The Embers of Hope: A science-fiction thriller (Hibernation Series Book 2) Read online

  ‘I know it hurt, Jen,’ Nathan said aloud, his words feeling strange as they cut into the empty room where the night before his love had been. ‘But it might just have been worth it.’

  He grabbed the pen from the table and wrote a list, three clear objectives in large uppercase letters.

  1. DRUGS

  2. DNA TRAP

  3. REPLICATOR

  In the bedroom behind him, a faint red glow, like the breath of a sleeping dragon, flared up and then was gone.

  Chapter 31

  Zitagi glanced nervously at the dark shadows in the corner of the room and then at Jameson. She could make out his features but not his eyes. He was frowning and shaking his head.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Zitagi pleaded.

  ‘Why don’t you help us?’ Jameson managed, voice shaking.

  Zitagi stood. Pierce shot up, hand gripping a pistol which he tipped downward, smiling. ‘There’s nowhere to go. You can’t run, so sit down for fuck’s sake.’

  Zitagi made her move. She stepped back and kicked the table towards Pierce. His expression was pure shock. In a single frame it somehow managed to say, But you’re surrounded, you crazy bitch! Outnumbered and I’m pointing a gun at you! And you’re going to do what? Take us all on?

  Zitagi gambled on the fact that he wouldn’t fire, not straight away. She made a break for the door. Jameson stepped aside and the heavies moved in. She felt two sets of hands gripping her arms so tightly they threatened to burst open.

  She screamed as the men pulled her awkwardly around the table and threw her back into her seat.

  ‘This doesn’t have to be so difficult.’ Pierce was shaking his head in utter disbelief.

  Zitagi considered him and his by-the-book interrogation. His lines were worn and old, said a thousand times in a thousand scenarios just like this one. None of them realised that she had been waiting, biding her time until the sun – the one rotating around the tree in her mind – cast its final shadow.

  Zitagi looked at Jameson. None of them noticed the gentle motion of her right forefinger and thumb around her left wrist. She appeared to be nursing her arm after the manhandling. She pressed her wrists together and rotated a little more. Now, it looked as if she were distributing an expensive scent.

  One of the men coughed, then the other. Pierce turned.

  It all happened so fast. Jameson didn’t seem to realise he was in trouble until both guards were on the floor, and even then he looked confused. They appeared to be dancing for a moment as if synchronised, both of them gripping their necks, trying to speak. Then, they fell back against the wall and slid, their faces red and puffy, lips foaming with excited bubbles of spit and blood. Zitagi remained seated.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Pierce managed.

  He reached for one of the men but then flinched, pulling his hand back quickly, no doubt deciding that touching them wasn’t his best idea.

  The guards, now on the floor, were writhing slowly and twitching. Jameson stood over them, mouth agape, head flicking between them and Zitagi like a demented umpire watching speed tennis.

  Zitagi pulled a long pin from her hair.

  Jameson’s eyes betrayed him; he knew what was about to happen and his face pulled back in horror.

  The last thing Dominic Pierce would have seen was Zitagi, her eyes locked onto him and her right hand flicking down as if cracking a whip. He wouldn’t have seen the needle that had pinned her hair flying towards him. It was so fast it was invisible. It entered Pierce’s right eye and lodged deep in his brain. A guttural, surprised sound left him as he fell, at odds with his death, sounding more as though his favourite team had narrowly missed a touchdown. He hit the ground with a slap, his entire body rigid. Three men were dead.

  Jameson gagged and then swallowed, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, stifling a scream. He stared at Zitagi and then reached inside his jacket.

  Zitagi was up and over the table. Her hand – which was opened up into a V – snapped against his throat, popping his eyes wide open. Jameson grabbed at his neck, which was straining and bulging in a spasm. As he stumbled against the wall Zitagi reached into his jacket, pulled his gun and tossed it aside. It would be linked to him and therefore useless.

  The mission – planned in meticulous detail by herself and Reyland – was almost complete. Jameson was hunched against the wall, coughing, each bark threatening to become a sob. He stared at her, eyes white and creamy like cooked fish. ‘Why?’ he gasped, fighting for breath.

