Myers’ focus remained fixed on Ophion, but he lowered his rifle, as did the men around him.
‘Tell your team to return to their stations,’ Joiner said.
‘Sir, are you—’
Joiner glared at Myers, and the CIA operative gave a nod and motioned for his men to depart. Agent Myers, however, closed the door behind them and then moved to his director’s side, from where he kept his attention firmly on Ophion. The S.I.L.V.E.R. operative seemingly remained oblivious, but Joiner knew the assassin would react in an instant if the threat Myers represented turned real.
‘There is one other thing we need to address, Director,’ Selene said.
‘And what’s that?’
‘It seems your ill-advised search for Dagmar’s transport led our enemies straight to it.’
Joiner looked at Myers.
The CIA agent gave a shake of his head.
Joiner knew Myers hadn’t been able to locate the train on which the Anakim giant had been transported, much to Joiner’s ire. However, he also knew his agent more than capable of concealing their motives for such a search. ‘Impossible,’ Joiner said. ‘The Intelligence Division does not make mistakes.’
‘Does it not?’ Selene said. ‘If that’s the case, then how did the cyberterrorist nearly take your life? How did he abduct the President of the United States without you being alerted to his intent? How did these Knights of the Apocalypse compromise the intelligence division’s director? Perhaps it’s not the I.D. that’s at fault, but the man that leads it.’
Joiner glimpsed the hint of amusement on Ophion’s face.
‘You were tricked, Director,’ Selene said. ‘These so-called knights wanted you to seek out the train so they could use the information for themselves.’
‘They don’t have the capability to spy on our operation,’ Joiner said, but he knew they did. If they can spy on Dagmar and the Committee, he thought, why not the GMRC itself?
He cursed his stupidity. They’d been playing me all along and I fell right into their trap. He breathed deeply as a powerful fury built within him.
‘You recognise your mistake,’ Selene said. ‘That’s good, very good. It will make it easier for you to accept what comes next.’
‘And what’s that?’ he said, still seething at his stupidity.
Myers suddenly gasped in pain and crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Joiner whirled round, but too late: Ophion’s massive hand grasped his neck and forced Joiner’s head onto his desk.
‘Don’t struggle, Director,’ Selene said. ‘It will only make him angry.’
Joiner continued to try and free himself, but Ophion’s inhuman strength kept him pinned to the desk.
The assassin rammed a piece of cloth in Joiner’s mouth and then turned him over onto his back.
Joiner ceased his struggle as he stared at the large serrated knife that Ophion held before him.
‘Do you know what happened to the Anakim we resurrected, Malcolm?’ Selene said.
Joiner couldn’t reply and he hardly heard the question as he looked into the assassin’s fearsome eyes.
‘No,’ she said, ‘how could you? But I will tell you. The being that had survived for untold millennia, a being that held the secrets to the greatest questions mankind has ever asked, was brutally murdered by the very religious fundamentalists you helped deliver to its location.’
Dead? Joiner thought. He shook his head and tried to speak, but only muffled noises could be heard.
‘It’s too late for apologies,’ Selene said. ‘The death of a god is on your hands. And seeing it was a Christian order that ended its life, it seems appropriate that we turn to the Bible when it comes to your punishment. Isn’t that so, Ophion?’
The assassin injected something into Joiner’s arm, paralysing his limbs. ‘Retaliation,’ Ophion said, looking into his victim’s terrified eyes, ‘must be honoured.’
Joiner watched in horror as the blade moved closer to his face.
‘Be still, Director,’ Selene said. ‘Feel the pain, and remember it, for it’s what you deserve.’
The knife touched his right cheek.
‘And so it was written,’ Ophion said, and grasped Joiner’s forehead, ‘an eye for an eye.’
Joiner’s pupils widened in fear.
Ophion smiled as the blade’s tip slid into Joiner’s eye, and the intelligence director screamed a muffled scream.
