by Rees, Kevin
‘I wasn’t given the chance. You railroaded in and took over. I am your daughter, but also a member of this team, so is Cole. If it were one of your men you wouldn’t feel anything — not even when it’s Lars.’ Maya turned away, not wanting to show him any weakness, but finding it hard to contain her emotions. ‘You can’t be a hypocrite because your son has become a casualty of this war.’
‘Maya!’
‘Sir, over here. We’ve found the tunnel,’ a soldier shouted.
Father and daughter stood apart, not knowing what to say to each other. Maya shouldered her weapon, leaving Karl to stand alone a moment longer before returning to the others. He had never felt so isolated and lacking control.
Tork waited for them, having sent the team to set up firing positions around the entrance. Maya walked past him as if he were a ghost. Tork watched his commander come slowly to his side. The strain was overwhelming the man, who was so fired up with desire to kill Father. Revenge had crept in like a cancer and controlled him for so many years. Perhaps he feared there would be nothing to replace it when Father was dead. What would occupy that missing space inside of him then?
‘My friend, earlier... I don’t know,’ Karl began.
‘My friend, nothing happened. Only two old men pretending they were young again.’ Tork grinned. ‘Although, that punch did remind me I need to duck more.’
Karl clasped his friend’s shoulder. The tension evaporated like the dew around them ‘Do you think the nurse has enough skill to save Cole?’
‘Sir, if anyone can pull your son through, he can,’ Tork replied.
Karl sighed. ‘Then let’s finish this.’
They moved to join the team for one last assault against the demon who had possessed every waking hour of Karl’s life since the death of his wife.
23
‘What the hell do you want, you fat pig?’
The voice was thick with sleep and alcohol, and resonated like a bee in a bottle as it boomed out of the small disk in Thoragan’s hand. Then it changed to a muffled conversation distorted by a finger covering up the speaker. Thoragan could hear another voice, clearly a woman’s, who was being told to shut up. He waited patiently for his brother to fix himself a drink before pushing him to listen. He knew it was no good pressuring a man like Janathen; it would be like encouraging a tortoise to run.
‘Well, you fat fuck? Whadya want?’ the voice returned.
‘Why, brother, it’s good to talk with you again. How’s life?’ Thoragan tried, but couldn’t stop his words from shaking. It was an involuntary hangover from his childhood at the academy that saw the young Thoragan wishing the bullies of his dormitory would rescue him from Janathen. At least their torture stopped when they got bored.
‘You don’t want to know about my life, brother.’ Janathen sloshed liquid around a glass and followed it with a watery belch before he continued. ‘You want something from me, don’t you, fatso?’
‘Stop calling me that.’
‘Fatso, fatso.’
The word ignited the searing pain of a childhood spent on the flooded Llanos of Venezuela. He recalled two children — both running along the edge of the water. One chasing the other with a bleached tree branch swinging around his head while filling the air with bellowing Apache screeches. The boy being chased struggled to keep ahead in the steamy humidity. His white tree-trunk legs pumped hard to support his sweaty, corpulent top half. He flipped fearful glances towards the water and down at the soggy terrain where his feet were about to land. He didn’t want to be caught by his pursuer, but he was also afraid of falling into the water. Snakes as thick as his body were reported by the Llaneros to lurk just under the surface of the dark, undulating carpet of vegetation knitted on the surface of the water where they waited — very patiently — for fat little boys to come within striking distance so they could be swallowed whole.
‘How you’ve remained the same, Janathen, ever since we were boys. You, the confident one, master of everything you touched. And me, a child who wanted to be like his brother, who looked up to him, even through the pain and the tears.’ Thoragan felt something drip from his eyes.
‘Okay, Lee, let’s stop this idolatry. What do you actually want?’
Thoragan swiped the water off his face and stared at the glistening droplets on his hand, as if disbelieving their existence.
‘You there,’ Janathen rasped.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ Thoragan replied. ‘I want to offer you a large sum of money to do a job for me. Needs to be done tonight.’
