by S. T. Boston
The inspector just needed to make that call, a quick trawl through the FBI's system by any agent would surely be enough to tell him the papers were fake. But then again there was a chance they were only too real, sped through by some high up Earth-Breed contact, still in the position he'd held before the virus, still there working away like any other member of the community, just pensively waiting for his position to be of use to them once again.
Watching the clock, because that way time seemed to tick by even more slowly, Sam gradually saw the ten minutes tick down to nine, then eight, then seven, somewhere around the four minute mark he heard the sound of the cell door at the entry to his corridor creaking open, he noted that it never clunked shut. With mixed emotions he waited for whoever it was that had come for him, would it be the inspector who had actually managed to tell those 'fucking Americans' as he'd put it, to turn around and go home? It was a slim hope, but a hope nonetheless.
Footsteps clicked their way down the cell-lined corridor before coming to a stop outside of his less than comfortable accommodation, the lock was turned and the door opened. To his relief Inspector Ackhart was standing with the ever faithful, yet seemingly silent Claude, who appeared to almost be like his own personal minion.
“Monsieur Becker,” began the inspector, frustration still brimming in his accented English. “The men who are here to collect you have arrived, they are awaiting you at the holding cells. The documents and ID are in order, I personally checked them myself.” Sam felt the last ounce of that slim hope seep away. Maybe they hadn't had someone on the inside, he remembered only too well how Oriyanna had worked her way out of the United States on a stolen passport, accompanied by an airline ticket in a different name.
“Have you checked?” he growled, “You must check, we both know this is total bollocks!”
“Do not tell me how to do my job, monsieur!” Fired Ackhart. “You are a criminal, you do not dictate to me what I will and will not do!”
“I'm no criminal,” retaliated Sam, shaking his head. “Deep down you know that, you were a military man, you told me that, you know I'm not lying, I understand that you find it impossible to believe me, please …. This is my fucking life.” The final outburst was Claude's cue to come lolloping into the room, he ducked his head a little in order to fit his lummox-like frame through the doorway. He grabbed Sam roughly and pushed him against the wall, forcing his hands behind his back with one swift and well-practised movement. Sam tried to struggle against it, pushing back he managed to force his head back against Claude's chest, allowing him a little room. With his purchase on Sam's wrists lost, Sam freed his hand and drove his elbow back hard into the guard's gut, he smelt Claude's foul, stale coffee-scented breath hit his cheek, grimacing as he got a lungful of it. Claude was big, more powerful than Sam, but he was on the back foot, untrained and much slower, all things that helped to level the scales. Spinning round Sam brought his knee up, taking advantage of the fact that Claude was doubled over desperately trying to catch his breath. Sam felt his right knee make contact with the guard's nose with a satisfying, yet sickening crunch. The whole thing had gone down in a few short game-changing seconds, but it seemed longer. Sam spun around expecting to see the cell door closed, it wasn't. The inspector was blocking the door with his large body, eyes wide and seemingly unable to believe what he was witnessing. His body was large for the wrong reasons, too long spent at a desk eating fast food, and likely hitting the bottle. Sam knew he could take him out, but he didn't want to, despite the disbelief the inspector had for his story Sam knew he was a good man. They eyed each other for a few seconds, the way two cowboys in a sundown shootout might sum each other up, there was no time for negotiations, Sam rushed at him. Keeping low, like a rugby player running for the try. His right shoulder drove hard into Ackhart's gut and he felt the inspector's body reel back. Sam kept with the momentum, forcing him across the narrow corridor and into the door of the cell opposite, knocking the wind from his sails. Had it not been shut they'd have continued on until they ended up in a heap on the floor. Pinned against the wall, Sam knew he had him, he swung his fist around and made contact with Ackhart's cheek. The punch was a game ender and Ackhart went down, his legs buckling under his weight. Stepping back Sam swung round in time to see Claude, now on his feet and making his way for the door, blood flowing from his nose. It had congealed down his white shirt and looked almost like a bright red child's bib. In one swift movement Sam swung the cell door closed, trapping the massive guard and taking him out of the equation. Pointlessly he began hammering on the three inch thick metal as if his mere frustration would unlock the door. Sam treated him to a mocking wave through the small glass window, adding to the guard's frustration.
Surveying the corridor, Sam was relieved to see no one else waiting to take him on, he guessed that as he'd been so compliant up to now that he was classed as low risk of violence, big mistake. The inspector was coming round faster than he'd have liked, Sam knelt by his slumped body. “It's not personal inspector,” Sam whispered in his ear. “I'm no liar, you left me no choice. I'm sorry.” Raising his hand Sam drove down onto the back of Ackhart's head, knocking him unconscious for a second time. He quickly patted Ackhart's unconscious body down, cursing inwardly as he failed to find a gun. With precious seconds ticking by he got to his feet and rushed for the bared door at the end of the corridor. He didn't know what to expect or who he'd meet, all that mattered was he now had a chance, the odds had turned in his favour for a split second and he'd gone for it.
