The Mandate of Heaven (16 page)

At the time he had skimmed through the contract, taking note of the astronomical price offered for the completion of the job; ten million credits, forty percent offered upfront, the rest on completion.  Even with that eye-watering sum of money, he had been more than ready to wash his hands of the whole business, until he had come to the final page, a photo—and became instantly captivated.

Which just goes to show the inherent dangers of falling for a pretty face.

All of which made Alex wonder why Rifkin was treating him as some sort of long, lost friend.  He was only here for one thing, well two if you considered the four million credits that he was still owed, and his fists started to once again itch with the urge to hit the man.  Resisting the desire, Alex instead allowed himself to be marched into the man’s office.

It was just like its owner—superficial.

At first glance, with all the white leather and polished chrome, it looked like an office of any successful entrepreneur.  But beneath the surface the thin coat of fresh paint was peeling at the edges and the floor was filthy.  While the office was spacious, with one whole length of the room partitioned off with glass from the rest, it was quiet, eerily so.  At least the last time he had been here there had been customers—of a dubious quality.  All shifty eyed, with nervous ticks and unconscious twitches, along with a smattering of clerks of some kind, attempting to look busy.

This time?  Nobody.

The only noise came from the irregular
tick-tock
of a wall clock, hanging slightly one-sided on the wall behind Rifkin, who had ushered him into a seat.  Perhaps the very same one that he had been seated in when he had first agreed to carry out this fool’s errand?  Rifkin meanwhile took his own seat on the other side of the desk, grinning manically, tapping his fingers in an erratic rhythm that seemed to be a counterpoint to the sound made by the clock.

Tick-tock.  Tap-tap.  Tick-tock.

Tap.

Gazes locked across the width of the table, no more than four feet apart, as they eyed each other silently, each taking the measure of the other—

Moving in tandem, like two puppets dangling from the same set of strings, they scrambled to their feet, moving backwards and simultaneously drawing pistols, arms outstretched, weapons crossed, each pointing directly at the chest of the other.  They circled each other warily, like vultures, as they moved wordlessly around the desk, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

“Alex, how good to see you alive and well,” Rifkin spat out the words, much like the curse that it was.

“Like hell you are,” Alex swore.  “You set me up!”

“Of course I did, what did you expect?  That job was a death sentence to anybody stupid enough to take it, and none would, trust me, I tried.  I couldn’t fob it off on the lowliest, most stupid, murderer or assassin.  None would go within a dozen light-years of it.  I was getting desperate and my client most demanding, when inspiration struck.  I needed somebody with enough balls to carry it off, but stupid enough to actually accept the job, and eureka, your name came first to mind.”

“I want my money, along with the name of the client.  It was a trap.  So who set me up?”

“Money? I don’t have any money, as for a name?  Smith.”

“What do you mean you don’t have any money? It was forty percent paid in advance; you confirmed to me that you’d received the funds.  What the hell did you do with it all in just one week?”

“Five mill’ will only get you so far…” Rifkin hedged.

Alex blinked, running through the mental arithmetic, but still coming to the same answer.  Forty percent of ten million was still only four million.  “You told me it was four million that you’d received.”

“Uh-oh,” Rifkin muttered.  “Well, of course, there was always my arrangement fee—”

“—which I paid in advance,” Alex rasped through gritted teeth, his eyes suddenly widening as realisation dawned.  “You son-of-a-bitch!  It wasn’t enough to set me up, but you had to swindle me out of my money in the process.”

“Sorry.  Just force of habit I guess,” Rifkin shrugged unconcernedly.  “Anyway, I figured that you weren’t going to live long enough to worry about it and you could hardly spend the money when dead.  But, of course, you didn’t go and get yourself killed, you always were a selfish bastard.”

“I should just shoot you now.”

“Well, you had better be quick about it,” Rifkin replied nonchalantly, peering behind Alex, through the glass partition.  “As otherwise they’re probably going to beat you to it.”

