Blood War (The Bloodeaters Trilogy Book 1)

by Rees, Kevin

  ‘Sir, would you like something to drink? A brandy, perhaps?’

  ‘How?’ Thoragan mumbled.

  ‘How did he die? I shot him tonight when he was in the commission of a robbery,’ Cotrane replied, calmly.

  Thoragan slowly raised his head and looked up at the woman whose words were delivered so clinically. She had killed Janathen. Shot him dead on his mission. They had been deliberately waiting for someone to steal the brain. Thoragan felt his fear dissolve away and change into anger. Had he been set up? Was Aquino in on it as well? Was this whole charade a trap? The two guards were here to scrutinise his every reaction.

  ‘You shot my brother while doing what, exactly?’ Thoragan struggled to keep his voice even.

  ‘We think he was going to steal drugs, equipment or biological specimens. We couldn’t be sure.’ Cotrane answered. ‘He was armed. I challenged him, and he refused to give up his weapon. I fired once, wounding him. He ran. I followed, shouting for him to give himself up, and he still wouldn’t comply. He got into a car and was about to run me down. I feared for my life and regretfully, I shot and killed him.’

  ‘I remember you, Miss Cotrane. You accompanied my brother on my inauguration. If I recall, he was very smitten with you. And now you say you shot him... killed a man you were once involved with,’ Thoragan leant back and smiled thinly. ‘How will you explain that to your superiors?’

  Cotrane remained impassive. She had prepared for every possible route Thoragan could take, and she wasn’t going to let him use any leverage to twist his way out of it. Cotrane was sure Thoragan had sent his brother to the hospital. But how was she going to prove it?

  ‘I must admit, Praetor, it was a shock. But I was more shocked at what he’d become.’

  Thoragan set a quizzical look on his face that pressed her to go on.

  ‘Your brother was unrecognisable from the man I knew. His hair was long and unkempt, and he had a thick beard that took up half his face. Worst of all he seemed to be under the influence of drugs or alcohol — maybe both. So, when I’m confronted with a man who is incoherent and waving a gun, I shoot. Even if it’s an ex-lover, or my own beloved father,’ Cotrane turned her gaze on him. ‘Perhaps you hadn’t seen your brother for so long, Praetor, you had no idea how damaged he’d become. He was certainly incapable of pulling off a robbery, but knowing Janathen, he was deluded enough to still think of himself as the hero, even though the rest of him could barely function.’

  ‘You cast a very derogatory picture of a man who was once worshipped, Miss Cotrane,’ Thoragan said harshly. ‘Janathen had his faults, but his sacrifice saved many.’

  ‘I understand his sacrifice cost a lot of lives, and also his career,’ Jarvis interrupted, regarding the Praetor with calm ease.

  Thoragan forced himself not to rise to the barb and smiled at the two guards. ‘Thank you for informing me of Janathen’s sad passing. When can I claim the body to make arrangements?’

  This was it. ‘As soon as his brain has been scanned, sir.’ She waited. There it was — the telltale tic on the side of his mouth.

  ‘Whatever does he need a brain scan for? This is outrageous. You cannot treat a man like Janathen as some common criminal. Well, as his only living relative I forbid it. I don’t give my consent, and I demand it be stopped at once.’ Thoragan spat the words at the two guards.

  A thin sheen of sweat developed quickly on Thoragan’s forehead and began to drip down his face. He swatted at it like some annoying fly and launched himself out of his seat. Jarvis leant forward in anticipation that Thoragan was going to do something incredibly foolish and lay his hands on Cotrane. The Praetor closed the space between himself and the guard, unaware Jarvis had risen silently out of the chair and stood behind him. ‘Cotrane, I want his body here in an hour. No-one is going to autopsy him or cut his brain into slices and peer down at his failings.’ He punctuated each word with spittle flying from his mouth.

  ‘Praetor, as you know having chaired the committee who set the regulation, that all persons killed in the act of committing a crime are automatically brain scanned. I believe that comes under sub-section fifteen, paragraph nine in the new code you signed up to,’ Cotrane stated flatly. ‘Making it impossible for me, or you as his nearest relative to stop such a procedure. Even the president cannot overturn a law passed by the house. Also, whoever was stupid enough to employ Janathen, given his state of health, needs to be brought to justice on charges that could be argued may constitute manslaughter.’

