Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (13 page)

John fathomed from his new vantage point that one side of the man’s face was normal and the right-hand side must have an unusual birthmark or have suffered horrific burns. His hair was so jet black that it was probably dyed. With the face half deformed and the collar turned up, it was hard for John to establish an age but somehow the way he smoked the cigarette and how he huddled in the cold night air, put him in his fifties at least.

*

Do I wait for the girl to leave or enter the code now? I am in control of three lives. To them, I am God. My chest rises and falls too quickly. Calm down. Focus on the prize.

A man in in his mid-twenties wearing jeans and an old blue anorak runs from car to car. His head jerks in all directions. Is he lost? He is drunk or stupid or both. Homeless and looking for hand-outs perhaps? He leaves and I return my attention to the Mercedes.

Minutes pass. What are they doing? I light cigarette after cigarette and breathe cancerous fumes until my throat is dry and raw. I glance around the station at the ignorant public. The thought makes me squirm with pleasure. The explosion will be massive. Others may be caught in the blast. I am their God too.

Bradshaw said that the briefcase could withstand an explosion. Now is the time to test his boast. Hand and detonator leave my pocket. I hold my breath and press buttons as I take cover behind the pillar. Tap, tap, tap, tap. My bladder aches with excitement. It will have to wait. I peer around the pillar. I press SEND.

*

John saw the man’s head reappear from behind the pillar and stare at the car more intently than ever. John turned to the car. A huge plume of flames erupted from its undercarriage, engulfing all other cars within a fifteen feet radius, and with an ear-deafening, window-crashing explosion, the car rose twenty feet into the air before landing again, four mini explosions ringing out like gunfire as the tyres burst under the impact. Incredibly, the blacked-out windows remained intact.

“Nooooo!” screamed John, running towards the flames.

He got to within five feet but the flames licked upwards around the doors preventing him from getting any closer. He looked around for a fire extinguisher and caught the look of exhilaration on the face of the black-haired man as he watched from behind the pillar. He’d done it. John was certain.

“That’s him! He’s the bomber!” John shouted, pointing at the man. “Someone call the police!”

Aware that all eyes were on him, the man sprinted away from the station, head tucked into his coat as he fled. Based on the man’s speed and ability to weave around or jump over obstacles, John reassessed his age. Early thirties, he concluded.

Reluctantly, John’s eyes left the escaping bomber as he once again sought the whereabouts of a fire extinguisher. He saw a glint of a red cylinder across the station through the arches and he ran for all he was worth. He ripped the extinguisher from its brackets and supported it on his shoulder as he returned to the fire. There were screams and panic around him but he focussed only on the flames before him. If anything it seemed like the fire was raging hotter, or was that just the added heat from his fifty yard dash?

He dropped the extinguisher on its circular base, pulled the pin and squeezed the black plastic handle on the top of the cylinder. Immediately, white powder erupted from the short, flexible nozzle, covering the dancing flames and almost instantly snuffing out their life. John picked up the canister once more and circled the vehicle, keeping the handle squeezed hard so that the spray was continuous. It seemed like forever, but in under a minute all the flames were gone, leaving a badly charred car body with huge paint blisters and melted tyres, which smouldered with black, acrid fumes.

John reached for the rear door handle but it was still red hot. He pulled the sleeve of his hoodie down so it covered the palm of his hand and he tugged at the handle. It wouldn’t budge. What could he do? His heart banged like it wanted to break through his chest. Adrenaline made him stronger and keener but he was still powerless. He rammed the fire extinguisher base into the black window but it bounced off just as worthlessly as he had bounced of Mark’s door that morning.

“Oh God, no, no, no!” he wailed, tears welling in his eyes, rage building to bursting point. It had been too long. No one could have survived that heat. “Savaaaaannaaaaaah!”

John’s body slumped in defeat, his rage requiring redirection. The man in the black coat had killed Savannah. Clenching his fists he banged his knuckles together. This man must pay. His hatred refuelled his tired muscles and he readied himself to chase down the perpetrator of his desolation. What was that sound? It was the click of the car’s front door opening. The tall man from this morning pushed open the door fully. He looked completely unscathed.

