by A P Bateman
Ahead of them a large blue work van pulled into the road, forcing Stone to slow the motorcycle so suddenly that the rear tyre momentarily left the road. He could see the road ahead and it was clear of on-coming traffic. He dropped the shift down and accelerated hard. The Ducati roared at high revs and the speed in which it picked up pace was astonishing. Stone leaned left to get around the van, then canted the lean to the right to straighten up, when the van unexpectedly lurched across the line and into them. Kathy screamed as Stone slammed on both the front brake leaver and rear brake pedal, but it was too late. The side panel hit them, and they remained upright, but before the bike could slow enough, the van kept pulling out and the bike simply ran out of road. The front wheel hit the soft grass verge at speed and it was all over. The bike twisted, skidded and shuddered. One of the wheels, Stone did not know which, dug in and the sudden traction flung the bike upwards and forwards, sideways and downwards all at once. Only motorcycles could disobey all the rules of physics when they crashed, and the Ducati was no different. When it landed on its side and threw both of them off, it speeded up as it started to tumble down the road, wheel over wheel, increasing its velocity when all science would argue it should be slowing down.
Stone hit the ground hard and bounced high into the air. When he landed a second time on the road, he lost momentum and tumbled a few times before sliding a short distance and resting still. Kathy was thrown to the left and into the verge. She slid a good forty-feet on the grass, before her foot dug into the ground and she was catapulted high into the air. She landed heavily on her chest and stomach and lay still.
Stone was aware of the van near him. It had stopped in the road, its hazard lights flashing to warn oncoming traffic of the accident. He tried to roll over onto his side, but it was agony. He was grazed and bruised, and severely winded. He simply could not breath. He fell back down onto his back. He could hear groaning and thought of Kathy hurt nearby, but then realised that the noise had come from him. He felt as if he were two seconds behind his actions, that his senses were delayed and that he was as much a voyeur to the scene as a part of it. Eventually, air filled his lungs and stabbed his ribs. He turned his head painfully and caught sight of Kathy, saw the man bending down and moving her. The helmet had split open and the man had removed it and cast it aside. Stone could hear himself shouting for the man to leave her alone. Not to remove the helmet, not to move her until the paramedics had arrived and put her neck in a brace. The man did not listen. He picked her up and carried her back to the open rear doors of the van.
The Ford Taurus pulled close, its tyres crunching to an urgent halt. Both front doors opened. The men were smartly dressed in black suits and white shirts. The man holding the silenced pistol stepped around the open door and brought the weapon up to aim. Stone did not recognise this man from the beach house, but the other man who stood by the open door shouted something and raised the G36 rifle, and Stone realised he was the same gunman who had cut Kathy’s house to shreds. Stone did not hear what he was shouting above the hail of automatic gunfire that cut them both down. The man with the silenced pistol got off a short burst of fire before he fell. The second man was still bringing the rifle up to aim when he went down amid a mist of shattered glass and metal fragments from the door he had taken cover behind.
Stone tried to get to his feet but was pushed back down. He reached for the FN pistol behind his right hip, but rough hands clasped his arms and another man retrieved the weapon. Stone looked up at him. The man towered over him, half as broad as he was tall. His face was as dark as night. Stone could only see the whites of his eyes in the gloom. The man pulled out a strange looking pistol and aimed it down at the centre of Stone’s chest. It coughed a virtually silent report and Stone arched his back as a large dart speared him between his ribs and he started to lose all feeling in his arms and legs. The man who had carried Kathy to the van returned, bent down and pulled up Stone’s sleeve. He was a foul-looking man with bad teeth and ginger hair. He was rough, tearing the sleeve of Stone’s jacket and shirt. Stone tried to fight it, but his arm would not move. He did not feel the hypodermic needle, but he saw the dose administered slowly emptying its contents, almost timed perfectly to release the dose entirely as Stone slipped into a lifeless, dreamless sleep.
33
Stone floors. Rough concrete walls. Cold air. A single bright light bulb. Shadows cast onto the floor and walls. Metal door. No windows. No sound. Except for his breathing. Sharp, short breaths. The sound of fear.
The drugs had worn off and his left side ached tremendously. A throbbing of bruised muscle and cracked bone, a rawness that he knew could only mean torn and shredded skin. The aching was the bruising and swelling developing, the brunt of the impact with the road taking its toll. His sleeve was pulled up, the hypodermic left hanging, the needle teasing at the vein. He remembered being drugged at the roadside, that hypodermic had looked smaller. He had been drugged again. He could see the tip almost protruding back through the skin. There was blood all around the track marks, so many needles had stuck in him, so many holes had been left after they had been roughly extracted. A tourniquet hung loose. It was a Velcro strap and he had seen the type before. British soldiers had loosely attached them to their limbs before embarking on patrols in Afghanistan. The practice had been adopted by US soldiers soon afterwards. With the amount of IED injuries that happened daily, the procedure had saved hundreds of lives in those first chaotic and traumatic minutes of catastrophe. This tourniquet, however, had been used to prime the vein in the forearm. Roughly pulled tight, the arm swelled and the vein popped. Although by the look of his arm and the multiple puncture wounds, it hadn’t been too effective.