  ‘Manslaughter!’ His voice became trill. ‘Manslaughter!’

  Cotrane conceded she wasn’t going to get any more from Thoragan tonight. The brain scan was key to this investigation and the Praetor knew it. Thoragan was realising his biggest mistake was using his brother.

  The door behind them opened. Jarvis spun around instinctively as one of the Aquino’s bodyguards entered the room and took up a position at the back of the library. The President followed, adjusting the belt of a navy silk dressing gown. The room became silent, waiting for him to speak. Aquino took his time with the belt before obliging them.

  ‘I heard raised voices, which woke me up at this ungodly time of the night.’ Aquino feigned a yawn. ‘What’s going on? Cotrane?’

  ‘Sir, I had to deliver some distressing news to the Praetor. His brother was killed tonight.’

  ‘Oh, my poor fellow, you must be devastated.’ Aquino went over to Thoragan and laid a supportive hand on his shoulder, feeling warm, fetid moisture cover his palm. ‘How did this awful thing occur?’

  ‘It was unfortunate, but I shot him, Mr President.’

  ‘Oh dear... Are you all right?’

  ‘Mr President, they are going to perform a brain scan on my brother. It must be stopped,’ Thoragan pleaded. His eyes looked ready to burst from his head.

  ‘A brain scan. Is that necessary, Miss Cotrane? Does my friend have to endure further intrusion into his grief?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir. As I explained to the Praetor, it was his committee who passed the recent law requiring all perpetrators killed in the act of committing a crime to be scanned as routine.’

  ‘And there’s nothing I can do to prevent it.’ Aquino paused. ‘You’ve had a long night. Why don’t you get off and file your report. I’ll look after the Praetor.’ Aquino jerked his head towards the door and signalled his bodyguard to follow.

  Aquino guided Thoragan to a chair and sat the quaking man down. ‘I think you could do with a drink, my friend.’ He found several bottles neatly arranged by the shelves of books.

  Thoragan was known to have expensive tastes, which, Aquino found, extended to his choice of alcohol. It seemed his preference lay in the finer produce of the First Bloods. Arguably, their alcohol was richer than the more delicate brews his people produced. Aquino took out an ornate crystal stopper from one of four decanters and sniffed the golden coloured liquid inside. Nodding his approval, he filled a glass three-quarters of the way full with a fine single malt whisky. He looked at the other decanters and decided upon a similarly superb brandy, pouring a more modest measure for himself. He took the glass over and offered it to Thoragan who appeared dazed. He took it without acknowledging his president. Aquino sat opposite him, and watched his host stare blankly at a wall. The glass of whisky was held in both hands and brought up to his lips without a flicker of curiosity as to what he was drinking. His throat bobbed up and down like a piston until the glass was empty.

  ‘Another?’ Aquino said. The word hung in the air.

  Thoragan held out the glass. The effect of the whisky began to shape itself, moulding a calmness that quickly diluted the glassy-eyed daze that had taken him over. He looked at Aquino then at his hand with the glass offered loosely. Thoragan’s face turned pink. ‘Mr President,’ his voice wavered, ‘I’m sorry. Please, let me get you something — what was it? Brandy?’ Thoragan spluttered his apologies.

  Aquino allowed him to take his glass and watched as he shuffled over to the table and stoop over t
he decanters. Thoragan gave the appearance of someone verging on panic since Cotrane gave him the news of his brother. Aquino had met Janathen Thoragan briefly and could confess to feeling a pang of regret at his death. As a Commander, Janathen was often compared to the First Blood, General Custer. And, like Custer, he was a reckless, self-serving patriot. The crucial “Border Conflict” was his finest moment, and also his downfall.

  ‘Your drink, sir.’

  Aquino accepted the glass from the unquiet hands of his Praetor.

  Thoragan slumped into his chair and drank deeply from his glass, which, Aquino observed, was filled to the top.

  ‘Don’t you want to learn the truth?’

  The question roused Thoragan, who had absently gone silent again. ‘I’m sorry. The truth?’

