Chosen (The Chosen Few Trilogy #1) Page 2

  I found one of Lucy’s sports bags and filled it. Ten minutes to the hospital.

  ***

  My wife, Raychel, had left us one cold, winter’s day in ‘05. In the morning she was there, in the evening she was gone. We had heard nothing from her in twenty-three months. Not even a false alarm. At first, the police had been suspicious, but no longer, which in some ways was even worse.

  All that remained was a shattered husband and a seriously fucked-up kid called Lucy- once a ray of shiny happiness- who now believed she had caused her mother to abandon the family home.

  I had turned to the bottle. Lucy had turned to self-abuse. It had taken a life-altering moment- me stumbling into the bathroom, whisky bottle held upright like a guiding light, to see my daughter sobbing in the bathtub, hair and clothes and face covered in sweat and puke and tears, her blood sprayed across the white shower curtain, to shatter my depression and recognize hers. That and the loving help of Holly, who had always been around.

  Now, I teetered above a black abyss of guilt, unresolved loss and deepening money troubles. One day, I feared, I would embrace the abyss. But I would never let it happen whilst Lucy needed me.

  We entered the hospital. This impersonal concrete-clad place of the dying, the ill, and the needy with its nervous, troubled rooms.

  I walked the stark corridors that night, the success of tonight’s first business venture- the treasure hunt- put aside. The incident with the giant vermin that followed- forgotten. My throat was dry. I recognized the craving for a spirit that I thought I had exorcised over a year ago.

  I finally found Ward G3 and turned to Holly before going in.

  “I’ll be right here.” She sat outside the room.

  I took a deep breath and walked into Lucy’s hospital room. Pain and weariness enveloped me as I saw Lucy lying on the hospital bed like the palest flower against the whitest sheet. In sharp contrast, her locks of wavy brown hair spread out all over the pillow.

  She blinked at me. “Hey, old man.”

  It broke my heart. For six years she had made fun of my age, and in return I made fun of her youth, calling her youngling, or munchkin, or worse, but not tonight.

  Tonight, I just couldn’t get past the heart-rending sight of her.

  “How are you feeling, Luce?”

  “Okay, I think. I should be okay for squash next week.”

  Lucy was a great player. National standard. Lately I’d begun to think it was a way for her to channel aggression. “We’ll do our best.”

  “They made me turn my mobile off.”

  I glanced towards the muted TV. Saw the same coverage of the Madison Square Garden tragedy I’d overheard back at our house. I turned away, got a look at Lucy’s bandages. One was wrapped around her upper right arm, and two smaller ones covered her wrists. I felt my control slip. “I thought we‘d gotten past the worst, Luce.”

  Lucy’s eyes flashed.

  “Your mother left us,” I tried again. “All I’m trying to do is keep things together.”

  “By ignoring it?” Lucy hissed. “By pretending it’s all alright and nothing changed?”

  “We don’t even know where she went. We’re left behind without a single clue.”

  Tears sprang from Lucy’s eyes. “It was because of me,” she sobbed. “I drove her away. We had…we had an argument.”

  “No,” I said gently. “Your mother loved you. Loves you. Christ…”

  “Did you make her go? What did you do?”

  “Nothing!” My denial was loud, as much through the shock of the question as its abruptness. “One day everything was fine, the next…” I spread my arms. On the TV I noticed they were interviewing Johnny Trevochet, a survivor of the Madison Square Garden tragedy, an old American soap opera star. A strange tingle travelled the length of my spine when I saw him, though at the time I had no idea why.

  Then I said: “She was a fine actor. I’ll give her that.”

  Lucy looked at me through her tears and sniffed. “What do you mean?”

  “If something was wrong. If I did something wrong. I never knew.”

  She turned away.

  “When we lost your mother I wanted to give in. Remember? I couldn’t think straight. But do you know what you’re doing now?” I put my hand lightly over one of the bandages.

  Lucy said nothing.

  “Not winning,” I said. “The only thing you are doing is pushing away the only parent you have left. The one who cares.”

  I let that sink in for a moment, then said: “They could take you away from me, Luce.”

