Carrion Virus (Book 2): The Athena Protocol (26 page)

“We’ve got proof.”

“We have rumours and corpses, and there’s already enough of them in Aberdeen. If we do this, we need to do it ourselves, at least in the beginning.”

“What about me?” asked Gemma. “What do I do?”

“Go home, Gemma. Stay the hell away from Aberdeen, or any city. Keep your head down and wait for all this to blow over,” said Eric shaking his head.

Williamson held up a hand. “Eric is perhaps painting more of a bleak picture for what comes next than is reality. It’s true, if you want to go home I can arrange passage through quarantine. You’ll be paid as agreed and free to construct your story as you see fit.”

“They’re reporting from within the city. Whatever I have will be of periphery interest at best. My opportunity has past. I’d like to know what you think comes next, Ben.”

“Doctor Holden waited to see what was next, Gemma,” said Eric. “He waited too damn long and got three bullets for his troubles. Be sensible, Gemma, please.”

“And if I go home, will you protect me or my family? Will you stop the virus reaching my parents?”

“Gemma, all I’m trying to do is make you think.”

“I’m thinking clearly, Eric. I need to be here. I need to help stop this.”

“Gemma,” said Williamson bringing her attention back to him. “I’ll need you to shadow the team we’re putting together. Investigate any and all leads, much like what you’ve been doing before but without being restricted to Aberdeen. You’ve a knack for this. You’ll be paid very well and offered what protection I can offer.”

“For my family, too?”

Williamson spread his hands wide. “I’ll do everything in my power. You have my word on that.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

“I’m in, too,” said Carter.

“You’re all mad. Haven’t enough people died? What can we do against an organisation that is so deeply embedded within the ranks of the powerful? In fact, I don’t care. I’m going home.”

Eric marched out of the room. He clicked on the torch to make his way down the corridor. Footsteps came from behind.

“Hey,” said Gemma taking hold of Eric’s arm. “What was all that?”

With only the light from the torch, he could hardly make out her features.

“I wasn’t going to spend another minute listening to Ben’s ingenious ways of getting us all killed.”

“You don’t want to keep your family safe? Or yourself?”

“I can protect myself and my family.”

“From the virus and The Owls? I know it’s not about that. It’s about Brutus, isn’t it?”

That name spoken aloud caused Eric to ball his fists, knuckles white.

“It’s not Brutus.”

“I know what he did, and what he almost did to me.”

The events in Aberdeen, what Gemma had to do, what she experienced had hardened her to the world. Eric could see that. She probably would fail to recognise her previous self, for her naivety which was so apparent in the beginning was now replaced with a hard edge. She was like a soldier.

“The team needs you, Eric. Think on it at the very least. As I see it, we all stand a better chance together.” Gemma walked back into Williamson’s room.

“Damn,” he whispered, knowing that she was right. As much as he wanted to go home and pretend the world was not falling apart he could not. “Damn,” he said again and followed Gemma.

Chapter Eight

A Sort Of Homecoming

The Russian freighter slowed, the engines blow lessening. The original enthusiasm for returning home gave way to frayed tempers and irritation. It all stemmed from the cramped living conditions and limited space to find some privacy. Brutus acted as peacekeeper as best he could. It was a role he was not used to playing, nor was he necessarily equipped. Arguments erupted over trivial matters, flashpoints of manifest frustration soon forgotten once resolved. Brutus needed to keep the cohesion of the team together. He needed each and every one of them, and another hundred like them. Soon enough, they would be a precious commodity.

Andor Toth having resigned himself to his captivity opened up a little to Brutus. Little nuggets of information, probably quite mundane to Toth, Brutus made sure to record. Logistic issues. Names of people involved in the conspiracy. Places. Dates. All seemingly unconnected but Brutus knew better. The coming conflict would be an intelligence war as much as it would be a physical one.

One of the crew knocked heavily on the steel door to the cabin’s common room where Brutus and his team sat.

“You will be ready to depart in ten minutes,” he said with his heavy accent.

Brutus waved the man away. “We’re going home, boys. The ship’s slowing. We’ll be put over the side into an inflatable and cruise to the shore.”

“You say cruise like it’s a pleasure trip,” said Niall. “It’s the height of winter, the sea won’t be calm. We’re in for some serious waves.”

“We’ll be fine,” insisted Brutus. “We’ll be less than thirty minutes in the sea then we’ll hit land. Our journey is almost at an end.”

The money the Russian’s paid and the cash The Owls initially paid was sealed in watertight bags and placed into robust holdalls. It would be divided up when they reached safety.

Niall picked up his gear and led the procession from the common room. The door swung closed behind them, leaving Brutus alone in the portion of the ship that had been home for the past thirteen days. He picked up his own pack, and slung it over his shoulder. He started toward the door when a shrill ring sounded.

