Castling (8 page)

“That is a fantastic idea actually,” Rook nodded, clicking his fingers to the young woman hidden behind him. The room swam for a moment, rippled in a chemical haze. Almost instantaneously, his body burned through the concussion of pheromones.

Markedly l
ess resilient, the criminal in the cheap suit threw his weapon into a drawer, gesturing to the vacant seats before him. They sat. Sabrina rested her hands on her knees, relieved as the metallic slunk of a locking drawer secured the gun away. As ever, Rook lounged, legs crossed, infinitely more concerned by his returning cephalalgia than having a pistol levelled at his noggin.

“What can I do for you two?” Big Phil asked, his face betraying
a profound confusion as to why he was entertaining these intruders rather than mopping them from his floor. And walls.

Rook
replied before he could give it further thought,

“Yo
u can give me that same address a particularly prestigious client of yours is heading toward as we speak.”

Big Phil
’s eyes widened, a suspicious glare darkening his features between heartbeats. He scratched his jowls, asking, “You’re talking about...”

“Well unless you
’ve begun servicing the
entirety
of the European Meta-human Task Force’s Most Wanted list, I’d imagine we’re on the same page, yes.”  

The laund
erette proprietor scratched behind his ear. The pheromones were taking their usual toll, but the man’s latent fear was proving tough to shake.

“Remind me
again, why I should just
offer up
such protected details to yourselves...” He asked, tone more imploring than defiant. Inexperienced and overwhelmed, Big Phil sensed his predicament deteriorate with each passing moment. Assailed by airborne agents, he wanted a way out, to wash his hands of the affair. Rook was happy to oblige.

“Sabrina.
Illuminate the nice man.”

She
placed her mobile on the desk and thumbed the capacitive screen. A projection triggered, an inverted cone of glittering light consuming the roof above them. Big Phil inclined his neck, drawing the blinds closed, shuttering off the creeping afternoon sunlight.

The projection
rendered a reel of CCTV footage:

A prisoner, clad in pink,
is inexplicably freed of his shackles. A half dozen prison guards argue with his liberators. Momentarily forgotten, the prisoner works the hook of his cuffs into the nearest artery. The first guard drops, clutching his spurting throat. A second buckles, neck yanked and contorted, protruding in a fatal bulge. A third and fourth stagger a moment before toppling, temples caved in by an acquired truncheon.

The remaining four hesitate
, shaken. They make the mistake of reaching for their holstered weapons instead of raising the alarm. Lancet waltzes through them. Two fingers pop a windpipe. A driving elbow cracks open a sternum. An arcing club pulps the base of a skull.

Big Phil
flinched, physically recoiling at the sight of jagged shackles whipping out. Serrated teeth eat through the final guard’s face. The footage ends doused in red, a geyser in the arid dirt of Tartarus’ main gate.

Sabrina’s hands shook as she killed the program
.
Rook is going to die.
The image of a well groomed inmate strolling into the wilderness blinked, fading to black.

“But... we agreed...” Big Phil trailed before dropping his chin to his chest, the depths of his naivety striking suddenly.

“It gets better,” Rook coughed, his eyes suddenly fixed on the man opposite. He straightened in his seat. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands before him.

“
My guess: You sent someone to meet him. Makes sense, he won’t get far in pink PJs.

And I’m guessing you told
this someone to keep you posted, keep you informed of his every step, to keep you in the loop.”

“
Are these assumptions supposed to impress me?” the suit lashed out, clenching his fist to keep his hands from trembling.

“No Mr. Phil. They’re
supposed to scare some sense back into you.

Now
I’m guessing this fella you sent did report in. Diligently. Ceaselessly. Unfailingly.

Until
suddenly he didn’t?...”

The man’s brow flickered, a bead of sweat forming on his crown.

“Probably has something to do with the fact
you
sent him into the heart of the Alps, alone, unarmed, to meet with one of the decade’s most vilified killers.

If I were to guess,
you have not heard diddly from this previously un-shut-up-able young man for nigh on two hours now. I haven’t checked the clocks myself mind, but I would guess this time coincides with his scheduled rendezvous. The rendezvous with the star of that snuff film we just watched on your ceiling.”

Suddenly feeling as small as he seemed, Big Phil wiped at his eyes, his nylon shirt drenched in a sweat both cool and profuse.

“And Big?” Rook’s voice thinned to a whisper as he inched forward, his rounded frame creeping across the desk, imparting dire secrets.

“Y-Yes!”
he gulped.

“I’m not actually guessing.

Lancet is tying up loose ends.

He approached you because you are small time, you are inexperienced,
you will not be missed. He’s just out of Tarturus, so he’s obviously got no cash. It’s a prison, for Christ’s sakes! What possessed you to even agree to this, Big?”

The squat man tried to answer, but his throat seemed to lack the moisture for it.

A few thousand feet up, Molly sniggered to herself. Histrionics were very hard to resist when Sabs had a target doped. And Rook was clearly having a whale of a time discovering this.

“
He is going to take your service, your clothes, your starting cash and even your safe house. And then he is going to kill you,
partially
because he’s an appalling human, but
mainly
because he’s a frugal one. It’s cheaper!

Hell, t
hat’s what I di... that’s what I’d do...”

“H-he promised. He told me... he promised.” Big Phil’s composure had evaporated, leaving a naked, desperate soul bereft of hope and poise. Rook made a mental note to compliment Sabs on a job well done.

“Don’t feel bad
, Big. People lie. My own mother made some pretty outlandish claims about toys, chimneys and a fat man dressed in red. The wagon had me well and truly duped!

