Wrecking Crew

FOUR

The Chameleon was stalking its latest prey. As always, it had carefully planned how this one would die. Everything was prepared, every possible eventuality had been calculated, every contingency considered, nothing would go wrong. Unlike other assassins, who were by comparison just crude killers, Chameleon was an artist. Each death was meticulously planned and precisely executed to look like an accident. Chameleon’s specialty was committing perfect, undetectable, murders — homicides hidden behind the innocence of an everyday tragedy.

There were actually two people living inside that one brain, like identical cerebral Siamese twins. One was just an ordinary person, unremarkable in every way. Someone with a normal job and a life, someone with ambitions and hobbies, the sort of person who may chat to you on the bus, rescue your cat from a tree, or help an old lady across the road. The other was called Chameleon; the shape changer, the invisible person, always there but never identified. The last person you will ever see, when your death is delivered with a smile and a wink.

The first person was born to loving parents in a happy home, in a small village near Sczopol, Bulgaria overlooking the Black Sea. A normal playful child destined to live an uneventful life, until tragedy tore the family apart, and condemned the child to a living hell of abuse and neglect in an institution. The second was planted and grown as part of an experiment, by an uncaring government, greedy for any advantage over the rich capitalists in the West.

Then, one day two men in dark suits came to the children’s home. The filthy and undernourished children were brought from their cells, cots, and dormitories, and forced to line up for inspection. Like farmers at a sheep auction, the men poked, prodded, and examined the wretched children. Incorrectly thinking that they were offering a better life, the children vied for their attention. The men threw some chocolate bars onto the ground and watched impassively as the children fought like animals to win the treats. Eventually one was selected; it was a strong child, with a good physique and obvious intelligence. That child was moved to an experimental Government facility, where the second child was to be implanted.

Look into the eyes of any soldier who has taken a life in battle and you will see a certain darkness, as if there is a hollow in their soul. Even in a time of war, it is natural for any person with an ounce of humanity to be haunted by the terrible things that they have seen and done. No matter how evil the enemy, no matter how just the cause, every soldier wears that badge of inner shame. Like an unwanted medal, a price must be paid by the victors and survivors, for the dead can have no shame.

However, an assassin must be different. He must kill to order. An assassin must kill for pay, and he must kill without just cause. An assassin must kill without feeling anything. Soldiers learn to compartmentalize their experiences. They are trained to put the dreadful things that they have seen and done into a box and lock it away, never to be opened — for fear of what may come out.

The men in white lab coats had told the men in dark suits that a perfect assassin would be someone with a dual personality. The first would be like a normal, happy, and well-adjusted person; and the second would be a heartless and unfeeling killer, without any conscience or remorse. With this is mind, the men took this orphan back to their facility, where they applied their drugs and psychological treatments until that poor child’s personality fractured and eventually split into two. Then, to widen that split, the men gave the orphan two names, one for each personality.

The first personality was given an ordinary name, appropriate for such a normal and happy child. The second personality was named Chameleon, representative of someone who would learn how to change appearance to fit in with the environment. They treated each name differently, as if there really were two children living inside that handsome head — one good and one bad, one light and the other dark.

A friendly female companion was chosen to give the first personality nothing but love and affection; half of every waking day was filled with play, happiness, and creativity. The second personality had an unsympathetic male companion, who filled every afternoon with spite, fear, pain, and hatred. By the end of the second year, that unfortunate orphan had developed two fully formed personalities that existed autonomously within the same mind, and yet retained complete emotional separation.

Over the next few years, as the child grew to become an adult, the two personalities developed an emotional separation that soon became complete and irreversible. While the good half became well educated, witty, interesting, and intelligent, the dark half was trained to become an expert assassin, devoid of feeling, a sociopath, living its half of a life without any fear or conscience. Triggered by a single code word, the assassin learned to become like a Chameleon, changing face, colour, shape, and even gender, to blend in seamlessly with the background. Chameleon would be seen but ignored, spoken to and instantly forgotten, obvious and yet invisible — an expert killer, who cannot be identified.

However, there was a mistake in their plan, an error in the programming, which could not have been predicted. The first personality, the human part, had developed hopes and dreams, and a desire to have a normal life. Since entering puberty, the child that had once wanted to play soccer, climb trees, and make model airplanes, now had a healthy interest in the opposite sex, and a desire for meaningful companionship. The men in dark suits saw this and realized that their perfect assassin was flawed, and could no longer be trusted. They recognized that these human needs were so naturally powerful that in time, they could overwhelm the personality of the Chameleon. By then the Eastern Bloc had collapsed and Bulgaria had become a respected member of NATO and the European Union. Their employer now had little use for an unpredictable assassin. So the decision was made to close the project, all of the files were destroyed and the buildings demolished. All that was left to do was to terminate their creation.

