Armageddon Heights (a thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘Here!’ she said to Wade, who slipped out of the driver’s cab and slid across the floor to kneel beside her. ‘Take a grenade. At least we’ll give them something to think about.’

  The grenades were ancient things, he noticed, but he lobbed two out in quick succession, the loud retorts quieting the gunfire for a few seconds. But it cranked back up again.

  ‘We’re going to die!’ Hartshorn shouted. ‘We’ve got to surrender!’

  ‘The hell we are,’ said Keegan. ‘If we surrender then we’re as good as dead. You don’t know who you’re dealing with out there. I told you to come with me, Wade, when we had the chance. Why the fuck didn’t you take it?’

  His eyes were blazing. ‘You’d have left us to take care of ourselves. It was the bullet that stopped you.’

  ‘Too right I would have,’ she said, firing the automatic, the sound of the ripping bullets causing a fresh bout of screams from Cheryl. ‘And you’d have been better doing the same. These people – they’re not worth it, Wade. Jesus, it wasn’t supposed to be like this! I had a plan!’

  Wade tossed out another grenade. Ducked as it went off, a few lumps of rock thrown up by the explosion striking the bus. ‘I don’t know who you are, or what the hell you’re talking about, lady, but if you have a plan to get us out right now I’d like to hear of it,’ he said.

  It went unexpectedly quiet. She lowered the automatic and gave a heavy sigh of finality. ‘No plan that’s going to get us out of this mess, Wade. Your friend back there is right. Surrender seems to be the only option out of a bad set of them. We can’t hold them off for long. They have us surrounded and there are far more of them than there are of us. The longer we stay here the more the heat will cook us, and if that doesn’t drive us out and we make it to nightfall we’ll either freeze with all these open windows, or the bonesnappers will come out and have an easy time getting inside and making us look like a tin of sardines.’

  ‘Bonesnappers? You mean those creatures? So you know about them?’

  She angled her head and chewed at her lower lip in thought. ‘Know about them? For my sins I’m sorry to say I’m largely responsible for them. They’re my babies.’

  He eyed her. ‘That’s all I need - a woman that’s more screwed-up than we are. Jesus…’

  She gave an icy grin. ‘If we ever get the chance I’ll come clean on a lot of things. But we have more immediate problems. My feeling is that those guys outside are more interested in the bus than taking us alive, which doesn’t bode well if we do surrender.’

  ‘Who are they?’ said Wade. ‘They’re dressed like something from Robinson Crusoe. What is this place? It’s madness, all of it. None of it makes sense.’

  ‘We’re in a lovely little sector called Cain’s Territory.’

  ‘A sector? A sector of what?’

  ‘Armageddon Heights.’

  ‘Never heard of it. So where exactly is Armageddon Heights and how come we’re here?’

  ‘Long story, Wade, and I haven’t time to tell you it right now. But I have to warn you, you’ve got to steel yourself if you want to hear the truth. You think what’s happened to you so far is crazy? Well you’ve got one hell of a surprise coming.’ She nodded outside. ‘They’re biding their time. All they have to do is wait it out.’

  ‘So who are they? Desert bandits of some kind, making their living from ambushing unwary and unlucky travellers?’ Wade said.

  ‘After a fashion, maybe,’ she said flatly.

  ‘And you are?’ He read the name badge. ‘Lieutenant Keegan – that who you are?’

  ‘For now, yes.’

  ‘British Army? That’s a standard British Army-issue automatic. But I don’t recognise the uniform. So which regiment?’

  Her smile was thin and spectral. She shook her head. ‘No, I’m not with the British Army.’

  ‘But you’re British, right? Your accent…’

  ‘That much is right, and that’s all you need to know for now. Apart from the fact I’m here to get you out of this place. Or at least that was the plan…’

  There was a groan and Wade’s attention went immediately to Martin Bolan, and he scampered across to him. Benedict was holding a piece of ripped-up shirt to the wound, but it was already soaked red with blood. He looked up helplessly.

  ‘He’s gone still and quiet,’ Benedict said as Wade took Bolan’s pulse.

  ‘He’s weak,’ Wade observed. ‘We’re losing him.’

