by Phillip Shaw
THE SEVENTH EVENT
BY P.R.F. SHAW
COPYRIGHT
All characters and events in this novel other than those clearly in the public domain are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Any brand referred to is done with the utmost respect and admiration and used purely to ground the work of the writer in reality.
COPYRIGHT © P.R.F. SHAW 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO UNAUTHORISED PUBLICATION, STORAGE, RESALE OR REPRINTING IN ANY MANNER WHATSOEVER WITHOUT WRITTEN CONSENT OF THE AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER.
Preface
This is my debut novel. I have no training in fiction or illusions of grandeur that I am some kind of amazing author. This purely came about because of other people’s pressure. I have a lowly English degree and a journalistic qualification. Neither has been useful in my working life. This story is an idea that has been in my head since an early time but only when it was put onto paper did it evolve into something which I hope will span a series. There will no doubt be grammatical mistakes and criticisms but the main thing I have taken from this is to go with the flow. If you don’t like the book please don’t worry, you may like your next book. If you like it, then thank you. All I did was try to write a book I would want to read myself and I can’t wait for the next one, if I can now be called an author then it is a title that I can feel pride in.
To everyone that has played a part in my life so far.
CHAPTERS
Prologue
1. The Mechanic
2. Death Row
3. Myanmar
4. A Lead
5. A Calling
6. The Guest
7. A Way Out
8. The Pyre
9. Partnership
10. Cleaner
11. Ashes
12. The Throne Room
13. A Base
14. The Scalpel
15. Tracks
16. Highway
17. It Sets You Free
18. Manhunt
19. Diffusion
20. The Strings
21. Conference
22. Trail
23. I.D.
24. Haystack
25. Gladiators
26. Underground
27. Pieces
28. The Hive
29. Seduction
30. Butterfly
31. Into The Dark
32. My Big Break
33. Pursuit
34. Eye In The Sky
35. Hood
36. Barracks
37. Enclave
38. Acolyte
39. Brother
40. Hacked
41. Tooled Up
42. Saloon
43. Idol
44. Four Minutes
45. Boxed
46. The Leader
47. Boarding Pass
48. Dead End
49. Blackout
Epilogue
THE SEVENTH EVENT
Prologue
The temple was broken, stone was cracked and iron had melted. The carcasses of the enemy and the glorious dead of his force lay around him. Looking around he could tell the way it had been. They had begun the attack at first light. The opposition had been prepared but he knew what they were going to do. There had been losses early on but once he had led his chosen into the battle, he had been the difference. A spear here, sword there and assassin's knives had led to this. The enemy stood in front of him he had been marked by the battle but he had been the one that would not break… the best of them.
Their eyes locked and he thought, this is what I have journeyed for, this is the end, and this is my role. He lifted his blade and took his shot. It would not be that easy. The enemy lifted his hand and deflected the shot, countering with his own aimed low. No one could avoid a blow like that and it took him on the knee. The pain should have been enough to know but he glanced down and saw the joint bent backwards. He collapsed to the ground and tried to see the enemy, he had not gotten this close to be killed again, there must be a way out.
The enemy took his time, gathered his thoughts and spoke. ‘Why is it you do not know your place in things? What is it you fight for? For them? I know what I am here for. I am the balance. I am the justice on this plane. No matter what force you gather I will beat them. I have beaten them before and I will beat them again. We are not meant to fight you and I. We are meant to rule! There is nothing else except this.’
With that, he swung the blade down catching his stricken foe between shoulder and neck. He stopped leaving the blade buried in the sinews and walked away. The temple resonating with each step started to sink into the ground.
As he lay there dying he didn't feel sadness or fear he felt failure. This was to be another death. He had never gotten this close. He'd had his shot. He tried to laugh but the darkness closed in, he knew where it had gone wrong. It would be better next time.
1.The Mechanic
All Jason Clyne had ever wanted to do was be a mechanic. As soon as he left the orphanage he had gone to the local chop shop and signed up to be an apprentice. He knew this was it for him and he was happy.
When he was younger he used to sit and listen as the other orphans had their dreams. They dreamed of riches, being the best, rising to the top in politics or acting and business. Some wanted to play sports, Soccer, Football, Hockey and track. Jason knew that none of them would make it, why try? He was just as good if not better than them at everything. Life came naturally to him and that's why he loved it. He was just a piston in an engine, a component in the great machine of life. His lecturers had tried to get him to be class president but he had refused. He said to one ‘Why bother, I know what's going to happen. I even know what you're going to say next'. If Jason Clyne had one ability it could only be called knowing. He knew that he would end up running this garage and he also knew that it was all he was destined to be.
His shop was always booked up, the functional exterior betrayed the hi-tech machinery inside, the latest industry approved wrenches and socket sets. Not the fashionable leading brands, brands that actually worked. He had enough room to work on two cars. He felt that for something to be done right he had to give it his best. Working on two cars always worked for him, one a repair job, one a project. It satisfied both sides of his brain the creative and the analytical. To Jason Clyne balance was everything. He knew it.
