by Adam Carter
OPERATION WETFISH
BOOK 15
Adam Carter
A GATHERING OF MINDS
Copyright 2017, © Adam Carter. All rights reserved. No content may be reproduced without permission of the author.
CHAPTER ONE
The alley stank of urine and stale vomit and echoed with the steady rhythmic boom sounding from the two buildings either side. The man stumbling down the alley in a mad rush to escape his pursuer had chosen the location well, believing the dull reverberating noise would throw off his stalker. But the man’s fear was a draw like no other. If anyone had stepped into the alley at that point they would have been forgiven for thinking the bleary-eyed stammering rat-faced man was on crack. His body shook so bad even the medication was no longer having any effect, and his wide eyes found it difficult to blink. He would lie awake at night staring at the ceiling, starting at every tiny sound, and constantly would his bowels and bladder fail him if a door banged in his apartment of paper walls.
His name was Sidney Starling. There had been a time, long ago, when Sidney Starling had been someone with potential. He had excelled in his school subjects, had been popular with both sexes, and it had been predicted by teachers and career advisers alike that he would go far in life. But something had happened to Sidney Starling. Something dark and terrible. He had met a woman and he had fallen in love. And it had destroyed him.
Jeremiah dropped into the alleyway, hurtling thirty feet to land without sound upon the filth-strewn alleyway. The muscles in his legs took the weight of impact, his steel-thighs allowing him to feel no pain at all. Jeremiah rose straight as he watched the fleeing man stumble into a collection of black bin bags. Where most men would have cursed, Sidney Starling shrieked, for he knew precisely what Jeremiah could do to him, and what losing those precious seconds could mean.
Jeremiah began to walk then, taking slow, measured steps. He was in no hurry, had even managed to block out the pounding beat from both sides. Yes, Starling had chosen the alley well, but making the good choices did not necessarily mean they were the right ones. His eyes were locked upon Starling, upon his terrified visage, and slowly, slowly he strolled down that alley.
Starling disappeared from view, having turned at the alley’s end, but still did Jeremiah not quicken his pace. Instead he closed his eyes as he walked, inhaling deeply of the fear lacing the air. Unfortunately he also took in no small amount of urine fumes and hacked accordingly.
Even before he rounded the corner he could hear Starling’s terrified wails, and Jeremiah smiled to himself. It would all be over soon.
The wire fence came into view then, and Jeremiah could see Starling frantically struggling to climb it. He had reached the top, surprisingly, but the barbed wire lining the summit was tearing into his flesh and stuck fast upon his trousers. The more Starling struggled in his haste, the more he was becoming entangled. Jeremiah approached the fence slowly, gazing up at the terrified man, and took the fence with both hands. He began to squeeze, his fingers tearing through the wire as though it was cheese, and the wire fence collapsed under the weight of the scrambling man.
Starling fell in a heap and Jeremiah grabbed him loosely with one hand, tossing him into the brick wall. Starling collapsed, his senses mangled, his mouth stammering incessant insanities. Jeremiah looked at him properly for the first time. Starling’s eyes were terribly wide, his mouth flecked with blood and white froth. He had a four-day stubble and dirty matted hair which only reflected the man’s general state of disrepair otherwise. His brown/green jacket stank and crawled with lice, his trousers were always wet these days, and his shoes had split months back. In his frenzied state one would have been forgiven for thinking Starling was somewhere in his forties. In reality he was twenty-four. He had fallen in love when he was only nineteen.
Five years of bliss had turned him into this mess.
In contrast the man standing over him in condemnation was smartly dressed, with a long coat concealing his thin frame. Jeremiah was a tall man with short, dark receding hair and a thin moustache and beard which did not dare touch his cheeks. His eyes were alive and electric, always filled with ideas and opinions, while his smile was that of a crocodile. Today he walked with a cane, a simple affair with a dull crystal emblazoned upon its end. He appeared as a theatre-goer on a back-alley stroll after taking in a show.
“Sid, Sid, Sid,” Jeremiah tutted. “This is what it comes to is it? I’ve never let them get this far, I’ve always found it too unkind to see a human being in such a state.”
“You can’t have her!” Starling was screaming as he frantically scrabbled at an invisible ladder before him. He was sitting in the mire, although Jeremiah was not certain he was even aware. The way his milky eyes were darting to and fro, Jeremiah would not have placed money on him even knowing there was anyone in the alley with him.
“You can keep her,” Jeremiah said. “Believe me, I don’t want her. I just want to know where she is.” He lowered himself into a crouch and Starling grabbed hold of his collar as though he was a dying man about to impart some great philosophy into his ear.
“She sees me. She knows me. I can see her.”
“Great,” Jeremiah said half-heartedly, disengaging the man’s grubby hands from his expensive coat. “Where is she?”
“Home?” Starling frowned, as though he wasn’t quite certain.
“And where’s home?”
Starling stared blankly.
