Peak Oil

by Arno Joubert

  Excerpt from Book 3 of the Fatal Series starring Alexa Guerra.

  Betty’s Bay,

  Cape Town, South Africa

  The wind was blowing like a bastard, but Eddie Nel felt cozy in the sunroom of his small house overlooking the cold Atlantic. He had the gas heater on high as he watched the stragglers on the beach run for cover. The weather was fickle in the Cape; her mood swings were worse than his beloved Norah’s, bless her soul.

  Some die-hard fishermen strolled on the beach, rods over their shoulders and plastic buckets in their hands. The howling wind blasted sand against their legs, but they soldiered on dutifully, heads tucked into their shoulders, heading toward the larger boulders; it would be high tide soon. They wore jeans and thick, woolen sweaters, hand-knitted by their doting wives, Eddie guessed. Norah had knitted him one a long time ago, but when she passed away it had become bedding for the dogs. He had hated the awful, scratchy thing.

  Seagulls circled high in the grey clouds, and the weather looked ominous. Then fat drops of rain splatted against the window, slowly at first but increasing in intensity until the nice, clean panes became a hazy blur. Eddie squinted, trying to peer through the downpour. Where was that stupid mutt?

  Eddie watched with a smile as Sinjin, his black water spaniel, came bounding up the footpath that led to the beach. The dog enjoyed playing with the kids on the beach, and everyone knew him well. On fairer days Eddie usually joined Sinjin on a walk; it was a nice way to meet new people, and the pretty young lasses seemed to enjoy playing with the mutt. How could an old man with a cute dog not be attractive?

  “Stop saying that, you dirty old man,” he heard Norah chide him. He chuckled. Norah used to like his jokes.

  He couldn’t believe that people said spaniels were antisocial animals. Sinjin loved people. He had been named after the pilot that flew the Airwolf helicopter on the television show—Sinjin somebody—because the dog’s jet-black hair had reminded Eddie of the chopper. The dog hurdled over a log, then he scampered through the fynbos, heading home. Eddie loved the smell of the fynbos, an Afrikaans name that literally translated into “fine bush.” The small leaves emitted an aromatic, herby smell when they brushed against your legs. The mutt would smell like a damp herb garden.

  Sinjin quickened his pace as the storm intensified. He charged up the inclined lawn then jumped up the porch terrace, not bothering to take the stairs. He was carrying something in his mouth, and as he trotted toward the dog flap, Eddie noticed that it was a white sneaker. Shit, not again. He would have to go look for the owner. The damn mutt was always raiding towels and beach bags.

  Wind swirled into the room as Sinjin squeezed through the flap, and Eddie managed to grab the newspaper before it was swept off his lap. Sinjin trotted toward the older man, the dog’s whole body gyrating happily. He dropped the sneaker in front of Eddie, his tail swishing on the floor, then he sat down and panted happily as if to say, “Look, I brought you a toy, old man. I want you to be happy too.”

  Eddie leaned over and scooped up the sneaker. It was heavier than he had expected, probably waterlogged or filled with sand. He examined it closely then tossed it to the floor with a shriek, wiping his hand on his chest.

  Inside the sneaker were the remains of a severed human foot.

  Interpol Headquarters

  Lyon, France

  Alexa stood casually outside the ring, her arms resting on the padded post in Neil’s corner. Neil and Alexa had been attending a national training week on hand-to-hand combat, and soldiers and cops from around the globe had gathered to be instructed by the best fighters in their respective disciplines.

  Neil had been selected to demonstrate various Krav Maga grappling techniques and, true to form, had gotten into a heated exchange with a boxing trainer regarding the merits of teaching soldiers boxing as a form of hand-to-hand combat. Neil argued that Krav Maga contained enough boxing techniques to equip any soldier in any form of combat with the skills necessary to emerge the victor. So the instructor had challenged Neil to a fight to prove him wrong.

  Alexa sighed. Men.

  Lieutenant Ben Harris was the US Army’s welterweight boxing champion, and Alexa could see why. Standing at six foot five, he was tough as nails, sinewy and lean, and super fit. Neil had already connected with a couple of telling blows, but now the man kept Neil at bay with a series of jabs, using his superior reach advantage to good effect.

