by Adrian Wills
'Fine,' said Proctor, the emotion filtered from his voice so that he sounded like an automaton, lacking pitch and tone.
'I want you to tell me about the night you were abducted. Do you remember what happened? It's important you give me as many details as you can recall.'
Proctor screwed his eyes tight and rocked his head back as if reacting to an unpleasant smell. 'They jumped me in the street; put me in the back of a car blindfolded. I didn't know where we were going.'
'Okay, that's good, Ben. What else? Did you see their faces?'
'No, they put a bag over my head. I didn't see anything.'
'What about their voices? Did you recognise any of them?'
'No.'
Blake stretched his legs and took a moment to assess Proctor's physical condition. His face was drawn and pale. An angry red spot was erupting on the side of his neck, and unkempt wisps of facial hair sprouted from his chin and cheeks.
'So no idea who they might have been?' asked Blake.
'No.'
'What did they say to each other?' Blake tipped his head back, and traced the intricate patterned swirls of the yellow-tinged Artex ceiling.
'Nothing.'
'This is important, Ben. Delve deep into your memory and try to remember.'
'They didn't say anything.'
'They must have said something.'
'Only when they were asking me questions.'
'Do you know where they took you?'
'No.'
'I followed them. They took you to an old railway station.'
'They tied me to a chair and screamed questions at me.' Proctor's face creased. 'Then they...' Proctor's words drifted away.
'I know, Ben. I saw what they did to you.'
'They branded me with a hot iron.'
Blake sat up straight, not sure he'd heard correctly. 'What did you say?'
'They branded me.'
'What do you mean?'
'They burned a letter onto my chest, but I don't know what it means.'
Blake had dressed the wound in the dark as best he could, and given Proctor a handful of powerful prescription painkillers he kept for emergencies. In his haste, he'd not paid that much attention to the injury itself.
'I want to take a look. Can you take off your T-shirt?'
Proctor's movements were slow and imprecise as he rose from the couch and stripped off. He stood swaying on the spot with his eyes closed as Blake peeled back the dressing. He studied the raised blister for a brief moment, nodded, and handed Proctor back his top.
'Any idea what this symbol means?'
Proctor opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the trill of a ringing phone coming from the back pocket of Proctor's jeans.
'Take out your phone and hand it to me,' said Blake, after two rings.
The caller's identity was blocked. Blake answered the call and held the phone to his ear without speaking.
'Listen carefully to what I have to say,' said a rough male voice, muffled in a way that suggested the caller was trying to disguise it. 'You performed well the other night. I want to congratulate you. We've been impressed with everything about you so far, and now the time has come to invite you formally to join us as a reward for your loyalty. Four men are on their way to collect you. Don’t resist them, and do exactly what they tell you. They have been instructed to bring you to me. When you arrive, I’ll explain everything. But time is pressing. My men will be with you any moment. Please be ready.'
Blake was about to mumble an answer, hoping to pass off as the younger man, but the line clicked dead.
He stared at the phone in his hand, then at Proctor, still deep in a trance. The heavy rattle of a diesel engine grew louder and came to a halt outside the flat. Doors opened, slammed shut, and heavy boots thudded on the pavement.
Chapter 6
Blake pulled back a corner of the curtains. A beaten-up, blue Transit van had pulled up on the pavement directly beneath Proctor's flat. So much for the advanced warning. Someone hammered hard on the front door, an insistent banging, which echoed up the stairs.
'Some men are about to force their way into your flat,' said Blake, in Proctor's ear. 'They're going to take you away. It's important you don't resist. I don't know where they're going to take you, but I think we're both going to find out more about what happened to you the other night.'
Proctor didn't react. His eyes remained closed, his breathing slow and easy.
'I'm going to wake you now. You'll return to being Ben Proctor, a trusted and valued member of the BFA. You'll remember nothing about this conversation or that I was even here. Start counting backwards from ten, and when you reach one you'll be fully awake.'
