Moon Mask

by James Richardson

  King hesitated. “You killed Sid!”

  Nadia’s eyes shifted to his gun. “Have you ever shot an unarmed woman before, Ben?” she asked.

  “Ben,” Raine slowed to a halt behind him, stolen Russian rifle slung across his chest. The ship rolled even more so that now they were forced to straddle the V-shape between the catwalk and the safety railing.

  “Ben,” he said gently. “You don’t want to kill an unarmed woman. Believe me, it’s a path you don’t want to go down.”

  “She killed Sid!” he cried, tears breaking out. His lip quivered as he fought conflicting emotions. She deserved to die! All he wanted to do was pull the trigger. Would that make him a monster? Like Abuku? She was no innocent, after all. It wouldn’t be just cold blooded murder. An eye for an eye-

  The gunshot rang out, echoing above the thunderous water. King snapped his head up and looked at Nadia. An expression of surprise plastered her face and she cupped her chest. When she brought her hands away, they were stained with blood.

  King was confused. Had he pulled the trigger without even consciously doing so?

  Then he looked behind him. Raine’s rifle was raised, the trajectory spot on with his lover’s breast. His eyes were hard as ice, his face a mask of stone.

  Nadia’s voice was weak as she spoke to Raine. “I . . . loved you.”

  Then, her body went limp and she fell against the railing, slipping between the gap between it and the catwalk. Like a discarded toy, her body tumbled down into the churning water far below and was dragged under by the surging froth.

  “Why?!” King gasped, staring at Raine. “It was my job! It was for me to do!”

  Slowly, Raine met his gaze. His voice was flat. “You’re a better man than that, Ben.” He glanced down at the rising water. There was no sign of the Russian. Then, without another word, he pushed past King and ran to the ladder. After a moment, King followed and they clambered up into the access shaft just as more of the Eldridge’s hull gave way.

  A huge surge of water rushed into the ship’s belly, filling her up and dragging her down. It chased Raine and King up the hatch and into the corridor where they slipped and splashed.

  The ship was going down fast, the water climbing quickly around their ankles, their knees-

  They hit the central stairwell and climbed, scrambled out of the water onto the next level.

  “This way, come on,” Raine ordered. King followed and they raced down the remains of a shattered corridor, hurdling fallen debris, skirting spitting power lines until they reached the door that led out onto the deck.

  The wind and the rain slammed into them with tempest force. The deck was angled sharply to port, rising to the vertical. They used a giant anchor chain to lower themselves to the side and then peered over the edge. A vertiginous drop still awaited them, dark, storm-tossed seas driving huge waves against the side of the dying ship. Upon the surface, burning oil slicks and the remains of downed fighter jets thrashed in the storm. In the distance, the running lights of the George Washington Carrier Strike Group retreated into the darkness.

  “We’ve got to jump!” he shouted to King over the howling wind.

  “Jump?” King said. “Are you insane?!”

  The ship lurched to port. The huge deck rolled above them, threatening a three-sixty. Lightning forked through the sky.

  Despite it all, Raine grinned at him. “Yeah,” he shrugged. “A little.”

  Then, before he could protest, he grabbed King’s shoulder and hurled them both off the deck!

  They fell, arms and legs cart-wheeling until the last possible moment when they pinned their limbs to their bodies and hit the water, streamlining down deep.

  The Eldridge’s roll finally reached its point of no return and the enormous hulk flipped over, the yearning mass slamming down into the water behind Raine and King. They broke the surface just as an enormous wave took them and sent them sprawling. They kicked and thrashed as the ship began to go under.

  “Swim away!” Raine bellowed, half drowned. He kicked and tried to ignore the shooting pain in his wounded shoulder as he tried to push himself away from the sinking vessel.