  Lieutenant Ben Harris danced around Neil, threw a mock punch, and feinted to the left, then he followed it up with a right-hand hook aimed at Neil’s jaw. Neil swayed back a fraction of a second before impact, shot a boot out, and connected with Harris in the stomach. The man doubled over, clutching his stomach, coughing and wheezing but not going down. Harris stood up as the bell rang then sauntered to his corner, casting Neil an accusing glance over his shoulder.

  Neil ambled toward Alexa and leaned on the rope. “He’s tough. I thought I would have nailed him by now.”

  Alexa nodded. “Work on his legs, they’re his weak point,” she said, wiping the sweat off his brow with a towel.

  Neil glanced back. “You think?”

  “His stance was low when the fight started. He’s standing more upright at the end of the rounds. His legs are aching.”

  Neil nodded as the bell sounded then turned on his heel to face Harris. He stood calmly, impassively, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. He moved his head from side to side, loosening his neck muscles. Harris sucked in a couple of breaths and continued dancing around Neil, feinting left and right, bobbing and weaving in front of his opponent. Neil walked straight up to Harris, stepped to the side as Harris threw a jab at Neil’s face, then crouched and landed two quick blows to Harris’s thigh. He backed up before Harris could retaliate. A second later the boxer fell to his knee, trying to rub his upper leg with his gloved hands, a pained expression on his face.

  “Hey, that’s cheating!” the man’s trainer shouted from Harris’s corner and started climbing through the ropes.

  Neil shrugged as Alexa tossed him his T-shirt. “All’s fair in love and war.”

  “Screw you, you cheating bastard!” Harris shouted as he was being helped to his feet by a big brawny guy wearing an army shirt with the sleeves cut off.

  Harris limped to his corner, and the big guy marched over to Neil and stuck a finger in his face. “You cheated, you prick. I think I need to give you a working over.”

  “Who’re you?” Neil asked, looking up at the big man.

  “Garber,” he said with a derisive snort. “Captain Daniel Garber, Harris’s platoon leader.”

  Neil chuckled. “You should teach your man to expect anything in a battle, Captain. This wasn’t a boxing match, it was hand-to-hand combat, and I taught your boy a lesson.”

  Neil started to turn around, but Garber pulled him back by his shoulder. “Now you listen to me, punk—”

  Alexa grabbed Garber’s hand, twisting it into a wristlock. “Watch it.”

  Garber wrenched his hand free then glared at Alexa, shaking his hand. “Who’re you? His mascot?”

  “Captain Alexa Guerra, French special forces.”

  Garber scowled at her for a second then said, “We’re equal rank.” He stepped back and folded his arms. “What do they teach you in the French Army except wristlocks?”

  Alexa smiled then climbed into the ring. “Well, let’s find out.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Garber,” Neil said grabbing Alexa’s arm. “Alexa, don’t.”

  Alexa regarded Neil with a smile. “I won’t hurt him badly, Neil,” she said and shrugged. “Besides, he started it.”

  Neil sighed and rested his arms on the ropes. “Please be gentle, Alexa.”

  Garber snorted. “Oh please. Once you two little lovebirds have decided to stop with the sweet talk, I’ll show Captain Guerra how a real man fights,” he said mockingly.

  Alexa turned to face him, her head cocked slightly. “A real man, hey? Ooh la la, this is going to be fun.”
She stood comfortably, her weight resting on both legs, arms to the side.

  Garber crouched then threw a straight jab, which Alexa slapped away with the palm of her hand. Garber’s eyebrows lifted and he swung a right at Alexa’s ribs, a punch with more power and less control. Alexa took a step backward, and his fist flew by harmlessly.

  “Oh, come on Alexa, stop fooling around!” Neil shouted from the corner.

  Alexa glanced over her shoulder with a frown. “You said I should be gentle.”

  “Well, get it over with, I’m hungry.”

  Alexa nodded then turned back to face Garber. She shuffled two steps forward, ducked beneath a right hook, pirouetted around him, and smashed three short jabs into his kidney. He turned around slowly, a pained expression on his face, and Alexa finished him off by driving her palm into his jaw. She had learned long ago that breaking a hand on a man’s jawbone was rarely worth the effort.

