Temporary lights had been rigged in the wings and illuminated a wiry-looking man in profile on stage. The man was talking in full flow, words falling over each other with his speed of delivery. He moved like a fox, limbs jerking with nervous energy whenever he gesticulated to make his points. Skinny arms that seemed too long for his body were never still down by his side. And his face was taut with tension—angry and intense.
Jack recognised him straight away from all the OsMiTech briefings. Frazier Growden looked smaller in person, but there was a mania to his movements that electrified the stage.
Particles of dust followed as he paced up and down the stage, giving him an unreal look. He had an old-fashioned microphone in his hand that he used to voice his vitriol against telepaths.
“—working with us to make a better future. I’ve never heard such lies, and neither have you. A man in District 24 was convicted of attacking a teep in a factory last month. A young man with a family to feed, and a new baby on the way, with a corrupt landlord seeking to fleece his tenants for what he could get. And this man…this man who spent his life toiling for the benefit of the Government with no hope of beating the system, of getting out of the district factories and into true employment, thought about taking some extra food from the canteen to help feed his family.
“Terrible I know, that a man should consider stealing from the hand that feeds him, but what’s more terrible is that this man should be in such a position that theft becomes a viable option, a way to improve his life.
“But what this man, this desperate man, didn’t know was that the district factory had several teeps working undercover, and he was scanned without his knowledge. And this is what the jury didn’t get to hear. The teeps were working outside their own districts and had illegally been working with councilmen in negotiations to close its own district factory down. None of this was admissible in the court, though.”
And so it continued. The speaker relishing every moment he had on stage in front of his captive audience, knowing when to pause to allow his words to sink in and for the audience to clap appreciatively. Jack had no idea how much of it was true. Stories about attacks against telepaths often made the headlines, but rarely did much background find its way to the reports. As part of the Telepath Registration Act, OsMiTech had negotiated favourable legislation that allowed them to keep reporting about telepaths strictly controlled. News outlets wouldn’t take the chance to break these guidelines. No one wanted OsMiTech to come after them.
But the man on stage hadn’t finished talking yet. The crowd were captivated by his words and the speaker knew it.
“I will not stand for that,” he continued. “I don’t want to live in a society where the will of the common man is oppressed by the strength of the elite and the insidiously corrupt, hiding in the shadows of law, sniping at us to keep our spirits low. No. We take a stand, and we do it today.
The anticipation of the crowd was an almost tangible thing. Figures in seats leaned forward, enthralled. If they were concerned, it was nothing to what Jack was feeling; his stomach was tying itself in knots.
“I’ve got a surprise for you all.”
And then, another figure stepped out from the wings stage left, beside him, a second man, this one with slumped shoulders and a hangdog expression. A murmur spread across the audience like a gust of wind scattering leaves on open ground. The first figure Jack recognised as Paul, the man he’d met earlier that day at the end of his street. He had a grin etched in his face. Paul led the second man by a rope that had been tied around his wrists.
As they reached the centre of the stage, they stopped and Growden approached them both, nodding at Paul. Growden clapped the captive on the shoulder with unnecessary force causing him to wobble unsteadily.
The silence in the auditorium was absolute. Jack caught his breath.
“This man, ladies and gentlemen, is the very same teep that I was telling you about just now. He was a bit reluctant to join us for our meeting here tonight, but he’s come all the same. Isn’t he a sport?”
When Growden’s fist spun through the air and found the telepath’s stomach, Jack gasped. The telepath dropped to his knees and fell on to his tied hands, gasping in air. Nervous laughs fluttered around the auditorium and Jack glanced angrily to see who could be entertained by this sadism.
The teep stayed down on all fours, clearly distraught, perhaps thinking that this silent resistance would save him. But it wouldn’t. Growden was too into this performance and the teep was ruining it for him.
“Get up,” he said in a deep menacing growl.
Slowly, inexorably, the man got to his feet.
