The Second Renaissance Series Boxset

by Paul Heron

  ‘We've got the good doctor with us, yes.’

  ‘Okay, stay tuned.’ Michael grabbed Marcel. ‘We're on our way down to the circuit breaker.’

  ‘Michael, it’s Eduardo. Have you checked your new sunglasses in the jacket? They've got night vision mode.’

  ‘Better than those big goofy goggles we wore in France,’ Marcel sniggered.

  ‘Those big goofy goggles got us through the jungle,’ Sofia said.

  ‘Si, mamma!’

  ‘Michael, activate the tracker on your watch. I’m just picking up your phone,’ Ajit said. ‘There's a metal button on the bottom of the watch face. Press it and I’ll see if it activates.’

  Michael pressed it.

  ‘Good, both are now activated.’

  ‘Michael, Marcel – it’s Maria. You two be careful. There's a chance that Mancini agents could be waiting at the fire exit you’re headed to so watch out for that.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Michael said. They jogged along the corridor, the cream walls, smelt fresh, the artificial lighting causing them to glow a sickly shade of yellow. They stopped at a gap in the narrow corridor, where the walls widened out into an emergency refuge area.

  ‘Right, I see the fire door, it’s next to a cleaning storeroom.’ Michael.

  Michael walked up to the door, looked through the pane of glass that ran up the right side of the door. He pushed the door open and was immediately hit in the face with cool air and smoke. They tiptoed out into the lifeless stairway. It was as if whoever built the palace had run out of paint when they got to the emergency passageway. There was no colour, just grey concrete walls and steps. As they descended the stairs, voices became louder. One word confirmed for them who they were about to bump into. “Sirani”. Michael looked at Marcel. Maria was right. The two were about to square off with Mancini agents. But were they humans or Fomorians?

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘WE KNOW WHAT WE'VE got to do,’ Michael whispered. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘We’re taking over their little escapade!’ Marcel said, fixing Michael's tie. ‘Come on, man. If you’re going to represent the winning team, you need to look the part.’ He laughed, put on his sunglasses and grinned. ‘Let’s go, amigo!’

  ‘Follow me and do exactly as I do,’ Michael said putting on his shades. They descended the stairs, seeing three Mancini agents standing at the fire exit. Michael spoke in Spanish and with a believable local accent. ‘What the hell are you three clowns doing, you think this is a time to take a break? You don’t realise what the hell's going on upstairs? Fucking Sirani agents are everywhere.’

  They all looked at Marcel and Michael, like a group of deer caught in the headlights.

  ‘Get your asses upstairs, NOW!’ Michael shouted. The guards all looked at each other, then dropped their cigarette butts and drinks. Michael and Marcel stood on the bottom step letting the three go on past them. Two of the guards were around six-foot-tall and medium build. One was bald and about middle aged. The other was mid-thirties with shiny black hair. The third was around five foot six inches, scrawny with shoulder length messy brown hair, and this one, although the smaller of the three, looked like the one with the biggest mouth. He looked at Marcel as he passed on the stairs, staring at him, as if he was searching for something. Michael knew he was suspicious.

  ‘Wait a second,’ the scrawny agent said, gesturing to the other two who were three steps ahead. He looked at Marcel's wrist – the usual spot where Mancini agents had their lightening bolt tattoo. ‘Where's your tat?’

  Michael laughed, he knew Marcel didn’t need a reason to chin someone, and the guy was likely going to learn the hard way. Before the agent finished his sentence, Marcel head-butt him, causing the agent’s nose to explode in blood. Michael grabbed one of the bigger agents and threw a lightning fast jab to his throat. The agent hit the ground before he could even groan then tumbled down the three steps he'd just ascended. Marcel grabbed the other and tossed him down the stairs. Michael roundhouse kicked the smaller agent into the wall as he kept hold of his nose.

  ‘Check their pockets,’ Michael said. ‘Scarlett, can you hear me? We need to get moving, we’ve just had a consultation with three agents on the emergency stairs.’

  ‘Right, Michael. Tie them up and grab their guns. You may need them before you get out of there,’ Scarlett said forcefully.

