'Whoa! Mister, let's keep it civil,' the young barman said, taking a step backwards against the shelves.
Woolf continued to look into the hooker’s eyes and saw a flicker of fear. 'You have had your drink, now fuck off and leave me alone.'
She smiled at him and then turned to walk back to the side door.
'Do you serve haggis and neeps?' Woolf asked the barman.
The man nodded.
'Well, bring me a serving to that table at the back and make sure I have no more bloody interruptions. Do you understand?' he said and heard a faint reply as he walked to the back of the bar. Grabbing what seemed like a sturdy old chair, he dragged it to a small square table beneath a dirty window that looked over an old beer garden. It was now filled with marijuana bushes. Grabbing a satphone out of his pocket, he looked at the reception bars on the screen and dialled.
'Kharon, it is Woolf.'
'Hello, my dear boy. How are you?'
'Good, sir. Everything is ready for the trip, sir.'
'That is great to hear, Woolf, but first I have a small issue that I would like you to personally take care of for me before we leave the UK. It is in London.'
'Do I get to visit the bastard who is responsible for all our suffering?'
'No,' Lord Butler replied. 'Not just yet.'
'While I am there I could easily get rid of Gibbs.'
'Woolf, I know that you want to avenge Markus’s death. No one should have to lose their twin brother, but I already have a plan in motion that we need to follow no matter how difficult it seems. We will both just have to be patient. I want to make him suffer. I want to make his bitch of a wife suffer too. No, Woolf, the time is not right for Captain Gibbs and his family.'
• • •
The morning sun had just started to burn the dew off the dark slate roofs when the huge grey truck and trailer pulled up to the hostel's little gate that was on one of the main streets in Glasgow. The big machine, with its hybrid fusion and hydrogen engine that made very little noise, was still something that Woolf was struggling to come to terms with. Someone had once tried to explain to him the workings of the fusion reaction that were happening beneath the extended cab of the truck, but he didn’t understand it. All that mattered was that it worked.
The driver leant out of the window, a big smile on his face. 'Howdy, partner, you must be Woolf. The name is Dan Barrett. Lord Butler said I am to be your chauffeur to London. Hop onboard, I sure could use the company.'
Woolf feigned a smile and sighed. As he walked around the front of the big cab to the passenger door, a blast of steam was discharged from a reactor boiler exhaust, making him jump. In a quick movement, he pulled himself up and jumped into the simple cab. At first glance, it did look like an ordinary truck cab to him, but on closer inspection, he noticed the mass of extra dials and levers, all to control the different reactions and cycles.
'Welcome to one of the latest acquisitions of Styx Enterprises. Have you ridden in one of these trucks before?'
'Yes, I have thanks,' he lied.
The new smell from the black fabric seats still filled the cab, and he glanced across at Dan, who was puffing deeply as he busied himself with going through all the gears as they sped away from the centre of the town and out towards the old M74. The journey would take them south to Carlisle then onto Manchester and finally London.
'So, Woolf,' Dan said. 'How well do you know Francis?'
Woolf lifted his head. 'You can call him Lord Butler.'
'Sure thing, buddy. Whatever makes you happy? What is with that title, though? Is he really a lord?'
'Yes, he is. He inherited the title when his father died, and he was a senior founding member of the Phoenix Council.'
'I heard they all got caught trying to take over the world,' Dan said.
Woolf turned his head, biting his lip.
'Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the job and the money he throws my way, but he doesn't look like a man who would conquer the world let alone take care of himself.'
Woolf felt the shape of the Beretta in its holster pressing against his ribs. It wouldn’t be difficult to silence the American.
'A fella I was chatting to said that he lost his arm while trying to escape,' Dan said, checking in his rear view mirrors.
'Shut up, you fool,' Woolf said. 'You don’t know what you are talking about.'
'Shit, sorry, my friend. I didn’t realise that it was a touchy subject.'
'I am not your friend,' Woolf said. 'Lord Butler is not your friend either, so mind how you speak about the man who saved my life. I owe him everything.'