The second punch came from Paul. The teep staggered sideways into Growden, reaching out with tied hands to stop himself falling, but Growden laughed and stepped aside. The teep crashed.
Paul grinned, holding his right fist in his left hand tightly. It didn’t look like he’d held back at all.
“On your feet,” Growden commanded.
The prisoner didn’t obey, so Growden crouched and repeated himself. Anticipation hushed the room.
Jack ran to the front of the auditorium before he knew what he was doing. A murmur of surprise rose from his wake and when he reached the stage, he hauled himself up and on to the platform. Growden forgot about his prisoner and stood toe to toe with the newcomer. He hadn’t seemed so big from way back in the poor seats. Whilst Jack was no doubt heavier built, Growden towered above him and despite his wiry frame, he reeked of danger.
“What’s the problem?” Growden said quietly, in an uncertain tone, fists curling.
“Let the man go,” Jack said with an authority he didn’t feel. His hands shook, and he kept them down by his side, ready to defend himself.
Growden flicked the microphone off and dropped it. “Do I know you? Who the hell are you?” Growden gestured to Paul who grabbed Jack from behind by the shoulders, keeping him still whilst Growden used his HALO to scan his retinal print.
“I’m new.”
“I met him today at the demo by Jack Winston’s house. We got talking,” Paul explained.
“What about?”
“Stuff. He wanted to know what was going on. I invited him tonight. He seemed like a good fit.”
“You imbecile. This is Jack Winston.” Growden glared at Paul before giving Jack his full attention. “I’m giving you one chance to leave whilst you can still do so under the power of your own legs.”
The man with the tied hands sat still on the stage.
“That’s not going to happen,” Jack said. “Let the man go. You’ve made your point.”
“The teep is mine. He stays put.”
“Let him go.”
The audience was entranced. Their silence deafening.
“No one interrupts me when I’m doing my show.”
Jack readied his fist to strike, determined to make the first punch a decisive one. It might be the only punch he’d get to make.
And that was when he saw Keeley’s murderer sitting three rows from the front. His insides went cold, frozen at his centre as he stared at the man with the piercing eyes. His legs locked, his mind a ball of fuzz.
He’s here. I can get him.
The lights went out. The crowd shrieked in alarm. It was now or never.
Freeing himself quickly from Paul’s grip, he rounded a fist and aimed for the place where Growden’s head should have been. Something crunched under his knuckles like shattered plaster. Growden howled, but Jack didn’t let up, powering forward, head low, he smashed into his attacker’s stomach. Claw-like hands grasped for him, but he twisted away and aimed for the prisoner, hoping he’d find him in the dark. He needed to get them off the stage, then get after Keeley’s murderer, but how could he manage both? Leaving the teep in the hands of a maniac like Growden was something he couldn’t do. He had enough blood on his hands.
A breathless Growden started shouting orders. “Get that bastard.” But Jack moved fast, fuelled by fear and the rush of
adrenaline flooding his body.
His foot snagged. A cable brought him crashing to the deck, the stage floor smacked into his forearms. The impact caught Jack’s chin and he yelled in pain.
Feet rushed at him. The darkness was less dark and Jack realised someone had opened the doors at the back of the auditorium, bringing light in from the foyer. He glanced at the place where the killer had been sat, but the audience were fleeing—the third row already empty.
Damn.
A foot connected with Jack’s ribs and he yelped, turning, trying to scramble to his feet. But the kick wasn’t accidental, and it struck again, driving air from his lungs.
“No one messes with me. Who the fuck are you?” Growden screamed.
Jack tried to avoid the kicks but couldn’t. More came from behind. A strike right at his kidneys. Pain ransacked his frame. A steel toe cracked the back of his head. He turned face down, and rose his hands to his head, protecting, surviving. He heard more men hurrying towards the stage and flashes of torchlight cutting through the dark.
