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DESCRIPTION:

Iron Man Project { novel } Ex-special forces man, Vincent Brent, is tough, ruthless and highly trained; he's now using his skills for whoever will pay him without cashing in the bounty on his head. In this world of the near future, the UN has failed. Wars are fought in boardrooms through attorneys and politics, and on our streets with private armies of military or criminal assets. In Sicily, the Chief of Security for one such corporate alliance struggles to survive as hidden forces attempt to manipulate him for their own ends. Both these men find their fates intertwined. In the cross-hairs of powerful adversaries, they must both make decisions of life and death in a choice between command and conscience. David J Rodger's trademark unforgiving rendering of brutal reality, and relentless narrative pace, are here in palm-sweating abundance, delivered in a complex novel that will keep you turning pages until the end.

CUSTOMER REVIEWS:

Really engaging characters and plenty of pace. 'Unputdownable' is such an overused phrase, but this is in that category.

Read more customer reviews, comments and feedback on my blog - click

1

 

Golfe Du Lion, Mediterranean Sea

Monday 28^th February, 13:04 Hrs

 

Brent checked his Sony Vista: time was just past 13:00 hrs. They would be in Barcelona in four hours. The sky beyond the hydrofoil windows was the colour of lead, low cloud base, it met the choppy sea in a murky haze. Pocketing the Sony he turned from the window, holding the rail easily as the craft rose up sharply, and did another automatic head-count of the suits in the lounge. Twenty-three. No change since he'd arrived. The suits who weren't in here were probably chucking their guts up somewhere. It wasn't that bad, Force 6 maybe. He smiled without parting his lips.

This was another world for him. Business Class. Oversized seats with soft leatherette padding. Men and women dressed-up like shop mannequins, perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect posture. The glossy corporate façade to mask their messy personal lives? Brent wondered. He didn't know these people. He had never socialised or mixed in management circles, but nobody could appear that perfect on the surface without something being scarred, drained and fucked up underneath. Or was he projecting his shit life onto their visible success?

He lifted the plastic glass and took a sip of single malt: things weren't so bad. Here was a moment of things being OK. Being on a boat reminded him of his childhood; sunny and rainy days riding ribs off the Norfolk coast. How the fuck did he end up working for a man like Stacoli? Sebastian Bonifacio Stacoli. Twenty-five years old, a rising star in the world of organised crime: most of Marseilles was now his.

Brent knew the answer to his own question: he could pinpoint the day, minute and second his entire life took a wrong left turn.

Another big swig of whisky and a mental sleight of hand to shift his thoughts away from bleak memories. Leaning back against the railing he focussed on the suits, tongue savouring the burn of alcohol; he noted the grey light from the window behind him muted all the colours of the lounge.

Most of them were solitary creatures; their gazes fixed and distant behind chic DVFrames that looked more like the 'spectacles' people used to wear before the surgery got so good, soaking up whatever information was being presented on the lenses like a heads-up-display. Some of them sat with jaw muscles working as they sub-vocalised into throat-implants, leaving the role of noise-makers to a group of three men and a women who were discussing things face to face over a bottle of alcohol-free wine. It was so quiet his rumbling stomach was probably being noted as an annoyance: he'd crammed down a slice of street-pizza before boarding in Marseilles, and now it felt like the 'spicy meat' was exploring every fold of his intestines looking for a quick way-out. He'd need to take a shit soon, better to get it done in the hydrofoil rather than wait for Barcelona; there'd probably be nothing but a never-cleaned shitter in an old warehouse.

Alcohol free, and costing twice the price of a regular bottle no doubt. He'd stick with the single malt any day, but this was a treat, courtesy of the cashcard Stacoli had shoved in his hand to cover 'expenses'. Usually he lived with the home-brewed grappa Stacoli liked to serve his boys after a job: it went down like paint-stripper but was good for numbing shocked nerves and the misery of life at the bottom of the barrel.

Brent saw a media feed running across the bottom of a wall screen. 'Fifty-three dead, two hundred injured in a suicide attack on UTOC compound in New Babylon.'

So much for the end of the war, he mused, recalling UTOC President Hoffman's speech two years ago, when he proclaimed 'Operation Metal Hammer' had officially ended with the inauguration of an interim and 'elected' government for the new Independent Gulf States. The truth since then was an escalating conflict far worse than before. Arabic commentators called the IGS, a speck of grit in the eye of the 'true Middle-East'.

Fuck it, Brent told himself, shutting down his thoughts on the subject. He was not part of it anymore.

Staring into the glass at the amber coloured liquid, he knocked back the last of the whisky. He planted the empty glass on the windowsill with his mouth still full, then swallowed in one, parted his lips and inhaled slowly through gritted teeth. He didn't belong here; he was a hundred and eighty miles below their world; but he didn't raise eyebrows because of his healthy good looks. It was certainly one reason why Stacoli chose him for these camel jobs.

Flexing his broad shoulders, the thickened chords of his muscles fought against the suit Stacoli had given him: a shiny grey Vostok, acceptable gear for mixing with the money crowd, but it was one size too small. Part of Stacoli's stolen treasure-trove. At least he didn't have to buy his own; fucking thing would wipe away his skinny wages.

His guts rumbled and the spicy meat nosed its way into another crook of his intestines, pushing a swelling balloon of stink-gas ahead of it. The hydrofoil did another up and down. He clenched his arsehole shut and decided he'd better go find a toilet.

Brent pushed himself away from the railing and did another head-count: old training never died. Twenty three again, but something was not right. All the suits locked in private sub-vocals had been disengaged at once; he skimmed a glance across the lounge and saw suits reacting the same: everyone had lost comms. Brent reclined against the railing and pulled the Sony Vista from his trouser pocket: no signal. Could be a local satellite failure. They were away from the mainland, out of range of the city grids. He set the Sony to run a tag-sweep, picking up the nicknames and personalised statements most people loaded onto their own PA's for public broadcast: the returned result was blank. Brent frowned: something was jamming electronic signals.

Then all hell broke lose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

2

 

A couple of shots rang out, somebody screamed, a spray of automatic gunfire followed. Lots of shouting, French and Italian. Brent was away from the railing, running towards an exit then skidded to a stop on the plush carpet as several armed men ran in from the passage he'd been heading towards. There were six of them, dressed in suits, heads covered by ski-masks, a mixture of small arms and compact SMG's; they came in fast and aggressive, barking commands, dominating the room before anybody could react. Brent didn't need to be fluent in French to get their message; he threw up his hands, looked scared, which wasn't hard, and got down to his knees, dropping eye contact so as not to provoke any of them into thinking he was some kind of tough guy.

A gun barrel was shoved in his face, a hand-held electronic device appeared nearby - some kind of scanner.

