Project Apex (10 page)

The connection was broken as Kate stood and switched off the TV. She looked at Draven, perhaps hoping for him to elaborate. He however simply turned away and stared out of the window and for the first time in as long as he could remember, prayed he was wrong.

CHAPTER SEVEN

TREMONT UNDERGROUND

TUNNELS

BOSTON, MASSECHUSETS

USA.

TRAFFIC CRAWLED THROUGH THE thriving streets of Boston as locals and tourists alike went about their daily routine. Little did they know they walked above a secret which had been beneath the city since the early nineteenth century.  The Tremont subway system was initially built to ease street car traffic. Opened in 1897, they are officially the oldest tunnels in North America. As the city grew, and traffic from the city's four railway stations were rerouted and diverted, new tunnels were built, leaving the Tremont line as a relic of a time gone by. Abandoned and forgotten, it had drifted out of the consciousness of the local residents as modern technology paved the way for a faster, more efficient service.

The SAS team led by Johnson had been indulging in their unique and vulgar brand of banter right up until their unmarked van stopped at the tunnel entrance. As Parker, Briggs, Stanhope and Trig had pulled their black balaclavas into place, hiding all but their eyes, it was as if a switch had been pressed and full on business mode had been activated. Personal differences were pushed aside, individual grievances forgotten. Now, they were at work, and would live or die together and for each other. Johnson had crouched with them in the back of the van as they double and triple checked weapons.

"This is the wanker we want," Johnson said, showing them a grainy photograph of Joshua. "CCTV got him at a petrol station a few days ago. This is hush hush which is why our yank friends have called us in to deal with this."

"Who is he?" Stanhope said, adjusting his grip on his weapon.

"Names Joshua Cook, the yanks want him for offing some soldiers at one of their bases. They want him alive, and because yanks tend to get sensitive about this kind of thing and might get trigger happy, they want us to come in and clean up their mess."

"Any idea how many are down in the tunnels with him?" Briggs asked.

"No, not exactly. Let's go in expecting shit and hoping for sugar." Johnson grunted. "Trig, I want you ready with the explosives on the off chance they've barricaded themselves in down there. Low impact stuff, though, yeah? Not like Syria."

"Got it, boss," Trig said. "I know what I’m doing."

"I hope so. The last thing we need is for you to bring the city falling down on our fuckin’ heads whilst we're underneath it."

"Got it boss. Low impact." Trig repeated.

"Alright," Johnson said with a sigh. Most of you have been in situations like this before. You know what to expect. You know what to do. Watch each other’s backs. Make use of the flash bangs. Clear your corners. One room at a time boys, alright?"

The men nodded.

"Stanhope!" Johnson said.

"Sir?"

"You keep your eyes and ears open. You have the least experience here, so it's in your interest to watch and listen and try not to die."

"Got it, boss," Stanhope said, his eyes flicking to the others. "I’m ready for it."

“Just don’t go in there like fuckin’ Rambo and thinking you’re invincible. You’re a cog in the machine. A new one at that. Don’t forget it.”

Stanhope nodded, glancing to the others and feeling all eyes on him.

"Okay then,” Johnson said. “Let’s do it. Remember, it’s likely going to be close combat down there. We only want this Joshua character alive. The rest are expendable. Intelligence says these guys are likely wearing body armour, so remember to double tap these pricks. Any questions?"

He waited, looking into the eyes of the men. "Okay then, let’s go."

They bundled out of the van, Johnson in the lead, the others in twos behind, keeping low as they ran towards the tunnel entrance.

II

The network of tunnels had proved perfect for Joshua and the rest of his growing following as a base of operations. In just a few short weeks they had gathered supplies and weapons in great numbers, stealing without detection when they could, taking by force if they had to. Joshua was sure he would be able to put his plan into action without distraction, so was surprised to find their sanctuary breached by assailants who were, for the time being unknown. He walked through the curved main tunnel, veering off into one of the many sub-chambers towards his most trusted disciples. Already the steady crackle of controlled gunfire was echoing through the vast chambers.

"We've been compromised," Peter said, watching Joshua and waiting to be told what to do.

Joshua smiled and ran a hand through his hair. "Who are they?"

"We don’t know. There are five of them. Very organised. We outnumber them, but they are better trained than us." Simon said, lowering his gaze.

He was one of those who had been present when Joshua had gone into the ground and had held vigil until he rose again. In the old world, he was called Eric, however after his resurrection, Joshua had personally rechristened him, dousing his head with water and renaming him as Simon. He and the rest of the twelve men had been ordered to shave their heads to a buzz cut, told their new life began with abandoning the vanity of the old. Only Joshua was different, with long black hair which touched his shoulders. His narrow face was now thick with the beard which he had been growing since he first volunteered his body to the earth as a short haired, clean shaved man.