  Raychel, I hate you for this.

  A bewildered expression fell over Lucy’s face as if a thousand conflicting thoughts hit her all at once. It must have caused a considerable amount of pain, but she leaned over and held her arms out to me.

  “Dad, I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me.”

  I took her into my arms. “I’m not going to leave you. I want you to trust me, Luce.”

  I hugged my daughter as tightly as I dared, and my eyes happened on the muted TV where a breaking news channel was flashing up new stories about more tragedies around the world. I closed my eyes against the horror, vowing to give Lucy all the time she needed.

  I wasn’t going anywhere.

  3

  MIAMI, U.S.A.

  Marian Cleaver bobbed and weaved around the heavy leather bag, then came up and punched into it with a powerful left, rocking it to the right. It felt good tonight. The rhythm, the rock and the roll, the shuffle and the jab. Even the smells were right- stinging antiseptic mixed with fresh sweat, old sweat, and blood. It was all here tonight. Fear, determination, hope. And the old men sat around watching, their rheumy eyes bright with memories of younger days. Cleaver loved it. These nights came around once, maybe twice a year.

  It was after midnight. Earlier, he’d watched the tragedy unfolding at Madison Square Garden. Then he’d started wondering if it was the start of something more, something related to him, and his duty.

  He’d felt the need to hit the leather. Hannigan, the old pro who ran this place, usually locked the door around eleven but let his guys train until they were spent. Cleaver dropped a shoulder and pummeled the bag once more, grinning as the thought struck him that only those who led seriously fucked-up lives would ever train and sweat at this time and place.

  Marian Cleaver was a member of the celebrated HC Detective Agency. HC stood for Hector Clancy, the ex-marine in charge. Imaginative. But Cleaver was also one of the most capable field-operatives of a secretive Global organization called Aegis.

  He heard his beeper go off. He threw some easy punches to cool off. He stopped and stared at the bag, breathing heavily, a tall solidly built man with day-old growth springing from his chiseled features. He had a face that both men and women found dependable, and a twinkle that could attract females like waffles attract blueberries. Out on the street he was an enigma, a mix of reliability and violence.

  In South Miami he was a legend.

  Once an upcoming boxer, all controlled fire and natural skill, he had gone from ruling the ring to occupying his own prison cell in two easy hours. Young, fearless, and impetuous he had stolen a car. And, wanting to impress some friend who had faded away faster than his career, he had driven it fast.

  He had collided with a boy. Josh Walker.

  Cleaver killed that same boy every night in his dreams. When it got too bad he came back here, to Hannnigan’s. To take it out on the leather.

  Through the years he tried to make amends. He worked for a detective agency, helping where he could. And he worked for Aegis, an organization that tried to remain anonymous whilst constantly helping to save the world. If he could do more, he would.

  He crossed over to the peeling window-sill where he had left his belongings. On the way, one of the old men caught his gaze. The man’s unforgiving glare seemed to say ‘you lost it, kid. You had it all and you lost it all. Look at me- I never had nothing, but you could’a walked outta this place wear
ing gloves a’gold… Cleaver thought the old man was probably thinking nothing of the sort, but gnawing guilt told him otherwise.

  With a fumble he picked up his beeper. Its message, from HC, glowed electric green.

  911. They never used 911. Fuck!

  No time for a shower or even a change of clothes. He headed for the exit and rolled his eyes at Hannigan, a battered old black guy, and one of the few men Cleaver would ever trust.

  “The agency. I’m heading out.”

  “Worked that back pretty good,” Hannigan’s voice was a heavy whisper. “You come back any time you need it, Marian. Any time.”

  Cleaver smiled. Hannigan was also the only person in the world Cleaver knew would never twist his first name into a form of mockery. Once outside he flipped open his phone, hit speed dial, and tucked it under his ear.

  An agent answered. “Elliott.”

  “Clancy paged me.”

  Clancy was the big boss, scornfully nicknamed Clanger outside the range of listening equipment by those who knew about all the big balls he’d dropped.

