The Orphan Factory (The Orphan Trilogy, #2)

by James Morcan

  The orphan-operative turned her face away from him, making it clear his advances were not welcome.

  They both started when Naylor’s cell phone rang. He immediately answered it, thankful for the call which had ended an uncomfortable moment for both of them.

  “Andrew Naylor.” He looked at Seventeen as he listened to the caller.

  Seventeen could tell by Naylor’s expression the news wasn’t good. His lazy eye was now working overtime.

  “Okay, see you in ten,” Naylor said as he ended the call. He returned the cell phone to his pocket then turned back to Seventeen. “That was Tommy. He’s received word that Nine’s alive.”

  Seventeen was shocked. She’d been almost certain Nine had been killed by the fall in the ravine. And she was one hundred percent sure even if he had survived the fall she’d left him with no possible escape route and zero chance of survival. “But that can’t be--”

  “He crossed the border into Brazil,” Naylor interrupted. His tone sounded almost accusing. “Tommy said he’s badly wounded, but he believes Nine will survive.” Naylor stood abruptly as he prepared to depart.

  “Where is Nine now?” Seventeen asked.

  “A British MI6 asset in Brazil found him and is taking him to a hospital as we speak.” Naylor was already heading for the door. He looked back to see Seventeen was shaking. “I have to meet Kentbridge now. I’ll find my own way out.”

  Seventeen could only manage a curt nod. She was so consumed with rage she hardly heard the door slam shut as Naylor left.

  Now alone in the penthouse, she unclenched her fist and glanced down at the ruby ring Naylor had slipped onto her index finger. It brought her little comfort.

  86

  Marcia Wilson handled the wheel of the late model Jaguar she was driving with the practiced ease of a rally car driver as she sped along a gravel road on the outskirts of Washington D.C. Ahead of her, the decommissioned cement factory she was looking for came into view. The tops of its now obsolete cement towers were just visible above the early morning mist that clung to the surrounding farmland like a blanket.

  Fifty yards behind the Jaguar, Seventeen followed in her brand new Mercedes Sports – yet another gift from the ever-grateful Naylor. Seventeen watched as Marcia put the Jaguar into a controlled slide as she turned off the road into a driveway leading to the cement factory’s gates.

  As she followed Marcia, Seventeen went over in her mind why they’d come all this way.

  They’d arranged to meet with an Omegan mole who worked in the Clinton administration. He was helping them with a new Omega Agency operation involving the Kosovo War, which had just broken out in Europe. Naylor and his cronies were seeking to use Kosovo as a transit route for Afghan heroin bound for EU countries. Despite the official news stories being circulated by mainstream media, Omega knew the extremely lucrative heroin trade was behind the war.

  The honking of the Jaguar’s horn interrupted Seventeen’s thoughts. She and Marcia watched as a stooped, bespectacled, middle-aged security guard emerged from the factory office and hurried to unlock the gates. Both women couldn’t help thinking the guard appeared past his use-by date. A low level Omega associate, his long, curly, gray hair and moustache looked bedraggled and his uniform unkempt.

  Fumbling with his keys, the guard seemed to take an age before he managed to unlock the gates and swing them open.

  Marcia floored the accelerator and the Jaguar shot through the opening, almost colliding with the security guard in the process. Seventeen followed a little more sedately. The two Omegans scarcely gave the guard a second glance as they drove past him.

  Seventeen parked alongside Marcia outside the factory’s vacant office. She climbed out of the Mercedes Sports and joined the senior agent in the Jaguar. “What now?” she asked.

  “Now we wait.” Marcia glanced in her rear view mirror. It gave her a clear view of the driveway, so she’d see the mole as soon as he arrived.

  Currently, the only person in sight was the security guard who remained on duty at the open gate. He’d been advised to await the arrival of someone else, though he hadn’t been advised who. Marcia noted he was in the process of lighting up a cigarette. She shook her head in mock despair.

  “Something wrong?” Seventeen asked.

  “No. I was just thinking you really can’t get good help these days.”

