On The Run

by J. M. Parker

  The phone rang twice and then the call connected. “Give me Agent Spectre,” said Bannon.

  An American voice sounded back along the line. “Who’s speaking, please?”

  “Bannon.”

  “Okay, sir, let me put you on hold for a moment.”

  “Tell him I have him.”

  “What?”

  “Tell him I got Saint Jean.”

  Bannon heard a short gasp. “I’ll put him right on.”

  A moment later and Spectre’s voice sounded down the line. “Bannon, you there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “How quick could you be in Phuket?” said Bannon, listening as Spectre barked out a number of orders.

  “Give me an address.”

  Bannon gave him the directions, Spectre repeating them as he spoke. “Have troops with you in twenty,” said Spectre.

  “You’ll want to send an ambulance.”

  “Hold tight,” said the agent.

  The phone went dead and Bannon set the receiver down. He turned back into the room and began rummaging through the drawers, grabbing a sharp steel knife before he removed a long, coiled washing line from beneath the sink.

  Back in the bedroom he found the Frenchman seated against the wall. A trail of blood tracked his course across the carpet and Bannon watched as more of it pooled on the spot beneath his wound. He stepped over to the Frenchman, cutting away a piece of the washing line and reaching for his mangled hand. The Frenchman winced as Bannon tied the cord around his bloodied wrist. “Mon ami.”

  “Don’t call me that,” said Bannon, staring back at the Frenchman, the color drained from his handsome features, his skin covered with blood and sweat. He rolled the Frenchman over onto his front, binding his hands together and running the rope down to his legs, leaving him hog-tied on the floor. “You should have taken the money,” said the Frenchman, all the confidence and charm gone from his voice.

  Bannon didn’t say anything.

  The Frenchman wrestled against his ties, screaming in pain as Bannon saw the rope dig into his skin. “The first chance I get,” said the Frenchman, spitting out onto the carpet as he spoke, “I will have you hunted down.”

  Bannon crouched down, rolling the Frenchman onto his back and pressing the knife flat between his lips. “It’s over,” said Bannon, twisting the knife clockwise. “They’re gonna squeeze you for everything you know, and when you tell them, who’ll be left to help a rat like you?”

  The Frenchman’s eyes seemed to water as Bannon continued to stare at him, the knife still pressed between his lips. He tried to speak, blood spilling out across the sharp edge of the blade and running over the polished enamel of his teeth. “What?” said Bannon.

  “Just kill me, you coward.”

  Bannon pressed the blade back against his cheek, saw the Frenchman’s warped reflection stretch across its blood stained surface. He heard the distant sounds of sirens and he took a long, deep breath. “No” said Bannon, letting the knife fall from his hand. “You were right, I ain’t the man for that.”

  *

  Bannon sat watching as the helicopter touched down, the blades slowing to a standstill as Hawkes and Spectre ducked out. Squad cars lined the perimeter of the building as soldiers moved in and out of the house, shifting stacks of opium into the back of a police van. Hawkes hurried off in that direction, shouting orders to a squadron of officers. Spectre moved over to Bannon, a briefcase swinging from his hand. “Hell of a bust,” said Spectre.

  “Yeah,” said Bannon.

  “How’d you find him?”

  “He gave me a box of matches from a brothel. The pimp gave him up.”

  “Awful good of him.”

  “Guess I made a good case.”

  “We’ll need to take a statement.”

  Bannon groaned, his body ached as the adrenaline started to fade. “Whatever you need.”

  “You going to be alright?”

  Bannon nodded.

  “You sure?”

  Bannon nodded again. “Just thinking on something he said.”

  “What?”

  “Said we control our own destinies, that everything that happened was a result of what I’d done, the choices I made.”

  “And?”

  “Well, he’s right, ain’t he? I can’t help but see my big stupid mark on the picture. I could have walked away anytime, could have owned what I, did but I just let you all pull me deeper in.”

  “You did catch him.”

  “Somehow I still feel kind of like a sucker.”

  Spectre smiled, reaching for the briefcase and popping it open. He took it out a large square envelope and passed it across to Bannon.

  Bannon took the envelope, peeling back the seal and pulling out a photograph. Two figures sat at a coffee table, a man and a woman, their hands interlocked on its surface. Bannon stared at the woman, recognizing the lost diver, her hair neatly tied back, a smile on her face as she looked at the man across from her. “She’s alright,” said Bannon.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “But she was out at sea for days.”