Jeremiah tried not to show his exasperation, but it had been several weeks now and the trail he thought was going to be so easy to follow had ended in this downtrodden back alley, along with a man who struggled to even know what day it was. “Do you know the way?” Jeremiah tried, to which Starling nodded enthusiastically. “Then lead.” Jeremiah rose, releasing the man as he did so. Panic flitted across Starling’s face as he too got to his feet, but then he bolted, squeezing through the fence Jeremiah had torn free. Jeremiah watched him go, deciding it would be best to follow him from a distance. He did not want to aggravate the situation any.
Closing his eyes, Jeremiah hardly even had to concentrate any more. He could feel his body dissolving, his mind expanding. His physical form became a gas, a white mist, and rose high into the air in order to escape the dirty alley. The mist caught the air currents and followed Starling without chance of losing him. Even in this strange incorporeal state Jeremiah had superior senses at his employ. If a study was made of his kind perhaps his powers would have been likened to radar or echolocation, but they were so far above such things it was laughable to consider them so. He was not, after all, a bat.
Starling led a merry chase, and like a rat in the sewers seemed well versed in the various back streets and alleyways. Eventually Starling broke onto the main roads, ran into the traffic and was almost struck by a car. Starling was not even aware of the honking of the horn or the abuse of the driver, did not even know he was conducting a death-defying feat by weaving through the traffic. The dazzling lights were bothering him, that much Jeremiah could say for certain, but aside from that Starling did not even seem to know where he was.
But he was moving with a purpose, and Jeremiah knew he had chosen rightly when he had decided to go after Starling.
The man ran for the better part of an hour, until he brought Jeremiah to a neighbourhood of higher class than he had been expecting. Jeremiah was wary about Starling even coming here, for if anyone saw him they might well call the police, but he seemed to know to keep to the shadows and Jeremiah’s concern deteriorated. Starling stopped at last in a road of pleasant houses, tidy front gardens and spacious living areas. The man disappeared behind some bins
and the trailing mist alighted on the opposite side of the road, under the illumination of a streetlamp.
As Jeremiah took solid form he ran through everything he knew regarding Starling’s relationship with the woman he sought. Starling may have been a promising human being at one time, but now he was just a rat who ran errands for his mistress. At one time Starling would have enjoyed her company, and she his, but what remained of Sidney Starling was not something any woman would have wanted to spend quality time with. She had no doubt moved on to another man, perhaps even had a small group of them she utilised for different ends.
But at present all of this was speculation. Jeremiah watched as Starling rose from behind the bins and hurried through the front garden of one of the houses, running the twenty metres or so to its front door.
This was all highly concerning, for Jeremiah had no idea why the man had stopped so long at the bins. It could have been that he was confused, crazed even, but he may also have been receiving instructions. And if Jeremiah followed then he may well have been walking into a trap. There was a large part of him that believed this woman, Starlings mistress, wanted Jeremiah to find her, but he could be certain of nothing until he spoke with her directly. And that would mean taking the risk.
The neighbourhood as well was something he had not expected. Looking about him he could see so many old, detached houses, all owned by people of wealth. The cars parked in their driveways were expensive and often numerous, and the street itself was clean and without graffiti. As black as the night was, it was attacked by so many soft lights, for none of the streetlamps bore blown bulbs. It was the perfect neighbourhood, which meant Starling’s mistress had a lot of money behind her.
Jeremiah himself shared similar wealth, and his house was similarly sized; if this woman had thought to invest as Jeremiah had it showed her to be a canny individual indeed.
But he would be finding out no answers standing on the street, looking conspicuous. Drawing his coat about him, against the sudden chill of wariness rather than of the air temperature, Jeremiah strode boldly across the road and up the gravel path leading to the front door. He heard a low growling and noticed two dogs sitting close by. Jeremiah was not especially knowledgeable of dog breeds, but they were large and brown, with black patches. Their teeth were bared, spittle flecking their jaws, and that was all he cared about.
Dogs were not things for people like Jeremiah to be afraid of. Control of lesser animals like dogs and rats was a simple thing for one such as Jeremiah to master. Given enough practice, he could even alter his form and run wild with them, if people these days believed such things could be done. Confronting menacing dogs, therefore, did not concern him at all.
“Down,” he commanded, but still they growled. Jeremiah stopped with a frown and stared into the eyes of one of the animals. “Down,” he hissed. The dog did not stop growling, but made no move to attack. Yes, he decided, he was right to be wary of the occupant of this house.
He noticed the door was ajar and decided Starling had been commanded to leave it open for him, so Jeremiah slipped inside, not touching the wood at all even though it was only ajar by a centimetre. He found himself in a grand hallway which led to several rooms. Following the hall he came to a dining room bearing a large table, a shining chandelier and a great many chairs. It was as though the occupant of this house held grand feasts on a regular basis. There was a great hearth, much like his own, surrounded by brass ornaments and stacks of wood. The fire had no grate, but the wood itself was black to indicate use.
His gaze travelled slowly about the room, taking in every detail – the smallness of the windows, a crack in the plaster of a column, the stale smell from the hearth to suggest it had not been lit recently. His eyes turned to a portrait upon the wall over the fireplace. It depicted a well-dressed gentleman sitting beside a fireplace. From the garb Jeremiah would have placed the portrait to have been painted sometime in the fifteenth century. Jeremiah was not concentrating upon the man’s clothes, however, but his face. His thin, aquiline features, the high cheekbones, the large beard which stood in contrast to Jeremiah’s own. Jeremiah’s eyes widened at the sight and his mouth opened in astonishment.