  If the two Omegans had known who the bumbling guard behind them was, they’d have been highly perturbed. The guard wasn’t who they thought he was, but he knew exactly who they were, who they were waiting for and what the secret meeting was all about.

  Another vehicle came into view in Marcia’s rear vision mirror. “It’s him,” she said.

  Seventeen glanced in the side mirror and saw a Jeep approaching. It slowed as it neared the open gates. The guard waved the Jeep and its sole occupant through.

  The two Omegans climbed out of the Jaguar as the new arrival pulled up behind them. They greeted the Omega mole, a thirtysomething politician in a pinstripe suit, with curt nods as he jumped out of the Jeep. Behind them, the guard observed them beneath his bushy eyebrows as the trio disappeared into the factory office.

  At the gate, the guard finished his cigarette then strolled over to the Mercedes Sports. Keeping it between himself and the office windows, he casually bent down as if to tie a wayward shoelace. Now hidden from prying eyes, he unscrewed the air nozzle cap in the car’s rear tire and quickly deflated the tire before screwing the cap back on and strolling back to the gate.

  The guard was Nine in disguise. As for the guard he’d replaced, he was currently gagged and tied up in a canteen at the rear of the factory.

  Nine had spent the past few weeks recovering from his Guyana ordeal in a hospital in Santarém, in northern Brazil. Apart from a few lingering aches and pains, he was now fully recovered. One reminder of his brush with death was a recurring rash which appeared on his thigh – a legacy of the poison-tipped arrow he’d been skewered by.

  Lying in a hospital bed and waiting until he was strong enough to return to America, he’d had plenty of time to stew over what had gone down in the Amazon jungle and how Seventeen had tried to kill him. Upon returning to Chicago, he’d told Kentbridge about Seventeen’s treachery. His mentor had believed him, but warned him not to lodge an official complaint because, without proof, Naylor and the others would write it off as sour grapes.

  Kentbridge had also told him that Seventeen was now the agency’s golden girl and Naylor would tolerate no criticism of her – especially criticism not backed with proof.

  Fuelled by rage, and knowing the agency wouldn’t help him get justice, Nine had decided to take matters into his own hands. However, he wasn’t quite alone. After getting nowhere with Kentbridge, he’d found a willing listener in Ten. His good friend believed him. Ten knew what Seventeen was capable of. More importantly, he was also part of the Kosovo operation. When Nine had confided he wanted to get Seventeen alone and preferably away from Chicago, Ten told him about today’s meeting at the old cement factory.

  Now, as he waited by the factory gates, Nine could feel his anger building. The memory of how Seventeen had cut through the vine that sent him plummeting down the ravine, and then thrown away his survival gear, was still fresh on his mind. He glanced at his watch, willing the meeting to finish.

  Nine went over and over in his mind the things he’d do to Seventeen when he finally got her alone.

  The sound of voices signaled to him the meeting was over. He looked up as the trio emerged from the factory office. After a brief discussion, all three went to their respective vehicles and prepared to drive off.

  Observing them surreptitiously, Nine saw that Seventeen had spotted her flat tire. She bent down to inspect it, cursing.

  “Problem?” Marcia called out. She had to shout to make herself heard above the sound of the Jeep as the Omega mole drove off.

  “Flattie,” Seventeen said. “It’ll only take me a minute to change it. You go.”


  Marcia climbed into the Jaguar and drove off, leaving Seventeen alone with Nine as he’d intended.

  Nine wandered over to Seventeen as she retrieved her scissor jack and spare tire from the boot. “Do you need any help, ma’am?” he asked in a strong Southern drawl.

  “No.” She didn’t even look at him as she knelt down to fit the jack beneath the chassis.

  Nine noted she’d answered in a tone that said Shut the hell up, you old fool.

  The hovering presence of the guard irked Seventeen as she began pumping the jack to raise the car above the ground, though she never said anything. As she pumped, she noticed imprints of ripple-soled boots in the soft ground around the deflated tire. Glancing at the guard’s boots, she saw his were ripple-soled.

  As casually as she could, she reached for her holstered pistol.

