‘It’s been brought forward. The situation is unusual, what with the GMRC’s involvement.’
Brett grunted an obscurity before her computer phone vibrated. Thanking the administrator, she answered it. ‘Yes.’
‘FBI Agent Taylor?’ a man said, his voice stilted and accent strange.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘You have a problem, agent; I can help you with it.’
She frowned. ‘Who is this?’
‘Who I am is of no consequence, it’s what I can do that matters.’
‘Sorry, I don’t do cryptic.’ She hung up. Grabbing her suit jacket, she snapped her holster clip onto her belt and put her badge in her pocket. Checking her gun’s safety was on, she holstered it and went out into the hall. Around her other people filtered out of rooms, no doubt heading to the same place she was. Striding down the hall, she turned a corner and caught an elevator, stepping between its closing doors just in time.
Her phone rang again.
‘Taylor,’ she said in answer.
‘Agent, it’s in your interest to hear what I have—’
She snorted and hung up again. She couldn’t stand nuisance calls.
The lift doors opened and people streamed out into a large foyer, the merging of modern and neoclassical architecture of the building a fitting venue for the Supreme Court of California. Moving with the flow of bodies, the chatter of footfalls and murmurings echoing in the halls, she queued up outside courtroom one. Flashing her identity badge at one of the many police officers in attendance, Brett filed past the security checkpoint and moved inside. She took her seat in the front row, just behind the low rail that separated spectators from the trial’s current participants. Above, the upper galleries filled, the hubbub of movement swamping the senses.
It had been many days since she’d taken the stand and the process had left her mentally fatigued, the questioning and cross-examination had been intense. It would have been difficult anyway, what with her involvement being pivotal to the charges brought – she was, after all, the arresting agent – but she’d had an underlying fear that a crucial piece of information might have come to light at any point, be that by a mistake of her own making or the insinuation of another. As luck would have it, her resolve to keep such pertinent and potentially explosive revelations to herself had proved to be the right call, the potential of being exposed unrealised.
At various times throughout the proceedings the court had been conducted behind closed doors, enforced in part by the GMRC officials in attendance. These outsiders couldn’t help but infuriate the judiciary, their involvement curtailing normal practice and slowing the process of law to a crawl. The reason for this infringement was the secretive nature of the defendants’ work. Both men had high ranking positions within the GMRC’s U.S. Programme – whatever that involved – and as such they were privy to an unheard of amount of protection when it came to the withholding of virtually anything and everything to do with their lives; which included their work, where they lived, their ages, their names, heck, even their place of birth. The only things that had been disclosed were that they were both U.S. citizens and worked for the GMRC, and one of them was a Colonel in the U.S. military.
At first the GMRC had tried to cover up the fact the two terrorists had been a part of their staff, but inevitably the information had been leaked. Brett suspected her superior for the infraction, FBI Director Patrick Flynn, who had an axe to grind with one of the GMRC’s head honchos, a man called Malcolm Joiner. The fallout from this disclosure had caused a sudden increase in rioting and anti-GMRC demonstrations, but as time passed the protesting lost momentum and some semblance of order returned.
Of course, when it came to identity, Brett knew the details of one of the defendants perhaps better than those in the GMRC who were succeeding in keeping it withheld. The man in question? Colonel Samson, her father.
Since the incident in the prison in which a fire had taken her parent’s life, Brett had felt a strange kind of detachment. It had taken her a few days to realise what that feeling had been. It was relief, sheer unadulterated relief. For so long she’d hidden her memories of her father away. The brutal beast had mistreated her mother and scared Brett so much in her younger years she’d wet the bed until she was thirteen.
That her father had loved her wasn’t in question, it was his interpretation of love that was. Whatever twisted upbringing he’d endured, Brett knew his idea of love was skewed from a place of horror, pain and rage. So much so, he’d often given her a split lip or black eye, only to get angry when she’d cried or refused to kiss him goodnight.
Now he was dead she felt free, stronger.
A weight had been lifted and she could breathe again. It was strange as she’d always thought she’d moved on from that part of her life, but its poisonous echoes had still lurked in the recesses of her mind, torturing her soul with vicious claws and strangling her from within.
When Colonel Samson, or Major Samson as she’d known him, had abducted Brett from her place of work in the FBI’s LA field office weeks before, her life had descended into one of nightmares. After wreaking havoc across the city of Los Angeles, killing dozens of her colleagues and over thirty police officers, plus a host of innocent civilians, Samson had taken refuge in an abandoned warehouse, rejoined by his partner in crime, an old man whose demeanour smacked of power and influence. As a profiler she could tell things about people they didn’t know themselves. Sadly she didn’t seem able to translate this skill to herself; her personal life was a shambles of iconic proportions. Sober, she sought out kind, gentle souls, men who were the opposite of her father, but these men were never enough, always falling short of expectations physically and emotionally. When such affairs had broken down, she often found herself drunk, craving the company of the cruel and brutal. In the morning when she’d awoken, hung-over and wretched, she’d often thrown up, not through the after-effects of excessive alcohol consumption – although this was sometimes the case – but because she’d seen she’d chosen to sleep with the darkness that her father had so embodied. She felt cursed to walk the same path over and over again, never finding peace and never feeling the virtue of another for longer than it was to be disappointed or revolted in equal measure. Despite her training and intuition, the reasons for her father’s actions had eluded her. Why had he tracked her down? She had no idea. The thought of his words returned to her, words she’d ignored at the time, thinking them lies. But she should have remembered her father, while capable of misdirection, refrained from doing so unless it was a necessity.
