Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)

by Lewis Hastings

“Do what you are paid to do, Nick. You too Bridie. Just get me some answers, ASAP.” Roberts was tired, and it was beginning to show.

  “I’m off to Heathrow. Got a pickup to make. Two old friends coming home to roost. Got to dash or I’ll be late.”

  “Can’t you send someone else?”

  “I could. Privilege of rank. But I need some space – a chance to breathe – and think. Besides, I also need to learn the route for when I get sacked by the Home Secretary at five past eleven and end up becoming a cabbie!”

  He threw his keys to Fisher. “Don’t bend it. I’ll take yours, it’s got a bigger boot.”

  He was in the blue Mondeo moments later, his sat-nav pointlessly telling him the route to London Heathrow. He recalled the last time he had picked Cade up from the terminal and how they had laughed, mocked one another and then swept up the chaos that subsequently unravelled on the streets and in their lives.

  She looked directly at the forty-something male stood in front of her. Immaculately cut hair, blond, suspiciously so, tanned, naturally, a good physique for a man of his age and workload and green eyes that glinted with hints of hazel behind the platinum-framed Police tinted glasses that he favoured. Pinstriped suit, blue, white shirt, blue tie and probably blue underpants and socks. He was a true Tory and enjoyed crushing anything or anyone that disagreed with him.

  He had many friends, but some said he had more enemies. In Sassy Lane he had a colleague, and one in whose shadow he felt he lived every day.

  “Are you ready for this morning, Minister?”

  “I am, Home Secretary. Do you think the police are?”

  “Good question. I really want as many of their people on board as possible. The problem is we need to keep this low key. So far off the radar that our normal thin blue line cannot be aware. How we’ve kept this under wraps so far frankly amazes me. This stays within our inner circles and the four walls of Operation Orion.”

  “You trust them?”

  “I trust them. I actually have more faith in that team than I do some of my own cabinet colleagues when it comes to integrity.”

  “And this man Cade?”

  “With my life.”

  “I meant, what about him, Home Secretary? He’s a former inspector, bit of a blue flame, then petered out like a cheap Chinese fire cracker. Hardly a stellar performer in such exalted company.”

  “Interesting that you consider yourself exalted? Careful. You have no idea what he is able to do for us. It was actually Jack Cade that spoke first about this group. Had we have listened to him back then, we might have been better prepared now.”

  “Hindsight…”

  “Bullshit. Do not give me the old hindsight is a wonderful thing speech, Harry. Not now. Not ever.” She held his gaze. He knew better.

  “OK, Sassy, I hear you. Forgive me if I lack confidence in one man making everything better for the entire human race.” He pushed a cup and saucer out of reach. “We had better go. Your audience awaits.”

  His voice was always measured, some thought it cold. At times he had a minor stammer, almost indistinguishable, a hint of an accent, again, vague.

  She smiled at her Minister for Policing – Harold ‘Harry’ Halford was a genuine blue flame if ever there was one. He had already been tipped for Lane’s role by a junior ministerial colleague, who suggested in a quiet hallway that Lane would ‘soon be overlooked by the Prime Minister’ – pity he had been overheard by Lane and had been licking his wounds ever since.

  “Finish your tea, you old drama queen. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Only you could get away with that, Sassy.”

  “Absolutely. And don’t you ever forget it, Harry. We have a long journey ahead if Britain stands a chance of survival on the world stage. You arrived onto the scene late, but you are a fast learner. It’s all down to trust, and luck. And people.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “OK, so where were we people?” Constantin was back in the room, entering without a sound. He had stood and watched his three prisoners. Two of whom were breathing quietly, the third quietly dying.

  “Tip them over and then turn them onto their sides. Face the freak towards the windows.” He pointed towards Thomas.

  “And wash them down with some water, they stink. Make it warm, I want them to be willing, not cold and resistant.”

  O’Shea took the words literally. She did that. It was a trait that sometimes backfired. Like the time she had allowed Cade to walk away from her for good, instead of making her intentions clear. Men were from Mars and all that.

