Wade opened the coach’s doors and stepped outside, telling everyone to stay inside. The sun was growing stronger with every minute, once again his slowly moving shadow making him aware of just how inordinately fast the orb was rising into the sky. Hartshorn ignored Wade and left the coach.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘It’s a chair, right? That means someone dumped it here. People. Nearby maybe. That right, huh?’
Wade turned. ‘I’d stay on the coach for a while if I were you until I check this out.’
‘Well you ain’t me…’ He followed in Wade’s cautious footsteps.
Wade ignored the man as he approached the chair. It was indeed an ordinary armchair, the padded type used in the 1930s, he guessed, still bearing some of the once-colourful Art Deco-inspired material, which was now terribly faded and dusty, the weather having stripped most of it off and leaving the bare bones of its wooden frame exposed to the elements. Stuffing hung out of rips in its arms and back.
Typically British in design and construction, Wade thought. And like Lauren Smith, he’d seen many examples, one in his own grandfather’s house, some in antique shops and fancy boutiques as the Art Deco period became increasingly popular the further away in time it became. But to see one out here in a desert caused him a certain degree of disquiet. This place was getting weirder by the minute, he thought, looking about him at the endlessly empty stretch of land that started to shimmer under the ministrations of the sun.
It was as he got to within a few feet of the chair that he noticed the sweat-shiny rear of the man’s shaved head peeking above the high back of the armchair. Wade held up his hand and Hartshorn stopped dead.
‘What have you seen, Wade?’
Before he could reply, they heard a loud cry and someone sobbing from the door of the bus. It was Cheryl. ‘What the hell are you doing, woman?’ Hartshorn burst angrily.
‘Keith, where are you going? Don’t leave me! I need my medicine!’ her face was distraught, panicky.
‘Get back inside,’ he demanded.
‘You know I need my medicine! Don’t leave me!’ She was beginning to sound hysterical.
‘What medicine?’ Wade asked.
‘Heroin,’ Hartshorn returned flatly. ‘She was on her way to rehab. She’s having to go cold turkey mush faster than we thought…’ He waved her away. ‘Get back on the bus, Cheryl. I’ll come to you in a few minutes. We’re checking something out.’
Amanda came down to steps of the bus and took a gentle hold of Cheryl’s arm. ‘Come with me – he’ll be back in a minute.’ She glanced meaningfully over at Hartshorn, but he merely rolled his eyes.
Cheryl was having none of it. She screamed and pulled her arm free, running awkwardly towards Hartshorn ‘Keith! I need you! Don’t leave me! Where’s my medicine? You promised me! You promised me!’
‘I’d go to her,’ Wade advised. ‘She needs you.’
‘What do you know?’ he returned bluntly.
‘Look, this might not be safe…’
‘Is that a guy sitting in the chair?’ said Hartshorn, coming to Wade’s side.
‘Did you hear what I said? Look after Cheryl. She needs you. Leave me to check this out.’
Cheryl ran up to Hartshorn and clawed desperately at his sleeve. ‘Keith, Keith!’ Her sweating face was distorted by an inner pain, her body trembling uncontrollably. ‘Make it stop, Keith. You can make it stop, I know you can…’
Hartshorn swung round, wrenching his arm free of her manic grip and belted her hard across the face. She was knocked sideways with the blow, her eyes, once she’d recovered from the shock, flamed with unbridled hatred.
‘Go away, Cheryl,’ Hartshorn said calmly, though his breathing was laboured.
‘Wade was horrified by what he’d seen. ‘You can’t treat her like that, Hartshorn,’ he said. ‘You can’t treat anyone like that.’
‘I’m going to tell your wife,’ Cheryl said, the words spewing out like venom. ‘She’s going to know everything about you and me.’
‘Shut up, bitch,’ Hartshorn returned.
Martin Bolan came running over to the tiny group. ‘You bastard,’ he said, taking a firm hold of the shivering woman and clutching her tight to him. She fought against his hold. ‘Can’t you see this woman needs help,’ he said.
‘She brought it on herself. I’m the sap who’s picking up the pieces.’
