Ensnared

by I N Foggarty

  Threads of Life:

  ENSNARED

  By

  I.N. Foggarty

  Cover artwork by Darren Kerrigan

  For Calé.

  You started me off on this crazy journey, and have stood by me every step of the way since.

  Without you, none of this would have been possible, and for that I thank you.

  The threads of life are woven. Each of us born from a single strand on Clotho's spindle.

  We are born with our eyes shut. We are blind...innocent...ignorant.

  There are those that remain this way their entire lives. Blissfully unaware of the true nature of the world around them. Blinkered.

  Others let their eyes open gradually. Slowly learning truths...

  The unfortunate, have their eyes and minds forced open by some personal horror.

  Yet a few are born into this world, their eyes opened from birth. Never knowing the delusions others desperately cling to.

  I ask only this. Are any of us deserving of your pity...?

  Prologue: Reflections

  The solitary bulb, dangling from its tether of thin wire and rusted metal, cast the room in a dim colourless glow; that held no warmth. Cracked tiles with moulded grouting adorned the cramped walls awkwardly framing the minimalistic facilities.

  The metal fixings of the cold tap screeched when forcibly turned, causing the pipes to wail. Cloudy water poured forth into the washstand as the room's sole occupant ran his hands beneath the icy jet, splashing some onto his face. He shivered, rubbed his eyes and gazed into the chipped frameless mirror above the sink, absent-mindedly closing the tap. His youthful, soft features seemed to have hollowed somewhat since the start of the evening's activities.

  He let out a slow, deliberate breath. The words of his mentor echoing from the depths of his mind, “the first is always the hardest.” A thin humourless smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. She had been right on that count. However, it had not meant the subsequent ones had been easy, at least not in his experience.

  Turning the man exited the claustrophobic bathroom into the adjoined bedroom. Peeling peach wallpaper, worn patched carpet and battered furniture adding to the impression that the motel’s better days were so far gone even their memory had a thin covering of dust. This room lacked a working light source. The singular light bulb had blown and swung uselessly in the centre of the ceiling forcing him to use the bathroom light instead. It illuminated a small portion of the carpet and the bottom of the bed, leaving the rest of the room to dank shadow.

  From atop the mould spotted, musty, bedding he picked up his jacket and withdrew a bulky black mobile telephone. Thank heavens for technological advances he thought, crossing the room to stare out into the parking lot; it was deserted. The motel lay on the outskirts of Chicago and had proven to be relatively quiet. Dinginess had its advantages. Punching the number in he hit the call button and brought the handset up to his ear.

  A female voice on the other end, sharp and stern answered. “The white bishop captures the castle on b5…”

  He smiled, the familiar words almost comforting. If technology continued to progress at its current rate there would soon be little use for such passphrases, face to face calls might even be possible. Nevertheless, he dutifully replied, “…the black pawn advances to e4, one step closer to becoming a queen.”

  “You’re late,” the woman snapped upon confirmation that she was talking to the right person. “I thought something had gone wrong and I would have to send a pawn to clean up after you.”

  “Something did go wrong, the timings were off by almost an hour. The client’s information must have been inaccurate.”

  “Is the job done?”

  The man paused for a moment. His mentor had a bad habit of sounding callous when she ought to be more concerned. “Yes...”

  He had barely uttered the response before she leapt upon his feelings of unease. “You still do not agree with the council's decision to accept the contract?”

  “No,” he replied, calm yet steely. ”Nor do I agree with the demand of children as payment for our services. Especially those that have not yet been conceived. Besides, a minimum of nineteen years seems like a long time to wait for something that may never be.”

  On the other end, he caught a short hollow laugh. “It is not your place to question the council. You are an emissary, an extension of their will, nothing more. They lead, you follow.”