You’re making a mistake, he’d said, your life – in danger. What danger had he been speaking of? It made no sense, he was the one who’d put her in danger, no one else. What was she missing? She’d been unable to gain access to him in prison, so the questions she had for him remained unanswered, and now he was dead he’d taken his secrets to the grave. There was the old man, of course, who looked like a school teacher but carried himself with the authority of a just king. She still wanted to know what he had meant when she’d overheard him talking with her father. The words still kept her awake at night even now.
‘You don’t care about anything, that’s the problem,’ the old man had said. ‘You murder innocent people like slaughtering cattle and disobey my direct orders, effectively condemning hundreds of thousands of civilians to a premature death!’
It made no sense, none of it. Why had the old man been so concerned about saving lives when he’d helped her father take so many in his depraved rampage? And if he were capable of giving orders to a serving colonel in the United States armed forces, then he must have been powerful indeed. A GMRC official, obviously, but doing what? And trying to protect whom? Where were these hundreds of thousands of people who needed saving, and what did they need saving from? Just thinking about it drove her crazy.
A vibration against her leg drew Brett back to the present, the tumultuous chatter of the hundreds gathered in the courtroom drowning out
her ringtone. She withdrew the phone to see the caller was unknown. She switched it off.
Angry mutterings built and Brett looked up as the lone defendant entered the room behind a frosted, glass panel, his orange jumpsuit standing out for all to see while his identity remained concealed. Surrounded by four armed GMRC soldiers, the old man kept his head down, the chains around his ankles and wrists clinking in time with his movement.
A door opening to the right drew Brett’s attention and the Supreme Court Marshal appeared. ‘All rise!’ Silence fell and people rose as his voice boomed out. ‘Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! The Supreme Court of the great state of California is now in session. All who have cause to plea, draw near, give attention and you shall be heard. God save these United States, the great state of California and this honourable court!’
♦
Professor Steiner stood waiting to face those who sat in judgement. He adjusted his stance and the bonds that bound him clinked in response, but no matter how he moved, the restraints continued to rub against the bruises inflicted by his jailors. To take his mind off the pain his thoughts turned to the recent past.
Since Colonel Samson’s fiery demise, Steiner had been submitted to further interrogations by various factions trying to get to the bottom of the murder inside the supermax prison. It seemed to Steiner an odd paradox whereby the people seeking to end Samson’s life by legal means should then be upset when his time had been cut prematurely short. However, despite his best efforts to aid their investigations, following the colonel’s passing Steiner had become the last man standing and, inevitably, all attention had descended on him. He alone bore the burden of the murders committed by the colonel, who had escaped justice in the eyes of the law. Steiner now stood as the sole focus of hate for the many that saw him as the epitome of evil.
The Chief Justice and her Associate Justices filed in from the rear of the courtroom, their black robes whispering round them like the cloak of death. Six more similarly dressed individuals joined them soon after. Steiner knew them to be U.S. GMRC attorneys who were ready and willing to advise the court on matters of national and international security pertaining to the case.
A GMRC soldier nudged Steiner in the back, forcing him forwards.
The Chief Justice cleared her voice. ‘Defendant B, you have been given the opportunity to be heard and show cause why judgement should not be imposed and offer matters of mitigation. This court has considered the extenuating and aggravated circumstances presented as available, and has prepared a sentencing decree which is on file with the staff attorney. No legal cause has been shown to disqualify the imposition of this sentence and our judgement.’
The woman peered at Steiner as though he were the lowest of the low, the filth of humanity she knew him to be. ‘This case involves a horrific act of terrorism,’ she continued, ‘that resulted in the murder of fifty-six federal agents, thirty-two Los Angeles police officers and twenty-five U.S. citizens, all of whom were living out their daily lives as valuable members of society. It has been determined the defendant had ample opportunity to prevent further loss of life during the time of the incident. It has also been determined the defendant willingly assisted Defendant A, now deceased, in planning his acts of murder.
Due to the unusual nature of this case the public will be dissatisfied with the information disclosed; however, they can rest assured that the evidence submitted for consideration has been significant, detailed and without flaw. While motivations for these senseless acts of violence have not been forthcoming, it can be said this court’s decision has been based on facts that cannot be disputed.’
The woman paused and Steiner’s heartbeat felt like a drum, the thump thump thump of blood pumping through his veins filling his ears as his verdict neared. He closed his eyes and prayed.
