Scion

by Murray Mcdonald

  “If they behave and you can get someone to vouch for them, don’t keep them in.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The sergeant watched as the group reached the end of the corridor and filed down the stairs in an orderly and controlled manner.

  “Yeah, you know what these rugby guys are like, a few beers and their testosterone’s all over the place. The minute they sober up they’re fine.”

  “OK,” replied Smith and hurried after the group.

  The six mercenaries remained silent and followed the directions of the police officers to the letter. Each had his head bowed in shame, showing, as the Colonel had suggested, remorse for their reprehensible behaviour. As they reached the custody suite, they were shown to a line of chairs and told to sit down. The officers escorting them walked over to the custody sergeant.

  The Belgian ex-paratrooper was the most senior of the mercenaries and had been given operational leadership of that phase of the mission. When the officers turned their backs, he signalled to his men, counting down silently with his fingers for all to see: three, two, one. They moved instantly. Any sign of remorse or drunkenness vanished. They all moved with an agility and swiftness which belied their bulk, like a pack of tigers striking at their prey.

  ***

  Scott had woken up off and on throughout the day. Each time, however, seemed to be another check to see whether the headache and disorientation had gone. Just as he thought they may have become permanent fixtures, he awoke to find they had gone, not entirely but enough to actually wonder where he was.

  He looked around at the four graffiti-covered concrete walls broken only by a single steel door with some type of metal porthole. The bed he lay on was nothing more than a raised section of concrete floor with a thin mattress. He sat up and found that the world hadn’t quite stopped spinning. Leaning back against the wall, he steadied himself. His brain began to work more rationally disseminating and evaluating multiple points of evidence rather than just one at a time. He was in a prison cell.

  Scott thought back to the night before. He had dropped off his bags and gone for something to eat. He hadn’t eaten all day and was starving. He’d gone to the nearest pub and ordered some food and a pint and then, he racked his brain, nothing. He remembered walking over to a seat with his pint and nothing, absolutely nothing. It was as though his mind had stopped working from that point on.

  He stood and walked to the door, stretching his back and shoulders as he walked. He needed to do his exercises but they could wait, he needed to know why he was there.

  He banged on the solid metal door.

  “Hello?” he shouted.

  With no reply, he banged again.

  “Hello?” he shouted much louder.

  “What?” came an irritable response. Constable Bryant was on his way to the changing rooms after finishing his shift when he heard the shouting.

  “Where am I?” he asked, only this time not shouting.

  “Parkside Police Station.”

  Scott took the news in.

  “Where’s Parkside?” he asked.

  “Cambridge. Are you the guy they brought in this morning?” asked the constable.

  “Maybe, I’ve no idea where I am or why I’m here.”

  The constable checked the cell list and discovered Scott was ‘the Ripper’.

  “Don’t give me that innocent crap, you’re the fucking serial rapist,” he shouted angrily.

  Scott sat down as the revelation of why he was in prison sank in. He tried desperately to remember what had happened the previous night but nothing came to him. He then realised something important.

  “Wait a minute, you said serial rapist, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, five defenceless young women, you sick fuck.”

  “From when to when?” asked Scott.

  “Is this some sick shit, where you’re getting off on me telling you what you’ve done?” asked Constable Bryant disgusted at Scott’s tasteless questions.

  “I’m not a rapist, I’m innocent. Just give me the dates!” demanded Scott.

  “The last ten months,” answered Bryant wanting to end the conversation.

  Scott relaxed. He had only arrived in the UK 24 hours earlier and hadn’t been there in the last year. More importantly, he could prove it.

  With the issue resolved, Scott squatted on the floor. He had not done his exercises. His training had been drummed into him like a religion since childhood. Only with exercise and training could perfection be achieved and once achieved could only be maintained with exercise and training.

  Scott worked his way through the daily ritual. Thirty minutes later, his body and mind were in perfect harmony once again. All of the effects of the previous night seemed to have dissipated. His uncle would have been happy. He always said the exercises cured everything. Scott had always thought it was just another excuse to make him do them.

  A knock on the door was followed by an instruction to step back.

  Scott obeyed and the door opened to reveal a young man about his age and size dressed in jeans and a T-shirt holding a tray of food.

  “Your dinner!” he announced.

  “You’re the officer I spoke to earlier,” said Scott as the constable laid the tray on the concrete table, nodding in response. “I didn’t do it you know, I only came into the country yesterday.”

  “Look, I don’t really give a shit. I’m trying to get out of here, I’m just doing the duty sergeant a favour because he’s busy. Give your bullshit to someone else.”

  A loud thud from outside the door caught their attention.

  “What was that?” asked Scott.

  “No id…” Constable Bryant stopped mid sentence as another thud was followed by a muffled cry and then all that could be heard was the ear piercing sound of a fire alarm.