  He smiled to himself. They both knew her words were rhetoric, nothing more. “When the council makes decisions I adhere to their judgement. However, that does not mean I won't question it when a mistake has been made. When we follow blindly the cliff edge only becomes apparent after we have already stepped across it... Is that not what you once taught me?”

  This time the woman’s laughter was genuine, her tone holding a warmth that only he could detect. “And if all you did was obey my teachings you would soon find yourself in freefall.”

  The man shook his head. Even now his mentor still had the ability to twist his words back on him and impart her wisdom.

  “In this instance though I would advise you to take heed. Formulate your opinions but be careful where you voice them. Harmony does not exist within our walls in the manner that the council would...”

  “…Quiet!”

  From outside the sound of an engine cut the lecture short and headlights flashed through the motel room window. Pulling the phone away from his ear the man cautiously looked through the gap in the curtains. Two black muscle cars had drawn into the parking lot at the far end. As burly figures began to climb out someone ran to greet them, arm outstretched and pointing towards his room.

  “…Respond!” He heard the woman say from the device.

  “I’ve been followed...” he hissed, bringing the device back up to his ear.

  On the other end, he could make out the woman’s muffled curse. “Shit!”

  “…or betrayed. There were only two people aside from myself who knew where to find me. You… and the Client.”

  “Don’t make assumptions,” the woman snapped. “You have no reason to suspect the Client. Besides, you have more pressing problems to deal with.”

  “Don’t worry,” he replied, the emotion suddenly drained from his tone. “I know the rules,” Hastily the man darted over to the bed. From within his neatly packed suitcase, he withdrew a thin cylindrical object. “I get out or I die.” He shut the case.

  “Good luck,” was all she said before the line went dead.

  Pulling on his jacket he pocketed the phone and withdrew his Beretta M9. Expertly he fixed the suppressor to the barrel, the sound of footsteps on the wooden decking outside becoming audible. He would be outnumbered by at least six to one. Turning his head he glanced up at the bathrooms dangling lightbulb. There was no time to run and turn it off, was it best in half shadow or total darkness?

  Raising his gun he fired a single shot. A light pop rang out through the still air and the room plunged into gloom. Suitcase in hand he took cover behind the double bed. In the brief moment of silence, a single thought crossed his mind. How hollow would his face look the next time saw his reflection…

  ~Part One: Machinations~

  ~Nineteen years later~

  Placebo Effect

  The moon shone brightly amidst a sea of twinkling stars. That brilliant ‘pie in the sky’ that, even on nights like this, still remained out of reach for the majority. Regardless there it hung, casting its silvery light over the city of Chicago, Illinois. Amidst the northern part of the sprawling metropolis, stood an ordinary building in an average, somewhat rundown street. Like most buildings, it had the time honoured structure of walls, windows and on top of its four stories, a roof. Or at least it had the remains of such things.

 
An unevenly patched roof with one or two remaining holes and damp, crumbling masonry from the 1970’s, gave the building and indeed the entire street, a sagged dejected air of abandonment. The boarded fences that separated the area from the newer builds nearby, were plastered with posters for circuses long gone, disco music and roller rinks no longer in operation. Indeed, the only distinguishing feature of this building in particular, when compared to the others in a similar state of disrepair, was the fact that some of its windows still retained their glass.

  Behind one particular set, not quite so fortunate to have that claim to fame, lay a room. Situated on the top floor and under a recently repaired section of the roof, it had an air akin to an abandoned store. Housing a few pieces of office related furniture, both the room and its contents could not be described as anything other than derelict.

  Half-rotten planks had been nailed over the windows to provide some semblance of protection from the external world. Yet through the cracks, trickles of moonlight crept, casting a random assortment of dim spots across the walls and floor. Like a collection of spotlights, they served only to highlight the bare, cracked and missing floorboards. Though the office had not been cleaned in years better lighting would make it quite apparent that it had not lain empty in that time. Dusty floors had a habit of showing people's footprints, and this floor had a lot of them.