  ‘Sit down,’ Zitagi said, walking back to the table and offering him a chair.

  Jameson shook his head.

  ‘Sit or I will kill you where you stand.’

  He lurched reluctantly towards her. ‘Please don’t,’ he begged. ‘We can figure this –’

  ‘David,’ she said quietly. ‘You don’t have long.’

  He stopped his slow march and exhaled loudly, his face now partially lit by the fluorescent above. Zitagi watched his expression change as the deadly penny of understanding fell.

  ‘How did you know about my plans?’ Jameson asked.

  ‘We know everything.’

  From outside came the roar of engines. It was a combat chopper.

  ‘But you haven’t asked me any questions? About what I know, about what I was planning to do?’

  ‘Those days are over. We’re not interested any more. There comes a point when it’s just cleaner to kill the source. In this case, that’s you.’

  His face screwed up tightly and two tears raced down either cheek. ‘You sound like him, like Victor.’

  ‘Please sit,’ Zitagi said. ‘This doesn’t have to be hard.’

  ‘But I didn’t want it to be like this.’ He sighed loudly and looked at her as a wounded deer might, in pain but not quite dead.

  Zitagi gently rubbed her hands together. It was a gesture that might have gone unnoticed under normal circumstances. Jameson noticed and finally understood it all. Her skin had been primed with an active pathogen. When the guards manhandled her they had signed their own death warrants, and all it took was a rub of her skin to activate the poison. Jameson thought back and realised that a simple gesture – their initial handshake next to his limousine – would be the end of him.

  ‘You have about three minutes,’ Zitagi said softly. She had no hatred for this man. She saw no reason for his last moments to be painful. In fact, a part of her wanted to make it easier on him. There was no need for speeches, for gloating. ‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’

  He was paler now. Zitagi knew that the carefully chosen pathogen was now working its way to the centre of him, where it would stop his heart and eventually paralyse him. Jameson began to pant. He exhaled loudly and his shoulders dropped.

  Zitagi felt an unexpected rush of respect. It was hard to define how such knowledge could be transferred but there was a sudden and tangible connection between the two of them. Jameson had accepted his imminent demise and it was honourable, brave, even. She had only seen this twice in her career, and when it happened it was quite beautiful.

  ‘I do have a question,’ Jameson said, licking his dry lips. His voice was calm and he stared at her in deep consideration.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Where will you be?’ his voice a whisper.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When they turn everyone off.’

  Zitagi paused, considering the question. ‘What do you mean?’

  He sneered and then began to laugh. It might have built into a roar but a coughing fit took hold of him. It choked him to a stop, his eyes rolling in their sockets. Zitagi could hear distant voices and footfall on the stairs.

  She grabbed hold of him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Seems like it’s you who has the questions.’ He laughed again and then spat his last words, blood gurgling in his throat. ‘Haven’t you heard? It’s the end.’

  His lungs contracted for the last time and a long, death-filled groan escaped him. Dark, masked figures dressed
in black bio-suits entered the room. A metallic voice shouted, ‘Four down, agent secure.’

  Jameson’s head fell backward. His eyes were empty but he was smiling.

  Zitagi craved time to process their brief and confusing conversation, but it would have to wait. Speed was important now.

  ‘Apply the patch immediately,’ she ordered, ‘and get him to the hotel.’

  The leader of the clean-up team nodded and they went to work. Zitagi stared at Jameson’s pale face as they zipped a plastic body bag around him.

  Her plan had been executed perfectly. Tomorrow, Jameson would be found dead in a San Francisco hotel room, a death that would – a few days later – be confirmed as a drug overdose. His wealth would be linked to a detailed drug network and all his assets frozen. After that, a smear campaign would ensure that the Jameson Corporation’s share price bottomed out. Then, in the months that followed, piece by piece his once-glittering career would be re-evaluated and retold. Any leaked documents or hint of a damning memoir or historical exposé would be considered the ramblings of a misjudged and untrustworthy man. The colossal undoing of David Jameson would be complete.