  ***

  Smith had just reached the door of the custody area when the movement of the six men launching themselves at the officers caught his eye through the window. His four colleagues, taking the full brunt of the men’s weight, buckled and fell. The custody sergeant, being on the other side of the desk, had some warning and tried to dive out of the way but two of the mercenaries had dived over the desk at him. One missed but the other caught him full on, the mercenary’s shoulder crashing into his spine, snapping it cleanly and ensuring the rest of the sergeant’s life would be spent in a wheelchair.

  The sickening crack as the sergeant fell made up Smith’s mind. There was no point entering the custody area. His colleagues were all down and none of them were moving. He was one against six and from the way they moved, he knew it was more like one against twenty. He didn’t stand a chance. He threw the bolt on the door. He couldn’t go in but they weren’t going to get out.

  The Belgian just made it to the door as Smith threw the bolt.

  “Shit!!” he screamed kicking the door in frustration, the thud telling him what he already knew. The door was solid.

  Smith flinched as the man kicked the door. With nothing more he could do, he backed away keeping an eye firmly on the door. As he reached the bottom of the staircase, he hit the alarm before rushing to alert the rest of the station.

  The ear-piercing sound reverberated around the walls, making conversation almost impossible. The Belgian walked back to the desk and checked the policemen were secure. All four were tied. The desk sergeant on the other side of the desk remained unbound. He wasn’t going anywhere fast. Grabbing the custody list from the desk, the Belgian scanned down the names and pointed to the three cells that had been occupied that day. One of them had to be their man.

  “You three come with me, you two watch them,” he motioned to his men.

  “Our man is mid-twenties with dark hair and was arrested this morning, that’s all we know. Anyone fitting that description, you know what to do,” he shouted over the siren before opening the door that led to the cells.

  “OK, cells 3, 7 and 10,” he pointed as he shouted out the numbers.

  The three mercena
ries ran down the corridor, opening the designated cells, not even noticing that one was already open, nor caring that it had two occupants. The noise within the enclosed space was deafening. The siren blared, the men shouted orders, prisoners who were not let out screamed for their doors to be opened.

  The four were lined up in the corridor as instructed, confused by the noise and their rugby-shirt wearing captors. None knew what to think and certainly had no idea what the hell was going on. The most confused of the bunch was Constable Bryant. He knew everyone who worked at Parkside and not one of those men was familiar to him. He stepped forward.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” he screamed.

  His answer was a fist breaking three front teeth and sending him crashing to the floor. His hands grasping his mouth as blood spurted out.

  “He fits the profile!” screamed the Belgian above the din around them and pointing at Scott. “And so does he! But they don’t!”

  Scott watched as the man with the clipboard pointed first at the punched man and then himself. Indicating that both he and the man on the ground ‘fitted the profile’, whatever that meant. The other two older men were quickly thrown back into their cells, leaving only himself and the wounded constable in the corridor with the three ‘guards’.

  “You know what to do,” shouted the Belgian and turned back to the custody area. He had to work out how the hell they were going to get out, especially as they’d now have two bodies, not just one.

  Scott watched as the men walked towards them. He still had no idea who the hell they were but knew they were not policemen but military of some sort. Their tattoos and general demeanour gave that much away. The siren and shouting of the other prisoners continued and added to the bizarreness of the situation.

  “What’s going on guys?” shouted Scott.

  None of the three responded. One grabbed Scott and held him tightly as the other towered over Bryant, lifting his boot high over his head.

  Scott had seen enough. There was now no doubt that these men were going to kill them both. The boot, if it came down, would split the constable’s head in two. He twisted his hand and managed to grab the man’s thumb. In one swift fluid motion he spun around, almost ripping the thumb cleanly from the man’s hand, his right foot spinning up and around catching the boot man in the ribs. The noise of the ribs shattering was heard above the siren. Boot Man was propelled three feet backwards into the wall and slumped to the ground. As the kick landed, Scott’s elbow was making contact with the head of the man whose thumb hung limply from its hand, the point of his elbow almost burying itself into the man’s temple. Such was the force of the blow that the man’s legs buckled and he fell to the ground motionless.

  By the time the third man reacted, it was too late. Scott had spun around and unleashed another ferocious kick driving his weight up and through the man’s stomach. The muscle tissue of his diaphragm all but exploded from the trauma. The man dropped to the ground struggling for breath. A trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth was a tell tale sign. His diaphragm was not all he had to worry about.

  Bryant had watched the events unfold and even on seeing the three men on the ground, he could not believe what he had just witnessed. The guy had moved so fast it was like a blur.

  “Shwat wash shat?” he asked through broken teeth.

  “That was me pissed off,” said Scott. “Wait here,” he added before running down the corridor to the custody area.

  “Shno fear,” replied Bryant, moving back to lean against the wall.

  As Scott reached the end of the corridor, the siren stopped. The sudden silence caught everyone off guard. Moans and groans previously masked by the siren could now be heard, none more so than those of the custody sergeant.

  “Jesus, will somebody shut him up!” shouted the Belgian.

  Scott listened as a dull thud was rewarded with silence. He poked his head around the door and counted three more men. Two were busy dismantling the door frame, the other had obviously just shut up whoever it was moaning and was walking back to help with the door.