  There was a short silence, a whir of machinery, and then Clanger. He sounded excited. “Cleaver? Great. Get out to South Beach. You know Liberty Avenue near the convention centre?”

  “It’s after midnight, sir, and technically my day off.”

  “Who cares? Just go. Now.”

  “After I shower and change-”

  “No,” Cleaver had rarely heard the sound of stress in Clanger’s voice. “You’ve always been chasing the big one, Cleaver. Well, our cases don’t come much bigger than this.”

  Cleaver’s curiosity piqued. “So explain.”

  “No time. Just get going. Gomez, Moore and Day have already left. You’ll be late but I want you on point. You’re my number one, Cleave old boy; did I ever tell you that?”

  “Constantly,” Cleaver said, thinking but only when you want the envelope pushed that little bit further, Clanger old boy.

  Clancy was still droning on. “Don’t waste time setting up an OC. Just call me back when you get close. And listen, don’t get emotional on this one, just do it by the book.”

  “I know my job, sir,” Cleaver wondered what the hell that was supposed to mean. Don’t get emotional? He cleared his throat. “Who’s the client?”

  “Tell you later. Oh, and Cleaver?”

  “Sir?”

  “This one’s definitely got your name on it.”

  Cleaver scratched his chin as the old tingle passed through him. A long time ago, back when he was setting up his very own Rockford Files, a client had set him up. Some Latino scum-fucks had wanted to take out the man who’d flat-lined their dope operation- him. So they’d hired Cleaver anonymously. Everything checked out, even when Cleaver met them. But he’d been warned by that special tingle, that sixth sense. Fuck, call it Spidey sense, he had it in abundance. Something he put down to his years of surviving in the boxing ring. Suffice to say that the above mentioned scum-fucks died screaming.

  He felt that tingle now as he flipped the cell closed. To his knowledge HC had never sent more than one employee to any client.

  The Liberty Avenue job warranted four.

  As he neared ground zero Cleaver put his game face on. His cell rang. It was Clancy, speaking like Schumacher used to drive his Ferrari.

  “Cleaver? You there yet?”

  “Almost.”

  “Listen up. You’ve got a houseful of hostages. All kids, ranging from ages eighteen to twenty. Sossamon’s made a few enquiries and he says there was some kind of frat party going on. Probably a damn orgy. You with me so far?”

  “All the way,” but Cleaver thought: kids?

  “Right,” Clanger rushed on. “Best case scenario- Jesus, thirty kids. But here’s the kicker. Miami PD says there’s only a single hostage-taker. Heat sig’ and a couple of sightings seem to confirm what they’re saying.”

  “I don’t get this. Who’s the client?”

  “The kids have all been forced to huddle up against a wall, and our bad guy, who is actually a bad woman, is sat in a Lazee-Boy, feet up, watching them.”

  Cleaver was silent for a moment, thinking: you didn’t answer my question. Again.

  Something was warped right out of shape here.

  Eye on the bag, Hannigan used to say. And always on the sweet spot. Never lose your focus on that damned sweet spot.

  He focused now.

  “Do MDPD have shooters on her?”

  “Sure. But they can’t tell what she’s hiding, if anything.”

  Cleaver frowned as he swung the car around a sharp left. Clanger was right. The woman could have a major weapon. Even a bomb.

  “Could some of the hostage-takers be mixed up among the kids?”

  “Don’t rule it out.”

  “I’m guessing there’s been no negotiations, no contact.” He used his ID to weave through stalled traffic and pull into a mini-mall parking lot. He sniffed at his armpits, got a whiff of stale sweat, shrugged and exited the car. He breathed in the warm night air and started to make his way towards the scene, cell tucked under his chin.

  “What?” Clanger’s voice faded in and out.

  Half a dozen radio units were strewn haphazardly in front of a length of crime-scene tape, their bubbles painting the surrounding buildings in lurid red flashes. Cleaver raised his voice. “I asked if there’d been any contact.”

  “Well, yeah, just once,” Clanger hesitated. “And this is where it gets weird. And I mean ‘off the chart’ weird. Hold on, I’m gonna quote you the exact words.”

