‘Should you fail, both Vannevar and Samuel shall die at midnight March 4, EST. If you compete nobly, their deaths shall be noble. But should you fail to treat the game with respect, they’ll suffer. Death by castration. And tell anyone else at the FBI about The Order, then it’s game over. Understood?’
There was another screech. It sounded like metal cutting metal. Then, when the noise let up, Drexler immediately continued speaking, even more hurriedly than before:
‘Now, as I’m sure you’ve already deduced, I have big things planned for Mineral this morning. But while I can’t have you running about as they unfold, I can’t have you missing them, either. So let’s have you conscious enough, and give you an indirect view of things. Oh, and I’ll ask the boys if they’ll let you have a quick glance at Samuel before he leaves; though I’m not sure how keen they’ll be to do you any favors. After all, you did kill ten of their brethren. But really, I must get on.’
This time, Drexler did pause – though he was clearly weighing up whether to end the call prematurely, or hear my response. He made his decision.
‘Any last words?’ he said.
I decided to land a punch.
‘It’s a shame, Drex. Despite all your efforts, you can’t even execute a simple phone call without a slip-up. That’s what happens when you locate your base next-door to a metal works. I’ll be seeing you soon.’
It was clearly a bluff, but that was beside the point. I was drawing attention to the one thing that hadn’t gone to plan. He didn’t like it.
‘Good luck,’ he spat. ‘You’ll need it.’
The line went dead.
Runner – with no way of knowing the conversation was over – continued to hold the phone to my ear. But then the phone rang again, and he picked up. No doubt it was Drexler with further instructions. But already my mind was ticking over. What had he meant by conscious enough? By an indirect view?
In the next instant, Runner hung up, and started issuing instructions to the others in hushed tones. One of the men then ducked out of the room, returning a moment later with a vial of clear liquid and a hypodermic syringe. He approached the unconscious Vann, and administered about 250 milligrams to his upper arm. Then all the men – aside from Runner – untied Vann, and carried him out the front door. I heard car-doors slamming and an engine starting, followed by wheels crunching stones. When only four of the five cultists returned I understood that one had been given the responsibility of transporting Vann.
On one hand, I felt anxious: now Drexler had my best friend as well as my son. On the other, I felt relieved: not long ago, I’d thought Vannevar was dead.
But my thoughts about Vann were soon cut short as the man who’d injected him again took up the vial and syringe, and came my way. He was a big guy with a bruised jaw – the one I’d hit after the stun-grenade. I looked carefully at the liquid as he administered about a third of what he’d given Vann to my upper arm. My gut told me it was Ketamine, a powerful anesthetic and hallucinogen, commonly used to tranquilize horses. If this was the case, then not only was this dose not enough to knock me out, but it was also not even enough to put me in a K-hole – that state of waking death Ketamine can induce in which the subject is unable to talk or move. Rather, they’d given me enough to put me in a state just shy of that. Enough to severely impair my motor skills and speech, but not disable them altogether. In short, for approximately ninety minutes – the time it’d take for the drug to work through my system – I’d be conscious, but would appear as though I was blind drunk.
What Drexler had meant by conscious enough.
I had about ten minutes before the stuff kicked in. Clearly, they were planning to execute their atrocity while I was under the influence. But what was less clear was what they planned to do with me during the action, since it seemed to me that all five would be needed to execute the plot. And I couldn’t see them leaving me alone in the house, as that hardly constituted an “indirect view” of events.
Unable to decide between a number of feasible possibilities, I turned my mind instead to Samuel. If Drexler’s word was anything to go by, then Samuel was still in the house and so too, presumably, was Lofkin. But then again, Drexler might’ve lied, and the two of them might’ve left hours ago…
I was jogged from these thoughts by Runner shouting upstairs. Then, a few seconds later, I got my answer about Samuel and Lofkin – the two of them came downstairs and entered the foyer. Samuel first, followed by Lofkin, holding a Beretta to Samuel’s back. They both paused before me, and I was able to take a good look. Lofkin – with his other hand buried in his left pocket, clutching the detonator – had heavy bags under his eyes and a deathly pallor. At the very least, it was clear I’d managed to disrupt his rest-stop and had kept him in a state of advanced fatigue.