  Then he felt the tug of suction as the Eldridge’s hull slipped under, taking him with it. He kicked harder but his head went under, three feet deep, five, six, ten-

  He reached out for the black, inky surface but it was indistinguishable from the stormy sky. Below him, the running lights of the ship flashed and flickered as electrical systems shorted out. He dropped down, its suction taking him deeper with it.

  His left arm was as good as useless and he relied solely on his feet to kick him towards the surface. In the back of his mind he knew he wouldn’t make it, but he didn’t give up.

  He kicked, harder and harder, resisting the urge to open his mouth, the instinctual reflex when drowning.

  Then, strong fingers wrapped around the wrist of his bad arm and new pain jolted through him as King pulled him to the surface. They broke through the waves, gasping for air and kicking to stay afloat.

  “That’s my bad arm, you idiot!” he yelled at King.

  “You’re welcome!” King shot back. Then they grasped hold of a floating piece of debris and relaxed their bodies slightly. A small smile of relief broke out on both their faces.

  “Thanks,” Raine said sincerely.

  With equal sincerity, King smiled too. “Thanks.” Then, exhausted, he rested his head against their float. “So what now?”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to get out of here.”

  “And how would you suggest we do that?”

  “Same way we got here,” he replied, and nodded into the darkness. There, bobbing on the stormy see was the faint but welcome outline of the Catalina Flying Boat. “Beat you to it,” he goaded, then pushed off the float and headed to the Black Cat.

  Epilogue:

  I’ll Teach You How to Run

  Port Royal,

  Jamaica

  The sun beat down through the freshly cleaned windows of the Hand of Freedom Museum as Mrs Marley turned off the vacuum cleaner. Around her, the display cases all shone, freshly polished and reorganised. The structural damage to the building was still being repaired but she intended to open to the public today regardless.

  She took in a deep breath and looked around her legacy. For that was what it was. As the last surviving descendant of Kha’um and Emily Hamilton- her black husband had been taken as a cover to hide the result of her union with her hero the night before he left for Venezuela- it was her duty to ensure that people did not forget their roots. Despite the sunshine, the coconut trees and the white sandy beaches, the history of the Caribbean was tainted by the blood of her people. She would see to it that that memory was not forgotten. It was just a shame that it had taken a midnight attack by commandoes and being shot and tortured for her to realise it.

  There was a knock on the door and she waddled to it. She caught an image on the small flat screen television behind the admissions counter. The CNN newsreader was reporting on some sort of naval accident out in the Pacific. Earlier, she had seen a joint address by the U.S. President and the Chinese Premier declaring that both countries were working together to rescue the survivors of a war-games exercise that had gone horribly wrong when hit by an electrical storm.

  She turned the volume down then opened the door.

  A big man stood there, yellow teeth spread in a wide smile. He wore the blue uniform of a local courier service. “Mrs Marley,” he said, his voice deep. “Special Delivery.”

  He handed her a book-sized parcel wrapped in brown paper. The postage stamp on it was German.

  She frowned. She didn’t know anybody in Germany.

  She signed for it, bid a cheery farewell to the courier, and then went back inside. She unwrapped the parcel and then gasped as she took out her treasured Kernewek Diary.

  Happily, she flicked through the pages, reading a few paragraphs desp
ite knowing them word for word, then went to a display case, unlocked it, and carefully laid the book inside, on display for all the world to see.

  Then, smiling to herself, she packed away the vacuum cleaner, fiddled with the final few displays and went back to the door, flipping the sign to read ‘Open For Business’.

  Dōgo Island,

  Japan

  Benjamin King stood on the top of the cliff, looking out over the waters of the Pacific as the setting sun began to turn them to liquid gold. He held Sid’s engagement ring in his hand, clutching it tightly. Down in the secluded cove, the Black Cat was tethered to the sand, bobbing slightly on the gentle swell.

  The storm had passed to reveal a beautifully clear day, but Raine and King had spent much of it patching up one another’s wounds. The most serious had been the knife wounds, but luckily both his and Raine’s had missed critical organs, muscles and bones. Resetting Raine’s nose had been less than enjoyable, especially when the former soldier had instinctively lashed out and almost broken his in the process!

