by J. D. Weston
“Drop the Christmas jokes, Tango-one. Do you have eyes on Alpha team?” said Jones, then glanced back at Kane.
“Charlie-two, this is Tango-one. No visual on Alpha-one or Alpha-two. Nothing to report, Sarge.”
Jones stared up at the sky, squinting as the rain drops bounced from his face.
“You’re worried, Jones,” said Kane, as he flicked his cigarette butt across the courtyard, watching the little orange ember spin then disappear in a hiss when it landed in a puddle. “I’ve seen that look before.”
“I’m sending in Bravo team,” said Jones. “Alpha team are the strike force. The fish market is the perfect place for an ambush. I need comms with them.”
“You’re also leaving the door open,” said Kane. “If Stone is in there, he’ll escape. Isn’t it better to contain him?”
“All units stand by,” said Jones into the radio.
Jones glanced up at Kane then lowered his eyes to the ground.
“We’ve got a few hours before the prime minister rolls into town, sir. I’m nine men down, and I’ve lost contact with my strike team. Stone or no Stone, I need my strike team in place and I need comms.”
“Do you think Alpha team can take him down?” asked Kane.
Jones nodded. But it was not the nod of a confident solider sending his men into battle. Instead, it was the nod of a man hedging his bets and playing the odds.
Pulling his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, Kane removed the last one then crushed the empty pack and tossed it to the ground.
“How well do you remember that night?” asked Kane.
Jones looked back at him. His face was only half-lit by the spotlights on the roof of the building and rain dripped from his nose.
“Afghanistan?”
“Is there another night you have in mind?”
Jones shook his head. “I relive that night at least three times a week, sir.”
“Three times a week?” said Kane, in surprise. “I think about it every day.”
“Have you thought about seeing a counsellor?” asked Jones. He didn’t smile at his own joke, even though both men knew the idea was out of the question.
“I remember when we got the call over the radio,” said Kane. “I remember your face, and that was the first time I ever saw you falter.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’d have to contradict that statement.”
“Permission denied, Jones,” said Kane, and stepped into the rain. “Your decision that night cost men their lives. Your failure to make the call at the right time killed my men, the army’s men. Your decision earned us all a discharge.”
Kane put his hands behind his back, held his chest out, and walked behind Jones. His second in command remained resolute, facing the doorway. He was always the model soldier.
“Stand up straight, man,” said Kane.
Jones stood to attention. “Every decision we made in that hell-hole cost men their lives, sir,” he said. “That was our night to lose lives. It was an ambush. You know as well as I do that we’d have lost every single man if I hadn’t made a decision at all.”
“Quite right,” said Kane. “Quite right indeed. That’s why I stood by you. That’s why, regardless of the friends and comrades we all lost, the men out there tonight stood by you, because you made a decision.”
“Innocent people died, sir. That’s a fact I’ll live with for the rest of my life. But fifteen good soldiers came home.”
“They slaughtered a village, Jones.”
“They were hiding militants,” he replied. “They may not have had AK-forty-sevens in their hands, but they were hiding the men who did.”
“That’s not how the Queen’s army works though, is it, Jones? That’s not standard operating procedure.”
“Standard procedure would have killed every single man on our squad. My decision saved a handful of them and we completed the mission.”
“And that handful of men are out there right now, Jones. They’re facing a lunatic who is pulling your team apart. What are you going to do about it?”
“We’re going to take him down, sir.”
“But what about the prime minister?” said Kane. “What about the mission?”
Jones hesitated.
“Tick-tock, Jones. The prime minister is on his way here now and there’s a madman picking your men off. What’s more important? Your men or the mission?”
“My men, sir.”
Surprised by the response, Kane stopped his pacing, but allowed Jones to continue.
“Without my men, there is no mission,” said Jones. “Without my men, all this would be for nothing.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
Jones didn’t reply.
“It’s time for SFS,” said Kane.
“They don’t need it, sir. Not yet. I can’t risk them hitting withdrawal before the prime minister arrives.”
“That’s your call, Jones. But remember, if you make the wrong decision again, I might not be so…” Kane hovered, searching for the right word. “Forgiving. Do you think Alpha team can take him down without SFS?”
“I have every confidence in them, sir.”
“Then do it,” said Kane. “It’s decision time.”
Jones turned on the heels of his boots to face Kane. He held his stare in an effort to convey a renewed confidence in his decision. Then he raised the radio.
“Alpha-one, this is Charlie-two. Come back.”
Silence was broken only by the flow of static.
“Alpha-one, this is Charlie-two. Come back.”
“Charlie-two?” came the reply.
“Alpha-one, respond using radio protocol.”
“I don’t really know about protocol,” said the voice. “But you’re running out of men, Charlie-two.”
12
Comfortably Numb
The wide, leather seat of the black SUV sucked Gabriella from a world of pain, cramps, cold sweats and nausea as her muscles begged for a sharp stab into her skin and the release of SFS. She slipped into a world of soft, blurred dream-like visions as if she was standing giddily on a precipice. One step forward would snatch her from everything she knew, a world where trees grew tall and carpets of green lined the earth beneath the summer sun. One step back would dismiss the unknown that beckoned her forward, coaxing her with flashes of potential happiness and the faces of those she had sworn to avenge.