And then there was Samuel. The bomb-vest remained, and was now complimented by handcuffs and a gag. He looked no less exhausted than Lofkin. But whereas Lofkin avoided my eye, Samuel looked me dead-on. At first I saw pure surprise in his face – clearly, he’d had no idea I’d come after him. But then – as it sunk in that I, too, had been captured – his eyes became dead and empty. The drugs were now, very suddenly, taking their toll and I knew a garbled attempt at speech would only demoralize him further. So, instead, I mustered all my self-control, and shot him a look that said: hang in there; I’m coming for you; I love you…
The next thing I knew, both Lofkin and Samuel were out the front door. Sixty seconds later, I heard the growl of an engine and the crunch of wheels. Immediately I wondered: were they still using the Blue Ford? Had they found the GPS tracking device? Were they headed in the same direction as Vann? But whatever the answers, I felt relieved. Samuel was alive and therefore there was hope…
I took deep breaths as the drugs continued to take their toll. The world was slowing down, time distorting, and it took all my concentration to flex my muscles against my restraints. My mind was becoming increasingly detached from my body – a signature effect of Ketamine. Then, an indeterminate time later, Runner picked up the mobile and dialed.
‘Hello, is this the Sheriff’s Office? This is Owen Lodge, managing director of True Shape – yes, the ones organizing the re-enactment this morning… well, I’m afraid we’ve had an incident. We’ve had a man break in and assault one of our team… He’s still here, inebriated – would you be able to send a squad car? … Thank you – and please be quick, our event’s due to start in fifty minutes. Don’t want to let folk down… It’s O-W-E-N L-O-D-G-E… Yes, bottom of West 2nd.’
With that, he hung up. It was now clear what they were planning: they were going to hand me over to the local police. And not a moment after I thought this, one of the men produced a bottle of whiskey and doused it over me, completing the effect of a lunatic drunk.
I’d certainly get an “indirect” view of things from local police headquarters: it would undoubtedly be the first place to hear about the disaster when it struck. And it became perfectly clear, when I was then unbound and led to the sofa by two of the men, that resistance was impossible – it was the most I could do to move my legs enough to stop them having to carry me. And so I sat slumped on the sofa – as my son was being whisked away, as the men around me prepared to murder innocent people – waiting to be arrested.
Utterly powerless.
Chapter 21
The cultists worked like men possessed, shifting five-hundred muskets from the second floor, out the front door, and into what sounded like two separate vehicles. By the time the squad car arrived about ten minutes later they were done. I could hear the policeman get out the car and talk to the men in the driveway. It was the Sheriff himself – a guy called Galbraith. And I could tell instantly from his lazy, loud-mouthed drawl and dense laughter that this was not an intelligent man. I could already see the son-of-a-bitch in my mind’s eye: overweight and bloated; sweat dribbling from his brow; a few lank strands of hair atop his head.
First, Runner, who was operating under the pseudonym Owen Lodge, told Gal
braith how I’d entered the house thirty minutes ago through an unlocked front door, struck one of his men, before collapsing into a stupor. Next, Galbraith marveled at the bruising on the big guy’s jaw. Then, finally, he said:
‘Well, let’s take a look at old rummy, then.’
Galbraith, followed by the five cultists, entered the foyer, looking exactly as I’d pictured him. He boomed with laugher at the sight of me and said:
‘Not one I recognize. Well, if it weren’t for you boys, these out-of-towners wouldn’t be here in the first place. Brought this on yourself, didn’t you? Well, no problem, I’ll take him in. No problem at all.’
He waddled over, cuffed my wrists, and said to me:
‘You’ve had a busy night, haven’t you, son? Smells like you’ve had an evening with Jack Daniels! Well, suppose I’d better give you your Mirandas.’
He did. In response, I tried to speak. But all that came out was an incoherent slur.
‘Thought so,’ he said through fits of laughter.