The front door splintered open, and feet clattered up the stairs. Blake dived for the landing and the door into Proctor's bedroom. He vaulted the bed, and slid underneath, pushing aside crumpled cardboard boxes and a battered suitcase that had seen better days. He spread himself flat on the dusty floor and froze.
An indistinct voice carried through from the front room where he expected the gang had found Proctor in a waking daze. He hoped Proctor's post-hypnotic disorientation would be explained away as the shock of being suddenly woken from a deep sleep.
'What do you want?' said Proctor.
'You need to come with us.'
Hesitation. Blake pictured the stand-off in the next room. Proctor with his fists clenched, his brain wavering between fear and the sub-conscious instinct to comply that he wouldn't quite understand.
Blake suppressed a sneeze as a cloud of dust particles tickled the sensitive membrane in his nostrils.
Another voice spoke, closer and clearer. 'I need a pee. Back in a minute.'
The bedroom door flew open, and a pair of boots appeared. Black leather Doc Martens, scuffed on the toecaps, mud on the soles.
Blake caught his breath and held it. The boots planted themselves in the doorway.
Come on, this isn't the bathroom, idiot.
But the feet didn't shift, and Blake had an uncomfortable feeling. His mind raced, retracing his last steps, wracking his memory for any mistakes he'd made. He couldn't think of anything, experience and training having made him ultra-cautious. It had become second nature after a lifetime of covert missions. But something wasn't right.
A head and shoulders peered under the bed. Sharply-chiselled features and a close-shaven scalp. Eyes darted left and right. Blake, hidden behind the boxes, focussed on holding in a sneeze as his throat tightened. The man was so close that he could smell stale garlic on his breath.
Not a muscle in Blake's body twitched, save for his heart, which was racing so fast that he was convinced its violent pounding would give him away. One finger at a time, his hand closed around a wire coat hanger. With the element of surprise, it could be used to inflict some horrific damage, especially to the exposed, fleshy parts of the man's face. Blake bent the wire out straight between his finger and thumb and readied himself.
'Hey, Jack, what you doing? Come on, we're going,' said a voice from the hallway.
'Yeah, yeah. I'm coming.' The man stood up.
Blake watched the boots march out of the room, and let go of the breath he was holding. He listened to feet clump down the stairs, and the front door slam shut. An asthmatic engine coughed into life and someone hit the accelerator hard, over-revving to keep it from stalling.
Blake rolled out from under the bed, and sprinted into the abandoned living room. Proctor was gone. From behind a crack in the curtains, he watched as the van pulled away. It arced across the road, and sped off in the direction from which it had come, spewing an oily plume of exhaust fumes in its wake. He made a mental note of the registration plate before springing down the stairs in pursuit.
His car was parked in its usual spot in a nearby residential street. He pulled away from the kerb with tyres screeching, swinging the leather steering wheel left and right through a series of tight turns down the familiar back roads, eventually pulling up at set o
f traffic lights stuck on red at a junction with the high street.
The lights remained static for what seemed like an eternity, and when they finally changed he jumped on the accelerator, gunning through the crossroads and emerging onto the main road more than a hundred yards behind the van.
Blake followed through the suburbs, maintaining a discreet distance, passing grimy Victorian terraces and then beyond into the leafier, more expensive conurbations. Eventually, the road widened into a fast-moving dual-carriageway that swept through the outskirts of the city and out onto a busy motorway heading south.
The van appeared to be in no particular hurry, cruising at a steady sixty-five in the inside lane, occasionally sweeping around a slow-moving lorry before resuming its position in the slow lane.
Blake dialled a pre-programmed number on his phone connected to a hands-free system, and Harry Patterson's voice boomed through the car's stereo speakers, 'What's happening?'
'I think Proctor knew his attackers,' said Blake.
'What makes you say that?'
'Because they hid their faces and their voices. The logical conclusion is that he knew who they were.'
'So they were from the BFA? Does that mean his cover has been blown?'
'I'm not so sure.'
'What other explanation is there?'
'He was being tested. They wanted to see if he would crack.'
