The Lancaster Rule - The Lancaster Trilogy Vol. I

by T. K. Toppin

  It’s okay; I consoled myself. Just relax. Buy shoes. She’ll be back.

  I spent the next twenty minutes roaming around the shop, trying on shoes and starting a nice collection of the ones I definitely wanted. The good-natured shop attendant hovered close by to see to my needs. I lost track of time, and had forgotten about waiting for Gianni until she darted into the shop and grabbed me by the arm.

  “We have to leave—now!” she barked in clipped tones.

  “But…” I stammered before being dragged, literally, through the throngs of shoppers and to the desperate wails of the shop attendant.

  Before I was able to direct a scathing response for dragging me out, I caught her expression. Immediately I sensed danger, and without question hurried my pace to match hers. In my head, the image of the man who’d killed Madge flashed, and her order to me to run away spurred my feet to move now.

  Gianni clutched my arm tightly. It hurt, but I ignored the pain. “What’s happening?”

  Gianni didn’t reply, but elbowed her way through a particularly thick mass of shoppers, who parted like bowling pins.

  “When we get out of this place…” We jogged down the escalator steps. Gianni’s voice had become sharp, businesslike. Hard. “We turn right, go straight down the street, then right again by the underground parking entrance. Got that?”

  In five seconds, we flung out of the building and pushed through the mill of pedestrians.

  Confused, I allowed myself to be dragged. Gianni still gripped my arm securely; sometimes she pushed me ahead, then went back to half-dragging me. She seemed scared, but her eyes, though darting, held the steely focus of someone intent on survival. From the distance, a rumbling, growling noise erupted, and the ground shook. It was soon followed by frantic screams and yells.

  On instinct, I turned my head toward the sound, and saw a bloom of thick, gray clouds flecked with bits of dark objects coming out of the entire second-floor of a stone building.

  I turned back and stared at Gianni. “What was that?”

  No answer.

  Something was wrong. Very wrong. It spooked me. Panic set in, making me cold and stiff. Images of that cold, white-tiled room flashed back, the knife, and all that blood…

  We reached the end of the sidewalk, jerked to the right, then half-jogged about fifty feet until we came to the gaping entrance of an underground parking building. Gianni darted her eyes behind us, then pulled me to face her.

  “Listen to me.” For someone who had run down three flights of stairs and bullied her way through crowds for nearly a block, Gianni breathed evenly, only a little winded. “In a few minutes, a yellow car will come and pick you up. Got that? Josie! Are you listening?” She shook me once.

  “What…why?” I replied, blinking.

  “The driver will take you straight back to Lorcan’s. Got that? Gel?” Gianni took another quick look behind her. “Stay here and wait.”

  “What? No, wait. Gianni. What’s—?” I gaped, but Gianni was gone, back in the direction we’d come from. I took a few steps to follow, then stopped, uncertain what to do next.

  Stick close to Gianni, Lorcan had said. But something wasn’t right. Something really bad had just happened.

  From the corner Gianni had disappeared around, I heard shouting. Someone yelled sharply, then Gianni sprinted back toward me, her curly black hair bouncing frantically atop her head.

  “Run!” Gianni screamed. Then she spun around and faced three uniformed men. She raised her right hand, about to throw something at them, but a loud, whooshing boom made her jerk. A gaping hole opened up clean through her. She teetered on the tips of her shoes. Her head snapped downward as if to see where her chest once was.

  I watched in a mesmerized horror.

  A small, round object went spinning out from Gianni’s hand. With mouths opened, the three uniformed men watched the round object as it paused for a split second when it reached the highest point in its arc, then it fell rapidly down. Bouncing once, twice, it veered off to the right and rolled into the busy street. The men scattered like mice, diving for any cover they could find. I watched mutely as the round object disappeared under a moving car and exploded in a massive boom, sending the car straight into the air. Surrounding vehicles and pedestrians in at least a fifteen-foot radius were blasted away.

  Me included.