Clearly, I’d no hope of alerting this guy. He wasn’t an evil man, but he was incompetent and, as he continued with his lowbrow conversation, I could see even the cultists were getting impatient. Eventually, Runner hurried things along by offering to escort me to the squad car, and before long I’d been bundled into its back-seat. Then, after telling Runner and Swollen Jaw they needed to visit the police station in the neighboring town of Louisa to give statements, and that one of his four officers at the re-enactment would give them a ride a little later, Galbraith got behind the wheel, and we set off. It was then I realized my watch had been removed. The dashboard clock showed 5:59.
Galbraith hummed a nonsensical tune as we went. I did my best to resist the effects of the drugs, but it was little use, and my mind continued to become increasingly detached from my body – a sensation which filled me with devastating impotence. At one point, as we powered down a country road, I attempted to talk, and managed to choke out: ‘terrorists.’
‘You’re not quite a terrorist, son,’ Galbraith replied through dumb laughter, ‘but definitely a pain.’
It was 6:09 when we arrived at the large redbrick police station in Louisa, some six miles away from Mineral. Galbraith whistled over a colleague to help escort me to the building, and during this short walk I managed to slur:
‘True Shape terrorists. I’m FBI.’
‘And I’m the President,’ boomed Galbraith, to the delight of his colleague.
Once inside, Galbraith gave me over to an efficient, disinterested policewoman, who took my mug-shot and fingerprints all in the space of ten minutes. I sat through the process in a slack-jawed daze – detached and incoherent – and soon found myself in a cell within the squad room, sitting with my back to the wall. I counted nine police-officers around the room: eight men (including Galbraith), and the woman who’d dealt with me. There was a clock above the front entrance, and I stared at it dumbly. When it hit 6:25, I took a deep breath, mustered all my energy and said at the top of my voice:
‘Organizers using live ammunition.’
A few of the officers looked over, but the desk sergeant coughed loudly, and gave them a look that said I was a crackpot, and not to waste their time. Galbraith was sitting on the far side of the room, ignoring me altogether. It’d been almost an hour since I’d been injected, and I could feel myself slowly coming down. But too slowly and I was still unable to do anything more than what I just did.
Then, since I could do nothing else, I started muddling through my thoughts. I thought about the irony of my situation, given the measures I’d taken to remain in control; about Olivia, and how this was the way she’d been feeling the whole time; about Vann and Samuel, who were in situations of equal powerlessness; and then about the innocent people whose lives were about to be pointlessly destroyed…
When I next looked at the clock, it read 6:29. With a sudden surge of energy, I struggled to my feet, raked my cuffs across the bars, and said as loudly as I could:
‘I’m with the FBI. Organizers using live ammunition. Running out of time.’
It took me thirty seconds to say all this. This time, the woman was the only one to look up. However, she wasn’t curious, but annoyed. I knew how I must’ve looked: like a drunk, slurring his paranoid thoughts. I slumped back to the floor in defeat. The seconds ticked by with awful inevitability.
*
It wasn’t till 6:32 that the news finally came. A phone rang, Galbraith picked up, and his face dropped like a ton of bricks.
‘Live ammunition?’ he exclaimed.
Every officer turned to look at him.
‘Jesus Christ – but that’s impossible. I’ll send everyone over immediately.’
Galbraith put down the receiver. He was shaking.
‘What’s happened?’ demanded the female officer.
‘A terrorist attack at Elizabeth Walton Park,’ he stuttered. ‘The organizers put live ammunition in the muskets. It’s a bloodbath.’
All at once, crisis was in the air. Galbraith couldn’t stomach it, and collapsed into his chair. The next instant, the power vacuum was filled as the female officer, with fearsome authority, started barking orders across the room to every officer at hand. She told them that a suspected terrorist attack, involving the sabotage of muskets at the re-enactment in Mineral, had taken place; that they should assume the perpetrators to be armed and dangerous; that there’d been casualties already; and that every officer was to head over there immediately, aside from the desk sergeant who was to stay and call every hospital that could conceivably help, plus the Richmond FBI Field Office. As soon as she finished speaking, all the subordinate officers rushed for the door, save for the desk sergeant, who hurried to my cell.
