Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  She stood up and checked around—no cameras. There were a few patrons in the corner and the bar owner. She walked over to where the man who had insulted her sat, and kept her voice deliberately meek. “Excuse me, that wasn’t very nice. I spoke to you with respect and you—”

  “Fuck off outta my face you fucking stuck up butch twat,” he shrieked.

  Ciara flashed him her sweetest smile, and a mask of confusion descended on his face. “Can’t we be friends?”

  As he opened his mouth to speak, her right elbow rifled onto his nose in a cruel Sawk Tong—smashing down elbow. He skidded off the stool with the blood gushing out of his now fractured nose. He was on his knees. His hands hovered over his nose, and he unleashed an effeminate cry. He looked up at her with his face cycling through despair and submission, before settling on anger. The expression disappeared after her knee shot into his face, pulverizing the teeth from the gums and covering her jeans in blood. He slumped unconscious.

  She looked at open mouthed the bar owner, who seemed to recover his bearings. “I was in the back. I didn’t see anything.”

  “I appreciate it, though you can’t speak for everyone else, unfortunately. I’ll take my medicine when the police get here.”

  “No you will not, girl,” a handsome, middle-aged woman trumpeted. “You’ll get yourself gone. No one seen anything now, you hear?”

  The rest of the customers nodded in silent agreement.

  Ciara left as the feeling of gratefulness coursed through her.

  The BMW’s acceleration pressed Bruce’s head back into the headrest. He briefly berated himself for his oversight. He dialled Connor’s number, but the line went immediately to voicemail—fuck.

  He hoped that he got there in time, or better, that there was nothing to be in time for. As he peeled off the motorway and sped towards the destination, he could see that he was out of luck—at least with the latter.

  Ben Shaw sipped his tea in his work’s room. He had been up since five o’clock.

  The software he had developed to isolate, enhance and clean the dialogue had completed ninety-seven percent of its task. As soon as it hit a hundred percent, it would automatically upload itself to Jamie, who would then digitally ‘polish’ it.

  Shaw smiled as he thought of his Latin friend. The Peruvian had been a prototypical awkward computer nerd when Shaw had first met him. They had both been students at the London Imperial College and had bonded over a shared interest in Information Technology. Shaw had been savvy enough in computer programming to understand that Jamie was a genius in this field. Perhaps too much of one, the South American had been doing all sorts of crazy shit and when he disappeared Shaw had feared the worst.

  He popped up a few years later, and they had met for a coffee. He seemed a different person. He had a confidence about him, and Shaw had been impressed. It helped that Jamie had better clothes and professionally styled hair and beard. But it was the sense of purpose that shone through.

  Now, despite the darkness outside giving credence to the early hour, Shaw felt the same sense of purpose. When Bruce had explained to him that there was an organisation taking the homeless and vulnerable, and killing them for their organs, Shaw knew he would give anything he could to defeat it.

  He flicked on the kettle he had designed—nine seconds to boil a litre of water. He poured the liquid onto a tea bag in his ‘I am the Boss’ mug. His phone went off,

  “Yeah?”

  “You expecting company at this time in the morning,” said Bruce when he answered.

  “No”

  “There are three not so gentle-looking characters about to enter the building. Get out of there.”

  Shaw’s heart rate spiked. He wanted to leave, but they were so close to achieving the objective.

  “I can’t. The audio file is several minutes off being ready to upload.”

  “Look, we can always—”

  “—no. I’ll stall them” said Shaw. He hung up amid the beginnings of Bruce’s protest.

  Bruce awkwardly ran towards the warehouse with his CZ 75 SP 01 pistol in hand—his knee reminding him that it was artificial. He positioned himself next to the entrance. He was careful to keep his finger off the trigger. Bruce had spent hundreds of hours clearing buildings both for real and in training. Techniques would continuously evolve, but some basic principles remained the same. Checking the corners, keeping a foot away from the walls to avoid ricochets, ‘slicing the pie’ and moving immediately away from the ‘fatal funnel’ would always be mainstays. Although he had skill and experience, he now faced three threats on his own, without body armour or flash-bangs. ‘Slow is smooth and smooth is fast’ was one of the mantras used. Shaw would have to take a few extra skelps—Bruce couldn’t help him if he himself was incapacitated or dead.

