by J. D. Weston
But she couldn't let go. Something inside her pushed harder. With her free hand, she punched out at Harvey’s gut. But the man was like stone. The blows had no effect except to tighten his grip further.
A darkness crept in at the edge of Gabriella’s sight. She continued to punch and continued to squeeze. Something inside forced her to try. But without oxygen, her efforts grew weaker.
The final punch Gabriella delivered was feeble. The squeeze she had on him softened to nothing, and her hand dropped to the floor to support her toppling weight. She looked up at him, his eyes black, his stare neutral, offering neither a look of compassion nor hatred.
As the envelope of darkness closed on her sight like black curtains and a rush of cold blood swept through her body from her toes to her head, Gabriella heard Harvey utter a single word.
“One.”
Using a small hatchet, Harvey broke down the smashed coffee table into smaller pieces for the fire. He stacked them on the dry pile beside the log burner, burying the hatchet into a log. Then he moved into the bedroom to dress.
He found a pair of his usual black cargo pants and a white t-shirt then pulled on his tan boots and leather biker’s jacket. He slipped his phone into his pocket then gave the room a quick glance and took a mental snapshot, a habit taught to him by his mentor.
In the kitchen, he filled a glass of water, found a straw in the drinks cabinet where Melody stored alcohol, then strode over to the dining table, where, bound to a chair by her arms and legs, Gabriella sat. Her head was hanging low and her eyes were closed. Only her restraints held her upright on the chair.
Half a glass of water splashed onto her face woke her with a start.
Her skin had turned white. Dark rings were forming around her eyes and her pupils were dilated, showing only a thin trace of her brown eyes. Harvey dropped the straw into the glass and held it up for her to drink.
The re-hydration did little to wake her. Though her eyes had widened, she stared at the floor with her mouth hanging open and a sweat on her brow that gave her skin a sickly sheen.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” said Harvey, placing his Sig on the dining table beside the glass. “I’m going to give you some clothes. You’re going to freshen up, and then we’re going to go for a ride. I’ll drop you at the police station. Then you’re on your own.”
The girl offered no response. Her eyes closed and she let her head fall forward again.
A hard slap across her face woke her once more.
“You need to wake up, Gabriella.”
But again, the girl just stared at the floor.
Harvey snatched his knife from his belt, slit the bindings on her wrists and ankles, and then hoisted her over his shoulder. He walked to the bathroom, lowered her to the shower floor, and set the water to cold before turning the shower on full.
Within five seconds, Gabriella was wide awake and scrambling at the wet shower walls in a confused state. Another five seconds and she was hurling abuse at Harvey, slipping on the tiles trying to get out. In five more seconds, she was out of the shower, shivering and hugging herself, until Harvey turned the water off and threw her a towel.
He stepped outside into the room, grabbed a few of Melody’s old clothes, then returned to the bathroom and dropped them on the floor.
“Get dressed,” said Harvey, then shut the door to give her some privacy.
A few minutes passed, which Harvey spent standing in the kitchen with his eye on the bathroom door wondering if Christmas in London with Melody, Tyler, Jess and Reg would have been easier. Then the door opened. Gabriella emerged looking refreshed and clean, wearing a pair of Melody’s track bottoms and one of Harvey’s white t-shirts, which hung from Gabriella’s small frame like she’d borrowed her big sister’s clothes.
She stopped in the hallway, her bottom lip sucked into her mouth and a sorrowful look in her eye.
“There’s a pair of running shoes by the door. They should fit. You can have them,” said Harvey.
“Merci,” said Gabriella, as she made her way past Harvey, giving him a wide berth.
“Call it a parting gift.”
She stooped to pull on the running shoes but staggered, unsteady on her feet.
From a distance, Harvey watched but refused to help. It was as if the girl was drunk. Even when she stood up straight, the blood rushed to her head and she had to use the door frame to steady herself.
“I’ll be okay,” she said when she saw Harvey watching.
Harvey didn’t reply. He was enjoying the silence and the thought of peace and quiet.
“How far is the police station?” asked Gabriella.
“Twenty minutes,” said Harvey, then gestured for her to leave with a nod of his head.
He gave the house another quick glance, making a mental note of the room, then locked the doors. The girl staggered a little in the fresh air, hugging herself for warmth. As Harvey pushed open the garage door, she peered inside, her eyes bloodshot and dilated.
“You’ll need this,” said Harvey inside the garage, and he tossed Gabriella a helmet.
“You do not have a car?”
“Coming from the girl who doesn’t have shoes or clothes of her own?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” said Gabriella. “It’s just, well, it’s cold.”
Harvey eyed the girl who had just broken into his house and tried to kill him. She averted her eyes, apparently embarrassed by her comment.
With a sigh, Harvey removed his Sig from his jacket and tucked it into his waistband. He fixed his knife to his belt then slid out of his jacket and tossed it to her. Then he turned the key in the motorbike’s ignition. It started on the first turn of the starter and idled with a low rumble.
“Have you ever been on a bike?” asked Harvey as he climbed on.
A long slender leg in ill-fitting track pants slid over the seat behind him and Gabriella’s hands found Harvey’s torso.
