Blood Prize (2 page)

Keep still … He’s coming.

Tom noticed movement. A swirling of the mist and a shadow by the far wall, yet his assailant remained hidden, which left him little choice. He must wait until the man made his move, but just as he thought this, the shadow walked into the light and became form.

The man removed his hat and looked up at Tom’s hiding spot.

“I know you’re up there. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

Tom knew he only needed to slide backwards across the slate for several feet and run along the rooftop to safety, but something about the man in the trench coat caused him to remain.

Tom judged him to be young; maybe only seventeen or so and his voice didn’t seem to hold the slightest bit of malice. The lack of any visible blood on his person eventually persuaded Tom to remain.

“Keep your hands out where I can see them and don’t move. Then we can talk.”

“I have no intention of harming you, Tom. In fact, quite the opposite.”

“Yeah right. You knife my girl and follow me out here for a nice little chat?”

“You’re half right, old son. Actually, I’m your guardian angel and believe me, you need to be protected.”

“Rubbish. Start making sense or I’m off.”

The young man below raised his hand, slowly moving it to the pocket of his coat. Just as slowly, he took out an envelope and held it up towards Tom.

“This letter will explain everything. My boss sent me here to give it to you, but then things happened.”

“Yeah, you killed her?”

“Nah, not me. I’ve been outside that bar all sodding night, waiting for you to come out. I only went in when I heard some patrons screaming. When I did, I realised that you’d already left, so I flew out the back and got lucky. You weren’t that far ahead of me.”

Tom wanted to believe the youth. He needed help, but it seemed far more sensible at that moment to run.

“Who killed her then and why the hell are you so interested in me?”

The young man below didn’t answer. He stiffened and raised the forefinger of his right hand to his lips. Tom noticed him take a step backwards towards a darkened doorway and heard two muffled metallic sounds in close succession.

Tom pulled back from the water pipes in surprise, as the young man fell to his knees, moaning and clutching at his side.

“They shot me … Go … Get outta here … Now.”

Tom arched his spine and began crabbing backwards on his hands and knees, but stopped when he noticed a flash of movement below him. A figure entered the cul-de-sac with astonishing speed.

Tom’s body tightened. The tiniest of movements might give up his position. Only his eyes followed the dark shape, as it grasped the young man’s hair with one hand and pushed down with the other; forcing the youth into a kneeling position.

Tom heard laughter. It sounded harsh, cruel and more surprisingly, feminine. He felt confused as he tried to absorb and understand this information.

What the hell?

He stared unblinking as the woman wrenched at the young man’s hair, pulling his head up and to one side; revealing the neck. She laughed again as she lowered her head and sank her teeth into the exposed flesh.

Tom heard the young man’s cries for help and felt his stomach heave. He saw the woman jerking her head from side to side, tearing through the skin, until a chunk of meaty tissue tore from his neck. Then the killer straightened and pulled her victim’s head up by the hair; blood pumping from the grizzly wound below his ear.

Tom tensed. The woman looked directly up at him and removed her cap, shaking her curly auburn hair loose around her shoulders. She smiled at him with bloodied teeth and the remaining contents of Tom’s stomach exploded out over the side of the wall.

Tom’s eyes blurred with tears, but he saw the women release the corpse, letting it flop onto the pavement. Then she turned and concentrated on the other end of the alley. Tom could see people emerging from doorways and he heard a car’s engine rev into life.

“You’ll never get away from me. I know who you are. I’ll find you no matter where you go.”

She smiled up at him, spat a spray of blood onto the cobblestones and vanished into the darkness, as quickly as she arrived.

Tom spun around onto his back and tried to calm himself. He forced extra oxygen into his lungs and attempted an understanding of the night’s events. Jacqueline murdered, now this. None of it made any sense at all.

He rolled over and raised himself onto his knees. More lights shone into the alley and he could see well enough to confirm the devil-woman’s departure. He knew he needed to run; over the roof, where no-one would see anything. He took a last look down at the macabre scene. The corpse lay face up on what appeared to be a pillow of blood.

What a waste of life.

Tom felt disgust and almost turned away when he noticed a tiny portion of white sticking out of the victim’s coat pocket.

The Envelope.

F
ather Dominico Rossi disembarked from his British Airways flight, thirty-five minutes behind his intended schedule. He tried not to frown or show suspicion, even though he considered the cancellation of his Costa Corporation jet, to be a warning.

He felt even less amused suffering the traffic from Ciampino Airport to central Rome, with an over-talkative taxi driver.

He smiled at the man and it felt as unpleasant, as he supposed it looked. ‘Don’t sweat the small things’; a lesson remembered from his childhood, but enough small things put together make a big thing; his anxiety seemed justified.

“At Rezzale delle Provincie, take the second exit onto Via Catania and this time pay attention.”

“Yes Padre, but as I was saying, my poor Mama …”

The priest moaned as they turned from Via Francesco Crispi into the heavier traffic of the Via Sistina. As the hotel came into view, he felt his heartbeat increase. Trouble lay ahead. It could mean a step towards success or possible disaster; he didn’t know which to expect.