Brent kept his eyes on the carpet: no way could they know what he was carrying. His hands were grabbed and pulled behind him, he didn't resist; a knee went into his back and he was forced to topple over onto his front. He winced, waiting for the good kicking to get him subdued but it didn't come. He could hear shit going on around the room. Passengers asking frightened questions, more angry shouting and no answers. These guys knew what they were doing. A pair of boots were beside his head, cheap Gore-Tex with thick rubber grips. They must have come on with proper shoes then changed; you wore these if you were clambering around wet and slippery surfaces. Like boat decks.

His hands were still behind him, he could feel the weight of the man holding them on the back of his legs; Gore-Tex was saying something quickly in French and Brent knew what they were talking about.

Bollocks, they've spotted my passport tag's fake.

He saw Gore-Tex coming down onto one knee. Time for a conversation? Something brushed the side of his neck and he heard a faint hiss. Cold aerosol hit his face. Pain, burning and intense, spreading rapidly like somebody had thrown a match onto petroleum. He tried to yank his arms free, started to buck in panic. What the fuck was it? Acid? The pain swept out as fast as thought; every muscle in his body was instantly on fire, but behind it came a way of almost euphoric numbness. His whole body went limp. It must have been IB gas; the stuff was usually limited to military issue. Who were these blokes and what did they want?

He made a mental grimace when he realised the ‘spicy meat' had escaped; his bowels had emptied into his pants.

A gloved hand grabbed his face and twisted his head to the side and checked his mouth was open; guess they didn't want him to suffocate on the carpet. The bloke on his legs moved about and he felt his hands being tied with plasticuffs.

He brought his thoughts under control, made himself relax. The worst thing to do with this stuff was panic. He had no control over his body but he still had his mind. He accepted he had no chance of escape right now, but if they were lifting him then an opportunity might present itself later. Or he wasn't the target and they'd just leave him the fuck alone; but why spray him?

Crap, what if this was a bounty job? UTOC Defence Council had pinned a murder charge on him after he did his runner.

He started to feel gloomy about his future; and he was royally fucked-off with Stacoli's fake-ID merchants.

Things were happening on the boat; the whole thing was bobbing like a cork now, which meant the engines had been cut. There was still a lot of shouting, barked orders and yelps of pain and fear. He tried to tune in to what was being said but his own thoughts were bubbling up into a riot. If this was a UTOC pick-up team he was fucked.

Gore-Tex was back; the gloved hand messed with his face and shoved something into his mouth; it expanded like a spring or something and kept his lips wide apart. He could hear somebody chuckling, muttering in French and making a gagging sound: they'd got a whiff of the ‘spicy meat' escape. Gore-Tex got right into the job, on both knees now and used both hands to lift his head up; Brent felt the bloke on his legs move forward, his eyelids were pushed closed then a hood was slipped over his head. Fastenings were pulled at the bottom and he entered a world of total darkness.

His head was lowered to the carpet, side-on, and he felt the bloke on his legs move away. Sweat started to build-up on his face and his heart going at it double-time. He knew he had to concentrate on keeping calm and let his body get on with the mundane task of breathing and blood flow.

Things were not looking good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3

 

Somebody searched him. Rough gloved hands, under his arms, around his kidneys, inside the belt of his pants, down his legs. They took his wallet-pouch: bollocks, there went Stacoli's data. He hoped Stacoli's computer geeks had done a better job encrypting it than they had making his crappy fake ID. They found the boot knife gauze taped to the inside of his calf: an evil serrated little fucker that he could clench in his fist and punch or slash with. He'd bill Stacoli for it.

Things were still going on in the lounge but it was much quieter now; especially through the hood, but there was no more shouting. A woman whimpered then went quiet. Brent wondered who had got shot right at the start. One of his captors or one of the suit's close protection? Hands grabbed him, arms went underneath his shoulders and he was hauled up between what felt like two blokes. He could hear them grunting with the strain. The hood pressed against his face, stuck there by sweat; it was getting hard to breathe. He still had fuck all control of his muscles. He could feel shit leaking down his legs.

It was drag time; the toes of his shoes slid along the carpet, bouncing over the rim of doorways. Then he was outside, cold air snuck under the hood and up his trouser legs, chilling anything that was damp. He was getting lifted, his legs got kicked, then he was being lowered, more hands joining the game, more grunting, somebody cursing in French. Everything was going up and down big time with the waves. He could hear the rumble of an outboard. Then he was horizontal again; cold and wet wood beneath him. Smell of diesel, and the ingrained scent of the sea. Part of him grabbed onto that smell and tried to take him into a safe world of memories: his father standing out on the jetty at Southwold beaming with pride as he sailed past, his first solo ride. Brent forced himself to focus on the here and now. He could hear more grunting, like something being lifted. Then a body was dumped next to him, he felt it slump against him and was grateful for the small amount of heat it gave. Another victim or a fresh corpse? He counted boots jumping down: ten blokes. A blanket or a tarp was thrown over him. He got a little bit warmer. Then the throttle was opened up and the outboard roared into life. The lift of acceleration and then the repetitive bangs and jaw jarring impacts as they cut the crest of waves.

Time blurred into a montage of anxiety, anger, daydreams of how he could have reacted better and avoided being caught like a sucker, and the incessant bruising impacts of the boat dropping through air.

He heard somebody throwing up; he heard somebody else chuckle.

Everything went calm; he guessed they'd entered a protected bay. Then the throttle dropped and he strained his ears as the boat edged its way into some kind of mooring. He half expected to hear the squawk of military radios; the thwup-thwup-thwup of some UTOC special ops chopper waiting to drag him back to retribution. Instead he heard rain spattering on plastic; and a distant moan and clank of heavy industry.

He was hoisted to his feet, a bloke either side; he discovered he could waggle his ankles, the spray was wearing off, but made sure he kept his body totally limp. More hands grabbed him and he was bodily lifted up, his shins scraping wood; sweat burst across his forehead and ran down his eyes from the exertion and reduced oxygen. The wood of a jetty was replaced by concrete- broken and pitted, the toes of his shoes juddering across it. Chips of gravel crunched underfoot the two blokes dragging him. He couldn't tell how far they went but the sound of machinery got louder; the hum of industrial ventilation; a heavy door being rolled open, then he was inside an enclosed space, large, echoes bouncing everywhere. Vehicles were started; his bearers were muttering in French and breathing heavy.

Gunfire started up. From outside. Brent was dropped without warning; he landed on his shins, adding bruises to the missing skin, then gravity dealt a nice blow to his head as he topped over. The gunfire outside was getting heavy: somebody was hosing on full-auto. He heard boots running; men shouting in French, panicked. Brent knew the deal: the police had arrived.