  The important thing Scott noted was that they weren’t armed.

  “Help!” shouted Scott, hiding in the cell corridor.

  His plea was rewarded by the sound of running boots. Scott stepped out from the corridor and into the custody area, the two men running towards him dived at him. Scott dived also, up and over the men landing in a tight roll and springing to his feet.

  The Belgian watched as he landed noiselessly. Before he knew it, the man had rolled right next to him and he kicked out with his steel toed boots.

  Scott was already up and moving by the time the man’s boot had reached where he had been. Scott kicked out at the man’s standing foot, snapping it cleanly at the shin, and delivered a punch as he fell, instantly stopping the ear piercing scream.

  Scott turned and walked back towards the two men he had left flying through the air. Both men eyed him cautiously. They had seen the devastation in the cell corridor. One stalked to the left while the other continued towards him.

  Scott surprised them both when he rushed at them. Just as the first man swung for him, Scott dropped to his knees, his forward momentum sliding him under the punch and he delivered a crushing blow to the man’s genitalia. With his colleague buckling in agony, the last man backed off. He had never seen anybody move as fast or hit as hard as this young man. He knew when he had more than met his match. It was also imperative that the Colonel knew what he was up against and he feared he was the only one of the six still capable of telling him.

  Bryant stumbled out of the corridor to be met by the sight of Scott crushing the man’s testicles with one punch and the final man throwing his hands in the air in surrender.

  “Jeshus, who are you?” he asked, his mouth still aching from the earlier blow.

  Scott, ignoring the question, moved towards the surrendering man, spun him around and pushed him face first onto the floor. With a knee in his back, he removed the man’s shoe laces and tied his arms firmly behind his back.

  ***

  Smith had run straight to the reception desk and explained to the Sergeant what had happened. It was then he realised that the fire alarm was probably not the best way to get people’s attention. It was going to make communication a lot more difficult. With only five other officers on duty in the station, there was no way they could launch any sort of rescue bid. The sergeant radioed for all officers out on patrol to immediately return to base. He also called the Chief Constable.

  By the time they had anything resembling enough force to tackle the six men, it was already too late. As they approached the door and looked through the glass, Bryant was checking on his colleagues while the rapist was kneeling on the back of one of the rugby guys tying him up.

  ***

  The minute the fire alarm had sounded, the Colonel knew something had gone wrong. The lack of officers leaving the premises confirmed it. The fire brigade’s arrival gave him some hope but they merely killed the sirens. The arrival shortly afterwards of what appeared to be every officer within a twenty mile radius confirmed the worst. He pulled out his phone and made a call. They needed to cover their tracks and minimise any potential threat to the unit and ultimately the client.

  ***

  Scott turned as the door opened and the police swarmed in. Two armed officers ran straight towards him.

  “Get down, face on the floor, arms and legs spread!!” screamed one of the officers.

  Scott obeyed and was quickly handcuffed before being marched back to his cell. As they locked the door, he sat down and tried to make some sense of what had just happened. Whoever the men were, they had singled him out and the constable and clearly wanted them dead. Arrested as a serial killer and targeted by a death squad, it was becoming an intriguing day. What next, he thought to himself. Whatever it was, he planned to be ready. He closed his eyes. May as well be well rested, he thought before drifting off into a deep and peaceful sleep.

  Chapter 10


  Chief Constable John Forsyth walked through the doors of Parkside Police Station at 11.00 p.m. under a blaze of media. News of the attack inside the cells had been hard to contain, particularly following a fire alarm and the arrival of a number of ambulances. It seemed Cambridgeshire police were intent on being the main headline of the day.

  The Chief was met by Harris and Kelly who themselves had just arrived. They had been called in due to their suspect’s involvement in the evening’s events.

  As the doors closed behind him, the Chief didn’t mince his words.

  “I want to know exactly what the fuck happened here tonight.”

  “Everything’s set up through here, Sir.”

  The desk sergeant stepped forward and led the Chief, Harris and Kelly through to the office. As they walked in, they saw a group of three men sitting in a huddle at the far end, two wearing police uniforms and the other holding his mouth and wearing a blood soaked T-shirt.

  “This is Constable Bryant Sir, he witnessed everything,” said the sergeant introducing Bryant to the Chief.

  Harris, Kelly and the Chief listened carefully as the events were described, none dared stop the flow. The Chief’s face reddened as Bryant described the point at which he was moments away from death as his executioner’s boot hung treacherously over his head. When he went on to describe the actions of their suspect, first saving him and then single-handedly defeating their aggressors, all three looked at each other in disbelief. Surely some poetic licence or a knock to the head was distorting what actually happened. Bryant saw the look on their faces.

  “I’m not kidding. The guy’s like some sort of Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan.”

  “We believe you son, we believe you,” offered Harris, his smile a little too obvious.

  “Fine,” said Bryant petulantly. “Let’s see who’s laughing when we go down to the cells.”

  Smith took over and described what he had done after witnessing the attack on his fellow officers, the Chief congratulating him on his quick thinking about locking the door.