Risking a quick glance behind him, on the other side of the glass, Alex was just in time to observe a dozen men file through the main entrance of the office.  They all looked alike, gorillas that had been stuffed into cheap, ill-fitting, suits.  Each carried a battered brown suitcase and the effect was faintly comical with their massive paws struggling to fit through the small handles.  However, this became a lot less comical when they lined up, shoulder-to-shoulder, dropping the suitcases to the floor, flipping them open.  Each withdrew from inside a compact, fully automatic, machine gun.

Alex recognised the weapons at a glance, made by Stanton Light Industries, it was a modern remake of the classic five hundred year old Uzi submachine gun.  With a ten inch, two hundred and fifty millimetre barrel, it had an automatic rate of fire of over six hundred rounds per minute when chambered with the nine millimetre parabellum round, also supplied by Stanton Light Industries, discounts available when purchased in bulk.  Alex had a moment to take note of the extended, extra-capacity magazines that were slipped into the weapons.  Even through the glass partition, he could clearly hear the
snap
of a dozen clips sliding into position and the noise of a dozen safety switches being flicked off.

Click, click, click
and
click.

“That was what I was trying tell you, via the long lost, best friend, routine.  I was rather hoping that they wouldn’t notice your arrival.  I was trying to buy us some time to work a way out of this.”

“I don’t suppose that anything came to mind?” Alex enquired curiously, as in seemingly slow motion a dozen gun-barrels were raised, all pointing directly towards both of them.

“Nothing comes to mind.”  Rifkin shook his head, but the words were lost, as with a deafening roar, the guns opened fire.

*****

Jessica’s eyes snapped open.

The first thing that registered was—darkness.  It took a few seconds for her to realise that it was not that she couldn’t see, but instead it was still night.  She blinked a few times letting her eyes slowly adjust to the gloom.  She could just make out faint outlines from the dull glow cast by the almost extinguished fire, nothing left except a few, still burning, embers.

Having recollected where she was, her thoughts next turned to what had awoken her.  It was hardly as if she had slept too much, having stayed awake all night, when Alex had slept next door.  In the past few days she’d been working from dawn to dusk, directing all the men and women who had volunteered to assist with cleaning and redecorating the house from top-to-bottom.  She was exhausted, but elated, for planning and organising was something she had always excelled at. Now it was finally complete, the house was spotless, better than new.

Alex wouldn’t recognise it when he returned.

Then she heard it, a faint scratching sound, coming from somewhere in the vicinity of the door.  Somehow she doubted that it was rats.  Lucifer would have made a quick snack of them if there had been any.  So instead she slid from her bed, wrapping a nightgown around herself as she stumbled in the direction of the door.

She reached Lucifer before the door.  Tripping over him and then colliding with the door.  At least she had found the source of the noise that had woken her up, as it was Lucifer scratching on the door.  She had slept soundly ever since that first night, sure in the knowledge that nobody could harm her, not with the devil’s own hound sleeping but a few feet from her.  With a resigned sigh she opened the door a crack as Lucifer slipped through it, before vanishing into the night.  “Alex needs to teach you how to open doors,” she yawned sleepily before heading back to bed.

She never made it.

Instead she heard a low growl come through the gap in the bedroom door.  She had deliberately left it ajar, to allow Lucifer to return, once he had finished his late night snack, walk or toilet break, whatever it was that he needed to do.  She stopped dead in her tracks, as she had never heard Lucifer make quite such a sound before.  It started quietly, a low timbre, before it seemed to rise by a couple of octaves, growing in volume until it reached such a pitch that it sent shivers down her spine.  Fifty thousand years of evolution was not enough to eradicate that sound from the human psyche. 

It had only one meaning—danger.

Grumbling to herself, wondering what Lucifer had found this time, she once again tightened the belt around her nightgown and headed for the door.  This time pushing it open, stepping through and peering down the darkened hall.  Of course she couldn’t see a thing.