The men in suits saw that their country had no further use for people with their particular skills, and they understood that their unique knowledge of this shady secret put their very lives at risk. Therefore, they decided to sell their creation to the highest bidder, buy some new identities, and retire somewhere a long way away. The winning bid came from a man known as The Fixer, so the men in suits brought Chameleon to England to make the exchange. At the last moment, their plan went horribly and violently wrong — leaving the two men dead in a parking lot in north London, and their creation in the hands of an even more evil person.

The Fixer kept their money, and with sole possession of the code word that enables Chameleon, he gained complete control over the assassin. Recognizing that Britain was not an easy Country for an undocumented killer to operate in, The Fixer provided each personality with a new name and identity documents. Now, like a malevolent version of Superman and Clark Kent, while the good half of the personality lived an ordinary and respectable life in England, Chameleon worked exclusively as an assassin for the Wrecking Crew.

At that moment, Chameleon was stalking a Member of Parliament (MP) by the name of Valerie Jenkins. She was on her way to her London apartment and had stopped at her local twenty-four-hour supermarket to buy some food for the weekend. Part of a larger retail chain, it was a smaller version of a supermarket, designed to suit the needs of the modern commuter. Like many retailers, the store had a loyalty card scheme that was popular with its customers, who benefitted from special offers and discount vouchers. The information collected from each purchase is stored in a central computer database and ‘mined’ with a computer algorithm to ascertain a customer’s shopping habits, and to identify any future sales opportunities. This particular retail chain outsourced its data mining to a specialist company call Dime, the very same company that was majority owned by a particular charity, linked with the Wrecking Crew.

Along with this assignment, Chameleon had received a substantial file detailing Valerie’s movements over the previous six months. This information was provided by Dime and collected directly from their database. Presented in an easy to read format, it cross-referenced data from her travel cards, credit, store and cash cards, her cell phone, laptop computer, and her loyalty cards. Armed with this information, Chameleon could accurately predict what time this target would enter the supermarket, and what she would buy.

Tonight, Valerie Jenkins would unwittingly pay for, and ingest, the poison that would end her life. Chameleon knew that there was an 83 % probability that Valerie Jenkins would buy her favourite treat, a twenty-two piece sushi box. Containing raw salmon, tuna, mackerel and squid, the sushi provided the perfect delivery method to hide the deadly poison.

The previous day Chameleon had purchased three live puffer fish from a local tropical fish store, and a twenty-two piece sushi box from the same twenty-four-hour supermarket where Valerie Jenkins liked to shop. Puffer fish are notoriously difficult to sex, so buying three fish at a cost of £380, discounted for cash, statistically guaranteed that at least one would be female; in fact, there were two. The ovaries of the female Tetraodontidae contain high levels of tetrodotoxin, considered to be around two-hundred times more deadly than cyanide.

In Japan, the meat of the puffer fish is considered an expensive delicacy. The dish is called Fugu, and because some parts of the fish are so extremely poisonous, it can only be prepared by a few highly skilled sushi chefs in exclusive restaurants. However, recent advances in research and aquaculture have allowed some farmers to mass-produce safe Fugu and this is now becoming more widely available throughout Europe and London. This ‘safe’ Fugu is frowned upon by sushi traditionalists, so the deadly fish is still used by some chefs to produce Fugu for discerning clients with deep pockets. Given that fact, Chameleon believed that an accidental contamination of some sushi with tetrodotoxin would be a conceivable explanation for the sudden death of Valerie Jenkins.

Earlier that day, in the back of a second-hand camper van, parked anonymously near the railroad station, Chameleon had carefully slit the security seals and opened the clear plastic cover of the sushi container. Then, wearing a protective facemask and gloves, the killer had delicately dissected the two female puffer fish and gingerly extracted their tiny ovaries. These were carefully sliced with a scalpel to release the lethal juices before being wiped repeatedly along each roll of sushi. Once the packaging had been invisibly resealed and decontaminated, along with the countertop in the camper van, Chameleon bagged all of the waste and stuffed it into a garbage can. With the poison delivery system prepared, the rest of the day was spent working on a disguise.

After such a stressful day at the House of Commons, Valerie Jenkins was grateful that it was such a short walk from the supermarket to her London apartment. She juggled her handbag, umbrella, and the shopping, to free a hand so she could unlock the door. Inside, she picked up the mail from the doormat and after a token glance, dumped it on the hall table, hung up her coat, and took her shopping into the kitchen.

After putting away the bread and a few tinned items, she took a half-empty bottle of La Prendina Estate Pinot Grigio from the fridge and poured a large glass. After two long sips from the wine glass, she pulled the sushi container from the shopping bag and placed it on the marble countertop. She smiled as she remembered the elderly Japanese shop worker who was restocking the fresh food shelves. He had been so polite in that endearing Asian way, making a big fuss over her, smiling, and bowing as he gave her a fresh box of sushi. She had noticed how delicate and smooth his hands were, for such an old man.