Brent wriggled his arms; they said hello-back with a dose of cramp. His wrists were bound tight. He couldn't feel his fucking hands. He worked his legs, forcing them to move, like he was riding a cycle on the ground. The concrete was gritty and very cold.

Somebody moved beside him.

Brent went shock still.

A voice in French whispered for him to be quiet; a hand worked at the hood's fastening then pulled it free.

The place was in semi-darkness so he didn't have to worry about being blinded as his sight returned; a gendarme was crouching over him, a fucking city-cop. Light torso armour and a standard issue pistol. They must be getting the shit kicked out of them by his captors if it was just a regular patrol. The guy had dark features and intense eyes: a lot of fear but the cop was being brave. Must have balls to sneak in here without back-up.

The gunfire was carrying on like a small war was happening out there.

‘Are you okay, are you injured?', the cop asked him quickly in French.

‘I'm fine, not injured,' he replied in the same language.

‘English?'

‘Yes,' his French had always sucked.

The cop took out a utility tool and started to cut away his bonds; Brent lay on his side with the cop behind him, lifted his head and looked around. They were inside a large and empty warehouse; rainy light seeped in through a line of dirt-smeared windows near the two-storey roof. Large-access doors were closed, but a smaller man-sized door stood slightly ajar letting in grey light twenty metres away. There were four cars parked in a line with their engines still running, three of them had their boots open: his intended next mode of transport? All of them looked several years old but clean of visual distinguishing marks, they'd probably had a better service than a Formula One to make sure they didn't break down on the job. The cop was nearly through his bonds; behind him two hooded figures lay on the ground, one of them moving like the spray was just wearing off.

The gunfire was sounding more sporadic now; either people were running low on ammo or somebody was winning.

His wrists fell apart; Brent rolled onto his back and started massaging them, grimacing with the cramp, trying to get the blood circulation going. The cop scuttled over to the next figure and started his hero-thing again.

Movement broke the light coming through the door. Brent dropped his hands and slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows. A short, stocky-looking man was slipping through the open gap; wearing a suit and outdoor boots, he was hefting a small pistol. Brent glanced at the cop who had got the hood off a good looking black-guy in his late twenties. The black-guy saw who was coming through the door. The cop saw the black-guy react. The guy coming didn't waste any time. The shot clipped the cop in the upper left arm, spinning him round, knocking him out of his crouch and onto his arse. The cop looked totally stunned for a fraction of a second but had already got his own pistol out, and was bringing it up. The next shot hit the cop centre mass. It was a good shot and killed him instantly; the cop fell back like a full sack, his pistol clattered to the concrete. The black-guy started babbling in French, all panicky. The shooter started to lower his gun, stood up straight and paused.

Brent rolled onto his side and grabbed the dropped pistol; his thumb was checking the safety was off as soon as the pistol grip met the web of his hand, his index finger was on the trigger, finding first pressure, his eyes never left the shooter.

He stopped.

The shooter already had a bead on him.

Fuck.

He kept the cop's pistol pointed down.

The shooter growled something in French, then shouted in English, ‘Drop it now or you die.'

Brent resisted the urge to comply; there was a reason they'd lifted him, there was a reason the shooter was talking and not shooting.

The shooter eased himself forward, confident and sure of himself, the pistol held out in front. ‘Put it down, now.' He had a voice like he smoked a few dozen a day.

The black-guy had gone as quiet as the grave.

Brent saw the shooter was in his fifties and had a face like a boxer; a broad, low and heavily creased brow; dark narrow eyes and a flattened mess of rubbery tissue for a nose.

Boxer was halfway between him and the door now; Brent could see his eyes real clear: there was no hesitation in them, no doubts to exploit.

Bollocks.

Brent nodded, indicating he was ready to comply.

The black-guy made a squeak sound. Brent focussed on the space behind Boxer, saw a cop slipping quietly through the gap in the door, pistol in hand. Dèja-fucking-vu. Boxer sensed something was out-of-place. Brent looked him right in the eyes, then flicked his gaze beyond him, ‘Cop. Doorway. Try and turn you'll never make it.'

Boxer met his eyes for a split second, Brent could sense his whole face being read.

‘Armed police, drop your weapon,' the warning was shouted in French.

Boxer closed his eyes.

Brent listened and heard a few shots going on. No idea who was winning the war.

‘Drop it now or I'll drop you,' the cop sounded like he meant business, sticking to French.

Boxer let the pistol fall from his hands; it hit the concrete with a dull sound.

‘Kick it away.'

Boxer opened his eyes, looked down at the gun and slowly moved his foot to it, then kicked it away.

‘Step away from the hostage and get to your knees.'

Boxer brought his other leg to where the gun had been, making a side-ways movement that brought the cop into Brent's full line-of-sight.

Brent didn't wait for any more bullshit; he brought the nose of the pistol up and let off three shots in quick succession. All three hit centre-mass. The cop staggered back and collapsed.

Brent brought the pistol up into full aim and put the bead on Boxer; Boxer frowned, puzzled, with a faint upward curl to his lips.

A spray of automatic gunfire sounded close to the door; two figures in suits ran inside without their ski masks and started to take in the scene. Both were carrying SMGs.

No room for compromise. Brent dropped the pistol.

Boxer ran over to his gun and picked it up; the two new arrivals were breathing hard and started explaining the current sitrep. It was bad news for the cops.

Boxer walked over to him, scratching the back of his neck as his colleagues secured the warehouse, they had not seen Brent with the gun.

Brent remained still, his hands clearly visible on the concrete floor. Standing over him now, Boxer paused for a long moment, studying him or something, Brent had no idea.

‘You got a thing against cops?' Boxer asked in his throaty voice, kicking the dead cop's gun away.

‘Nope,' Brent answered slowly, ‘But I stand a better chance of survival with you than them.'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4

 

Taormina, Sicily

Monday 28^th February, 15:44 Hrs

 

It was bad news for Jean-Luc Korda. He scanned the article on the desk's hardscreen in his private office, rubbing his thumb across the knuckles of his other hand. Francis Reznor, Chairman of Akinola-Odusola, had met with the Chinese and struck a deal.

Korda stood up from the stiff wooden chair, an authentic Sicilian antique that fit into the general décor, and stepped over to the wood-framed glass doors by his desk. Both doors were open, allowing in the warm breeze and a smell of flowers and honey, giving access to a wide terrace. The terrace overlooked the fortified entrance to the Carthew Family Estate; beyond the high walls the hillside descended to the medieval town of Taormina but his gaze was fixed on the view of the vast ocean that stretched out, calm and crystal clear to the horizon.