  Garber slunk to his knees, toppled forward, and slammed onto the ring face-first. Alexa caught the towel that Neil tossed at her and wiped her brow. “Chinese or Italian?” she asked as Neil held the ropes apart.

  “You choose,” Neil said. “My treat.”

  Alexa smiled. “Let’s do Chinese. I discovered this nice little place down in Gailleton.”

  Neil nodded and hopped down from the ring then grabbed Alexa by her hips and picked her up, gently lowering her to the ground. He turned around toward the hapless Lieutenant Harris, who was crouching next to his platoon leader, trying to revive the man by slapping his face. Garber was still out cold. “If he starts pissing blood, you better have that seen to by a professional.”

  The guy nodded sheepishly as Neil and Alexa sauntered out of the gym door, their arms around each other’s waists.

  Happy Sunshine Clinic

  Pattaya, Thailand

  “Please roll onto your side, Mrs. Borges.”

  Imelda Borges nodded and rolled uncomfortably onto her side. The pain in her lower back had become incessant, and she had high hopes of being rid of it soon.

  “Now this will sting a little, Mrs. Borges,” Dr. Nice Sukhon said with a smile before pulling the mask over his face.

  Imelda closed her eyes and pursed her lips. She hoped that she was doing the right thing. She had heard about the Happy Sunshine Clinic from her neighbor in Lisbon, a sweet old lady called Susannah Campos. After being healed of skin cancer, the old woman had waxed lyrical about the revolutionary new treatments that the people at Happy Sunshine were testing.

  Dr. Nice had guaranteed Imelda a one hundred percent chance of recovery from her condition. She had suffered from lupus since childhood but had managed to keep the disease at bay with aggressive immunosuppressive steroid treatment. Unfortunately, her kidneys had been damaged, and she desperately needed a transplant. According to her doctor, her condition had worsened during the past six months. They had been unable to find a compatible kidney donor. This was her last resort.

  Her doctor had warned her not to go, but she was desperate, and besides, it had worked for Susannah. It cost her a flight from Portugal and twenty thousand dollars, and here she was. She was feeling excited and a bit apprehensive, but the good Dr. Nice told her everything would be OK. She chuckled. Imagine a doctor called Nice. He was very nice.

  She felt a slight pinch as he stuck the needle into her back, gaining direct access to her kidneys to deliver the healing dose of stem cells that would stop all the pain and suffering.

  The pretty receptionist helped him roll Imelda onto her other side, and she saw him fill the syringe with more of the thick liquid from the vial. She looked around the clinic. It was a bit run-down, but that was to be expected, Susannah had said. Happy Sunshine had funded their own stem cell research, and they were operating at a loss, according to Dr. Sukhon.

  She cringed as a burning pain seared through her, just below her ribs, and she looked up at the doctor in alarm. “It hurts,” she whimpered.

  Dr. Sukhon pulled the mask from his face and smiled. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Borges. That’s very normal. Within a couple weeks, your sickness will be gone.”

  She swallowed and nodded then closed her eyes. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen any certificates or qualifications in the doctor’s office, and it did seem strange that he was performing the procedure wearing a T-shirt that said “Same-Same,” knee-length Bermuda shorts, and open sandals.

  She pursed her lips, trying to ban the negative thoughts from her mind. He came highly recommended, and that was all that mattered. Don’t judge a book, she said for the hundredth time that day. Though it was weird that half a dozen pregnant girls were seated outside; she wondered what procedures they were waiting for.

  “All done,” the good doctor said with a smile then pulled the mask off his face. He gestured to the cloak room. “You may get dressed now.”

  Imelda nodded, heaving her bulky frame from the gurney. “When would you like me to see you for the next checkup?” Imelda asked, trying to keep her bottom covered with the flimsy cotton gown.

  Dr. Sukhon chuckled then waved his hand dramatically. “No need for a checkup. Will work, no problem.”

  Imelda frowned then shrugged. She was actually feeling better already. Surely the treatment couldn’t work this fast. Well, you never knew with these fancy new drugs; this was cutting-edge technology, and it had cost her an arm and a leg.