  There may have been easier ways of killing him, but this was untraceable and highly damaging. It was a job well done.

  * * *

  A short while later, Zitagi was outside. She paused in the driveway, watching them carry out the bodies.

  The leader of the clean-up team approached. ‘We’ve picked up the limo and the two men who brought you here.’

  ‘Good,’ Zitagi said. ‘Kill them both.’

  The final body bag was Jameson’s. The irony of him providing the location for his own murder wasn’t wasted on her. Reyland had known his target well, had known that killing a man as well protected as Jameson would require some lateral thinking. Why struggle to get the target to a remote location when – with a little help – they would provide it for you? In a final masterstroke, Reyland had leaked a top-secret briefing document that morning, one linking Zitagi to the order for Jameson’s assassination. Pierce had taken the bait and after that it was pure Zitagi. The mission had gone well. She should be relieved, confident, assured.

  She was none of those things.

  Birds sang loudly, and a gentle breeze washed over her. The world was the same, but a new shadow had been cast.

  Where will you be, Jameson had said, when they turn everyone off?

  She’d heard plenty of crazies spouting their theories, but this was David Jameson and something about his words struck a chord. Something unexpected was coming.

  She could feel it.

  Chapter 32

  The Thames ferry pulled to a stop and Nathan disembarked with the crowd. He found the nightclub easily and joined a small queue consisting primarily of middle-aged men looking for some Friday night sleaze.

  When he reached the door he was greeted by two bouncers, both wearing long coats, their heads shaved. They looked him up and down slowly. The bigger of the two had a fist full of gold rings and a neck like squashed rubber. The other was smaller and covered in tattoos. Nathan suspected he was the tougher of the two; a man that lean, doing a job like that, must have a secret.

  ‘Members only, mate,’ the one with the thick necked grunted. The thinner one chewed his thin moustache and didn’t take his eyes off Nathan.

  ‘I’m not a member and I’m not here to party,’ Nathan said calmly. ‘Tell Lynch I need to see him.’

  ‘Fucking knew it,’ the thin one hissed. ‘I could tell you were going to be trouble.’

  ‘Tell him Jennifer Logan sent me,’ Nathan said. ‘Do it now.’

  Minutes later he was inside, guided through dimly lit corridors that seemed to shake in time with distant music. He was escorted into what appeared to be a dining room, like something out of a gothic horror film: antique sconces, oil paintings, gold fixtures, and furniture upholstered in velvet.

  Through a large pane of glass to his left, Nathan saw women dancing on poles. Men, still like statues, peered up at them. The dining room was eerily quiet though, the scene through the glass perfectly cocooned from the loud music inside the club, a bizarre kind of silent movie.

  A thin, skeletal man, dressed smartly in a tailored purple suit, sat at a table eating lobster. The huge orange crustacean was being disassembled like some kind of autopsy. The man seemed to be carefully considering his next point of attack, a chrome utensil clasped tightly in his bony hand. He glanced up at Nathan with black oily eyes reminiscent of a rat, one that had grown brave and dangerous. His balding head reflected a sickly yellow glow under the overhead chandelier.

  ‘If I’d known you were coming,’ Lynch said, ‘I would have got the best cutlery out.’ He talked while chewing large mouthfuls of food. ‘You are lucky I didn’t just blow your head off.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to do that.’ Nathan walked towards him.

  Lynch looked up and ticked a finger side to side. ‘Now, now, that’s close enough.’

  To his right Nathan spotted a man in the shadows, bigger than the bouncers.

  ‘Terry here wouldn’t mind a go,’ Lynch said. ‘He would enjoy the sport but he’s going to be a good boy, aren’t you Terry?’

  The hulk nodded once.

  Lynch continued to attack his food, butter dripping from his mouth onto a white napkin tucked into his collar. ‘Oh, and there are a couple of guns trained on you. So, if I were you, I’d start talking. I’m nearly done eating, and when I am – if I’m not very fucking interested in what you have to say – well, you can guess the rest. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Jennifer Logan’s been dead three years and you have a message from her.’ He glanced up. ‘You are either a really slow courier or really fucking stupid. Which is it?’