Leaning his short body against the doorjamb, he reached into the pockets of his Saint-Aran suit trousers and extracted a silver cigarette case. The pockets were silk lined, luxurious against his hand, the case was warm from his heat. He flipped it open, glancing down only momentarily whilst he extracted a London Crown: an old brand that had survived the health pogrom, and a habit he'd picked up in his former life in the police force. Lighting it and the first inhale were second nature; his mind got on with other thoughts.

Francis Reznor.

My nemesis?

Another inhale. His eyes tracked the movements of smartly dressed security guards below the terrace, by the main gate. His men.

The article he'd read described the meeting between Francis Reznor and China's Defence Minister. The resulting deal was a massive defence contract for Akinola-Odusola.

Under Reznor's steerage Akinola-Odusola had become one of the world's largest private equity funds, with over € 190 billion worth of investments in defence, nanomech, manufacturing, telecommunications, robotics, non-biological social structuring, healthcare and finance.

And now Reznor / Akinola-Odusola were the biggest threat to his job and the jobs of his men.

Akinola-Odusola wanted the security contract for the Carthew Alliance. The Carthew Alliance didn't just represent companies owned by the Carthew family, but all the companies who had banded together around the Carthew clan to form one of the many business alliances within UTOC.

As the Carthew family's Chief Security Officer, Jean-Luc Korda had the final word on the provision of security services within the Carthew Alliance. It was his job to decide who got hired and trusted. He was saying no to Akinola's proposition; he was saying no to Francis Reznor; he would never sell his job to them, or the jobs of his men. But there were certain people in the Carthew Alliance who wanted Akinola-Odusola to handle their security, and not Jean-Luc Korda.

Korda was under pressure and this deal with China was only going to strengthen Akinola-Odusola's position and further increase that pressure. A shame INFORG hadn't won. He knew they'd been strongly bidding for the Chinese contract; rumour was they lost because of the PR scandal three years ago: a rape ring exposed in Serbia, involving INFORG instructors who had been training Serbian security forces, and a fumbled attempt by INFORG to smother it.

Korda blew out a long plume of smoke; savouring the taste of Virginia on his tongue. He was meeting a weapons-dealer tomorrow: Krech…or Grech, something like that: the man was an INFORG vendor. He looked forward to a good bitching session about Akinola-Odusola.

He dropped the half-smoked London Crown onto the stone tiles outside and stubbed it out with the tip of his Saint-Aran shoes, careful not to mark the soft leather. Pushing himself away from the open doors he returned to his desk and prepared for his four o'clock meeting, the notes compiled by his assistant, Bjorn, already flashing on the desk's hardscreen:

> 4pm:

> MARLOW, Joachim

> INTELLIGENCE OFFICER, POWER OF 8 GROUP

Korda sat down on the wooden chair and dragged some of the onscreen windows to one side with his finger, pausing to read the Power of 8 Group advertisement:

 

‘Are you ready to be happy and fulfilled? The Power of 8 Group is for people that are truly ready to create a successful life for themselves. PO8 provides expertise, encouragement and support for helping you to make improvements in your life. PO8 is not therapy...we are not consultants....we are not a support or friendship group. PO8 is a network of advocates, experts and meta-technology to help you realize your full potential! Don't you deserve to have a team committed to your success?'

 

A polyphonic bell tone came through from concealed speakers, followed by Bjorn's voice: ‘Jean, your four P-M appointment is here to see you, shall I send him in?'

‘Thank you, Bjorn.'

A moment later one of the tall wooden doors to his office opened.

 

 

 

 

5

 

Korda took a moment to purposely study the giant sitting expectantly on the other side of his desk. Joachim Marlow was an agent for a semi-religious business ‘sect' known around the world as the Power of 8 Group. Marlow looked ten years younger than himself, and almost a third of a metre taller, putting him at well over two metres, with vast curving shoulders and thickly rounded upper arms. Korda could tell his suit was a Vostok, standard corporate fare, not what he'd have expected from the personal-success fetish that these PO8 people lived and breathed.

White skinned, Marlow's face had a pinkish, waxy complexion with deep creases and pock-marks around his mouth and jaw. A dense black moustache sat awkwardly beneath a shiny and crooked nose. Large pale green eyes, triangular in shape, set a little too wide apart, and strangely angled as if the far edges had slipped down his face a little, pulling the thick dark fur of his eyebrows down with them. The triangular theme repeated itself, he noticed, in the general shape of Marlow's head: a broad, flat brow descending towards a narrower jaw, it almost seemed too small for the body. A strange looking man.

‘Did you have a pleasant journey, from London wasn't it?' Korda spoke in English for Marlow's benefit.

‘I sure did,' Marlow replied enthusiastically, an American accent. ‘Only a short hop too; I gotta say this place is truly spectacular, a total tonic after London. Damn that place was nothing but damp and cold.'

Korda smiled; Marlow smiled back. ‘You were visiting the Zeus Power Institute.'

Marlow nodded.

‘Did you have any success?' Korda asked.

Marlow's smile broadened, his green eyes twinkled with something akin to mischief, ‘Now you're assuming I was there trying to sell Power of 8.'

‘Isn't that why you're talking to me?' Korda softened the blow: ‘I don't mean to be rude.'

Marlow nodded his small oddly shaped head.

‘I know the Finance Director for Zeus, he's not a fan of your people.' Korda told him.

‘My line manager likes me to take on tough assignments.'

‘You must be good,' he was being flattering.

‘Thank you. I am.' Marlow undid one of the buttons of his suit and sat forward; his shoulders almost matched the length of the desk. ‘So here's how I see it. I made a cold-call and you invited me here with a few warm words about trading.'

Korda nodded his head once, ‘It's a simple arrangement. I know of a multitude of corporations who are probing Carthew security weaknesses. I would guess that many of these corporations have employees who are Power of 8 members. I feel that you should be able to use your position and contacts to find out what intelligence some of these corporations have acquired on me, my men, and the Carthew family.'

Marlow was starting to smile again.

Korda continued; ‘In return for reliable hard data from you, I will recommend Power of 8 to Ms Xici Carthew as a viable ‘security partner' for the whole Carthew Alliance. I'm sure this would generate a lot of ‘leads' for your sales and marketing team to follow up.'

‘It's not quite sales…' Marlow began to correct then saw his look and shut up. Korda said nothing more.

He regarded Marlow with a blank gaze, waiting for him to digest the proposition and respond. The truth was he had no intention of recommending Marlow or Power of 8 to anybody, but if Marlow could provide some useful counter-intelligence he considered it was worth the risk of having Marlow on-site.

Marlow didn't take long to ponder the deal, he clapped his massive hands together, rubbed them and leaned even further forward; ‘It might take some time to push the request back through HQ.'