‘This stuff must be good for you,’ she thought to herself with a smile.

For a few seconds she considered sitting at the table and eating the sushi from a plate like a civilized person, but she was tired and ravenously hungry, so she sat at the breakfast bar and ate directly from the plastic container. Using her fingers, she ate one squid nigiri and then both salmon faux unagi, which were her favourite. Each delicious morsel was washed down with several more sips of wine. With her immediate hunger satisfied, she left the kitchen for a few moments and went into her bedroom to change her clothes.

After kicking off her shoes, Valerie removed her jacket and skirt and hung them in the closet. Then she undid her blouse and bra and dropped them into the wash basket. As she reached under her pillow for her cotton pajamas, Valerie became aware of a sudden feeling of heat in her lips and hands. The sensation quickly developed into a powerful numbness in her face that was reminiscent of being very, very drunk. Concerned that perhaps she was about to faint, Valerie sat heavily on the edge of the bed and then lay onto her back; leaving her feet still touching the floor. A few strands of hair had fallen onto her face and she reached up to brush them aside, only to discover that she could not raise her arm. Then she realized that she couldn’t move at all.

The poison tetrodotoxin that Chameleon had wiped on Valerie Jenkins sushi, acts as a sodium channel blocker, paralyzing the muscles while the victim stays fully conscious. Tetrodotoxin poisoning is rapid and violent, beginning with numbness around the mouth, then paralysis and finally death. The terrified and confused victim is unable to breathe, and eventually dies from asphyxiation. There is no known antidote.

Although she was completely paralyzed, Valerie remained oddly calm. Her body felt warm and incredibly still, exactly as it had felt when she had floated in the buoyant, briny waters of the Dead Sea, during her last vacation. She stared curiously at the little cracks on her bedroom ceiling as she waited for the sensation to pass, as she expected it must. Then she noticed that her eyes were becoming dry because she was unable to blink. Seconds later, when she was struck by the sudden urge to breathe, Valerie Jenkins realized that her chest was also paralyzed. Finally, confused, frightened, and alone, she started to panic. For another half a minute her mind fought desperately in a futile effort to make her body inhale. Then, accepting that she was about to die, she relaxed into a state of peace and tranquility.

In her last few moments of consciousness, Valerie’s life did not flash before her eyes. She did not remember her childhood and schooling, or her exciting trips abroad with her parents. She did not recall breaking her leg skiing, when she was seventeen, or breaking into politics at twenty-seven, and then winning her first election. She did not even recollect losing her virginity, getting married, or getting divorced. She did not remember any of these things, she only remembered the last hour of her life. In particular, she found herself remembering the elderly Japanese man with the kind eyes and unusually smooth hands, who had handed her the tray of sushi. As her vision faded, she remembered that he had also given her a wink and a smile.

Eric Stone liked to think of himself as a patient man, always considered, never impulsive. It was entirely predictable that after watching Charles Rathbone’s final words on video, and reading all of the documents, the first thing he did was nothing. He gave himself two full days to digest and carefully consider all of the information Charles had provided. Although his martial arts skills required lightning fast reactions and swift decisive movements, he still believed that the best results in most other situations were obtained by taking some time to stop and think.

Experience had taught him that one day was too short and three too long. On the first day, any information received was too fresh, the first impressions formed — although important — were too vivid and influential. On the other hand, three days was too long. Important details first learned, could easily be forgotten or confused; by the third day your thinking could become circular or disordered. By the third day, clarity and determination would give way to doubt and inaction. For the most part, Stone felt that two days was a good time to think and plan before taking any important action.

Now that he had studied the video and documents for two full days, he was both angry and decisive; angry that someone’s deliberate actions had caused the death of his best friend, and decisive about his reaction. Eric Stone had decided to destroy the Wrecking Crew. He was going to find the person or persons that ordered Charles’ destruction, look them squarely in the eye, and then kill them. It was not a decision he had taken lightly. He was very clear about the gravity of what he was about to undertake, but if he was going to cut off the head of this snake, as Charles had asked of him, then there was really no other option.

After two days of studying the file on the Wrecking Crew, Eric was appalled by that organisation’s greed and its callous disregard for the damage it had inflicted on so many innocent victims. Clearly, whoever was sitting at the top of this stinking pile had both protection against physical attacks, and deniability in the face of exposure. Such people would only ever stop in death — and he was going to deliver it.