The satellite phone. Brutus threw down his bag, and tore open the flap, digging hands deep trying to locate the device. He laid his hands on it, right at the bottom, wrapped inside a dirty shirt. He pulled it free. The green screen flashed with the incoming call.

Throw it overboard, the cautious voice in him urged. Brutus never had paid much attention to it in the past, so why bother now? He popped the aerial up and pressed the button to answer.

“Who is this?”

“Richard? Is that you?”

The signal was terrible. The voice could have belonged to anyone with that much distortion. He was about to hang up when the voice broke through the distortion once again.

“It’s Ben Williamson.”

“What do you want?”

“We need to talk/ You’re working for The Owls of Athena. They got to you, I know. You can’t trust them, Brutus.”

“You must be desperate, Ben.”

“We both should be. You can’t trust them.”

“And you can’t trust me. I’m ending this call. Don’t call again. Nobody will pick up.”

Brutus switched off the phone, and dropped it to the floor before stamping on it over and again until it lay in pieces. He scooped up the shards and took them to the balcony door. He opened it and facing down terrific wind and snow, hurled the pieces into the icy depths of the North Sea.

He closed the door, and returned his possessions to the backpack. Brutus hurried from the common room, down the length of the ship to where his team waited.

A heavy winch was extended over the side of the ship, a large inflatable swinging in its descent to the sea below. The captain of the ship, a heavily bearded man who never introduced himself stood silently, overseeing the deployment of the smaller craft. Snow collected in his beard, his wiry hair matted to his forehead. Brutus leaned over the side in time to see the dinghy touch the water and drag in the waves. The sea threw the small vessel around like a toy, despite it still being tethered to the ship. Brutus could feel the worried gazes of his men, could feel his own beginning to form.

The captain barked gruff orders in Russian. His men moved a number of sturdy containers onto the winch. It would be the weapon cache.

“What the hell are they shouting about?” asked Brutus, above the wind.

Freddo, who was the only member of the team to have a splattering of Russian attempted to translate. “They’re saying two of us need to be down there to take control of the weapon cache as it’s lowered. Any volunteers?” shouted Freddo, with a grin.

Magnus Munson and Ash Gibbons moved toward the ropes hanging off the side of the ship. They would have to propel down the side of the ship, land in the dinghy and then control the lowering of the cache.

Magnus leaned into Brutus and said with a smile, “Sometimes I really hate you.”

Magnus peered over the side, let out a string of obscenities. He spat on his hands, took hold of the ropes and eased himself over. Ash did the same, neither men looking confident. If either man slipped and fell into the sea, they were dead. The freighter would not stop for them. The cold would get them before drowning did.

They descended, slowly, the wind throwing them left and right. Waves kicked up to meet them, showering both in icy water. Ash dropped the final few feet to the vessel below and held the guide rope for Magnus. Both men landed safely.

Two of the freighter crew lowered the containers. Ash and Magnus worked tirelessly to secure the cargo before the winch was retracted. Toth, too weak of body, was lowered next by the winch, a heavy rope tied round his waist and under the arms. He yelped in pain and was dropped with no sign of care. The rest of Brutus’s team went over the side and down via the ropes.

Brutus marched up to the captain and struck out a hand. The captain looked from Brutus’s offered hand to his face. It annoyed Brutus just how impassive the captain’s weather-beaten face remained. He finally shook, his rough hand like hard, worn leather.

“Good luck,” he uttered.

“Life jackets? Where are the life jackets for my men?”

The captain shrugged, a slow uncaring gesture. “Life preservers for my crew. We do not have enough for you or your men. You go now or don’t go. Your choice.”

No threats or bargains would change the situation now. The captain was a man of unrelenting openness. His word was law on the ship. Besides, if the small boat sank, they were dead anyway, life preserver or not.

Brutus went to the side of the ship, took one final look at the upper decks of the Askold, then threw himself over the edge and clambered down the side, his feet slipping against the wet hull. Mist from the waves chilled his every fibre. The muscles in his arms and shoulders burned. He kept going, muttering every swear word in his vocabulary, and there were many. Hands reached up and took hold of his boots and legs, guiding him down to safety. The dinghy and the team clung to the side of the Askold a moment longer. Roy Smart sat to the rear, and started the engine.

“Cut us loose,” shouted Freddo.

The tethers of the Askold were released, and the small vessel was left to fend for itself.

Roy opened up the throttle, sending the dinghy thrusting through the mighty waves. The small boat rose and fell on the back of the sea’s blustering. Nobody talked, everyone clung to safety ropes or each other. Ice waves blasted over them all. The sting of the water burned Brutus’s eyes. He wiped at them but found little relief.