  She listened for her jailer’s next words. Why was he turning Thomas onto his side?

  “That’s it. Now rinse him off. Then her, but turn her to face the other woman.” He gestured to O’Shea. “Let her see who her fellow guest is.”

  The three men that had entered the room did as they were told. They hadn’t signed up for this, rather they had responded to a call to arms from their leader Alex. ‘Head to Britain, have fun, make yourselves rich.’ This was definitely not in the brochure. They were as cold and miserable as their hostages.

  A bucket of water arrived. The youngest male, who was nineteen at the most, poured it over Thomas, leaving her wet through, and soon colder than the morning air that was clawing at the young man’s clothing, pulling at his skin and chilling him to the bone.

  “Better? Good. I’ll come back to you in a moment.” Nicolescu sneered.

  Thomas spoke. “Thank you. Connie. Please. There is no need for revenge. I did what anyone would do when threatened by a government official. Please.”

  He stepped past Thomas, refusing to acknowledge him as a woman anymore, just ‘the freak’.

  O’Shea had been tipped to her left, the tape straining to hold her. She looked into the eyes of her teammate and friend and retched, leaving a small pool of yellow bile on the stone-cold floor.

  “Wash it away. I cannot stand the smell of vomit in the mornings.”

  Cynthia Bell, a woman who would literally not frighten a goose, lay there, restrained, removed of all dignity, almost ivory-skinned, her normal bright eyes just pockets of desolation. Her lips bleeding and blue, the tips of her ears were blue as well. It did not bode well for the shy and retiring analyst. Her hair, normally immaculate, was matted to her head and face. What O’Shea looked at was the body of her friend.

  Until she saw a tear.

  O’Shea smiled at her. Willing her to stay alive another day. She mouthed the words ‘love you’ – it was odd for a co-worker – but equally it made so much sense. Then she slowly said, ‘Be strong. They will come.’

  Water rushed over O’Shea bringing her back to reality. She was the coldest of the trio. The youngest, too. And the strongest willed by far. She needed to be. Her skin was alive with goose bumps. The last time this had happened was with the blue-eyed man she had fallen in love with. That was pure arousal. This was icy and driven by fear.

  She was unsure how long she could last, but she knew it would be longer than Bell. She scanned up and down her body, saw the bleak and forlorn circles around her eyes and stale, dark brown bandaging wrapped around her left forearm. An avenue of congealed blood ran from the stump towards her shoulder as the warm water trickled across her body, breaking up the tracks of blackened blood and swilling away days of human expulsion.

  Her torso was stripped bare but for a white bra. Constantin found no reason to punish her more than he had. He had needed her, that was all. She was important to the men that employed her and she was important to him too, albeit as nothing more than a conduit. No point in humiliating her more than he needed to.

  Her skirt was soaked and stuck to her legs. Her tights torn and dirty, shoes long since discarded.

  O’Shea studied the man that leant against the pale-coloured wall, his mind flooded with thoughts.

  ‘If I get out of here alive, I will personally carve your face off with a blunt carving knife, so dull that I will have to saw at it, you evil piece of shit.’ She c
ouldn’t say it out loud, but it felt good to rebel.

  She watched the water, blood and tears wash away, down a hole in the floor. The ground stank of stale urine and the remnants of home-grown surgery. She retched again.

  “OK, bath time is over everyone. Back up, into your places, please.”

  He clapped his hands, not dissimilar to a film director. He was losing it and rapidly. And that meant time was not on their side.

  “First on today’s list is you Lucy – what is your real name again?”

  He tapped Thomas on the face. “Smile, my dear. It might never happen.” He pulled a chair up to the table and then beckoned to a man in his thirties with shoulder length black hair and an expression that said he wanted to be somewhere else.

  “My equipment, please. And the light. Start the generator.”

  He pulled a lamp towards him, switched it on and bathed Thomas’ face in bright white light.

