by S. T. Boston
Time suddenly caught up. With an unearthly cry of pain, the man went down hard. His head split open on the corner of a stainless-steel workbench as he fell, and his upper cheekbone making a sickening crunch when it made contact. He was dead before he hit the tiled floor.
The woman's wide, blue eyes darted about the small kitchen, ready to take on any new threat. Seeming satisfied that they were alone, she grabbed Lucie by the wrist and pulled her toward the back door which was slightly ajar and resting on its latch.
“We need to go, now!” she said urgently, stress laced through her voice as she spoke. Lucie didn't argue as the woman scooped up her phone and keys, which were in danger of getting soaked by the ever-increasing pool of sticky red blood that was creeping across the floor like an incoming tide. Turning, she flung the door open, the unusually chilly late September night air hitting Lucie's chest and making the breath catch in her throat. “Which one is your car?” the woman asked, scanning the few vehicles that occupied the small parking lot.
“Th— the Mini,” Lucie gasped, pointing to the slightly grubby red Mini Cooper which sat directly in front of them. The woman let go of Lucie's wrist and passed her the keys, before rushing around to the passenger door. Lucie hit the key fob and the indicators bathed the darkened car park in a flash of orange light. Jumping into the driver's seat, she turned the key in the ignition and gunned the engine.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked, settling her nerves slightly. She suspected she already knew the answer, but her brain refused to accept it.
“Oriyanna,” the woman replied, smiling. “Lucie?”
“Y— yeah,” she stammered, her mind reeling.
“It's nice to finally meet you. Now, can you please drive, I don't think that man was alone.”
Chapter 5
Sam Becker adjusted his position on the unforgiving wooden slats and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to rub away some of the stress and gritty sleepiness. Blinking his stinging eyes, he watched the small clock's second hand ticking away tediously behind the anti-vandal grating which protected the cheap plastic timepiece. It was almost three AM, and the last few hours in custody had been tedious. As the minutes ticked slowly by, he grew increasingly anxious about the phone call to Lucie. It seemed that the almost universal right to a phone call after arrest had been flushed down the pan with the rest of society. Not surprisingly, Sam hadn't been asked if he wanted a solicitor, and he hadn't bothered bringing the subject up. It was more likely to end in a beating than any helpful legal advice.
Laurett's final words continued to spin in his head. He is here, and he is coming for you! – E-N-O-L-A. Silently reciting it gave Sam the chills, producing small goose bumps over his arms and making the fine blonde hairs stand to attention. He was in desperate need of both food and water, or better yet, a nice hot, sweet cup of tea. Sam almost chuckled, thinking how easily prisoners and detainees used to get it; he would have been the first to say they had it too easy. Now however, he wasn't so sure. Being on the wrong side of the law, especially the law in this fragile new world, wasn't a good place to be. He'd only been arrested once before, when some guy in a nightclub back in the old world, had singled Sam out as being the one responsible for hitting on his girlfriend. One shove from the lager-fuelled oaf had been enough to make the punter wish he'd never picked on the wrong guy. Sam had busted his nose with one punch and well and truly broken his pride. Thankfully, after a night locked up in one of London's many cell blocks, Sam was interviewed and released. The case never went any further; the guy had dropped the charges the following day, once the beer had worn off and he'd seen sense. That night in a cell had been like staying in a five-star hotel compared to this.
Following his arrest, the man with the shiny shoes and two armed and uniformed gendarmes had escorted him roughly off the beach and into the back of a waiting cell van. The man with the shiny shoes had proceeded to slam the door shut with such force, it had reverberated through Sam's whole body, doing nothing to alleviate the swiftly developing headache that was threatening to ruin his night further. A few minutes later the shiny shoed man, who Sam quickly discovered was Inspector Ackhart, returned with a very grim expression on his face. Sam didn't need it spelled out; they'd searched the property and found the lifeless body of Mathis Laurett. The Inspector proceeded to inform Sam of what he already knew. The pending burglary charge was gone, replaced instead with a far more serious charge of murder. Inspector Ackhart proceeded to slam the van's door a second time, with even more vigour, as if to hammer home the point that Sam was well and truly fucked.
The Laurett Chateau was located on the northern French coast, around fifteen miles from Le Havre. Sam wasn't sure which police station he'd been taken to. The journey time seemed about right for the fifteen-mile drive, so he guessed he was in Le Havre, which meant he could easily find travel to Portsmouth, or at the very least the Channel Islands, if only he could escape. Forcing his eyes away from the clock, he examined the small window for what seemed like the hundredth time, running his tongue over the lip that had been cut when he hit the stones at the beach. Of course, there was no trace that the wound had ever been there, it had healed even before they'd arrived at the cell block. Even after more than two years, his magical healing abilities still mystified him. He grimaced, playing out a scene in his mind where he was in court, the French judge handing down a life sentence – and these days, life would really mean life. He wondered how long they would keep him for, once hey realised he wasn't aging. It was fair to say that life for Sam could mean a very, very long time behind bars. Pushing the thought from his mind he got back to the task in hand; ensuring that day in court never happened.