Selene Dubois looked on as Ophion continued his work, her face grim, as Joiner lay paralysed in the big man’s grasp. A moment later the assassin stepped back; he held up his knife, and a severed eye, which dripped with blood.
The Committee member nodded in recognition of his work.
Ophion held Joiner upright to face the screen; blood still oozed from his empty eye socket.
‘Defy the Committee again, Malcolm,’ Selene said, ‘and it won’t be just your other eye that we take, it will be your life.’ She nodded to Ophion. ‘Remove the gag.’
Ophion pulled the rag from the intelligence director’s mouth.
‘Is there anything you want to say?’ she said.
The excruciating pain should have been the only thing Joiner could feel, but as the blood continued to trickle down his cheek, cold fury consumed his mind. Blood crept into his mouth and he spat it onto the floor. ‘I’ll have your head,’ Joiner said between laboured breaths, ‘I promise you, your fucking head.’
‘Let’s see if some more pain will cow that temper of yours.’ Selene looked at Ophion and nodded.
Ophion cut open Joiner’s shirt with a flick of his knife.
‘It’s time to remove that radio jammer, Director,’ Selene said. ‘We need you back under our control, and that device Dagmar put in your head needs to be of use.’
Ophion put his armoured hand over Joiner’s mouth and the knife sliced into his chest. The GMRC intelligence director screamed again as his torment continued, but despite his power, despite his influence and position, there was no one to help and no one to care. Malcolm Joiner was alone, as he had been for his whole life. And as the pain increased, he knew that was just the way he liked it; his only thoughts were of revenge, hate-filled revenge. I’ll see you dead, he thought, staring at Selene’s exultant expression as the knife bit deeper, I’ll see you all DEAD!
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two
Ophion Nexus wiped his bloodied blade on the GMRC intelligence director’s suit jacket and then turned to face the woman who employed him.
‘He still lives?’ Selene said, as she looked in concern from the wallscreen at Malcolm Joiner, whose limp body lay unmoving on his office desk.
‘Of course,’ Ophion said, in his deep baritone of a voice, ‘he passed out when I hit a nerve cluster.’
‘The jamming device?’
The assassin held up a small metallic box covered in blood.
Selene nodded. ‘Good. It is your job to make sure he acquires no more such equipment. If he knows we can end his life at our leisure, we can ensure his cooperation.’
Ophion glanced down at Joiner. ‘There will be no coming back from this. He will fight you until his last breath.’
‘The Committee was in agreement; Malcolm Joiner has become too much of a liability. We will continue to use him until the transition underground is complete, and then ...’
‘And then?’ Ophion said, when she failed to continue.
‘And then you can kill him, as you requested.’
‘And if he seeks vengeance before that time?’
‘Then we will activate the device in his head.’ Selene stared down at Joiner. ‘Either way, before the month is up, Malcolm Joiner will be dead and the GMRC will be completely under the control of the Committee.’
Ophion gave a nod of his head, but unseen, behind the office desk, CIA and GMRC operative Agent Myers lay on the floor, his eyes open and ears listening. His director and the GMRC itself were under threat of an insidious force, and the clock was already ticking.
Chapter One
Hundred Twenty-Three
The President of the United States of America, John Harrison Henry, had arrived back at the White House in a state of shock. Marine One had gone airborne as soon as it was known the Commander in Chief was in need, and he’d been rushed back by helicopter after the attack at the GMRC’s Washington building. A day had passed since that fateful hour and he now sat back in the first-floor meeting room of his residence staring into space as those around him demanded answers from the GMRC officials and military, all of whom seemed as much in the dark as they were as to how to combat the real and immediate threat represented by the cyberterrorist, Da Muss Ich, aka Because I Can ... aka Bic.
What John hadn’t told them was that the computer hacker had been trying to protect him from the GMRC’s intelligence director, who’d threatened to have him interrogated against his will. That’s what Bic had claimed, anyway, although his actions had almost cost John his life. Perhaps he would rather see me dead than under GMRC control? John thought. What was clear, however, was that the GMRC wanted information on Bic as much as John and his administration did, but Malcolm Joiner had also prioritised information on the mysterious professor, who’d been complicit in John’s abduction. John wanted to know more about this terrorist, a man who’d come from nowhere to join forces with the world’s most wanted criminal. Professor Steiner, he thought, who are you? Who are you to worry Malcolm Joiner, one of the world’s most powerful men?