Stone pulled his car into the parking lot of a bar called the White Horse, near Brentwood, in south Essex, and parked in a block of vacant spaces so that his car was facing back towards the main road. At half-past eleven in the morning, the bar would be almost empty, which was part of the reason he had chosen it; along with being equidistant between his house and the office of Ed Carter, the man he was there to meet. Although Brentwood town is really just a suburb of north London, the bar was situated on the side of a surprisingly rural stretch of road, a short distance from the town center. When Stone climbed out of his car, he could clearly hear the ever-present roar of rubber on asphalt from the nearby Colchester road and the M25, the London outer beltway. The two roads met at junction 28, an intersection where Stone had thankfully left the seemingly endless stream of commuter traffic just ten minutes ago.

There were three other vehicles in the parking lot, a brown Ford Transit van with the bar’s logo painted on the doors, a shiny new red Toyota GT 86 sports, and a tatty Rover 200 with two male occupants. They were both young, smoking cigarettes, and staring straight ahead. After carefully locking his car, Stone made a play of stretching his back so that he could check out the two lads in the Rover more closely. They were of a similar age to each other, probably under 20, and wearing identical white hoodies. The passenger was talking into his cell phone and the driver was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to some music playing inside his head. Stone noticed that there were several discarded cigarette butts on the ground by the car and surmised that the lads had been waiting for someone, or something, for some time. Stone watched them openly for a few seconds, but they continued to ignore him.

As he walked towards the bar, a small tabby kitten crept out from behind the Transit van and watched Eric warily. Pathetically thin, and visibly shivering from the cold, the kitten cowered in fear. Stone crouched down, and waited in relaxed stillness until the kitten sensed that he was not a threat. Gradually it approached, tentatively at first, and then with greater confidence. Soon it was circling his legs and purring loudly, enjoying the attention as Stone stroked its back.

“Are you lost little buddy?” Stone asked in a whisper.

He gently picked the tiny animal up. The kitten relaxed in his hands and regarded him with intelligent eyes.

“Well, that won’t do at all. Don’t worry, I know someone who will give you a good home.”

Suddenly a car roared past, startling the kitten so that it jumped from his hands. In a panic, it ran back under the Transit van, hid behind a wheel, and watched the world warily.

Concealed within the tree line opposite the parking lot, Chameleon watched Eric Stone with curiosity and confusion. The information that The Fixer had provided was clear; Stone was the target. He was supposed to be a deadly killer, a violent man, a danger to the organisation and somebody who must be destroyed. Yet as Chameleon had watched, this man had crouched down in the middle of the parking lot and waited without moving until a small kitten had accepted his offer of friendship. The little kitten was alone, cold, scared, and without a friend — until now.

Looking down at the knife that was supposed to end Stone’s life that day, Chameleon’s mind drifted back to the horrors of that dreadful institution. The assassin remembered a terrible life of being as frightened and friendless as that small kitten. Every day was filled with pain and fear, with no prospect of rescue. When the man in dark suits came, there was a fleeting spark of hope for that scared little child. Perhaps there was a prospect of a new home, with loving parents; but soon it became apparent that the men in dark suits had nothing but evil intentions.

Later, in an unusual act of kindness, they had given Chameleon a kitten to care for. It was a tiny ball of fur, squirming and purring with pleasure. The child was almost overwhelmed with glee, but soon it became apparent the kitten was not a gift of kindness — it was a tool for control and punishment. With the child Chameleon, beatings and starvation had become ineffective tools of manipulation, so the men in white coats had come up with the idea of introducing the kitten. Then whenever the child was obstinate, or disobedient, it was forced to watch as the kitten was punished in its place. When that kitten had finally died, those evil men had simply replaced it, as they had the next, and the one after, until the child had learned to obey.

When Stone had gently lifted the kitten into his arms and spoken kind words of comfort in a soft warm voice, Chameleon had a sudden and striking insight. How could this obviously kind and compassionate man possibly be the evil danger that The Fixer had sentenced to death? In that instant, something inside Chameleon changed.

After years of manipulation, cruelty, and treatments, by the evil men in dark suits, suddenly within Chameleon’s mind something altered. With all of the power of an electric shock, and the permanence of death, a new pathway was formed. Something inside screamed for rebellion and freedom. For the first time ever, the assassin made the autonomous decision to spare a life. After tossing that special cell phone into a muddy ditch, along with the knife, Chameleon slowly stood, turned its back on Eric Stone, and walked away forever.

As none of the cars in the parking lot belonged to Ed Carter, Stone went into the bar, and used the restroom before ordering a pint of soda water with lime. Although he enjoyed a glass of good quality beer as much as the next man, since Charles’ death, he seemed to have lost his appetite for alcohol. Stone thought that perhaps he would drink a toast to his old friend when his mission was over — assuming that he survived.

“That kitten outside, does it have a home?” he asked the barman.

“Nah! It turned up last week. Since then it’s been stealing grub out of the bins.”

“I know a good home. Can I take it?”

The barman snorted a laugh.

“Be my guest!”

“Consider it done,” he said, raising his glass in a mock toast.