It boils down t
o this single question. And unfortunately you have no time to think, confer, or google the answer, because I need it from you right now.

One answer leads me to an address where I can set a trap for this butcher
before he does any more damage.

The other leads me back downstairs, where I wait patiently for
Lancet to stroll into this very establishment and murder you where you sweat...

I probably meant sit.

True, the former is more convenient but either way I’ll catch him. So
I
don’t actually have all that much riding on your answer.”

Big Phil forced a shell of calm upon himself, breathing deeply, marshalling his thoughts
. He had been content as he was; exploiting and swindling on the small time. Then thoughts of riches and infamy had warped his common sense. Now, given the alarming alternative, he would be more than happy to return to those roots.

“What’s the question?” the heavyset figure
sighed, sitting forward in his chair, arching his fingers in a practised gesture.

Rook smiled,

“Right you are, Big Phil. So, would you like to continue being alive?”

*

Slouched in the back of the chopper, Rook pulled off his grubby t-shirt. The bruising from his morning beating had faded, merely a yellow tinge dyeing already knitted ribs. His skin was preternaturally pale, devoid of scars, acne or even freckles. Stealing unnoticed glances in her rear view mirror, the only physical blemish Molly observed was a subtle bowing of the torso. The man’s shoulders hunched forward, bunching his front. Apish, they perhaps concealed the extent of his strength.

Rook
rummaged in a backpack, finding what passed for his uniform. He yanked a tight, black top down over his head. The sleeves, hemmed in scarlet, tapered, stopping halfway down his forearms. A red harness was stitched into the fabric, around the shoulders and under the chest. Gear loops traced its outline, but Rook left them intentionally vacant. Kevlar plates had originally been weaved through the elbows, shoulders and breast but he had specifically requested they be removed.

Rook intended to go in, unarmed and undefended.
Molly had accused him of a supreme arrogance on learning this. She was, above all things, perceptive.

“Even
Hatchet packs a little heat,” the pilot argued, plunging through the Oxford skyline.

“
Yeah! A titanium tomahawk with a blood red ceramic head! I think it’s safe to say he’s doing it for effect.” Rook objected, belting a pair of similarly tailored fatigues about his hips. The pants hugged the flesh of his legs, bulged only slightly with zippers and pouches.

“
And
what
effect!” Sabrina noted from the co-pilot’s chair, “You notice the way he straps it to his hip? An axe like. Just casually having a swing. On his hip!”

“Hard to miss it, Sabs” Molly agreed,
reminiscing fondly.

Ignoring
them, Rook called out as he laced shin-length boots. He suspected Ron had fitted the aircraft with some manner of always-on communication.

“Wendy, we’re a few miles out. How’s it looking?”

Wendy had begun her sprint the instant Big Phil offered up the address. Mercifully the safe house was less than one hundred kilometres from headquarters, in the heart of Oxford. Wendy arrived thirty seven minutes later, her lithe, almost-elastic frame exhausted but proud.

“Surprisingly hospitable.
There’s nothing here, Rook! Sure we found the staples; gun in the fridge, grenade under the sink, but nothing too diabolical.”

“
This disquiets my calm, Wendy. You check under the bed for zombies?” Rook suggested helpfully.

“
What am I, an amateur? That was the first place I look- Oh, hold on. Hinge just spotted a trip-wire, which leads to... about a pound of squidgy plastic, presumably of the explosive variety. Satisfied now?”

“
Quieted, yes.” Rook sighed, grabbing the backs of his ankles, limbering up for the mission ahead. “Any chance you could disarm it
without
redecorating the walls with your innards?”

“
We’ll have to tell you in a second.”

He watche
d the tiltrotors beyond the canopy. Slanted, almost vertical, the failing daylight distorted around their scything rotations.

“Good news” Wendy’s voice broke the static.

“You didn’t die in a fiery explosion?” the pilot enquired, banking left. The craft dipped, sloping with the course correction.

“Not that I noticed. The bomb’s disarmed, Rook. The place is clean.”

“Do you need us to lay some traps while we’re at it? We’re very good at traps
.” Hinge’s disembodied request thrummed the back of his skull.

“No
. Thank you, Hinge” Rook answered, ignoring Molly’s disapproving cluck, “Now, unless you’d care to be locked in a room with a mass murderer, feel free to vacate the premises.”

Wendy had cleared the fir
st staircase before he finished speaking.

Though
wrapped in the already notorious black and red for his first time, the uniform felt familiar. Hauntingly so. Synthetic fibres had gotten lighter and stronger over the years, but the sense of identity, of loyalty ever persevered.

And while most indeed meant ‘
sense’
, Rook definitely meant ‘
illusion’
.

Gripping the handrails above,
Rook pulled himself to the cockpit’s fore. Deciding it would be appreciated, he clasped a palm on Sabrina’s shoulder. Eyes on the horizon, Molly dipped the pitch, slowing beginning her descent,

“Rook, for God’s sake, there’s a weapons cache in the back.
Go and take something, anything, you need the upper hand. Bring a spork for all I care!”

“
Honestly Mol, a spork? I was specifically told
not
to kill him, remember?!”

“Rook, this is insane!” Molly was openly furious now, her
nose wrinkled in anger, “We know nothing about this chap, besides the fact he eats world class metas for breakfast. And you (amounting to little more than a toast triangle in this metaphor) are waltzing into his house, armed only with a t-shirt and a pair of cargo pants!”

Rook pretended to give this a moment’s grave consideration.