  Seventeen never saw the blow. The butt of Nine’s Magnum revolver struck her across the back of her head. It wasn’t hard enough to knock her out, but it stunned her.

  As she regained her senses, she couldn’t understand why she was having trouble breathing. Then she realized her assailant had his boot on her throat. The pressure wasn’t enough to crush her larynx, but it was sufficient to starve her of air. She could feel herself starting to black out.

  Her assailant mercifully removed his boot and Seventeen was able to gulp in a few deep breaths before he savagely kicked her in the ribs. She screamed in pain as she felt a couple of ribs crack.

  Through the pain, Seventeen remembered the lug wrench she’d left beside the jack after she’d removed the lug nuts from the wheel. She reached for it, but her assailant grasped her by the ankles and pulled her away from the car. Before she could react, he placed his boot on her throat again. Panic overcame her as she realized he meant to kill her.

  Who the hell is he?

  Seventeen tried to focus on her assailant. At first she couldn’t see his face, but she saw the Magnum in his right hand. She had the presence of mind to note its safety catch had been disengaged. Then the guard’s face became clear. It was his startling green eyes she saw first. Gone were the spectacles, gray wig and false moustache.

  Nine!

  As the realization set in that her nemesis had her at his mercy, she could only watch as he screwed a silencer onto the end of the Magnum. The relentless pressure of his boot on her throat ensured she remained subdued.

  Nine was enjoying every minute of Seventeen’s pain. He’d dreamed of nothing else since she’d left him for dead in the Amazon. “You almost succeeded back there in the jungle, you crazy little bitch.”

  Seventeen tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Nine removed his boot again to allow her to talk.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Seventeen gasped.

  “You know exactly what you did, so quit playing little Miss Innocent.”

  “Prove it,” Seventeen said.

  By the steely look in his eye, Seventeen could see Nine was intent on killing her. Resigned to her fate, she still wanted to hurt her fellow orphan before he did what he had to do. “You might want to check up on your Greek lover girl,” she snarled.

  Nine had hardly thought of Helen since he’d blackmailed her into silence about the Pedemont Orphanage a few weeks earlier. His curiosity was piqued. “Why? What happened to Helen?”

  Seventeen smiled sadistically.

  Nine was suddenly alarmed. He sensed something ominous had happened. “Tell me!” He kicked Seventeen again, further injuring her broken ribs.

  Seventeen was left doubled up in pain. Coughing, she spat blood out onto the ground. As soon as she could, she looked up at Nine more defiantly than ever. “Maybe it’s best you don’t find out what happened to her.”

  Infuriated, Nine placed his boot on Seventeen’s throat again then bent down and pointed the Magnum right between her eyes. He was pleased to see her expression was now one of pure fear.

  Seventeen closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable.

  Nine squeezed the trigger.

  Seventeen screamed. A moment later she opened her eyes, realizing she wasn’t dead. Relief flooded through her. Confused, she looked up at Nine. His boot remained on her throat, but he’d put his Magnum away. It slowly dawned on her that the revolver hadn’t been loaded. Struggling for air, she looked to Nine for an explanation.

  “Believe me, I wish I had left a bullet in the cartridge,” Nine said, “but I know Naylor’s got a hard-on for you.” He was very aware Omega’s director had put Seventeen up on a pedestal since the Guyana mission, and he’d heard the rumours Naylor had the hots for her. “If I’d given you what you deserve, Naylor would make sure I suffered the same fate. That’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

  Guilt now registered on Seventeen’s face, and for once she had no witty comeback.

  Nine shook his head in pity. “One day you’re going to realize we are both victims. I know you never asked for this life, but neither did I.” He removed his boot from her throat and started walking toward the gates. “You’ll find the guard I replaced in the canteen at the rear of the factory,” he called back over his shoulder.

  As he walked briskly away, Nine felt hard done by that he hadn’t killed Seventeen. Nevertheless, he was satisfied he’d at least made her experience some of the fear he’d felt when she’d left him for dead. He started jogging toward the car he’d left hidden behind a nearby belt of trees.