  ‘He’s dead already,’ said Keegan, gun at the ready, lifting her head high enough to scan the desert around the bus. Many more figures had joined the battle, but were keeping a relatively safe distance, some of them crouching down onto their haunches and casually taking drinks from water bottles.

  ‘He’s not going to die. Not if I can help it,’ Wade said. ‘Your medic’s kit, now.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘It’s wasted on him, Wade,’ she said pointedly. ‘I gave you a damage report and it hasn’t suddenly got any better.’

  He pushed her brusquely aside and emptied out her backpack, finding a small box with a red cross on it. He opened it and plucked out a syringe and a small bottle. ‘Morphine - this all you’ve got?’

  ‘He doesn’t really feel pain, not like you and me,’ she said.

  ‘You’re talking bollocks again,’ he retorted. ‘Keep your mouth shut. I’m tired of listening to you.’ He injected Bolan with the drug, but knew in his heart that the man was fast falling away. He didn’t know why he felt such an overwhelming attachment to him. A relative stranger, a policeman sent to arrest him. But the man had unflinchingly tried to save his life, putting himself in danger to do it. He couldn’t let him die without a fight…

  ‘We might need that stuff for ourselves,’ Keegan said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Tough. Make yourself useful and apply some kind of goddamn field dressing to his wound.’

  ‘I’ve better things to do,’ she said. ‘Like keeping us alive.’

  ‘You heartless bitch!’ Wade fired.

  ‘He’s dead, Wade, accept it!’ she returned, their faces but a foot away from each other.

  Sensing the possibility of tempers exploding, Amanda Tyler crawled to the front of the bus. ‘Poor Martin,’ she said. ‘Is there anything I can do? I did a First Aid course once.’

  With a sigh, Wade shook his head. ‘She’s right. We’ve done all we can for him.’

  Her grave expression said it all. ‘Who are those people outside?’ Amanda whispered, as if to talk louder would stir their assailants back into life again.

  Everyone stiffened as a voice came from outside. Deep and authoritative.

  ‘You in there,’ the man shouted. ‘You can’t go anywhere. You might as well give yourselves up. We won’t hurt you.’

  ‘You hear that?’ said Hartshorn’s plaintive voice from the rear of the coach. ‘He said they won’t hurt us.’

  ‘Hate to disappoint you, but this man is partly responsible for the death of thousands. That’s his main role in life,’ said Keegan.

  ‘Who is he?’ Wade asked.

  ‘Unfortunately that’s probably Cain’s second-in-command,’ explained Keegan, puffing out a slow, calming breath. ‘If the Devil had a toilet, Cain’s territory would be it; Cain would be the Devil’s arsehole and this guy the shit that passes through. Of all the sectors in Armageddon Heights to get stuck in – and there isn’t much to choose between any of them – this is not the one I would have chosen.’ She looked at Wade. ‘Surprisingly, though you’re hardly likely to believe it, it’s your entire fault we’re stuck here,’ she said to him. ‘Be that as it may, it won’t be long before Lindegaard’s bozos pick up on the fact that something strange is happening out here and put two and two together and come up with me. So that’s another problem to add to our growing list of them.’

  ‘Lindegaard?’ Wade said, his brows lowering. ‘Who the devil is Lindegaard?’

  ‘Later,’ she said. ‘Speaking aloud. Ignore me.’

  He shook his head, groane
d. ‘This shit just gets deeper,’ he murmured to himself. He turned to the rest of the bus’s occupants. ‘Don’t worry,’ Wade assured. ‘I’ll do all I can to get you out of this.’

  Keegan shook her head at his obvious attachment to them. Totally wasted on them, she thought.

  ‘Like you helped Bolan there?’ said Hartshorn.

  ‘We trust you, Sam,’ said Amanda Tyler nervously, but her eyes were hot with anger as she trained them on Hartshorn.

  Keegan stared at the pale-faced woman called Amanda who was crouching down, head moving fretfully. There was something in the woman’s heartfelt expression she found deeply disturbing.

  A black canister rose in a gentle arc through the sky towards the bus’s front window leaving a grey-white trail of smoke behind it.