‘You said you loved me!’ Cheryl sobbed. ‘You said you were going to leave your wife and marry me!’
‘We all say things we don’t mean,’ Hartshorn murmured. ‘And that was before you got hooked on heroin. Look at you – you’re a dirty, mixed-up mess that nobody wants. I told you – I’d see to it that you got yourself clean again, pay for your rehab, but that was all, that’s it, we’re finished. Now go away, I’ve got business to attend to here.’ He saw Wade eyeing him. ‘What?’ he said.
Wade said, ‘Go back to the bus. I’ll deal with this.’
‘Or what? Gonna put that gun of yours to my head and make me?’
Wade did just that. He pressed the handgun into the flesh of Hartshorn’s forehead. ‘What have I got to lose and what are we going to miss?’ he uttered dispassionately.
‘Wade…’ said Bolan, holding onto Cheryl, who looked to be stopping her struggling.
With a sigh, Wade put the gun away and turned to the man in the chair. ‘I’ll sort you out later,’ he said, watching as Bolan led the woman away. She’d collapsed into his arms like a fretful child. Wade could hear her asking for her medicine. He ignored Hartshorn and stepped carefully around to the front of the chair, giving it a suitably wide berth as he did so.
He was surprised to see that the man was totally naked, his legs tied together at the ankles with what appeared to be copper electrical wire, in turn his ankles fastened to the legs of the chair so that he could not move them in any direction. The wire had been pulled so tight it had eaten into his skin and blood poured profusely onto he dusty ground. The same type of wire had been used as binding around his upper torso, strapping his arms firmly to his body, the cuts from where it had sliced into his flesh weeping blood also. His wrists were strapped together, his hands, clenching something metallic Wade couldn’t make out, covered his genitals. His body was already painfully red from the heat of the blistering sun, as if someone had drenched him in boiling water. Covering virtually every inch of his frame were angry-looking bruises. This man had been cruelly tortured, and at first glance he appeared to be dead, his head lolling to one side, his eyes closed.
Wade was instantly reminded of John Travers, and the image of the man’s battered face appearing on TV nudged its way into his head, but they were banished upon Wade seeing the man’s chest rise ever so slightly.
‘He’s alive,’ he said.
‘Bloody hell, what happened to him?’ said Hartshorn.
‘Looks like he’s being punished for something.’ Wade moved to take the man’s pulse, but quickly pulled back when he recognised what the man was clutching in his hands.
It was a grenade.
‘Get back, Hartshorn!’ Wade warned.
‘If he’s alive, get him to tell you where we are…’
‘Jesus, Hartshorn, the man’s holding a grenade!’
Hartshorn backed away. ‘What do you mean a grenade?’
Martin Bolan, having left Cheryl in the care of the Kennedy’s, came bounding over to Wade, who warned him back with a cautious lifting of the hand. ‘What have we got here, Wade?’
‘I dunno. This man’s been tortured, fastened to the chair and made to hold a grenade. It’s an old-style grenade, too – I’d say 1940s or 50s vintage. As far as I can tell the pin’s been pulled…’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning the man looks to have been made to hold it. He can’t throw it away because of his bindings. My guess is he’s been left out here to die by whoever tortured him. Either the sun fries him, or night comes and the creatures savage him, or he drops the grenade and ends it all.’
Wade shook his head. ‘Keep back. I’ll try and prise this thing from the man’s hands…’
‘It’ll go off.’
‘I’ll have time to throw it far enough away. Hopefully.’
‘It’s too risky…’
‘This guy might know where we are. He might be able to get us out of here.’
Wade licked his lower lip, but it was ineffectual because the heat and the tension had made his mouth too dry. He sucked in a settling breath and reached carefully forward, his fingers attempting to prise apart the man’s iron-hard grasp around the grenade. The man stirred, his mouth falling open. A fly buzzed around the dried blood at his lips and crawled inside, investigating his broken teeth.
Then his eyes flicked open. Wide, fearful. For a second he stared straight into Wade’s eyes, uncomprehending. His expression changed at once from one of terror to unbridled hope.
And in that instant he died.