  “Matthew Five.”

  “What? I don’t understand.” She was beyond panic. Crying now.

  “I don’t expect you too. Just learn. I had to whilst I was in prison. I learned a great deal. It was good for my soul and my mind. For example, I discovered that if you mix certain chemicals, you create a deadly gas.” He waved at O’Shea. “Hi, yes, it was me, of course. You should not have survived. Sorry. I failed you.”

  He walked around, pacing, as if trying to recall something from his past.

  “Yes, that was it. I still have your underwear somewhere, felt nice against my skin. Anyway, I’d love to talk, but I have work to do.”

  Thomas was writhing against the straps. “Please. Whatever you do, not my face. It provides me with a living. You know that. Remember our times together? Remember the games we played?”

  Constantin was clearly embarrassed and pushed his fingers up to Thomas’ lips. “Shh.”

  He pressed some new grey tape across her mouth and squeezed her nostrils together. “I remember how you used to like that game too? This time I will hold it until the blood vessels in your eyeballs burst. Perhaps you might want to keep quiet.”

  Thomas nodded, trying to regain composure.

  “Now, imagine I am a doctor. I know, difficult, but please try, all of you.” He looked around at the three male accomplices in the room who were unsure what was going to happen next, pondering how they would explain away their roles if the police should come crashing through the door.

  “It’s OK boys. Trust me. I learned a lot in my time away, just didn’t get much chance to practice. But this is so exciting.”

  He picked up the battery powered drill, screwed a metal bit into the chuck, tightened it and selected the hammer. It had a light on the front which Constantin liked very much, all the better to see his work up close.

  He cut Thomas’ hideous, black, skin-tight leggings away and threw the material onto the floor, saving a length to roughly bind around her head, covering her eyes, shielding her, but also removing an essential sense and adding to her state of alarm.

  The drill bit rested on Thomas’ shin and then began to whirl, the motor making a high-pitched noise as it painstakingly propelled the clinically sharp tip into her hairless skin and begun to dig beneath the surface.

  It took a few seconds of slow rotation for the nerves to start to react.

  The bright LED light allowed the man they had once deferentially called The Chemist to enjoy the spectacle of flesh and blood spiralling up and around the drill bit, its operator doing his best to ignore the hideous stifled screams from his patient.

  As the first flecks of ivory appeared on the drill, he announced that from this day he would really prefer to be known as The Surgeon. There really was nothing to it. Surgery and medicine were his new drug. He liked his new self-imposed title very much.

  He took a moment to examine how bright the bone was among the blood. Then drilled deeper. Pushing on the back of the tool with the palm of his hand. He removed the bit and found a new site. Again, and again. In five minutes Constantin had perforated the tibia with a dozen or so holes and had allowed them to rapidly fill with the pain and despair of all the world.

  The shin bled profusely. He wiped it away initially, then stopped, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. The holes were only a few millimetres in diameter, but very effective.

  “That should slow you down – should you decide to run away.”

  He slapped Thomas’ right cheek again.

  “You asked about revenge? An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Is that not what it says in Matthew, Chapter Five? Or do you not know this?” He began to yell. “Am I the only one here with an education?”

  He moved the chair up towards Thomas’ head, noting that she had passed out. The pain was so intense. Constantin slapped her again until she came around. He was exasperated.

  “You need to be awake to see this. This is special. What I did to your leg? That was simple butchery. Try and run on that and it will collapse. It is just a matter of mechanics. However, what is about to happen is biblical indeed.”

  O’Shea couldn’t see the scene but had a cinematographic sense of it. The sound of the drill, the bone resisting the metal bit, and Thomas trying to scream through a thick band of tape.

  “Why didn’t you just break his leg?”

  Constantin turned from his duties, picking pieces of bone marrow from the drill and flicking them across the room. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, you heard me, Nicolescu. Why not break her leg, if the only reason you just did that to her was to stop her from running away?”