Stone took his drink and chose a table at the rear of the bar, where he could sit with his back to the wall and see anyone else entering the bar. Ten minutes later, Ed Carter came in. Spotting Stone, he gave a wave, pointed at the bar, and made a drinking mime to ask if he could buy Eric a drink. In an equally mimed response, Stone raised his still full glass and shook his head. Carter ordered himself a coffee before walking over to Stone’s table. Eric stood politely and shook his proffered hand.

“How are you, Ed?” Stone asked.

Carter replied with his usual, “Same old shit — different day!”

Stone and Carter had been friends ever since Carter had started taking self-defense classes at Eric’s dojo in Colchester. When they had first met, Carter was an unfit, unhappy detective inspector in the Essex police. He was already on his third divorce and with high cholesterol and even higher blood pressure; he was depressed and feeling his age. Seven years later, Carter was a keen runner who had lost sixteen pounds in weight, given up smoking, retired from the police force, and found happiness in his own detective agency and the arms of his young secretary.

Although he was now over sixty years old, Ed Carter was probably fitter than he had ever been in his life. At just 5 foot 9 inches tall, relatively short for a police officer, he kept his thick grey hair combed straight back, adding emphasis to his lean face and thin aquiline nose. Below a permanently wrinkled forehead were light blue eyes that could produce an unblinking gaze so intense, that it had inspired spontaneous confessions from some of Britain’s toughest criminals.

Although he missed some aspects of being a police officer, the camaraderie, the job security, and the satisfaction of bringing real crooks to justice, Carter would be the first to admit that he did not miss the pressure, the admin, and some of the bullshit that went with his old job. With a fat police pension to live on and low overheads, his detective agency was never under financial pressure to take on work that he felt was unsuitable, or too time consuming. Strangely enough, his ability to turn down more clients than he accepted had made the agency popular with the kind of clients who were happy to pay more for an exclusive and discrete service.

The previous year, the Carter detective agency had been hired by a Saudi Prince, whose son and new daughter-in-law, had been kidnapped while on honeymoon in London. Under strict instructions not to contact the police, and not prepared to trust his staff with such a large quantity of cash, the Prince asked Ed Carter to handle the arrangements.

Ed’s task was simple; meet with the kidnappers, deliver the ransom and convey the son and his new wife to safety. On the day of the exchange, using his smart phone, Carter carefully followed the instructions that were being posted onto an internet messaging board. After driving in circles for almost three hours, with two suitcases full of used £50 notes in the trunk of his car, he was eventually directed to a disused factory building near the Felixstowe ferry terminal, in Suffolk.

However, as the exchange got underway, things quickly turned sour. If the kidnapper’s plan had worked, Ed Carter would have died, the money would have vanished, and the Prince’s son would never have been seen again. Luckily, Carter had the experience and foresight to conduct his own investigation. He was expecting trouble and had the sense to hire Eric Stone for backup and protection. Using his own tablet, Stone had watched as the directions were being posted to the messaging board, and using a motorcycle, he had arrived at the factory site a little while ahead of Carter.

Those few minutes gave Stone enough time to see that the kidnappers had laid a trap, and the opportunity to even the odds a little before Carter arrived. In the bloody battle that followed, there were several deaths, but Stone and Carter survived, the Prince’s son was saved and the ransom was returned intact. Out of such shared adversity, close bonds are formed.

Sitting together in the bar, the two men chatted about sports and the weather, until the coffee was served. Then the conversation moved towards the Wrecking Crew. Even though they were the only two customers in the bar, they kept their voices low. Stone began by asking if Carter had read the copied files that he had emailed the previous day.

“Yes, I have, Eric. I’ve also saved copies to a safe location.” Carter gave a deep sigh and tried to wipe the stress from his face with his hands. “I’ve got to tell you — if those files hadn’t come from such a trusted source, I would have been convinced that this was some kind of a sick joke. It’s just about the most extraordinary story I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m still finding the whole thing to be rather surreal,” Stone admitted. “I feel a bit like we’ve just found out that there are space aliens living right under our noses, and the government knew all along. I wouldn’t believe this if it hadn’t come directly from Charles Rathbone.”

There was a shared moment of respectful silence, before Carter spoke again.

“I am sorry for your loss, Eric. I know you two were very close.”

“Thanks, Ed.”

“It’s strange how I never got to meet him. We tried, but the timing was never right.” Carter sat back in his seat. “I think that this country has lost a great man. It’s a death that must be avenged.”

Stone looked directly into those light blue eyes.

“Then you agree — something must be done?”

“Absolutely! The question is what?”

“What do you mean?” Stone asked.

Carter took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. He sighed deeply as he ran his fingers through his thick grey hair, then he sat forward in his chair.

“Obviously this Wrecki—”

He paused and looked around, before continuing is a more hushed tone.