'Why?'
'I took a look at the injury on his chest earlier. I should have done it before, but I wasn't thinking straight. I thought it was about loosening his tongue, but I was wrong. They've branded him. The welt's come up quite clearly. It's like a symbol or something; I just don't know what it means.'
The van turned off the motorway and joined a single carriageway. Blake kept his distance, watching the brake lights flicker as the driver took a series of turns at speed.
'You debriefed Proctor?'
'He's as confused as we are.'
'So where are you now?'
'Proctor's been picked up again. They're taking him out of London into the country. I think it could be the same men. But this time they called ahead. I'm following to see what happens.'
The brake lights ahead flashed as the van took a sharp turn right onto a narrow lane, its rear end fishtailing as its skinny tyres struggled for grip on the damp asphalt. Blake slowed and made a more controlled turn.
'What did they say?'
The lane was narrow and twisting, barely wide enough for a car to pass. Through the tight corners, the van had vanished. Blake feathered the accelerator, and gripped the steering wheel tightly. 'Harry, I've got to go. I'll call you when I know more.'
'Where are you exactly?'
'Not sure. Somewhere in Sussex I think. Seriously, Harry I've got to go.'
Blake battled to keep the car on the road as he sped through a sharp corner that kept tightening. He damped the brakes, and as the road straightened hit the accelerator hard again.
Suddenly the van was dead ahead, having come to an almost complete standstill, its taillights blindingly bright in the darkness as it turned onto a rutted, muddy track through a thick wood. Blake stamped on the brakes, locked the wheels, and the tyres squealed in protest as the car slewed out of control across the road in a straight-line skid.
It flashed past the van, missing its scratched, rear bumper by less than an inch, ending up with its bonnet buried in a hedge.
Chapter 7
The van quickly shot out of sight, bumping through the trees, and vanishing into the darkness. Blake swore under his breath at his lack of concentration. It was a stupid lapse. He'd risked blowing the operation wide open and signing Proctor's death warrant in the process. He needed to take more care.
He eased the car out of the hedge, thankful there was no obvious damage, and drove on until he found a layby, pulled a hasty three point turn, and retraced his route back to the wood.
The track was pitted with deep, muddy puddles more suited to a 4x4. The saloon, with its sporty low-profile tyres and low clearance, struggled, and it was brought to a snail's pace with Blake's body jolted in every which way by the unpredictable camber. Fearful of being seen, he tried killing his headlights and navigating by the light of the moon, but ancient knotted trees with boughs like deformed arms formed a thick canopy overhead. And when he almost crashed the car into the gnarled stump of a fallen horse chestnut, he abandoned the vehicle in a clearing behind a tangle of bushes and opted to continue on foot instead.
He grabbed a Stormwalker jacket and retrieved a Glock 26 from a hidden compartment in the boot, a smaller weapon than his favoured Browning, and which slipped more neatly into the waistband of his trousers. He chose a route parallel to the track, picking a path through the undergrowth, brushing through brambles and using the trees for cover. The only sounds, the screech of owls and the creaking of ageing branches high overhead.
After a ten-minute march Blake picked out lights ahead. As he circled closer, he saw the van parked with its headlights blazing, illuminating a dilapidated farmhouse with gaping holes where its doors and windows used to be. On its southern flank, a single-storey extension had fallen into decay, and although its walls stood resolutely, the roof had collapsed, leaving exposed and rotting beams like the skeleton of a beached whale protruding through putrid flesh. At the north-western corner of the plot, a barn had better withstood the ravages of time, and looked remarkably unscathed by nature's onslaught.
Blake tucked himself behind the trunk of a towering oak, and scanned the site. Three men were standing around the van, smoking and chatting casually. He counted three other vehicles; off-roaders caked in mud, and suspected there must be more men. Another two figures stood shoulder-to-shoulder silhouetted by the headlights in front of the farmhouse. The man on the left was recognisable by his height and build. Ben Proctor was standing ramrod straight with his eyes focussed ahead. The man next to him was shorter and partially obscured.