Breaking out of the cell was going to be impossible; he had about as much chance of tunnelling through the thick stone wall as he had of getting through the cat-flap sized window. He would need to bide his time. At some point, they would collect him for interviewing. He just hoped there would be a moment of weakness that he could exploit, but somehow, he doubted it. His mind wandered once again to Lucie, who had no doubt informed Adam by now that something was wrong. Sam forced the thoughts from his brain; he needed to stay sharp and focused if he stood any chance of getting out of this.
Leaning back on the bench, the cold stone wall bit through his Tom Wolf fleece. Sam heard a key being placed into the heavy lock and instantly sat bolt upright, watching as the cumbersome door swung open. The smartly dressed figure of Inspector Ackhart filled the door frame, silhouetted by the brighter lights of the corridor outside.
“Monsieur Becker,” he began in heavily accented English. “It is time for us to have a chat.” He gestured for Sam to stand, moving to one side to let a very large, uniformed guard into the room. The guard, who obviously couldn't, or wouldn't speak English, motioned for Sam to place his hands in front of him.
Great, thought Sam. There goes my chance of an easy escape. The guard secured a new set of cuffs to Sam's wrists. They should have been sore and bruised from his earlier manhandling, but naturally, they weren't. The guard, who had just one long, almost jet black monobrow which spanned the width of his forehead, shoved Sam toward the cell door and the waiting inspector.
“This way, please,” the inspector said flatly, leading Sam down a drab corridor, painted in ugly magnolia and lined with a host of battleship-grey cell doors. All the doors were open, confirming that tonight, Sam was their sole resident. Here and there, black scuff marks streaked the tired paint job, reminders of past struggles with people who hadn't been keen on being hauled up in a cold stone box for hours.
“Don't have power rationing here?” Sam questioned, noticing the place was awash with electrical lighting.
“This is an emergency services building, Monsieur Becker,” Ackhart replied, not looking back. “Unfortunately, the French Government also sees fit to turn the power off at one AM, and we have been provided with a backup generator for when this happens. It would be impossible for us to function effectively witho
ut it.” Sam felt like cursing himself for asking the stupid question. He suspected the same happened back home; but he wasn't in the habit of spending his spare time locked up in custody.
The inspector reached the end of the corridor and turned left and Sam followed, the uniformed, monobrowed guard right behind; so close that Sam could smell his fusty, coffee-laced breath. Halfway down this second corridor the inspector swung a door open and waved Sam inside. The room was about the same size as the cell; Sam was sure at some point in its life this room had been another cell. Now, however, it housed three chairs and a table, all bolted securely to the floor to prevent unruly prisoners from smashing the place up. A black recording device sat on top of the table. The uniformed guard beckoned Sam around and pushed him forcefully into one of the chairs, before kneeling and securing Sam's ankles to the chair legs with a pair of manacles.
These guys aren't taking any chances, Sam thought, as the all-too-familiar sensation of cold metal restraints settled against his skin. The guard stood up and backed off, and Ackhart spoke to him in a flurry of French which Sam had no chance of understanding. Sam watched as the guard nodded reluctantly and left the room, closing the door with a heavy clunk. Sam could just make him out, peering in through the door, keeping a watchful eye on his superior – presumably in case Sam turned out to be a famous English escape artist, as well as a suspected murderer. The inspector crossed the room and slid a thick manila folder from his chair before sitting down. He placed the folder onto the desk and began thumbing idly through its contents.
“This is a peculiar situation,” he announced, stopping at a random page and staring at it blankly. “Why would an Englishman be here on French soil, in the middle of the night, carrying out an execution-style murder on a former member of the French and European Government?” Ackhart stopped speaking and glanced up from the folder, catching the uneasy look in Sam's eye. “We Europeans are all supposed to be on the same side, are we not?”
“It's a long story,” answered Sam wearily.
“What I find even more puzzling,” the inspector continued, returning his attention to the folder and thumbing over to a fresh page, “is why I have found reports of four killings, one in your home country and three in the United States, with exactly the same modus operandi.” An icy hand clenched at Sam's stomach. “It took some digging,” Ackhart continued. “Sadly, the internet and intelligence sharing between forces is not the machine it used to be. But I had to investigate; random murders or bungled robberies do not generally end in a victim being poisoned. We are yet to identify the substance in the syringes we found on your person, but I suspect, as in these reports, we will find it to be Pancuronium. Am I correct?”
“I'll talk to you, inspector,” replied Sam, unsure of what he would tell him, “but first, I'd like a glass of water and to make a phone call.”
“As you may have noticed, monsieur, the way we do things now is somewhat different to how it used to be. I will not permit you a phone call, on the grounds that you are being investigated for a serious offence and I suspect allowing you to call your wife could lead to vital evidence being lost. This rule has never changed.” Sam nodded slowly. Although he didn't like it, he could see things from the inspector's point of view. He'd begged him for just one phone call to Lucie whilst in transit to the station as he knew how frantic she'd be if he didn't check in with her. “I am willing, though,” he continued, “to offer you a drink, if you promise to tell me what this is all about. I suspect that in a few hours' time, this case will be taken from me by Interpol or one of the serious crime investigation teams. It's likely, though, that you will be in court for a plea to be entered in the morning, the next day at the latest. Help me to help you, monsieur.”