“We meet again,” the tall man said, one long leg following the other as he stepped out of the car. He frowned at John. “Savannah’s just fine and will be out in a sec.” He moved towards John and patted him on the back. “Great show you put on there. Completely unnecessary but great all the same.” His mouth turned down as he gazed at the smoking vehicle. “That car was modified to survive bigger blasts than that one.”

John wasn’t paying much attention. His focus was fixed on the car and when the back door popped open, he jumped. Savannah exited the smouldering car. She had never looked better. It was like she had just arrived at a world premier and was the star of the show. She looked excitedly at John.

“Did you see that? We went miles in the air and were on fire for ages. We never even felt the heat.” She put her hand to her mouth to hide a broad grin. “Oh my God, John. You’re covered in soot.”

John was so happy to see Savannah he couldn’t care less what he looked like. The grief followed by instantaneous relief sent his mind reeling. All he could do was grin like the cat that got the cream.

Sirens sounded and flashing lights approached as the tall man’s stocky partner appeared from the far side of the car.

“I’ll sort out the authorities, Johnson,” he said, motioning to the myriad of blue flashing lights. “They prefer to deal with one of their own. Why don’t you get these two back to the hotel, and I’ll catch up with you there.”

John caught a fleeting glimmer of uncertainty in the eyes of Johnson before Savannah tugged at him for attention. He hadn’t even saved her so why had he become Mr Popular all of a sudden?

*

I veer into a dark and narrow side street.

My gut churns with acid born of hate and failure. I rip the prosthetic skin from the right-hand side of my face and pull the black wig from my head. They itch like crazy. It’s all theatrics to keep under the radar but it works.

A constant stream of Saturday night revellers passes the street’s entrance, oblivious to my presence. They laugh, scream and stumble from the effects of alcohol as they go about their pseudo pleasures. I want to kill somebody to vent my frustrations. There are too many witnesses. It is a risk I cannot take.

I throw the skin and wig into a plastic wheeled bin. The raincoat and detonation device follow. I pick up the petrol can from where I’d left it, unscrew the top and empty the contents into the bin. Stepping back I light myself a Marlboro Red and toss in the stainless steel Zippo lighter. I turn in time to feel the heat from the flash of flames on the back of my sweatshirt. I head towards the far end of the street without looking back. The warmth on my back is soon removed by the chill of the air but the heat of festering vengeance burns as strong as ever. One way or another, I will have the weapon.

14: Saturday 24th September, 23:35

My jaws are clenched, my muscles tight. I walk stiffly to a seat in a dingy Bayswater diner, a stone’s throw from my hotel. I’m not sure which of the two rat holes smells worse. This place is known only as ‘The Pit’. Whoever named it wasn’t kidding around. This was the price of anonymity - hanging with the lowlifes. A smell of rancid fat and stale onions hangs heavy in the air. I doubt it will leave my clothes when I return outside.

I look at my stainless steel Seiko watch, a present from my mother when I joined the Parachute regiment over twenty years ago. I wear it to remind me never to bend to anyone else’s will. A lesson she never learnt. It is half past midnight, nearly two hours after the explosion.

Two men sit, side by side, at the table by the exit. Their smiles are wide and their faces close. They are gay. I cannot hear their lewd conversation - probably discussing flavoured lubricants. I don’t mind their kind but they should keep it to the privacy of their own homes. There is no need to rub it in people’s faces. Failure has made me less tolerant than usual.

I had suspected extra reinforcement underneath the Mercedes and made adjustments accordingly. The explosion should have torn through the undercarriage like butter, but instead the car had risen like a NASA rocket launch.

Perhaps attempting to disintegrate the occupants had not been my best plan. It had been risky, careless and worst of all, unsuccessful. Nobody could have been badly harmed and I am now public enemy number one. But it could have worked and if it had, I would have the gun and the agents would be out of the picture. Missing out on torturing the two fools to their slow and ultimate deaths would have been a small price to pay for the ultimate pleasure the gun promises.