A foot connected with his jaw. Blood filled Jack’s mouth and he spat—something hard went with it.
“Slow down mate.” Paul’s voice, concerned.
“Shut the fuck up,” Growden said.
With another impact, Jack screamed at them to stop, and at that moment he caught sight of the teep still sitting on the stage, watching. And Jack knew, this was how his life would end: with pain in his heart and blood in his mouth.
Then the impossible happened. A crackle fizzed in the air. The kicking stopped. A thump and then Growden was lying beside Jack, his eyes glazed.
More footsteps around his attackers. Confusion. Jack looked, but the teep had gone.
“What the fuck—” Paul said.
Then the crackle again, another thump.
A new voice whispered low down near Jack’s ear. “Come on, you’ve had your fun, it’s time to leave.” Strong hands reached and pulled Jack upright. Everything was wrong from his waist upwards. He could barely stand on his own.
His saviour was difficult to make out. Blood clouded his vision and the light from several fallen torches were casting a fractured net of light at floor level. Jack’s rescuer was tall and wore a leather jacket that swirled as he pulled Jack up from the floor. A second man ducked under Jack’s other arm and helped support him: Growden’s prisoner.
“You better have a good reason for busting this job,” he said as the pair of them dragged Jack towards stage right where they stumbled towards a side door. The teep didn’t hesitate in pulling down a shelving unit so it blocked the passage behind. He opened the door and the three men stepped into the alley at the back of the cinema. The taller rescuer with the leather jacket whipped out a key shaped tool, longer than his index finger and a blast of light shot out from the end.
“What was that?” Jack gasped. He was finding it difficult to get enough air into his lungs.
“Fused the lock. Should buy us a few minutes.”
A black car had been parked discretely behind two tall bins, and leather jacket ran to the driver’s door, leaving Jack supported by the teep. He started it and paused in front of Jack.
“Get in,” he snapped.
The teep helped Jack into the back seat, then ducked into the passenger side. Leather jacket wasted no time speeding out of the alley and onto the main road. The traffic that had been so snarled up earlier had lessened somewhat, the main expressway presumably reopened, but leather jacket kept to the back streets, heading to the city the old-fashioned way.
“Who are you?” Jack asked again, resting back into the seat, trying to get air into his lungs. Everything hurt in his chest. He guessed Growden had cracked a rib or two.
“First things first, who the hell are you?” The teep turned his head to look at Jack. His eyes narrowed and a snarl appeared on his face.
“Jack Winston,” Jack said.
A frown replaced the snarl. “You’re the teep whose wife got murdered yesterday.” He sighed, and the frown left his face. “What the hell do you want to get mixed up with that lot for?”
“I saw them hanging around outside my house. I thought they might have an idea who killed my wife. Where are you taking me?”
Leather jacket spoke, “It sounds like you’re having trouble breathing. I’m taking you to casualty.”
“Honestly, I’m fine,” he lied, wondering how he would explain this to Anna.
Leather jacket didn’t reply, but he didn’t slow down the car either. The teep in the passenger seat held out a hand, and Jack took it feebly. “Claud Becket. My friend here is Mack Crewe.”
“What were you doing there?”
Claud looked over at his colleague who nodded back at him. “It’s a long story but suffice it to say that OsMiTech isn’t fond of Growden’s group.”
“So, why were you both there tonight? They thought you were involved in some dispute.”
“That’s part of being undercover,” Claud said. “The whole story was fictitious. We wanted them to take me there so we could find out more about them.”
Some way to go about it. You were on your knees getting the shit kicked out of you.
“Did you find out what you wanted to know?” Jack asked.
“Not enough. They’re planning something bigger than they’ve ever done. We’ve heard rumblings for a while, but it’s taken us a while to infiltrate the group.”
“If you’re concerned about them, why not just arrest them all?”
“For what? Besides, that would just blow our cover and he’d get off, and then he’d have even more ammunition against us.”
“Who?”