Sam burst out into the next corridor, he stopped, looked right and left, unsure which way he needed to head. Deciding that any decision was better than none he broke left, hammering down the seemingly never ending corridor, each wall lined with unused cells. He wondered if the French were hedging their bets on a second revolution when they'd built this place, he felt sure they could never fill this massive cell block, even on the rowdiest of Saturday nights.
Reaching the end of the corridor, almost slipping in his socks, Sam arrived in what must have been a booking in area. The one detention officer who looked half asleep jumped up and grabbed for something on his belt, Sam stepped sideways trying to see what the guard was reaching for, he had too much ground to cover to reach him before he would be ready to use whatever weapon he had. Rushing round the detention officer as fast as he could he ripped open the first door he came to, two men, both built like the proverbial brick out house jumped to their feet, eyes bulging wide at the sight of Sam on the loose and making a break for it. They were dressed in identical, long black trench coats, and their stone grey eyes seemed to drill four holes right through his chest. This was who'd come for him, there were no introductions needed. Sam slammed the door before they could reach it, and span round only to find the desk officer behind him, arms raised in a shooting position. Sam recognised the weapon and glanced down at his chest, a familiar red dot held steady between his pecks.
“Get on the floor, hands on your head!” Screamed the officer in accented English “Do it now, monsieur, or I will Tase you!” Strangely Sam found himself thinking how good the officer's English was. With a red dot fixed on his chest Sam took a few drawn out moments to consider his options, desperately he glanced around the room, searching for a way out. The only way to go was the way he'd come, there was the other corridor, which could prove fruitful. Not for the first time that night Sam found himself at shit or bust stage. Gritting his teeth he went for it, the detention officer was quick to react, Sam heard the rapid click,click,click,click of the Taser before he felt the fifty thousand volts slam through his body. He'd seen it done during testing but he'd never experienced the pain for himself. It was indescribable, every muscle on his body went into spasm, he felt his legs give way and with a thump he hit the floor, convulsing as the merciless officer kept his finger on the trigger. Sam wasn't sure just how long the lightning was pumped into him, it felt like hours. In the end a vale of unconsciousness slid over him, he didn't try to fight it, he welcome
d it, although he ultimately knew it would spell the end, at that point in time all he wanted was for the pain to stop.
When Sam came round the first thing he wanted to do was claw at the sore area on his chest where the barbs from the Taser had bit into him like some vicious insect. He could feel it healing but it still hurt like a bitch. Someone had slid his coat over his fleece before securing him in restraints. His arms and legs felt numb, like old rubber. The limb restraints were binding his legs so tightly together that he felt sure his balls were close to popping like a pair of grapes.
Blinking against the lights, which seemed to be amplifying the pounding headache that raged behind his eyes, he could just make out the slightly rotund figure of Inspector Ackhart stood over him, now wearing a rather purple and swollen looking black eye. Seeing Sam open his eyes he planted a swift foot into his gut and Sam doubled over painfully, causing the cuffs to bite further into his already bruised skin.
“Nice try, Monsieur Becker,” spat Ackhart, his voice laced with fury. “When you come back to us I'll be sure to add one count of assault on a police officer, one count of assaulting a detention officer and one count of trying to evade lawful custody, not that it will matter much when you're facing a murder charge!”
“I won't be coming back,” groaned Sam, rolling onto his side, the air still reluctant to fill his lungs. The two trench coat wearing men were standing next to Ackhart, watching him with intrigue.
“Once you have been interviewed by these agents at the US Embassy in Paris you will be brought directly back to this police station.” Ackhart paused. “You're going to wish you never came back,” he grinned showing his slightly yellow teeth. “I might have to let poor Claude have a few minutes with you alone in the cell.”
“He won't be walking out, I can promise you that,” Sam retaliated, this caused the inspector to plant his foot into Sam's gut a second time. Coughing and spluttering he felt heavy hands lifting him to his feet way before his legs would take his weight. The two men who'd come to collect him had him, one under each arm, causing the cuffs to bite further into Sam's skin, and he felt blood running down his hands. With all the strength gone and his body beaten, there was no fight left. By the time his millions of little caretakers had cleaned this mess up and put him back together it would be too late.
“We will return him to your custody by ten PM tomorrow,” he heard one of the guys say. He had heard that accent before, deep in the Pyramid whilst just clinging on to consciousness with a bullet lodged in his chest, his blood ran cold.
“I'll take you word for it,” Ackhart replied. “Be careful, he can be a bit feisty, as you have seen.” There was no reply from his new captors, they escorted him swiftly through the door that would have been his escape had they not been sat there five minutes previously. His feet were trying to walk but failing to do little more than peddle the air and occasionally scrape the ground.
