep her safe.”
“Wait just a min…”
“Here,” Lucie snapped, ignoring their protestations and pulling a large wad of Euros from the pocket of her overcoat. “Take half for your trouble and the rest is for her. Don’t let me find out you’ve let her down.”
With that, Lucie turned away, dismissing their blank and open-mouthed faces and blowing a kiss to the youngster, who had now taken the hand of the young woman and was smiling up at her. She pushed through the crowd, her sight failing and her wound throbbing, staggering into one person and then another as she fought her way to God knows where.
One figure refused to give way. Straining her blurring eyes at the intransigent body, she saw that it was dressed in the shades of grey and yellow trim of the Eurostar staff and sh
e shook her head wordlessly at the young man, willing him to move aside.
“Madame,” the boy began, his brow creased in concern, “Vous allez bien?”
The pain reached a crescendo and she felt her stomach convulse as her legs finally gave up the pretence of stability and her eyes surrendered to the mist.
“I’m sorry,” she said in her mind as her sight finally faded, “I’m so, so sorry.”
TWO
She awoke to the same sensation of harrowing dread that had accompanied her transition to consciousness the previous morning, her senses crying out in fearful protest at the onset of reality and ending of their temporary respite in the dream world.
Ines was far from used to these sensations. As a child, in Grand Est, she had never been one to be afraid of the dark, or to suffer a nervous disposition. Indeed, her natural inquisitiveness was matched only by her stubbornness in pursuing it, and it had been those qualities which had led her to travel the word before finally bowing to the expectations of her parents and settling down for a career, choosing London as the city in which she would make her professional name. She quickly secured employment on one of the many graduate schemes the City had to offer, and she had excelled, making many friends and few enemies along the way. Even after her mugging, not long after the Brexit vote, by men who took exception to her speaking in French on her mobile phone, her friends had rallied round. They assured her that things would get better and they would not abandon her to the grim and dangerous forces the campaign had unleashed.
But today, she felt none of her usual confidence. She rose reluctantly from the bed, striving to keep the volcanic clash of emotions within her from bursting forth, almost… almost… giving in to a sob as she showered and then brushed her teeth. She caught herself in time, spurred on by the defiance of her own reflection and spat tooothpaste into the sink with every ounce of the contempt she felt for those who’d shown her such disrespect. She dressed with renewed vigour and breakfasted on a single slice of buttered, wholemeal toast, before heading out of the small, sparsely furnished apartment. It was early, she would be alone in the office. Since it happened, she always was.
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