Sam nodded again, not sure whether to tell the inspector the truth, but he didn't know if he could come up with a feasible cover story in the next few minutes, hell he'd been trying since his arrest and as yet his mind wouldn't play ball. He suspected, the truth would land him in the nearest nuthouse.
“Do we have a deal?” The inspector raised his salt and pepper eyebrows, which matched his neatly cropped hair.
Sam studied him for a moment, trying not to stare at the man's bulbous red nose. He looked like a heavy drinker. “We— we have a deal,” he replied reluctantly. “Although I don't think you'll believe me,” Sam added with a wan smile.
“Intriguing,” muttered Ackhart, pushing a small red button positioned on the wall next to him. The monobrowed guard instantly burst into the room looking almost disappointed to see Sam still sitting securely fastened to his chair. “Can we get Monsieur Becker a glass of water please, Claude?” he asked in English, obviously for the benefit of Sam. Claude nodded and slipped out of the room, still seeming dejected. Sam noticed Claude left the door ajar; had he not been manacled to the seat he might have taken a chance and tried to escape. After all, once you're facing a murder charge there isn't much you can do to make the situation worse. In less than a minute Claude was back, a plastic cup brimming with water clenched in his hand. He set it down in front of Sam, and some of the liquid slopped onto the scarred wooden table. Clasping the cup between both hands, Sam drained the contents in two long swallows. The water was far from cold and had a nasty metallic aftertaste. Beggars can't be choosers, he thought, as he set the cup down and wiped his mouth with his hand.
“So – monsieur,” Ackhart began, “I held up my end of the deal; now it's time for you to hold up yours.”
“Like I said, I'll tell you, but I don't think you'll believe it.”
“Stop messing around,” the inspector spat, his voice agitated. “I have been in the police force for twenty years, the last fifteen of those spent dealing with all manner of serious crimes. I have had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing some of the darkest depths of human depravity. I'm more than sure that whatever it is you have to say won't shock me in the least!”
“Are you a religious man?” Sam asked, his heart rate increasing.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Because if you are, it will make what I'm about to tell you even harder for you to believe. So I'll ask again. Are you a religious man?” Sam resisted the urge to start chewing anxiously at the skin below his bottom lip.
“Not that I see it as relevant, but yes… well, I was. Events of late have made me…” he paused and ran a hand through his greying hair, “question my faith, you could say. But I still hold some hope that there is someone looking out for us. I still don't see how this relates, however?”
Behind the stern and frustrated expression, Sam could see something else on Ackhart's face. Intrigue.
“God and the devil are real,” Sam said seriously. “Although they're far more tangible than you could ever imagine.”
The inspector's tanned, worn complexion creased in a mixture of frustration and anger. “This is horseshit,” he snapped, slamming his fist down on the table and the empty cup toppled and rolled off onto the floor. “Apart from the information I found on the other killings – and I have no doubt you were involved in, or had some knowledge of them – I also managed to pull your file.” He opened the folder once again and scanned through pages until he found what he was looking for. “You were a former sergeant in the British Army. You carried out several tours in some of the world's worst hell-holes before getting pensioned out after being shot, an injury you obtained during the rescue of a reporter. An injury that saw you awarded with the George Cross.” He scanned the page, running his finger over the paper. “It all gets a little hazy then. After a period of rehabilitation, you went back to the Middle East as a private contractor – is that correct?”
“It is,” Sam replied, not sure what the inspector was angling at. He was shocked that Ackhart had managed to pool so much information about him in just a few short hours. There was obviously a far less clunky online community for the security services.
“What I'm getting at is— you're not the kind of person we usually have under investigatio
n for murder. In fact, I have no doubt you're a person of the highest integrity. I too, have a military background. Air Force. This killing, along with the others, reeks of an assassination, a contract killing. Just who are you involved with?”
“What – I'm – involved – with,” said Sam slowly, “is a battle between good and evil on a scale that you could never imagine.” There was no point trying to cover it up. Sam decided to go for broke and come clean. At least if they sectioned him as crazy, he'd have a better chance of escape than if he was thrown in jail.
“And what side of that fence are you on exactly, monsieur?”
“Like you said, inspector, I'm a person of the highest integrity, so the good side, obviously.” Sam offered Ackhart a confident smile. “What if I told you that Mr. Laurett was not who you thought he was? What if I told you that he was partly responsible for some of the horrors we've witnessed over the last few years?”
“Impossible,” spat Ackhart, as if he'd just tasted something bitter. “He was a member of the French Government. He worked with Jacques Guillard on plans that held the Euro Zone together. A breakaway group of Al-Qaeda were responsible for that virus.” Sadness flushed across the inspector's face, and Sam was sure he must have lost someone close because of the virus. It made the ground Sam was treading even more dangerous.