  Michael looked at his watch. It was eight thirty, twenty minutes until the president was due to address the guests.

  ‘There’s nowhere to hide them,’ Marcel whispered as he bound the agent’s hands using their shoelaces. He ran over to the emergency exit. ‘There's nothing but a garden out here, and some fenced off area for bins.’ He paused, then laughed. ‘We'll throw them in the rubbish.’

  ‘Taking out the Mancini rubbish,’ Michael whispered through a rebellious grin, still searching their pockets. He threw one of the agent's guns to Marcel. ‘Don’t drop it.’

  ‘Actually...’ Marcel disappeared through the exit into the garden while Michael continued to tie them up, their feet and hands bound together; gagged by their ties.

  Michael spotted something on the ground where one of the agents had lay. A business card; a black and white wallet sized card with Ministry of Mythology across the back. He looked closer, reading the contact details. It read:

  Vitale Strada

  Director - Ministry of Mythology

  Mobile: 077777777777

  Email: vitale_strada@ministryofmythology.otherworld

  ‘We’ll need to pay him a visit,’ Michael mumbled, slipping the card into his wallet. A rumbling noise came from the garden, snatching his attention. ‘What’s he done?’ He ran to the exit. Marcel was approaching with an industrial waste bin, one thousand litre capacity written on the side.

  ‘We'll chuck them in.’ He flipped the lid open. One of the agents started mumbling, wriggling like a worm trying to break free. Michael blasted him in the jaw with his foot.

  They piled the three in the bin and wheeled it back over to the waste compound. Time was eight thirty-five. Michael called for Ajit. ‘We're almost ready to kill the power. Where are you now?’

  ‘According to Sirani Maps, we're three minutes away from the palace. Go and kill the power,’ Ajit said. Michael and Marcel ran back inside, straight to the circuit breaker. ‘I’ll activate L'amico. You two clowns go and get the president.’

  The two of them looked at the circuit breaker. Michael activated night vision mode on his sunglasses and pulled fuses from the breaker, killing the power. ‘We have lights out!’ He shouted. ‘I’m guessing the alarm will go off soon? Emergency lighting also?’

  ‘Our handyman took care of the alarm system today.’ Scarlett said. ‘Go get the president.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Michael looked to Marcel, feeling his heart begin to thump against his chest, as if it was about to beat through his ribcage. They sprinted back up the stairs to the third floor. Running into the corridor, it was eerily quiet. Voices could be heard coming from what was the only occupied office on the floor. They walked, slowing down as they got closer and the mumbles from inside the room got louder. They could hear someone saying, let’s go see what the problem is. They were pissed off because they knew it was Sirani and they couldn't use their mobile phones, thanks to L'amico shutting down the electromagnetic frequencies in the area.

  Michael looked at Marcel, through the green of the night vision. ‘They're coming.’

  Michael stood on the right side of the door. Marcel took the left. They watched the office door slowly open. Small torch lights drew out two pencil thin lines along the ground as two silhouettes stepped out of the office. Michael swung a head-height roundhouse kick, sending one of the agents back into the office, stumbling backwards, collapsing to the ground. Marcel pulled the second out of the office, dislocating their shoulder in the process, causing him to cry in agony.

  Michael entered the office behind the agent he’d kicked to find someone waiting with a gun pointed directly at him.
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br />   ‘Who the hell are you? I hope-’ the man stopped. ‘Sirani? Well don’t worry. Your funerals will be nice, I’m sure. Then the Dark Lord will deal with you in the Otherworld.’

  Marcel followed Michael into the dark office, looking at Michael's torch-lit face, a pissed off expression.

  Michael looked at Marcel, equally as furious. ‘This was a stupid idea. Your dumbass got us caught.’

  ‘Me?’ Marcel shouted defensively. ‘It's your fault. You're supposed to be the bloody leader of this.’ He began to mock Michael. ‘I'm Michael, I’m Elisabetta's little toy boy, I'm perfect.’ He sniggered, ‘Well clearly you're not.’

  ‘Shut your big mouth, before I make it even bigger!’ Michael shouted, but the agent wasn’t falling for it.