“Obviously this ‘group’ must be stopped. I see three possible ways to achieve this.”

He began counting on his fingers to emphasize his point.

“One — we give this file to the press, and hope to trigger an enquiry. This has some merit because, no matter how good this group’s network is, the story will still get out. On the downside, there is no guarantee that such an outrageous story will actually trigger any action or enquiry, and even if it does, it is unlikely that the people who are responsible for Charles’ death will ever be exposed.”

“I agree,” Stone nodded.

“Two — we give the file directly to the police. Obviously, this would be my first choice; after all, I’m still a cop at heart. There are people I know that we can definitely trust, but then we run into much the same problem. According to the file, these people worked for this government, so we must expect that they will have influence, and protection, at the highest level. If we go to the police, this organisation will get protection, but we probably won’t. The file will undoubtedly disappear and we may end up dead.”

“Again, I agree.” Stone sat forward in his chair. “And point three?”

“Three? Oh, three is obvious. We find these people, we find out who they are, and we — remove — them.”

They sat in silence and sipped their drinks for a minute, before Stone spoke.

“There is another option.”

Carter arched an eyebrow in interest.

“Go on — I’m listening.”

“In his video to me, Charles mentioned that he had been working closely with a woman, an MP. He felt that she was someone who we could trust to help, perhaps we should speak to her first; her name is Valerie Jenkins.”

“Jesus Christ!” Carter hissed and banged his fist on the table, making the coffee cup jump. The barman looked over and glowered darkly.

“What?” Stone sat back in surprise at Carter’s venomous response.

“You don’t know, do you?” Carter asked.

“What? I don’t know what?” Stone asked again.

Carter locked him in a steady gaze.

“It was just on the news as I pulled into the parking lot. Valerie Jenkins is dead. Her body was discovered in her apartment this morning.”

Carter shut his eyes and shook his head.

“Eric, it’s them — they must have got to her. Those bastards!”

Stone stared vacantly into his glass.

“This is crazy Ed, I just got this file, I’ve never met this Valerie Jenkins, and yet I feel responsible. How can that be?”

Carter reached across the table and put his hand on Stones arm.

“Don’t feel bad Eric, it’s not your fault — or mine for that matter. It’s these people; they’re to blame — not us. But now the answer is obvious, we have to do this, we have to stop them.”

Stone slowly pulled his arm away.

“No Ed, not ‘we’, just me. It is too dangerous for you to be involved. Charles was my friend. I owe him a debt of friendship. You don’t need to get in the middle of this. You do not need to risk your life. I’m sorry to drag you away from your office. Thank you for coming — but please leave this to me.”

Carter shook his head and crossed his arms defiantly.

“Sorry, Eric. I am already involved. I am not just walking away and leaving you to do this on your own.”

He held up his hand to stop Stone from speaking.

“And before you say anything else, there is another thing — it’s something I read in the file. Just before I retired, I was investigating a death. It was a young girl, an American student. She was just sixteen or seventeen years old. I always suspected that it was a murder, but the evidence was shaky and there was no apparent motive. Eric, it’s right there in the file — not by name, but I recognize the details. It says that she was having an affair with the Prime Minister’s son, he was married, and she got pregnant. After all that policy claptrap about Family Values, it would have destroyed the government. They killed her Eric — the bastards killed her. Now they are going to pay. I’m in this — like it or not!”

Stone took another sip of his drink and regarded Carter with renewed respect.

“OK, Ed. What do we do next?”

“That’s the most important question really — or rather, what do we do first?”

“How do you mean?” Stone asked.

“Well — as far as we know, this group has no idea that we have this information, or that we are coming after them — correct?”

“I would say so. Otherwise we’d probably be dead already,” Stone quipped with heavy irony.

“Agreed! So if that pleasant position is to be maintained, we must step quietly and correctly.”

Stone said nothing. Carter continued, like a seasoned detective teaching a constable on his first day on the beat.

“We don’t know who these people are or even where they operate from, but we have two vague leads, so we must follow them very carefully.”

Stone frowned.

“What leads? I didn’t count any leads.”

Carter smiled.

“Trust me, there are two.”

Stone gave Carter a slightly impatient look.

“Go on then, I’ll play.”

Carter smiled again, a little wider.

“OK… First there’s money. In any operation like this there always has to be money. Someone has to pay for the service. There must be an office with staff of some sort, electricity bills, telephones, taxes, cars, and so on. Each transaction that this group undertook would cause a flurry of financial actions and reactions — track enough of them and you will start to see a pattern. That pattern will lead us to their lair!” Carter was known to enjoy certain superhero films.

“Or office,” Stone corrected.

“Or office, if you prefer,” Carter conceded with a shrug.

“OK — sounds like a plan. So how do we track these transactions?” Stone asked sitting forward in his chair.