'I didn’t realise that.'
'Yes, you assume because a man flees from a traitorous group of people who tried to kill him, that there is something wrong with him. He is stronger than any man alive and will get his revenge on all of them.'
Dan burst out laughing and looked across at Woolf. 'Jeez, mate, take a step back from the pit of despair. I am sure it will all work out for him. As I said, I am happy to be in his employ. He is just a little dark and intense, that's all.'
‘He can be happy and is a very funny man. What are you talking about?’
‘Again, I am just repeating what people are saying. I bunked with a man who served him and he told me that he would find Lord Butler talking to himself all the time. Even having an argument with himself,’ Dan said, looking across to a fuming Woolf. ‘Anyway, I have said enough already on the matter.’
Woolf stroked the side of his overcoat.
'Damn fools!' Dan shouted as he pushed down on the brake pedal. 'Bloody kids have built a roadblock.'
Woolf looked ahead at the four metal barrels, criss-crossed with steel pipes and wooden poles. Five car tyres were also piled on top in an attempt to get an unlucky victim to stop. Three teenagers peered over the roadblock at them.
'Hit the hooter, get your speed up and ram the roadblock.'
'But they will be killed!' Dan shouted.
'Trust me, they will move. I used to do this as a teenager.'
Dan pushed the centre of the steering wheel, and a loud foghorn-like sound belched at the boys. He hit the tiptronic gear levers that would activate the hydrogen cycle and draw power from the stored up cells. The truck jerked as more power was relayed to the cab wheels.
Woolf pulled out his Beretta and pointed it out of the side window and up into the sky. As he squeezed the trigger, three blasts rang out into the quiet street. Two of the teenagers, dressed in dirty tracksuit tops and jeans, bolted from behind the roadblock and took refuge in a nearby doorway, peering around the wooden doorframe. The third boy lifted a catapult, pulled back and roared with delight as he let go. The stone cracked into the centre of the windshield.
'Cheeky little shit! Dan yelled.
The truck drew closer, and the teenager's nerve broke. At the last second, he dived to the right as the vehicle hit the rubble and smashed the debris to all parts of the empty road. Woolf looked at the smiling teens as they drove past. All of the boys walked forward, raising their middle finger
'Well, I guess your truck doesn't look so new anymore now does it,' Woolf said as they continued out of Glasgow and onto the empty M74.
Sitting back in the seat, Woolf looked across the overgrown central reservation, past two rusty cars to a NEG fusion truck as it sped in the opposite direction. Ahead of them, a fusion personnel carrier swerved across the three lanes to avoid a pothole which was filled with bristling weeds and dried branches.
‘It is like a bloody ghost road. I keep expecting to see a convoy of cars come driving past,’ Dan said, tapping the steering wheel.
‘We cannot get to the oil anymore. What did you expect?’
‘I know, dear Woolf. The day of the commuter is over. It doesn’t make me miss it any less.’
‘It is stupid to miss it.’
‘Fella, you can sure be a drain on a man’s mood. I miss all the cars on the road, that’s all,’ Dan said.
Woolf looked down at his phone that
had vibrated with a text message. Lord Butler's number flashed.
Lord Butler: 'Have just made contact with Dr Turner. All checks out. He can help me with the right treatment. Our American friend with you is now a loose end. Tie it off when convenient.'
Woolf replied: 'Consider it done.'
Lord Butler: 'Make contact with Tom Scott ASAP, and then return. The ship will be ready.'
Woolf switched off the phone. 'I had a rough night last night and don't feel well, Dan. I think I will sleep a little.'
'Sure thing, buddy, I'll wake you when we get to Manchester.'
An hour later Woolf opened his eyes a sliver and heard Dan singing softly to a song from a USB drive he had plugged into the dashboard. Gazing out ahead to the road, he saw that they passed an old sign. Ten miles to Manchester.
Woolf started moaning and holding his stomach.
'Jeez. You okay, buddy?'
Woolf carried on moaning and gestured to Dan to pull over.