And it wasn’t just worry; John had thought he saw genuine fear in the intelligence director’s eyes as he’d demanded to know about this elusive fugitive.
Whoever Steiner was, John wanted to know what secrets he held that could make the GMRC fear him so. Which means I need to find him before they do. Although, he thought, Steiner might find me first, if what he told me should come to pass. The meeting at Camp David was fast approaching, but there were still two weeks until he met with the Chinese and EU leaders, and he knew many things could happen between now and then.
John’s thoughts returned to the previous day, when he’d emerged from the aerial transport onto the White House lawn fresh from his close shave with death. No sooner had his feet touched the ground than he’d been embraced by a tearful Ashley, who’d clung to him with a ferocious need. Considering how their last meeting had ended, her concern confused him – more than confused him. But just when he’d thought their relations might have thawed, she’d withdrawn again, refusing to even speak to him. Which was just as well, as he still wasn’t sure if he could trust her, let alone continue with their marriage. He wondered if it was even real.
If she really did work for the GMRC, he knew the whole thing was a sham. The only thing that made him question that line of thinking was her love for him. You couldn’t fake such emotion. Nor could you fake the concern she showed for him. The more he thought about it, the more confusion he felt. He didn’t know what to think, and so he chose not to. He had so many other problems, and this one was so big he knew it would overwhelm him if he confronted it head on. And so John found himself sitting watching the news on a wallscreen, while trying to put his personal problems to the back of his mind. Meanwhile Paul, his Chief of Staff, continued to row with those gathered around the circular table at which they all sat. The group included two U.S. Army generals, a high-ranking White House GMRC liaison and the director of the FBI, Patrick Flynn.
‘What do you mean, there’s no trace of him?’ Paul said. ‘There must be!’
‘It’s as the GMRC just told us,’ said FBI Director Flynn, gesturing at a wallscreen, where moments before they’d been speaking to Response Council representatives. ‘The hacker left no digital signature. It’s like he was never there.’
‘And I suppose that goes for the president’s abduction, as well?’
Flynn made a face. ‘If we had been brought in earlier, we might have had more success. As it is, we’re left with rumour and garbled witness accounts, but no hard leads.’
‘And what about the water shortage?’ John said.
Everyone looked in his direction.
John looked at the FBI director and said, ‘From the aquifers and reservoirs we were able to survey, we have less than two months’ of fresh water left. If that’s replicated across the country ...’
The sentence was left hanging and the room went silent. Everyone knew the implications of such a crisis. People would no longer be rioting in the streets; they’d be dying by their millions in their homes.
‘And we’re sure these figures are accurate?’ Flynn said.
Paul banged the table. ‘YES! How many more times do I have to tell you? They’re true. I wish they weren’t, but they are.’
‘Then we’ll look into it,’ Flynn said. ‘But we’ll need more manpower. The abduction, and now the attack on the GMRC building—’
‘And there’s the matter of ...’ Paul glanced at John for Flynn’s benefit.
‘Ah yes, the First Lady,’ said the FBI director. ‘I’ll see no stone is left unturned.’ He tapped the table in agitation and looked around at those present. ‘You know I’m no lover of the GMRC, least of all Malcolm Joiner and his Intelligence Division.’ He looked at John. ‘Mr President, forgive me, as I’ve said this many times before, but if he continues to remain as head of U.S. Intelligence, this country will continue to suffer; you need to have him replaced, and sooner rather than later.’
‘Don’t you think I’ve tried?’ John said wearily. ‘The GMRC have their claws into everything, including Capitol Hill. The sanctions agreed by Congress two decades ago continue to bind our hands. I’m powerless against him.’