  ‘The truth about why your brother died tonight. Who sent him? Don’t you want justice for Janathen? Why, if it were my brother I would be demanding a brain scan,’ Aquino said earnestly. ‘Look at the progress we’ve made by using this technology. The number of crimes we’ve managed to solve amongst our own. So I ask you again my friend. Do you want to see the person responsible for setting your brother up caught?’

  Thoragan observed the man sitting across from him. The whisky was starting to distort his vision. He had to blink several times to bring Aquino’s face into focus. Thoragan glimpsed the almost empty glass in his hand. He was making mistakes. Aquino had filled his glass with almost five measures, and now he’d drunk another five, possibly six whiskey’s. He liked having very expensive things, and alcohol was one of those, but he was a light drinker.

  ‘Sir, may I be excused for a moment to attend to myself?’ Thoragan slurred and rose unsteadily off the chair.

  Aquino reluctantly nodded his head.

  ‘I won’t be a moment. Please help yourself in my absence.’ He knew Aquino would have his beady eyes on him, watching his work unfold. Thoragan staggered to the door and snatched at the handle. Outside, the bodyguard stood unmoving in front of him. The man glanced over the Praetor’s shoulder into the room. Aquino waved. Thoragan pushed past the guard and lurched towards a door near to the stairs. He felt like a hunted animal seeking the shelter of its burrow. Thoragan almost fell into a small bathroom and slammed the door behind him. He swayed and held on to an ornate washbasin. Above it was a locked cabinet with a mirrored door. Thoragan groped frantically underneath it before finding the release catch. Amongst the items inside was a long feather standing tall in a glass. Thoragan lunged for it. His stubby fingers caught the edge of the glass, which wobbled before tipping out of the cabinet and smashing loudly in the sink. He ignored it and took the feather delicately in his hand. Thoragan bent over the toilet bowl and put the feather as far down into his throat as he could. Immediately, he started to gag and felt his first contraction send burning liquid up and out. Thoragan whipped the feather away from his mouth as hot whisky jetted into the bowl. Most of the alcohol hit the water, some splattered off the sides and back up into his face. He pushed the feather back into his mouth again-and-again, bringing up all the sour alcohol he could. Thoragan felt his head blow up like a balloon, and was fearful the skin around his face was going to be marked by petechia with the strain he was exerting.

  Thoragan stayed for a moment with his head bowed before leaning back to look into the mirror. His eyes were red, which he could easily explain. Vomit stuck to his chin, sending whisky scented vapour up into his nose. It made him feel sick again. Thoragan grabbed the basin again to steady himself, remembering the broken glass that rose out of the bowl like razor-sharp glaciers waiting for flesh to slice. He couldn’t afford to bleed. Thoragan splashed handfuls of cold water into his face and neck, washing away the smell, then sucked greedily from the running tap, praying any alcohol that hadn’t made it into the toilet bowl would be too diluted to cause him harm. Thoragan took another look at his face. His eyes were now puffy and swollen. He could easily explain to Aquino how affected he was with the news of Janathen and needed to express his grief in private.

  Aquino was leafing through one of Thoragan’s books, when he returned to the library.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Aquino said, offering one of his most genuine smiles. He noted the Praetor’s wet clothing. Had he suspected the plan to get him drunk? Now the fat man would be at his most guarded.

  Thoragan paused before answering, seeing his glass had been re-filled and placed on a small table Aquino had moved next to his chair. He looked at the President, who appeared relaxed, holding one of his books in his hand. His choice was also, Thoragan decided, deliberate. The volume was contemporary fiction. Thoragan enjoyed the subject matter and sought out first editions whenever he could. The book Aquino held was the only book Janathen ever commented on, saying it should, in this family at least, be classed as historical non-fiction.

  ‘I am feeling a little tired after hearing the news.’

  Aquino considered him for a moment. ‘You have quite a collection, Praetor. I must ask to borrow a book from you sometime, except I have so little time to relax and get lost in a good novel.’

  ‘You would be more than welcome, sir. Perhaps the sonnets of Shakespeare. Or poetry, or...?’ Thoragan left the question hanging realising Aquino was examining him.