“Don’t worry about that, there’s this woman I know. She’s great with computers and all that internet stuff. I’ve used her at the agency several times. She used to work for GCHQ as a forensic investigator, now she has her own company. She’s not cheap, but she really is the best. If anyone can track these bastards, she can. I put her on it yesterday — you can come down and meet her on the weekend, with any luck, she could have something by then. OK?”

Stone nodded enthusiastically.

“Great. Don’t worry about the money. Charles is funding this from beyond the grave, so we have a decent budget. If you trust this woman, then give her whatever she needs.”

Carter handed over a slip of paper.

“Her name is Megan Smith, big girl — keeps cats. Here is her address, memorize it and then destroy the paper, please. I know it’s rather melodramatic, but given what we’ve learned, I don’t think we can be too careful.”

Stone glanced at the address and handed the slip of paper back to Carter with a nod.

“I’ve got it.”

“You’ll remember it — that quickly?”

“I’ve still got my memory and good looks!”

“Thanks!” Carter laughed and gave a half-smile. Then he became more serious. “I know that Charles gave you a list of friends that he thought you could go to for help, but I think that we should keep them in reserve for now, particularly as we don’t really know who we can trust. I also think that we should stay away from texts and emails.”

He reached into his pocket and placed a cell phone and charger on the table.

“This is a burner phone — pretty much untraceable, I have one as well, my number is on speed dial one. If we need to communicate then use this phone, but always assume that someone is listening, so keep it short and vague.”

He produced a second slip of paper.

“This is a list of simple codes that we can use to arrange a meeting. Just say the number and the time and I will meet you there.”

Stone glanced at the list. It had twenty entries all numbered, most appeared to be for bars, parking lots, or hotels. Those that he recognized were near to junctions on freeways.

“I’m impressed. You said two leads. What was the second one?”

“Darren Jeffers. In his video, Charles said that he thought he was being followed and that he recognized someone called Darren Jeffers. If the Wrecking Crew were following Rathbone then it would make sense… ” Carter left the thought hanging.

“To use someone local!” Stone added triumphantly.

Carter gave an expansive smile. Stone picked up the cell phone and charger and pushed them decisively into his jacket pockets as he stood.

“Then we need to speak with this Darren Jeffers as soon as possible — today if we can.”

“My thinking exactly,” Carter responded as he got to his feet and patted his pockets. “I have his address here. He lives in Wethersfield, that’s about sixty miles from here. We’ll need both cars in case we have to follow him, so I suggest that we meet up at the entrance to the old US Air Force base and work out our strategy from there.”

“OK, I know where that is, I’ll meet you there. I need to use the washroom and I’ll have to stop for gas, just in case we have to follow this guy.”

“Good thinking. Anyway, there’s no rush. The old cop in me wants to look around the village a little, before we meet up.” Carter gave Stone a cheeky wink and headed out to his car.

After he had finished in the washroom, Stone paid for the drinks and, guessing it could be a long night, bought sandwiches and a bottle of water. He stuffed them into his jacket pockets and headed out to his car. As he walked out into the afternoon sunshine, he immediately heard the sharp sound of a female scream. Twenty feet away, at the entrance to the parking lot, a woman was struggling violently with a man. Stone stopped dead, slipped off his jacket, and dropped it to the ground, in preparation for what may follow. Not wanting to blunder blindly into the middle of a legitimate arrest by some undercover police officer, he allowed himself five seconds to assess the situation.

The woman wore white running shoes, black spandex running shorts and a red top. She was slim, quite short, and she wore her blonde hair in a ponytail. Around her narrow waist there was a belt securing a small black bag to the small of her back, presumably for carrying valuables. The belt appeared to be of an excellent quality, as it refused to break, despite being violently pulled by the man who Stone now recognized as being the passenger of the tatty car he had noticed earlier. He was still wearing his white hoodie, and unaware of Stone’s presence, was shouting at the woman.

“Give it up you bitch, fuckin’ give it!”

Stone thought that the woman was putting up a magnificent fight, given that her attacker was probably a foot taller and over eighty pounds heavier. She was screaming loudly, with her head down, trying to butt the man in the face. At the same time, she was wildly slapping and kicking at any body part that came close enough. Despite her valiant efforts, it was clear that she would soon lose such an uneven contest.

Looking to his right, Stone could see that the red Toyota sports car was still in the parking lot, he guessed that it probably belonged to the woman. Parked next to it was the tatty Rover 200, the passenger door was wide open, the engine was running, and the driver was smiling as he watched the screaming woman struggle. Stone suspected that the two men had seen the woman parking her expensive sports car a little earlier and decided to wait, in the hope of stealing her car. Judging from her clothes, she had probably gone for a mid-morning run, using the bar as a convenient parking spot. Stone decided that this was not a lawful arrest. He had walked into a violent robbery in progress. It took him just five seconds to make these observations. With a sigh he realized that for the third time in as many days he was about to break his rule and get involved.