“Blast Alex and this lack of light,” she cursed.  For she had come to realise that nothing, except perhaps her cat back on Osiris, had the same sort of night vision that Alex possessed.  It was uncanny.  Surprising then that the man constantly surrounded himself with light—candles, fireplaces, it seemed to matter not, as long as it illuminated the room, dispelling the shadows.  Muttering, she continued to make her way down the corridor, cursing out loud every time she bumped into one object or another; chairs, tables, vases, seriously when had this place turned into such an obstacle course strewn with hazards?  Taking another step forward she bumped into something, yet this time her curse was stifled, as the object suddenly moved.  A forearm wrapped tightly around her waist, while a hand moved to cover her mouth.

“Got her,” a gruff voice called out triumphantly.  “Ewan, get the light.”

Jessica could only stare, wordlessly, as a shadow seemed to coalesce in front of her.  Suddenly, as if somebody flicked a switch, a watery light filled the corridor.  She had to blink a couple of times to adjust to the light, but eventually she could make out the scene.  There were two of them, well three, if she also counted the one that currently ensnared her from behind.  She could smell his dank breath, strong with the smell of cheap, sour, wine.  She could only assume that he looked similar to his compatriots—dirty, unshaven, wearing worn and equally filthy clothing, and all shared a similar look of wild desperation in their eyes.  One held a small lantern in his hand, the source of the light, but she only lingered on this for a moment, for it was the other man’s hand that her gaze was drawn to, for it held a pistol, pointing unwaveringly at her.

Her immediate reaction was one of disbelief.  She was about to be kidnapped, for the second time, all in the span of a single week. 

She would never hear the end of it from Alex.

With his warning about staying out of trouble, at least for a couple of days, still ringing through her head, she was therefore somewhat relieved by their next words.

“You watch her, I’ll go and see what I can find.  Posh place like this must have something valuable; gold, jewellery, anything that we can sell in a flash.”

Jessica didn’t know if she should be relieved or insulted.  They were just common thieves, burglars, out to steal whatever they could get their hands on.  She was worth so much more than any jewellery or gold they might find in the house.  However, if nothing else, she had learnt her lesson from her previous foray with the criminal element on this planet and wisely kept her mouth shut.  But she had forgotten that they were not alone, and it immediately became apparent that Lucifer had no such qualms about remaining still.

It was the eyes that immediately drew everybody’s attention, for they shone like two yellow sapphires, the colour of sulphur, as they reflected the weak light from the room.  Lucifer sat on his haunches, his gaze fixated on her—and the arm currently wrapped around her waist.  From his jaws reverberated a deep, throaty growl.  Nobody moved a muscle, not Jessica, not the man with his arm around her or the other one holding the lantern. Only one of the men moved and then only ever so slightly, the gun swinging round to point at Lucifer’s eyes, his finger tightening on the trigger.

“Lucifer, no.” The cry surprised everybody, Jessica most of all, as the words came from her lips.  Still Lucifer continued to ignore them, his muscles straining in preparation for launching himself at the intruders.  “Lucifer, roll over,” Jessica said the first words that came to mind, wincing at the stupidity of them, yet, they seemed to have the desired effect where others had failed, as miraculously Lucifer did indeed roll over, showing his soft underbelly and his tongue hanging out, as his feet pawed at the air.

Jessica could feel the man behind her relax his muscles, loosening his hold over her ever so slightly.  More importantly, the gunman lowered his weapon, chuckling slightly.  “Cute dog,” he commented, “But not a very effective guard dog.”

“We don’t have time for this,” the man with his hand around Jessica’s abdomen uttered.  “I overheard the Sheriff saying he might swing past here before he retires for the night.  Just shoot the damn dog and let’s get this over with.”

“No!” Jessica cried out, but this time using the little freedom that she now possessed, pivoting around, catching the arm from her throat, using the leverage and her strength to lift him from his feet.