by Mark Ayre
“Yes. Have you a problem with that?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you, but it doesn’t matter. You are entitled to your opinion. It just doesn’t count for anything. What counts is your continued obedience, regardless of your personal feelings.”
“I have never failed to carry out a command,” said Omi.
“Good.”
“Will you be sending reinforcements?” he asked. “I’ll attempt to apprehend the twins, but on my own, it may be a struggle.”
“I am. She’ll be with you imminently.”
“She?”
“My daughter, Lucy.”
Omi’s heart almost burst through his chest. The phone almost cracked in his hand. Again, he could find no words.
Sandra continued. “She’ll give the password Samson, and you will give her whatever she needs. Understood?”
“Understood,” said Omi. He trusted himself to say no more.
“Don’t let me down.”
“No.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
When the call ended, Omi slumped against the wall. Though it was not in his job descriptions, he feared for the innocent girl and her mother.
But he always did his job. He would always do his job. No matter what that meant.
In a copse less than a mile from Francis’ manor, Doc pulled up and hopped from the SUV.
“Come help,” he said to Adam as he left.
In the back was a restrained, unconscious Carter. Next to her was Francis. From the building, they had fled to this SUV. Doc had placed the older man on the back seat and promised they would return inside as soon as the monster was gone. As he had patched up Eve, he would patch up Francis.
“Don’t be silly,” had said Francis. “I’m going to die. Now, listen close.”
Seconds after he finished speaking, Grendel burst from the building. Before the monster jumped the wall, Eve in his arms, Francis had closed his eyes for the final time. Furious as he was, it had taken all Doc’s restraint to subdue rather than kill the bitch who had fired the killer shot. He still hoped to have his revenge, soon as she was surplus to requirements.
After checking her restraints, he lifted Francis from the car and kicked shut the door. At the same time, he heard Adam’s feet hit the dirt. The angry twin circled the vehicle.
“I should never have come with you. I should be searching for my sister.”
“You can’t chase that thing,” said Doc. “It was long gone before you left the building.”
“She’s in danger.”
“I get it, man. I know what it’s like to love someone so much there ain’t nothing you wouldn’t do to save them, and we’ll save her. But that thing, man, it tore my mates apart. It had a free run at your sis, but did it kill her? Nope.”
“Maybe he was full. Wanted to save Eve for later.”
“Come on. You don’t believe that.”
For lack of a better option, Adam traipsed behind Doc towards the copse. Dead in its centre, they came among a pile of leaves which looked like a human nest. Within these leaves, Doc lay Francis.
“You love your sister; you hate Francis,” Doc said. “I get that, but so did he, and he used his last words to help save your sister.”
“What a champ.”
“My name ain’t Doc, you know?”
So left field was this comment that Adam failed to find a sarcastic retort. Standing beside Doc, staring at Francis, he waited.
“Francis had a sister, ten years younger. He did everything he could to protect her, and trust me, that weren’t easy. She weren’t no good at looking after herself, and he couldn’t be there every second. She overdosed while he was at a meeting.”
Adam said nothing. He could not imagine Francis protecting a drug addict sister, but we are all different people with different people.
“He thought he failed her, but she loved him for looking after her. And she knew, whatever happened, he’d protect her son. Good education, place to live, whatever else he needed. She named that son for the brother she loved.”
“Your name’s Francis,” said Adam.
“Yeah, man. I ain’t going to claim he was no good guy. I don’t know much about your beef, but I know he ain’t treated you nor your sister so well. I ain’t arguing that. But he was good to me, always.”
Adam stared at the older man. It was as easy to see him as a caring uncle to a lonely child as it was a caring brother to a drug-addicted sister. He struggled to emphasise with someone who had put him and Eve through hell, but he could emphasise with Doc.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
They stood in silence a while. At last, Adam said. “You want to bury him or something?”
Doc shook his head. “He said he wanted to lie here. Let the cops do the rest.”
“Want to say something?”
Another shake. “Words ain’t my thing.”
“I know the feeling.”
Once they were out of the trees and approaching the car, Adam spoke.
“What were these final words, then?”
“You ain’t never going to catch Grendel, but you can find Eve so long as you locate the locator. He said you’d get that.”
Adam stopped. In the horror of losing his sister, he had completely forgotten why he had kept Francis in the first place. For knowledge about his mother, now lost, and for help destroying the tracker that could locate them every two days. He’d not considered that, wherever she was, if he could get the locator, he could find Eve.
“Francis said you needed someone who could get you in,” said Doc. “He weren’t going to be that guy, but—”
“Carter.”
And, as he spoke her name, as though it was a spell, the car door flew open, and Carter dived free, running for her life.
Carter woke in the back of the car, trussed up and alone. The constant, pounding pain in her skull was nothing in comparison to the self-loathing which coursed through her veins. Having allowed Grendel’s presence to unnerve her, she had lost focus and allowed that stranger to render her unconscious. For the first time, she was at someone’s mercy.