His ability also meant that fixing cars was a piece of cake, listen to the complaint of the customer, their own failed prognosis and then cut them short tell them the problem and tell them the price. It was simple, efficient and to date, profitable. ‘Body and Soul by JC' had turned over one million dollars in the last six months. Online sales of performance parts and tuning set ups had been particularly lucrative. Jason just requested a picture of the customers car and within the hour, he sent them back five possible designs for them. He even had some of his ex-classmates on his books. Turns out a couple made it to where they wanted in life. The main difference was it wasn't enough for them. They kept scratching and clawing to get their way to the top, when they were there they wanted more. It hurt him inside and gave him a feeling he couldn't pin down. His business partner Stan Markov called it the ‘rage'.
Stan was the previous owner of the garage, Bulgarian immigrant only in name. He was as American as Capitalism itself. He always wanted to open a chain of repair shops, sponsor NASCAR or even F1 as he still kept some European feelings. He was as close as Jason had to a father since he left the orphanage. Jason spent most days pissing on Stan's bonfire. ‘Why do we need more, we have enough to live comfortably and be who we want. I know my role and it's fixing cars in my garage.' Stan would just laugh and say ‘Stalin could teach you nothing!' Jason
laughed it off because he loved Stan. A role model for anyone who went to a foreign country to work, Stan had worked for a major car firm in the Motor City, when he had earned enough he bought the garage. Jason remembered that day twelve years ago when he walked in. he knew Stan was going to be the perfect boss. Stan encouraged him to work on the basics before letting him loose on the expensive vehicles. But even he knew a natural when he saw one. It was lucky because when Stan contracted Leukaemia Jason had to take over. Of course, he knew Stan was going to recover but it was still a testament to him that he was able to come back and formally hand the ownership over to Jason and be his number two.
It was one of his former classmates that Jason was working for today. Tyler Hutchens the international Tennis star born in Greenwich Connecticut and as close to nobility as the USA had. Tyler could have taken his Ferrari 612 to any dealer in Europe or America but he felt like he was doing Jason a favour as he rolled up in his Manhattan establishment. ‘JC how's my favourite grease monkey' he said stepping into the office. ‘Fine' said Jason ‘I saw you in London, pity you lost that one again.' It was always good to remind him that he beat him every time in college.
‘Yeah, pity, but I'll win when I'm on home turf'! Said Tyler. Jason knew that wasn't true, Tyler had a weakness in his forehand and didn't know when to kill an opponent off. Besides, he was too fond of the glitz and glamour epitomised by the string of models he had been dating. In fact, Jason saw more of Tyler than Stan if only from the magazines that he left in his waiting room.
‘In any case, how's the Prancing horse? You came up with something for it?'
Jason went to his tablet and called up the schematics, despite the looks of the 612 anyone who knew about cars recognised that this was an engineering masterpiece. A massive car which handled like a true coupe. He would maybe get one himself one day if he ever needed the extra speed. Say what you want about Tyler but he had good taste.
All the designs were intended to improve the look of the car without tampering with what made it special. Stan came into the room as Tyler was flicking through the designs. Jason left them chatting and went to take another look at the car.
With the car up on the ramp, he was able to see a few scuffs left by careless driving. He would have to raise the ride height to compensate for the playboy behind the wheel. As he was measuring the suspension springs he stopped. He could feel this unbelievable pressure building in his chest and head. The world around him started to go black and he collapsed to his knees. Sounds from the men chatting in the waiting room and the radio beat into his ears like a tempest. He had always known everything in his life but not this. Was he dying? The world as he knew it exploded in a blinding light, searing his retinas all he could do was slip into what should be darkness. All he could see and sense was light.
Then he awoke. Jason Clyne whoever that was or had been no longer mattered. He knew all; he could feel it and he knew why he was made. He was the defender of order in this world and the time was nigh for him to defend it again. He could see it, everyone in Manhattan if not the world clawing for more than their share of life. Greed, the deadliest of the ancient sins was prevalent in this age he would stop it again as he always had done. Six times before the world had turned into a cesspit and he had returned gathered his forces and put them back in their place. Order was what had followed, and order would follow again, these creatures weren't smart enough to rule themselves. He was needed and would gather the leaders of this civilisation, they would be in place and they would know their role, everyone would again, he was Arbitan.
Arbitan waited, crouched down he knew what was to follow, when he was awoken in previous ages it had not taken this long, life must have advanced for these beings since he was last here, he smiled ‘I look forward to this'.
Then like a tributary flowing into a raging torrent, it was there, the knowledge of the ages. Every piece of knowledge learnt by any sentient mind under his control, discovered and stored in their consciousness was at his fingertips up until this point in the great journey of life. This host had been a receptive vessel it had soaked it in and categorised it for him now it was there to be used. To defend this existence against the threat, he knew if he had awoken the time was right for the other to do the same.