‘Who are you?’ he bellowed.
The woman joined him. The badge on her breast told me her name was Matthews.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘Saul Marshall – FBI.’ I paused for breath. ‘You need to take me with you.’
‘What’s happening?’ she pressed.
‘Take me with you,’ I repeated.
There was no more hesitation. The door to my cell swung open and before I knew it, I was being escorted to a squad car by Matthews and a somewhat recovered Galbraith. My state was steadying by the second, and I was able to pump my legs faster and with improved coordination. I was put into the back of the car, the officers got in front and in no time we were bombing down the road, sirens blaring. I knew, at our current velocity, it’d take about four minutes to cover the distance between the two towns. And I knew also that the other officers, because they’d left a few minutes before us, would be arriving in Mineral imminently. I was jogged from these thoughts by Matthews, who asked me once again:
‘What’s happening?’
‘Give me a minute,’ I said. ‘They drugged me. Ketamine. I’m coming down—’
I was interrupted by a panicked voice on the police radio. It quickly became apparent this was one of the four officers who’d been at the event, and he spoke hysterically about bodies everywhere; about so much blood. It sounded like the stuff of nightmares and suddenly I felt crushed by the awful weight of responsibility: this was the price for not telling Parkes what I knew, for not sacrificing my son.
We sat in tense silence for the next thirty seconds. I could see – as we belted down the country road connecting the two towns, and Mineral came into view – that we were approaching it from the north. And the fact I’d picked up on this detail told me I might be sufficiently recovered to speak coherently, so I gave it a go:
‘The people who organized this event are terrorists, and they’ve been planning this for months. But they’re not interested in sticking around and doing more harm, they’re only interested in the kinds of sensational scenes which arise from innocent people gunning each other down. They will vanish, if they haven’t done so already; and a local police operation doesn’t have a hope in hell of catching them.’
Before either officer could
respond, another voice came through on the radio. Chillingly somber.
‘Peterson’s place on West 2nd – it’s up in flames. Heading over there.’
Now that it’d been brought to our attention, there was no missing the cloud of grey billowing out of north Mineral. Twenty seconds later, the same voice came again:
‘It’s a huge fire. The vehicles the organizers were using are outside, also in flames.’
This news came like a punch in the gut. I wasn’t sure if the officers understood but I was certain what this meant: the cultists were in the house, completing the last phase of a suicide mission. I’d been wondering how they were intending to escape; how they were planning to cover their tracks. But now I saw that their plan had been annihilation: of anyone who could be made to talk and of any space where evidence might’ve been left.
Then, almost involuntarily, I started imagining what’d happened in the park. I could see the calm before the storm, the people preparing to enjoy their day-out; then I could see the moment when the shots went off, and the fear, panic, and suffering that had followed – and were still no doubt ongoing. Then I imagined footage of this – taken on someone’s phone or camcorder – showing on every news channel, spreading like wildfire across the internet.
However, whether this footage existed or not, one thing was certain: over the next half hour, the entire world would be turning its attention to the town of Mineral and every law enforcement body and news outlet in the land would be descending here en masse. This meant I needed to get out of town fast. Because there was no doubt the Bureau would discover that I’d been in Mineral before the atrocity, and had prior knowledge of the attack. And given the extent of my rule-breaking, they’d almost certainly want to detain me, and that was something I couldn’t allow…
We were now less than sixty seconds from Mineral.
‘Listen carefully,’ I said, speaking fast. ‘There’s little you can do about catching the perpetrators – these people will be dealt with by the FBI. Your best course of action is to help coordinate the rescue effort and instill some calm. But right now, I need you to do two things for me. First, I need you to promise to keep my presence in Mineral out of the public sphere. It’ll be critical for morale if people discover that the terrorists had bested a Bureau agent sent in to take them down. You got that?’
False Prophet: The gripping breakthrough thriller (A Saul Marshall Thriller 1) Page 13