  ‘Tear gas!’ yelled Keegan just before the canister landed on the floor beside her. She immediately picked it up and threw it back outside. But two more canisters were lobbed through the broken windows at the back of the bus and people screamed out in terror, rushing as one to the front to escape the clouds of stinging smoke. In seconds the bus was filled with it, everyone feeling the effects at once, the screams being replaced by a fit of coughing and cries for help.

  Wade was knocked to the ground by someone barging into him in the choking fog and the confusion, blundering by him and heading for the exit, banging helplessly on the closed door. He saw, through the burning tears, Keegan’s form, bent double and choking on the gas. He reached out to grab the automatic rifle, but couldn’t find it.

  He heard more glass shattering as the doors were bludgeoned open by their attackers. Vague shadows of people flowed out through the opening like black smoke. At last he managed to lay his hand on the automatic rifle, which Keegan had dropped beside her as she attempted to shield her eyes and mouth from the dense choking clouds of gas.

  ‘Put the gun down!’ The voice was muffled, sounding far away.

  Wade looked up through the billowing fog to see the vague figure of a man wearing a gas mask and pointing a rifle directly at him. ‘I won’t say it again.’

  ‘Do it, Wade…’ Keegan gasped. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

  For a fleeting second Wade thought about firing the automatic, but his eyes were too blurred, his breathing too laboured. He placed the gun on the floor of the bus and raised his arms in submission.

  24

  A Bright, Shining Star

  The room was small, square and windowless. A single door constructed in cheap hardboard. Damp patches on the walls. A mousetrap on the floor. Some kind of storeroom, he surmised, judging from the cardboard boxes bearing red letters in Chinese stacked against one wall near where he sat on a hard wooden chair. Crying Dolls, was printed in bold black letters on the boxes.

  Adrian Levoir screwed up his eyes in order to help alleviate his blurred vision. His head hurt like hell, his brain swimming aimlessly through churning, murky waters. Nothing made sense. Why were his hands tied behind his back? Where was he?

  He tried to cry out, but his tongue felt like it had swollen to three times its size, blocked the passage of words and had a life of its own. A dribble of saliva oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Don’t worry, it will soon pass.’

  The voice came from directly behind him and caused him to start. The memory of recent events started to seep in, first in a trickle and then in a raging flood.

  ‘Verharhurs!’ he spat out. He struggled against his bindings to no avail.

  ‘Good attempt,’ said Dean Villiers, coming round to face Levoir. ‘A few minutes and you’ll be talking just fine. I sure hope so, because there’s a lot I’d like to hear.’ Villiers drew up another chair, placed it before Levoir and sat down, folding his arms. He regarded the man like a cat studies a wounded bird.

  ‘Wha th ell are ou doin?’ Levoir grimaced at his garbled speech and swallowed, licked his lips. Tried again. ‘What are you doing?’ he mouthed carefully. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘All in good time, Adrian. All in good time. You’ve been a very naughty boy, do you know that? Lindegaard and Napier are very, very pissed off with you.’

  ‘You injected me with something, you bastard!’ Levoir said. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Villiers? Untie me, for God’s sake. What’s going on? Where am I?’

  ‘Nice to see you’ve gained command over your expletives. Good. We can begin.’ Villiers wagged a finger and Levoir saw the familiar bulky form of Jungius come from behind him to stand in front of the door. He felt his skin go cold.

  ‘What’s going on? Why is that man here?’ he said, his voice tremulous, suddenly sensing the worst. ‘Untie me you red-haired, skinny little bastard!’

  ‘Tut-tut, Adrian. It’s all coming out now, isn’t it?’ Villiers’s expression dropped as cold and grey as a winter’s night. ‘Let me show you the lie of the land, shall I? The man trusted by Napier with retrieving and interrogating the data held on the CSL equipment has been discovered to be a CSL operative all along. He takes the vital pieces of data and hard drives and disappears, ensuring Lindegaard cannot trace CSL to its source and to Charlie Sharland. In fact he’s been a very clever mole, working his way up through the ranks to work alongside Napier himself, a man one step away on the hierarchical ladder from Dale Lindegaard. As a mole he has access to software, tremethelene supplies, to vital security upgrades, and he’s been able to warn CSL of any moves against them by Lindegaard, keeping them one step of the game at all times. But it finally gets too hot and he decides now’s the time to jump ship.’