The two men in the room had been oblivious to his awakening; it was time to see what they were made of. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window as he approached the room. The body was good; it mattered not for his purpose but would serve him well. He looked at his eyes, ‘windows to the soul' they had been called in other ages. How apt, looking into those eyes would reveal centuries of impregnable strength and order, a fortress of will that could not be broken. One stare would tell them all they needed to know.
He entered the waiting room; it always amazed him that he kept the memories of the hosts he awoke in. This one had been bred especially for him; he knew everything about the two men in the room. More than that he could see their souls, he could see their predication.
‘Jason' the older one began, ‘I think it's time we started using your friend here for sponsorship, just imagine the profits we could make, we could even afford a billboard in Times Square'. Arbitan looked at him, old, and frail from beating a disease of some sort and greedy, he would be put to the question. ‘You… old man, my name is Arbitan' he fixed his stare and looked into Stan's soul. ‘Are you with me?' Just saying the words again made him feel alive, the old man looked at him and laughed, ‘Jason, have you been working with the resins again?'
The wrench swung from Arbitan's right hand and caught Stan in the top row of teeth. The force of the blow hit the bone in his nose forcing it into the frontal lobe of the brain, instant death as he knew it would be. The life had already left the body as it slumped to the floor. Arbitan turned to the other, even weaker, and even greedier. The wrench was used, he picked up the tablet. ‘Are you with me?' he asked Tyler. The man who had been sitting in shock tried to run, he was clearly a sportsman, in another age he may have been useful, a gladiator. Not now, Arbitan saw his movements and knew where he was going he moved with clear motions, sending a kick to the ribs of Tyler, it sent him through the glass wall. Still he tried to run again pointless, ‘When will you creatures learn? You can't have it all.' He grabbed the man by the arm spun him round and aimed a stiff shot to the chest, the man folded on the ground as if paralysed. Arbitan walked over, looked him in the eyes and stamped on his windpipe. There was much work to be done.
2. Death Row
Freedom, a word that had led to as many wars and deaths as religion, for James Coates it was a word he had been tired of hearing for the last 18 months.
He looked down at his hands and feet both in chains; the orange jumpsuit of the US State penitentiary actually was one of the few clean things about him. It wasn't meant to be like this. That was his overriding thought in life for as long as he could remember. Growing up in Ireland James had always thought himself a leader, or, at least, someone born to lead.
The Coates' family was well known, the local Mayor had been his Grandfather and had served two terms with barely an incident happening in the small town, his father Brian was a simple salesman for a car parts firm and had taught James his early life lessons, ‘Son, reach for the stars, they're up there for a reason, why shouldn't one of them be for you'. James took this attitude throughout his life and people around him always looked to him for direction. In school, he had emerged as the class spokesperson. Many attributed this to his heritage but they didn't know that this came directly from James; it was a feeling from within, be the best you can be, be so good that no one can stop you, you can make it better for everyone. Clichéd phrases like this circled in his head every day growing up, but one thing superseded them all. Be free.
James looked up at his cell door, today was the day. Death by lethal injection, at least, it would be quick.
Maybe he should have stayed in Ireland, got a job in Insurance or something else, had a family and done nothing of note. ‘It wo
uld have been death row in itself' he whispered to no one. He moved to America to follow a dream, again a cliché ‘The American Dream,' he wanted to be a Film Director, after a few animated shorts he had made enough money to move over and push himself in the epicentre of the industry. It was a way to get his message across to everyone in the world ‘There is always something better than this.' Instead, it had landed him in this mess.
He had been shooting his debut in Texas, all his production staff and the unknown actors had followed him almost religiously and the film was nearly complete. ‘Jacks', the story of two brothers who tried to break their way into the strip club business by seducing the best dancers at the clubs. It wasn't mentally taxing but it carried the hallmarks of his youth, better yourself, set yourself free.
That was two years ago, now he had been broken down on death row. Fighting mentally against the thought of his own death.
The night before he was arrested had been the wrap party. Naturally with a cast full of strippers and set in a bar he had enjoyed himself. Whiskey flowed, tops came off and everyone was celebrating, they all took his lead and he took the microphone. He should have sung something that showed his heritage but instead out came ‘Beyond the Sea,' Bobby Darin had always been his lounge music. The party moved upstairs and the pretty extra that brought him Mochas, Jade, went with him. Fuelled up on Whiskey and whatever else was going they did things to each other that bordered on primal. When the sun rose James' life fell in.
The chaplain left him with a few words before he was taken to the room. Typical, they had sent him a priest even though he wasn't a catholic. It was a sign of his mental state that he wanted to make some form of choirboy joke instead of listening to the man's attempts to save his soul. If anyone was the joke it was him.
That dawn he had rolled over in bed looking for cigarettes. All he got was an icy feeling beside him and the smell of vomit. Jade had choked to death in her sleep. He didn't even get time to call the authorities before the runner on set had come to wake him. Bradley took one look at the room, the dead body and called the cops. What happened over the next few days was nothing short of a blur.