“Growden, he’s the dangerous one, the ringleader,” Claud replied.
Right, the one that had done some serious damage to Jack’s ribs.
“Did you find out what they were planning?” Jack asked.
“No,” Mack said, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We weren’t even close. We’ve been working on that operation for eight weeks, and you blew it.”
“Hey, that’s hardly fair. I went to find out about my wife, and I stepped in to save your friend here.”
“My friend here,” Mack said, “can look after himself. You shouldn’t be trying to solve your own wife’s murder, let the police do it.”
“The police aren’t doing anything. And he was there tonight. I saw him in the audience.”
“Tell the police, then let them get on with their jobs. Interfering in an investigation will only make it harder to get anyone convicted.”
“If I find him first, I’m not so sure I’m aiming for a conviction.”
Claud chuckled. “Like that is it? Hell, man, you’ve got my sympathy, you really have, but Mack is right. Leave it to the professionals. Doing it your way will only get you hurt.”
Jack didn’t respond. What was the point? These two were just pissed at him for ruining their day. For the rest of the journey, no one spoke. Jack lay awkwardly on the back seat, trying to keep calm and control his breathing. Moving around hurt.
As the car pulled up into an ambulance bay at the A&E department, Mack put the brake on and turned around.
“After you get treated, keep a low profile. They know who you are. You’re going to be hounded, and you’ve seen first-hand what they’re prepared to do. You want my advice, disappear.”
Jack got out the car and watched them tear off down the access road, Mack’s words echoing in his ears.
10:14 PM
The curtain swished aside and Anna poked her head into the cubicle. When her eyes caught sight of Jack lying on the hospital bed, hooked up to diagnostic machines, her face fell.
“Oh, Jack,” she said softly and stepped inside.
The nurses had left Jack on the bed for the last hour, monitoring him every ten minutes. He’d been visited by a doctor and been prodded and scanned with more equipment than he’d care to consider. He wondered how quickly he’d have been seen without his telepath tattoo. As soon as they’d tak
en his details from him in that waiting room, full mostly of drunks, they’d worked quickly to keep him segregated. No one liked having a telepath around. Jack had gotten used to people being nervous around him.
Anna stood by Jack’s bed and grabbed his hand. Instinctively, he cycled a baseline blocking pattern. Not enough to block her should she pry but at least he’d be warned if she attempted it. Luckily for him, she seemed more concerned with the monitoring devices plugged in around him.
“When I got the call, I thought the worst.”
“I’m fine. I told them not to call you.”
But, Jack was far from fine. Growden and his cronies had done more than just crack a single rib. Three ribs in total were fractured, and they hurt like hell. Within minutes of getting inside A&E, Jack felt on the verge of passing out. One rib had almost punctured a lung. Jack had been lucky. The back of his head had taken several hefty kicks, and they’d been worried about a skull fracture. It seemed, though, that Jack’s skull was as thick as his teachers had always claimed. His face hadn’t got off so lightly. His nose had been broken; a cut above his eye had been trickling blood since he’d been hauled out of Mack’s car.
They’d wanted to call the police for him. If it were someone else, they would have done so as a matter of routine. Again, Jack’s telepath tattoo got him a little special treatment—they actually asked what he wanted them to do before doing it. He’d already decided against involving the police. The last thing he wanted was to draw more attention to himself and there was little chance of them being able to get anything to stick against Growden.
“You look like shit.” Anna looked upset and pissed off. “What the hell happened to you?”
He’d been working through his options. If he told her what he’d really been up to, she’d feel obliged to report his actions to OsMiTech, and they would be far from pleased. Their guidelines hadn’t wavered in that teeps were not to initiate any contact with protest groups. Of course, he had no idea what Claud Becket and Mack Crewe would put in their report. Would they want to draw attention to their cover being blown by another OsMiTech employee?
The Remnant Keeper (Tombs Rising Book 1) Page 9