‘Hence,’ the Chief Justice said, ‘this court has found that the mitigating factors do not outweigh the aggravated circumstances beyond a reasonable doubt and therefore finds that the sentence of death shall be imposed upon Defendant B with immediate effect.’
Cheering and applause erupted from all sides and Steiner’s focus narrowed to a point as the reality of his situation crushed down onto him. His vision faded. The sound of joy and laughter filled his ears and the room around him whirled and spun. Steiner stumbled back as his legs buckled and he toppled to the floor and into darkness.
♦
Brett Taylor left the courtroom, pleased with the verdict but concerned that her many questions would now remain unanswered. While she wanted the man to pay for his crimes, she also wanted to find out about the secrets he held, secrets she knew would continue to eat away at her day and night.
Leaving the courthouse behind, Brett turned her phone back on and went outside into the freezing air of the impact winter. Above, the dark skies remained in a state of flux, the dust cloud from the asteroid impact the year before continuing to rule the lives of every living thing on the planet. Floodlights lined the streets, creating a false daytime light and a barrier held back the waiting media scrum and the heave of people trying to catch a glimpse of the man who’d become the nation’s number one figure of hate. Even with the GMRC’s media blackout, blurred images of him still circulated, fuelling speculation as to his identity like never before. When her father met his grizzly end, the public had accepted it as poetic justice. But that sentiment had quickly been forgotten as their attention switched to his accomplice.
Yet again her phone rang and she gave a growl of annoyance before answering it. ‘What?!’
‘You had your chance, Ms. Taylor; we’ve had to force your hand.’
‘Who the hell are you? Where did you get this number?’
‘I’m someone who can help.’
‘I don’t need any damn help.’
‘I thought you wanted to find out about your father’s companion?’
Brett’s blood ran cold and she looked around in fear. ‘What did you just say?’
The caller didn’t reply.
How had someone found out about Samson being her father? She felt sick. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you do, Brett Samson.’
Brett’s hand shook, the sound of her old name sparking childhood memories.
‘Are you still there, Agent?’
She turned away from the media cameras. ‘I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you’re messing with the wrong person. I can have a hundred agents hunt you down in a heartbeat.’
The person on the other end laughed. ‘I don’t think so, Ms. Taylor. You look quite alone at the moment.’
Realising the implication, Brett whirled around, her eyes darting over the crowded scene, searching for someone on a phone. There! A man glanced her way, his hand to his ear. But no, there was a woman fifty feet to his left, her eyes passing Brett’s. The more she looked, the more people seemed to be staring at her and any number of them could have had a communication device at their fingertips.
Her brow furrowed as she continued to look for this hidden intruder. ‘What do you want?’
‘The question is what do you want? We can help you find the answers you seek.’
‘And what answers are they?’
‘The name of the man who has just been sentenced to death.’
‘What is it, then?’ Brett tapped away at a device inside her jacket pocket, the keypad just visible enough to use.
‘His name is Professor George Steiner.’
‘How do I know you’re not making that up?’
‘You don’t. But if you want to know more you need to do exactly as I say.’
‘And what do you want me to do, exactly?’
‘You need to resign your tenure as an FBI agent.’
It was Brett’s turn to laugh. ‘And why would I do that?’ She looked at the response coming back on her device. It read:
Trace complete
Source coordinates attached
‘You must resign as that is the only way you will find out the t
ruth.’
‘What truth?’ Taylor said, trying not to sound distracted as she opened the file to see a map of her location. A red pulsating dot indicated the caller’s position and she held the device in front of her in an attempt to pinpoint its location.
‘The truth about the GMRC and the threat to mankind.’
Brett closed in on their position. ‘Go on.’ She flashed her badge and pushed past the police and on into the crowd.
‘I’ll tell you more when you are no longer a federal agent.’
‘Come on,’ – Brett approached the media crews from the rear, homing in on a van that stood apart from the rest – ‘just a little more and I’ll do as you say.’
The caller didn’t reply.
Brett yanked open the doors to the back of the van, gun in hand. No one was inside, but through the windscreen she glimpsed a person wearing a baseball cap running away. Brett dodged round the vehicle and set off in pursuit.
The suspect dived into the passenger side of another unmarked news van as Brett closed in. The vehicle’s wheels spun, then screeched as it gained traction and sped away, and Brett ran flat out in pursuit before stopping to train her gun on it. The van wove into traffic and Brett swore. She lowered her weapon and put the phone back to her ear. ‘Hey,’ she said, out of breath, ‘didn’t you want to say hi?’
‘That was unwise, Agent Taylor.’
‘I haven’t upset you, have I?’
‘This will go badly for you, Agent,’ the man said and hung up.
Brett shook her head and slid her pistol back into its holster. So, someone knew her secret and claimed to know much more besides. This turn of events left her feeling vulnerable, and if there was one thing she hated, it was to be weak. She dialled her LA office to request a drone be tasked to her location and all local traffic cameras be consulted for a match to the van.
‘Agent Taylor?’
Brett turned to see two of the FBI Director’s Washington agents striding towards her.
2041 Sanctuary (Let There Be Light) Page 21