  He made his entry, and heard the sounds: crashing, exertions, and shouts ahead. Still, he checked every potential firing point while he ghost walked up to Shaw’s workroom. He steadied his breathing.

  He spotted the man with the pistol before the man spotted Bruce, as his focus was on the beating his two colleagues were administering on the far side of the room. Usually, Bruce would employ the failure drill—two to the centre of mass, one to the head—when shooting people, but given that he was on his own, with limited ammunition, he opted for single shots to the head.

  The man’s cheek hollowed inwards as the bone fragments splintered outwards. The body collapsed revealing the blood splash against the wall.

  The Scotsman dropped into a spinning crouch and shot the second in the throat. Arterial blood spurted out, and the third guy levelled his pistol. Bruce was already diving for the cover of the gap between the workbenches.

  Three shots rang out before the sound of skidding feet echoed down the corridor. Bruce sprang out with his pistol raised only to find his enemy had fled. He rushed to Ben Shaw. Bruce knew he was going to die as he looked at the two entry wounds in Shaw’s chest.

  The strangulated voice choked out, “Check the computer upload. And…and…make sure you…kill all of them.”

  Bruce checked the computer. He returned to Ben just as the engineer’s eyes began to flicker,

  “Din’nae worry lad. They’ll all die soon enough, and none of them will see heaven.”

  Shaw’s eyes closed with the small smile remained on his face as his heart stopped beating.

  48

  Ciara attempted to calm her feverish internal dialogue as she walked down the street. What she had just done wasn’t smart in either her profession as a journalist or an agent. All it would have taken was for someone to have pointed an Android phone, a quick Facebook upload and she would have been sacked from both professions. That said, she couldn’t deny the feeling of satisfaction she got as she replayed and freeze-framed the image of the shock and pain plastered on his face after the elbow strike.

  She text Norton as she walked. ‘Original meeting point no longer a go. Drive to King’s Cross then call me. I’ll direct you from there.’

  King’s Cross was the location of one of the safe-houses. She began to feel a sliver of concern that Norton hadn’t replied. She quelled these fears—he could be held up for a number of different reasons and wouldn’t be able to tell me.

  She headed towards a taxi rank. In the immediate aftermath of the incident in the café, Ciara had neglected her counter surveillance duties.

  She was unaware she was being followed.

  Connor walked back from Whole Foods in Camden Town to the safe-house in King’s Cross.

  After hours of listening to podcasts, and reading into the subject of diet had led him to realize that no one person had the definitive answer. He had listened to one doctor talk with authority about the myriad of benefits that the Ketogenic Diet had, and he’d been convinced. That was before he listened to another doctor on the same podcast who had refuted it. The only thing that Connor could discern that the vast majority of the experts could agree on, was that the food you eat should be as natural as possibl
e—to stay away from processed food with a high content of trans fats and sugars.

  That’s why he shopped at Whole Foods even though his working class soul resented it.

  The walk from Camden Town to King’s Cross would have taken a ‘civilian’ around ten minutes. But with the counter surveillance measures of looping back and pausing at corners, it took him just shy of twenty.

  He didn’t know whether Ciara would be in or not. She had text him earlier to let him know she had arrived in London. It had a more personal undertone to it.

  He was beginning to feel a little conflicted. He understood now that perhaps he was a little naïve in thinking he’d be able to resist sleeping with a girl that attractive if she put it on him. But now he was beginning to develop strong feelings for her. He found himself making a list in his head of profs and dips—the pros and cons—of both Ciara and Grace. Grace profs—funny, warm, red head, dirty and submissive in bed, high powered career, from Leeds. Grace dips—civilian and refused to work out. Ciara profs— interesting, fiery, stunning looking, works out, can back him up in a fight, same profession, can tell her almost everything with regards to his work. Ciara dips—chokes me in bed, bites me in bed, nails draw blood in bed. Funny, but not like Grace. Would physically attack me if pushed—and that would be a nightmare.