  The impact threw me to the ground. I landed with a crash on my backside, clacking teeth together and jarring the inside of my brain. Hot, brittle heat scorched my face. I squeezed my eyes shut in shock, fumbling to make sense amid the screeching noises, the screams of terror and the shouting. Dizzy sickness shot through me like I’d been sucker-punched in the gut. I clamped my mouth over a retch and managed a quick, sharp intake of breath. The world smelled of charred smoke and metal.

  People swarmed around me, shouting, ordering me to do something. I opened my eyes and gaped in disbelief. The three uniformed men, one sporting a bloody forehead, pointed their weapons directly at me and ordered me to get on my stomach. Still sitting, I stared, shocked, panicked, looking from one man to the next, until one stepped forward and yanked my shoulders down hard so I was prone. My lips pressed against the rough pavement, loose grit dug in and pierced my lip. Tears welled up in my eyes. My hands were yanked behind my back and fastened securely. The men weren’t gentle about it either. I cried out in pain, but was ignored.

  They hauled me up and shouted something, but I couldn’t hear anymore. Everything sounded dull, like a sort of buzz. My mouth hung open, it trembled, and I tasted blood. My breath came in short gasps. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the coherent part that remembered how to work properly, I knew I was being arrested—but for what, I couldn’t understand.

  The last thing I saw before being thrown into a vehicle was Gianni’s dead body. A wash of blood surrounded her, and a thick, glistening trickle threaded its way down the pavement and fell into the drain, to oblivion.

  * * *

  I was unable to shake the cold numbness inside me. The constriction in my chest only got tighter and tighter. It suffocated me. I wheezed. I was scared shitless, and my face must’ve shown it. The officer glanced at me and grunted, not in sympathy, but with a snide, humorless leer. Another officer, a woman with a dour face, gave me a pat-down search. Then, after scanning me with a rod, she rifled through my hair and told me to drop my pants and bend over as she rammed her hands between my ass and probed my crotch with rough thoroughness. Horrified, I remained silent and allowed myself to be subjected to the treatment.

  What could I do anyway? Resistance was useless. Never object to the police. Always be cordial and polite. Do everything they tell you to do. And don’t ever tell them the real truth. Deny everything!

  I ran through the list of mental notes I’d collected and stored from stories told by my high-school friends who made regular visits to the authorities, from recreational drug use to speeding or from just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’d each told me what they’d done while in custody: lie if you have to, but do everything they tell you to do, and wait for your parents. Make sure you get a lawyer, too.

  I wondered foolishly how that would work. I didn’t know any lawyers, and I was an orphan.

  And what was I being arrested for?

  Oh, that’s right. Gianni tried to blow up the police. That much I grasped from the gibberish my mind was sorting through.

  They left me in a sort of holding cell. The walls were a muted coppery color, made from synthetic paneling that seemed to suck sound away. Swallowing hard, I thought of the countless tortures and beatings, the screams and yells for help, that must’ve gone unheard beyond this room. It even blocked sound coming in from the outside. Like a deathly quiet tomb, it made my ears ring loud in the silence. The room held two chairs, one of which I sat on, and a single table made of metal with two solid clamps, to which my hands were securely fastened. If I wasn’t mistaken, the inside grooves of the restraints felt like barbs. If I moved too much, I’d get l
acerated wrists for sure. But my hands shook badly, so I clenched them into tight fists. I remembered Lorcan’s stories of the government, how people just disappeared. I swallowed again as bile started to rise.

  I’m fucked now…

  Like in that tiled room not so long ago, I waited for my impending doom. After a while, I lost track of how long I sat there. The silence deafened me, enough for a nugget of madness to spawn. I started hearing weird things. My backside went numb, dulling the pain from the rough landing it had received earlier. But that was about the only small comfort I had.

  The door opened with a snick, and a thickset man entered. He wore a simple black suit, neatly tailored and clean-cut. The suit tucked smartly at his waist and buttoned up rather high, in my opinion. He regarded me with a dispassionate cock of the head, studying my features with prolonged interest. As if satisfied, he approached the table and sat down across from me. Placing his portable tablet on his lap, he let the top half lean on the table’s edge. Thumbing through the tablet, he tapped here and there, nodding to himself. After what seemed like five minutes, he looked up at me and stared for a long time.