He felt something cold kiss his throat and froze, only his eyes turning down to see the extremity of the shining silver blade held against him.
“Good evening,” a harsh, feminine voice came from behind. “I’d ask you to enter freely, but you seem to have done that already.”
“Dalton,” Jeremiah said with more confidence than he felt with the sword at his throat. “Josephine Dalton, you have led me a merry chase.”
“Have I now? And why would I be doing that exactly?”
“We’ve pieced together your clues. You showed me the final piece at Christmas, the whore connexion.”
He could hear the woman sniff with distaste. “You are a most intriguing fellow, sir, and that was not the answer I was expecting.”
“You do recall showing me the way?” he asked, confused.
“I’ve shown the way to a great many men, but I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure. Turn around. Very slowly. I have no qualms against slicing your head off.”
Jeremiah obeyed, keeping his hands loose, his breath held. He was facing the mistress of this house now, she who held the antique sword to his throat. She was in appearance somewhere in her thirties, although he knew that didn’t count for much. She wore fine silks in both her blouse and skirt, and her eyes blazed with an intensity very few women could understand. Her dark hair was long and loose, and there was an expression of intrigue upon her face.
But of one thing was Jeremiah certain. This was not the woman he had been expecting.
“Now,” she said, “as you can see, I am not Josephine Dalton. In fact, I can’t place the name, sir.” She did not speak impolitely, kept her tone level, and exuded no fear at all. Jeremiah was suddenly very concerned and more than slightly afraid. She seemed to sense his distress because she broke out into a wide and silent smile.
“I fear I have the wrong house, madam,” Jeremiah said eloquently. “Pray release me and I shall be on my way.”
“Perhaps,” she shrugged. “Or perhaps I should kill you.”
Jeremiah took a chance. “You know what I can do, madam. Are your reflexes that advanced?”
“You are struggling, sir, to decide whether I am like you, or whether I make it my business to hunt your kind. Tell me, are there sufficient numbers for me to hunt?”
“You tell me.”
She smiled slightly. “I admit I do not keep track of such things. Do you have a name, sir?”
“Jeremiah.”
“Like the prophet?”
Jeremiah grinned. “Something like that.”
She seemed to find his humour odd, but he didn’t much care. “And why should I spare your life, Jeremiah? I find I do not like unexpected guests this late at night. It concerns me who might well turn up in the daylight hours. When I am perhaps not at my best.”
“Then it would be a good idea to spare me indeed. I am an officer of the law, my lady.”
“They’ve fallen that low?”
“Indeed. I work for a department called Operation WetFish. We are a legitimate but rather unorthodox department who correct the mistakes of the courts. When an obviously guilty party is found not-guilty through whatever means – bribery, police idiocy, witness intimidation or just plain expensive lawyers – we step in. We either kill the party or frame them so they can be imprisoned for something approximating their original crime.”
“My, how civic-minded of you.”
“We like to think so.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Why do you think that would spare you?”
“Because should I die they shall come for you. There is another like me at WetFish, and he alone would tear apart your little slice of heaven, my dear.”
She contemplated his words before saying, “It’s not a good enough reason. Sorry.”
/> Jeremiah’s heart sank as he felt the sword move and knew she was intending to decapitate him. He blurted out the only other thing he could think of to save his life. “Barrows!”
The sword stopped. He could feel a warm trickle of blood seeping from his broken skin onto the blade, but clenched his teeth and fought the impulse to run.
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Go on.”
“The man in the painting. Richard Barrows. He is an old ... acquaintance.”
“In a good way or a bad way?”
Jeremiah knew his answer here may well cost him his life. He gambled that having a picture of Barrows on the wall meant she did not hate him that much. “He was a friend once,” Jeremiah said. “When he was a good man.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“Dead?” Jeremiah ventured.
“No. He’s not dead.”
“That’s ... interesting to know.”
“Could you find him?”
“Probably.”
The woman continued to stare at him, weighing up her options. At last she withdrew the sword, took a back step away and wiped his blood off the blade. She did not once break eye contact with him.
Jeremiah breathed a sigh of relief. “So where’s Starling hiding?”
“He sleeps in the kennels, dear,” she replied with a sympathetic air. “He’s not allowed in the house any more.”
“But you had him open the door for me first?”
“No, I leave that open for the burglars. When I told you I didn’t like uninvited guests at night I was sort of lying. So, who’s Dalton?”
“A woman who shall help bring down the greatest threat to our kind this country has ever known.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned?”
“Not at all. But you haven’t even told me your name yet.”
“Catherine. Catherine Lake.”
Jeremiah smiled. He had never heard the name before, but that didn’t matter. Here was someone he didn’t even know existed, someone who could help them achieve their glorious ends. “We’re working to bring down Operation WetFish, Catherine Lake. The man in charge hates our kind and we intend to remove him before he can eradicate us entirely. Would you like in on it?”
