Blood Prize (6 page)

A
n ethereal glow of golden beams streamed in through the shuttered window and in that moment just before wakefulness, it felt to Tom like the afterlife.

“It’s time. Get dressed and come down stairs.”

The man standing beside his bed, grinned and extended his hand.

“My name’s Luther.”

Tom’s hand disappeared into the bulk of the man’s grip.

“Don’t dally, Noah’s waiting.”

Tom noticed the fresh bandages covering his burnt torso and lacerated hands, as he struggled from the bed. His chest hurt as he tried to stand; each breath, feeling like metal grinding against metal.

He entered the kitchen and Noah marched over to greet him.

“How are you feeling, lad?”

“Look, about last night, I felt tired and angry and …”

“Not last night, Tom. You’ve missed more than a day.

A smile grew on Noah’s face as several people trundled into the room. He stood and embraced each of the new arrivals.

“Come and meet the team, lad. We can talk privately later.”

Noah opened his arms, encompassing all in the room.

“Tom, this is the British Group Elevens, or G11’s for short.”

Noah’s belly shook as he began to laugh.

“You’ve met Luther. You also know Petra and Julius from our ride here in the car.”

As he spoke, another figure strode into the room and Tom stiffened with recognition.

“Ah, Tom. This’s Uta … The Raptor.”

Tom nodded towards the woman, but took a protective step backwards. The moment he saw her, his mind screamed
murderer
. Yet, no. It might not be her. Tom studied her features. This one stood slightly taller than the auburn-haired woman and her raven locks hung straight and long.

Tom looked into her eyes for any sign of recognition, but the woman didn’t seem to know him.

Don’t say a word. This coincidence might have unwanted consequences.

“And, this good fellow is Surat.”

Tom struggled to drag his eyes from the woman and over towards the tough looking man, leaning against the doorframe.

“He’s the one you run to when everything turns to shite. He’s our security expert and the best in the business.”

Surat straightened and glared at Tom with obvious disdain.

“I hope you’re worth it, Fox. You better deliver or else …”

Tom hated being threatened.

“Or else what?”

Surat spat on the carpet, turned and took a step towards the door before answering.

“Or else we’re all dead.”

T
he priest examined the dark timbers and white walls of the interior without enthusiasm. The new Dead Rat Hotel on Kings Road, deceived many of its patrons, most believing the building to be hundreds of years old. He knew better.

The priest nodded his approval. He could see the man’s claustrophobia in his erratic movements.

Good. He’s bent over like an arthritic old woman.

The low ceilings and lack of light inside the Rat created exactly what he sought for his meeting with Vogel. The late venue swap from Rome to the southern English city of Brighton, avoided Vogel’s territorial advantage.

The scoundrel can’t rely on security monitoring, or intimidating assistants here.

Father Dom arrived earlier than necessary, choosing a black leather booth near the open fire, with a fine view of the white-capped waters of the Channel. This provided him with time to think and plan, and to indulge himself with a pint of Tui Pale Ale, his favourite imported New Zealand beer.

He could see Vogel wandering around the main bar area, his face downcast and anxious as he attempted to find the correct booth; his expression tightening into a sphere of scrunched lips; a pout the priest associated with cruelty and hatred.

Nothing new … Wait … There we go.

He spotted Vogel’s eyelids blink in rapid succession, revealing uncertainty, even fear, which enhanced the priest’s position. His security chief needed a lesson in compliance. Despite his dislike for the man, he needed him; his improvised plan depended on his spy. The man’s obedience remained a priority.

“Nice trip, Frederick?”

“Hardly. Why here priest? What’s so important?”

Father Dom glared at Vogel with as much malice as he could gather.

“You are, Frederick. You’re the reason. The chairman and I are worried about your loyalty.”

“Rubbish. The chairman knows where I stand.”

“Don’t feign innocence, Vogel.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You need to understand a basic truth if we’re to move on and continue this arrangement.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes, Frederick. It is.”

Father Dom noticed Vogel’s pupils widen and lose focus. He sat stiffly; his anger becoming greater than his phobia.

“Fool. Endangering Fox could have destroyed our entire project. You are this close to being eliminated, Frederick.”

To accentuate his meaning, the priest raised his right hand, holding his thumb and forefinger close together.

“The chairman isn’t a fool. After he left you at the factory, you thought to play Fox for your own advantage and he knows it. The only reason you’re here and breathing is because of your spy … and, because I believe you’re still the best man for the job.”

The few beams of brightness streaming in through the lead-glass window, betrayed the dampness in the visible areas of Vogel’s multi-coloured hair. He removed his grey hat, pulled a hanky from the interior of his matching grey suit and patted at his forehead.

“I don’t understand you, priest.”

He continued to dab at the perspiration on his brow and his teeth appeared between his lips.

“Why support me?”

The priest tried to smile and regretted it. Instead of sincerity, he could see his fake grin materialise as distrust in Vogel’s reactions.

“It’s our objective that’s important, Frederick.”

“Bullshit.”

“Alright, here’s how it is. I don’t trust you Vogel. Not even for a minute. What I do know is that you won’t be that careless again. You of all people should know the cost of betraying our employer.”

This time Father Dom didn’t smile at Vogel’s anomaly. The man visibly relaxed; believing and feeling comfortable with the priest’s distrust of him.