  Yes—he decided—I’ll cool it down with Ciara.

  He reached the flat and entered. Ciara would still be debriefing her contact. An image flashed in his head of her ‘pegging’ her contact and Connor smiled. He remembered how she had offered to do it to him and how he’d turned her down. He had read how massaging the prostate gland during sex could produce an orgasm described as a ‘white fire of pleasure’. This was exactly why he’d turned her down—he would be asking for it all the time. Before long it would be one small step to taking an actual cock in his arse—perhaps a gorgeous Thai she-male at first; that wouldn’t be gay, it would be ‘Royally, royally’ he’d tell himself. But there was a dearth of convincing looking she-males in the UK, which might lead him to trying a man. Perhaps you’re looking too far into it—he mused.

  As was his habit, he had a cursory glance around before fully entering the apartment. Ciara wasn’t there. The apartment was two floors. Upstairs were the two bedrooms, bathroom and spare room. The entrance door opened into the downstairs living room and the kitchen beyond. The living room had a storage alcove next to it which was pretty sparse except for a mop and bucket, and a few cleaning products.

  Connor packed the food shopping away and put the kettle on.

  He checked his phone, and noticed that it had been up-dating. It came back online as he was looking at it. He had two missed calls from Bruce. He called him back but it just rang out. Then the phone vibrated and he read the message from Ciara—‘Back in approximately five minutes. Put the kettle on’.

  He jogged upstairs to the toilet and afterwards noticed through the ajar door, Ciara’s travel kit on the bed.

  He smiled to himself. In anticipation of the initial meeting with her contact, she’d bought something in addition to her strap-on. She hadn’t had to use it in the end, but he knew it must be still in her kit. He smirked—he would hide in the living room storage cupboard with it on, before bursting out and surprising her. He knew she wouldn’t be armed, The Project’s MO on UK soil was to only have firearms inside their houses or in the safe houses, unless for specific offensive actions. The only reason she’d had a pistol on the night Rashid had attempted to ambush him, was because she had picked it up from an armourer that very day. That’s a point—he thought—I’ll point the suppressed pistol at her so she doesn’t immediately begin to fill me in.

  Bruce lifted Shaw’s phone to his ear. Jamie’s digitalized voice sounded as clear as day,

  “What’s happened? The upload cut off—”

  “Jamie, its Bruce.”

  “Why? Where’s Ben?”

  “I have some bad news.”

  There was a silence for a beat.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Ben. He’s dead.”

  Another short silence, and then, “How? Can you say?”

  “They came for him. Three men. He died stalling them so they wouldn’t cut the upload. But I guess they managed it. They have erased the file too. I got there and neutralized two of them. The third shot Ben while making his escape. I am sorry Jamie.”

  “Did they have anything in their possession to identify them?”

  Bruce knew it was typical of Jamie to want to ‘solve’ the problem.

  “No. I shot one in the head, so you can’t use your facial recognition on him. The second was caught in the throat. I am uploading now.”

  “How did they know?”

  “They must have made the mole and somehow tracked the transmission. I am going to call Ciara now. She’s in danger.”

  “What about Connor?”

  “He’s sharing the same safehouse to maintain their cover of being a couple. If she’s in danger then he is too.”

  Connor began to feel faintly ridiculous—I’m just a few years off being thirty, hiding in a cupboard, preparing to scare a colleague with a loaded pistol. He began to recall the words of one of his Sergeant’s, that ‘you’re the most solid smart person I know, what is the point of having a brain when you insist not using it!’

  The sound of the door unlocking, jerked him out of his daydream. He heard Ciara talking on the phone. “He didn’t show. But I received a text literally as you called saying he was on his way to the area—yes, I’ll be vigilant.”