“There’s a lot of things I hadn’t done until today,” she replied, her French accent becoming clearer.
“Is that right?” said Harvey, pulling his helmet on and sliding the visor down. “Like what?”
“Running from a pack of dogs, being hunted by armed guards in a helicopter, breaking into a house, and attacking a man with a knife. To name a few.”
Harvey turned on his seat with one foot on the ground. She stared back at him through the open visor and shrugged.
“Just saying,” she said.
“Hold on tight. Lean when I lean and keep your mouth shut,” said Harvey. “And if you try anything stupid, men in helicopters will be the least of your trouble.”
“So how do you think they got out?” asked Jones, as he and Kane stepped from the control room, closing the door to quieten Farrow’s weak threats.
“It’s interesting. I worked it out as soon as I learned how Doctor Goldsborough died,” said Kane, letting his number two struggle with the answer for a moment. Kane delighted in demonstrating his superior brain power. He walked with his hands behind his back, a method to improve his posture with the added benefit of appearing relaxed even in the most trying of times. “The girl convinced him to do it.”
“The girl? But she was in the locked room.”
“You heard Farrow’s complaints when we were in the control room. Did you hear him banging on the glass? Did you notice how clear his voice was?”
Jones nodded.
“Imagine. It's the middle of the night, and all you can hear are the seductive tones of a bright young female who is just a few feet in front of you. Maybe she let him see a little skin. Maybe she gave him a show. The doctors have it wrong. To them, the observation room is a window into the minds of the test subjects. But you heard him say it. If the body doesn't trigger the adrenaline, the drug waits. Dormant. Until withdrawal kicks in. The same goes for the brain. It’s a muscle. Given the right stimuli, who knows what a person is capable of when the drug kicks in. For the right mind, that pane of glass is a
window into the mind of whoever is sitting in the control room, late at night, alone, with just two pretty girls to look at.”
“You mean, like a superior intelligence?”
“Exactly. All it would take would be for the girl to get the doctor talking. She’d be searching for a crack in his armour. A way in. But when she found it, with the right questions and feminine persuasion, who knows what she could get the doctor to do?”
“You think she convinced him to swallow his tongue?” said Jones. “Using just words?”
“Using her mind, Jones,” said Kane. He stopped at the lab room where, on the white tables inside, sitting in neat rows, sat hundreds of vials of deep red liquid. The vials were in batches of five in plastic containers. “You see, Jones, the drug was designed to enhance every aspect of human performance. It takes brain power as well as sheer brawn and determination to win a war, you know?”
“So by giving her the drug but removing the chance of exercise or adrenaline, the drug concentrates on the brain?” asked Jones, struggling to understand.
“Yes. If the human body isn’t active. For example, when you’re at home watching TV, your brain is still working. It’s the most active muscle in the human body,” said Kane. “Even yours, Jones. The energy has to go somewhere.”
“That only explains how she killed the doctor. How did she get out?”
“I think I know the answer to that too,” said Kane, nodding at Farrow down the corridor, who was pressed against the glass, staring at them.
“You think Farrow let her out?”
Kane nodded.
“Why would he do that?” said Jones.
“You want to know what I think?” said Kane. “I think Farrow fell for the girl’s charm. He’s weak. He made a mistake and he’s covering his tracks.”
“You think the girl convinced him to let her go?”
“I don’t know, Jones,” said Kane. “But I do know that Farrow’s usefulness has come to an end.”
Jones stared back at Farrow, who looked at them, trying to work out if he’d been rumbled.
“We need to find her before the prime minister arrives,” said Kane. “He’ll be driving into town at six a.m. By that time, I want the girl dead and I want your men in position. Is that clear, Jones?”
“Farrow mentioned withdrawal symptoms. How dangerous is this girl?”
“She’ll be weakening. She’ll be begging for a fix. Lure her out with a fix of the cheap stuff,” said Kane, gesturing at the rows of prototype vials in the adjacent room. “Do whatever it takes. But do not come back here without her and the finished product that she stole.”
Jones nodded.
“In thirty-six hours’ time, the French prime minister will be making his way to Saint-Pierre for his annual holiday on his yacht. This is our chance at redemption. It might be the last one we get. If we fail, we’ll live the rest of our lives in hiding, and I don't know about you, Jones, but I’m tired of living in hiding. I’m tired of disgrace. I want the world to see how strong we are.”
“We only have twenty men, sir.”
“You’re right,” said Kane, as he stared through a window at the rows of vials in a temperature controlled room. “But twenty highly trained men pumped full of SFS will be a formidable force.”
“Charlie-two, this is Victor-one,” said a tinny voice over Jones’ radio, which was clipped to his belt. “We have a positive ID on the girl.”
The attention of both men was caught. Jones reached for the radio.
“Victor-one, this is Charlie-two. Go ahead.”
“The dogs picked up her scent. We traced it to a small farmhouse on the coast. But there’s no sign of her.”
“Do you think she’s got help?” Jones asked.
“I don’t know, sir. It’s hard to say. The trail ends here.”
Kane took the radio from Jones and held it up to his mouth.