  They had arrived on the small island around midday and spent much of the afternoon listening to news reports about the supposed ‘accident’ out in the Pacific.

  They were covering it up! After everything that had happened, America and China were pretending to be friends once more, working together to support each other in a time of mutual tragedy. Britain, Russia and numerous other countries had all offered their condolences and it seemed as if the whole world was willing to turn a blind eye to the entire ‘Moon Mask Crisis’.

  But King could not.

  His world had been turned upside down. His quest, his obsession with the Moon Mask was over, as was his father’s. He had not only been kicked out of academia but, after Raine contacted someone called ‘Rasta-Man’ who broke into Interpol databases, he knew he was now also a wanted man. Because of his and Raine’s involvement with the destruction of the Eldridge, they had been declared terrorists. Every law enforcement agency in the western world would be looking for them.

  Benjamin King was now an exile, a fugitive. He quite literally had a price on his head. Wherever he went now, whatever he did, he would be hunted. His life, as he had known it, was over.

  He peered over the edge of the cliff and, not for the first time in the two hours he had stood there, considered jumping.

  The sun sank lower over the western horizon, sending out streamers of ruby light into the darkening sky. Behind him, the guttural roar of a motorbike found its way to his ears and he turned to see the distant plume of dust draw nearer.

  Raine had taken the bike, the last of the Black Cat’s, fifteen miles to the small town to buy supplies. His speed, however, suggested that he had brought more than just supplies with him and, sure enough, about two miles behind the bike, obscured in a larger cloud of dust, thundered a small armada of police vehicles, their sirens wailing.

  Raine skidded to a stop near him. “Benny,” he called. “Come on, we’ve got to go!”

  King stared at him, unmoving.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve got half the-”

  “I’m not going,” he cut him off.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to turn myself in.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “I’m not like you, Nate!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Raine asked, irked. He looked behind at the advancing cloud of dust.

  “We’re wanted men. Fugitives, outlaws. Where are we supposed to go? What are we supposed to do?”

  “Well, for starters, we stay one step ahead of the law.” He glanced behind again.

  “You mean run?”

  “Run, skip, hop . . . whatever, if it’ll get you moving. Now come on!” he held his hand out in an attempt to drag his friend onto the back of the bike.

  But King shook his head. “I remember what you told West, in the mine. About what it’s like to always be running. Always looking over your shoulder, wondering when they’re going to catch up with you. Running. Always running. And just when you get settled, you said,” he paused to catch a breath. Raine looked at him with concern. “Just when you think you’ve got it made and you can put what you’ve done behind you, something spooks you. Someone snooping around, asking too many questions about your past, who you are. And then you’re on the run again. Always running.”

  Raine’s face was serious now too. He forgot about his pursuers for a moment and reflected on what he had said in the mine. How true the words were, he thought. He had thought, for one idiotic moment back during it all, that perhaps, just perhaps, he could stop running. But here he was again. Running from the government, from the law . . . running from his own pain.

  Nadia’s final words repeated in his skull, just as they had been all day. “I . . . loved you.” Could it have been that he felt something for her too? Despite all that she had done, killing her had been one of the most painful decisions of his life. He had saved King’s soul, but only further condemned his own.

  The police cars raced nearer. The sirens were loud now but Raine ignored them as he looked into King’s eyes. They held defeat.

  “I don’t know how to run, Nate,” he admitted.

  The police were almost upon them. Voices shouted at them in Japanese.

  Maybe he was right, Raine thought. Maybe it would be easier to stop running, to turn himself in. Too many ghosts haunted him, former comrades, friends and lovers. Now Sid, Nadia, Rudy and Alex would join them. They would terrorise him in his sleep. Maybe the day would come to stop running. To lay his ghosts to rest.

  But not today.