  She’d be on the phone to Bruce and went into the kitchen. Connor didn’t think it wise to bomb out now. In fact, he decided to abort. At that moment, a group of men burst into the door and streamed into the kitchen.

  “He didn’t show. But I received a text literally as you called saying he was on his way to the area,” said Ciara down the phone, as she walked through the door and into the kitchen.

  “I think there’s a better than average chance he has been compromised,” said Bruce.

  “Yes, I’ll be vigilant,” she said, flicking on the kettle.

  “Don’t go and meet him without Connor providing over watch. I think they have made your contact, whether he knows it or not. We are now without a lead as to the specific individual or people behind this. You’ll have to meet him I am afraid, and you’ll be bait.”

  “I understand.”

  The phone clicked off, and she was surprised the kettle heated so quickly. Connor couldn’t have been here or he would have shouted down the stairs when she got in. She poured the boiling water into her mug.

  She span around at the sound of footsteps—they’ve found me. The scolding coffee splashed into the first man’s face. He screamed in agony before being thrown out the way by the second man.

  He avoided her uppercut, and his forehead crashed into her cheek sending her sideways along the edge of the kitchen top. She straightened up and unleashed a barrage of blows but he kept his chin down and arms up protecting his head. She kneed him in the stomach, but a third assailant joined the affray, his whipping knuckles colliding against her cheekbone. She again fell back into the counter. As she tightened her fists against her face, and elbows against her ribs, her brain screaming—don’t go down, don’t go down, or that’s it.

  She heard three ‘clacks’ bounce around the room. Warm liquid splashed all over her face and arms. And the fists and boots stopped pounding into her. She looked up and the surrealism of the scene stopped her for a moment. The man who had headbutted her now stood with his back to her. The man who had punched her in the cheek now lay at her feet—the entry wound gaping from the back of his head. She then realised that the warm liquid on her face was his blood.

  The man she had scolded lay in the corner with his forehead resembling smashed pomegranate.

  And in the door was a figure wearing a familiar, black-leather mask, pointing a suppressed pistol at the man who had head butted her. A firearm was impossible to ‘silence’; e
xploding gunpowder was still exploding gunpowder. The suppressor had taken the decibel level of the shots down to the ‘clacks’ she had heard.

  The weird mask spoke, “Get on your knees and interlock your fingers before your knee caps go missing.”

  She recognised Connor’s voice.

  “What the fuck?” she exclaimed.

  “Don’t ask,” he said. “Besides you’ll need one for being seen in public with.”

  It was then she became aware of the swelling on both her cheeks.

  “You,” said Connor to the kneeling man. “Lay face down on the floor”

  The man complied. Connor beckoned her over to him. He gave her the pistol and took the gimp mask off.

  “Who sent you?” Connor asked him.

  “You won’t make me talk.”

  Connor looked at Ciara and smiled, “I was praying he’d say something like that.”

  49

  Frank Schwimmer couldn’t remember feeling an excitement on this level before. He was familiar with the type of sensation but not like it was filling his being now.

  For Schwimmer, it had begun with a business meeting with an Angel investor named Andrew Thomas. This had been nearly ten years ago, before Schwimmer was a billionaire like the native of Kentucky was.

  It seemed to him that Thomas just wanted to take him hunting. Schwimmer had accepted, and found that Thomas had a full camouflage suit in his exact size waiting for him. The next day, after seemingly hours of hiking and then concentrated stalking, they were finally in proximity to their prey, and Thomas insisted that Schwimmer take the shot. Nerves and excitement had filled Schwimmer’s body as he lined up the sights on the doe—his first potential kill. He squeezed the trigger, and the arrow zinged through the air in a flash of red. The doe bolted away, and initially, Schwimmer thought he had missed. That was until Thomas’s large hand swatted him on the shoulder while roaring, ‘Y’all see that! Ya shoot like you lived in the Bluegrass all ya damn life boy.’