Faster than he thought, Sam felt his chest recover from the brutal beating he'd been given, and fully accepted what he deserved. The Gift did have its uses, the eternal life thing Sam was no so keen on. As they hauled him silently down one last corridor and out into the brisk early morning air he decided that someone on Arkkadia needed to come up with a Half Gift, the ability to heal but not live for ever, that one he'd take.
Offering up little resistance, instead choosing to preserve his energy should another opportunity raise its head, Sam found himself bundled into the rear of a shiny black X5 BMW, another sign that this was who he'd feared, they seemed to favour BMW or Volvo for some reason, maybe they liked the reliability and build quality, Sam mused to himself as they slammed the door.
Chapter 14
Five minutes after Sam Becker had left Inspector Ackhart's custody he was sitting at his desk, a fresh cup of black coffee steaming at his side. Wincing he held an ice-cold towel to his eye, which seemed hell-bent on swelling even more. With his free hand he knocked back two small but bitter pain killers, swallowing them dry. The wound throbbed through his face causing him to grit his teeth. Becker's actions had taken him by surprise, he'd been caught napping and it enraged him. In a pointless effort to take his mind away from the dull throb of his swollen eye he picked up the clear zip tied bag that had Becker's mobile phone inside, there was a message waiting to be read. With more than a little interest he navigated to the inbox through the plastic. It was from a contact he had saved as AF, the single message just read “WILTSHIRE” – nothing that would help him understand this perplexing situation. He closed the phone down in annoyance and turned his attention to his computer, opening his emails. He scanned and deleted the various junk messages informing him of upcoming duty changes and pending court cases that he was required to attend. Staring blankly at one such email and not really reading the context of the message, his computer bleeped politely, informing him of a new email waiting to be read. Closing his current screen and hitting the delete button he cast the semi-read message to the trash folder, collected up his coffee and took a tentative gulp, enjoying the warm and bitter liquid as it hit his tongue. With his good eye he squinted at the sender of the email, it had an FBI.GOV address, cursing inwardly at the impatient Americans he felt like sending that one the same way, to the trash. Thinking better of it he opened the message. Scanning it, he froze, his blood almost curdling in his veins. It was an automated response but the message amplified the small thread of doubt he'd felt earlier during his illegal but informal and unrecorded interview with the crazy Englishman.
The message came from the international enquiries centre, it thanked him for his contact and promised that someone would be in touch with him inside twenty four hours, it went on to tell him that if his enquiry was of a more important nature then he should call a number supplied at the bottom of the message quoting their reference number.
Having taken Becker into custody and searching the Interpol database for persons wanted for serious offences with a similar modus operandi he'd come across three cases in the States, one in Washington, one in Florida and another in California that matched what had happened at the Laurett Chateau to a tee. There were also cases in England and Germany, in his excitement at uncovering what he believed at the time to be the work of some crazed serial killer, or even better, a black ops government assassin, he'd sent Sam's details to the Americans, followed by the British Police and the Germans.
Hands shaking, he scanned the email for a second time, grabbing his pen he scrolled the phone number down, noting the enquiry reference number as he went. Becker's words rang through his pounding head like tolling of a bell, 'If you let them take me I will disappear off the map.' And, as he'd lain on the floor in the custody block, 'I won't be coming back.' Becker had honestly believed that he'd be on a plane out of the country within an hour of being handed over. Doubt growing with every passing second the inspector began to wonder if Becker had been as crazy as he'd imagined, he was still certain that his story of human-like aliens and an ancient battle for Earth was nonsense but he felt something was going on, and he hated not knowing the full story. Shakily he grabbed the receiver from the cradle and began to dial the number. If the Yanks didn't have his prisoner, then who the hell did?
* * *
Special Agent Joshua Simmonds sat at his terminal on the other side of the Atlantic, reading with interest the details of the Russian Navy's latest deployments in the Baring Sea. The Washington Post web page was painfully slow to load, the internet, whilst now back and getting more responsive all the time, was a shadow of the way it had been before the solar flares that had crippled the globe and left the planet in a state of disarray, or that was the official story. What intrigued him more was how all the satellites had somehow managed to survive undamaged. Surely a solar flare would have fried those as well? Simmonds wasn't a scientist but he felt sure there was a cover-up going on, maybe some military experiment had gone wrong, and no government would want to fess up to that little cockup. Whatever the truth he knew it was way above his security clearance. Sha
king his head in disbelief at how far things had gone, he almost didn't hear the phone ring. Rubbing his eyes and looking away from the story that read,
'PRESIDENT HILL IN TALKS WITH RUSSIA IN EFFORTS TO AVOID SECOND COLD WAR'
He lifted the phone from the receiver, “FBI international enquiries, how may I help?” he asked almost automatically. Dealing with calls such as this used to fall to civilian duties, but with times as they were it was all hands to the pump, the odd shift stuck in an office was bearable when mixed in with his other, more interesting investigation work, but only just. The fact it was also double time on one of his days off was both a bind and a bonus, even on his modest salary just trying to live above the breadline at the moment was an uphill struggle.