A sound came, faint over the roar of the sea and the hum of the engine. Roy clung to the helm laughing like a madman, half through terror, half through the exhilaration that a man experiences on the edge of death.

“Crazy bastard!” Brutus yelled.

The tiny vessel, alone on the belligerent sea, forged forward toward land.

***

The dinghy broke through the final waves and powered through the shallows. The hull tore through sand and stones, and the crew jolted with the last forward motions. Night had closed in, the snow fell unabated and only a hint of the moon revealed itself from behind high cloud cover.

Brutus leapt from the dinghy, his feet plunging into shallow water, the sand beneath sucking at his feet. The others jumped into the shallows and together they hauled the boat from the water onto the pebble-covered beach. Roy silenced the engine. For a moment, they were alone with the lapping waves in the dark.

Each man switched on their torches. The beach was a desolate, long stretch of coast, tall dunes protecting the coast.

“Ash, Roy. Get up on one of those dunes and get our location. Send the signal to the contact. We need a pick up ASAP.”

Brutus had a contact who was to collect them, and transport them to a secure location. Due to the unpredictable nature of their arrival it would be impossible to offer anything but the roughest of locations. Once the signal and their location was sent they potentially had a few days to await pick up. It meant uncomfortable nights on the beach. The Russians provided survival equipment and gear, enough to make sure they wouldn’t freeze to death, but not enough to provide comfort.

Both men looked exhausted, soaked through, but set off without protest. They raced toward the dunes, disappearing into the dark. Only the light of their torches remained visible for a time until even they were swallowed up by the night.

“Get the equipment unloaded. We need to move up the beach.”

Brutus helped move the crates from the dinghy to the beach, each one heavily laden, requiring two men to each. Brutus dragged the final holdalls and packs free, then reached into the compartment next to the wheel of the vessel and pulled a small canister of fuel free.

Toth stood a little behind him shivering. “What are you doing?”

“Getting rid of the evidence of our passing.”

“What if we need that again, to go back or something?”

Brutus flicked the cap off the canister and dashed the liquid over the small ship. “Our sea journeys are over, Andor. We don’t go back from here.”

Brutus pulled his lighter free. He flicked the lid and ignited the flame. He turned to Toth. “To moving forward,” he said with a smile, and tossed the lighter into the vessel.

Despite the snow, the flames caught quickly. He turned his back to the pyre, picked up the two holdalls at his feet and shoved Toth toward the dunes and the rest of his men.

“I bet you never expected to make it back to Britain, Andor. You never thought it was possible.”

“You’ve taken a dangerous path, Brutus, yet for all the obstacles, here we are.”

Brutus was about to reply, but something was amiss. Torch light was nowhere to be seen. He could not hear chatter, nor detect the location of his men.

A shot broke the winter’s night. Toth’s back exploded in a cloud of red and he slumped to the sharp stones of the beach. Brutus threw himself down, a matter of instinct. He crawled to where Toth lay, less than ten feet.

Toth gasped for breath, somehow still alive despite the gaping wound in his chest. “It’s them. The Owls,” he rasped. “They’re here.” A strangled gargle followed then his body fell limp.

The sound of crunching stones under foot came. Too late. Dark figures emerged from the gloom, weapons aimed at him, night vision lenses attached to helmets.

“I’m a British citizen,” said Brutus still lying on the ground.

The lead soldier kicked him to the side of the head, a blow that sent fireworks exploding in his mind. Not CAF or British forces, he thought. Strong arms picked him up and dragged him over the stones. They cut through his clothes, slashing at the skin beneath. He wasn’t in pain, everything dulled by the cold and the savage kick.

Stones were replaced by wet sand. It poured into every opening in his clothes, and into his mouth, his nose, his eyes. The soldiers released their hold. His breath came in short gasps. He pushed himself over to his back. The moon provided enough light to make out his surroundings. Freddo lay near to him, his face bloody, clothes torn. His chest moved in slow rises and dips. His team knelt in the sand, their legs and arms lashed together. All were blindfolded. Ash Gibbons and Roy Smart? Nowhere. Brutus tried to speak but nothing came out.

If Ash and Roy eluded the clutches of The Owls of Athena then there was still hope. Otherwise, Brutus and his men would be unlikely to see sunrise.

***

Eric watched Jane sleep. The temporary infirmary housed patients with the more minor injuries. Her lips sat apart, and she grunted softly. An IV line snaked from her arm to a bag of fluid suspended above her head. It was late and only a few staff buzzed about. He did not have much time. Williamson had arranged for the surviving members of Black Aquila to be flown out of the conflict zone and back to a staging area before being allowed home … until they were called upon again. It still did not sit well with Eric, though little did in these times.

Eric felt the need to break the news of Dr. Holden’s death to Jane personally. He owed her that at the very least, a familiar face in a world of confusion.