Revenge seemed so far away.
With barely the energy to raise her arm and guide Harvey Stone, she mumbled directions whenever she swayed back to reality. Then she sunk into the warm arms of the soft seat once more to search the darkness for another glimpse of her father and brother.
Just one more glimpse of their faces. One more word from their mouths. The sound of their voices.
The dashboard lights faded and the outline of Harvey’s taut face melded into the darkness that enveloped her vision once more. Gabriella embraced the tightness in her chest and the grip on her stomach as memories span around her like an old film reel, spliced with desire and longing.
She saw her father working his garden in his favourite tan corduroys, braces and a white under-vest. His paunch was on display like a trophy. He was unashamed, a man who had raised two children, faced the trials of life, and emerged on the other side with just a bloated tummy for a wound. Gabriella stepped from the house, lifted a hanging grape vine from the archway that divided the garden, and stepped through into her father’s vegetable patch. It was his pride and joy. Rows of shallots and carrots, romaine lettuce and leeks, cauliflower and zucchini were bordered by trellised walls of berries and grapes. Butterflies danced from flower to flower and the song of the birds hung on the breeze that tickled the tops of the fat apple trees beyond the garden.
He leaned on his garden fork, fanning himself with his cap, and smiled at Gabriella as the summer sun shone across his tanned skin. He opened his arms as she approached, welcoming her in for one of those long, tight hugs, his hands stained with th
e rich soil and his warm eyes following her every step of the way.
But the smile faded.
His face twitched.
The mud on his hands turned red when he raised them to his face. A baton came down, striking his flesh and breaking his bones. The garden was gone, replaced by a busy Parisian street. The tall walls of grapes and berries morphed into lines of men in helmets with riot shields and batons. The bright flowers in Gabriella’s memory that her father had so lovingly planted and nurtured became the bright vests of the angry, the upset, the beaten and the trampled. The wandering smoke of the smouldering compost blended into clouds of tear gas.
Her father’s face faded away, hidden with each strike of the batons and every kick of the heavy, black boots that stamped on Gabriella’s memories. She’d tried to pull the men off him but they were too strong for her. She’d tried to cling to her father’s bloodied clothes, but his corduroy pants slipped through her hands and he disappeared into the cloud of tear gas, leaving only a bed of memories.
Inside Gabriella, a seed of hate had taken root. Its gnarled and twisted fingers had violated the deepest parts of her mind, leaving nothing but the bitter taste of revenge.
The memories faded away as consciousness emerged from the darkness. But no matter how hard Gabriella fought it, the lights on the dashboard became clearer. The outline of Harvey Stone’s face became defined. The incessant rain on the windows and car roof hissed like white noise.
“You’re back,” said Harvey. He glanced across at her before returning his attention to the wet road. “I’m going to need some directions soon.”
But slumber still held Gabriella with a single, bony finger. Unfinished thoughts and memories amalgamated into a bizarre reality. That man wasn’t Harvey; that was Francis, her brother. It was Christmas time, long ago, when they were driving through the night for Gabriella to see the Paris lights.
“Remember, Gabriella, you must not tell mother or father about this,” Francis had said. “It is our little secret.”
Curled in the passenger seat of her brother’s car, Gabriella had dozed. The rolling fields and endless railways made it seem as if they hadn’t travelled a single mile, despite a full night of driving.
“I won’t tell them,” said Gabriella. “Will we see the Eiffel Tower?”
“We will, and you will marvel in its beauty, Gabriella.”
“And the Notre Dame? Will we see the Notre Dame?”
“Never again will you find such beauty in something so grotesque, little sister.”
“And will there be Christmas lights at the Champs-Elysees?”
“Brighter than the stars in the sky, Gabriella,” said Francis. “Go to sleep. We will be there in a few hours. I will wake you.”
Sleep had welcomed her into its warm, outstretched arms with the promise of everything she loved. A blanket had covered her and tucked beneath her arm was Antoine, a fluffy, blue rabbit with one eye and a broad smile, always a smile.
A strong hand had gripped her and wrenched her from sleep, pinning her down so she couldn’t move. Blinding lights turned the woken world white. The thump of rotor blades just meters from the roof of the car pounded her ears like the beating of her heart, heavy in her chest.
“Hold on, Gabriella. Don’t be scared,” said Francis. “This is going to be a little rough.”
She woke with a start, sucking in air. For the first time, she saw the dashboard clearly and vividly. A hand pinned her to the seat. Harvey’s face was so defined even in the meagre light beyond the window.
“Hold on, Gabriella,” said Harvey. “This is going to be a little rough.”