  “My name is Inspector Narayan.”

  He was East Indian without a doubt and, unlike Mrs. Patel, had a thick accent; I strained to understand him, barely catching his name. Narayan was dark, especially around the eyes and mouth. He had a round face with a large overbite, amplified by a protruding top lip. It gave him an almost comical appearance, except that his eyes were sharp, small, and intense as they lasered over with suspicion. I had an outrageous urge to sketch him, a caricature the best way to capture the man’s pronounced features. I traced his face mentally, and my fingers nearly moved as if holding a pencil.

  “You say your name is Josephine Bettencourt?” With his musically clipped accent, it sounded more like Josah-peen Bettinnn-cort.

  Resisting the urge to cringe, I nodded vigorously. Do everything they tell you to do.

  Narayan seemed unconvinced and looked at me after consulting his screen, holding my eyes for a time. Then he shook his head. “Are you sure that you wish to state this as your name?”

  “Y-yes,” I croaked. I hadn’t spoken for a while expect for the odd “yes” or “no.” And the “what?” didn’t really count, since I more or less mimed that, having been instructed to be fingerprinted and photographed, but not realizing I had to place my hands on a round cylinder to get them scanned, nor face a microscopic round dot straight ahead to get my image snapped. I’d never been arrested before, that much was obvious, and their intimidating gruffness just made things worse.

  Inspector Narayan sighed. He gave me a pitying gaze, like one would to a beggar while standing at a safe, condescending distance away. I wanted to shrivel up and disappear.

  “You see, Miss? Bettencourt…” I nodded at the “Miss.” “We have absolutely no records of any Josephine Bettencourts that match your description. At all. Not in London or in the whole of Britain. We are currently running a worldwide search. Why do you think that is?” His eyes flicked up at me—his head cocked again—as if hoping to find me doing something incriminating.

  “I don’t know,” I squeaked. Dread filled me with another dose of cold numbness. Oh shit, they’re going to find out. Lorcan, I need Lorcan. Deny everything! “Please, what’s happening?” My throat constricted in tears I knew were close. “I haven’t done anything. I was just buying shoes…”

  “But surely you already know, Miss Bettencourt.” Narayan said this with matter-of-fact directness. “And tell me, why is it that you have in your possession a credit card in the name of Lorcan Wellesley, hmm? Did you steal it?”

  “Lorcan? What—no. I didn’t steal…he’s my friend. He gave it to me so I could go shopping. Have you called him? Will you let him know I’m here?” I leaned forward, pleading. I wanted nothing more than to go straight back home and burrow myself into Lorcan’s safe, comforting arms. He’d saved me once; surely he could save me now. I knew he could.

  “Oh, you can be sure we will be contacting Mr. Wellesley.” Narayan made some entries on his tablet. A silence followed, then, abruptly: “And Miss Marillo? What is your relationship with her?”

  “Who? You mean Gianni?”

  He inclined his head a fraction and lifted a single eyebrow.

  “She works for Lorcan. She’s his assistant, I think.” A dawning horror began to sink in, a thought so wildly ludicrous. But, what if—no! Impossible. There’s no way Lorcan would be involved in something like this. Whatever this, is.

  “Miss Bettencourt, are you a terrorist?”

  “What?” I blink. “No! I’m not. Why would you think I am?” Panic-panic-panic. Breathe.

  “A spy, then?”

  “No.”

  “Which anti-government organization do you represent?”

  “What?”

  “Naturalist? Conservatives? Or maybe an extremist group? Which?”

  My mouth fell open. The air thinned.

  He seemed unconvinced, and watched me, head still tilted to the side. Face bland. I wanted to shrivel up even more.

  “Are you ill? You look sick.” Narayan gave my thin frame a quick once-over, that eyebrow went up again, and a crooked pout pushed his top lip even farther out.

  “Please, can you get in touch with Lorcan Wellesley? Please,” I begged again.

  Narayan didn’t respond. My tears were close, and I fought them back with a struggle. This was madness.