A nervous looking concierge greeted him on arrival at the Intercontinental De La Ville and rushed him into an austere looking boardroom. He knew the purpose of this space. Every word uttered, every nuance of expression, every movement relating to body language, created a picture of what lay behind each individual mask; allowing little chance of anyone deceiving his employer.

He understood the Church’s need for control and their hatred of science.

They think it betrays God.

This justified a world where the average man knew nothing of technology.

They’re afraid of course. Knowledge is a dangerous thing in the wrong hands.

Only religious-controlled governments and trusted affiliated organisations acquired permission for technical expertise.

The Assembly keep their boot heels on the neck of the poor.
The amount of money these bastards spend on technical security could feed thousands.

He started to shake his head, but stopped; realising that Assembly personnel scrutinised his entrance.

It’s all about control. When the threat of Hell isn’t enough, violence is the next best thing.

His masters in the hierarchy of the Church believed that mass-produced comforts polluted the world. They admonished the population with proclamations of a future Heaven, in great peril of remaining empty of man for eternity … Unless humanity became totally obedient to the will of God and as such, His administrators, the Church.

And, they employ the Assembly and their Special Religious Police to make it happen.

As he stepped further into the room, he tried to improve on his smile. It seemed fake, yet better than his last attempt. He directed it at the two well-dressed men rising from their seats, holding out hands in greeting.

The chairman and larger of the two, returned his smile and embraced him.

The priest forced himself to stifle a laugh.

Politicians employed the same phoney conviction hugging babies.

Frederick Vogel, the shorter man, returned to his chair and looked away; his welcome being courteous, yet frosty.

As always, the priest avoided staring at Vogel. It required an effort on his part. The man’s looks offended him, no matter how often the two men came together. His hair resembled the pelt of a leopard, being close-clipped and red, with several patches of darker hair and two prominent blotches of grey.

The priest risked a glance at the man’s angular, sallow face and winced; overall, he considered him a grotesque and dangerous creature.

The clergyman looked away when he spotted Vogel’s eyes darting in his direction. He noticed him moving forward on the edge of his chair and despite the obvious animosity, the priest recognised the man’s grudging acknowledgement of the hierarchy that existed between them. In Vogel’s world of security, he continued to be the Assembly’s top man, but here, he seemed cunning enough to know his place, at least for the moment.

The priest turned his attention away from Vogel and attempted to engage the larger man, returning his exuberant expression. Father Dom tried to remain calm; outwardly confident despite the danger. Antonio Costa owned the world’s largest private corporation and chaired the Assembly of the True Faith. He dominated everyone with the power of his position and the fear that standing evoked.

“It’s been a long time, Dominico. Rome isn’t the same without you.”

The priest kept his facial features neutral, while his brain once again registered a warning. He knew the tactic. Overdoing the pleasantries kept the quarry from running and as a consequence, at the Assembly’s mercy. He played along, stretching his lips into a more convincing smile.

“Now to business, Dominico.”

The old chairman ran his fingers through his thinning hair, gathering the strands where they fell to his shoulders. Then in one motion, he swept them up and over his bald peak with the back of his hand.

The priest hid his disgust.

The chairman seemed oblivious to the priest’s thoughts, as he captured the last unruly thread from in front of his face. He used both hands to pat the oily mass into place, before turning his attention toward the other seated man.

“Mr Vogel, if you please.”

Frederick Vogel coughed and as he spoke, a nerve twitched above his left eye.

“There’s been a breach of security. In the early hours of this morning, two different parties approached Fox and an incident occurred. Fox escaped unharmed.”

The priest raised both of his arms towards the heavens.

“What? Why wasn’t I contacted about this earlier? Who the hell are these two parties?”

Vogel didn’t initially respond to the clergyman’s questions. The priest noticed the muscles around his jaw, bunch and clamp, and for a brief moment, his teeth flashed between thin, bloodless lips. Then he frowned at the chairman and waited for his barely perceptible nod before answering.

“A member of the PMSG made contact with Fox. They’re a group of subversives known as …”

“The People’s Movement for Secular Government. I know who they are, but that's absurd … Impossible. Fox is dead, officially and we’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to keep it that way.”

“Well, not enough trouble. Someone eliminated the PMSG contact as well as the girl with Fox. The deaths seemed brutal and purposely obvious; we think it’s some kind of warning, or scare tactic.”

“By who, Vogel?”

“We’ve been unable to determine the perpetrator. No witnesses and nothing left for identification purposes. A professional job.”

“What about Fox? You say he escaped.”

“He’s hiding; safe for the moment.”

The priest squeezed his fingers into a fist to stop them shaking as he struggled to contain his composure.

“This material is for the board’s eyes only, Mr Vogel. Perhaps you’d like to explain, how you’ve become privy to this information and the lad’s real identity, when Fox himself doesn't know?”

The Assembly chairman cleared his throat and both men turned and faced him.

“Frederick has my confidence, Dominico. He runs a plant in the PMSG, a spy who’s helped us in the past.”

The priest studied the chairman’s face and his worry began to escalate.

Why would the high and mighty, Chairman Costa, answer for an underling like Vogel? Be careful … It’s another warning.