"What should we do, Joshua?" Simon asked, glancing towards the tunnels as another sporadic crackle of gunfire erupted.

"Are you prepared to fight?" Joshua asked, showing little concern at the sound of gunfire which was growing ever louder as his woefully overmatched men were pushed further back.

"You know all of us will die for you," Simon said, looking him in the eye. “Whatever it takes."

"Good," he replied with a small smile. "Now pull your men back."

"But Joshua..."

"Do as I say, Simon. I wouldn’t ask you to do for me something I’m not prepared to do for you. Take them and flee. If it’s me they want, then it’s me they shall have."

"You’re staying?"

Joshua nodded.

"But why?" Simon said, visibly flustered. “We need you. You’re our leader. Our father.”

"Remember our mission,” Joshua said with a smile. “Remember how it is bigger than any one of us. I don’t want you to see me as a figurehead who only gives orders. I need to show you how I’m prepared to do for you anything I ask you to do for me."

"Who will lead us?"

"You all know what to do. You know what the mission entails. Take the men into the world, find the others. The twelve of you are my generals. Lay the foundations for the new world. Go to the sanctuary, the one we discussed."

"I don’t know what to say..." Simon replied his voice wavering.

"Then don't say anything. Pull the men back."

"Please, let me go in your place, I’ll give myself up so you can escape."

Joshua smiled and put a hand on Simon's shoulder. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I have given my orders. It has to be me who goes with them. If they are to have a prisoner, then I must be it."

"Why? I don’t understand?"

The chatter of gunfire was close now, and amid the smoke and the screams, the voices of their assailants as they grew closer increased in volume.

"I don’t ask you to understand," Joshua said, "only to follow. Go now. Do as I ask."

Simon hesitated, then stepped back. "You can count on me."

"I know. Now go, hurry. Escape through the tunnels you and the twelve. Make me proud."

Glancing one last time towards the sound of the gunfire, Simon jogged into the tunnels, leaving Joshua alone.

He stood for a few moments, eyes closed and listening to the sound of the destruction as it came closer. There was a beauty to those sounds. The screams, the zing of gunfire, the shouts of the men who had invaded the tunnels as they methodically cleared each sub-chamber. Joshua clasped his hands behind his back, and whistling a happy tune which was inaudible over the roar of gunfire, walked towards the chaos.

III

It soon became clear as they moved through the tunnels that the resistance, although determined, was both unprepared and untrained to deal with the close combat expertise of Johnson's team. Room by room, chamber by chamber, they pushed deeper, killing those who resisted with the routine double tap method as instructed. (One shot to the heart, another to the head to make sure)

It was Parker who first saw Joshua as he walked out of the smoke, strolling towards the centre of the tunnel right in front of them, a serene calm amid the chaos. The two locked eyes and Joshua smiled, holding out his arms to the sides.

"Down, fucking get down!" Parker screamed, aiming his M16 assault rifle at Joshua. The rest of the team had joined him now, and all were screaming the same instructions. Joshua smiled.

"On the ground, on the ground right now!"  Johnson said, eyes bulging as he looked beyond Joshua to ensure the way was clear.

Joshua dropped to his knees, folding his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.

Briggs and Trig moved in, pushing Joshua to the ground and cuffing his hands behind his back as Stanhope and Parker took up defensive positions.

"We've been looking for you," Johnson said as Joshua was pulled to his feet.

"And now you found me."

Johnson faltered at the completely relaxed and unafraid nature of Joshua’s reaction. "Come on then, there are a few people keen to have a few words with you."

"I’m sure there are."

Johnson hesitated again, unsure how to take Joshua. There was a magnetism about him, and he had to remind himself he was dealing with what was by all accounts a very dangerous individual.

Johnson tore himself away from Joshua's piercing gaze and tried to get his mind back on the job. "Let’s get out of this fuckin’ shithole. I don’t like it down here."

"What about the rest of the tunnels sir?" Stanhope said.

"Fuck it. We got what we came for."

"Yes sir," Stanhope said.