  “The will to live,” said Spectre. “It’s an amazing thing.”

  “Where did you get this?” said Bannon, finally looking up from the photo.

  A little grin appeared at the corner of Spectre’s mouth. “Looks like one of our agents has been conducting a little extra reconnaissance of her own.”

  “Alina,” said Bannon, his throat lumping suddenly. “Why? Why would she send it?”

  “Maybe she thought it would be important to you.”

  Bannon looked back at the photo; he felt tears well in the corners of his eyes and he turned away from the agent.

  “Here,” said Spectre, grabbing Bannon on the shoulder before he passed across a card. “You call this number if there’s anything we can help with. Anything at all.”

  Bannon reached up and wiped a tear from his eye. “Thank you,” he said.

  Spectre nodded. “I’ll have someone over to get your statement.”

  “Alright.”

  The agent turned back to the house, striding through a mob of personnel before he turned once more to Bannon. “It’s over,” he said. “So long as you can let it be.”

  *

  Bannon sat at the bar, waiting as an old Thai bartender wobbled toward him and placed his beer on the counter. “Thanks,” said Bannon.

  The man stood for a moment, his eyes set on Bannon as he drank. “You no watch TV?” said the man, pointing at an old television. “Big story.”

  Bannon squinted at the picture, smiling as he saw a group of troops standing beside of a pile of opium. “That right?” said Bannon.

  “That right,” said the man.

  He sat drinking for a while, thinking about everything that had happened, everything that had been said. He finished the last of his drink, set the bottle down, and headed for the door.

  “You go so soon?” said the bartender.

  “I’ll be back,” said Bannon. “I just got one last stupid thing to do.”

  *

  Clouds covered the stars and Bannon crept through the pitch black dark to the house. Trash cans rattled and he heard the screech of a cat. Tape lined the exterior of the building and Bannon stood beside it, listening for any sign of movement before he ducked under the tape and edged closer. He checked the windows in turn; the house seemed empty and he stepped over to the door, opening it as quietly as he could and peering through the gap into the corridor. He pushed the door a little wider and slipped into the house.

  He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on, checking the kitchen first, then the living room. He moved into the bedroom and hurried over to the window, glancing once more into the empty street before he drew the curtains. He shined the flashlight around the room, shuddering as he saw the streak of blood shining in the light. He slipped off his backpack and stepped over t
o the wall, rapping his knuckles against its surface. It sounded hollow. He took a step to the side and tapped once more, again it sounded hollow. From his backpack he removed a small hammer and drove the claw into the wall, cleaving away a big chunk of plaster. He shined the flashlight into the gap, stepping back in surprise as he saw stacks of boxes standing just behind it.

  Again he drove the hammer into the wall, cleaving away another chunk before he reached inside, his excitement building as he felt the weight of the box. He ripped the lid off the top, suppressing a sudden cheer as the box fell from his hands and bound bills of cash spilled out onto the carpet. He ran back to the wall, gripping the plaster and tearing another piece away. He grabbed box after box, emptying cash out into his backpack, the sides of it bulging as he jammed roll after roll into the bag.

  Bannon stopped about twenty minutes later. Money covered the floor; the backpack was full to the brim. He’d torn almost half the wall away and he stood looking at it, boxes still standing in organized rows. He felt his excitement fade as he wondered when someone would come to get it. He looked back at the bag of money and thought of leaving the cash. He ran back to the window and checked the street again, sure someone would be on their way. He felt a burst of paranoia and he rushed out of the room, stopping as he passed the kitchen, and a sudden idea sprang to mind. He reached into his pocket and grabbed his wallet, pulling out the business card and heading for the phone. He lifted the receiver and dialed.

  A female voice came back from the other end. “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Tell Agent Spectre to get back to the house.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Tell Agent Spectre to get back to the house. There’s something he’ll want to see,” said Bannon before he slammed the receiver down.

  He grabbed a small trash bag from under the sink and dashed back into the bedroom, gathering a couple more handfuls of bills and filling the bag. He slung the backpack over his shoulder, sagging beneath the weight of it as he headed for the door. He checked the street once more and staggered out into the night. By the time he reached the end of the road he could already hear sirens in the distance. The lights of the houses switched on behind him and Bannon smiled. “Perfect,” he said, gripping the straps of the backpack as he turned out of sight and continued into the dark.