“I don’t have to tell you how serious this is, Dominico. Decisions have to be made and quickly, for the good of our sacred order.”

The priest tried to slow his breathing in an attempt to remain calm. This project required absolute secrecy; the responsibility belonging to him since its inception, yet the Assembly Council proceeded without him, preferring Vogel’s murderous skills over his diplomacy. He knew his survival depended on his next words; he needed to be convincing.

“Mr Chairman, I assure you, nothing’s changed. There are only two choices available. You either eliminate the threat by killing Fox, or you take a risk and go after the Prize.”

He glanced at the chairman; the man’s complexion turning as pale as the collar of his crisp white shirt.

Good. A little stress to push my point.

“So, what’s it to be? The status quo,
or is the Prize worth pursuing at any cost?”

The priest felt his power returning and with it control.

“Tom Fox is the key. His existence alone could destroy us all. Murder him. Throw his mutilated body into the Thames and we can all rest easy. However, if you do this, you will lose the greatest of opportunities. Don’t misunderstand me, Mr Chairman. Right now, Tom Fox is the most dangerous human being alive, but he also represents power beyond all imagining. Use him effectively and you rule everything.”

No-one spoke. The priest allowed the silence to settle around them as they considered their positions.

After several seconds, the Assembly chairman frowned and raised his left eyebrow, creating an expression of disapproval. The priest thought it contrived; his decision already made.

“I believe Fox is the one, we all do, but he’s young and untested. I have your report, Father Dominico, but I’d like to hear your personal assessment of him.”

The priest nodded and tried to relax his shoulders. Testing Fox meant putting him into action with all the possible ramifications that could follow.

“As you are aware, we created surrogate parents for Fox after the death of his own. We used these people to control his childhood development, creating the kind of individual that could achieve our goals.”

The chairman interjected, waving his right hand around in circles.

“Your report indicates that Fox has some dubious sources of income, which you’ve described as illegal. He also seems to be particularly aggressive with little semblance of empathy?”

The priest nodded his head in agreement. He manipulated these reports. More accurately, he lied in every one of them. He achieved this by omitting certain facts pertaining to behaviour. Fox remained complicated. When it came to violence, he reacted in the extreme; aggression returned times two.

At ten years of age, he grappled with a group of young Lebanese migrants who tried to rob him. He fought bravely against five much larger boys and almost died as a result. He received a knife wound on his left cheek, a fractured skull, a deep stab wound to his right buttock and an arm injury, inflicted by a metal bar; the perpetrator repeatedly smashing his left arm and elbow, which resulted in multiple fractures.

The on-duty emergency registrar at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital ran to the point of exhaustion that night. With little to no help, he couldn’t cope with the human flotsam and jetsam from that Friday evening’s fight-club. He stemmed the blood flow and took x-rays of Tom’s skull and arm, but the patient waited a further six hours for treatment on his fractures. The doctor plastered the arm, but didn’t pin it. Tom recovered, but could never fully straighten it again.

The priest sighed as he remembered the damage.

The knife wound to his face healed quickly enough, but it left him with a three centimetre scar, which changed his otherwise gentle appearance; adding a hint of danger.

After that incident, the priest secretly made arrangements for Tom. He just happened to meet a young man known as Jimmy Omagra; an up and coming star in the world of martial arts. They became friends and trained under the direction of the same man; Sensei Martin Omagra –
Fifth Dan
, Jimmy’s father. After seven years of Shorinjiryu instruction, Tom refused to participate in any official events, but reports indicated that he could defeat his friend and every other member of the Dojo, including the Sensei. The priest knew this to be no easy task with Jimmy Omagra recently winning the ‘British Open Karate Championships’, for the eighth year running; rating him second in the world.

You’re an enigma, Tom Fox.

Despite being compelled to stand up for himself and others, against any bullies, the priest knew the truth about Tom’s fighting abilities.

He’s all courage, but, like me, he hates violence. The murder of your parents will do that to a person.

“Yes, Mr Chairman, he’s as aggressive as we need him to be. He’s ready.”

The chairman nodded and raised the Fox report; waving it at the priest.

“And what about his intellect? You indicate that everything depends on his capabilities and our ability to manipulate him. Some of the information in this report conflicts with those needs. For instance, it says here that he is exceedingly bright, yet his grades over the years don’t support that assessment.”

The priest remained expressionless. The truth regarding Fox’s learning and cognitive abilities remained a significant negative, which might unduly influence the Assembly Council; this he didn’t want.

Early IQ scores rated Fox in the highest echelon of intellect; only a significant brain could produce a score of one hundred and sixty five, yet he continued to struggle academically. The priest quickly determined the extent of this dilemma; information he never included in any report to the Assembly.

He hired a private psychologist by the name of Doctor Robert James, to determine the specifics. His report showed central nervous system dysfunction in the form of specific learning disorders. He found that head trauma may have caused some cognitive impairment at an early age. A subsequent lack of academic support, from all aspects of his environment added to this situation. He didn’t appear to have a problem with input or integration; only the storage and output areas seemed affected. This meant his memory could sometimes cause problems in processing his thoughts into language.