Korda waved a hand at the open doors to the terrace, ‘Consider yourself a guest here until we've satisfied our arrangement.' He watched Marlow turn his odd-shaped head to the doors and focus on the sun-drenched terrace; he could see Marlow was hooked by the idea.

Marlow swung his eyes back to him; ‘Would I be able to meet with your staff, discuss the concepts of PO8 to them?'

‘Not yet.'

Marlow looked away, sucked down on his lower lip so that his moustache obscured his whole mouth; he came to his decision, sat upright and displayed a broad smile: ‘It's a deal.'

‘Good.' Korda reached forward and touched an icon on the hardscreen, then said, ‘Bjorn, when Monsieur Marlow leaves please escort him to a guest lodge. He will be staying with us for the immediate future. Also arrange for suitable security clearance to allow him to move freely between his lodge and the main entrance.'

Bjorn's voice returned, disembodied: ‘Certainly, Jean.'

Marlow was gazing outside again.

‘Are you interested in history?' he asked Marlow.

‘I'm no expert but I always take the tours, you know walk around and stuff.'

Korda smiled; he always enjoyed explaining the attractions of the area, ‘Taormina has much to offer, a rich tapestry of monuments left through various golden ages, you'll find a few days worth to occupy you in the town: there is the Greek theatre, the Roman ‘Naumachiae', the 13th century Cathedral of Saint Nicolò, the 14th century Palazzo Corvaja, the 16th century Palace of the Dukes of Saint Stefano, the public gardens, the ‘Badia Vecchia'…' He could see Marlow was not flaring with interest; Marlow was being polite.

Korda smiled, a humble host. ‘Enjoy your stay Monsieur.'

Marlow took his cue; rose like a mountain from the chair, shook his hand then walked out, crossing the room with a sort of lumbering motion.

When the door closed after him, Korda rose from his own chair and walked back to the open doors and leant against the frame. He wondered if Marlow would be overwhelmed by the luxury of the estate. Marlow struck him as a man not accustomed to such lavish environments.

He turned within the doorway and gazed at the oil painting behind his desk, an olive skinned man in medieval garb gazed back at him. For a moment the mystery surrounding the painting parted the waters of his mind then submerged again as his thoughts returned to worry him about Akinola-Odusola.

One thing that most people did not know about Jean-Luc Korda was his responsibility for a private army. A highly trained team for black ops covertly funded through the Carthew Alliance Security Council. The team existed under the funding line: Iron Man Project. It existed to carry out surveillance, blackmail, sabotage, kidnap and murder for the best interests of the Carthew Alliance.

The complication was this:

The Carthew Alliance Security Council was chaired by his paymaster, Lars Norström. Lars Norström wanted Korda to agree to Akinola-Odusola taking over regular Carthew Alliance security ops. Norström had blocked all further funding of the Iron Man Project whilst Korda continued to refuse.

Because the whole project was deeply covert, Korda had no way of seeking other funding.

Lars Norström had him by his French balls.

Which brought Korda back to an issue that had been niggling him since he'd learned Lars had blocked the funding: the purpose of the visit by the weapons dealer tomorrow was to secure new equipment for the Iron Man team. Right now Korda had no money to pay him with. So was there any point even meeting with him?

Korda reached into his jacket and pulled out his PA, a sleek model by Paragon-Deltacom; he thumbed through the business cards in its memory and found the weapon dealer's. Karl Grech: Integrated Security Vendor. There was a montage image of him and an extremely attractive woman (his assistant?) - classical features and lengthy dark hair cleverly held up with long pins. Grech looked early sixties and had a miserable face.

No, it would be a bad idea to meet Grech and waste his time whilst he had no funds to actually buy anything: he doubted Grech was a fan of people ‘window shopping'.

He used the PA to dial Bjorn. Returning the device to his jacket pocket he spoke via his throat implant when Bjorn answered.

‘Bjorn, I'm supposed to be meeting Karl Grech tomorrow. Please contact him and apologise but I'll be unable to attend the meeting. Make up some excuse if you can. Leave it open for a possible visit at a later date.' Bjorn confirmed but his voice was out-of-breath and on edge, as if he'd been running. ‘What is it?' Korda stepped out onto the terrace and looked down at the main gate; no problems there.

‘I was just on my way to see you,' Bjorn replied quickly. ‘It's Raymond Fox, he's been kidnapped en-route to Barcelona. He was on a hydrofoil travelling from Marseilles. We think Jørgen Frost might be responsible.'

Korda was furious. Raymond Fox was Xici Carthew's current plaything and aware of her planned movements in Barcelona. An unacceptable security risk. ‘Damn it! Mobilise Iron Man. Get Karim onto Jørgen Frost directly. Then get the Barcelona team to change all arrangements - the whole venue.'

Bjorn hesitated, ‘Xici chose that venue.'

Korda gazed out at the vast expanse of the ocean. ‘Let me worry about Xici. If she wants that venue, she can have her ashes scattered there.'

 

 

 

 

 

 

6

 

Bristol, England

Monday 28^th February, 16:07 Hrs

 

Her satchel was a Haujobb, shiny gold plastic with a funky opening that was made of pure energy: the energy glowed a green-purple colour, real bash like, and even kept the rain out. She couldn't figure that one yet, because she'd have thought the raindrops would have fizzled and sparked or something but they just slid off like the patch of energy was as smooth as her raincoat. JD called it a 'field projection' but that felt like calling her make-up a crash-helmet. The image didn't fit. Didn't matter though; the bag was expensive, was hard to buy, part of that whole vicked hacker/artist, on-line culture thing, and it looked dical.

Gutted she'd have to ditch it when she blew Bristol tomorrow.

Lucy, although that wasn't her real name, gave the strip of energy another prod with a gold-chrome painted fingernail; it had a slick feeling, like warm running water, but had this whole trembling thing going on that tickled the tip of her finger. It was a really vicked bag.

She looked up long enough to focus on the cappuccino and picked it up from the café table; she used her other hand to squeeze the bag's 'fastener', switching off the green-purple strip. Reaching inside and rummaging for her PA, she took a long swig of coffee and put the ceramic cup back on the table. Her fingers found and extracted the PA, a cheap yellow plastic Verovitch Vek. She turned the Vek's camera towards her and inspected her make-up in the small screen: not the best face she'd ever put on but it would have to do. Caught in the camera were a couple of guys in dirty overalls, checking her out from two tables behind. She ignored them and flipped the camera round to Mr Pornstar who was working the bar.

The café was all simple-tables, one step up from street food, but set in a posh part of the city: the place was regularly crammed with students and office-types looking for a cheap hangout. Mr Pornstar was a white guy, late twenties, fake-tanned, grease-effect hair, big build with a cheesy white teeth smile; he definitely owned the place or had a share in its profits. JD, her partner in crime, had figured he was worth a try.