'Okay, hold tight. I don't want you throwing up in this cab.’
The truck came to a stop and Woolf flung the door open and jumped down. He stood near the big covered trailer they were towing and waited.
'Dan, help me,' he shouted after a few seconds.
'Are you okay back there, buddy?'
Woolf heard the driver’s door slam. He bent over, facing away from the motorway and feigning a retching movement, the Beretta pressed to his stomach.
'That’s it, buddy, let it all out. It's best to empty the stomach,' said Dan as he walked up behind Woolf.
The tall German stood up, turned and fired in a single movement. Walking past the dying man, he reached for his phone. 'Loose end tied off. See you in two days.'
• • •
Lord Butler sat on the green examination table as the surgeon walked out of the door to a side room. The outpatient room was clean and well kept, but then again, it had cost a fortune for private care, so cleanliness was expected. Buttoning up his pressed white shirt, he then began the struggle of getting into his black suit with its matching waistcoat, made more difficult with one hand.
'Arrrgh…'' he shouted as he fiddled with the small buttons.
Grabbing the satphone from out of his overcoat that had been neatly folded over the back of a chair, he looked down at his 9mm and shotgun, lying on the seat.
The long dial tone droned on until finally, he heard a voice.
'Hello, Lord Butler.'
'Hello, Alex. How are things going in the US?'
'The bad news is that the H9N1 virus is still mutating, and the Andersons are battling to get a cross-purpose vaccine that will immunise the infected, but they say they are very close. We have just had another shipment of the Arnica plant and dried Bearberry along with other mosses from the Arctic Circle. So they have enough to continue for the foreseeable future.’
'So is there any good news?'
'We have increased the amount of infected people who have been convinced to head to Europe to get treatment,' Alex said.
'The Andersons said that it would be sorted by now, Alex. This delay is unacceptable. I sent you over there to manage the operation, and now you are all delaying my plans.’
'I am sorry, Francis, but the scientists say that the H9N1 is proving…'
'Stop calling it that, Alex. That means nothing to anyone but the lab coats,' Lord Butler said. 'You are all to start calling it the Kharon virus.'
'After the mythical ferryman who transported souls across the river Styx to the underworld?' Alex replied.
'That's correct.'
'And you don't think anyone will look to Styx Enterprises as a possible clue?'
'I am counting on it, Alex,' Lord Butler said. 'Now get back to making sure the vaccine is developed. The preparation of the European phase of the Kharon project is nearing its completion. We have started to send the infected subjects into our agreed test communities. How can we punish the NEG bastards without having the vaccine as well? I want better progress made. Do you hear me?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I will be on my way across to you in the next two days. And I want to see a significant improvement on your side. Is that clear?'
'Yes, sir. How long are you over for?'
'For good, Alex, for good.'
Chapter 6
Richmond-upon-Thames, London, England, UK - 2033
The steak knife struggled to slice through the thick sinewy piece of gammon. The man forced down on the knife with a grunt before tossing it down onto the white tablecloth. Of proud Jamaican descent, his black muscular arms and hands ripped the white cotton serviette off his lap and threw it onto the plate of food in front of him. Sitting back in the lavishly embroidered, long-backed chair he looked around the big square dining table with its seven empty chairs.
The dining room of the old Petersham Hotel, which was now his home, was a huge square room with three tall vertical bay windows that overlooked the flooded Thames River. Square ornate panels were plastered across the ceilings and led to dark green wallpaper on three of the room's walls. On the fourth wall, above a stone fireplace which had long last seen a fire, hung a large tapestry of old Richmond. A wooden sideboard stood against the green wall nearest the only door out of the room, hinting at an old era of culinary entertainment.
Tom Scott had taken residence in the old hotel when he had become the Phoenix Council's appointed Warlord of London and had held that position for the five years. He looked to the middle of the table at the pile of folders, all with the official New European Government crest on the front covers. The crest of his employer.
Three empty place settings at the table left him feeling hollow. Breakfast time was supposed to be a noisy family meal. None of this wealth and power was worth anything without having them around. Everything was being done to find them, but hope was fading.