The men led Joshua away. Johnson waited for a few seconds, trying to control the tight gnawing in his guts. Something wasn’t right. The operation had gone smoothly. Too smoothly. It was almost as if Joshua had wanted to be captured. Either way, he decided   the sooner they handed him over to the Americans, the better he would feel. Taking a deep breath, he jogged to catch up with the rest of his team. Joshua allowed them to lead him. Still smiling, still whistling that jolly tune from his childhood.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CITY OF BAGHDAD,

IRAQ

THE PEOPLE OF IRAQ have long been used to unrest. In an almost perpetual state of conflict, the people on street level who simply want to live their daily lives are often forgotten amid the globally televised presence of the British and American forces (who were either seen as saviours or invaders depending on who you spoke to) and the Taliban insurgents, who had as many supporters as they did detractors. With neither side willing to back down, it was the public who suffered, living in constant fear. Akhtar had never known peace, and so the rattle of distant gunfire and constant military presence were perfectly normal to him. However, something had changed in recent days, something which he couldn't quite understand and liked even less.

He led his brother by the hand through the maze-like streets, skirting around fellow citizens who were in just as much of a hurry as he was.  He looked into the faces of these strangers as he passed, and saw they too wore the same tense expression which had been brought about by the recent change in the atmosphere. Akhtar glanced at his brother, who was devoid of any concern or panic. His face was a picture of simple wonder, his mental deficiencies blocking out the wider problems of the world. Akhtar didn't know exactly what was wrong with him, only that he had been born a lot earlier than he should have been, and spent a lot of his early months in the hospital. Now aged seven, he relied on the care of others. Sometimes, Akhtar would look at him and be sure he could see intelligence in his eyes, and with it frustration at not being able to articulate it. Youness mouthed words, which to most would be a series of unintelligible grunts. Akhtar and his family had learned to understand his brothers unique language perfectly, though, and looked at the source of his siblings distress, which in this case was an untied shoe.

"Come on, in here," Akhtar said, leading Youness to an open arched passageway off the main street. He knelt and started to tie his brother's shoe, still unable to shake the uneasy feeling in his stomach. Someone sprinted past the doorway, making Akhtar draw a sharp breath. He leaned out of the passage, watching the man go on without stopping, looking over his shoulder every few seconds before disappearing into the crowd. Akhtar looked back the way the man had come and saw people craning their necks as they looked down the street. Others, like the man who ran past them, were moving on, hurrying away from whatever they could see.

"Wait here, Youness. Don't move." Akhtar said, getting to his feet and giving the crowd his full attention. Something was definitely going on. He could tell by the activity at the head of the narrow street where he stood. The main thoroughfare was now jammed with people who were, for the most part looking back over their shoulder. With the agility possessed by most children of Akhtar's age, he clambered onto the window ledge of the building where they had stopped and cupped his hand around his eyes so he could see against the glare of the sun. There appeared to be some kind of commotion in the middle of the street. There were five men, all armed and dressed in black. He recognised the uniforms as the same ones worn by the soldier at the checkpoint who had taken out the terrorist attack single handed. The five men were arguing with a team of US soldiers, who outnumbered them by at least ten. Snatches of words came to Akhtar through the still air, but the general chatter of those around him made it impossible to pick out what was being said.

An older man down on street level saw Akhtar’s vantage point and joined him on the window ledge, gripping the inside of the open frame to steady himself so that he too could see what was happening. The two shared a second of eye contact, before turning back to the face off in the street. The U.S soldiers were now gesticulating with their weapons, faces set into determined grimaces. The men dressed in black pointing in response to the insignias on their shoulders. Even from so far away, Akhtar could sense the danger as memories of what happened at the checkpoint a few weeks earlier came flooding back. It was normal to see the military here in the city, however, it was not usual to see them undermined or otherwise disobeyed. One of the soldiers levelled his weapon at one of the men in black, shifting smoothly into a firing stance. Feet spread apart, rifle glimmering in the sunshine. The man in black who was the subject of the soldier’s attention seemed unconcerned, and Akhtar even saw him smile.

It happened quickly, almost too quickly. The men in black moved as one as if they were a single entity rather than separate people. They darted forwards and attacked the soldiers, the coordinated pattern of their movements reminding Akhtar of the way flocks of birds would change direction in unison. The soldier who had been aiming his rifle was dead before he had a chance to react. The man in black had stepped forward, pushing his shoulder against the barrel of the gun. The soldier reflexively fired, Akhtar clearly able to see the explosion of blood and bone as the bullet tore through the man in blacks shoulder and out of the other side. In the same instant, the black-clad man unsheathed his hunting knife and drove it up under the soldier’s chin, burying it up to the handle, the tip of the blade pushing the soldier’s helmet up as it exited the top of his skull. The man removed it, as bright red blood began to soak into the sandy desert floor. As the soldier fell back, the man in black grabbed his weapon with his free hand, sheathed his knife and turned the assault rifle on the crowd. The rest of his team made equally short work of the other soldiers and commandeered their weapons. Without reason or provocation, the men in black started to fire into the crowd.