Lucy watched and waited. Less than thirty seconds and he was looking over at her again, the kind of below the brow look that meant his head movement didn't make it obvious. Sleaze. She snapped her eyes up and caught his stare. He hesitated. She smiled, pure friendly, like a nice girl who was happy with the way life was going today. She gestured to her bag and indicated she was getting ready to leave. He nodded and went to the till for her to pay.

Pushing the coffee cup away from her (its rim smeared in her orange-chrome lipstick) she hauled her satchel onto her shoulder, brushed strands of brown and bleach-blonde hair either side of her face and crossed to the counter, a quick punchy stride with a well practised wiggle to her rear-end. Her long legs were sheathed in black-fishnets, knee length black leather boots with chunky steel-rimmed heels, the skirt was by Optimum, bright orange neoprene with the word Optimum floating a few centimetres behind her waist: pale blue holographic projection.

The lights flickered, then stuttered out; all the hardscreens faded to black; a collective moan rose up from the customers. Another power cut. With practised familiarity, Mr Pornstar walked over to another room. After a few seconds came the rumbling of a fuel-driven generator. The light came back on, a dirty yellow, the atmosphere went from cheap to depressing. The hardscreens had reset themselves to a single channel: all of them were showing news about another suicide bomb, she didn't know where, she didn't care.

Mr Pornstar came back out, wiping his hands on a towel used to dry glasses; she met his gaze and played her best 'oops' look.

‘You're not going to be happy,' she said to him, and held up the thin yellow plastic Vek. He cocked an eyebrow. ‘I thought I had more cash than this and my bank's access line is down; there's not enough to pay for the coffee and the bottle of water.'

‘It's okay,' he said with smug generosity, ‘Pay next time.'

‘No, no,' she shook her head, played embarrassed, ‘That's not how I'm wired; er, look, my friend works not far from here. I can leave something as a guarantee and be back in few minutes with the money.'

He shrugged, dropped the towel next to a sink; ‘If it'll keep your conscience clean.'

She reached into the satchel and pulled out something wrapped in clear-plastic bubble wrap. ‘It's nothing much, something I got for my uncle, I don't want you to think I'm not going to pay.'

He seemed curious about the dark shape inside the plastic; pointing, he asked, ‘What is it?'

She smiled like she was excited he was interested, and unravelled the plastic, revealing a green stone carving, as long as her forearm in the form of two surreally intertwined figures. ‘My uncle collects these things. I found it in a junk store, I know he's going to be so pleased.' She studied it herself, as if analysing something she found fascinating, then folded the plastic back over it and placed it on the counter.

He was gazing at her. She could read his eyes: you want to fuck me. You're thinking how you can get my phone tag.

‘I'll be right back.' she promised. He nodded a little too eagerly, she smiled, flashed her palm at him, turned and walked out, barely avoiding eye contact with the well-dressed man with short bleached-blonde hair, sitting close to the bar: her man, JD.

The café was situated on a short side-road, placed in a row of shops with brightly-lit displays selling over-priced items of no real use. Outside she turned left, walking through a narrow marble archway onto a path that bisected a small park. It was dark and still raining; she closed her satchel, zipped up her jacket and flipped up the fur-lined hood. The rain was cold as vid through her fishnets. She walked halfway into the park and stopped underneath the awning of an information kiosk, there was a main road another ten metres away, lots of traffic, lots of people walking. The fear started to loom large in her head, the cold and the rain started jabbing her misery button: was this her life? She pulled a tiny baggie from her jacket pocket, picked out a small rock of crystal, popped it in her mouth and sucked it until it dissolved into her saliva. Bad mix with caffeine but she needed to stay bash for the next part of this.

The Vek vibrated in her hand as the call came through; she answered it with her thumb and kept the Vek down by her side. Sound was channelled through her ear-clip; JD would have placed his PA on the counter, letting her follow the conversation he was about to have with Mr Pornstar.

‘Excuse me fella, can I take a look at the figurine that girl left behind.' She could hear JD real clear. Nothing was said for a moment but then she heard the rustle of plastic. JD gasped with disbelief and exclaimed as if delighted, ‘My God, I thought so but I couldn't believe it when I saw her just unwrap it like that.'

‘Why, what is it?' Mr Pornstar quizzed him.

JD continued as if he hadn't heard him, ‘Unbelievable. You hear stories like this, of such treasures just rising up from decades of obscurity, but you never think it could happen to you.'

‘You think so? Huh, the girl told me she found it in a second hand stall.'

‘It's in utterly pristine condition. Did she say she would be back soon?'

‘Er, a few minutes. She owes me for a couple of drinks. Why, what is it?'

‘Have you heard of Salvador Dali?'

‘Yeah, of course, but…'

Silence.

Lucy grinned and bobbed up and down as the silence continued and the crystal burned away the shadows in her head; she could so imagine the way JD would be gazing at the figurine, like he was being seduced. She didn't know why JD used the name Salvador Dali but it always had the same effect on people.

‘Did he sculpt things? I always thought he did those mad paintings.'

‘He was a prolific artist of all mediums.' JD stated, totally bash.

‘She found it in a second hand stall, they wouldn't just sell it like that, surely?'

‘They obviously had no idea what they were selling; I doubt a girl like that could have afforded such a wonder if they had.'

‘Why, what's it worth?'

‘I know a buyer in China who would snap such an item up. I would say he'd pay…sixty, maybe sixty-five.'

‘I doubt that's out her league; did you see the gear she was wearing?'

‘My apologies, I should clarify, sixty to sixty-five thousand.'

‘Euros?' Pornstar's voice had dropped right down to whisper.

‘Yes. It really is in immaculate condition. Hmm, look, perhaps you could do me a favour. I'm already cutting it close to catch my flight back to Geneva. I don't want to risk waiting any longer. Here's my business card.'

‘You deal in these things.' Pornstar was reading the card.

‘Yes. I need to get to the airport. Perhaps you could pass my card on to the girl when she returns; explain I would pay her in advance, and collect the fee from my China contact myself.'

‘Of course.'

Blah blah blah, Lucy listened in whilst JD extended his departure, deepening the tension between his desire to catch the girl versus his anxiety about missing his flight. All the while Mr Pornstar was asking questions about the figurine and the contact in China. He was hooked.

JD left the café; the sound of traffic grew louder in her ears, then his voice came through. ‘All yours.'

She cut the call, then dialled her bank account on the Vek and transferred a few Euros onto its cash chip. She stepped out from the kiosk's awning and pulled back her hood, let some of the rain get into her hair. Then she went back to the café.

Mr Pornstar was holding the figurine and staring at it like it was a bar of gold.

‘Hi,' she greeted as she stopped in front of him and wiggled her Vek, ‘I got it.'