‘Tonight! Hell, I’ve got three bottles of wine inside me mixing nicely with shots of tequila. I’ve also got a really horny mama waiting for you to stop jabbering and let me get back to her.’ The sound of ice clinking against a glass and loud sucking gave Thoragan some hope. ‘What’s the target? I’m not saying I’ll do it, but give me the details and let’s see if our fees match.’
Thoragan smiled broadly. He knew his brother was hooked. ‘I need you to get something for me.’
‘What is it?’
‘The property I want to recover is in a hospital. It will be messy, but you’re used to handling blood.’ Thoragan knew the jibe would sail over his brother’s head right now, but it made him feel like he’d scored something over Janathen. ‘There is a timeframe of about two, possibly three, hours.’
‘Two hours! How am I supposed to recce the place, plan the mission and have all the tools I need?’
‘What’s your fee?’ Thoragan pressed, ignoring his brothers’ protest.
‘Screw the fee. I’m not doing it. I can’t get sober in two hours.’ Janathen’s voice rose angrily, but a part of him had started to plan the job. He ran through an inventory of items he would need to enter the hospital and give him access to all the floors without being challenged? And there was transport, which had to be nondescript, but have enough juice to get him out fast.
‘I’m sorry to have troubled you, Janathen. Obviously you’re the wrong person for this job...’ Thoragan trailed off as the voice on the radio exploded.
‘Wait, you fat fuck! You wait!’ Janathen’s desperation was obvious. ‘It’s gonna cost you a lot of money. I want a million. No, for the insult, I’ll take another million off you.’
‘So that’s agreed. Two million,’ Thoragan said. He began to smile, recognising for once it was him pushing the monster into the corner. ‘The target is brain parts.’
There was a pause before Janathen’s voice came back, sober and businesslike. ‘Brain scan?’ The two words were rhetorical, but they demanded confirmation.
‘Just get me the brain, Janathen and I promise the money will be in your account an hour after delivery.’ Thoragan felt a wave of regret engulf him, but he knew the only man capable of succeeding was his brother.
‘Done. Where is it?’
‘Tarramatta 1’s mortuary. It’s under the name of Morgan Cruz-Smith. Shot tonight. Don’t expect it to be intact. I need all the pieces. Don’t leave anything for the scanners to read. I’m trusting you, Janathen,’ Thoragan said, struggling to keep his tone even.
‘Stupid then, fatso. But for two million you’ve bought my loyalty until this mission is over,’ Janathen spluttered. ‘Out.’
The radio returned to a silent disk drowning in a pool of moisture. Thoragan’s hand dripped and trembled, distorting his pallid face on the polished surface. Janathen was miles away, yet he could still make him feel like a boy running for his life. As that thought faded it was replaced with the contemplations of a ruthless man alone in his library. Thoragan mused, perhaps he should consider saving two million and end the life of the man who had made his existence hell on earth. He killed the thought as soon as it was born, knowing his brother would most likely survive and come back for him. Then, Thoragan knew with certainty, Janathen would make him suffer for the rest of his life. It was infuriating. With all the power he had acquired, a stupid insult could turn him into a frightened little boy again.
He sighed loudly, pushing a
ir between the gaps of his tightly clenched teeth. Thoragan hadn’t realised how tense his body had become. His muscles ached and his head began to pound painfully. Thoragan placed the radio back into the safe and made sure everything was secure. His hands were still trembling. Maybe it was adrenalin setting his heart pounding. Or it could be the thrill of the descending minutes ticking away, knowing his secret could still be exposed by those infernal machines sieving the last few thoughts from the grey gloop sloshing under the detectors?
‘Janathen will do it,’ he said to the empty room. ‘He’s got to do it.’
The sound of his phone trilling drew a curtain down on any more thoughts of his brother. Thoragan frowned. Four numbers identified the caller, a code Thoragan insisted for all his contacts.