  However, apart from showing that it was not actually abandoned proper illumination would not have been in the best interests of the office. It would literally, not show it in its best light. The door, with its bottom half having lost a fight with someone’s boot, clung to its hinges in a way that made opening it both laborious and noisy. While the greenish grey coloured walls remained uncovered, except for a large map and copious amounts of dirt.

  Towards the back of the room away from the walls, the door and even the ex-windows sat a desk. A large hunk of well worked dark mahogany the desk looked like it had once come from a far more glamorous background. But now thanks to a collection of scratches, scores, scrapes and the occasional (unavoidable) bullet hole the desk and the high-backed leather monstrosity of a chair behind it, half its stuffing missing and the leather itself deeply cut, had long since waved goodbye to its glory days.

  The leather behemoth groaned loudly in the deathly silence of the office as its current occupant shifted his considerable weight to a more comfortable position. A loud snore escaped from the figure, his head and arms sprawled over the desktop. His name was Sergio Gutierrez, a large man once powerful now going to seed. His once well-worked torso had lost its definition, although his waistline had certainly not forgotten to pick up the lost mass.

  He shifted his upper body slightly again in his still unconscious state causing the floorboards to creak in a weary way under his chair. Though at full stretch his arms would not have reached the far edge of his absurdly large desk they still occupied a significant portion of its surface. Well-tanned and covered in black ink the man’s arms looked like large branches. A gold Rolex bit into the flesh on one wrist and a bracelet of gold links on the other. Below these, his hands hairy and scared at the knuckles told a story of street fights won and lost and windows smashed. His dark trousers and shiny dark shoes clashed dramatically with the short sleeved wine coloured satin shirt straining across his currently slumped form.

  Gutierrez grunted again. On the desk surface, a spot of light caught the edge of a clear glass bottle clutched in his right hand. Once the laws of geometrical optics played out part of the ray found itself redirected into the corner of the office owner’s semi-open right eye.

  “Mrgh,” he grunted, shaking his head slightly in an attempt to rid himself of the irritation. “MRGH!”

  In a fit of grouchy rage, Sergio violently threw his arm out and inadvertently relinquished his grip on the bottle. Bringing it back to rest he settl… SMASH! Gutierrez sat bolt upright, the noise ringing in his ears, hand groping blindly at his left-hand side for a non-existent gun. As consciousness came back, his eyes hastily darted around the room for the assailant. He cursed and wrenched open the top desk drawer and pulled out a Desert Eagle. A needless effort. Had the room actually been attacked, he would have been killed or apprehended in his moment of stupidity, looking for the holster. On finding no one, Sergio dropped the firearm onto the desk. Was it too much to fucking ask for an undisturbed sleep he grumbled internally? Now what had happened to his vodka?

  Wearily the man’s eyes scanned the desk surface for the bottle. When he failed to find it his gaze trailed off the edge to the floor where it soon encountered a scattered array of damp glass fragments.

  “Aww, Jesus….fuck off. The whole fucking bottle!” Sergio brought a thick fist down on top of the desk with a thud; the floorboards creaking once more.

  Now what? Before his brain had the chance to come up with a solution he realised that his hand was already opening the large bottom drawer of his desk. The sweet sound of clinking bottles filled his ears and he wasted no time in plucking a relatively full bottle of amber liquid out. Closing the drawer with a nudge from his shoe Sergio unscrewed the cap and filled a smudged heavy based shot glass to the rim. It was called a utopia glass, or so the packaging said, regardless it would take him to utopia or suffer the consequences. In one swift motion, he downed the shot without losing a drop.

  Returning the glass to the desk Sergio’s shoulders dropped and he slid down the chair into a slouch. As the initial surge of adrenaline upon waking left him, his body impolitely demanded his attention. He closed his eyes and let out a laboured breath. His head hurt… a lot. The rude awakening followed by the search for vodka had done enough to distract his attention but now the headache had decided to make itself known with a vengeance. He glanced at his watch.