Blake rushed low and fast to his right, and fell to one knee behind a tree twenty yards farther on. Now he could see that the man beside Proctor had a neatly trimmed goatee beard and a jutting jaw. Mike Clark, one of Proctor's closest associates in the BFA.
A figure emerged from the darkness of the house, and the chatter that had carried on the still, night air suddenly ceased, and cigarettes were hastily stubbed out. At first, it was no more than an indistinguishable shadow with a tall, domed head. Blake squinted into the gloom, wishing he'd remembered to bring a pair of night-vision glasses. Then the figure stepped out of the gloom into the glare of the van's headlights. Proctor and Clark stood rigid. From the size and shape, Blake determined it was a man, but it was impossible to be sure, as he was wearing an elaborate, hooded robe made of sumptuous red velvet decorated with curious-looking symbols stitched in gold thread that concealed his face and body. The material flowed over his feet, brushing the ground, and gave the appearance he was floating.
He extended an arm from a voluminous sleeve, and beckoned the two men to kneel. Proctor and Clark bowed their heads in supplication, and dropped to the ground as the figure began a low incantation, like a religious chant. In fact, the whole scene had taken on a sacred reverence, which made Blake shudder. He didn't have much time for religion in any of its guises.
The robed man placed a hand on the head of each of the men kneeling before him, but from his position, Blake couldn't make out any of his words. He needed to be closer. He rose slowly from his crouch, and calculated that, with all eyes on the scene being played out, he could make it safely to the barn by skirting behind the van.
He drew himself to his full height, but caught movement in the periphery of his vision. A branch snapped with a loud crack that splintered the nighttime still. Blake reached for the gun in his waistband, but reacted too late. Cold, hard steel pressed roughly into the bone behind his skull, and a voice hissed in his ear.
'Stand up slowly! And no sudden moves.'
Chapter 8
Blake raised his arms. 'No problem,'
he said, trying to sound relaxed.
'What's your name?'
Blake shuffled to his right, and twisted from the waist, cocking his head as if he'd not quite caught the question. In reality he wanted a clear view of the gun. He was in luck. Nothing more than a farmer's shotgun. Heavy, cumbersome and slow firing, but on the other hand you didn't need to be the world's greatest shot to make it count.
'Sorry, what's that?' said Blake, feigning ignorance.
'Stand still or I'll blow your bloody head off. Now who are you? What are you doing here?' The questions barrelled off the gunman's tongue.
Blake noticed his finger coil tightly around the trigger of the double-barrelled Winchester, but it was apparent from the awkward way he was holding it he lacked familiarity with the weapon. The stock wasn't quite in his shoulder. His hands a little too far apart. An amateur, probably handed the gun and instructed to patrol the perimeter as a look out scout while the ceremony with Proctor and Clark took place.
'Look, I don't want to cause any trouble,' said Blake, in his most disarming tone. He lowered his arms and turned slowly, gambling that the scout didn't have the balls to shoot.
'I said stand still,' he screamed, taking two steps back as Blake knew he would, a natural instinct to put himself out of harm's way. It was also precisely the wrong thing to do.
Blake jabbed with his elbow, knocking the barrel away from his body, and in a single motion, dropped into a crouch, and with his leg hooked the gunman's feet from under him, knocking him flat on his back.
Blake wrestled the gun from his grasp, tossed it into the undergrowth, and fell on his chest. He was a burly man with a round head, thick neck and arms matted with coarse, black hair, his breath sweet with the tinge of alcohol. Blake wrapped his hands around the man's throat, and squeezed hard with his thumbs pressed into his larynx. The man's eyes bulged from their sockets, and his face flushed red as the supply of blood was cut to his brain, his lungs starved of air.
In a blind panic, the scout snatched at Blake's wrists but his efforts only hastened the inevitable as he used up the limited oxygen in his bloodstream. He bucked like a wild mustang, but Blake pressed harder, refusing to let go, until eventually the scout's body went limp, and his brain shut down.