‘This is he.’ Thoragan listened without interrupting the caller, all the while his face screwed into a mask of red anger. Thoragan remained silent until the caller paused. ‘You’ve made one of the biggest mistakes of your life. I don’t think anything will stop him if he gets your scent in his nose,’ Thoragan smirked. He used the pause as if contemplating something. ‘Perhaps I could suggest one thing.’ He listened for the voice on the other end to stop pleading. The desperation of the man was sickening. ‘I have access to a safe house not far from where you are...Good, you know the address. In the first bedroom is a clock, behind which is a safe with money in several currencies, blank passports and directions to my château. The combination is 40 left, 6 right, 29 right and 19 left. Listen to me, Colonel.’ Thoragan cut through the man’s gratitude’s brusquely. ‘In the bathroom behind the red tiles are a selection of weapons and ammunition. Oh yes, and a nice little poison. I’ll leave it to your discretion to either use it on yourself if Felton corners you, or perhaps attack is the best form of defence. Good-luck, Colonel.’ Thoragan stabbed the button quickly, ending Sixsmith’s grovelling.
The call had distracted him from the previous conversation with Janathen, and for that he could thank Sixsmith. But it came back again. Thoragan questioned, how could the drunken ramblings of a distant half-brother make him feel so preposterously inadequate and defenceless? He was a powerful man, even feared by some of his peers. Thoragan had witnessed the destruction of many opponents, all of them indirectly linked to his hand. And by their removal he’d moved like an unstoppable iceberg slicing through the political ranks. Perhaps a small sacrifice to endure the company of his brother for a few minutes.
Then a moment of clarity forced its way from nagging at the corner of his mind. Thoragan, bolted across to the door. His hand hovered over the handle, holding off his impulse to wrench it open. The meeting place for the handover hadn’t been discussed during the frigid conversation. Janathen would automatically bring the brain to his house, expecting Thoragan to be cowering behind the door. The sound of his voice, even under the circumstances of his visit, would boom along the hallway and up to the bedrooms.
Panic turned back to cold calm as Thoragan forced himself to think, to plan a way around his error. He cursed the flawed psychology of his relationship with his brother. Every time they were in contact he was incapable of reason. Now the problem needed the powerful man to take charge. His political future was balanced on the edge of a razor and its impartial bite was making him bleed. His life was also balanced on the same fine edge that could at any moment slice deep, unless he could manipulate the outcome. Janathen had gleefully speculated one day his addiction to power would get him killed.
Thoragan peered at the clock under the painting. Already ten minutes had passed since he ended the conversation. Surely his brother would be on his way to the hospital. Or was he in bed with his whore? Thoragan dismissed the notion. One thing that never changed was Janathen’s greed. Two million would cover his gambling debt and still leave him rich. No, Janathen would complete the mission. All Thoragan could do was wait.
He was right to worry, but his confidence clouded any possibility Janathen wouldn’t complete his task. He hadn’t thought of an alternative, and couldn’t contemplate his brother failing.
Janathen staggered back to the car. He reached the vehicle and fell across the roof struggling to find the key’s, swearing each time his hand came out of a pocket empty. Even his clothing was conspiring to delay his getaway. Janathen heard sirens in the distance, and the sound of someone running. He knew the hospital guard could race around the corner and stick another bullet into his shattered body at any moment. He tilted his head wearily to the sky as a constant dripping on the pavement made a staccato rhythm that was irritating him as he fought to get into the vehicle. Through the glow of streetlights, Janathen saw stars twinkling in a clear night sky. Dropping his head, Janathen realised the plip, plip, plip forming a black puddle around his feet was blood running out of his body.
‘Shit!’ he swore again, breathlessly.
The word should have sounded angry and delivered with a scream of frustration. But his body had nothing left to give leaving the word thin and incoherent, like a boy trying it out in secret for the first time. Janathen perversely congratulated the guard for the shot, which, he accepted, had clipped him well. If he were fitter he would at least be able to come out of this alive. As it was, he was losing feeling in the lower half of his body. If he could make it to his brother’s, Lee would get him a doctor — one who would keep his mouth shut.