The man on the window ledge with Akhtar had seen enough, and leapt down, racing away from the carnage. Akhtar, however, was frozen, too afraid to move. The crowd of onlookers were now fleeing from the men in black and were charging towards where he perched like an undulating wave. The sounds of footfalls reverberating off the walls was deafening and only broken by the incessant gunfire as the men in black gunned down people at random. There was no way Akhtar could get down. People were running past at too high a speed, too afraid to pay attention to where they were going and who they might hit.  Akhtar took a last look down the street, trying to ignore the rivers of blood pouring from the corpses which lay twisted at the feet of the men who were leisurely continuing their rampage. The leader of the men, the one with the shoulder wound grinned as he shot a young woman in the face from just a few feet away, disintegrating her head in a shower of blood, hair and bone. It was the nasal whine of his sobbing brother which spurred Akhtar to action.

Youness was crouched in the doorway, chin slick with drool, cheeks wet with tears. Unable to understand what was happening, he held out a hand to Akhtar, pleading for his help. Without thinking, Akhtar jumped down into the crowd, barely noticing the explosion of sandstone as the window frame exploded in the space which had just been inhabited by his head as a stray bullet hit home. He was being pushed now by the surge of people trying to flee, past the alley where his brother cried and waited expectantly. Akhtar reached out, grabbed his brother's wrist and pulled him into the crowd.

"Come on Youness, we must run," he yelled over his shoulder. The gunfire was closer now and was intercut with more screaming.

Akhtar did his best to drag his brother along but knew it was impossible. Youness didn't have the dexterity to keep up on his own. Somehow without stopping or losing his footing, Akhtar scooped his brother up, holding him tight and doing his best to run along with the flow of people. Youness was heavy, and with the added weight, it was impossible to keep the pace with the terrified throng of people. The ground had become softer underfoot, uneven. Akhtar knew it was because he was standing on people, and he forced himself not to look, knowing to do so would resign both he and his brother to the same fate. Youness was still whining, screeching in Akhtar's ear, drooling against his cheek. Someone shoved them, desperate to get past the slow moving pair. With the additional weight of Youness in his arms, he was unable to maintain his balance and felt himself pitching forward amidst the tangle of fleeing legs. He managed to retain his balance, stumbling a little and almost reaching the point of overbalance, then somehow managed to right himself. A fresh patter of gunfire zipped overhead, driving the already terrified crowd to increase their speed - something which he himself could not. Another shove from the rear, this time harder and with more intent, ensuring any chance of retaining his balance was little more than a hope replaced by blind panic as he struck the ground, his knees taking the brunt of the impact. He fell atop his brother, cupping his head and trying his best to protect him from the army of feet which were around them. Someone stood on his leg, someone else on his back as the people desperate tried to flee the attack, either not caring or too horrified to notice what they were doing as they systematically crushed him further into the dirt. He glanced to the side and saw someone who had suffered the same fate. The man was lying on the floor, head turned to one side, dead eyes wide and staring. Blood seeped from his nose and ears, and his teeth were shattered. Even so, Akhtar recognised him as the man who was perched alongside him on the window ledge just minutes earlier. In a surreal display, Akhtar watched as every few seconds, a foot would stand on the man's face, bugging his eyes out of his skull which looked to already have been severely softened by the constant trampling. Someone kicked him in the ribs, stumbled, glared back at the two boys then carried on running. Akhtar knew they had to move, to fight to their feet if they wanted to survive. Without grace or worrying about hurting his brother, he lurched to his feet, grabbing his sibling roughly by the arm and yanking him upright, ignoring the sting of pain where he had been kicked and stood on, all in the name of survival. A quick glance over his shoulder renewed his urgency, as the men dressed in black were closer, now just twenty feet away from where they stood towards the rear of the thinning crowd. Akhtar dragged his brother towards a narrow alleyway between two buildings, hoping it would, at least, offer them a chance to regroup. The gap was smaller than it looked, Akhtar having to turn side on to squeeze between the buildings at either side. The alley appeared to lead towards a sewer drain of sorts, a circular drain pipe which was wedged at the rear of the alley, the blackness beyond their sanctuary from the horror in the streets. Akhtar shoved his brother in first, hating himself for bringing more panic and upset to the screaming seven-year-old.  He was aware that they had backed themselves into a dead end, and if the men in black happened to glance into the alleyway as they walked past, they would be unable to escape death.