A loud crack, like the snapping of a branch, rang out across the desert and a gaping red wound, showering Wade with blood, opened up in the man’s upper chest as a bullet hit home and killed him outright.
Wade instinctively threw himself to the ground, his hand going to his gun. Bolan did the same. But Wade saw the grenade slip slowly from the dead man’s hands and fall to the ground with a dull thud two feet away from Wade’s face.
‘Get back!’ he screamed to Bolan, who scrabbled around in the dirt, his shoes trying to find purchase in the loose sand and dirt as he ran away at a stoop.
Wade managed to get to his feet, his legs pounding the earth in an effort to put as much distance as he could between him and the lethal sphere of metal. But the grenade exploded behind him, throwing both body and chair cart-wheeling into the air. Wade felt something forcibly strike the side of his head and he tumbled to the ground, rolling over and seeing a large plume of smoke, dirt, pieces of chair and the dead man’s body raining down before the pain hit him and unconsciousness followed soon after, creeping insidiously over him like a flood of black oil.
21
Disappointed
Adrian Levoir was in a state of agitated confusion. He was in a mess.
The killing of Roland Fuller, right there in front of him, had affected him badly. Sure he was ambitious and he’d do just about anything to get to the top, but murder? The images would not go away, no matter how much he drank to help blur their edges. He noticed his hands shook, too, and his reflection in the mirror looked haggard and grey. He was an accessory simply by not reporting it. But what could he do? If he did tell anyone he’d be dead. He’d tried to pull himself together to carry on with his work, telling himself it would all be worth it in the end, that his undisputed loyalty would be rewarded, but even that wasn’t enough to assuage his guilt.
Then, as he worked hard on trying to retrieve the data from the CSL hard drives, seeking to drown out his milling thoughts by submerging himself in the desperately difficult task, Lindegaard’s security had flooded into his workshop and put a stop to everything his newly assembled small team and he were doing. Just like that. Put everything down, stand away from the computers. Why? he asked, perplexed. Electrical fault, said the large guy in a stiff black suit, a plastic name badge reflecting the harsh glow of the strip lighting overhead. A name badge that didn’t have a name on it. Where’s the fault, exactly? Levoir didn’t like the way the white-uniformed security guards almost pushed his team members away from their desks, over which they’d been hard at work for many long hours. Can’t say exactly, the nameless guy in black told him coldly. But it wasn’t safe. They’d be allowed back inside when the necessary checks had been done. And when would that be? I have urgent work to do, Levoir protested. But it was no use. He was ushered from the room, saw the door being closed and securely locked, a security guard being posted outside. He was separated from his team and escorted downstairs to the lobby. Here he was told that there would be no more work for him today and that Mr Napier had insisted he take the rest of the night off, but informed him that Mr Napier will be visiting him later that evening. On no account was he to leave his room until Mr Napier had visited him. Had he got that?
Finally, he was told a car was waiting outside for him ready to take him to his hotel. Levoir protested, a light, perfunctory affair, but did as he was told. He knew better than to offer any resistance. That’s when he really began to shake. Something did not feel right.
Something did not feel right!
He got all worked up as he sank into the sumptuous leather of the car seat and let the black Bentley whisk him away from Lindegaard’s Power Tower. What if they planned to take him somewhere and kill him, too? He now knew too much. He’d seen the CSL man tortured and killed. He began to tremble like it was freezing cold.
The driver was silent – they always were, under strict instructions never to speak to their passengers – and that had the effect of troubling him further, so much so he arrived at his hotel far sooner than he expected, his mind so focussed on what had just happened that he’d taken no account of the journey through London’s crowded streets. In a daze he vacated the Bentley and tramped into the hotel, frowning when the driver took the time to escort him from the car, through the swing-doors and into the plush lobby. Curiously, the man even stood with his hands behind his back and watched him as he took the elevator up to his room.
Something did not feel right.
He broke open a bottle of scotch from a fully-stocked cabinet, pouring himself an uncharacteristically large one, and, uncharacteristically, he downed it pretty fast and poured another. He felt too perturbed to go down to eat, or order room service, so he turned on the TV and tried to listen to the news to take his mind off things. But he was a stranger in a strange land, and most of it didn’t mean a thing to him. Tiredly, telling himself not to get so overwrought, he ran the shower and stripped, observing his reflection in the mirror growing fuzzy with the spreading condensation.