  Cleaver stopped with the cell tucked between shoulder and chin, casting his eyes over the staging area. He wondered what could possibly make this scenario any weirder. The building in question stood ahead now, stone clad, three storey’s high and half a block wide.

  “Okay,” the Clang-man was back on the line, shuffling papers. “You still there?”

  “Right here and waiting.”

  “Then let the weirdness begin. To quote this woman: ‘My name is Mena Gaines. At this time I mean you no harm, but I will do what I must to complete my part successfully. I will sit at the head table of…ummm…Gorgoroth, beside Loki. Your children will be freed to live a little longer when you send to me the man who represents Aegis. You know him by the name: Marian Cleaver,” Clanger paused. “I guess that’s you.”

  Cleaver’s legs buckled with shock. This was about Aegis! And Gorgoroth! Clanger was firing out questions, but Cleaver didn’t hear them above the thunder that filled his ears. This was end of the world stuff.

  It’s all about Aegis. My God, it’s beginning already. For a moment dark spots danced before his eyes and the world turned grey.

  This woman is our client.

  He knew the name Mena Gaines. She was one of the six evil Destroyers who would engineer the doom of the world and who would be arrayed against the world’s eight Chosen in the final battle. Marian Cleaver, naturally, had volunteered to help protect those Chosen.

  Mena Gaines might well be his nemesis.

  4

  YORK, ENGLAND

  If I knew Lucy she would show happy-face on the outside and save the real hurt for when she was alone.

  I looked away from a TV full of doom and gloom towards what we called our Victory Wall. My part of the Wall consisted of prints I’d sold over ten years. If it didn’t sell, it didn’t get framed. The other, larger, part of the wall was full of Lucy’s squash trophies and pictures of her receiving awards. Lucy’s part was now encroaching on my part. The daughter starting to outdo the father. The wall boosted her confidence. Almost every day I caught her admiring a photo or a sparkling trophy.

  But tonight I don’t think the wall was giving either of us much inspiration. Major events were shaking the world. The stampede at Madison Square Garden, something about a roller coaster collapse at Sea World, a devastating earth tremor in Costa Rica.

  In my house, in my chair, in this city hundreds of miles away from any scenes of destruction, I began t
o feel unsettled.

  I’d witnessed something odd during our celebration meal last night at Mauricio’s, but dismissed it when I heard about Lucy. Huge rats had teemed through the restaurant, through our legs, attracted to a corner full of shadows where all natural law said there should be light.

  I had never seen so many people so scared, so many witnesses speaking with such fear. And now there was something going on in Miami; something about a bunch of college kids being held hostage by a mad-woman. And someone said a bomb was involved. A wave of terror was sweeping the world.

  “What’s going on, Dad?” Lucy asked, her first words in twenty minutes. “Are we safe?”

  I frowned. Could it be that even more insignificant occurrences were being lost beneath the information deluge that accompanied the devastating events? For a moment I felt glad that my partner, Tom Acker, was looking after the new business whilst I spent time with Lucy.

  I nodded. I flicked off the TV before it sent us both reeling towards deeper depths of despair. “Take away?”

  “Cool.”

  “Preference?”

  “Mmm, maybe Italian. Mauricio’s?”

  “Maybe not,” I shuddered. “I thought Oscars was your favorite?” And I knew they had a two-for-one deal on deliveries before seven.

  She leapt for the phone. “Quick, before he changes his mind!” Lucy’s presence filled the house, and it felt good. I shook my head. Yesterday she lay in a hospital bed; today the event was past history.

  “Bring it on,” I said to the guy who answered the phone. “Everything we can have on that two-for-one deal. Garlic bread, beer-”

  “Wine?” Lucy interrupted. “Let’s not forget who’s sixteen in a few days.”

  I coughed. “Not in this decade.”

  Lucy gave me a narrow-eyed look.

  “Diet Pepsi,” I said. “For the tweenie. No ice.”

  “Loser,” Lucy grumbled, but it sounded good to my ears.

  I put down the phone and smiled. “The treasure hunt went well, Luce. I don’t think we lost any tourists.”