Stone had noted, in some semi-cohesive part of his mind, that no alcohol swab had been used, that the needles had been extracted from a plastic box with no sterile packaging. The man who had administered the drugs was rough, enjoyed inflicting pain. A little twist here, a scrape there. He was a sadist. Small and ginger-haired. A wispy attempt at a beard. Narrow eyes and bad teeth. Stone hated given the man the satisfaction of seeing him in pain. It motivated him to control his emotions and pull on his determination.
The door opened and the ginger man entered. He had changed his clothes. Stone gleaned some satisfaction knowing it was a well-aimed glob of bloody spit that had inconvenienced the man. Although the beating he had administered to Stone had taken the shine off of it somewhat. During the beating Stone noticed that the man was wearing his watch. He knew it was his – he had scratched the black of the bezel at the twenty marker. The quote had been high and the watch would have to have been sent away to Switzerland for three months. He had never bothered with the repair.
Stone was bound to a chair. His feet had been duct-taped to the front chair legs. His right hand was tethered with duct-tape to his right thigh and his left arm – the one with the needle and hypodermic hanging loosely from the vein – was taped to his waist at the elbow and the wrist was taped to his knee. There was no give, and the entire forearm and inside of his elbow was exposed to do with as they pleased.
The ginger haired man stepped aside and the big black man stepped in, ducking his head through the doorway. He was the same giant who had shot him with the tranquiliser gun on the road. He held a bottle of water. He undid it and held it out for Stone. He shrugged when Stone didn’t take it, pulled a face. He eyes Stone’s bonds and smiled. The man then drank the contents down slowly. He almost finished, then held it the bottle out for him again. Stone stared at him coldly and the man grinned. He shrugged again and finished the bottle. Stone’s mouth was as dry as hot sand. He could never remember having been so thirsty.
“You did good,” the big black man said. “We got what we needed.” Stone frowned. He couldn’t remember having told them anything. He was certain he hadn’t. He couldn’t even remember being questioned. “You’ll be wanting a new job after this, that goes without saying. A new passport might be a better option. Maybe you can go lie low in a cave in
the Hindu Kush. That’s about the outlook for you when we’re done with you. They’ll never stop looking for you, never stop hunting your sorry ass.”
“What do you mean, done with me?”
The giant grinned, tossed the empty bottle of water into Stone’s lap. “This is where your life is going to get a whole lot more interesting.”
“Where’s Kathy?” Stone asked. He didn’t care what the man had to say. If he had talked and did not remember, then he couldn’t do much about it. If he knew what they had planned for him, it might affect his judgement, lower his will to fight. He wanted to know where Kathy was, if she was still alive even. All he concentrated on now was trying to escape. “What have you done with her?”
“All in good time, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend.”
“That’s right. You don’t have friends, do you? Short term girlfriends, lovers, work colleagues. And you stepped over them all to get to the top of your game.”
“Bullshit.” Stone shook his head. “I was always first into work and the last to leave. I studied and passed every test, trained in my downtime. Everybody had the same chance as I did. You don’t know shit about me.”
“Oh, I know all about you. The President’s man. The guy the rest of the Secret Service love to hate. Oh, they respect your abilities, listen to your judgement, but they hate the man.” Stone was a little shaken. He had never been one for friends. His college friendships had faded out over the years. His army comrades had been the closest friendships he’d ever had, but like many who served, he lost contact with them in their civilian years. And he’d have done anything for his brother. Missed him daily. “Ah, did I hurt you?” the big black man said in a boo-hoo voice. He even exaggerated wiping an imaginary tear away using the knuckle of his index finger. “Oh, poor little middle-class white boy. Nobody wants to play with him.” He bent down and put his face up close to Stone’s. So close, Stone could smell onions and pickles on his breath. He pinched his cheek and squeezed hard. Stone concentrated on taking the pain, not showing the man any sign of weakness. The man grinned and twisted the skin. “Well, you’ll soon know who your friends are. You’ll need them, but will they be there? Don’t bet on it Agent Stone. Life is going to get really lonely from now on…” Stone did not flinch, but he muttered something. The man frowned and said, “What?” Again, Stone muttered. The man turned his ear towards him. “Speak up, boy.” Stone muttered again, then added a shrug. He glanced up at the ginger-haired man, who merely shrugged back at him. The black giant put a knee on the floor and leaned in. He stared at Stone, who more than matched the coldness of his stare. He was about to speak when Stone lunged forwards and bit the man’s nose. He clenched his teeth down hard. It was hard enough for the man to start to submit, rather than lurch backwards. Stone tensed his jaw, evening out the pressure and keeping his grip, then bit down and shook his head from side to side like a shark sawing off chunks of its prey. There was a sickening sound of cartilage crunching, separating – like pulling apart cooked chicken joints – and the man screamed a blood-curdling cry of agony which filled the room and reverberated off the hard walls.