A young girl in an orange uniform requests my order without speaking, simply grunting and displaying a readiness to write on a dog-eared pad of paper. Her plastic nameplate is skewed. It says her name is Olga. She is sixteen, at the most, with short blonde hair and the blank stare of a person without hope. I could snuff out her pointless existence and we would both benefit from the transaction.

I have bigger plans and the temptations that constantly appear must be avoided. I see needle tracks on the inside of her elbow. Her worthless life of drugs, alcohol, and unprotected sex in parked cars will continue. One day soon, one of her indulgences, necessary to dull her inescapable insignificance, will end her wretched being. Self-destruction is inevitable. I order a cup of tea and a salami sandwich.

Who was the scruffy kid in the anorak? I’d written him off as a threat and he’d given me away. He’d been frantically looking for something or someone. I can’t picture anything but slim, mid-twenties, shortish hair, ripped jeans and an old blue anorak. Is he with Earthguard or the girl perhaps? Yes, the girl. He had looked harmless. He is a possible danger to my goal. I had let the excitement get the better of me. It is a mistake I will not repeat.

The orange waitress slams down a cracked plate beneath a withered-looking sandwich. An overfilled mug of tea, the colour of oxtail soup, follows.

“Anything else, luv?” she says, hands on hips as if daring me to ask for something else at my own peril.

A smile, a decent plate, bread instead of cardboard, a cloth for the mess of spilled tea? The possible responses are too many.

“Nothing,” I reply, looking deep into her tired blue eyes, wondering if I should ask her back to my hotel and snap her neck. I decide against it. She will not get a tip.

I pull out my phone and flick through the photos of the girl. The resolution is good. She has a face and a physique easy to remember. Living amongst the lowlifes has given me contacts and she will be easy to locate. The girl will lead me to Anorak man. Between Anorak and the girl I can extract enough information to lead me back to the agents and the weapon. Four deaths to enjoy along the way.

I hold my breath for a moment and close my eyes. I let the pleasurable tingles overtake me. Sasha pops into my head. It will be past midnight when I get back to my lousy room. I will not get to hear her voice until tomorrow. The tingles fade.

*

Back at the Ritz in their junior suite, discussions were getting heated as John and Savannah listened to what the two Earthguard agents had to say.

They surrounded a small coffee table in the seating area of the suite. Through much of the conversation John’s eyes had been drawn to the executive-looking case sitting under Johnson’s chair, next to a black Nike sports bag. It was the case he had temporarily returned to the left luggage office while he searched for Savannah at Waterloo Station. The most deadly firearm the world had ever seen, Johnson had said. Designed by Mark Bradshaw he had said. Other than that, the two men had told them next to nothing.

John noticed the tall agent’s attention was on him from the corner of his eye. It seemed that the American was reading John like a book.

“Don’t ask us anything about Bradshaw or the gun,” he said. “We are not authorised to share this information with you.”

John tensed. How many times had he reeled that line off? Mark was gone and, while insanely curious about the death of his best friend and what he had invented, his current concerns involved the living, particularly Savannah and himself. “You nearly got Savannah killed for God’s sake,” said John, waving his finger at Johnson and Wilson.

“Like my partner has already explained,” began Wilson, “the car was reinforced to withstand far greater blasts than that one.”

“What if she’d hit her head inside the car and got concussed or broken her neck?”

“I’m fine, John,” interrupted Savannah, who looked exhilarated by the whole experience, almost glowing from within. John noticed that the two agents could barely take their eyes from her. She was like one of those ultraviolet insect exterminator gadgets whose light lured unsuspecting insects into its deadly centre. John on the other hand was drained, ragged, and struggling to get a grip on reality.

Savannah, seated to his right, grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “We’ve landed in the middle of something bigger than us and we’ve got a chance to help. Aren’t you keen to bring Mark’s killer to justice?”

John raised his eyebrows and looked to the ceiling. He pulled his hand away. “Whoever set off the explosion is not playing games. He didn’t blow up the car for a prank. Whatever these two tell you, we’re in way over our heads and our lives may well still be in danger.”