  What did Gianni do? Did she have something to do with that explosion? Of course, you idiot! That was it. Holy shit, did she do that? Why? Is Lorcan part of this, too? Why?

  Why?

  A stifled whimper escaped my lips. Swallowing hard, I glanced about the room, certain it was shrinking. “Please,” I squeaked again.

  The door opened again—snick—and a young, thin officer strode in wearing an apologetic expression. He looked scared. Inspector Narayan didn’t turn to greet him, but merely held out his hand to receive whatever message the young officer carried. He carried none, so he waited discreetly off to one side.

  Frowning, Narayan tipped his head up at the young officer, fisted his open hand, and waited. The young man leaned forward, whispered something into Narayan’s ear and backed away, attempting to leave.

  “When?” Narayan asked calmly.

  “N-now, sir.” The young officer’s voice shook. He darted a glance at me, then snapped it back to Narayan.

  “Very well.”

  The young officer left. Narayan turned his attention back to me, regarding me.

  “It would seem you have attracted the attention of some very important people.” He tapped some more information into his tablet, stood, and gave me a curt, almost respectful nod. His displeasure was evident enough, like a cat deprived of playing with the mouse it had just caught. “I trust that your trip to Switzerland will be a pleasant one, Miss Bettencourt.”

  “What?”

  * * *

  Switzerland, what I was able to see of it, was a thin sliver of light through the crack of an open doorway of the airlift shuttle. In that sliver of light, I saw a white wall, a hand resting on a holstered weapon, and part of someone’s brown shoe.

  On exiting the shuttle, I was escorted through a confusing series of rooms and corridors, turning right, right, left, and right again, until finally, ushered through a glass doorway and into a white room with a firm prod from the security droid. Once the door closed behind me, it clouded over and I saw nothing but more whiteness. I blew out a breath. At least I’d stopped shaking during the shuttle ride over.

  Like an animal at the zoo, I was on display. Shit. I imagined a multitude of eyes boring into me through the glass. Swallowing, I took another deep breath. It didn’t calm me in the least, or dislodge the hard lump in my throat.

  I glanced about and saw a ledge amid the deceptive whiteness where I was able to sit and face my audience. The clouded glass panel spanned the entire length of the room, which was roughly ten by ten feet. The ledge was the on
ly thing close to furniture. There’s nothing else. Not even a toilet. At least I wasn’t manacled anymore. Sinking down wearily, I clutched myself and let out a shaky groan.

  What now?

  And why was I here, in Switzerland? The very hive of the Lancaster regime. I repressed a shudder. I was going to disappear off the face of the world for sure now.

  I’d gone past scared, gone past terrified, and briefly encountered hysteria when I realized Lorcan might never find me. And now, weary and hurting, I just wanted to curl up and hide under something warm, fuzzy, and dark. The idea of my stasis chamber sounded very welcoming. Why the fuck did I ever wake up?

  I found a spot, if that was at all possible, on the white wall in front of me, and stared at it. I didn’t care if people watched. I was too tired to care. I’d dodged death’s appointment enough times; perhaps it was better to just face it. Accept my fate. There was nothing else to do.

  Had I known I’d be arrested and carted off to a foreign country, I’d surely have asked Lorcan or Max what one did in such a situations? Did I even get legal representation? A phone call? I should’ve tried harder to learn how to use a phone.

  But this was a totalitarian government. Did any of that even apply now?

  Chapter 14

  “How long do you plan on letting her sit there and wait?”

  World President John Lancaster compressed his lips, glaring intently at the woman’s slight figure, slumped against the wall. “As long as I feel like.” He clasped his hands behind his back, unable to relax. With a vacant slackness, the woman stared at a point before her. The sight disturbed him. John wasn’t sure why, so he’d spent the last ten minutes staring, trying to pinpoint the reason for his irritation.

  Simon had argued about getting involved, but John had insisted. After all, he was the World President and could do whatever he pleased. Even oversee—personally—a case involving a terrorist attack. He’d been the head of counter-terrorism. He knew how to handle himself. His friend was being pedantic, as usual.