‘Hmm?' he glanced at the yellow plastic device with distraction then back at the figurine, then back at her.

‘It's great isn't it,' she said enthusiastically.

Mr Pornstar did a quick under-his-brow scan of the other customers and seemed satisfied he was going to get away with his scheme. His attention went back to the green stone figurine; Lucy saw his knuckles were almost white where he was holding it so tight. ‘Yes, it's very cool.'

‘Yeah, bash.'

‘Were there many left?'

‘No, I think this was the only one. Lady said she'd only put it out this morning. From a house clearance, think she said, I'm not sure. Why?'

‘How much did you pay for it?'

‘Why, do you want to buy it?' She laughed, ‘No way, that's for my uncle. He told me to look out for anything like this.'

‘I'll pay you two-hundred euro's.'

‘No way!' her voice went up a pitch, ‘Not in a million years.' She held out her hand for it.

Mr Pornstar didn't want to give it back. ‘Shit, listen here's the deal, OK. I think my girlfriend would love this and I really want to make her happy.'

You're too slimy to have a girlfriend. ‘We'll that's a lovely thought but… no way.' She waggled her fingers.

‘OK. Five hundred.'

‘Five hundred?' she made like she was thinking about it.

‘Five hundred.'

‘Well…' she paused and did think about it: 500 would be nice but today was her last day in Bristol and she reckoned she could push her luck. ‘You know, I think I've found something that's got what you call a demand-supply problem. Demand is, you want it and I know my uncle would kill for it, the supply problem is, there's only one.'

‘One thousand. I can give you cash, right now.'

She studied his face, concealing the bubble of pure excitement building up in her guts; the veins in his temples were bulging right out. She smiled, like she was about to go for it, then she groaned and shook her head. ‘My uncle, he'd go nuts if-'

‘Two thousand. Cash. That's my final offer. Two thousand cash. You can have it right now.'

Bingo.

She went through the whole closure routine as she'd done a zillion times before; he transferred the cash right out of his bank account into her PA. Untraceable. He didn't let go of the figurine the entire time.

Outside again, Lucy pulled up her hood, turned right and quick-walked it, joining the crowds of people and cars beyond the side-street.

Two-thousand. Totally vid. What a score! When Mr Pornstar dialled the phone-tag on JD's business card he'd get an answer service. JD would never pick up the message of course. Finally, after some undefined period of time and effort, poor Mr Pornstar would discover the figurine was a cheap knock-off, worth a few euros.

Two-thousand. That was a bash departure ticket. That's more than she used to earn in three months in her old life, before Mr Death showed up and told her to run.

Change the subject, she told herself: I don't want to think about Mr Death today thank-you!

Two-thousand; she and JD could eat some decent food maybe, for a while, make a change from the communal vegetable pot they always had on the go back at the squat; she would drop into Urbow, pick up a couple more items to please and tease her man.

She kept walking and dialled JD.

‘How'd y'do?' he asked, calm as he always was.

‘Two thousand sweet-pea.'

‘Awesome. Catch you back at the pad.'

‘JD!' she almost shouted.

‘Yeah?' Slight concern in his voice.

‘I love you.'

He chuckled, then hung up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

7

 

New Tokyo, Florida

Monday 28^th February, 11:30 Hrs

 

Camille was wearing a designer Revel suit-jacket and trousers, luxurious folds of pure cashmere, pulled in tight around her waist with a thick belt of aged leather; a pair of bright red heels and a matching handbag completed the outfit. She wrapped a cream-coloured scarf of pure silk around her head, tying it gently beneath her chin.

Taormina, she mused with delight, checking the reflection of her tiny figure in the gold flecked mirror in the hotel suite's lounge, paying more attention to the fit of the scarf than her face, which she knew always looked perfect: no make-up, just a touch of mascara. Taormina; Sicily. She had always wanted to go there. The famous film stars of the past used to go to be seen there: a Golden Age of cinema and human history. The 1950's and 60's; way before her own time. She was only twenty-five: she'd once spent a whole summer watching the classics of Burton, Taylor, Hepburn, and living inside a dreamworld inspired by them. When was that? When she was fourteen, she recalled she'd spent the whole summer back at her parent's estate in England; it bordered the Yorkshire Sculpture Park and she enjoyed growing up around the creations of Henry Moore as much as she loved the weeks at her school in Zurich.

Camille became aware her gaze had drifted out of focus; memories overriding what her eyes were seeing. Focussing, a pained expression touched her delicate face; a tremble went through her broad lips. That was all they were now, memories, visible, evocative, and yet forevermore untouchable. The estate was gone, the wealth of her family squandered dry by her mother after father had died. And here she was now, living in a platinum card hotel suite as big as her first apartment in Paris, and…

Where were her thoughts going with this?

Daddy I miss you.

A silent death for a lovely man; he passed away in his sleep when she was nineteen. He never got to see the success she made of her life, or meet the man she loved and lost.

Stephan.

What would they both think of her now? Living her life like an expensive whore and using the same tired excuse to justify it: the men who killed Stephan might want to see her dead too. It wasn't certain they did anymore. Time had passed; their priorities could have changed; they could have forgotten about her. But could she take that risk? She hated where she was but at least she was safe…and comfortable.

Camille stared at her reflection: sapphire blue eyes, almond shaped, drilled back at her. I am protected here. You used to have so much more. Her thoughts were self-remonstrating, scolding herself with guilt she could not soothe. The cherished memories of Stephan stained by her sleazy affair with a madman.

I am a prisoner here. She lacked the courage to break free yet wanted to start working again, to be the successful career woman she used to be when she met Stephan.

It was his jealousy that spoilt everything, she thought to her reflection. Stephan had hated her rapid climb within the ranks of the Power of Eight Group, despite joining more than a year later than him. It was the reason Stephan became so cold, and she did nothing to stop it. She fucked another man to punish him for not accepting her, and managed to damn herself. Camille shuddered at the memory of that large and clumsy body on her.

Would things have been different if she'd tried to be reasonable? If she had taken the time to listen to what Stephan had really been saying about their relationship? Or was it written somewhere that her infidelity would lead to her finding Stephan outside the beach house, lying in the water with two pink and ragged holes in his head. Two bullets had ended Stephan's life but somewhere in the complex churn of interconnected events around that period, Camille sensed she was responsible for the killing being set in motion.

The shape of her eyes changed as her emotions hardened. The only alternative outcome was if she'd been there with Stephan when it happened. Camille knew she'd be lying next to him just as dead.

Turning from the mirror, Camille crossed the expansive lounge to the row of tall modern windows.

66^th floor view of New Tokyo; it was a view that remained stunning no matter how many times she looked out across it.

The financial sector rose up like a stack of glass needles to her left, glinting in the sunlight, each of them tipped in exotic roof gardens; the whole sector a triangular wedge of undiluted UTOC power. The labyrinthine sprawl of corporate housing estates stretched away from the financial sector on two sides. Central New Tokyo stood directly below and to her right, lots of cream coloured stone, thick glass balconies, reflective gold and chrome domes, 'orbital rings' and upright cigars with fins that straddled other buildings, an architectural panoply, integration of design and purpose, art, accommodation and leisure. A fusion of styles that celebrated the great step into space. New Tokyo central was too slick for her pallet.

There were more roof gardens, elevated islands of verdant artistry, all helping to reduce the build up of heat amongst the mass of tall structures. There were no cars down there. Just automated people carriers that looked like four armchairs inside a smoked-glass bauble. They zipped along web-like tracks and overhead wires, criss-crossing the city at speed, alone or in computer-organised convoys, up and down the sides of buildings, whizzing above the sprawl of the city on cables slung from large stanchion towers.

Camille stood there for a long time, her gaze angled down.

The scarf around her head began to feel hot and constrictive. Taking it off she turned away from the windows, crossed the spacious room and placed the scarf on the edge of one of the three sofas there. Nearby, several suitcases lay on the floor, open and neatly packed. What could be keeping him? Camille suppressed irritation and worry. She had not heard from Karl since he'd left the hotel that morning. Their flight to Sicily would be leaving in four hours.

The planned visit to Taormina was for business. Karl's business: and where he went, she would always follow, partly out of loyalty, mainly out of a sense of duty, repayment for what he did for her. Karl Grech, her protector and benefactor. After Stephan's murder, when every other door had been closed in her face, when the wolves were tearing away every shred of what she and Stephan had owned, and when it became apparent that her very life was at risk, Karl had appeared out of nowhere and whisked her away. Somehow all this time later she was still with him. It was an arrangement Karl did much to perpetuate. If she was a prisoner, then Karl Grech was the prison keeper; a psychological tyrant.

Camille knew she was under the thumb of a man who was manipulative and cruel; a man who sold weapons to private armies.

The meeting in Taormina involved an important client, somebody who could open up a door to a massive contract for 'security resources' across numerous companies; one of the alliances within UTOC. She knew Karl needed the business: Karl did not talk to her about money, he was very old fashioned like that, but things had not been good recently. And if Karl suffered – then so did she: without Karl she had nothing.

Damn it where was he!

She paced the room. Normally she would be down in the city, shopping, supping a double-macchiato and reading through the day's news, lunching with successful women who only knew she was the partner of a successful man; but when Karl needed her all semblance of her personal freedom vaporised.

What is this? Her hands were trembling. What was she afraid of? That something had happened to Karl like Stephan? No, that wasn't it. Her mind-closed ranks and shut out the thought that had tried to surface; why was she so afraid of her own life?

She reached into her handbag and extracted a small chunky case that could have been lipstick; she flipped back its lid and withdrew a gold-plated filter attached to a fine mesh of crystal strands; one of several within the case. With practised familiarity her index finger pressed the tiny stud set on one side, a flicker of light passed along the crystal strands before she placed the filter between her lips. A sharp inhale, a blend of nicotine, caffeine and dopamine particles entered her bloodstream. For a moment her eyes became hooded, the trembling in her hands subsided, then her mind engaged a higher gear and she felt her self-confidence and enthusiasm returning.

A noise from the suite's entrance hall.

Karl?

There was a muffled crash followed by a man cursing in English, a moment later and the lounge door was flung open in rage.

 

 

 

 

 

8

 

Karl came storming into the lounge, causing Camille to physically jump back and bump against a sofa. His normally brown face was flushed red; his thin lips were white with rage and curled back baring healthy - albeit coffee stained – teeth; grey eyes narrowed into compressed steel behind the thin lenses of his DVFrames. Her stomach filled with cold acid, her heart fluttered, she had learned to fear Karl in this mood: a brief memory of last year, two weeks spent in the suite hiding the bruises. His bulky jaw was set off angle as his facial muscles contorted with the fury of his voice.

‘He's cancelled! Can you fucking believe it?'

He didn't look at her but strode over to the window. Planting his hands on the wall either side of the window he leaned his burly mass forward; in his early fifties with a full head of grey hair, Karl Grech was a formidable figure.

‘Mr Korda has cancelled?' she queried timidly, glancing about her at the packed suitcases and feeling a darkness descending on her spirit.

‘I've already bought the fucking tickets,' Karl bellowed, ‘Do you know how much this idiot has cost me? The day we're supposed to be there he cancels. No explanation – just some bland apology from his secretary. This is the end for me.'

‘Baby,' Camille fought her fear of him, placed the spent gold filter on a coffee table with trembling hands and hurried over to him. She folded her small arms around the shoulder of his suit, tried to ease Karl down towards her so she could kiss his face, he was over 180 cm's and a full head and shoulders taller than her, but he stood there immovable like a rock. As she gently pulled, she caused the collar of his shirt to stretch open and reveal the jagged shiny pink line of scar tissue around his neck: an old wound from Louisiana, where Karl had grown up.

A few moments passed; anger was radiating off him in waves, she could smell his sweat beneath the sharp tang of his metallic aftershave. Camille ran her small hands through the long silky hair at the back of his head, ‘Come on baby, maybe we just take the flight and go enjoy the time together.'

Karl swung round without warning, the aggression whipping her arms from him; he grabbed her by the throat and slammed her body backwards. The back of her skull struck the wall, his thick fingers dug into the flexible cartilage of her throat, pain and light burst like supernovas.

‘Time together? You think I have time to waste. To waste time with you? What are you? You're like a leach. You live off me. I feed you. I fuck you. I pay you with clothes and a roof over your head. I should put a fucking flame to your face and dump you.'

A choked scream started at the back of her throat; her vision blurred up with tears and pulses of light. She saw the meaty shape of his fist hovering in front of her face.

Then she was on the floor, on her knees, struggling to suck in breath through what felt like a crushed straw, her heart hammered in panic as she imagined herself suffocating like this; the back of her head was sending throb after throb of sharp pain. Somehow she managed to let out a sob. Tears splashed the carpet in front of her.

‘Clear up this fucking mess,' Karl growled from somewhere in the room. ‘I need to go and work out how to pay for this fucking place.'

A door slammed shut.

Holding her throat, Camille swallowed and coughed in pain. Saliva dangled from her lips. She slumped forward, the carpet was cold and damp on her face. A throbbing ache from her skull made her wince. She kept her mouth open and tried her best to breathe. Her shoulders shuddered and the sobbing grew more intense.

Escape, escape, escape.

 

 

END OF EXCERPT

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