Driven by self-preservation, Janathen found the key and managed to open the door, collapsing heavily on to the driver’s seat. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring the sight of the guard who shot him, come skidding to a halt in front of the car. Janathen’s hand fell onto the starter button. The dead weight was enough to fire the electronics and start the engine. Janathen squinted at the dark outline standing in the road. They looked like a sack — no arms or legs, just a lumpy silhouette preventing his escape. With muscles that were becoming unfeeling, he raised heavy arms and rested his hands on the steering wheel. This simple act was the last of his life. Three bullets smashed through the windscreen in a perfect group. All the rounds hit Janathen just below his throat and moved effortlessly through his body to exit out of the back window. The life of the strange man, who blundered his way into the mortuary shouting and waving a gun, had come to a bloody end. Somehow, it was the only outcome that was probable given the poor state he was in. His demands were lost in a rant that were incomprehensible to the two orderlies who Janathen cornered in an outer office. In the scanning room, armed guards had been waiting.
The woman who had just killed him stayed in a firing position until she was sure there was no more movement coming from the car. She walked up to it with tactical slowness, confident the three rounds had done the job her first bullet had started. As she got around to the driver’s side, she heard running footsteps closing on her.
‘Ma’am, are you all right?’ The tall frame of Jarvis skidded into the street; his gun quickly snapped up to cover the car.
‘Over here, Jarvis.’
The tall man walked slowly towards the car, his gun never leaving the shadow in the driver’s seat.
‘It’s okay, he’s dead,’ Cotrane said, matter-of-factly. ‘I think he didn’t hear me telling him to get out of the car.’
‘His option, Ma’am.’
‘Yes, it was his option.’ She reached in and grabbed Janathen’s face, twisting it around to get a better look. ‘Know him?’
‘He’s not familiar.’
‘You’re right. There’s no familial resemblance, is there?’ Cotrane twisted the head around for Jarvis to get a better look.
‘To whom?’
‘Thoragan,’ Cotrane said, smiling.
Jarvis looked closely. The man in the car had a heavily scarred face and only half a left ear. His face and body looked emaciated, but Jarvis detected at some point he had a physique honed by training, possibly military. His torch lit up the dead man’s stained trousers and blood-saturated shirt. He also stank of alcohol.
‘Still don’t see the resemblance, Ma’am.’ Jarvis stepped back and
switched off his torch.
Four cars from both sides of the road drove up, screeching to a stop. Men shouting orders surrounded the two presidential guards. Jarvis and Cotrane complied immediately, placing their weapons on Janathen’s car and dropping too their knees. Oxyglue was applied to both wrists, bonding immediately as soon as skin met skin. Cotrane was dragged to her feet and had a light shone in her face.
‘Oh shit! Unglue them now!’ There was a pause before the officer in charge shouted his order a second time.
One of his men produced an aerosol can and sprayed the wrists of the two guards, destroying the metal-hard glue.
‘Thank you, Captain.’ Cotrane took a paper towel and wiped her wrists. ‘There’s no need to apologise. You did right.’ The man breathed out a deep sigh and began to thank her. Cotrane cut him off. ‘I want this man taken back to the mortuary immediately and prepped for scanning. And Captain, I want a constant guard on the body. Glue one of your men to him if necessary, but I want nothing to happen to it until the brain-suckers have had their chance to bleed him dry of information.’
‘I’ll see to it personally, Miss Cotrane.’ The Captain took a step back and saluted the woman, who stared at him.
Cotrane gestured to Jarvis, who retrieved their weapons after checking both. They slipped them back into their holsters. Cotrane still had a neutral expression on her face as they walked towards their car.
‘What would Thoragan’s sibling be doing robbing the mortuary, Jarvis?’ She turned and suddenly became animated as if waiting for the obvious answer.
‘Well, given we said nothing about where Cruz-Smith was going to be taken — but that would be obvious anyway — and neither would the President mention anything after our briefing, the only other person who remains a link in this chain is the Praetor,’ Jarvis conceded.
‘And?’
Jarvis blinked and appeared caught off-guard. ‘Is there more?’
‘We know by dropping the pieces of information, as we did, Thoragan would have to do something quickly with it. It’s part of his need to be in control, and he takes any opportunity or risk to maintain his power. Any threat would have to be dealt with. We know what Cruz-Smith’s duties were in Thoragan’s pay.’ She closed her eyes, as if waiting for the pieces in her mind to catch up. ‘So he would need to protect those nasty little secrets in his spy’s brain at any cost. We’ve got him at last.’