“Now that we’ve finished with that unwanted business, we can move on to more operational matters. Tell me about the girl.”

The priest noticed Vogel’s body begin to unstiffen and sag, as the presence of the roof once again bore down on him. His voice sounded curt as he explained the tactics they employed to recruit the Kite girl; the laboratory trashed and the slogan planted.

He stopped talking and the priest discerned his change of expression. The lines and creases in his face softening and drooping from cruelty to petulance.

“No. I don’t like this plan. It’s obvious. Too open. We don’t need outsiders becoming involved in our business.”

“The plan requires control, Frederick. We’re the puppeteers. We create their actions.”

The priest continued speaking to Vogel, as if instructing a child.

“We always win, because we’re the ones pulling the strings.”

Vogel began to raise the pitch and volume of his voice.

“No. It puts my spy in serious jeopardy. Do what you like with the Kite girl, but don’t risk my spy.”

“You will do what I tell you to do. Is that understood?”

Vogel scowled and didn’t move.

“You have your job and I expect you to do it exactly as prescribed.”

The priest maintained his eye contact with Vogel, until the security chief gave a faint nod of assent.

“It’s important at this early stage that they fall for the ruse. We have to push them into complete dependence on the PMSG. There can be no way back to a normal life for either Fox, or the girl.”

Father Dom sat back and quietly ignored the man opposite him. He watched the rain come in from offshore, ordered another beer and some hot chips, and collated his thoughts into a cohesive working plan.

“In every library, Frederick, there are newspaper archives. If you were to look back, you could find many articles about the Professor Fox situation. Some of those articles mention a colleague … A priest.”

The clergyman stopped talking and frowned. Vogel looked annoyed and perplexed. The priest needed to be more specific.

“Find one of those articles, Frederick. Get in touch with your spy and be sure that the old newspaper is left where Fox can find it.”

The priest despised the man in front of him. He felt like reaching over, grabbing him around the neck and squeezing the life from his sour face. How many people wouldn’t die if he did it? He took in a deep breath and relaxed his fingers.

“The PMSG will be compelled to make contact. Now that they have Fox, they won’t know exactly how to begin. I’ll be that beginning.”

_____________

Tom sat at the dining-room table, watching Noah stomp around the room.

“We don’t go around killing people, lad.”

With a wave of his arm, Noah gestured towards the other members of his team.

“Nor do we rob banks. We have benefactors that support us. Not openly, just financially.”

“Does what you do make any difference?”

Tom noted the group’s reaction to his question. The room became quiet and the expressions, stern.

“Yes, we’re extremists. We destroy. We’re here to annihilate unconscious enslavement.”

He sat down at the table and looked across at Tom.

“Let me ask you a question. All the rules you live by in your life, your beliefs, where do they come from?”

“Me. They come from me.”

“Yes, but where did you get them from? Think about it, Tom. Most of what you believe wasn’t your idea. It came from government controlled media and fake parents. It’s a manipulation; a tool for control.”

Tom wished he hadn’t begun this conversation.

“My thoughts are my thoughts. I’ve got to go and start dinner.”

He wandered into the kitchen, privately contemplating some of Noah’s ideas; plutocracy: a life predetermined to serve the rich and the powerful. An interesting idea believed by most of the masses.

We live in a prison of rules to serve our masters.

“Get out of my way, Fox.”

Her kick struck him on his left knee and he fell sideways against the kitchen bench and on to the floor. Before he could twist out of her way, she straddled his waist, leant forward and placed a knife at his throat.

Tom experienced searing pain and he roared his displeasure at the woman on top of him.

“Get off me …”

As he struggled with her knife hand, he spotted Noah running into the room.

“What’s going on? What happened here?”

He glared at Uta and then at Tom; his eyes following the blood trail that flowed down Tom’s neck until it disappeared below the collar of his shirt.

“I think she just sliced a chunk out of my ear.”

Uta got to her feet, as other members of the group arrived. The woman looked on the verge of attacking them all.

“What? He got in my way.”

Noah’s face flushed red with anger.

“Everybody out. Uta … I’ll deal with you later.”

They made way for her, as she strutted out.

So much for their macho persona. They’re all scared of her.

_____________

“Petra, bring the first aid kit and something to clean up this mess.”

Noah only stopped pacing the room, when Petra returned carrying an old wooden box with a faded red cross on its lid.

He rummaged through the contents and removed antiseptic, gauze and a sticky bandage.

“Wait …”

He stopped his search. Without thinking he began stroking the yellow stained newspaper that lined the under section of the box.

He read the newspaper article with his hand in the air, palm up, lest somebody interrupt.

“I think we’ve found the start of our trail, Tom.”

“What do you mean? Where?”

“Australia … Your birthplace.”

Noah felt a moment of anger and uncertainty. Coincidences often occurred in life, no doubt, but when they forced his team into a direction, strategically good for their opponents, it made him feel uneasy and suspicious, yet what choice did he have other than this?

Noah relaxed the tension in his face, as he carefully removed the old newspaper from the box.

“You’d better read this yourself, lad. The priest it describes is dangerous, but we can’t ignore the opportunity. He wouldn’t talk to us in the past, but this time we have you. Father Dominico Rossi won’t deny the son of Alexander Fox.”