Two guards in black uniforms stepped into the road and opened fire as soon as Harvey slid the SUV into the driveway of the old factory. Bullets shattered the windscreen and punctured the engine block. A violent hiss of angry steam burst from the front of the car, obscuring Harvey’s view. But he planted his right foot and aimed at the two men, who continued to fire, unafraid of the two tons of car that accelerated towards them. Crouching with his head low and peering above the dashboard, Harvey felt the car slam into the two bodies. One of them was forced beneath the wheels, lifting the car to one side with a sickening bounce. The second guard rolled onto the bonnet. His face was a bloodied mess as he clung to the wipers and raised his head to stare through the shattered glass at Harvey.
Holding on with one hand, the man began to punch through the broken windscreen, ripping his skin with each blow. Undeterred, he continued to force a hole, making it larger and larger. Harvey accelerated harder, weaving from side to side to shake the man from the car. But he held on with ruined hands and rare tenacity.
At the end of the driveway, a small complex of buildings issued the only light in an otherwise black landscape. The buildings on the left and right formed the sides of a U with a central building behind connecting them to form a central courtyard. Aiming the car at the end of the left building, Harvey dropped down into third gear. He gave everything the car had as the guard continued to hammer his way through the glass.
Seeing Harvey’s intentions, the man doubled his efforts, sliding his body around and bringing his heavy boots into play. The heel of a black boot burst through the glass and kicked at Harvey’s face. It retracted for another kick and the guard maneuvered for better purchase.
But it was too late for him.
The front wheels hit the curb stone and lifted the car into the air. The rear wheels followed, sending the vehicle soaring inches from the grass border and smashing into the end of the building. It powered into the laboratory from the outside.
Rows of benches blocked the car’s path, but it bounced on the laboratory floor, continuing the momentum and ploughing through anything that stood in its way. The benches, dozens of glass vials and various pieces of lab equipment scattered across the floor.
A set of double doors stood at the far end of the lab. The car hissed and moaned with the effort, but Harvey forced it forward, smashing into the doors and wedging into the gap.
The engine died with a blast of angry steam.
A hiss of gas blasted from the walls.
The guard fell from the front of the car.
“What have you done?” said Gabriella, trying to force the car door open, but finding herself trapped. “You’re insane.”
But there was no time for discussion.
Two men dressed in black stepped into the corridor in front. They ducked through separate side doors then peered around the corners, releasing a three-round burst of gunfire each, which dotted the front of the car.
“We need to go,” said Harvey. He raised his leg to kick the remains of the windscreen out from its frame. “Now, Gabriella. Move.”
But she didn’t follow.
Harvey rolled from the front of the car and clambered into the doorway of a sample room just as more bullets peppered the car. He pulled his knife from his belt; it was his only remaining weapon. With his back against the wall, he waited with his eyes closed, calming his breathing and listening for the approaching guards.
The heavy boots on the linoleum floor came in waves of five. First one set then the other. Harvey pictured the two men running five steps, stopping, and then dropping to a crouch to provide cover for the next man to progress forward.
A flash of movement came from inside the car. Then nothing. Harvey strived to see through the steam that billowed from the grill, but saw nothing. He peered into the corridor.
The first guard stepped into view, his attention focused on the car, searching through the billowing steam for signs of life. A jab of Harvey’s knife to the man’s throat sent a spurt of blood across the floor. His partner opened fired. Harvey pulled the dying man in front of him and rushed the second guard using the twitching body as a shield.
The guard hesitated. Instinct prevented him from shooting his partner. The force of Harvey and the body colliding with the guard sent him reeling backwards and through a glass wall into a small office. As the shattered safety glass raine
d down upon the two men and the body, Harvey began an onslaught of violent punches into the guard’s face and throat.
But each blow seemed only to anger the guard. His strength seemed to increase the angrier he became until he forced Harvey up with two powerful hands on his throat. Dragging Harvey to his feet, he slammed him into the wall. Harvey continued to punch, finding the sweet spot every time. But each well-placed blow angered the guard more and more until, tired of the charade, he threw Harvey across the room like a rag doll. Harvey crashed onto a wooden desk, breaking it in half, and landed in a pile of splinters on the floor.
But there was no reprise.
The man was unstoppable.
He stepped into view, kicking away the remains of the desk, and grabbed Harvey once more by the throat with a grip like iron. Bright lights sparkled in Harvey’s vision. A darkness formed at the edge of his sight. As the guard dragged Harvey from the office, Harvey’s boots struggled for purchase on linoleum floor. He knew that the man’s steely grip was squeezing the life from him.
Then a burst of glass and the roar of something wild and new filled the space.
The man’s grip released Harvey, dropping him to the floor where he rolled onto his front, clutching his throat. He stared up at the source of the distraction.
But even Harvey was unprepared for what he saw.
A man with his forehead caved in, the skin of his face shredded, and his naked torso, stripped of clothing, pulsing as if his body played host to something far wilder than mankind, rose to stand. He emitted a scream so unnatural and inhuman that Harvey squeezed his eyes closed at the intrusion and lay perfectly still.
The guard began to backtrack as the disfigured man took a single, unstable step. He appeared to sniff at the air, then grunted in delight at the fear his sense found. The ruined man took another step, then another, finding his flow and balance. As momentum built, he began to run. He passed Harvey in a flash of anger, his bare feet leaving a trail of blood.