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ the man said calmly. He walked towards Michael, shining his torch at him, looking him dead in the eye. ‘Nice to meet you, Michael. I’m Diego Rodriquez and I look after things for Mancini Corporation here in Spain. I will, for sure, be in the bosses’ good books for getting you – special one.’

  ‘Nothing special about me,’ Michael said. ‘Why don't you just shoot me and put me to sleep, because I'm tired? I can’t be arsed with this anymore.’

  ‘Why don't you come work with us, Michael? You too, Marcel. We could get you anything you ever wanted. You want the world, we have it, and you can both have a piece. The Sirani Foundation is kidding itself to think it'll stop us.’ He hugged Michael, slapping him affectionately on the back of the neck, an embrace Michael hadn't felt since he won his school's last Gaelic football match.

  ‘No thanks. You realise your company is destroying the world. It’s only a matter of time before we're all dead.’ Michael laughed sarcastically.

  ‘That’s just an old folk tale, Michael. Just a myth.’ Rodriquez laughed. ‘Our company isn’t as bad as your perfect Sirani Foundation would lead you to believe.’

  ‘You seem pretty ruthless to me,’ Marcel added. ‘The fact your company was founded by someone who murdered a young lady so he could get rich.’ Marcel took off his Mancini tie. ‘Yeah, an awesome company to work for. Here!’ He threw the tie at Rodriquez, it wrapped around his face. ‘Stick your offer up your ass and shoot us before I put my foot up your ass and send you back to your Mancini bosses crying like a little bitch.’

  ‘Well, we all know I can’t kill Michael. But...’ He grinned at Marcel, raising his gun. ‘I can certainly put you to sleep.’

  Michael stepped in front of the gun.

  ‘Michael, I’m not allowed to kill you, but I can put a bullet in you to slow you-’

  Before Rodriquez could finish, a chair came down on his head. ‘Oh, shut up. You’re full of shit,’ Guillermo said from behind Rodriquez.

  ‘Guillermo! Man am I glad to know you’re on our side,’ Michael said.

  Marcel dragged all the agents into the office. ‘We’ll tie them to the radiator, at least that way they’ll stay warm.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ the president shouted, stepping inside the office.

  Michael ignored the president, but Marcel took pleasure in apprehending him ‘We’ve got the president. Alban, where are you?’ No response. ‘Alban, this is no time for a break down in communication.’

  ‘Do you know what you’ve done?’ the president shouted. ‘You’ll all spend the rest of your lives in prison. A Spanish prison. Mark my words!’ He shouted, clearly trying to scare them into changing their minds. But his dancing vocal chords proved he wasn't sure about what was going to happen.

  ‘Prison?’ Marcel said, bundling the president into the room. ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘This is why we're doing this, President,’ Michael said, opening the window. He stuck his head out, feeling the cool Spanish air hit his face. There was a brick wall between him and that free air, a feeling he didn’t want to get used to. Then he heard the thumps of the chopper. ‘Thank the gods for that.’ He turned and looked at the president who was looking back at him, growing increasingly nervous with the sound of the chopper getting louder. ‘Believe me, President. No harm will come to you. Believe it or not, we're here to help you. And in time you’ll be grateful we did.’

  ‘I know your voice,’ the president said, standing tall in a bid to appear confident. ‘I knew I recognised it the moment I heard you speak.’

  ‘Everyone knows the golden boy’s voice now,’ Marcel teased. Guillermo laughed. ‘You’re still coming with us, President.’

  Michael removed his glasses ‘You now know who I am. I know who you are. Or actually, what you are: a Fomorian.’

  The president went to say something, but Michael put his hand up to silence him.

  ‘Don’t start to deny it, you little world leaders have literally gone over to the dark side.’ Michael looked at the president, then Marcel, then back to the president. ‘Big mistake.’

  ‘Michael, it’s Ajit, we're on the roof. I saw you through the window. Stop the chit chat and get your ass in gear.’

  Michael sniggered. He threw the president his jacket that was hanging on the back of his chair. ‘Let’s go. I’d prefer to do it without a struggle. Ajit, you’ve activated L'amico?’