  Epilogue

  Sand squeezed through his toes as he ambled along the beach, the sea glistening beneath the champagne-colored sky. He settled down against a fallen tree, watching as the sun sank into the horizon. At the water’s edge a fisherman stood with his line stretched out into the surf.

  Bannon watched as the man grabbed a beer from his cooler. He saw the man uncap the bottle and he shook his head, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a half-full pack of smokes. He raised a cigarette to his mouth. Scars still marked his forearms, but the muscle had returned. Wisps of smoke drifted on toward the sea and the fisherman turned his way, grabbing another bottle of beer and treading up the sand.

  The fisherman extended the bottle to him, cool droplets of water running along the neck of it. “Trade you for a smoke,” he said.

  “It’s alright,” said Bannon, looking away from the bottle. “Trying to give it up.”

  “How’s that coming?”

  Bannon smiled and handed the man a cigarette. “It’s coming. Hoping to quit these things next.”

  “Good for you.”

  Bannon nodded. “Catch anything?”

  “Not yet,” said the man. “Slow day. You got a light?”

  “I do,” said Bannon, passing the lighter across.

  “Mind if I join you? You got the best seat in the house.”

  “Sure.”

  The man sat and took a drag on the cigarette. “What brings you out this way?”

  “Diving,” said Bannon, looking back at the ocean as the top edge of the sun slipped out of view and green light streaked across the sky.

  “Shit,” said the man. “That’s something, ain’t it?”

  “It truly is.”

  “You know, all my life I’ve lived here. I ain’t never dived once.”

  “Look me up. I’ll cut you a deal sometime.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  The two men sat smoking for a while. When the man rose the sky was dark and a half moon shone overhead. “Best get back to the wife,” said the man.

  “No problem,” said Bannon, “You take care.”

  “You got a wife?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, there’s some pretty girls in town, if you’re in the market.”

  Bannon smiled. “Good to hear.”

  The man dipped into the cooler and extended another bottle. “Sure I can’t tempt you? Last one.”

  “I’m sure you could. But I’ll hold off for now.”

  The man laughed as he placed the bottle in the cooler. “See you around.”

  “Sure will.”

  The man trod away and Bannon drew another cigarette from the pack. He sat smoking, listening to the waves crash against the sand. He took a last drag and placed the butt on top of the log. He rose and stripped, treading down the beach, the night air blowing around him, the cold water nipping at his feet as he stepped out into the ocean. He waded on into the dark sea and dove out into the water, swimming down toward the bottom, on through the first silvery tier of light and into the complete darkness. He exhaled, sending bubbles racing to the surface as he felt his feet hit the sand. He pressed his soles into the bottom, a smile forming on his face as he pushed away and swam back into the moonlight above.

  About the Author

  Joseph Parker studied English Literature at the University of Denver. He currently lives just outside of Leeds, in the North of England.

  You can follow Joseph on Twitter or send him an email at joseph@jmparker.co.uk

  Acknowledgements

  There are an enormous amount of people who I need to thank for helping get this book completed. Firstly, my brother, Isaac Parker, for editing the original copy of the work. It was an enormous help and I was fortunate to get such insightful feedback at such an early stage.

  I was lucky to work with Howard Cunnell at the Writer’s Workshop. His detailed editorial report was probably the best learning experience of my young writing career and it improved the following drafts immeasurably.

  Kit Foster provided a tremendous set of covers, the only problem being settling on which one to use. My copy-editor Shannon Cook made literally thousands of grammatical alterations. The work is so much more polished thanks to her tireless efforts.

  Thank you to everyone who read the earliest copies of my work. Emma Sheat, Maddie Williams, Flora Hackett and Bubsallo Nebenzahl, your comments helped shape the final product, and will be a source of inspiration for future projects.

  Thank you to Quentin Ferry for correcting my attempts at French. Thank you to Matt Wright, whose keen eye and quick responses helped remove a number of little mistakes.

  Most importantly, I want to thank Darryl Donaghue for the continued mentoring and all the weekly writing talks. They weren’t just a terrific source of inspiration, but a flat out great time.

  There are also a number of people whose stories, experiences and information helped inspire the novel. There are too many to name here, but you know who you are and I am sure you can see your contributions in almost every chapter. And, finally, to anyone who has made it to this point, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed what you read.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  sp; J. M. Parker, On The Run