  Dr. Sukhon nodded as she pulled open the curtains to the dressing room then opened the door. “Next!” he shouted and placed the mask back on his face.

  Interpol Headquarters

  Lyon, France

  General Alain Laiveaux greeted Sergeant Neil Allen with a firm handshake then pulled Captain Alexa Guerra closer and gave her a peck on the cheek. He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk and took Alexa’s coat as she slipped out of it.

  “Sergeant, Captain,” he said with a curt nod before filling three tumblers with cognac. He pushed two toward Alexa and Neil and quaffed his in a single gulp. “Are you glad to be back?”

  Alexa smiled then took a sip of her drink. “Definitely, General,” she said with a shrug. “It somehow seems more . . .” she paused, trying to find the right word, “peaceful, I guess.”

  General Laiveaux regarded Alexa for a while, his fingers forming a steeple in front of him. Alexa was like a daughter to him. She had been through a rough time on her previous assignment, enduring things that he wouldn’t have expected from any of his men. But she seemed OK. Her green eyes had their luster again, and a mischievous smile lingered on her lips. Neil was good for her. Laiveaux sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Not peaceful, Captain. Organized. Punctual.” He pursed his lips and said in a softer tone, “The strict military discipline necessarily leads to surety and order.”

  Alexa nodded thoughtfully. “I guess you’re right, General.” She shivered. “I wish it was warmer, though.”

  The General turned toward them with a grin. He wanted to ease her into this. “I am glad you said that, because I am planning on sending you to more tropical climes.”

  Alexa and Neil looked up at the general in surprise. They had only just arrived, and here he was dishing out assignments already. Laiveaux sighed. She would be fine. Best thing to do when you fall off a horse is to get straight back on.

  The general turned to face Neil then said, “You’re familiar with Thailand, Sergeant?”

  Neil nodded. “Koh Phi Phi, mostly; I never liked traveling to the bigger cities.”

  The general chuckled. “Well, beggars cannot be choosers, now can they? I expect you to catch the first plane to Bangkok, then report back to me once you’ve landed.”

  Laiveaux removed a manila envelope from his drawer and tossed it on the table. “Here’s the briefing document and some photos. Familiarize yourselves during the flight.”

  Alexa took the file and shook out the contents. “What’s this all about, General?”

  The general leaned back in his chair. “Corpses with strange lesions have been found in Bangkok, and t
he American Centers for Disease Control wants to make sure that it isn’t something that they should be concerned about.” He filled his tumbler again and held the bottle toward Neil and Alexa, who politely refused.

  He knocked the drink back. “The CDC wants Interpol to rule out the possibility of murder; then they’ll step in if there is any risk of a possible outbreak,” the older man said as he turned to Alexa. He smiled. “Plus, this is a nice, safe mission. There is no way you could get into any trouble on a medical examination, now is there, Captain?”

  Alexa shrugged, the sides of her lips turned up in a faint smile. “You never know, General,” she said with a sly glance from beneath her bangs.

  The general pursed his lips, considering Alexa’s words. He had taught her everything he knew. Sometimes everything you knew wasn’t enough. Especially for a woman in the military. But they needed her, needed her particular set of skills. Needed her female touch on a case like this. He hoped she was ready. “Yes, very well then. You two need to get going now. The CDC has given us twenty-four hours before they move in, so find out what’s going on, and make it snappy.”

  They stood up and saluted then turned to leave.

  “Sergeant,” Laiveaux called, “may I have a quick word with you?”

  Neil Allen snapped to attention. “General?”

  Alexa glanced over her shoulder then walked out and closed the door.

  Laiveaux leaned closer to Neil. “You’re the only reason she’s still alive; let’s keep her that way,” he whispered.

  Neil pursed his lips then nodded curtly. “I’ll make sure, General.”

  “Good luck, my boy.”

  Neil regarded Laiveaux for a moment then saluted smartly. He swiveled on his heel and marched out of the office.

  Laiveaux ambled to his desk and refilled his glass with the amber liquid. He gulped it down and grimaced as the warmth seeped down his throat and made its way to his belly. “Good luck to both of you. You’re going to need it,” he murmured softly.