  Behind him, Seventeen pushed herself painfully to her feet. Her throat was bruised and raw, and her ribs felt like they were on fire. And she was still spitting blood. Cursing Nine, she set about changing her car’s flat tire. She’d already forgotten about the security guard Nine had left tied up in the canteen. He could wait. She would report his incarceration after she got herself to the nearest hospital and had her injuries attended to.

  As for Nine’s little show of aggression, Seventeen planned to keep that to herself. Her hatred of her long-time rival burned deeper than ever.

  She took satisfaction from knowing her opportunity for revenge would come. One day.

  #

  Not far from the cement factory, in greater Washington D.C., Nine entered an Internet café. He saw at a glance it was full of teenagers playing violent video games. Sitting down at the only free computer available, he typed the words Helen Katsarakis into a search engine.

  The Internet connection was slow and he had to wait, trying his hardest to ignore the excited shouts and profanities coming from the teenage gamers who surrounded him.

  Finally, a photograph of Helen appeared on his screen. It wasn’t the photo that caught his attention. It was the headline above it that read: Promising University of Illinois student commits suicide.

  Shocked, Nine felt as though he’d been physically struck. He nearly punched one of the gamers nearby when the young teen stood up and yelled triumphantly, having just won the video game he was playing.

  Speed-reading the news article below the photo, Nine knew it wasn’t suicide. He was certain Omega was responsible and had made it look as if Helen had taken her own life.

  Why the hell did they need to that?

  Nine asked himself why over and over. He had assured Kentbridge that Helen had given up her investigation into the orphanage and definitely wouldn’t be pursuing it any time in the future. Nine had made it clear in his report that he’d ensured her silence by blackmailing her over their one-night stand and also threatening her father’s life.

  Kentbridge seemed to have accepted Nine’s report as gospel, and the orphan had believed that would be the end of the matter. After all, Kentbridge had stated it would be.

  Nine assumed Naylor had decided, independent of Kentbridge, that it wasn’t worth the risk and it was better to terminate Helen for peace of mind.

  Naylor, you prick. You had Helen killed so you could sleep better at night.

  As he walked out of the Internet café, Nine wondered which operative Naylor had used to terminate Helen. He wondered if it was Seventeen.

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nbsp; 87

  In the underprivileged neighborhood of Riverdale, on Chicago’s far south side, it was shaping to be a sunny spring day and the local residents were going about their everyday business as normal.

  As always, the streets were littered with rubbish, used condoms, discarded wine cartons and beer bottles – some broken – and even the rusting remains of abandoned cars. The air of impoverishment was all pervasive.

  A paperboy cycled past the Pedemont Orphanage on his rounds, throwing a copy of the morning paper onto the unkempt front lawns of dilapidated homes on either side of the old building; an elderly man with a walking stick clutched a bottle of milk in one bony hand as he shuffled back to his home from a nearby corner store; an overweight jogger ran past the old man and unruly school children jostled each other as they queued for a bus.

  None of Riverdale’s residents were aware one of their neighborhood’s greatest secrets was about to be buried forever: the building that had served as home for the products of the Pedemont Project for the past eighteen years was in its final hour. Nor were the residents remotely aware what had gone on inside the orphanage during that time.

  Only now as demolition crews, trucks and cranes began assembling outside the orphanage did a few passersby stop to stare. Kentbridge was among them. He’d been there, waiting across the street in his brand new Chrysler, for the past half hour. Now, as the workers began making their final preparations to demolish the building, he climbed out of the car and leaned against it.

  The special agent looked up as a new silver Audi sports car pulled into the street. Nine was behind the wheel. He seemed right at home, though his car looked very out of place in this neighborhood, and it attracted attention.

  Kentbridge wasn’t surprised to see Nine. He’d asked him to come witness the demolition of what had until recently been the orphans’ home all these years.

  Nine had arrived just as a large wrecking ball was being swung into position by one of the crane operators. He parked the Audi behind Kentbridge’s Chrysler, but didn’t join his mentor immediately. The orphan-operative remained behind the wheel for a moment to gather his thoughts. He knew this would probably be the last time he would ever visit his old neighborhood. After today, he’d have no reason to return.