The ginger-haired man had been slow to react, but came up to speed and caught Stone around his neck with his arm, pulling backwards with Stone’s throat in the inside bend of his elbow. He gripped his hand with the other and applied more pressure. Stone knew he would lose consciousness, or worse, if the man did not let go, and he steeled himself for a final bite. He ground down hard and the giant fell back onto the ground, his hands clasping at his face. The man was in shock. Stone recognised the signs, he had seen it before on the battlefield. People went quiet, into themselves. He was in no less agony, but he was unable to scream.
The ginger-haired man released his grip and backhanded Stone across his face. He reeled backwards as far as his restraints would allow. When he looked back at the giant on the floor he was met with an incensed pair of eyes, brilliant white against his jet black skin, and the man got up and lunged at him. Stone caught the first punch on the chin, but he did not have much distance to go and his head rocked forwards as the man punched again. He was angry and vengeful and had not thought out his attack. Stone moved his head and the punch glanced off the top of his head and the man slipped in the pool of his own blood on the floor, lost his footing and fell into him. There was enough time to get his head back and at the last moment Stone snapped his head forwards and smashed his forehead into the man’s front teeth. Two-hundred and eighty pounds falling helped build the momentum and the impact was tremendous.
The black giant fell onto him and knocked the chair backwards. He was out cold and rolled off of Stone and onto the hard floor.
“I told you to watch him! I told you to be careful. He kicked his ass, and he’s taped to a fucking chair!”
Stone could hear the voice, raspy and deep. There was something familiar about it. He had heard it before. He turned his head, but could not see the doorway. He strained his neck, but still couldn’t see who the voice belonged to. His own knees were blocking his view and the unconscious bulk of the giant stopped him from seeing to the side.
“Shall I dope him up now?”
“Yes. As much as you dare. I want him out cold so we can finish what we started.”
“Do you want his memory wiped again?” The ginger-haired man glanced down at Stone, then looked back to the doorway. “He’s not in as good a shape as he was when we did it the first time round back in Virginia.”
“Do what you can. Give him a serious high. Then strip him and take him on a boat trip. Dump him on the east coast beach,” the voice rasped. “And don’t let The Bull beat the crap out of him when he comes round. I’m going to get somebody to meet him. Somebody who will confuse the hell out of him. The Zulu should do it.”
“Now that would be a sight!” The ginger-haired man laughed and started to open vials and draw the drugs in the order he would need them. Stone could hear him, but couldn’t see him. He struggled to loosen his bonds, but the tape was tough and only felt tighter the more he moved. The man stepped around him and pulled on the tourniquet. It cinched tight like a snare. Stone could see his veins building. He continued to struggle and looked up into the man’s eyes. He smiled back at Stone, then jabbed the first needle into the vein and administered the drug. It burned like fire. Stone opened his mouth to scream, but closed it in time, not wanting to give the sadist the satisfaction. The next syringe spat out pure ice. The cold ached his arm and he felt the iciness work its way through his chest and into his heart. He started to sag and go dizzy, his chest heaved and he felt sweat run down his face and neck. There was another drug, thick and syrupy. He swore he could feel it clogging and sticking in his arteries. More fire, more ice and then he was dropping. Falling out of consciousness, and stopping himself with fitful starts. His chest heaved and his heart raced. He was leaving this world behind, the door of another partially open for him to step through. To lay down and sleep. He was seeing his past, his present and the unknown all at once. He tried to move his hands against the bonds, but he was frozen. The blackness started to come and with it the image of a man’s face peering down at him. A man he had thought dead, but knew he would have to face again. An inhuman man, the stuff of nightmares or unthinkable reality.
34
“I have Saudi Arabia bidding ten-million to view.”
“Just to view? Bank it. Welcome them to the show.”
“Will do,” the woman said, her accent thick and twangy Australian. She tapped keys and laughed. “A consortium of ten Iranians is in now for five-million.”
“Total?”
“Yes.”
“To watch?”
“Yes.”
“Give them one camera feed. If they want more, they’ll have to pay more. That will teach them to be cheap. They can pay in oil if they want to have full coverage.”
“Russia to claim it. Mafia outfit in Moscow.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-million.”
“Niet.”
“I’ve already told them.”
“North Korea?”
“No reply yet.”
“They’re cutting it fine.”
“They only have thirty websites in the entire country; I’m surprised they even managed to get down into the dark web.”
“They want to hold everyone off, claim it when it’s too late for others to up their bid,” the man rasped. “Tell them they’re out of the bidding. Tell them that Al Qaeda are in and it’s at one-hundred-million.”
“We haven’t heard back from Al Qaeda yet,” the woman said, then added, “But ISIS are at twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five gets them involvement. We’ll create a tenuous link. An ISIS training camp or something. But to claim it they have to merge with someone else fast. Boco Haram are at twenty. They’re all Sunni Muslims anyway, merge and fifty-million buys the claim.”
“They’re all Sunnis, but they can’t agree on what time of day it is, let alone broker a deal in such a short time frame. What about the North Korea bid?”
