Watchers

by S. T. Boston

  Awash with a mixture of relief and temporary elation, he noticed for the first time the smell of freshly ground coffee, mixed with the scent of bread that had no doubt been baked the previous evening. It made him yearn for a mug of the hot drink and something to eat –one, to help him draw some heat back into his cold bones, and two, to take away the salty taste of the spray which had continually assaulted his face on the trip from the cruiser to the shore. But there was no time.

  Removing the card reader, he briskly crossed the vast kitchen and hooked his hand through the hole in the door, scooping up his bag. Replacing the card reader, he grabbed two syringes from a netted pouch at the top of the bag and slid them into his jacket pocket. Making his way toward the reception hall, a large clock, big enough to reveal the time in a Victorian railway station, told him it was fast approaching midnight. In less than five minutes the job would be done and with luck, he'd be back in that god-forsaken launch and on his way to the cruiser. Minutes later, he intended for the cruiser to beat full throttle and pointed firmly toward the English coast, which lay out there in a blanket of freezing darkness.

  Sam knew the layout of the house well from the plans he'd studied the previous day and without pausing for thought he reached the right hand staircase leading to the first floor. Tiles gave way to a plush carpet which appeared to be grey in color. He was in no doubt that all welcome visitors would be asked to remove their footwear before going near it. He had no time for such etiquette. Taking the stairs two at a time, he was soon on the landing and looking at a line of white painted, Georgian style doors. A mirror image of the layout sat just visible on the opposite wing of the entrance lobby. For a split second, Sam wondered if he'd picked the correct side, but he brushed the thought away in an instant, he was confident he was in the right place. Stopping at the third door, he carefully depressed the handle, the coolness of the brass seeping through the thin latex glove. The large nursery was empty. Bright moonlight streamed in through a grand window on the far wall, casting strange shadows and highlighting the neatly made and empty replica race car bed. The Lighting McQueen duvet cover seemed somewhat out of place in this grand home, but the image of the bright red, grinning race car still smiled enthusiastically back at him all the same. The intelligence had been right, much to his relief; the family were away for the weekend. Although Sam had no compassion for his target, the thought of carrying out his task with a child in the house made his blood run cold.

  Leaving the door slightly ajar he continued on down the landing, arriving at an identical door which brought the passage to an end. With the same level of stealth, Sam unlatched the door and slid inside.

  The carpet gave way to an impressive wooden floor, which despite the darkness still seemed to shine. At the far end of the room was a king sized bed, this was where Sam's target would be.

  One tentative footstep at a time, he drew closer, his breath almost clogged ny his dry throat. This was the tenth such target he'd taken out, then tenth such time he'd been in this kind of situation. It never got any easier.

  The rhythmic rise and fall of the mounded bedclothes told him his target was exactly where he wanted him to be. In bed, and fast asleep. Removing one of the syringes from his jacket Sam tore the cap off with his teeth and tucked it away in his trousers. He was close now, he could hear the guy breathing, the slightly laboured sound which came from someone slightly overweight or not quite in the best of physical condition. The sleeping guy's wallet was on the bedside table, carefully, Sam collected it up and thumbed through the cards. His French drivers licence was there; pulling it halfway out Sam looked at the name and the photo – this was his man. Just before he closed the leather Armani wallet something else caught his eye, tugging the three strips of white card free, Sam removed a single airline ticket, destination Lima, Peru; the flight due to leave the following morning. Not a cheap purchase in this recovering world, mind you, his target was a wealthy man. No matter what the cost of the ticket, it was one flight that this sleeping guy would most certainly be missing. Sliding the ticket back, he replaced the wallet carefully onto the night stand.

  Standing over the sleeping body, Sam whipped one hand down over the man's mouth, and in the same instant he slid the needle into his exposed neck and depressed the plunger. Instantly, the target's eyes flew open, wide and panicked, a muffled cry of fear reverberating from the underside of Sam's hand; at the same instant he felt warm saliva through the latex.

  “Shushhhhh!” Sam said in a soothing and sympathetic tone. “Shushhh.” But the sympathy was only evident in his voice; his eyes told a different story.

  The Pancuronium took seconds to work, the dose just enough to send Sam's target into a state of complete muscular paralysis. Beneath his gloved hand, Sam felt the man's tensed jawline relax, telling him that the injection had worked its chemical magic. Holding one hand to his lips to emphasise the command to stay quiet, Sam gingerly removed his hand. A long trail of saliva formed a strand between the target's bottom lip and Sam's thumb, it stretched out for a good six inches before finally breaking and falling back onto the man's stubbly chin.

  “Mathis Laurett?” Sam questioned in a low voice. “Is your name Mathis Laurett?” Sam knew he had the right man; he'd studied his target's picture more than once and his slightly chubby face had been on the drivers licence. Despite his dishevelled appearance, the man before him was undoubtedly who he was after – still, some small part of him liked them to confirm it.

  “Ye— yes,” the man croaked, struggling to speak with virtually no control of his throat muscles.

  “Do you know who I am?” Sam asked calmly.

  “Ye— yes,” the man repeated, as if it were the only word he could say.

  “Good, then you know why I am here?”

  “Ye— yes,” Laurett replied, his eyes wide and full of fear. More drool had joined the web-like strand on his chin giving him the appearance of someone who'd just suffered a seizure.