  ‘Michael, you’re pissing me off, I’m not a dumbass.’

  Michael looked at Marcel, laughing at Ajit's gripe.

  ‘Okay, we're on our way to the roof.’ Michael walked towards the window. Beside it was a door that led to the balcony. On the wall ran steel ladders leading to the roof. ‘After you, President.’ Michael gestured for the president to go first, just as Ajit appeared at the edge, looking down at them. The president looked up at Ajit, shaking uncontrollably. Michael looked around the area, if someone was watching them, they’d be taken out by snipers, without a second thought. And they’d all be visiting the Dark Lord sooner than expected.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THEY GOT TO THE ROOF, without much struggle from the president. But, the moment they arrived at the chopper’s side door, the president’s panic kicked in.

  ‘Please, please stop. I have a family. I have a baby girl, please!’ He struggled, trying to pull himself free of their grasp. But he was fighting a losing battle.

  It took Michael, Ajit, Marcel and Guillermo to get him into the chopper; clearly proving that when a person’s terrified and afraid for their life, their strength can multiply. He was around six feet five inches tall and of slim build, looking like he wouldn’t put up much of a fight. But the thought of not seeing his wife and baby girl was almost enough to cause him to overpower the four. Three of which were gifted by the Irish gods.

  Ajit slammed the side door shut. Alban took off. ‘Dr, you have the antidote for him?’ Ajit shouted as he sat beside Guillermo. ‘Good work.’ He patted Guillermo on the shoulder.

  ‘Antidote? Antidote for what?’ the president shouted. ‘You don’t need to do this, whatever, you’re doing you don’t...’ He pushed Michael. ‘Leave me alone and take me back. You will not get away with this. You’re all crazy if you believe you will.’

  ‘Whether you realise it or not, you’ve got another entity living within you,’ Dr Rizzo spoke as a matter of fact.

  ‘Marcel, help me hold him down!’ Michael shouted as the president's flailing hands whacked him on the nose, causing it to bleed. They grabbed an arm each and wrestled him to the ground.

  ‘Hold him steady.’ Dr Rizzo spoke calmly. ‘President, you'll feel a slight prick then you'll feel drowsy. Don’t fight it. We are here to help you.’ He looked at Michael. ‘If we can.’ He spoke in Spanish. Standing over the president, he took a needle from his inner jacket pocket. He squirted some liquid into the air.

  ‘We can hold him, Doc,’ Marcel said. ‘We have him under control.’

  Michael laughed. ‘Yeah under control but make it quick.’

  They watched as the doctor moved in with the needle, the Spanish leader screaming like a baby. It was terrifying for Michael to watch. A grown man, a president, one of the most powerful men in the world screaming helples
sly. Michael thought about how scared his father was in France when Michael had jabbed him with the anaesthetic, apparently for his own good; of course it didn’t make Michael feel any better. There was something quite upsetting about watching a grown man cry with terror. It caused a bad feeling around the cabin on the chopper. Guilt, perhaps.

  After the injection, the president went out cold.

  Michael and Marcel looked at each other, another world leader on the floor. Michael looked at the president then looked back up at Marcel, Guillermo and Ajit.

  ‘This is going to get harder,’ Marcel said, looking at the others. ‘The more politicians we grab, the harder it’s going to get. Can you imagine grabbing President Johnston?’

  Michael understood Marcel's concern. One of the largest pieces of the sculpture – the piece of the United States of America – and trying to get American President Johnston would be a task none of them wanted to comprehend. But eventually it was something they would have to. Michael just sat there, watching the president out cold on the floor.

  ‘Amigo?’ Marcel snapped Michael out of his trance. ‘Together, right?’

  ‘Fucking together we'll fuck up Mancini – bastards!’ Ajit screamed.

  They all laughed.

  ‘We've arrived. Brace yourselves for landing!’ Alban shouted. ‘We’re short on fuel, too. The red light just came on. Well timed.’

  Michael looked out the window of the cabin, seeing the three cars parked outside the barn. Ringo was opening the barn door, knowing the cars would be hot.