Flynn didn’t press the issue, but his disappointment was clear. ‘You also said you had more information on the abduction?’
John looked at Paul, and then around the room at the dozen people from his inner circle. Many returned his gaze, their expressions mirroring his own disquiet. The words of the cyberterrorist came back to haunt him, ‘Trust no one’. If I can’t trust my own wife, he thought, who can I trust?
He noticed his new head of security looking at him from his vantage point by the room’s door.
John suddenly realised he didn’t even know the man’s name. He’d been told it, of course, but with everything else that was going on it had never really registered. He looked at the two generals and wondered if they remained loyal, considering the rumours that the GMRC had compromised the armed forces’ upper echelons.
His senior analyst met his gaze and then looked away.
John wondered what secrets he was hiding. Do you work for the GMRC as well? he thought
‘John,’ Paul said, ‘the FBI director asked you a question.’
‘What?’ John blinked, but he couldn’t help notice one of the generals whisper something to the man next to him.
‘Your abduction,’ Flynn said. ‘You said you had more information for me?’
John just stared at him.
‘We’ll speak about it later,’ Paul said.
Flynn nodded, but John caught his Chief of Staff swapping a worried look with the FBI director.
They think I’m losing the plot, John thought. Perhaps I am. He rubbed his tired eyes and looked down at the national papers, stacked in a pile nearby. The main headline read:
President Henry, gullible fool or dangerous incompetent?
Underneath the text a picture of Ashley revealing all in her adult movie – albeit heavily pixelated – had been pasted next to the image of an old woman found dead in an apartment, her malnourished hand clutching an empty water bottle.
And underneath this, two more words in bold capitals read:
YOU DECIDE!
John had become both laughing stock and villain, overnight. The knives were out and even his most loyal supporters were turning against him as the streets ran with blood.
Not only had he failed to resolve the water crisis and food shortage, but now he’d been proven – in the eyes of the press, anyway – to have bad judgement in other areas of his life. If his choice of partne
r was suspect, perhaps everything he did was equally as flawed; that seemed to be the common consensus, anyway. John knew, of course, that the news about Ashley wouldn’t have been such a problem if he’d lived up to his election pledge and removed the GMRC’s stranglehold on the country’s resources.
He flicked through more of the newspapers, glimpsing words like, liar, betrayed, charlatan and impeach on almost every page. Perhaps they’re right, he thought, perhaps I’m not fit to lead. An image of his father standing over him appeared in his mind. ‘I told you you’d fail,’ he said, pointing a finger at John. ‘You’re nothing but a waste of space. Always have been, always will be.’
John’s parents had long since died and never saw their son realise his full potential by becoming president. However, he knew they both would have found something to criticise about him, had they not left him an orphan. He could hear his mother even now: ‘I told you so. Didn’t I tell you, John? What kind of woman makes an adult movie?’ The look of disappointment on his mother’s face was only outshone by the exultation that lurked just beneath the surface.
‘What kind of man marries a whore?’ said the voice of his father. John suddenly found himself transported back to his old house as a teenage boy; he was wearing his new school clothes, now ripped and torn after he’d been beaten by the school bully. John’s father looked down at him in contempt. ‘My God, boy, didn’t you fight back?’
John’s stomach clenched in shame.
‘He’s got no backbone,’ said his mother, laughing. ‘Like father, like son.’
His father grew red in the face and lashed out, knocking John to the floor. He looked down on him with fury. ‘He’s no son of mine.’
Back in the present, John hung his head, the feeling of humiliation as fresh as it had been all those years ago. He’d fought long and hard to rid himself of the echoes of the past, striving to become all he could be, working all the hours God sent to make himself better: a better person, a better lover, a better man, but despite all his efforts the voices of his parents seemed to dog him wherever he went. It was almost like they’d never died. And even now, as President of the United States, nothing had changed. He was still that same boy, living in shame, the sensations only suppressed by his compulsive need to work.
Ancient Origins: Books 4 - 6 (Ancient Origins Boxset Book 2) Page 66