“Victor-one, this is Charlie-one.”
“Sir?”
“Search the property. Find me the missing vial. Charlie-two will enlist the help of the local police. She can’t have gone far.”
“Copy,” said Victor-one. “Will that be all, sir?”
“No,” said Kane. “Destroy the house. Leave no trace.”
5
Run Like Hell
“Is this it?” asked Gabriella, as Harvey pulled the bike to a stop on the beach road.
They sat two hundred yards from the police station, which was a single-floor, whitewashed building with shuttered windows and two weather-beaten, wooden front doors. The grounds were un-tended with long grass on both sides of the dirt track and fruit-bearing trees spilling their produce onto the ground below.
“What was you expecting? This isn’t London or Paris. It’s the French coast. Nothing happens here.”
Outside the police station were two old Peugeot police cars and a black SUV with mud spattered up the sides of the paintwork. The Peugeots were parked in the shade beside the building. The SUV looked out of place as if it belonged to a visitor who had just stopped without parking and left the car to make a statement.
“So you’re just going to leave me here?” said Gabriella, feeling a wave of nausea climb to the back of her throat, then recede when she swallowed.
Harvey didn’t reply.
“Can you take me to the door at least?”
“The ride ends here,” said Harvey. He revved the engine once, a single blast of the exhaust to demonstrate his impatience.
“Okay, okay. I got it,” said Gabriella, as she slid from the bike.
She pulled off the helmet and let her long hair hang free. But the show didn’t distract Harvey. He remained with his visor down and his eyes set on the door of the police station as if he expected to be rushed by the men inside at any minute.
“Do you have a history with them?” asked Gabriella, feeling her cheeks whiten; sleep beckoned.
Harvey shook his head.
“There’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there, Harvey Stone?” said Gabriella, fighting nausea with deep breaths. “I get the impression that you’ve tucked yourself away in that little farmhouse for a reason. You’re hiding from something.”
Harvey snatched the helmet from her hands, leaned back, and dropped it into the back box.
“Jacket?” said Harvey.
“Are you really going to leave a girl all the way out here with nothing but a t-shirt and pants?”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“I guess you are,” said Gabriella. She slid the jacket from her arms. “And they say chivalry is dead.”
“Are we done?” asked Harvey, pulling his jacket on and connecting the zipper.
“I guess we are,” said Gabriella. “I’d love to say it was nice meeting you-”
Before Gabriella could finish her sentence, Harvey dropped the bike into first gear. He checked the mirror and accelerated off onto the quiet beach road, leaving her to watch him ride away with just the glittering reflection of the Mediterranean by his side and a dark and stormy sky above.
“Goodbye, Harvey Stone,” Gabriella said to herself, watching him fade to a tiny dot at the end of the road. She turned and began the short walk to the police station, going over what she planned to say in her head.
The building was small, a one-story cube with only a few small windows to keep the inside cool. It sat on a piece of wasteland, a baron collection of hard-packed gravel that allowed only the most resilient of weeds and grasses to climb their way into the sun. Behind and to one side, in stark contrast to the moon-like surface of the police station grounds, was the edge of the forest. Gabriella felt as if the land surrounding the police station had succumbed to the negative energy and corruption that grew like wildfire inside the building. It was, in Gabriella’s mind, tainted land.
A single policeman sat behind a single counter that offered no bulletproof glass to shield him from an attack. Only an old electric fan sat with him, either to keep him cool or keep the flies away. A line of eight old wooden
chairs ran across one wall. But Gabriella doubted that any more than two or three had ever been occupied at any one time.
The cop behind the desk followed her with his eyes as she approached. He sat with one leg folded over the other and a newspaper resting on his lap. Judging by the man’s waistline, he hadn’t seen much heavy action in recent years. A man’s laugh came from the room behind him. There was an office maybe and perhaps a cell for rogue, drunk tourists. A single door behind the counter was its only exit.
“I’d like to report a kidnapping,” said Gabriella. “Do you speak English?”
The cop just stared up at her from his seat. He allowed his eyes to wander to her chest before they returned to meet her stare. Making a show of closing his newspaper, he sat forward, leaned on the desk and collected a pen from a stationary pot, which, Gabriella noted, held just one pen.
“Quel est votre nom?” said the cop.
“Anglais?”
But the cop just stared back at her as if the thought of speaking English offended him.
“Gabriella,” she said.
Again, the man stared up at her, waiting for a full response.
“Gabriella DuBois,” said Gabriella. “D.U.B.O.I.S. DuBois.”
“Date de naissance?”
“Did you hear what I said?” said Gabriella. “I’d like to report a kidnapping. I don’t have time to-”
“Date de naissance?” the cop repeated, cutting her off.
“July fifth.”
“En Francais.”
“Le cinq juillet.”
“Annee?”
“Quatre vingt onze.”
“Bien,” said the policeman, placing his pen back into the empty pot. He sat back and linked his fingers across his ample stomach. “Comment puis-je t’aider?”
“These men…” she began. Then she felt a warm sting of tears welling in her eyes and held onto the chair for support. Still, the cop stared at her, offering little assistance. She took a breath. “They kidnapped…”