  It was a fair point. He liked her spirit. Suddenly delighted that he hadn’t killed her the first time.

  “Because my dear, now, if she runs, I will have a chance of catching her. I left her other leg alone for that reason. I may even release her tonight, see how long she lasts out there in the marshes that surround us. I am so glad you have not lost your sense of fight.” He leant down, wiped the remaining blood off the bit and onto her face, pausing next to her mouth.

  “Clean it.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Nasty, no need to be impolite.” He slipped the drill between her tightening lips. “Clean. It. Now.”

  She allowed the cold metal to enter her mouth, then closed her lips around it. Closed her eyes, too. She could smell the metallic tang of the fresh blood.

  “Get on with it, will you? You are just making me more willing to cause you serious harm when it is my turn.”

  “Ah yes, your turn, my dear Carrie. Well, you see, I wanted to wait until later for that. Give you chance to cool off a bit. Perhaps outside, under a full moon. No one can see us and the cold would help me, would excite your skin a little more. I may even remove the gag. Scream all you like out there.” He carefully wiped a trace of blood from her lips.

  “See you later. Have a beautiful day. We have places to go and havoc to cause. Don’t run away now.” He ran the drill bit along the length of her upper torso, watching her stomach churn as he wandered lower. Then stopped and gently squeezed the trigger.

  He watched her eyes widen.

  “Carrie. Do you think I am some sort of animal? Please. I would never hurt you for the sake of it.” His voice went up an octave. “There always has to be a reason.”

  He spun around and walked out of the room, followed by the three young men. They stopped outside and spoke. O’Shea closed her eyes, concentrating all of her senses into one.

  “Give the older woman about an hour. Then get her out of here. There are plenty of rooms to store her in. Tonight, we will take her to the river and get rid of her. It is a full moon so we need to be careful, but the tide will be strong. By the morning she will hopefully be out at sea, or miles away or at the bottom of the river, in the mud.”

  She heard it all and began to cry. How could they leave a defenceless woman to die in such a derelict place, when all she had done was her job? And all they appeared to want was monetary reward?

  They had killed her friend.

&nbs
p; She started to think about her own mortality. What plans did he have for her? Here in this wretched hole. Or later, under the moonlight?

  Constantin Nicolescu could well have been a doctor. He was erudite and patient. His infinite knowledge of the human body, learned during countless hours, pouring over books in prison libraries had served him well. When he announced that Cynthia Bell would last about another hour, he was accurate to within twenty minutes. He wasn’t there when she did finally go, but his simple action of amputation, to send a message, was what had finally killed her. Or rather, the shock of it.

  She knew too.

  She found some resolve. From deep in her soul she rose up, pushing against the straps, turned towards Carrie and spoke through her tears.

  “Carrie. I’m going. There is no light.” She laughed. “But I hope there are forty virgin men awaiting me beyond the pearly gates.”

  “It’s OK. Conserve your energy, Cynthia. We will get you out of here.”

  “No. I have lost too much blood. I know about these things. Tell everyone that I miss them, tell them I’m sorry for creating paperwork…”

  “Cynthia shut up and listen. They know we are missing by now. They will come soon.”

  “They have no idea where we are, Carrie.”

  “You just keep talking to me. Talk about whatever you want.”

  “Hugh Jackman?”

  “If that’s what lights your candle.” It couldn’t have been a crueller statement.

  Bell was quiet. O’Shea called out to her. “Cynthia!”

  She shuddered back into life for the penultimate time.

  “If you get out of here, make sure he goes down for a very long time.”

  “Oh, I’ll do better than that, mate. You will be there to help me.”

  “That’s nice.” Her voice was trailing now.

  “And the others, too. Alex Stefanescu is the reason for this. I’ll make sure he gets treated terribly too.”

  Bell made only sounds. Her breathing laboured, clutching for a last breath, desperate to say a few more words.

  “Take care, Carrie. Give ‘em hell girl.” Then a sigh. And she was gone.