'Tom? TOM!'
He looked up to see the tall, brooding figure of his younger brother standing in the open doorway, his Jamaican good looks combined with the menacing scars on his face, from a gang-life long since gone. Scars not unlike his own, as he reached up to touch the three-inch-long scar that spanned his right cheek.
'Come on in, Tyson.'
'You have a visitor waiting down in reception. I have two of my best boys on him because he says he has news about the kidnapping.'
Anguish drove Tom to his feet, and he strode over to his brother. 'Is he just another floodlander trying to get a few vouchers? I'll beat him to shit if he is.'
'I don’t think so. He's a tall, well-dressed German bloke. Claims to have some video as proof, and he wants a meeting with you. Alone.'
'Have you seen this proof?'
'He won't let me and says it is for your eyes only. And, Tom, he is armed.'
‘Come on, brother, since when has that worried you.'
'He says that if anything happens to him, Desiree and the kids will be killed.'
'Well then. Bring him up,’ Tom said.
The younger brother half bowed then reached behind his back to produce a Sig226. 'There is one in the chamber. Be careful, brother. This bloke looks like he can handle himself.'
Tyson slipped the Sig into the left front of his trousers and went back to the table and poured himself a cup of black coffee. He took a deep breath. Many greedy money grabbers had already been in the room selling false hope.
• • •
Woolf followed the tall black man beneath the sweeping hallway stairs that went up to the rooms on the floor above. The two made their way through a large open-plan lounge and then up a small wooden staircase that was hidden behind one of the bookcases. The narrow staircase creaked and smelled of years of wax polish. It was a tight squeeze for his well-built frame but even smaller for the man leading him. Stepping through another secret doorway, they walked along a dark wood-panelled corridor until the man stopped and opened a door, standing back to let him in. Woolf turned and looked at him, staring into the man's dark brown eyes. The immense hatred emanating from him made
the adrenalin in Woolf climb. He smiled at the threat and stepped into the large, lavish room.
Tom Scott had turned the dining room chair to face him and sat comfortably, with a pistol pointing straight at him.
'Mr Scott,' Woolf said. 'I take it that you are going to be careful with that. The lives of your family depend on me leaving here in one piece.'
'Shut up and only speak when I address you. You’ve said that you have news about my family, and now you dare to come into my house. I have men searching the whole of London, and we are hot on the heels of the men who did this. If I find that you had anything to do with this, I will kill you.’
'Just calm down, Tom. I know for a fact that you have no leads.'
'Don't say another word, don't even move. Do you understand that simple instruction?'
Woolf grinned at the man.
'What's so funny, wise arse?' Tom said, lifting the Sig and pointing it at Woolf's head.
Woolf walked towards one of the chairs at the table and started to pull it out.
The Sig226 recoiled at the blast, sending a bullet past Woolf's face and into the wallpaper on the opposite paper. Woolf froze.
Tyson scrambled through the door, a Sig in his hand. It was aimed at the back of Woolf, whose hands were already raised in the air.
'Calm down, people,' Woolf said.
'It's okay, Tyson. I've got this,' Tom said. 'Leave us to it.'
The young man hesitated for a second, then left.
'Mate, are you fucking stupid or something,' Tom said, leaning across with the Sig. 'You sit when I say you can sit.'
Woolf stopped and showed Tom the phone in his hands. 'Now, you listen to me, Tom. Here is proof that we have your family. It shows that they are all alive, and a very long way from London.'
'Let me see this so-called proof,' Tom said and held out his hand.
Woolf placed the phone on the table and then slid it across to him. 'Just push play.' He pulled the chair out and sat down and watched the man's face change from anger to anguish.
'As you can see that they are healthy and have all their limbs. How long it remains that way, depends on your next decision. My employer will not hesitate to remove limbs to extract his revenge and continue with his operation. You are going to play a major part in his plan, and there is only one way to get your family back. Do as you are instructed.’
Kharon Page 4