  ‘I might ask to borrow this one,’ Aquino said, placing the book back into the vacant slot left by its withdrawal. ‘But I’m being a terrible president...and a worse guest. You’ve had a massive shock and need to rest. I’ll return to my bed and hope to be out of here tomorrow.’ Aquino moved to the door and paused before leaving. ‘Also, I want to thank you for your hospitality. We may be political opponents, Lee, but when I needed your help you gave without question. I will never forget that.’

  Aquino left the library, leaving Thoragan to digest the last hour. He took the whisky and brought it up to his face. The smell caused him to gag again. He took it over to the decanter and poured it back in. It was too expensive to waste, even with his wealth.

  Thoragan turned to the bookshelves and saw the book Aquino had taken was fractionally out of place. He clenched his jaw tightly, before pushing the volume in to line up perfectly with the others on its shoulders. He left a finger resting on top of the spine, wondering what Aquino and that woman would do next. She had killed Janathen — in another life he would have rewarded her. But, by now, Janathen would be prepped for scanning, and Cruz-Smith would have been scanned. He had little time, or options left to him.

  Thoragan’s finger brushed lightly down the spine of his book, as if saying goodbye. He touched the gold lettering lovingly with a delicateness one would be forgiven to have missed in the man. He drew each letter with the tip of his finger. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, by Le Carre. So apt, he thought. Lies and deceit in fiction mirroring the lies and deceit he’d created, which was bringing about his downfall like some of the Shakespearian characters he admired. It was a shame nobody could write him a way out of this.

  Thoragan had planned for this moment, knowing he may have to abandon everything and depart quickly. He’d made sure to create several safe-havens capable of providing him with a comfortable existence — and in some, a lavish lifestyle not much different to what he enjoyed now.

  It was very late, in more than one sense. In a few hours he would have to make a decision that would either see him dead, or he would be taking his rightful place and restore his family’s honour. But now, he was too tired to think of any alternatives and left the library. As he went up the stairs, each step groaned and seemed to defy his need to get to his bedroom.

  Perhaps tomorrow, there would be a surprise waiting for Aquino and his bloodhounds.

  A surprise even they couldn’t predict.

  27

  Eddie had to use all his willpower to raise his head off the pillow, ignoring the industrial-sized thump of pain that beat with a sledgehammer precision. He tried recalling recent hangovers, comparing them with the tap Karl had given him. Or maybe it was a concussion? He ran through a checklist of symptoms and p
ossible reasons why the room appeared gloomier, before realising it was down to fading light and nothing else. Eddie reached up for the cord dangling above his head and pulled. Nothing. There was a naked bulb smothered in dust hanging down from the rose, which looked like it hadn’t bathed in its own glory in years. There was some light coming from the window, enough at least to make out his clothes were neatly piled on the chair Maya had sat on earlier. Someone must have packed his stuff when he changed from civvies into combats. That was decent of them. Fuck! That was the least they could have done after they dragged him around his own hospital fighting off zombie patients, or whatever the hell they were.

  Eddie swung his legs out of the bed and stood. He had to hold onto the headboard momentarily, as he fought off a wave of nausea. Eddie shuffled over to the chair and pulled on his trousers. The temperature was verging on freezing, and he was thankful for the added jumper and thermal jacket someone had included with his work clothes. Moving over to the window, Eddie looked out to see if he could pin down where he was. Given the obvious elevation, he guessed a high-rise block of flats. Twilight was descending over London, and a palette of multi-coloured lights began to paint shimmering layers over the city. He didn’t know how long he’d slept again. Perhaps fatigue, and the resulting comedown from the adrenalin high, had exhausted him more than he knew. The sleep had left him feeling a little more refreshed, except for the headache. What he craved was liquid of any kind. It must have been several hours since he last drank. He ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth, feeling it stick on the tacky surface. Eddie looked around and saw Maya’s untouched coffee. He picked up the mug and slurped it down in two swallows, sighing as the last bittersweet drops were secured in his mouth. It satisfied the immediate thirst, but already the strong coffee was drying out his mouth again. He went back to the window and looked out. The coffee puzzled him. Curiously, there was still a little warmth retained in the china, which could only mean Maya had left in the last few minutes — perhaps ten at the most. Earlier, when he woke the first time, he had no trouble seeing the girl, so it must have been late afternoon — and then he slept again for what felt like several hours. Perhaps Karl’s blow had shook up more than his head.