  “Mathis Laurett,” began Sam. “Under order from the Arkkadian Council you have been sentenced to death for your part in the Reaper Virus outbreak that led to the deaths of almost one billion people, twenty-nine months ago. It has been identified that you are an Earth-Breed. Investigations have shown that you were employed in the staff of Jaques Guillard, an Arkkadian Watcher. During that time, you were responsible for aiding in helping to identify him and ultimately, that led to his death.” Sam paused, he had read charges out like this on ten previous occasions, however out of all the Earth-Breeds Sam had executed, the man before him was without doubt the biggest player he'd killed since shooting Robert Finch back in the bowels of the pyramid, over two years ago. Laurett offered up no comment other than a gurgled and slightly choked attempt to swallow. “Furthermore, we have information to suggest that you were travelling out of Heathrow Airport on the day that the Reaper Virus was released into the population; we believe you are responsible for releasing one of the four vials of pathogen.”

  “Please,” croaked Laurett. “Please, I ha— have a f— family.”

  “And what of the millions and millions that virus killed – didn't they have families?” Sam spat. “Do your family know who you really are?” He could feel a deep rage burning inside, if he had his way, Sam would have beaten Laurett to death then and there. But that wasn't how things were done.

  “No,” Laurett croaked. “Please, I have information if you s— spare me my life.”

  “I'm listening,” Sam replied. The retort had taken him off guard, none of his previous targets had begged for their lives or offered up anything in trade.

  “The one – the one you seek – he is here, and he has plans.”

  An ice cold hand ran its spidery fingers down the length of Sam's spine.

  For a second, he saw a wicked smile flicker in Laurett's eyes. “Your silent neighbours are many in number, th— they are everywhere and they are coming for you!” Despite the Pancuronium coursing through his body, Laurett managed to spit the last word out with som
e venom, beads of sweat starting to form on his wrinkled forehead. They ran uncomfortably into his eyes and trickled into his messy grey hair.

  “Bullshit,” Sam replied, his voice slightly louder than he felt comfortable with. He knew they were alone in the house, but he still felt as if the walls could be listening.

  “Believe wh— what you want Mr. Becker… you will see.” Laurett's eyes were darting around wildly, as if he were searching for something, or someone. It made Sam uneasy. The effects of the drug were slowly wearing off, this time Sam did see him smile, an unmistakable hint of it on the bastard's chubby face. His lips drew back, exposing his yellowing teeth. “E-n-o-l-a,” he gurgled.

  “Who the hell is Enola?” Sam demanded, as he bit the protective cap off the second syringe.

  “You – will see,” Laurett croaked, still grinning like a loon.

  Sam didn't have time to listen to any more craziness and plunged the needle deep into Laurett's neck. The smile whipped away from Laurett's mouth instantly. The second syringe contained a further dose of the drug – a deadly one. This dose would be enough to paralyse every muscle in Laurett's body, including his heart. A cry of fear spewed out of Laurett's drool-covered mouth as the needle plunged deeply into his fatty tissue. Five seconds after the plunger hit the stopper, his body convulsed violently before falling back into the now sweat-drenched covers, dead.

  Stuffing the empty syringes into his pack Sam headed out of the room and swiftly down the lavish stairs. Laurett's final words rang through his mind, turning over and over again. He is here, he has plans and he is coming for you! And Enola. What the fuck was all that about? He didn't like it, not one bit.

  In the kitchen he threw his bag out through the missing panel in the door and hastily followed it. Not bothering to carry out a repair, he hurried to the fence. Sam was always keen to flee the scene of an execution, but on this occasion, the desire was greater than ever. It felt as if he were running from some invisible pursuer, that just when he reached safety they would charge out of the night and grab him. He knew one thing – he wanted to get as far away from the Laurett Chateau as possible. He was even looking forward to the five-minute ride in the freezing cold launch – every inch he put between himself and the French coast was a good inch. Thinking of the warm coffee with a hit of something a little stronger in it for good measure that he would make once back on the cruiser, and the phone call he would make to Lucie, Sam was relieved when his feet hit the loose shingle beach. He almost slid down the bank to the shoreline, stones avalanching around his shoes.

  The small tender was gone. Frantically, Sam scanned left and right, he'd secured it right there, in front of the chateau. “Where the fuck are you?” Sam muttered, his whispered words igniting the cold night air with vapour.

  A dazzlingly bright spotlight suddenly forced back the night, lighting the beach up like a stage. “Monsieur, restezoùvousêtes et placezvos mains survotre tête!”

  Sam whirled around trying to focus on where the amplified words were coming from, his mind racing. “English!” he shouted, his heart pounding in his chest and through his ears. “I'm English!”

  “Monsieur, remain where you are and place your hands on your head,” the voice responded in a heavy French accent. “Police,” the man added, as if he'd forgotten to include that important piece of information.

  “Shit,” Sam cursed, blood rushing through his veins at a thousand miles an hour. He heard unseen footsteps crashing on the stones, heading his way. The bright light made it impossible to see where they were coming from. Deciding that some course of action was better than none, Sam dropped his hands and ran, but he was too late. As he took flight he felt a heavy hand grab the back of his jacket, almost lifting him off his feet. A fist connected with his kidneys, and his legs gave way. Sam went down hard, face first into the cold hard shingle; he tasted blood on his lips, mixed with salt. Struggling to focus and ignore the foul eggy smell of the seaweed, he saw a shiny pair of black shoes come to a crunching stop before his eyes. Hands pulled him to his feet, way before his legs were ready to take his weight.

  “Monsieur,” the man with the very clean shoes began. “You are under arrest on suspicion of burglary.”

  “Burglary?” Sam croaked, still confused and trying to focus on the guy's face. A mere arrest for burglary would have been fine with him at that point in time, hell, he'd have pleaded guilty to it right then and there if the deal was offered. Sam knew, however, that the pending burglary charge would soon change, once they looked inside the chateau.

  Thank you for taking time to read Watchers. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author's best friend and much appreciated.

  Thank you for taking time to read Watchers. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated.