The Edge of Armageddon

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Julian Marsh figured that, without a doubt, he was the happiest man alive. Directly in front of him lay a primed, trussed up nuclear weapon, close enough to touch, his to play with on a whim. To his left curled a divine, beautiful woman, also his to play with on a whim. And she to play with him of course, though a particular area was starting to get a little sore from all the attention. Maybe some of that whipped cream…

But continuing on his previous and most important train of thought — a passive terrorist cell sat near the window, again his to play with on a whim. And then there was the American government, chasing their tails all over the city, running scared and running blind, his to play—

“Julian?” Zoe breathed a hair’s breadth from his left ear. “Want me to head down south again?”

“Sure, but don’t inhale the bastard like you did last time. Give him a little breathing space, eh?”

“Ooh, of course.”

Marsh let her have her fun, and then thought about what would happen next. Mid-morning had already passed, and certain deadlines were approaching. The time was almost here when he would unwrap another burner cell and call Homeland with the dead-drop demands. Of course, he knew there would be no actual “dead-drop”, not with five hundred million being exchanged, but the principal was the same and could be executed similarly. Marsh gave gratitude to the gods of sin and iniquity. With those guys on your side what couldn’t be accomplished?

Like all good dreams this one would come to an end, but Marsh determined that he would enjoy it while it lasted.

Patting Zoe on the head and then standing up, he untied one of his shoe laces and walked over to the window. With two minds often came two different viewpoints, but both of Marsh’s personalities were au fait with this scenario. How could either of them lose? He’d pilfered one of Zoe’s condoms and now tried to pull it over one hand. In the end he gave in and made do with two fingers. Hell, it still satisfied his inner quirkiness.

As he wondered what to do with the spare shoelace, the cell leader rose and stared over at him, giving Marsh a blank smile. This was Gator, or as Marsh privately referred to him — the Gatorous One — and, though quiet and clearly slow, he did have a look of danger about him. Marsh guessed he was probably one of the vest-wearing types. A pawn. As expendable as a long piss. Marsh guffawed aloud, breaking eye contact with the Gatorous One at just the right moment.

Zoe followed in his footsteps, taking a look out the window.

“Nothing to see,” Marsh said. “Lest you enjoy scrutinizing humanity’s lice.”

“Oh, at times they can be amusing.”

Marsh looked around for his hat, the one he liked to wear canted at an angle. Of course, it had disappeared, maybe even before he reached New York. The last week had become a complete blur to him. Gator walked over and asked politely if there was anything he required.

“At the moment, no. But I will be calling them soon with details for the money transfer.”

“You will?”

“Yes. Didn’t I provide you people with an itinerary?” The question was rhetorical.

“Oh, that piece of crap. I have been using it as a fly swatter.”

Marsh might be eccentric, crazy and driven by blood-lust, but a shallower part of him was also clever, calculating and entirely switched on. This was how he survived so well, how he made it through the Mexican tunnels. In a moment he realized he’d gauged Gator and the situation all wrong. He wasn’t in charge here — they were.

And it was a moment too late.

Marsh struck out at Gator, knowing exactly where he’d left a gun, a knife and an unused Taser. Expecting success he was surprised when Gator blocked the blows and returned one of his own. Marsh took it well, ignoring the pain, and tried again. He was aware of Zoe gawping at his side and wondered why the idle bitch didn’t jump in to help.

Gator again turned his punch with ease. Marsh then heard a noise at his back — the sound of the apartment door being opened. He jumped away, surprised when Gator let him, and turned.

A gasp of shock escaped his throat.

Eight men entered the apartment, all dressed in black, all carrying bags, and looking mean as foxes in a chicken run. Marsh stared and then turned to Gator, his eyes even now not quite believing what they were seeing.

“What is going on?”

“What? Did you think we would all sit nicely whilst the rich men in their tailored suits funded their wars? Well, I have news for you, big man. We do not wait for you anymore. We fund our own.”

Marsh was staggered by a double blow to the face. Falling backwards, he caught hold of Zoe, expecting her to hold him up, and when she didn’t they both fell to the floor. The shock of it all sent his system into overdrive, sweat glands and nerve endings in full flow and an annoying tic starting up at the corner of one eye. Took him right back to the bad old days, when he was a boy and nobody cared about him.

Gator stalked about the apartment, organizing the now twelve-strong cell. Zoe had made herself as small as possible, practically a part of the furniture as guns were revealed and other weapons of war — grenades, more than one RPG, the ever-dependable Kalashnikov, tear gas, stun-bombs and a plethora of hand-driven, steel-shod missiles. This was somewhat unnerving.

Marsh cleared his throat, still clinging to that last shred of dignity and egotism that ensured him that he, in this room, was the Satanic goat with the biggest horns.

“Look,” he said. “Get your filthy hands off my nuke. Do you even know what this is, boy? Gator. Gator! We have a deadline to keep.”

The leader of the fifth cell finally threw a laptop aside and strode over to Marsh. Now with backup and with the gloves well and truly off, Gator was a different man. “You think I, owe something to youuuu?” The last word was a squeal. “My hands are cleeeean! My boots are cleeeean! But they will soooon be covered in gore and ash!”

Marsh blinked quickly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“There will be no payout. No moneeee! I work for the great, the revered one and only, Ramses, and they call meeee the Bombmaker. But today I will be the initiator. I will give it life!”

Marsh waited for the inevitable squeal at the end but this time it didn’t come. Gator had clearly allowed a splurge of power to turn his head, and Marsh still didn’t understand why these people were handling his bomb. “Guys, that is my nuke. I bought it and brought it to you. We’re awaiting a nice payday. Now, be good boys and put the nuclear bomb down onto the table.”

It was only when Gator punched him until the blood flowed that Marsh began to truly understand that something had gone terribly wrong here. It occurred to him that all his past deeds had led him to this point in his life, every right and wrong, every good or bad word and comment. The sum of every experience put him right in this room at this time.

“What are you going to do with that bomb?” Terror lowered and thickened his voice as if it were being forced like cheese through a grater.

“We are going to detonate your nuke as soon as we receive word from the great Ramses.”

Marsh sucked in air without breathing. “But that will kill millions.”

“And so our war will have begun.”

“This was about money,” Marsh said. “Payback. A little fun. Making the United Donkeys of America chase their tail. This was about funding, not mass murder.”

“Youuuu… have… killlled!” Gator’s fanatical rant ramped up a notch.

“Well, yeah, but not many.”

Gator kicked him until he curled into a motionless ball; ribs, lungs, spine and shins aching. “We only await word from Ramses. Now, someone, pass me a phone.”