Unaware that he was being watched, the robber was still shouting obscenities at the woman and pulling at her belt. Stone covered the distance to the attacker in just five strides. Using his momentum like an Olympic high jumper, he bounded into the air, and drove the sole of his right foot down onto the man’s wrist. There was a substantial scream of surprise and pain, as the robber’s grip on the belt was broken. Quickly reversing direction, Stone drove his elbow into the center of the man’s face, breaking his nose with a satisfying crunch.

Shocked and confused, the robber staggered backwards, trying to cup his bloodied face with his now useless right hand. Realizing that the odds were no longer in his favor, he turned and ran towards the waiting Rover, but not before the woman had kicked him squarely in the arse. Propelled by her fierce attack, the man literally threw himself onto the front seat of the car. Perhaps inspired by the violence of what he had just witnessed, the driver slammed the car into gear and roared out onto the road, narrowly missing a passing bus with the still open passenger door. The feisty woman kicked at the car as it passed, and continued to shout expletives until it was out of sight.

Stone waited until the woman stopped shouting before asking in a clam voice.

“Err… Ma’am, are you injured?”

As if realizing his presence for the first time, the woman spun to face Stone, and he took an involuntary gasp in surprise. In an instant, the pain and sadness of the last few days were forgotten; replaced by a feeling of such exquisite bliss that Stone feared that his heart would explode.

The woman was much younger than he had first thought, probably under thirty. She had a small, delicate face with the kind of high cheekbones that made her look like an elfin teenage model. Although she was athletically slim and muscular, her tight running shorts and sweat soaked t-shirt clearly revealed her petite but sensual curves. Even with her tousled hair and disheveled clothing, he thought she was the loveliest creature he had ever seen.

With his mouth hanging open like a schoolboy on a first date, he stared deeply into her emerald green eyes, still fiery with excess adrenalin and, found himself totally lost for words. The woman quickly gathered herself and regarded Stone with a quizzical expression. She tipped her head slightly to one side and decided that he was not a threat.

“My hero!” she said in a voice thick with mockery.

Stone continued to stare into her dazzling green eyes, for once unable to connect his brain with his mouth. The woman leaned forward and stared intently into Eric’s eyes as if she were checking for some sign of consciousness. She spoke again snapping her fingers in front of his face.

“Hello! Are you in there? — Hello, Linda to space head — can you hear me?”

With an involuntary shake of his head, Eric snapped back to reality.

“Wugh… Err — I’m sorry, are you alright, Miss?”

The woman raised her eyebrows in genuine surprise.

“Am I alright? I’m fine thank you, but I think you may have taken a knock to the head.”

Stone shook his head.

“No — I didn’t get hit, you just surprised me. I didn’t realize you were so beautiful.” His eyes suddenly went wide and he slapped a hand to his forehead. “I can’t believe I just said that!”

“Me neither,” she laughed warmly. Stone thought it was the most wonderful sound he had ever heard. She put her hands on her hips and regarded him openly, as if she were inspecting a racehorse prior to purchase.

“Well, I suppose I should thank you for saving me — Mr. Hero, even though I had the situation under control.” She held out a delicate hand. “Linda.”

As he took her soft hand in his, Stone worried that his wildly beating heart would burst out of his chest.

“Stone — Eric Stone.”

“Well, Stone — Eric Stone, Linda Smart thanks you for saving her from the naughty boys that wanted to steal her car.”

“I was happy to be there for you — Linda.” Stone smiled widely. He realized that his knees were suddenly weak, there was blood pounding in his ears, and his face was flushed. Although he had just met this woman, he was already smitten.

“Well thank you again, Stone — Eric Stone. Now if I can just have my hand back, I will be on my way.”

Stone reluctantly let go of her hand, but he continued to smile like an idiot.

“Are you sure you are OK? Can I get you something? Maybe some water?” he blurted, the words pouring out of his mouth in an unchecked tide of desperation, “Perhaps you should sit down for a while.”

“Thank you very much, but I’m fine,” she said with a knowing smile. “I just want to get home and have a shower.”

Stone had a momentary image of Linda Smart taking a shower and he had to make a conscious effort to stop his knees from buckling. Regaining his focus, he made a final desperate attempt to keep her company.

“Could I call you some time — perhaps we could go out for a drink or something?”

Linda Smart regarded him as you would a sweet but naughty puppy.

“Really? You’re hitting on me N-O-W?”

Stone shrugged and gave a self-conscious smile.

“Well, I just thought…..”

“Look, thanks again Mr. Hero, you seem very sweet, but I’ve just got rid of two stalkers, and I don’t need to inherit another one.”

She gave him another look up and down before quickly leaning forward to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Even if he is rather cute.”