Revenge swamped her mind. Having spent many years with the organisation, she knew plenty about torture. She could make this stranger suffer. Five minutes of methods passed before she remembered she was a consummate professional. Capture Adam. That was the plan. If she had to let her attacker run free to do so, she would.
Then there was Eve; now in Grendel’s possession. One twin would allow Carter to return to Sandra. Her success would subtract her failures and add a massive bonus.
All of this was predicated upon her escape. If she could not unbind her wrists and ankles, she could not turn the tables on Adam and her attacker.
But for her, the car was empty. She had no idea where were Adam, Francis and the attacker, but they’d be back. If she were James Bond, she could consider whether she was in some elaborate trap designed to kill her slowly and theatrically. As she was not, they must need her alive.
Her attacker had bound her tight. But there was a difference between tied tight and well tied. Via careful manoeuvres, she could get loose. She did not move her legs. No point. Once her hands were free, it would be easy to release her ankles. One thing at a time.
Minutes passed. Every second Carter grew closer to her goal but had fewer of those precious seconds remaining.
The bonds slipped. She was perhaps twenty seconds from freedom.
It took thirty before she was loose. As she leaned forward to work on her ankles, she heard footsteps. Soft voices growing louder every second. Most would have panicked and tried to work faster. In doing so, they would have doomed themselves. Fast fingers were fumbling fingers. Fumbling fingers led to tighter, not looser, knots. Level-headed as ever, Carter kept a slow pace and worked free the ties.
The throbbing of her loosed limbs joined the pounding of her skull, but she ignored them both. What sounded like tw
o sets of feet were thirty seconds away.
The back seat on which they had dumped her opened onto the boot. Leaning over, she saw what she expected. Two sets of footprints indicated the attacker and Adam had been dealing with Francis, who must be dead. People did not take an armoury to dispose of a body. Especially when they believed the only nearby threat was tied up and unconscious.
She grabbed, not the shotgun which had put a hole in Eve and Francis, but that which had smashed her skull. To accompany this, she took one of her stun guns. To their left was a bag containing ammo. Grabbing this, she threw open the door and dived free.
They might have expected her to take them on. Not the plan. Instead, she pivoted and sprinted downhill. She had seen her target, the location of a previous defeat.
Running flat out, she made for Francis’ manor.
A burning sensation, emanating from the scar across Eve’s midriff, spread throughout her body. She was weak. Whenever she tried to sit, she shook like a washing machine and had to lie down. Repeatedly, she challenged herself to stay upright for as long as possible. Forty-three seconds was her record.
Despite being rundown, pained, unable to stand, it was clear someone had done a top job sewing her up following the shooting. Because he was not one for conversation or negotiation, Eve guessed Grendel had not arranged her treatment.
“Where’s my brother?” she asked.
Across the room, Grendel sat back to the wall on the hard floor. Those black orbs stared into space. As though he were in a trance, he did not so much as twitch when she shouted.
“Jehovah told me he’d be here,” she continued. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s a liar.”
Even talking tired her. With each word she grew dizzier, slipping closer to unconsciousness. Fighting to stay afloat, she took deep breaths until pain once more exceeded dizziness.
“Why did you take me?” she asked in the end. “If not to talk to or do anything with me?”
No answer.
Much as she would have liked to, she couldn’t carry on speaking indefinitely. Ceaseless talking would be the main benefit of a full recovery. It would please her far more than regaining her power.
Closing her eyes, she saw Adam. Before she could spend too long pondering his whereabouts, her mother invaded her memory. An awful row when Eve was thirteen, during which mum said the reckless teen would get her killed.
In a moment of vicious spite, Eve had replied, “Good.”
For this retort, she had expected a smack and had flinched in anticipation. Across the room, Adam could not contain his gasp.
Mother only smiled, then whispered in Eve’s ear.
“You want me dead because you think that means you’ve got rid of me, well guess what? You’ll never be rid of me. Even if you outlive me by fifty years, I’ll always be,” she tapped her daughter’s head, “in here.”
We’ll see, Eve had thought. As usual, mother was right. Not a day went by without some traumatic memory scuttling in, refusing to leave until it had made her suffer through thorough recollection.
Before their mother died, Eve survived her because of Adam. Without him, she would have fled the woman’s cold embrace and sought capture. When the memories came, again her brother was her saviour, distracting her from that cruel woman’s wicked afterglow. Even if he did not hold such a low opinion of her.
To wake up and learn Adam was gone… she had almost returned straight into unconsciousness. Had it been possible, she might have allowed herself into a magical sleep only Adam’s return could end.
They were not two people—twins was not the right word—rather, two halves of a whole. One person allowed to move as two. But like any person, if you took one half from the other, neither part could work. Death would surely follow.
Adam would be feeling it too. She had no doubt he had arranged for her patching up. Grendel must have stolen her from under his nose, but things would not remain that way.
She would find him.
But how?
He would search for her but had no hope of tracking Grendel. They had spent their lives on the run but had no experience in the reverse position. Hunter rather than hunted.