  Adrian Levoir blinked. ‘Are you mad? You’re calling me a CSL mole? That’s ridiculous! You’ve gone too far this time, Villiers; you’re going to get crucified by Mr Napier when he finds out what you’ve done.’

  ‘The fact is, Adrian, whilst I know you’re as clean as a whistle, and you know you’re as innocent as the day is long, both Napier and Lindegaard are doubly convinced you’re very bad meat. I’ve ensured that all fingers point to you. If you show your head above the parapet chances are you’re a dead man; they’ve already got a team looking for you. I know Lindegaard’s methods – he’ll torture you to get out of you what he wants about CSL and then dispose of you.’

  ‘I don’t work for CSL!’ he said angrily.

  ‘I’m afraid in Lindegaard’s blinkered eyes you do now,’ Villiers said evenly. ‘I’ve ensured your phone calls, your emails, your very movements over the last two years or so, have been linked directly to CSL.’

  ‘That’s impossible. How can you do that?’

  ‘I have an almost limitless amount of resources to back me up,’ Villiers explained.

  ‘Resources? You’re lying. You’re nothing more than a snivelling CSL turncoat and murderer looking to make a few quid and a name for yourself. You’re a slimeball, Villiers.’

  ‘Yes, I do give that impression, don’t I? Sadly, you know, it’s not all true.’ He fingered the ear damaged by Robert Napier. ‘Your bosses are under that impression, too – a job well done on my part, I’d say – but they couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ll come clean with you. Let me backtrack a little. Lindegaard currently dominates the tremethelene market, but there are other big players out there wanting to get in on the act. And I mean big, big players. They don’t just want a piece of the action, they want to take the action from Lindegaard and own it. They’d like to see him destroyed.’

  ‘Who are these big players exactly?’

  Villiers tapped the side of his sharp nose. ‘On a need to know basis and you don’t need to know. This business – I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you – is worth billions. The stakes are huge with everything to play for. You’ve seen first hand how cutthroat it is. People are pawns in this game – disposable, sacrificed for the greater aims. It makes no difference who you are or how special you believe yourself to be, if it comes down to it then you’re dead meat. Take your case, for instance. A bright rising star that has been oh-so-easy to tarnish and bring down from its high heaven. You think Napier
or Lindegaard will believe you now? There’d always be that doubt in you, at the very least, so best to err on the side of caution. Like I say, you show your head above the parapet and I wouldn’t reckon much for your chances.’

  ‘So you’re the mole?’ Levoir said.

  He laughed. ‘Alas, no. The particular enigma that we now know as Cobalt remains at large, if indeed he really exists. Like so much with CSL, it’s hard to determine what is real and what is not. But to make this less complicated, Lindegaard and Napier now think you are Cobalt.’

  ‘That’s bullshit!’ he fired. He attempted to settle his breathing.

  ‘And you should know, eh, Villiers?’ Levoir said cautiously.

  Villiers smiled thinly. ‘But that’s the reality we are dealing with now. I know you see through me, Adrian. You discovered something about me when you went through the CSL hard drives, didn’t you? Something you wanted to personally talk to Napier about. Come, come, you know it’s true.’

  Levoir gave a slow, resigned nod. ‘Dean Villiers disappeared some time ago, according to CSL’s files. They also had him down as a stalwart and trustworthy member of the organisation.’

  ‘So you began to wonder why on earth had Dean Villiers turned so much against CSL, eh? Money? Didn’t fit with his profile, his core beliefs. So you thought you ought to tell Napier that the man Lindegaard had employed might not be the real Villiers after all. Well I couldn’t have you telling him That, could I? That’s why I had to make my move on you when I did. You’re right, of course. I’m not the real Villiers. Let’s say he met an untimely and unfortunate end, but not before he divested himself of valuable information to us; information on the CSL man called Roland Fuller which I used to help me wheedle my way into Lindegaard’s confidence. It was also unfortunate for Fuller that he knew the real Dean Villiers before he left their employ. It was a foolish thing he did when, during his interrogation, he whispered that he knew I wasn’t who I said I was. Perhaps he thought he could bargain with me to gain his freedom.’