  He held his hand out to his friend. “I’ll teach you how to run,” he vowed.

  King hesitated a moment longer then, just as the police cars screeched to a stop around them, something clicked in his mind, a decision made. He vaulted onto the back of the bike. Raine gunned the throttle and shot through a narrow gap between the cars. Several of the officers fired at them but the bullets flew wide and, in a comical shambles, they struggled to pull their vehicles around and pursue the bike as it bounded down the steep slope to the cove below.

  By the time the police made it to the beach, all they could do was watch as a Catalina Black Cat Flying Boat sliced through the waves, its engines rising up a pitch as it lifted out of the water and flew into the sunset.

  “Oh man,” Raine grumbled when he realised what he had done.

  “What?”

  “I hate clichés!”

  KEEP READING FOR AN EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM JAMES RICHARDSON’S LATEST BOOK

  A MAORI LEGEND

  A DRUID SECRET

  A NAZI WEAPON

  RAINE AND KING RETURN

  IN

  TAONGA

  COMING SOON

  PROLOGUE:

  Harbinger

  Lake Tarawera,

  New Zealand

  Present Day

  Ngatoro was dying!” Rawiri’s voice echoed over the cold waters of the lake, capturing the attention of the eight tourists huddled inside the canoe. The afternoon was waning and the low sun was sheathed behind a veil of blue mist, casting an eerie halo of muted gold upon the lake.

  The atmosphere only served to keep his audience’s enraptured attention. He smiled inwardly, knowing from the eager looks in their eyes that he would be getting a good tip this afternoon. It was amazing how easy it was to manipulate the boat-loads of mostly British, American and Japanese tourists into leaving generous gratuities- a tour around Te Wairoa, better known as ‘The Buried Village’, followed by a trip on the lake in a traditional waka, or war canoe, with an authentic Maori guide.

  At six foot three and heavily muscled, Rawiri knew he looked like the perfect Maori warrior, even if he usually went by the name David and lived in an modern apartment in Taupo, decked out with all the latest mod-cons. His dark eyes, close cropped hair and chisel-sharp features betrayed his ancestry and the scattering of tattoos o
n his bare chest, neck and face further painted the picture. He was what the tourists wanted to see, the iconic vision of New Zealand’s native inhabitants. He had even performed the haka, the traditional war-dance made famous by the All-Blacks rugby team, before embarking upon the tour. His voice was deep and smooth and, his grandfather told him, carried with it the perfect inflection of a storyteller. Indeed, when he related the tales of the Maoris history, myths and legends, one couldn’t help but tune in to the excited manner in which he spoke.

  While his assistants, Tipene and Rui, paddled the waka calmly through the glassy water, Rawiri continued his narrative. “The Coming of the Maori’ was a tale that he himself, as a young boy, had listened to, enraptured by his grandfather’s voice. But, as he had grown into young adulthood, like so many others, he had drifted away from his traditional roots and been sucked into the popular culture of the Pakeha, the European New Zealanders. Their world of television, sports bars, fast women and the world-wide-web was far more appealing than the ways of his ancestors. Nevertheless, a job was a job and if his tips were as good today as he hoped, then maybe he would be able to join his friends on this weekend’s party break in Wellington after all.

  With that thought in mind, he continued with his story.

  He had just related the tale of Ngatoro, the tohunga or priest from the Maoris mythological homeland of Hawaiki who had been tricked into boarding the Te Awara, one of the legendary wakas that had made the epic journey from Hawaiki to Aotearoa. While intending to make the journey anyway, the Te Awara’s captain, Tama, had kidnapped the priest in hopes of incurring the favor of the gods but when he assaulted Ngatoro’s wife, the tohunga had cast the canoe into a fierce sea-monster in the form of a whirlpool. Only the screaming of the women and children on board caused the priest to have pity on them and, beseeching the gods, he ensured that the rest of Te Awara’s journey was free from peril.