Maybe they should have put trackers on each other.
Trackers…
She sat with the word, knowing where Adam was going. He had no hope of finding her unless he could steal the organisation’s tracker.
Did that mean she could wait and recuperate, let him find the tracker and come to her? No. It was dangerous. By going alone into enemy territory when they had almost always travelled as a pair, he jeopardised his freedom.
But she knew where he was going.
Slipping her hand into her pocket, she withdrew a slip of paper, on which Francis had written the tracker’s address. Adam didn’t have a copy but had been with Francis. He could find the place. She would not let him face it alone.
Turning on the bed, she realised that, after sitting in a hurry, she had not collapsed. Unknowingly, she had broken her record, having been sitting for over two minutes.
Again, her brother had acted as distraction, this time from pain and dizziness. They returned upon her realisation that she was sitting. Her upright position, she held a few more seconds, then released.
Across the room, Grendel’s eyes were not drawn.
“I know where my brother is,” Eve said. “You play statue, but I’m going to carry on talking until you look my way, no matter how much it hurts.”
He said nothing. Eve was not deterred.
“I’m weak, but I’ll find my brother, and guess what? You’re going to help me.”
Hattie had told him not to check on Delilah. Even if she had not, given what soon might come to pass, keeping his distance was the smart move. But love often precludes intelligent actions. Omi had come to love Delilah. While he hesitated at her door, there was no chance he would not enter.
The farmhouse was ancient. The windows rattled with the wind, the boards creaked under feet, and the doors groaned at the slightest provocation. Upon moving in, Omi had oiled the hinges, only to find them resistant to renovation. As though they were afraid no longer groaning would surrender their rustic charm.
As such, he took over a minute opening Delilah’s door. When he was finally able to poke in his head, he was glad he had. Drawn drapes protected the room from the weak light of the sun. In the bed, in the corner, the girl was curled into a ball. Sweet, innocent, secure.
Having promised himself he would not cross the threshold, Omi was still not surprised when he pushed the door a little further and slipped inside. Many hundreds of times he had been in, often to watch over the girl while she slept. He knew the quietest route to the bed.
Whenever he saw the girl, the same thoughts crossed his mind. He wished he had had children, and that Delilah could be his daughter. If Sandra learned this, she would remove Omi from his post. He would never again see the girl. His greatest fear was that Hattie, angered by his interference, would request his removal. Luckily, whenever she picked up the phone, her preoccupation with her need for booze overrode all else.
Hating this emotional situation into which he had allowed himself to fall, Omi perched on the bed’s edge. Delilah’s golden hair snaked over the pink duvet set she had begged her mother to order. With a large, rough hand, he touched her head. She called him her guardian. She was his angel.
Omi might have sat with Delilah until she woke. He had not been on her bed five minutes when the doorbell rang, yanking him back to reality.
Closing his eyes, praying it would not be her, Omi leaned in and kissed Delilah’s head. She did not stir, and he was able to slip from the room without disturbing her slumber.
Hattie was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She had upgraded her mug to a wine glass, but the drink was the same. Her eyes blazed.
“You said you would be in the living room. Where did you go?”
Having no energy for an argument, Omi leaned over the railing, spotting a
shape behind frosted glass.
“Didn’t you answer the door?”
“I’m not supposed to,” she said. “You forget?”
He had not forgotten. Often, Hattie did. It was not rule-following that had prevented her answering. Sensing Omi’s disobedience, she had come to check. It was hard to be angry when she had caught him red-handed. He managed anyway.
“I poked my head in, that’s all. I’m here to protect you.”
“You’re here to imprison us, and to do as I say. And I say stay away from my daughter.”
Omi felt the heat in his cheeks and knew his anger was reaching breaking point. Never had he been a cruel man, nor quick to violence. Like all agents, he was as good with his fists as a blade or rifle. He was strong and feared Hattie inciting him to such anger that he struck her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to overstep the mark.”
“Whatever. Just don’t forget your place.”
The doorbell sounded again. Omi nodded at Hattie.
“You did right coming to find me rather than answering,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Marching down the hall, he paused at the handle. There was only one person it could be. He could not wish them away.
Behind the glass, he saw her hand rise. This time, rather than ring the bell, she would rap the glass. Before she could, he opened the door.
“At last,” said the girl, spreading her arms and beaming. “I was starting to worry the twins beat us here. That you were all dead.”
“Not yet.”
“Fab. May we come in?”
The girl’s identity he did not doubt. Still, he didn’t recognise her and was not about to disobey a direct order from Sandra.
“You have a password, I believe.”
“Well, aren’t you a goodie-goodie,” she said. “It’s Samson. Now let us in.”
“Us?”
“Yes, yes.” Lucy dragged a bundle from the floor. Only as it rose did Omi realise it was a woman. “Us.”
“Who’s she?”
Wrists handcuffed, head bagged, the woman did not look as though she’d had a pleasant journey. Blood trickled down one jean leg.