It was as he was about to step into the shower cubicle that the hotel’s fire alarm went off, a shrill, irritatingly frightening noise that made him start. Oh Christ, he thought, not now!
He waited a few seconds to see if it was a false alarm, then hearing people tramping urgently in the corridor outside his room, a steady buzz of voices as they streamed by, he thought it best to vacate his temptingly warm bathroom and join them. He carelessly threw on a few clothes, cursing as he did so, the alarm seeming to scream louder as if to hurry him on. He opened the door; a steady flow of people tumbled by like a gurgling stream over rocks. He joined them, but was brought up short by a large man in a black suit and tie.
‘Excuse me, Mr Levoir, this way, if you please,’ he said, his expression one of fixed calm, his hand indicating the opposite direction.
‘But the rest are going this way…’ Levoir said, people brushing by him as more rooms emptied of disgruntled guests threading arms into coats, shouldering bags, and grasping other possessions they thought fit to take from their rooms before they left. Mostly mobiles, tablets and laptops, Levoir noticed.
‘This way, please, Mr Levoir,’ the man reiterated with firm patience. He took a gentle hold on Levoir’s sleeve and led him down the corridor against the general flow.
‘Where are we going? I’m assuming we all have to gather out front.’
‘This way is safer.’
‘So there is a fire? It’s not some kind of practice?’ A note of alarm rang in his voice.
The man nodded. ‘Yes, sir. A real fire. But you’ll be safer going this way. Mr Lindegaard has seen to it that we take personal care of you.’
‘Mr Lindegaard?’ he said. Levoir started to grow panicky all over again. He wanted to turn and run in the opposite direction but the man’s stern, no-nonsense expression tested his resolve and he was found wanting.
They threaded quickly down the maze of corridors, the man taking the lead, his quick steps creating a sense of urgency in Levoir’s as he
struggled to keep pace. Passing through a number of doors, the sounds of scampering people fading away, they began to descend a flight of bare concrete stairs.
‘Where does this lead? Out back?’ Levoir ventured breathlessly.
‘That’s right, sir. You’ll be safer here.’
‘And the other guests, what of them? Wouldn’t they be better off coming this way?’
‘You are not an ordinary guest, Mr Levoir. Please, do not hang back – the fire is spreading quickly.’
Levoir didn’t need to be told a second time. He counted three flights of stairs before the two men pushed through an alarmed fire door that would ordinarily have set off an alarm, had there not already been one blaring away at them like a screaming banshee at their backs. They emerged into a dark, narrow back alley lit only by two half-hearted streetlamps. A row of large refuse bins and a skip full of plasterboard and masonry were pushed against the wall. A black car was waiting opposite the door, beads of rainwater sitting like iridescent pearls on its glossy paintwork. The exhaust puffed out a cloud of fumes that hung in the still cold air, but Levoir could not hear its engine.
The man escorted Levoir over to the car and opened the door for him, gesturing inside. Besides the driver sitting up front there was another man occupying the rear seat. He encouraged Levoir in with a wave of his fingers.
‘Do hurry, Mr Levoir,’ he said, his face in shadow.
Something did not feel right.
‘Where are we going?’ Levoir said, stopping dead before the door and taking a step backwards. ‘Where’s your ID?’
The man by the car’s door lunged forward, clutched Levoir’s arm in an iron-hard grip, and before he knew it, Levoir was tumbled headlong into the car, protesting and struggling as best he could, the man throwing himself into the car beside Levoir and slamming the door shut. The car set off at a pace as Levoir’s body was pinned down.
‘Hold him steady!’ said the second man.
Levoir’s fear-wide eyes saw the glint of something thin and metallic being held up. A syringe. He fought against his captor, but the man’s muscled arm around his neck defied any effort to dislodge it. He felt a sharp pain in his thigh as the needle was plunged in. At which point he was released.
Armageddon Heights (a thriller) Page 18