  ‘Neither,’ Nathan said. ‘I need drugs.’

  Lynch frowned, blinking rapidly. Now he looked every bit the rat caught in the light of a rifleman, surprised and yet somehow impressed. His shoulders flicked up in the air and he began to laugh. He laughed so hard Nathan thought he was going to choke. Large chunks of white fish tumbled from his mouth and his cheeks turned a speckled ruby. Slowly he composed himself. He pushed his plate away and dabbed the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Oh, man, you remind me of her, all tough and full of yourself. Who the shit are you, her fucking brother or something?’ He filled his empty glass from a large bottle of champagne and sat back in his chair. He seemed entertained. ‘I liked her, you know. I mean I fucking hated her, but I liked her, too. Nice ass. Good hair. Good mouth.’ He sneered at Nathan, licking his lips, taunting him. ‘Guess you know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I mean it,’ Nathan said, undeterred. ‘I need drugs.’

  ‘Don't we all?’

  ‘Specifically, H4s2. It’s an active neural steroid.’

  Lynch scoffed and shook his head in dismay. ‘There is an etiquette and now you’re just being rude. Sit down, for cock’s sake.’

  Nathan sat and Lynch poured champagne into a fresh glass. He plunged the oversize magnum back into its silver holder. As he passed the drink across the table Nathan noticed the thin blue veins stretching over his hands and arms like a blueprint. He appeared almost translucent.

  Lynch spotted him looking. ‘Replication for me soon, I reckon. Do it right, though, pay the proper money.’ He shifted in his seat and leant forward a little. ‘Not like you though, I’m not going to botch it.’

  Nathan tightened his stare. ‘Then you know why I need the drugs.’

  ‘I know my meds,’ Lynch chuckled. ‘But the question is, do you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Do you have any idea how much those drugs cost?’ Lynch smiled. ‘Can you afford them, big boy? Got the cashmola?’

  ‘I have something better than that.’

  ‘Oooh! Something better than cash – the anticipation.’ Lynch clapped his hands together and Nathan was sure he heard the bones rattle. ‘Come on then, tell me the sodding message for fuck’s sake. I want to hear Lo
gan from the grave.’ He smiled, his voice building to a crescendo. ‘Now, now, now!’

  Nathan was reminded in that moment of a dancing skeleton, the kind he had seen once on an old stereoscopic card, a satirical and comedic character, whose job it was to playfully taunt its victims. This was all just a game to Lynch.

  ‘I need the drugs,’ Nathan said, leaning forward, ‘and in return I give you Conrad Fowler.’

  Lynch froze. Every atom in his body seemed to switch, and it was suddenly very obvious that the game – if it had ever been that – was no longer afoot; it was over.

  ‘You are very close to the edge, Mr Shaw, very bastard close.’ Lynch spat each word as though his breath were a train accelerating, like he might explode into violent action at any second. ‘Fucking Logan. I got her to Russia in return for Conrad. I’ve already paid. We had a deal and she didn’t deliver.’ He placed his long hands together as if in prayer and then tapped his fingers, over and over like a wave. ‘If you know where he is, then you are going to tell me.’ He suddenly screamed out, his voice rushing towards a high-pitched crescendo, ‘Jesus Christ, who the fuck do you think you are, bargaining for something I’ve already paid for?!’

  ‘Will you do it or not?’ Nathan asked calmly.

  ‘No!’ Lynch snapped back, hands flying up in the air. ‘Of course I fucking won’t. Why should I? For starters, the shit you want is hard to get, and for the amount you’re going to need we’re talking ten thousand credits at least.’ He paused, and pointed at Nathan, becoming thoughtful now. ‘You’ll like this bit, big boy. If you know where Fowler is, then how about I just torture you, drain it from you, extract it like a bad bastard tooth.’ Lynch was spitting again. He sunk half a glass of champagne and continued to shake his head. He looked back at the shadowy outline, obediently awaiting instruction, in the corner.