  “How the fuck??” It was nearly one o’clock in the morning.

  About half-past seven he had endured a heated argument with one of his… subordinates. Afterwards, he recalled swallowing some painkillers with a mouthful of vodka before resting his head on the desk to try and help shift the ensuing headache. Some good that had done, over five hours later and his head felt no better than before, worse even. Grumbling, Sergio fished around in his drawer for the pill bottle. Only to find both it and an unexpected brother. He read the labels on the side of the orange bottles. The first contained aspirin while the second something called Zopiclone, whatever the hell that was. Fuck that stuff, Sergio thought, tossing it back into the drawer. No doubt something cheap and nasty his Doc had sold him for a small fortune, the black-hearted bastard.

  Popping the cap on the aspirin, Sergio swallowed two capsules with a large swig of bourbon. Only when he felt the burn at the back of his throat did the thought cross his mind that he had been given both bottles by the same ‘black-hearted bastard’. He took another drink for good measure.

  For the next half hour, the office returned to its lifeless state, the owner choosing unconsciousness. Indeed it was certainly not the worst sleeping arrangements Gutierrez had ever encountered. No, that honour still belonged to a dank alleyway somewhere in Juárez where at age eight he had spent the night huddled next to his ‘mejor amigo’, icy rain falling upon them both by the bucket load. Even to this day, it amazed him that neither of them had succumbed to hypothermia, pneumonia or worse. Getting drenched did nothing good for one’s health that much he knew… Still, that had been a long time ago…and his best friend could not be relied upon like he had been back in that alleyway.

  “BRRRRRRRRRR…..BRRRRRRRRRR,” the noise penetrated his skull like an icy dagger.

  “FOR FUCK SAKE!” Sergio bellowed, sitting bolt upright once more, his eyes darting to the source of the offending noise. Apparently, it was too much to ask for some undisturbed rest. In another bout of rage, Gutierrez snatched the telephone from its cradle and pressed it hard against his ear. “WHAT!”

  “Tetchy tonight are we, Serg?” A female voice said in a manner far too chirpy for the late hour. He recognised it instantly, Tanya.

  “Why the hell
are you calling me at this hour?” Sergio barked in return, his tone one that would make any normal person start to babble apologetically.

  “It’s typically the sweet spot in your day where I can catch you both awake and sober.” The sassy inflexion on that last word caused Sergio’s blood to start simmering. Nothing new there then. Tanya always seemed to have that effect on him, in more ways than one. When he failed to reply she continued. “So, what’s got you all riled up?”

  “It’s this blasted headache and…” he quickly had to stop himself from divulging the fact that he had most likely taken the wrong drugs. Instead, he managed to esque it into a half-truth, “...these crappy pills Jasper sold me.”

  “You had another fight with Ramone, didn’t you?” It was not a question. Without even giving her a crumb of the truth, Tanya had deduced the cause with unnerving precision. Did she really know him that well, or was his life just that easy to figure out? “I keep telling you to ditch that bum. He’s like so not on board with our new direc…”

  “I’ll decide who we keep and ditch!” Sergio roared, slamming a fat fist on the desk and causing it to shudder; an impressive feat.

  “Ok, ok,” Tanya replied hastily, noticeably backing off. “You’re the boss, the head man. The person without whom we would all be gutter trash.”

  Sergio relaxed slightly as he drank in the ego stroking. While enjoyable it did nothing to ascertain why she had disturbed him. “You did not call just to tell me how big my dick is.”

  The woman on the other end laughed. “But it is that big,” she replied wickedly. “Anyway, cock sizes aside, I’ve found this way cool gig for us.”

  Sergio brought his head down to rest upon his left hand and groaned internally. Tanya’s ‘way cool’ business ideas usually served only to cause him further headache. “What have I told you about your gigs.”

  “To only mention them to you if there’s a huge score at the end?”